

MORAL TURPITUDE

By

Layne Winklebleck

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Published By:

Layne Winklebleck on Smashwords

Moral Turpitude

Copyright 2012 Layne Winklebleck

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and situations are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material
TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

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

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

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONNECT WITH ME

PROLOGUE

A bedroom in Shanghai

3:00 am, August 13, 1991

In the darkness, a woman's voice: "Go to sleep."

Man's voice: "Mmm."

"Honey, what is it?"

"What's what?"

"You've been awake all night. Tossing and turning."

"You want to go back to the States? Seattle?"

After a few seconds a light goes on. Woman on her elbow looks alarmed.

"What? Good God, Roger."

"Lie down," said Roger. "Turn out the light. It's nothing."

She turns out the light. Moments go by in the dark.

"Roger."

"Yeah."

"Give."

Long pause.

"Guy comes to me today. Big shot in the company that owns the company."

"Synthetics Group owns the company."

"No. The company that owns Synthetics."

"You're kidding. Big shot in the company that owns Synthetics comes to you?"

"And makes me this offer."

"And you didn't mention it until now? What sort of offer?"

"Outfit in Seattle. Big salary."

"How big?"

"Triple."

The light goes on. Woman on her elbow looks amazed.

"Roger, what the hell? Triple? And we go to Seattle?"

"Yeah, well," hiding his face in his pillow, "there's a catch."

"Catch? What catch? Triple salary and Seattle, fucking Space Needle, fucking Sonics basketball, Mariners and fucking Americans to talk to for a fucking change...."

"Izzy, remember the project?"

"The project," said Isabel, "yeah, I remember the project. What do I know about the project?" She sat up and adjusted pillows behind her. "What project? You mean the one you never told me diddilly-doo-dah-squat-zip about? That one?"

"The very one. Izzy, I could use a little help here. I'm up against it a little. I need to fill you in on the project."

"Will miracles never cease!"

"In a nutshell, the project was for... I'm an engineer, right? How does an aircraft land itself? There's a miracle for you. The answer is, from the ground. The pilot and crew could be dead."

"How many times have I heard this?"

"Anyway, there's an autopilot and a transceiver."

"I've heard this a million times, which makes this one million one, and counting."

"Here's the part you haven't heard." Roger adjusted pillows to sit upright alongside his wife. "What if you didn't want to land an aircraft? What if you wanted to crash one?"

That stopped Isabel. She stared at her husband, who looked away in a casual manner that might have fooled most people, but she knew him well. Crash an airplane. My God.

"Roger?"

"CIA. Somewhere along the line you have to trust your government."

"That was the project? The project was for the CIA? To crash airplanes?"

Uncharacteristically, Roger mumbled: "A remote unit can fool everybody. Nobody would have a clue." He glanced at Isabel for reassurance and didn't get it. More mumbling: "False transmissions both ways, to the tower, to the aircraft. Fly it into the ground."

Isabel was silent for a long time, looking at her hands.

"And now along comes this guy," said Roger. "He wants the schematics."
CHAPTER 1

Bainbridge Ferry, Seattle, Washington

Thursday, March 7, 1996

"Hey Doc," said Robert Davis Sheffield, his trademarked reddish brown lion's mane hair and full beard lively in the breeze created by the forward motion of the Bainbridge Island Ferry "Wenatchee." The ferryboat had just left her shady dock on the Seattle side and was picking up speed as she moved into the bright afternoon waters of Elliott Bay. Davis, 6 feet tall, trim and fit if a little lanky at age 36, was dressed in standard Seattle Denim, complete with a cotton plaid shirt, Gore-Tex jacket and weather-worthy hiking boots. His large, brown, almost feminine eyes were bright with amusement.

Doc, also known as Maynard Travestor, M.D., looked even more like Santa Claus than usual thanks to rosy cheeks from the crisp weather along with his rotund, 73-year-old physique and white beard. He sported a wool captain's hat against the inevitably chilly ferry trip with the sun starting down.

Doc turned from his place on the rail to greet his old friend.

"Hey Davis," he said, moving forward for a hug. "You brought your car on board?"

"As instructed," said Davis, grinning and shaking his head.

"So what are we going to do," said Doc, also smiling, "park them in the ferry lot and then drive them back on the next ferry? I can't imagine why we would need vehicles."

"No idea why the ferry to start with," said Davis. "Is this crazy or what?"

"So go over this phone call once more for me," said Doc. "She told you to call me and we should make sure no one is following us. Drive onto the ferry. Okay, so here we are. Now what?"

"Judging by her voice we'll now meet a mysterious Lauren Bacall look-alike who'll deliver microfilm containing military secrets."

"Cloak and dagger," said Doc. "Are you feeling as foolish as I am?"

"Something about her voice on the phone... I don't know," said Davis, grinning. "I just decided to go with my instincts. Thanks for humoring me."

"Gentlemen," said the husky voice Davis remembered from the phone. They turned to see a pretty young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, dressed in a wool power-suit modeled after a Navy pea-coat and carrying a briefcase. Her slim build, 5' 4" height, short cut red hair, serious freckles and little apparent make-up gave her a winsome boyish look. Uneven brown flecks ringing her hazel irises were cat-like in effect. She didn't match her voice at all.

Davis and Doc raised eyebrows at each other.

"You don't look like Lauren Bacall," said Davis, smiling. "Did you bring the microfilm?"

"No microfilm," said the woman, not smiling and with careful seriousness, "but I do have some information that you'll want to know about." She introduced herself as Ange Parker and shook hands.

"Information that requires a ferry ride?" said Doc.

"There's a man whom you do not wish to meet. He's probably knocking on the doors at your foundation offices as we speak. We came out on the plane from New Jersey together. I watched the ramps to the ferry to make sure he hadn't followed you aboard and then I got on at the last second."

"And if he had followed us on board, what would you have done?" asked Doc.

"Well," said Ange, "it would've been too late then. But now we have the jump on him."

"Doc is a psychiatrist," said Davis. "He can spot a paranoid delusion a mile away."

"Yes, I know about Doc," said Ange, "but before you get out your Thorazine, Doc, better hear me out."

"Shoot," said Davis.

"Can we find a spot out of the wind a little," said Ange. Davis and Doc obliged by moving the conversation to a private area behind a Plexiglas windbreak.

"Vincent and Michael Sheffield have devised a legal strategy to remove you from the board and as president of Sheffield Industries," said Ange, in lower tones now that her alto voice did not have to compete with the wind.

"Makes perfect sense," said Davis, smiling. "Do you have papers I need to sign?"

"Please don't joke," said Ange.

"Who's joking?" said Davis. "I'm president by happenstance and I'm not particularly enjoying it."

"But you have promises to keep," said Doc in a soft voice that growled with intensity.

Davis looked at Doc, then out over the bay for long seconds. "And miles to go before I sleep," he sighed. "Okay, Ms. Parker, what's this legal strategy and how can it have any teeth? I own 51% of the shares of the stupid corporation."

"Being majority shareholder does not automatically translate into control of the organization, especially if you absent yourself from the scene," said Ange primly and a little testily, Davis thought. "Nor does it confer immunity from the sort of action they've cooked up."

"You're an attorney," said Doc.

"Yes," said Ange, still with not a hint of a smile. "The Sheffield brothers rationalize this plan by saying you are not a true Sheffield, having acquired your interest in marriage and even your Sheffield name in marriage and that you know nothing about management."

"True enough," said Davis. "Are you representing them?"

"I hardly think so," said Ange, with a grim half-smile. "I was, but I stand to be fired and disbarred and who knows what else for doing this. My career, gentlemen, is quite over and that's as it should be." Ange's chin trembled visibly as she set her teeth against emotions.

"So what's this legal strategy the brothers have devised?" said Davis.

"No, first," said Doc, "this man, is he dangerous?"

"He's a process server," said Ange "and quite dangerous in that capacity. The board has filed a civil action in New Jersey to have you removed from the board for reasons of... moral turpitude."

Davis' jaw dropped and he exchanged incredulous looks with Doc.

"They claim you have engaged in... I should read this." She snapped her briefcase open and pulled a file. "... 'has engaged in conduct that is shamefully wicked, an extreme departure from ordinary standards of morality, involving a base, vile, or depraved frame of mind, to wit, public displays of sadomasochism and other deviant sex acts.'" Ange paused to allow comment but both men just stared. "They say this meets the criteria of moral turpitude that's a part of the provisions of the corporate bylaws allowing removal of a board member. They go on to quote a part of the bylaws which states that a board member can be removed if (reading again) 'a reasonable person in the position of said board member or officer took actions involving moral turpitude which would reasonably be expected to have a significant adverse effect on the business or reputation of the company or any of its directors, officers, employees, or affiliates.'"

Davis and Doc remained speechless, which was a very unusual state of affairs for the two. Ange waited them out.

"You say the board filed the action. How could the board have filed an action?" said Davis, finally. "That would take three votes. Morris and Phil have my proxies and neither of them would stab me in the back. Plus, if Vince tried to use his tie-breaker vote as acting Chair, Morris and Phil both understand that the bylaws allow them to delay the vote for a week until I could get there."

"One of them must have stuck it to you," said Ange. "I don't know. The vote wasn't announced. In any case the civil action lists the board as plaintiffs but also Michael and Vince separately as minority shareholders. So the board action only lends weight to the lawsuit. It isn't crucial to it."

"This is ridiculous," said Davis. "But say it was what they say, this alleged moral turpitude -- or some part of it. How could they prove it? Wouldn't they need photos or something? And what about the statute of limitations? It's been years since... uh, since I didn't do whatever they said I did. And what if I said I used to have moral turpitude but Doc here cured me?" Davis fought back a smile.

"Please don't joke about this," said Ange.

"Sorry," said Davis, responding to the intensity in her eyes. Perhaps she had more on the line than he did. He found himself liking her even on short acquaintance. He thought she was quite attractive as well, even in this context where she was all business, or maybe her intense professionalism added to the appeal. Somehow he trusted her. He thought he might have met her before somewhere.

"They might not have to prove it in the full sense," said Ange. "All they need is to ask you questions while you're deposed during a pre-trial discovery phase and get you to lie on any point that they have evidence on. Then they can charge perjury, which is a serious matter, and also cause for removal from the board, plus criminal penalties, God forbid. If there is anything to the charges, you don't want to get in their clutches."

"How am I supposed to avoid that?" said Davis.

"They have to serve you," said Ange. "If they serve you, you have to show up or risk losing by default. Fortunately, in Washington State they have to personally serve you. They can't just drop off the subpoena at the Foundation offices like in New Jersey."

"So I play hide-and-seek with process servers?"

"That's what I would recommend, until you figure something out, I guess. Worst case scenario, maybe only until next January when your shareholder votes give you some leverage, but even then it's tricky."

"That's why we brought our cars," said Doc. "You had this figured out pretty good, Ms. Parker. We sneak out the back door from Bainbridge Island. We high tail it like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. What do you think, Davis?"

"I think I need a drink," said Davis. "Do they have liquor on this barge, Doc? No? I was afraid of that. Okay, coffee, then."

The trio stood in line at the coffee counter with barely a word to each other, all lost in thought. Then they found a table inside on the observation deck.

"What are you doing here, Ms. Parker?" said Davis finally. "You said you flew out with the process server. Did they send you?"

"I haven't passed the bar in New Jersey, yet, but I'm working as a paralegal for Smithson, Merriman...."

"....Douglas and Frazer," Davis finished her sentence for her.

"Yes. I'm normally a go-fer and general flunky but they sent me here because I'm licensed in Washington State. I graduated from the University of Washington Law School and took my bar exams here."

"So you probably know Merriam Lockett, on the faculty at The School of Law and on our Foundation committee."

"Professor Lockett was my academic advisor."

"What would Merriam say about you if she were here?"

"Good things, with all due modesty, or would have. Now, I'm not sure. Anyway, Professor Lockett told me a great deal about you, Mr. Sheffield, and I guess that was the main influence in my... mutiny. I came to see you as a sort of hero in the corporate world, and I have come to see the Sheffield brothers, Vince Sheffield and Michael Sheffield as.... No, I won't say that. And I shouldn't say this either, probably, but this is all about the Green Helmet program. I'm sure you realize that."

"Yes," said Doc. "There's nothing else really important to us. What exactly do you know about the Green Helmet program?"

"What everybody knows, I guess. It's an American fairy tale. People in green Sheffield Industries construction helmets pay surprise visits to charities and give out grants with no strings attached. It's a jewel in the crown of American philanthropy."

"I take it you approve," said Doc.

"Personally, yes. The Green Helmet program is the reason I wanted the chance to work with Sheffield. However, the guys in New Jersey look at it differently. I was told to wait until the papers were served on you and then to install myself in the Green Helmet offices -- which are apparently a subset of the Rachel Sheffield Memorial Foundation offices in Smith Towers -- and wait for instructions."

"Why you?" said Davis.

"Why not me? Could have been anybody. They just wanted boots on the ground in Seattle."

"And instead, you came to me, to warn me. You've done me... you've done the Green Helmet program a great service," said Davis. "Thank you. Would you like a reward?"

Doc rolled his eyes. Foot-in-mouth Davis strikes again.

"That would certainly put the capper on my short career, wouldn't it?" said Ange. "Unethical attorney betrays her client for twenty pieces of silver. No, thank you. I've done what I thought I had to do and now I'll just take it on the chops like a big girl." She smiled but the corners of her mouth turned down.

"Now you expect to be fired," said Davis.

"And disbarred, I wouldn't doubt. These guys play pretty rough."

"Okay," said Davis. "You're fired."

"I beg your pardon?"

"As I recall, virtually the entire practice of the law firm Smithson, Merriman, Douglas and Frazer, and associated paralegals, is devoted to Sheffield Industries, for which I'm the president. So, I can fire you, can I not?"

"Technically, no. I work for the law firm."

"Then, I'll fire the law firm. Can I do that?"

"Well, in theory," said Ange, almost smiling, "although your powers as president leave a little to be desired at the moment. Besides, why bother. I'm as good as fired anyway. Why double down?"

"So that I can hire you," said Davis.

Ange blinked, then gazed off in the distance, shaking her head. The Seattle Space Needle was golden with the last rays of the sun, the only brightness in her world at the moment.

"Hire me for what?" she said glumly, "As a way of rewarding me?"

"Maybe to sit in for me, with powers of attorney and proxies, to watch out for my interests and the Green Helmet program in New Jersey, assuming that you check out when I call Merriam."

Ange stood. "You've got to be kidding."

"Well, I can't go there myself. Somebody has to represent my interests."

"I like it," said Doc, laughing. "They'd shit their britches!"

"They'd eat me for lunch," said Ange, standing back and looking aghast.

"And then your law career would be over? But you say it's already over."

"Yes, well, at least I have a little honor left, a little dignity."

"But that's what I'm talking about, honor and dignity. You haven't been unethical, Ms. Parker. I'm as much... in fact, I'm more a client of your law firm than Michael and Vince are. So you haven't breached client trust by coming to me with information. I am your client – or I was until I fired you."

"Well, I guess you could parse it that way. Maybe."

"I'm not parsing it. I'm going to the truth of the matter. Did your firm betray its contract by siding with one side against the other in what is basically an intramural dispute?"

"Arguably."

"Well, take a side. Did they or didn't they?"

Long pause, then: "Yes, they did."

"There you have it then. I'm an aggrieved party. Will you represent me?"

"You make it sound simple but get real, these guys are heavyweights with enormous resources backing them up."

"Actually, I think they're lightweights with enormous resources backing them up, but that's neither here nor there."

"Either way," said Ange, "we're talking enormous resources."

"You would have resources as well. You could hire your own battery of attorneys, your own accountants, your own staff all the way down the line."

"Your own bodyguards," said Doc.

"Oh, Doc," said Davis, then to Ange: "Don't mind him. He's paranoid."

"If you're really serious," said Ange, "then this is the most outlandish proposal I've ever heard. Sheffield Industries owns and manages dozens of companies worldwide."

"Maybe a hundred," said Davis, "but who's counting?"

"I have trouble balancing my checkbook," said Ange.

"Hire an accountant for that," said Davis. "No, seriously," he said, seeing her start to wave him off, "do you think the brothers manage those companies? No. Every company has its own managers, its own CEOs. Sheffield buys up contractors and makes them subsidiaries. That's been the Sheffield M.O. since the beginning. Vince couldn't tell you the names of most of the real managers."

Ange opened her briefcase to put a file back in. She was shaking her head. Bad sign.

"And, here's the thing, you wouldn't have to worry about managing anything. I could care less who Sheffield Industries builds ships for, or sells arms to. I just need a watchdog for the Green Helmet program."

"So let me get this straight," said Ange, sitting with her briefcase on her lap. "I waltz into the Sheffield offices armed with a power of attorney, little me, paralegal who had to ask for help with the coffee pot last time I was there, and I say, 'uh, guess what, fellows'...."

"On second thought, Davis," said Doc, "this is all too fast. Maybe the power of attorney would work but is Ms. Parker the right person for the job? Merriam would have some names. Let's run this by her."

"Have we met before?" said Davis, ignoring Doc. "I keep thinking I know you from somewhere."

"You sat in on a Foundation hearing where I made a presentation," said Ange.

"Refresh my memory," said Davis.

"About two years ago. I was still in law school. I was trying to get a grant for a pilot program on alternatives to pesticides on golf courses. Sounds a little silly at the moment. Anyway, my proposal didn't meet the Foundation criteria, but a few days later the money for the project came in carried by a guy with a green Sheffield Industries helmet on."

"I asked some questions in the hearing?"

"You argued my case for me."

"What did I say?"

"You said you and your wife had once taken your daughter with you golfing and you remembered your daughter frolicking in the grass."

"Okay, I remember that now. And I remember you now, too. A firebrand. I was taken with you."

"Aw, shucks."

"She's a warrior, Doc. That's what I need."

"She's a warrior because of a golf course pesticide program?"

"Well, look at her now. Out on a limb to save my bacon and the Green Helmet program. Are you a warrior, Ms. Parker?"

"Well now, that's not a question a girl gets asked every day."

"Well, are you?"

"Define warrior."

"It's in the heart. If you have the heart of a warrior, you'll know it."

Davis and Ange searched each other's eyes.

"Yes," said Ange, hissing through clinched teeth. "I'm a fucking warrior."

A grizzled old-timer with an unkempt beard heard Ange's comment and stopped at their table. He gazed at Ange thoughtfully through the narrow space above horned rimmed glasses and below bushy eyebrows.

"Yup," he said as he moved away. "She's a warrior, alright."

"Well, that settles it," said Doc, when the old man was far enough away not to hear. "However, being a warrior and knowing how to handle those guys in New Jersey are two different things."

"Doctor Travestor is right," said Ange. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"We're coming into dock," said Davis. "Let's find a place to have a drink. We'll talk."

****

Ange and Doc drove in Doc's Caddy to look for a bar near the ferry. Davis followed, taking advantage of being alone in his Jaguar to call Merriam on his mobile phone. Luckily, she was home.

"Ange Parker is sharp as a tack and she has a good heart. Very honorable but not much experience. Why? What's going on, Davis?"

"No time to explain right now, Merriam. It's bad. Tell me this: If I had to pick somebody to fight off the wolves in New Jersey, would Ange make the cut?"

"No. Absolutely not. Why in the world would you do a thing like that? Ange has great potential, but she's just a kid."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-Eight or Twenty-Nine, I think, but still just a kid in terms of experience as an attorney."

"What if you and some handpicked heavy hitters backed her up?"

"In New Jersey?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit, Davis. I certainly hope you're kidding."

"The brothers are trying to get me off the board and removed as president."

Long silence.

"Merriam?"

"Can they do that?"

"I don't know."

"Why would they do it?"

"The Green Helmet program is my guess."

"Green Helmet is in the bylaws."

"But if there's a way to cut it back they'll find it. I'm hoping Ange will come to you in the next few days and you can vet the whole thing with her."

"You won't be there?"

"You won't believe this, Merriam, but it looks like I'll have to go into hiding to keep from being process served. They're after me as we speak."

Long pause.

"Obviously, I'm going to have to wait to hear the whole story, but why put Ange on point with this much at stake?"

"Good question. Without her, it'd probably be game over already."

"Plus she's very attractive, don't you think, Davis?"

Davis had a pretty good idea what Merriam was driving at but didn't bite. "Yes. I think she's the hero in this movie. The female hero is always pretty."

"What does Doc think?"

"Doc thinks I ought to slow down and think things over."

"I agree," said Merriam.

"Merriam?"

"Yes, Davis."

"Look, you're right about how we'd be putting Ange in some deep water. I'm thinking of sending her back with my proxies and a power of attorney."

"Oh, Lord."

"But I can't ask that of her unless I know you're aboard with a squad of helpers."

"I don't know, Davis. I have to think about it."

"Merriam, they're filing a civil action alleging moral turpitude. It's in the bylaws. Moral turpitude is against the rules."

Silence on the line.

"Mo and I did some pretty wild stuff in the early Eighties. Maybe they have a witness or something."

Silence.

"I can't let them depose me and drag Mo's memory through the mud."

Silence.

"Merriam?"

"Okay, Davis," Merriam sighed. "I've got your back."

"Thanks, Merriam."

"Tell Ange to get to me as soon as she can. New Jersey! Fuck me!"

****

Doc and Ange had found a bar and table in Winslow at the Eagle Harbor Inn. When Davis entered he immediately asked the waitress to bring him a bottle of whiskey, Dickel's White Label, or Johnnie Walker Black or whatever the hell.

"Belay that order," said Doc. The waitress stood awaiting further developments, affecting a bored look as in "we get all kinds in here."

"You didn't have me fooled with your blasé reaction to all this," said Doc. "I knew you were upset."

"Upset?" said Davis loudly. "Upset isn't the word. I'm fucking pissed, Doc!"

"Davis!" Doc scolded. "This isn't like you using language like that. There's a person standing here trying to do her job. Have a little respect."

"I'm sorry," said Davis with chastened sincerity. "Please bring me just one whiskey. Make it a double."

Doc shook his head "no" at the waitress.

"Nope," said the waitress, whose nametag read Shirley.

"Nope?" said Davis. "What do you mean, nope?"

"Bring us a pitcher of PBR," said Doc, looking at the display signs behind the bar.

"Coming up," said Shirley.

"Wait a minute," said Davis to no avail as Shirley left for the beer. He said to Doc: "Can she do that?"

"Just did," said Doc.

Ange seemed amused.

Shirley returned with the pitcher. Davis said, "I'll give you $500 for a whiskey," then looked smugly at Doc.

"$600 if you turn him down," said Doc.

Shirley smiled and took a seat on the edge of their booth next to Davis. "Do I hear $700? Going once, going twice...." Davis sighed and tipped his head back in defeat. Shirley put a hand on Davis' shoulder in a friendly bartender manner. "Me and my family, we've had a few little issues with alcohol, sugar. I know an issue when I see one. $500 would mean a lot to me at the moment, that's true. I got myself a world of problems with my daughter and autistic grandson moved in with me and so all tips are welcome. But, no whiskey, champ. You see that sign behind the bar, 'we reserve the right', et cetera? Well, that's what's happening."

Shirley left to go behind the bar and Doc followed her. The two of them talked awhile. Then he gave her some money and a card after writing some notes on it. When he came back to the table, Ange said, "So what was that about?"

"Shirley's $600 and a Foundation referral so that she might get some help with her grandson. Nice woman." said Doc. Then he looked at Davis. "So, out with it Davis."

"I should have seen this coming, is all," said Davis. "I just thought whatever they might pull I could handle it. But this is impossible. I can't go into a deposition and let them grill me about Maureen. It would be so violating. It would violate Mo and my memories, the things we did together; the wonderful way things were... and the idea of those old hypocrites with their sneering, smarmy attitudes making something so innocent and natural into a dirty, gossipy.... You know what I mean, Doc. You've been through that. They are the same guys, which I always doubted until now."

Ange looked at Doc, then at Davis, puzzled.

Davis, Doc and Ange talked for an hour about Davis' proposal. Merriam would help, argued Davis, and he trusted Ange, and things had to happen fast. But why did they have to happen so fast, argued Doc, and Ange could be in danger. And what do you really know about me, argued Ange. In the end they were at about the same place as when they started. So they decided to head for Tacoma, find a motel and talk some more, fill Ange in on history and various issues, and then in the morning perhaps look for an attorney and notary to set up powers of attorney if it came to that.

On the drive towards Tacoma, Ange and Davis were in the Jaguar and Doc followed in his Cadillac. Ange drove in order to accustom herself to the stick shift, because she might, in theory, be returning with the Jag to Seattle. Davis talked nonstop for some miles regarding various logistical matters: There was a safe in the Smith Tower penthouse. In it was what Davis called "petty cash" which Ange should take for her immediate needs, amount unknown, "maybe twenty or thirty" -- thousand, it turned out. Also in the Smith Tower penthouse safe was his birth certificate and an old passport, still valid, in his "maiden name." He asked her to send both to general delivery, Gold Hill, Oregon. He planned to reassume his birth name, Robert Davis Jones. Davis seemed sure of himself as he laid out the details, even though Ange had not committed to anything.

Davis was the navigator and a rather poor one as it turned out, so the trio ended up making a couple of false turns. Eventually, however, they found their way north from Winslow on Highway 305 to Highway 3, then south to Silverdale. At Port Orchard they finally picked up Highway 16 south towards Gig Harbor. A side benefit to Davis' struggles reading the road maps by map-light was the easy lightness in their communications together, with laughter and joking, in contrast to the drama earlier. Without mentioning it, they both began to feel more comfortable with each other.

"I asked Doc on the way over to the bar about Maureen and he said it was yours to tell," said Ange, after they had settled onto the Hwy 16 freeway. "If you're serious about me going back east for you – and I'm not saying I will – it would help me to know more."

"You want to know about Mo?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Once upon a time there was a very shy young man, namely me, painfully shy, especially with girls. I was a virgin at age twenty. No prince, I. Definitely not a prince. But then one day, against extremely long odds, along came a beautiful, wealthy, amazing princess, who swept me off my feet. And we lived happily ever... well, for eleven years and 4 months. How's that for a fairy tale?"

"That's a good one, all right. Could you fill in the blanks a little?"

"Actually, as it turned out -- because I didn't know this at first -- Mo picked up on me because I was so shy. I'd never even really kissed a girl. I'd realize she was looking at me and I'd turn beet red. That turned Mo on. She was an unusual girl."

As they drove, Davis told Ange the story of how he met Mo and their first months together.
CHAPTER 2

Reed College, Portland, Oregon

February 20, 1980

Professor Theodore Bramley, with his flapping arms and hyperbolic chalk diagrams on the blackboard and his curly red hair already streaked with chalk traces, cut an eccentric figure as he began his lecture. An untrimmed hedge swiped against the rain-splattered window of the classroom, an ongoing reminder of the storm, which no doubt accounted for the poorer than usual attendance in Bramley's music theory mini-class. On the best-attended days the class managed seven students and on this fated day only two.

"He messed with their minds!" squeaked Professor Bramley, energetically scrawling a long, ragged chalk line for emphasis. "He" was Beethoven, and the occasion of mind-messing was Ludwig Van's 3rd (Eroica) Symphony. Robert Davis Jones and Maureen Sheffield-Baskin had already taken to smiling covertly at each other each time Bramley turned to make emphatic markings on the board. Davis greatly enjoyed the brief interchanges.

The Professor was playing as though to a large audience with grand gestures, although there were only the two "Reedies" present, dressed, as a local journalist famously described Reed student attire, like unmade beds. Colorful bedclothes they were, though. Davis and Mo looked like folk dancers in a Slavic ceremony, and there was no way to hide Mo's stunning beauty behind the cacophony of cloth, nor Davis' intelligent eyes behind his huge mane of brown hair and untamed beard.

"Nobody knew what key it was in!" said Bramley, intensely. He raced to a piano near the window. "If I play this chord! And then this chord," he said, striking the piano emphatically. "Then what do you want now? Feel the tension? And now this, the dominant chord, and now, YES! The tonic chord, and we are satisfied. We are released. Do you feel it?"

"Not yet. But don't stop," said Mo. Davis dared not glance at her but had to hold his hand to his mouth lest he laugh out loud. Bramley seemed not to notice her playful innuendo. He tried another angle.

"If I play this, and then this, and this and now this and then this again," he said, pounding on the keys. "How does THAT feel? Frustrating? Unfulfilled?"

"Anticipatory," said Mo, smiling at Davis, who colored instantly.

"Yes," said the Professor. "The dominant asks for, compels, demands the tonic. But Beethoven frustrates us. And the key, the key of E-flat is illusive." Bramley turned again to the piano. "Now the E-flat sub-dominant..." But before he could play the chord, Davis sang it out in three notes. Startled, Bramley quickly played the notes for confirmation and turned grinning. "Ah, yes. Our concert pianist, Davis Jones."

"Show off," said Mo, smiling.

"Not so tense, is it? But the dominant chord..." the Professor pointed at Davis for the chord but Mo sang the three notes ahead of him. Again the professor played the chord on the piano for confirmation, and then beamed with pleasure at his students.

"And Ms. Maureen Sheffield-Baskin, also the musician," said Bramley.

"The dominant chords come naturally to me," explained Mo, again smiling at Davis.

The experience of being on the receiving end of the deliberate innuendo and unmistakably flirting gazes from Mo gave Davis vertigo. A recent interchange at a cafeteria table with several other male students came to mind. Someone whose name Davis didn't know had sung in a low voice after Mo passed by, "I don't believe you/You're not the truth/No one could look as good as you." The pop lyrics had brought chuckles and nods from others at the table.

"Totally stuck up, of course," said another, "but you can hardly blame her. Family has more money than Aristotle Onassis. What she's doing at Reed is mystery of the year."

"She looks like the young Elizabeth Taylor," said a more admiring observer.

"Dead ringer, but different hairstyle," said the student who had sung the Roy Orbison hit song.

"I don't think she even wears make-up," said her admirer. "Elizabeth Taylor always had a lot of make-up."

"Doesn't hang with Reedies, so forget it," said a third student. "Probably got lost on her way to a beauty contest."

Davis hadn't had anything to say.

But now Davis protectively placed those cafeteria comments in the foreground of his mind so he wouldn't mistake the reality of the situation, even as he blushed under Mo's gaze. This little attention from her feels delightful, he thought, and wow, what dazzling blue eyes. Nothing would come of it, of course.

Then Mo wrote something on a paper, folded it into an airplane and floated it across to him just as Bramley turned to his blackboard. It said, "RiverPlace, #245, 308 Montgomery, 7:30 P.M. Tonight." Years later, Davis still kept that paper airplane.

The RiverPlace apartments, Davis discovered, were mostly under construction. His heart sank when he considered that he might have been the victim of a practical joke, sent to wander around a construction site. However, seconds after he pressed the #245 buzzer, he heard an answering click as the door unlocked. He had to step on painter tarps and around unfinished units to find the destination. The door was cracked and when he entered, there was not a group of Reedies waiting to laugh at him as he had thought distinctly possible. There was instead -- a most amazing visage, amazing to Davis despite the fact that he had been summoned -- Mo, with a broad smile, standing in an apartment with ultra-modern décor. He stood for a moment and stared. Mo interpreted his reaction as an effort to put the European furniture and polished wood floors together with her Reed College persona. She explained, almost apologetically, that her mother had bought the condo for her after seeing her living space at Reed, "just in case, as a getaway."

"I haven't actually been here before," said Mo.

"Nice view," said Davis, half looking out the window but also glancing timidly at Mo. Her long, straight black hair gleamed in the soft light from the windows and her sky-blue eyes gleamed more than the light should have accounted for. The window faced a marina on the Willamette River where a dozen sailboats were battened down in blue sail-coverings against the stout breeze and rain.

"It's embarrassing," said Mo. "My mother is...." she left it unfinished with a wave of her arms. Then she smiled. "This place is perfect, however, for what I have in mind."

"What..." said Davis, and to his embarrassment his voice actually cracked on the word like the teenager that he too recently had been, "do you have in mind?"

She grinned and moved close, then pushed his chest with both hands, setting him back a step. "Why, I'm going to do you, darlin'. What did you think?" She pushed him again. This time it was more of a shove. Now he was against the wall and she leaned on him, nearly as tall as his six feet on her tiptoes, her face close to his."

Davis' body felt like jelly, trembling, with no possible resistance in body or mind against her.

"But first, let's get to know each other a little," she said, lightening the mood. She danced away from him to where an already opened wine bottle and glasses waited on a piece of modern art that doubled as a table.

She poured, holding both glasses in one hand with the stems between her fingers and offered them to him, spilling a little onto the hardwood floor while she reached down for a joint that looked partly sampled and a lighter on the corner of another piece of modern art that doubled as a couch.

They sat close enough to each other on the art piece that Davis could feel the heat of her body and "got to know each other," as in: Mo enjoyed downhill skiing. Davis was trying to avoid his mother's belief in his "destiny" as a concert pianist. Mo's father was a capitalist with many redeeming qualities but not enough to pass muster at Reed, especially since a major part of the family's capitalist lucre came from building warships. Davis' father was a "sailor," and they didn't get along and he'd rather not talk about him. Mo thought it fun that Davis was a Navy brat because they represented both sides of the military-industrial complex. Mo's mother was an angel whose aura was violet -- a very evolved color -- when seen under the influence of a light hit of LSD. Davis' mother was an angel, too, in his opinion, but he had never tried LSD and he didn't know what color her aura might be. Mo liked psilocybin much more than LSD. Davis liked to climb mountains.

Apparently deciding they knew each other well enough, Mo set aside the now empty glasses and roach stub, then turned with a huge grin and rough-housed Davis against the back of the artwork couch so vigorously that the oddly balanced apparatus rolled over backwards, spilling them onto the floor.

"I'm raping you," she said breathlessly, after pinning him down and kissing him well and hard. "Aren't you going to fight me?"

"You're just a dream anyway," said Davis. "Can't fight a dream."

"So I'll pinch you and you'll know I'm real," said Mo, laughing, as she slid his loose trousers down to his knees and seized his cock possessively. She squeezed her fist hard two or three times and he started to cum. Amazed, she let go of his cock and it swung about in a crazed circle, spurting wildly on her hair and in substantial globs high in the air and onto the couch and table.

Mo laughed, an out-of-control belly laugh for a long minute while wiping cum from her hair with her fingers, until she finally managed: "You can wake up now, Davis. You've been having a wet dream."

Davis did not share her amusement. He lay with his arms covering his face. She pulled his arms away and saw that his eyes had teared and his chin was trembling. "Humiliated, poor boy," she thought, finding that quite endearing. It was not until almost a week later that he confessed that he was a virgin prior to that night.

Mo lifted his arms away from his face, kissing his eyes and lips, murmuring reassurance. He would have none of it, so she played her ace, stood and shucked her clothes -- which came off like bedclothes in one piece over her head -- and sat on his chest, easing forward until her pussy was directly above his mouth.

He opened his eyes to an awesome vista -- entirely new for him -- of wet, parted pussy, and above, taut belly, and above that, abundant breasts, and looking down at him as if from a distant height over all this tawny landscape, he saw her lips and dazzling eyes, not laughing at him, but strangely fond and loving. When Davis, the virgin, opened his eyes to these new wonders, layered and converged into one spectacular goddess-like vision, he emotionally imprinted on Mo, as he described it to Ange, like a baby duck.

****

In the first week after Davis' imprinting, the pair spent most of their hours together in the RiverPlace apartment, usually in bed, where remarkable intimacies and open sharing prevailed.

Davis experienced the coming of Mo into his life as a miracle. In one day his life had changed from exhausting to exhilarating, like a homeless person winning the lottery, like a caterpillar surprised into butterfly.

Miracle on miracle, Mo also felt transformed by the relationship. She told Davis how, already at age 20, she had considered abandoning her heartfelt desire for babies and family to identify as a lesbian. Despite bisexual interests she had not declared for that option because her strongest erotic instincts still honed onto men. But she knew her true desires were deviant, perhaps perverted, whatever that word means. She loved to think of herself in a predator role. She loved to tease. She loved to deny boys who desperately wanted her. Unfortunately, in practice, at least until Davis, even the most playful and light-hearted explorations of her desires had met with harsh rejection, anger, and hurtful experiences on both sides.

Mo had gone to a therapist at one point, who had given her a diagnosis of "hysterical personality," in part because he apparently thought she was coming on to him. Not true, she knew for a fact. She had thought him rather creepy. However, from her brief experience in psychotherapy she had come away with one enduring insight. She was apparently too beautiful or too sexy to get away with teasing. Men, it seemed, reserved special emotions for the most physically desirable of women, whose supposed unattainability riled them, so that any hint of teasing provoked a backlash.

Mo shared this insight with Davis while lying abed, displaying herself wantonly to his yearning gaze. Her slickly wet pussy, rosy-nippled breasts and coy, laughing eyes gave her words special vibrancy.

"Why can't a boy appreciate and be thankful to a girl who is willing to allow him to gaze upon her body? Why must boys always want to touch?"

On the same occasion, while on the subject of insights, Mo told Davis the story of an epiphany she had had at a lavish party on her seventeenth birthday. After dancing with what seemed like every popinjay spoiled rich boy on the planet, she had wandered into a backroom kitchen area while seeking an unmonitored exit and accidentally brushed against a busboy who couldn't step out of her way because he was holding a tray of dishes. His halting apology was a little comical and she realized how she must look to him, dolled up in her low-cut dress. As he set his tray down she contrived to put her arm on his shoulder and lean her breast against him while reassuring him, at unnecessary length and intensity, that it was not his fault they had brushed against each other and gee, he was the cutest boy in the building (which he wasn't by most measures) and too bad he wasn't available to come and dance with her. Then she kissed him gently on the lips and allowed the kiss to linger a bit.

"And that was all there was to it," said Mo. "But walking away I felt a trickle of moisture between my legs and I realized I was trembling with arousal. For the rest of the party all I could think about was how much I'd rather be driving that busboy crazy than hob-nobbing with all those boring party kids."

"Am I that busboy for you now?" said Davis.

Mo smiled. She reached a hand towards Davis, then pulled it back coquettishly. "Sometimes, in bed. Sometimes, in the shower. Sometimes, well, lots of times actually, yes, you're that busboy for me."

"Lucky me," said Davis. "If it wasn't for you I could have ended up being a boring party kid."

Mo stood and paraded herself in front of him. "Tell me Davis," she said. "Tell me, my horny little busboy, what part of my body do you like the most?"

"Your eyes," said Davis without hesitation.

Mo laughed. "Well, that wasn't the answer I expected."

"Your eyes capture me. They hypnotize me. Your desires and emotions are transparent in them, so when I look in your eyes I trust the honesty of what I see."

Mo laughed again. "Would you like to hear what I think about your eyes? Your eyes are full of generosity. So willing. So mine. Do you know who your eyes remind me of? Elvis Presley."

"Oh my god."

"The young Elvis, when his eyes were woundable, but not yet wounded."

"Don't be cruel," sang Davis, "to a heart that's true."

"I always did want to suck your cock, Elvis. And now I shall."

****

One day two weeks later as the lovers sat enjoying some unexpected winter sun at an outdoor table of the Alexis, an upscale hotel near RiverPlace, Davis said, "I guess all good things must come to an end."

They looked at each other, both aware of their ongoing mutual denial of the stark reality that you can't survive Reed College academically if you spend your days and nights making love.

"End? Must they?" said Mo. "What's the important thing, me, or that your Momma wants you to finish Reed?"

And so the Reedies left Reed, and for months Mo and Davis set about to prove that all good things can at least be made to take their time before coming to an end. They went skiing in Switzerland, hiking in Maui, attended art openings in New York, took psilocybin and watched a boat parade in Seattle, hugged Redwoods, climbed Mt. Rainier, wandered the streets of Paris and Rome and made love in the most adventurous ways Mo with her hysterical personality could devise.

****

Denver, Colorado

Christmas Week, 1980

Davis was nervous about meeting Mo's parents, Rachel and Tom Baskin. Mostly he worried about Tom. Mo said Tom thought Reed College was a glorified commie cell where left-wing terror groups met to smoke opium. Davis went so far as to trim his hair a bit even though Mo disapproved of the sacrifice.

At dinner on Christmas Eve when they finally met, Davis saw immediately where Mo had gotten her good looks. At 54, Tom Baskin reminded Davis more of a TV anchorman than a captain of industry, complete with a resonant baritone voice and thick hair, graying attractively on the sides. His eyes reminded Davis of Mo's, blue and electric. Rachel Sheffield-Baskin at 47 was petite with an athletic build and attractive wrinkles around her eyes, wrinkles formed, Davis imagined, by years of smiling happily at the world.

Tom Baskin did not immediately cut to the chase on the topic of Davis the interloper and his little girl. Polite conversation started with small talk about the Mount St. Helens eruption in May, the family Christmas tree with ornaments imported from a Mexican Indian artist in a mountain village and what was for dinner. Then Baskin began to ease the conversation towards rockier terrain.

"So you kids have been traveling, I understand?"

"Paris is so romantic, Daddy," said Mo. No one spoke for a moment.

"And what does your father do, Davis?" asked Tom.

"He's a sailor," said Davis.

"Davis," said Mo, scolding him gently.

"That's the way he describes himself," said Davis. "When we talk, which is not often and usually about money. 'I'm a damned sailor, damn it,'" said Davis in a low gruff voice, obviously imitating his father.

"That's how he describes himself," said Tom. "Well, is he a sailor or isn't he?"

"Yes, sir, I guess he is."

"You guess he is? In the Navy?"

"Yes, oh yes."

"So what does he do in the Navy? Is he on a ship?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, what does he do? What is his job?"

"He's a commander."

"Oh," said Rachel. "That's a very high rank, isn't it? I thought you were going to say he was like, you know, bell bottoms."

"Davis," said Mo softly.

"I'm sorry," said Davis, "Actually, commander isn't his rank. I just used that word because that's what he calls himself. My father is Rear Admiral Percy Allen Jones, presently in command of a task force with the 7th Fleet."

"Well, I think that's wonderful!" said Rachel. "An admiral. My goodness!"

Tom gave Davis a long, steady look. "Is this classified? Are you ashamed of him or something? Why beat around the bush? You should be wearing a 7th Fleet T-shirt."

"I'm not ashamed of him," said Davis, sipping his wine.

More like the other way around, Mo thought to herself.

"My father is a very efficient, organized, disciplined military officer who worked hard to get where he is," said Davis. "Where he is right now, actually, is in the Persian Gulf, probably getting ready to rescue the hostages." He lifted his glass. "To my father. Good luck and Godspeed."

"Godspeed," echoed Tom. Clinks all around. Then Tom added: "Of course, any additional rescue missions will have to wait until Ronald Reagan is sworn in."

"The Admiral is counting the days, I assure you," said Davis.

"You call him 'the Admiral'?" said Tom.

"Hard to think of him any other way," said Davis. "We don't get along very well, truth be told. And I guess I have gotten used to avoiding discussions about him. You don't win a lot of points at Reed College by having a Navy admiral as a father."

Mo knew there was a little more to it than that. She hadn't met Admiral Jones, but she knew that Davis had felt judged and intimidated by his father since as far back as he could remember.

"Not many Brownie points for having a retired Army officer for a father, either, I can imagine," Tom said, looking at Mo. "But now you don't have to worry about Reed College any more, do you?"

"Sorry?" said Davis.

"Now you're a playboy of the western world. World traveler."

"I'm a Navy brat. I've been traveling the world as far back as I can remember."

"You don't have to be defensive," said Mo. "This is actually one of my favorite things about my father. He lays it on the table. What are you saying, Daddy? As if I didn't know."

"I'm saying Davis has a good thing going here."

"Now we're on the same page," said Davis. "Total agreement."

"Do you think Davis is a gold-digger, Daddy?" purred Mo, using a sweet and soft intonation.

"I think Davis would be a fool not to see some possibility of social advancement," said Tom.

Davis rolled his eyes.

"Is this what you have been plotting, Davis?" said Mo, affecting an accent like a Southern belle.

"Tell me marriage hasn't entered your mind, son," said Tom, ignoring Mo.

"I doubt there's a man on the planet who wouldn't want to marry Mo," said Davis. "She looks like a movie star, plays chess like Bobby Fisher, skis like Jean Claude Killy and that's before we get to the good stuff."

"And stands to inherit a ton of money," said Tom.

"Fact is," said Davis, "Mo already owns me, heart, soul, lock, stock and barrel. I can't see where she'd gain much by marrying me."

"Actually, we are going to get married," said Mo. "I just hadn't told Davis yet."

Davis and Tom were suddenly speechless. Rachel broke the silence cheerily with, "I hope it'll be a big wedding. I hope you'll let me help with it."

"Huge," said Mo with a huge smile. "We'll plan it together, Momma."

"Well, if this isn't the damnedest back-assward proposal I ever did hear," said Tom, unsmiling. Finally, a little reluctantly, he half-smiled. "Actually, that's one of my favorite things about my daughter," he said. "She lays it on the table."

"Like father, like daughter," Davis managed.

"Maybe I should ease up a little on you here," said Tom. "It's just that, well, you set me back, looking like Chewbacca from Star Wars. Are you guys really getting married?"

"Sounds like it," said Davis. "First I've heard, too."

"Whatever she says goes, right? Is that the way it works with you?" asked Tom.

"Yes, of course," said Davis. "How about with you?"

Tom tipped his head back and laughed heartily, then pointed at Davis and made a mark in space to say Davis had scored a point. "She's a force of nature," said Tom, still laughing.

"Has she always been this way?" asked Davis, joining in the laughter and glancing at Mo, who seemed amused.

"First clue we had was when she was five and she fired our housekeeper."

"Not that old story again," Mo protested.

"I heard this ruckus," said Rachel, "and by the time I got there, Mo was holding her puppy in her arms and screaming at the poor housekeeper, 'Out! Out! You're fired! Fired!' I thought, what in the world?"

"Seems Mo saw the housekeeper swat her puppy with a newspaper," said Tom. "The poor girl was just trying to help with house-breaking, but you couldn't tell Mo that."

"Two days later Marie quit," said Rachel.

"Mo just wouldn't let up on her," explained Tom.

"We helped her find another position," said Rachel, "and kept her on salary to tide her over."

"Last thing she said to me when she left was "My mistake, Mr. Baskin, was I should have taken the newspaper to your daughter, not the damned dog."

"After she left," said Rachel, "you never saw a domestic staff so in love with a puppy."

"Actually," said Tom, "we all pretty much have avoided saying anything against dogs from that day forward. Word to the wise," he joked, cupping his hand as if making a stage aside.

"I've always absolutely loved dogs," said Davis, to general laughter as the first course cart was rolled in from the kitchen.

It was after dinner and after the help had served dessert that Tom said: "Sheffield-Baskin. That's one hyphen. So when you get married are you going to add another hyphen? Sheffield-Baskin-Jones? Or how does this work? A few more generations and this could get ridiculous."

"No offense, Daddy," said Mo. "No offense to you either, Davis. But I wish us both to take the name Sheffield when we marry.

After a pause, Tom said "Well, that ought to raise some eyebrows." He didn't look pleased.

"When we have children," explained Mo, "I hope to begin a matrilineal line of descent."

"We're going to have children?" said Davis, smiling.

"Yes," said Mo. "Starting with a girl."
CHAPTER 3

A Motel, Gig Harbor, Washington

Evening, March 7, 1996

Taking rooms in an inexpensive motel for further discussions seemed silly and a bit shady to Davis. However, Doc insisted not only on that but also that he and Ange take two rooms pretending to be father and daughter and that Davis park the Jag down a side street and sneak in. Doc apparently thought there might be some sort of all points bulletin out on Davis. Talk about paranoid! But Davis played along with the cloak-and-dagger routine. After parking the car, he entered Doc's room hunched sideways with his jacket pulled up to his eyes.

"All clear," he whispered. "Perimeter secure."

Doc and Ange ignored him. They were already engaged in conversation and ensconced on the best seats in the small room, Ange in an overstuffed chair, Doc semi-reclined on the bed. Davis took a chair at a small table and picked up a magazine to dramatize being left out.

"Back in Winslow, Davis said something about you having gone through the same sort of experience with the brothers, Vince and Michael," said Ange. "Davis said he hadn't believed you until now. Believed you about what?"

"I can't prove it but I always suspected the brothers tipped off the press," said Doc. "Anyway, there was a scandal involving Rachel Sheffield-Baskin and me."

"What kind of scandal?"

"The juicy kind, in the tabloids. Famous heiress has affair with her somewhat famous analyst."

"Was it true?"

"True enough in the eyes of most people, I guess."

"You had an affair with Rachel Sheffield-Baskin when she was your patient?"

"My analysand, yes... well, technically no, but yes in the sense that she'd been my analysand before our love affair began."

"Technically?"

"You want to hear the story?"

"Please, if that's okay with you."

"I think it would be good for her to hear that, Doc," said Davis, looking up from a People Magazine dedicated to the O.J. Simpson murder trial, "and some of the family history, as well."

"Yes, family history. I suppose that would be good," said Doc, "because it all interrelates. Quick rundown, and I'll fill in the blanks later. Sheffield Industries grew into a major defense industry player during World War II. The founder, Gordon Sheffield, used personal contacts with the Maritime Commission to build emergency shipyards, and, long story short, leveraged that beginning into an empire of enterprises. His business strategy was to purchase or merge with subcontractors, which streamlined the bidding process. There were few impediments to the acquisitions during wartime. Along the way he wisely allowed the acquired companies to continue with their original management teams. Sheffield Industries today follows that same model, so that it's basically an octopus-like consortium.

"Gordon Sheffield had two sons, Vincent and Michael, by his young first wife, who died in childbirth, bearing Michael, in the early 1930's. He remarried, to Ginger, Rachel's mother. Ginger was a true partner, helping raise the brothers and baby Rachel during hard times. Ginger was half Gordon Sheffield's age, but stayed with him loyally all the years of the depression and the empire building during the war and post-war era until the patriarch died in 1958 at age 80. Are you following all this?"

"Yes, all very clear, thank you."

"The way Rachel told the story to me, when Gordon Sheffield died, he and Ginger had already decided not to leave a controlling interest to Sheffield's sons because they feared for the future of the company due to the fact that the brothers, who then would have been, let's see... in their late twenties, were spoiled rich boys and college drop-outs."

"What's wrong with being a spoiled rich boy and a college drop-out?" said Davis.

"In the meantime, Rachel had married Tom Baskin, who had left the Army after service in the Korean War as a decorated combat officer, a major. Maureen was born a couple of years before Gordon Sheffield died and I was told he was a very proud grandpa. In any case, after he died, in accordance with Gordon Sheffield's desires according to his widow Ginger -- although there was no written proof of that -- Ginger installed Tom as president of the corporation and the brothers were aced out of any really powerful positions. Can you see where this might lead to some resentment?"

"Bound to."

"Then, when Ginger died in an accident not many years after her husband died, the terms of her will left 51% of the total shares of Sheffield to Rachel and the brothers were left with less than 25% each, leaving them both wealthy men on paper but openly and vocally pissed."

"They felt cheated."

"Yes. And now, fast forward many years of the very successful reign of Tom Baskin. Military needs during the Vietnam War, plus expansion into shipping and dock facilities -- in other words, private as well as government defense contracting -- plus various enterprises in arms and munitions, including sales to foreign nations, grew the company far beyond even what Gordon Sheffield could have dreamed. And all this time the brothers brooded and, when possible, obstructed."

"Festered," said Davis helpfully, still buried in his magazine.

"Yes, festered. Davis, of course, was a child during most of this period, off playing a piano someplace, being a little hippie, going to Reed College, but now we are closing in on the coming of age of Mo and Davis, and also the time when good old Doc, Yours Truly, enters the picture."

"He did it," said Davis.

"Who did what?" said Doc.

"O.J., the bastard."

"Tom Baskin died," said Doc, ignoring Davis, "in 1985, totally unexpectedly at the tragically young age of 59. And here is the situation facing Rachel: In addition to being emotionally devastated by the loss of her loving partner of thirty years, the Sheffield Industries dramas are serious -- or serious sounding to her -- and incessant. There is nobody to take Tom's place. She feels very alone and isolated. This is right in the middle of the Reagan military build-up. Vince and Michael bombard her with paperwork, things to be signed and she feels completely over her head.

"Rachel came to me, for psychoanalysis she said, about six months after Tom died. But it wasn't really analysis, per se, that she wanted; it was someone to talk to, to help her figure things out. Analysts aren't generally supposed to give advice, you know."

"Why not?"

"People in analysis are supposed to find their own insights."

"But Rachel wanted advice."

"Yes, advice from a friend. And after listening for several months, I decided that's what she needed. She was such a sweet and wonderful woman, but very vulnerable and in a situation with enormous pressures. She talked constantly about how she wished Maureen could pull up stakes and come to New Jersey from Seattle, but Maureen was only in her mid-twenties and had a life in Seattle with her young husband (nodding his head at Davis), Silvie, still a toddler; and she was working full-time running the charitable foundation Rachel and Tom had endowed, what we now call the Foundation.

"More and more I tried to help. We met everyday. I looked at contracts and legal papers with her. It was obvious that Vince and Michael were throwing a bunch of mumbo jumbo at her. In her sweet innocence she let the brothers know I was helping. I had stopped taking money from her and I had told her long before that this was not therapy we were doing. We had a few drinks one night. We went to her place and cuddled by the fire. The relationship evolved into more intimacy. And then one night the flashbulbs went off and the tabloids hit the stands and at first it was awful. Rachel was mortified.

"Not long after that I went to a psychoanalytic convention in New Orleans. A question from the audience had to do with analysts who sleep with their patients. The speaker said it was common. Then someone rose and said: 'Yes, but only with the pretty ones.' Then someone else said: 'Or the wealthy ones.' And everyone in the audience turned to look at me; or at least it felt that way. I got up, walked out and never looked back. That was the end of my career as an analyst.

"Then I became what the brothers called Rachel's consigliere, after the character in The Godfather."

"And now you are consigliere for Davis."

"I suppose so. Lucky me. Anyway, Rachel and I were quite the item in the gossip columns for a time. We got mentions in the New Yorker. We were on Geraldo, bold as you please. We went to Sheffield board meetings. We had nothing to be ashamed of and we refused to act like it.

"I should tell you the story of the first board meeting I attended with Rachel because it was a humdinger. Getting a handle on what was going on in the Sheffield inner circle with Tom gone was almost impossible, but I had gotten lucky prior to the meeting. I had found a smoking gun."

****

Meeting of Sheffield Board of Directors, Newark, New Jersey

October 9, 1987

"Let the minutes reflect that we are pleased and honored with the presence of our esteemed chief shareholder, Mrs. Rachel Sheffield-Baskin, and that Mrs. Sheffield-Baskin brought a friend along to observe the meeting," said Vince Sheffield, who appeared to be acting as chair. In his prime at age 58, Vince Sheffield cut an imposing figure. Balding with his remaining hair combed back, he lacked Tom Baskin's photogenic charisma, but he made up for it with a kind of appealing heft, for want of a better word. Barrel-chested, he had a way of sitting with his hands clasped across his ample girth like a medieval monarch.

"Thank you, Vincie," said Rachel. "Everyone, allow me to introduce my good friend and associate, Doctor Maynard Travestor."

"Yeah," said Michael Sheffield. "Saw you on Geraldo, Doc." Michael Sheffield, hair-challenged like his brother, but shorter, slimmer and without gravitas, tended towards shifty-eyed. He was given to slumping in his chair, which sent a message of indifference, of being above it all.

"Welcome, Doctor," said Vince. "If you have any questions, we can take some time after the meeting."

"Could we take a minute and go around the table for introductions, Vincie?" said Rachel.

There were ten people at the table. In addition to Doc, Rachel, and the brothers Vince and Michael, there were six non-voting advisory directors, all male, all white, and all well-paid for their attendance, including a former U.S. congressman who was the only director who looked under 50, a retired executive from U.S. Steel, a retired astronaut Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, a retired bank executive, a retired book publisher from the publishing house that had done a biography of Gordon Sheffield, and, most importantly from Doc's point of view, a retired Navy admiral named Barnes McKinley. Doc had met and chatted with McKinley a week earlier, accompanied by Davis' father, Admiral Percy Jones, who happened to be long-time friends with McKinley.

The introductions were quite pleasant with most of the directors obliging with a brief synopsis of their backgrounds and history with the company. All of them, Doc knew, had been brought onto the board during Tom Baskin's tenure. Admiral McKinley seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Thank you all," said Rachel. "It's so nice to be here with all you wonderful friends. I know I haven't been much involved since Tom passed. No good excuse for that. It's been over a year now, and I am only just starting to feel like myself. I've been trying to keep track of what is going on here in Newark. Doc has helped me incredibly -- we all just call him Doc -- and, of course, my big brothers came to my rescue just like they always have, just like when I was little and I always looked up to them. Vincie and Mikey always found a way to make sure I was okay. I'm a lucky person to have brothers like you, Vincie, Mikey."

"And on that note," said Vince, smiling, "maybe it's time to call this meeting to order and ask Michael for a treasurer's report so we can see how much money we have made for Mrs. Sheffield-Baskin this quarter."

There followed quite a lengthy set of routine business before the item Doc was waiting for came up on the agenda.

"And now the routine matter of finalizing our decision on the reallocation of ship dismantling resources," said Vince. "Everyone has seen the briefing notes, I believe."

"Actually I have one small question," said Doc.

"Perhaps you could save your questions for afterwards, Doctor," said Vince.

"I really would rather understand something a little better before the vote," said Doc.

"You're out of order, Doctor," said Vince. "You're not a member of this board. We're making every effort to welcome you appropriately and to accommodate to your presence. However," he said, in a hushed voice as though speaking confidentially although everyone could hear him quite well, "surely you're aware that the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Sheffield-Baskin does not exactly entitle you to special privileges here."

"It appears you are acting as chair this evening, Mr. Sheffield," said Doc.

"Your powers of observation are very keen, Doctor. Must be your psychiatric training," said Vince, smiling at his own gibe.

"I'm a little confused," said Doc. "The bylaws of the corporation seem to indicate that the president of Sheffield Industries shall chair meetings of the board of directors. Has that been amended after the version I saw?"

"I am acting as chair since Mrs. Sheffield-Baskin prefers not to attend the board meetings and has expressed approval of that arrangement."

"But Rachel could rescind that approval if she were here, could she not, and guess what, she is here, and so might it not be appropriate to ask her whether or not our relationship with each other, hers and mine, is of a nature that would keep me from asking a little question or two?"

"Ask your question by all means, Doctor," said Michael sharply, waving his brother's protest aside.

"It's these little initials here at the bottom of the page on this brief," said Doc. "It says VS/LD/mf. What does that mean?"

"Oh, for god's sake," said Michael with an exasperated tone. "It's obvious you haven't worked around an office. Those are the initials of the people who prepared the brief. VS is Vince Sheffield, signatory. LD is Lawrence Doud, who drafted it, and mf is the typist from the typing pool. Satisfied?"

"This Lawrence Doud," said Doc. "I'd like to talk to this guy. This brief is so poorly written that I can't even tell what he's talking about. You should look over his work before signing it, Vince."

"I will certainly do that in the future." said Vince, snidely. "And any other things you notice that need changing around here, do speak right up."

"For example, this sentence here," said Doc. "'The issue for discussion is reallocation of resources currently devoted to dock facilities and terminal upkeep into a forward-looking policy of linking decommissioned vessels and materials to a more effective and efficient processing, leading in all likelihood to increased profits without any lost advantages by Sheffield Industries.' A little plain English would be helpful here, don't you agree?"

"I'll have a chat with Lawrence, Doctor. Are you finished with the grammar critique?" said Vince.

"I can't find that sentence," said Admiral Barnes McKinley.

"Second paragraph, second sentence," said Doc.

"No," said McKinley. "I don't see it."

Doc rose from his chair and walked around the table to McKinley. He pointed at his brief. McKinley pointed at the one he had been sent. Then both men looked up.

"These are different versions," said Doc.

"You wouldn't believe how many reports we write and the paperwork that gets generated around here," said Vince. "Probably a different draft at a different time by a different person."

"Same topic, same little initials at the bottom, same date," said Doc, still leaning over McKinley's shoulder. "Interesting. Listen to this. This is what the other version says in the same paragraph: 'Our sources inform us that Indian ship breakers at the Alang facilities scrapped 310 ships last year alone, at a total cost of $210 million. At that rate Sheffield Industries obviously stands to gain enormously by the simple action of closing the ship breaking facility here and sailing the ships to be dismantled in India.'"

"Really the same thing." said Vince. "We were just sparing our sister from some of the sometimes painful realities of modern finance."

"Painful realities, as in the proposal is to shut down American facilities because of the unions and expensive safety issues," said Doc, returning to his chair, "and to send the ships to be dismantled by hand, under horrid, dangerous conditions, by impoverished Indian migrants, at a dollar a day for 12-hour days? Is that what you mean by painful realities?"

"You are totally out of order, Doctor, and it's obvious you came here armed with your own research with the intention of disrupting this meeting. Nowhere in the materials sent to you was there any mention of working conditions."

"I dare say not," said Doc. "But once I saw the word Alang in the Admiral's version it all came clear. National Geographic did a story on it. And the Times, if memory serves."

Vince looked long and hard at Doc, his brow furrowed with the realization that perhaps Doc was not as innocuous a threat as he had assumed.

"Wait a minute," said Rachel. "I remember Tom talking about this now. When Doc told me something was being misrepresented and that he wanted us to attend this meeting, I thought he was imagining things. But now I remember Tom talking about the horrible, horrible exploitation of poor workers taking ships apart by hand and being injured and dying. Dying! We can't do this. We can't be any part of this."

"Rache, honey, you see that clock?" said Michael. "Every tick of that second hand represents thousands of dollars we could be saving, thousands of dollars that you could contribute to your Foundation."

"No, no," said Rachel. "We can't do this. Tom would not have wanted this."

"Sister," said Vince, "there's been a lot of planning leading up to this decision, looking very carefully at every aspect of it, including... including!.. the welfare and safety of the Indian workers at Alang. This really is a win/win situation. Those workers want those jobs and we can make conditions better for them."

"No, no, "said Rachel.

"Of course, you are entitled to vote your conscience on this issue, but if you lose on it, please know that we truly are carefully factoring in the welfare of the Indian workers." Vince smiled, then glared at Doc.

"If you are going to vote this question, is there not somebody named Robert Wilcox supposed to be present?" asked Doc. "Where is he?"

"Bob is in Tokyo on company business," said Michael. "But may I ask why that is of interest to you?"

"Oh, come now," said Doc. "Don't insult our intelligence. For the last 40 years there have been four voting members on this board, Tom and Rachel being two of them. But for all practical purposes I doubt there were very many votes actually taken, since Tom had Rachel's proxy and under the bylaws, the chair, which was Tom, decided ties." Doc shrugged with a gesture that said: "that's the simple truth of the matter."

'That's the way Daddy wanted it, Vincie," said Rachel.

"That's the way Mommy wanted it," said Michael, his voice transparently contemptuous.

"Rachel voted your chief accountant onto the board as a voting member because she trusts him," said Doc. "Now Wilcox is in Japan, so what's that about? And you think you are going to make a decision like this over Rachel's objection? Think again. Nothing has changed."

"Nothing has changed?" said Vince.

"Nothing has changed," said Doc.

"I'll tell you what's changed," said Vince. "Tom died. That's what's changed. Now, we didn't always agree on everything, but I didn't make Tom have a heart attack. It isn't my fault that he died. But he did. And now somebody has to run this company. Who else is going to do it? This business is in my blood. For years I've been running things behind the scenes more than you can imagine. You think Tom was the only one around here making things happen? And you! You old coot! You've got Rachel fooled, so now you think you can come in here and rule the roost?"

"I've got Rachel fooled?" said Doc. "I'm not the one sending her bogus reports."

"I'm not as easy to fool as some people seem to think," said Rachel.

"Enough discussion," said Vince. "The chair moves that we adopt modified ship-dismantling policies as stipulated in the reports. Do we have a second?"

"You'll have blood on your hands," said Doc.

"Hang on just a damned minute," said Admiral McKinley. "You can take my name off your board of directors roll if you pass this."

"I second the motion," said Michael, missing the import of McKinley's pronouncement.

"I'll have no part in it, either," said former Astronaut Lt. Colonel Dane "Scooter" Hamilton.

"This won't be a feather in your cap, Vince," said retired Georgia Central Bank President M. Bryan Haggelstrom, III.

"Gentlemen," said Vince. "Let's not be hasty."

"And then there's the media to consider," said Doc.

"What media?" said Vince. "This is a private meeting. How would the media get involved?"

"I don't know," said Doc. "It's strange how the media finds out about things. You think something is private and all of a sudden the whole world knows about it. I know this from personal experience."

"Are you threatening us?" said Michael, his voice rising and his face flushed.

"No," said Doc. "Of course not. I would no more call the press in a private matter than you would. I'm just saying these things sometimes get out and it wouldn't look good."

"Okay, damn it," said Vince, his voice ragged. "We'll table this for now, go back to the drawing board, see if we can't structure this in a way that will satisfy all concerns."

"I just don't want those poor people to be injured just so we can make more money," said Rachel.

Michael sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

"Can we count on your attendance at our meetings in the future, Doctor?" said Vince.

"You should be happy to see me here," said Doc.

"Really, and why's that?"

"Because Rachel is thinking about putting Maureen on the board."

"Maureen? Little Maureen? Last time I saw her she looked like a hippie and she was nursing her baby in public with her breast hanging out."

"Now Vinnie," said Rachel. "Mo is executive director for the Foundation now. You saw her at Tom's service. Did she look like a hippie?"

"I don't remember seeing her."

"Vinnie, she gave the eulogy."
CHAPTER 4

A Motel, Gig Harbor, Washington

March 7, 1996

"Doc," said Davis, "did you really say 'I would no more call the press than you would?' That's funny. I hadn't heard that one before."

"I do have one question, Doc," said Ange. "It sounds like the brothers were not the only ones holding back information from Rachel. I gather you hadn't told her about Alang or about the two versions of the report prior to the meeting. Why not? What am I missing?"

"It was only by a gnat's eyebrow that I managed to get Rachel to the meeting at all. Rachel was one of the most spectacularly innocent people I've ever known. Sometimes she seemed to be channeling Gracie Allen. She was unable to consider that there might be any unloving intent in her brothers whatsoever."

"Okay," said Ange, not sounding entirely satisfied. "Thanks for the stories of corporate intrigue. Very informative. However, the missing piece I need to know more about has to do with, you know, the cause célèbre."

"The moral turpitude," said Davis.

"Yes."

"I wouldn't know where to start."

"Cut to the chase. Is there something you've done that's likely to be the locus of their possible evidence?"

"Could be quite a few things, I'm afraid."

"Okay, hit me with your best shot, the most graphic, the most witnesses. Give me something to work from as a baseline."

"Okay, let me think." Long pause. "Maybe the Giselle affair. I can't even imagine the kinds of things Giselle might say. Shit! The fucking flower! I had a nickname for a while: 'Flower'. Not good."

Davis sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

"Go on," said Ange.

"I, uh, sort of waved a flower at Giselle," said Davis, half to himself in a low voice. "I guess she was insulted, so she tried to cut my cock off... I think. But I was rescued by a Russian angel. It ended up being a sort of famous scene and everybody knew the flower story."

"I never knew it," said Doc.

"Doc, are you going to be in on this?" said Davis.

"What do you want me to do," said Doc, "go outside and walk around in the cold after a buildup like that?"

"It's just that when you used to hang with Mo and me and Silvie things were different. But before Silvie was born Mo and I were pretty wild in comparison. We've never really talked about those days. On the way here I told Ms. Parker about how Mo and I met. Mo had this, I don't know, fetish or whatever, where she liked to tease, especially men and especially me."

"I saw that," said Doc. "I'm not blind."

"What you saw was the tip of the iceberg. But the thing is, I loved it. I loved the constant arousal. I loved the goddamned deprivation. I mean, I hated it but I loved it at the same time if that makes any sense."

"Maureen was very beautiful," said Doc to Ange, as though that explained something.

"Anyway," said Davis, "Giselle added another dimension. Mo used her, I think, and I guess I used her too."

"Used her for what?" said Ange.

"To go darker, add an edge to things." Davis rolled his eyes at some personal memory. "I guess we did that all right."

"You're losing me," said Ange. "Maybe you'd better just lay out what happened."

"Giselle was a fitness coach. Cute in a dyke sort of way. She had a crush on Mo, big time. She would have preferred that I be out of the picture entirely but she couldn't have that because Mo wanted me to watch them make out. You could probably do a psychiatric study on our little triangle, Doc."

"Go to the part where you waved a flower at her and she tried to cut your cock off," said Ange.

"That was in the Whitsunday Islands in Queensland. We went over to Hamilton Island for a party. Actually, the party was Giselle's idea. Mo had told her about Countess Claire's parties for... I guess you could call them a sort of international party set. Countess Claire happened to be in Bali so she sailed her yacht down special just for Mo and Lion Cub, which is what she called me."

****

Hamilton Island, Queensland, Australia

February 3, 1983

A mere ten days after Giselle won Mo to the idea of a party, hundreds of Japanese lanterns lighted the way as guests were welcomed to the Hamilton Island gardens and spacious hillside mansion of a sugarcane magnate who was not able to attend himself but was happy to oblige Mo and Countess Claire. Everyone came in golf carts, some directly from the executive airport. Automobiles were rarely used on the island.

Present in good number were the kinky jet setters who made it a point never to miss one of Countess Claire's balls. The ranks were further swelled by Hamilton Island society. And, for good measure, a smattering of top-of-the-line hookers were in attendance, including a half-dozen bisexual ladies of the evening hired secretly at Mo's request to pay special attention to Giselle.

The dress code was, as always for Countess Claire's parties, "black tail or show some tail." Most chose the latter. Mo was in oiled black latex, made to order by a Parisian tailor that she had found in Skin Two Magazine. Her breasts and butt orbs were bare and glistened with oil to match the latex. Davis was in a baby-blue silk smoking jacket from the Sydney Collection in Los Angeles, along with matching boxer briefs and a tie with no shirt. Giselle, after much ado, settled on a fine woven gold metallic toga that hung and clung exquisitely on her athletic frame. Under the shimmering fabric, which fell not halfway to her knees, she was nude. She wore a small gold tiara in her hair.

As they entered the great hall scene, Davis was immediately corralled by Countess Claire, who gave her Lion Cub a sensual mauling. Claire reminded Davis of the singer Cher in appearance. Her emerald-colored, sequined gown, cut low in the back, looked like something Cher might wear to the Academy Awards, except it was cut somewhat lower than even Cher would have dared.

"You feel sooo good!" Claire said as she ran her hands over, around and under his flimsy silk briefs. "Please tell me, my little Lion Cub, that you have grown some teeth and that you have finally freed yourself from this absurd tunnel vision. Mo is not the only woman in the world. Look around you. You could have your pick and I'd be first in line." Claire's accent was from the Czech Republic, like her claim to a title.

Davis laughed. "The joke would be on you," he said. "The only reason you'd pick me is because you think Mo must see something in me. I'm no great lover."

"I'll vouch for that," said Giselle, who had approached them from behind. "Far from it."

"Well, who have we here?" said Claire, after turning to face Giselle. "Tinkerbelle?"

Claire could hardly have calculated a worse insult, for Giselle certainly had not intended that her Greek Goddess toga would make her look like Tinkerbelle.

Davis made introductions quickly to defuse the situation but sparks still flew.

"Am I to understand, Giselle Turner," said Claire, "that you have personally had a taste of my Lion Cub as a lover, in which case I shall be overcome with jealousy."

"As a matter of fact, I have witnessed at close hand that your 'Lion Cub' is pretty much a non-entity in the lover department. If he's a lion he's the cowardly lion. He should go ask the wizard for a pair of balls. Gerrruf!" Giselle leaned towards Davis as she imitated the Wizard of OZ lion growl. Davis cowered for effect and shook all over, playing along to lighten the scene.

The Countess was not amused. "Who am I to believe? Mo tells me that Davis is a thrilling lover. Thrilling beyond words! (Imitating Mo's clipped inflections) Wouldn't trade him for any man in the world!"

Davis saw Mo chatting nearby. He caught her eye and signaled quickly with fingers to the forehead and an eye roll, messages too subtle for others to catch, but Mo was beside them with alacrity, hugging and air-kissing Countess Claire hello.

"Sweetheart," said Davis, filling Mo in quickly, "Claire somehow has the delusion that I am some sort of thrilling lover. Giselle was trying to explain the truth."

"Oh, but you are indeed a thrilling lover. Beyond thrilling. Magical," said Mo.

Giselle was too miffed by that response to hide her reaction. She dropped her hands low and backed away a step. "What kind of thrilling lover sits and watches and doesn't even touch you?"

"I know," said Mo. "He's amazing."

"He doesn't touch you!" said Giselle, half stomping a foot insistently.

Mo could see Giselle was losing it. "Giselle and I have been making Davis suffer by watching us but not touching," she said by way of explanation to Claire. "It's been great fun. Giselle is a sweet-loving honey-pot." Mo put her arm around Giselle in a fond gesture but Giselle would have none of it. She broke free.

"Excuse me," she said and walked off.

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

"I think there's a sort of contest going on to see who's most jealous, Giselle or me," said Davis.

"Who's winning?" said Claire.

"I am," said Mo.

The curtain rose on act two in the Hamilton Island drama about an hour later when Davis saw Mo headed for an upstairs bedroom with a young woman Davis knew to be the daughter of the captain of Claire's yacht Dessert First. "But not a word," Claire had said when she introduced Mo to the lucky damsel, "because if Captain Saldamor knew she was here he would probably scuttle the damned boat; however, she is now eighteen – if barely \-- and I promised she could come to my parties, so here she is."

Giselle also saw Mo and the teenager probably headed for a bed, and her reaction was markedly different from Davis', who was quite accustomed to Mo's philandering ways. Even across the room, Davis could see that Giselle's eyes were dark gray. Almost black. Not a good sign.

An hour later Mo was still upstairs. Davis was sipping a rum and coke and enjoying the scene when there appeared before him five beautiful women (the secret sexworkers) with high heels, hose and garters (and little else) plus dog collars to make them look like submissives, accompanied by Giselle in her toga, locks of her strawberry blonde hair falling loose and her eyes afire with evil.

Davis thought Giselle in her angry mode looked more beautiful than he had seen her before, which goes to show how a little authentic emotion can release an inner aura. Showing off to her fawning faux-subs, Giselle took Davis' Cuba Libra in hand and drank it, then set the empty glass down on a table. She grabbed Davis by the tie and cinched it tight against his neck until he was obviously struggling for breath. Then she used it to force him to his knees. From there, she mounted him like a horse, using his tie as a rein and the pockets of his smoking jacket as stirrups.

"Gee haw!" Giselle shouted loudly, urging him forward with her heels. Davis shuffled forward on his hands and knees, getting into the spirit of the moment with no trouble, partly thanks to the hooting and laughter of the gallery of beautiful women who were modeling themselves to match Giselle's lead. Giselle rode her obliging mount through the party into an outside garden area. Along the way the so-called submissives, caught up in the fun of tormenting a helpless victim, spanked him and poked him lightly. He could see some were coked up. Of course they were. The powder was everywhere, in long lines abandoned on countertops, in plenitude only possible for people with entirely too much money during the coke-era of the Eighties. Davis had done a couple of generous lines. He had seen Mo do the same. And he could see that Giselle was totally ripped. Her eyes were glassy with coke, wild abandon... and something else.

"Wow," thought Davis. "What a party!" He allowed the women to strip him of his smoking jacket and shorts and then laid himself willingly on his back on the lawn near a huge Koi pond full of lily pads and water plants. Giselle and her helpers tied him spread-eagled with nylon hose donated by the increasingly naked cadre. They fastened him to trees and concrete benches, improvising but getting the job done until he was in fact quite helpless, naked with his purple-hard, deprived penis saluting one and all.

Inspired, Giselle decided to add a finishing touch. She picked a blue water lily flower from where it stood above the pond and unceremoniously inserted the stem into Davis' pee hole until it was well and firmly lodged in place. Onlookers shared uncomfortable winces. In a single flourish, Giselle had crossed the line on two unspoken taboos, picking the lovely flower \-- one of only two in the pond -- and the obvious health risk of introducing unsanitary plant materials into a penis. No one intervened however, perhaps because it happened so quickly, but also because when Giselle stood back to admire her handiwork Davis elected to participate in the performance art piece by working his cock muscles to make the flower bob and dance in the air. He earned a round of laughter and applause for his efforts.

Perhaps Giselle thought the applause was for her because as her next audience pleaser she stepped onto Davis' chest and performed a series of ballet forms, plié, relevé, arms in the classical positions of a skilled dancer. She ended the dance on her human stage with a leap and turn that came down forcefully, more like a karate move than ballet, her fists clenched in a triumphant fighter's pose.

Davis celebrated the body blow with another vigorous flower salute. The crowd loved it. Giselle did not love it so much. It was not Davis' intention to embarrass her. He actually wanted to encourage her. He was aroused by the weight of her on his chest and the impact of her karate footwork. Later he theorized his masochism of the moment as a pent up wish for engagement with Giselle. If you hate me, for God's sake, hurt me. Better that than nothing.

Perhaps. But whatever the underlying emotional dynamic, Giselle's efforts to punish Davis during the escalations of the next few minutes only served to arouse him more. Her roughness stirred defiance in him as well as excitement. She kicked him smartly in the stomach and he waved his flower at her. She put a foot on his neck and shifted most of her weight onto it and he waved again. All this to the great amusement of the onlookers.

Giselle straddled his chest, her naked pussy against him, which felt very good. She slapped him. Hard. Again: a stinging forehand. Then a backhand with knuckles. Davis perversely loved it but it was too much for the audience, which was stunned into silence. He could see Giselle was enraged but he no longer cared. She stopped and looked down at him, breathing hard.

"Thanks," he said. "I needed that." And he bobbed his still-turgid, defiant cock. Much relieved laughter and clapping. Giselle turned to see his flowered cock bouncing and she lost it. Jumping to her feet she moved swiftly, leaping a hedge athletically to retrieve a knife from a nearby barbecue – a very wicked looking blade, almost like a machete. She must have noticed it earlier. And back she came before anyone could guess what she was about, clearing the hedge like a hurdler and sliding to her knees on the grass between Davis' legs with her arm cocked, the machete knife gleaming. Her eyes were wild. She swung the knife and it clipped the flower neatly -- demonstrating that it was razor sharp -- frighteningly near his cock, with a scant inch or so of stem remaining. She cocked her arm and started to swing the blade again.

A tall, nude blonde who had joined enthusiastically in tormenting Davis earlier turned mutinous, seizing Giselle's arm with a steely grip. The woman was obviously very strong. Giselle's hand with the knife didn't move an inch once in the grasp, even though she tried to lunge forward in an effort to free herself. Giselle kicked at the blonde woman's face with an over-the-head karate move. That was a mistake, because the woman disarmed Giselle by slamming a knee against her arm and then snatched Giselle up by her toga as if she were a child and pitched her bodily into the Koi pond.

Giselle came out of the water sputtering and yowling, covered from head to toe in pond gunk, algae and water plants. Clinging strands of lily pad were snarled in her tiara so that when she tried to toss one away from her face, it twice flopped back in her eyes. Her blonde nemesis started laughing. The laughter was contagious and soon the entire group of onlookers joined in. Humiliated, and realizing from the laughter that there would be no mercy for her in this crowd, Giselle ran from the scene trailing water plants, not into the mansion, but away from it across the grounds. That was the last Davis ever saw of her.

His blonde savior pulled the flower stem free and sucked on Davis' cock to get any remnants out, spitting the flower juices onto the lawn. Davis found this enormously arousing and did his cock bob again, sans flower, but his crowd support was still there -- he could hear clapping.

The blonde woman knelt beside Davis and looked down into his eyes with a warm smile. Her hair, backlit by outdoor lanterns, gave her a golden aura like an angel. Surely she was an angel, a guardian angel and penis protector. And now she put her angelic hands on Davis' cock and started to masturbate him, saying: "Koom, koom. Da. Da." Russian, thought Davis. A Russian angel.

"No, no," said Davis, trying to turn his body from her. But his hands were still tied and she was insistent.

Then suddenly she straddled him, denying his efforts to turn away with the weight of her body. His cock slid inside her and she was fucking him. And he didn't try to pull away, so he was fucking her, too. Before long he was screaming in joyful release and she was laughing. And the crowd was clapping. The show had reached its climax. "Bravo," someone shouted. Someone whistled.

Then she was kissing him as they lay together for a time. Davis had his eyes closed in a vertigo of post-sexual release. He felt her, or someone, cutting the nylon bonds from his hands and feet but he didn't move from his spread eagle. He realized after some moments that his angel had left and when he opened his eyes he saw that everybody had. He was alone in the garden.

And he had fucked another woman. He had violated a prime directive. How many times had Mo said it, often during love making, but sometimes over dinner or on a walk, and always the same unequivocal mantra: "No other women. Do you understand?" "Yes." "Never." "Yes." "Under any circumstances." "Yes." "And if you do, do you know what will happen?" "Yes."

Davis found his smoking jacket and briefs piled neatly beside him. He put them on and wandered towards the ballroom. Mo was standing at the entry, her hands on her hips.

"I fucked a girl," he said.

"So I heard," said Mo. "Very discreetly, I understand."

"She saved me when Giselle was going to cut my cock off."

"I see."

"A Russian angel."

"Goodbye, Davis."

"Goodbye, Mo."

****

Davis borrowed someone's golf cart outside and drove it a half mile to a picnic area on a bluff with a view of the moonlit Whitsunday Islands in the distance. He chose a manicured area where he was sure there wouldn't be snakes and sat for a long hour or so – he lost track of time -- gazing at the moonlight on the water while not really seeing it.

He didn't think Mo would really leave him over this. But she might. But she loved him. But she was so strong willed. Back and forth went his mind in a compulsive game of "She loves me/She loves me not."

His heart jumped when he saw her walking towards him in the moonlight. How had she found him? She saw the golf cart parked probably.

She stood in front of him for a moment. "You're feeling miserable, aren't you?"

"You could say that," he said.

"I couldn't stand thinking of you feeling that way."

"Does that mean you still love me?"

She sat next to him and put her arms around him. He put his head on her shoulder, tears starting quietly.

"I talked to your angel," said Mo. "She sort of helps Claire keep order if things get out of hand. Maybe she'd be a hard woman to resist. She wanted you to cum in order to wash out plant stuff. How did it feel, fucking her?"

Dangerous question. Davis considered for a moment. "I like Russian girls," he said, finally. "They're nice."

He could feel Mo stifling a laugh, which was good.

"I feel sorry for Giselle," said Davis. "I didn't intend her to be humiliated."

"She was fun while it lasted," said Mo. "but your Russian girl seemed to think your darling dick was actually in danger. Can't have that. I have plans for that dick."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"I'm off the pill," said Mo. "We're going to start our family now."
CHAPTER 5

A Motel, Gig Harbor, Washington

March 7, 1996

"So what do you think," said Davis, after finishing his lengthy description of the Giselle incident, "from a legal point of view?"

"You had a nickname of Flower? People called you Flower?" said Ange.

"Yes."

"So we can assume the event was well known and remembered. It wasn't a transient recollection that people might have vague memories of."

"No. But who would testify against me other than Giselle and it would be my word against hers."

"They would depose people. Witnesses would have to perjure themselves to protect you. You would perjure yourself, for that matter, if you lied about anything. Then if they had something on you you'd be in serious shit. Perjury is a felony."

"Couldn't I take the fifth?"

"You could take the fifth, but it probably wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"In the first place, you aren't accused of a crime. You can only take the fifth if there is a risk of criminal prosecution. In the second place, you aren't protected from what they call 'adverse inferences' in a civil case. If you refuse to answer and the brothers have evidence against you, the court might assume the evidence is accurate."

"I was a helpless victim, tied down."

Ange didn't answer. She gave him a wry smile.

"Statute of limitations," said Davis. "It was thirteen years ago."

"We could argue that. But they're probably going to claim that the adverse effects, which is to say, the injury to the corporation, will take effect when the moral turpitude becomes known, not when the actions took place. They'll ask the court for relief from that injury and will probably prevail. Although..."

"Yes?"

"You were young. It was in the 80's. Now you have matured into a respectable citizen et cetera, et cetera."

"I have," said Davis firmly.

"You have?" said Doc.

"Doc?" said Ange, catching Doc's tone, "Is there something more I don't know about?"

"There're things nobody knows about," said Doc. "Almost every week Davis the mystery man leaves the Smith Towers about noon on Thursday and reappears around noon on Monday. God only knows what mischief he might be getting into. And when he is around he goes on long walks alone. No friends that I can tell. No women."

"What, Doc?" said Davis, "Am I supposed to bring my friends home for you to approve of?"

"Davis?" said Ange.

"What?" Angry.

"Davis, I can't do this blind. I have to know."

"Oh, boy," said Davis, forming tight fists in exasperation. "This is my personal life we're talking about. It has nothing to do with anything." He folded his arms stubbornly. Ange and Doc waited him out. Davis found a phone book, looked up a number and called out for pizza. Then he picked up People magazine. Ange and Doc said nothing.

"Okay, damn it," said Davis finally, throwing the magazine on the floor. "I fly to Chicago. By private jet. I sleep on the way. Nobody knows me there. I play keyboards in a blues band – or I try, anyway. I smoke dope and hang out with street people, jazz musicians, hookers, cops, truck drivers. I have friends there. I work on some songs. Nobody knows anything about me having any money. There's a woman, Jezebel, who took me under her wing, sort of. She's a hell of a fine lead guitarist. Awesome, in fact, like B.B. King. She's teaching me to play the blues."

"Do you love her?" said Doc gently.

"Yeah, sure I do, but not in the way you're hoping, Doc. I haven't had a woman since Mo. Jez is gay, black, and pushing sixty, but she's got heart and talent. I love her very much."

"Davis," said Doc, "I'm sorry for pushing you to talk about this. I'm happy for you that you have this."

"It's okay, Doc," said Davis. "I should've told you about it but I wanted to keep my two lives separate. It's weird, I know. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking in the back of my mind if I have to hide out because of this moral turpitude business, maybe I could live in Chicago for awhile."

"Have you used credit cards in Chicago to pay for things?" said Ange.

"Yeah. So?"

"Because if you go back there the process servers will be all over you like white on rice. You might as well put up a neon sign advertising where you are."

"Shit," said Davis glumly.

"In fact, I would be surprised if they didn't already have some photos in the can of you passing a J around with prostitutes."

"I don't remember smoking with girls on the street but I get your point," Davis said tightly. Then he put his head in his hands and hunched forward for a long moment.

"Damn!" he exploded finally, "I hate this. I wish I could just bag it all. Tell them to go to hell."

"So why don't you?" said Ange.

"I made promises."

"So plan B," said Doc. "Get married."

"Doc," said Davis, "not this again."

"Get married?" said Ange. "I don't understand."

"Doc wants me to get married because then they'd have to kill both of us."

"Kill both..." Ange started.

"There's another reason now," said Doc. "If you were married your wife could chair the board."

"Hang on," said Ange. "What are you talking about, kill both of you?"

"Doc thinks Mo and Silvie were murdered, along with the pilot and crew."

Ange stopped pacing, aghast. "Murdered? Good god!"

"I think it's possible," said Doc. "Mo's Learjet went down under suspicious circumstances."

"And you think Davis could be in danger?" said Ange, sitting down heavily in the overstuffed chair, her mind whirling.

"If Davis were to die now it would throw his 51% controlling shares of Sheffield into limbo," said Doc.

"You think the brothers had something to do with a murder?" said Ange.

"Doc thinks I'm a walking target," said Davis. "He hired Yoda the Jedi Knight to protect me."

"Yoda?" said Ange, shaking her head.

"Long story," said Doc.

"Anyway this is just Doc's paranoia. The crash investigators said it was pilot error."

"We knew that pilot," said Doc. "Pilot error, my ass."

"Doc, please. I'm not going to get married based on your crazy theory."

"Everything that comes out of your mouths sounds crazy to me," said Ange. "What's this about Yoda?"

Doc and Davis looked at each other, smiling.

"I thought you might have heard about Yoda," said Doc.

"I have," said Ange, "but the one I know about is very short, has big ears, carries a Light Saber and trusts The Force."

"That's him," said Davis, laughing. "Isn't it, Doc?"

"That's him alright," said Doc. "But before we say more we must swear you to absolute secrecy. It's important that the truth not get out about Yoda."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," said Ange. "Talk about bizarre! What am I doing here with you two loonies?"

"This coming from the one who makes mysterious phone calls to meet on ferries," said Davis.

"Swear," said Doc.

"All right, I swear. I'll never tell the truth about Yoda. Jesus!"

"Serious oath," said Doc.

"Serious oath," said Ange, sighing.

"Yoda is the first person you see when you get off the elevator on floor twenty-two of the Smith Tower building, which is the Foundation offices," said Doc.

"Wait," said Ange, "I remember Merriam saying something about a cartoon character guarding the Foundation, but she said it like it was a publicity ploy of some kind."

"That's what people are supposed to think," said Davis.

"The idea of the Yoda thing started two years ago at a Christmas dinner at Davis' parents home in San Diego," said Doc. "Percy and I -- Davis' father -- were chatting, just the two of us, by an outdoor fire. He shared with me some interesting military research. The Navy had decided to go on a treasure hunt for what they called a sharpshooter savant. They had done some research on historical sharpshooter savants, for example, Annie Oakley. At 90 feet, Annie Oakley could shoot a dime tossed in midair. With the thin edge of a playing card facing her at 90 feet, Annie could hit the card and puncture it with five or six more shots as it settled to the ground. 90 feet! Think about that. It's uncanny. Paranormal. So the Navy sent out a team of investigators to see if they could find somebody like that. And they did."

"Yoda."

"Yes. Also known as Esteban Zavala, goes by Steve. The investigators went around asking people at rifle clubs, hunting groups, skeet ranges and so forth if they knew of anyone with paranormal shooting skills. Locals near Sea Ranch, California, told the Navy guys of seeing Steve show off by shooting clay pigeons with a shotgun from the hip and behind his back. He could even shoot clay pigeons with a rifle while seeming to barely look at the targets."

"Let me guess," said Ange. "This Steve shoots things without looking at them by trusting The Force."

"Do you have a better theory?" said Doc.

"And he carries a Light Saber?" said Ange.

"That's Doc's idea," said Davis.

"My little creative solution," said Doc. "The Navy wasn't interested in Steve."

"Why not?" said Ange.

"Well for starters," said Doc, "it so happens Steve Zavala is a dwarf."

"Little Person," said Davis.

"Yes, Little Person with what they call proportionate dwarfism, in which the body appears normally proportioned, but it's unusually small. It also so happens Steve is Latino and it also so happens Steve is a pacifist. He's a journalist who writes for the alternative press. He's published an anti-war book. Steve isn't interested in anything that might involve shooting somebody. He claims he wouldn't even shoot a person in self-defense. Long story short, when the Navy brass found out that the sharpshooter savant research had come up with a non-violent Latino midget they scuttled the project."

"Non-violent Latino Little Person," said Davis.

"Yes, Little Person. So anyway I went to Sea Ranch out of curiosity and the thing that struck me when I met Steve was that he looked a bit like Yoda from Star Wars and I thought how perfect it would be to have a Jedi Knight guarding Davis."

"A guard who would never shoot anybody?" said Ange.

"Steve's Light Saber shoots tranquilizer darts," said Davis. "It looks like a child's toy. It lights up. But inside it is a tranquilizer gun."

"Not tranquilizer darts of the type used on animals," said Doc. "In fact, despite what you see in the movies, those kind of darts aren't safe for humans. Steve's darts – and this is actually classified so you can see what we mean about how secret this is – were developed jointly by Sheffield Industries and the CIA. I got wind of it and we got our hands on one of the tranc guns and a carton of the darts at a Sheffield research facility, pissing some people off in the process. The darts are safe. We've been assured that they've been carefully vetted, and Steve actually used them on himself just to be sure."

"Steve loves playing the part," said Davis. "He has fake Yoda ears with a wire down his back so he can make them lift and turn. People enjoy his act. They see it as a part of the Foundation style."

"His day job is mostly a cover," said Doc. "His real job is guarding Davis. Steve and Davis both have penthouse suites on the top floor of the building."

"Amazing," said Ange. "Do you really think such elaborate precautions are necessary?"

"No," said Davis.

"Yes," said Doc.

"Doc says it's his way or the highway," said Davis.

"What do we have to lose?" said Doc. "Yoda is seen as non-threatening and funny by the public, but if there ever were a problem somebody could have a surprise in store. Plus Steve loves it. He makes good money and has a Smith Tower penthouse as a fringe benefit where he has huge parties. He says he is the biggest man in the Seattle Little People scene."

A knock on the door. Doc rose and looked through the peek-hole.

"Doc, relax," said Davis. "It's the pizza delivery."

"Can't be too careful," said Doc, opening the door and holding out a bill.

"I don't have change for a hundred," said the Domino's pizza guy in a miffed tone.

"Keep the change," said Doc, quickly closing the door on the astonished young man.

After gobbling down a slice, Doc said: "What next, Ange? Or maybe you've heard enough."

"It's pretty clear that the Sheffield brothers are mostly pissed about the Green Helmet program," said Ange. "Do they have you to thank for that, Davis?"

"God, no," said Davis. "That was all Mo, with the help of her mother. Mo died before the program began so she never got to see what she'd created."

"I'd like to know more."

"I'm going to swear you to secrecy again on this," said Doc.

"If I'm your attorney," said Ange, "you have blanket protection by virtue of attorney/client privilege, so you don't have to make me swear oaths every time you tell me something."

"Are you my attorney?" said Davis with a grin.

"I didn't just say that," said Ange, half to herself.

"Are you?" said Davis.

"Doc," said Ange. "Psychiatrically speaking, would I be crazy to say yes?"

"Yes," said Doc. He might as well have been talking to the wall.

"Okay, as of now I'm no longer employed by Smithson, Merriman, Douglas and Frazer, even though they don't know it yet. I'm for hire."

"You're hired, Ms. Parker," said Davis.

"Maybe we can go on a first name basis, guys."

"Okay, Ange," said Davis.

Ange fetched a piece of pizza and settled into the motel easy chair. "Okay, Doc," she said, "on with the Green Helmet history, if you don't mind."

"At first it was just the Foundation," said Doc, "now known as the Rachel Sheffield-Baskin Memorial Foundation, based on a billion dollar trust set up by Tom and Rachel before Tom died. It has always worked pretty much like most foundations. Worthy organizations apply for grants and so forth. Maureen Sheffield was Foundation president at age 24 and for several years Maureen and Davis did their Foundation work from Seattle and it was perfect for them because it left them plenty of time with Silvie and to be together and enjoy life."

"Except for Tom dying, it was a very wonderful time," said Davis, his voice soft with emotion.

"Eventually, however, despite my best efforts going to quarterly board meetings with Rachel, Maureen became unhappy at how the brothers were jacking her mother around and decided to pack up Silvie and move temporarily to New Jersey to straighten the brothers out a little."

"Which didn't work out very well," said Davis.

"She lasted about three months before she returned to Seattle," said Doc. "Right after she got home she asked Rachel and me to fly out from Denver for a meeting.

"The four of us met for a memorable lunch in the Smith Tower Chinese Room, which is on the thirty-fifth floor. Very ornate. Maureen had rented the space just for the occasion. So there we were, just the four of us, at a table all alone, surrounded by furnishings which were a gift to old man Smith by the last Empress of China, looking out at a wrap-around view of Seattle that includes docks and loading facilities in Elliot Bay, owned and operated by a subsidiary of Sheffield Industries."
CHAPTER 6

Chinese Room, Smith Tower, Seattle, Washington

Tuesday, May 9, 1989

Mo ordered lunch by simply issuing a request directly to the chef for six plates to be shared of his very best dishes, chef's choice.

Then, as was her usual style, she got right down to business.

"I want to set up a much larger and more flexible funding base for the Foundation -- actually outside of the Foundation itself -- by simply drawing funds directly from Sheffield Industries' after-tax net profits."

Everyone looked at each other with no clue what she was talking about. Even Davis looked baffled.

"The funds will not show on Sheffield's books as an expense of any kind," said Mo, "not as a charitable contribution, not as a business expense, not as anything that can be written off against gross incomes on the profit and loss statements. The funds won't be reflected in income tax records because they'll not be declared as write-offs. They'll show up on the balance sheet as gains of fixed assets in a category called "good will."

"Honey," said Rachel, "that sounds fine, I'm sure, but I'm not entirely clear on why you want to do something different. If the Foundation needs more money we can put more in."

"The fund needs a different kind of money, Momma," said Rachel. "At present the Foundation funds are interest on money you donated and wrote off your taxes. That means the Foundation is accountable to the IRS. When the Foundation gives grants we have to cross T's and dot I's in accordance with certain criteria. I would like access to funds with no strings."

"I'm a little confused," said Rachel. "Why don't I just write you a personal check, then, and you could give it away anyway you want."

"Two reasons, Momma. First, I would have to declare the income and pay taxes on it and I would prefer to give it out directly to people who really need it rather than have the government fight wars with it. Second, I'm sick of looking at Sheffield income statements showing two or three billion income and seeing it rolled back into investments in order to make even more money selling more ships and building more guns."

"Ah," said Doc. "Now we get to the nub of it. You're pissed off at the brothers, aren't you?"

"Most definitely," said Mo. "And I'm also pissed off at capitalism in general and the production of war materials in particular."

"Why are you angry at my brothers, honey?" said Rachel.

"They fired the new union stewards," said Davis.

"That and other things," said Mo.

"The union has a foothold at Sheffield New Jersey?" said Doc, his eyes wide.

"I invited them in," said Mo, smiling shyly and looking down.

"Oh, my god," said Doc, laughing. "The brothers must have gone ballistic!"

"They took it as a declaration of war," said Mo, glancing to see her mother's reaction. "But they deserved it, Momma. One of my first actions sitting as president was to call a large catered lunch meeting of all Headquarters Building employees, everyone: janitors, secretaries, cafeteria workers. I moved around table-to-table and asked everyone how they were doing and nobody would name a single complaint, a single negative thing. A couple of weeks later, I had psychologists come in for a human relations training program and to have small group discussions. The psychologists reported to me afterwards that everyone was scared to death. The recession has everybody nervous and people around there get fired at the drop of a hat. So I called up some union dudes and said 'Hey guys, come on down. Let's talk.'"

Doc laughed. Davis smirked. And a waitress who had come for a drinks order heard the last few sentences and said: "You go, girl! Go union!" Mo and the waitress touched hands high-five.

Rachel, however, looked concerned. "Mo, honey," she said, "I hate to hear that you are having a difficult time with Vincie and Mikey. You know -- and I know I've said this before -- but all these years they have felt that it wasn't really fair that they didn't get an equal share of the company. I just wish things could go easier and they could feel better about everything."

"I know that, Momma. But I think about it this way: Vince and Michael have done just fine. If either one of them was half of what Daddy was they could start their own business and take over the world."

"Your daddy was quite the man, all right," said Rachel. "What do you think, Doc, honey?"

"I think it depends a lot on how much money you're talking about here, Mo."

Mo glanced at Davis, because she hadn't told him about the scale of her thinking. "I've got in mind a third of Sheffield's net profits each year before investment or shareholder bonuses.

All three tried to talk at once:

"Mo," said Davis, alarmed. "That could be a billion a year. How are we going to cope with that kind of money?"

"That much money going to the Foundation is going to attract the IRS no matter how you structure it," said Doc.

"Vincie is going to be upset," said Rachel.

"One at a time," said Mo, laughing. "Who wants to go first? Doc? Okay. The IRS. Well, the money won't go to the existing Foundation. It will be spent directly from a 'good will' office of Sheffield Industries."

"A good will office?" said Doc.

"Managed by Sheffield employees, not Foundation employees," said Mo. "Sheffield has the right to give money away, as long as it's not claiming an income tax deduction."

"Just for perspective, Mo," said Davis, "last year we awarded grants totaling around $150 million, which is the agreed on takeaway from the billion in the trust. The process of doing that required fifteen full-time employees."

"That's because you've been conscientiously shepherding a limited resource," said Mo. "You could give away $150 million in a ten-minute phone call to the AIDS Foundation."

"That would be a fun call to make," said Davis.

"Honey," said Rachel, "you know Vincie and Mikey are not going to go for this."

"I know."

"I know you're a little bit irritated with them at the moment, but..." Rachel stopped to wait for the waitress putting drinks on the table.

"Honey," said Rachel, after the conversation was again private, "you know, Vincie goes all over the world, meeting with the company CEO's and everything. Mikey has meetings at the Pentagon. They're both gone half the time and I don't know what all they're doing, but I know it's important."

"Meetings on golf courses or while getting massages from Geisha girls," said Davis under his breath.

"I just think it would be a mistake to alienate them," said Rachel.

"Well, Momma, it looks like I already have, because Michael and I had a little chat the other day in which he called me some very ugly names, very nasty names that I won't repeat but they were about as bad as you can get. He told me I might as well pack up and catch the next bus out of town."

"Heavens," said Rachel. "What names did he call you?"

"I guess you can take it, Mother. He started with 'You fucking cunt,' and it was downhill from there."

"Oh, no!" said Rachel, her face ashen.

"His insults were beyond insults. Very deliberate. He and his son Daniel stood there looking me over like I was a street hooker. He said he had originally tolerated my presence in the offices because he thought I would improve the morale of the male staff by providing some 'eye candy', especially since my 'knockers' had gotten bigger after Silvie was born and I always had had a great 'butt.'" Mo made air quotes around the key words. "But he said he had changed his mind because I seemed to be a distraction. And he said all of that with a snarky smile, like, no more mister nice guy. I've always thought he was an asshole, but he caught me completely by surprise being crude like that."

Doc put his hands over his eyes and peeked between his fingers as in I'm afraid to look. "What happened then?"

"I told him I'd be out of there the next day," said Mo.

Doc's chin dropped. He looked at Davis, who had already heard the story. Davis shrugged his shoulders to say, go figure.

"That's not the Mo I know," said Doc.

"Well, I keep going over it in my mind and thinking of other ways I could have reacted," said Mo, "but I didn't want to play his game with him, and even before Michael and Daniel slithered into my office I had already reached the conclusion that my efforts were a lost cause. I have power as chair in the board meetings in terms of policy and direction, and at the yearly shareholder's vote, but not in the actual running of the business. My little intervention bringing in the unions to the Headquarters Building was like a fleabite, and I was like the flea because the Headquarters staff is such a small and insignificant part of the vast Sheffield empire, of which I know almost nothing. I look down at the Sheffield docks right here in Elliot Bay and the big crane things -- see, I don't even know what they're called -- they look like those tall robot war machines in the early Star Wars movies, don't you think? Very sinister. How do you fight a thing like that?

"There's no way I can have any real impact on Sheffield Industries because I don't know what the hell is going on in the first place, and if I did, I wouldn't know enough to be able to change it, so I said to myself, you're right, Michael, I might as well get on the next bus out of town and take my Democrat daughter with me."

"Democrat daughter?" said Davis.

"That's what Michael said, 'and take your Democrat daughter with you.' I had brought Silvie to the office one day wearing a t-shirt that said 'Future Democrat.'"

"Mikey never did like Democrats very much," said Rachel, fumbling in her purse for something.

"Mother!" said Mo. "Are you looking for a cigarette?"

"Leave me alone," said Rachel, looking at Mo with an irritated expression.

"Mother," said Mo. "You have a spot on your lung."

Rachel, after finding her cigarettes, slammed her purse down on the table, in the process knocking a water glass over. Doc retrieved the glass and laid a napkin on the spill. Rachel rose and went to the window to light up. Doc joined her solicitously. Mo sipped her drink silently and watched her mother over the rim.

"I don't want to add to Momma's problems," said Mo softly.

"No," said Davis.

"Should I drop this, do you think?" said Mo.

"No," said Davis.

Mo could see her mother and Doc talking, silhouetted against the lights on Elliot Bay, but couldn't hear them. Rachel blew out angry clouds of toxic smoke and Doc ran his fingers in tender gestures on her arm as they talked.

"I'll drop it if Momma needs me to," said Mo finally, sighing deeply.

"That's love for you," said Davis. "I know you don't want to."

Rachel and Doc returned to the table.

"I just needed a few minutes with my analyst," said Rachel with a wry smile.

"Momma," said Mo, "I'll promise to be a good girl and be nice to Michael and Vince if you'll promise not to smoke anymore."

Rachel handed the pack of Virginia Slims to Mo. "Last one," she said.

"Okay, it's a deal," said Mo, wringing the pack dramatically and tossing it over her shoulder.

"But I didn't mean you had to be nice to my brothers," said Rachel. "Doc asked me what Tom would say if he were here and it's like I could almost hear what your daddy would've said. Clear as a bell. Can you imagine him, honey?"

Mo smiled. "Let me listen," she said, cocking her ear.

"Any son of a bitch say a thing like that to my little girl," said Rachel in Tom's style, "is going to answer to me, by God!"

Tears came to Mo's eyes. She looked at her mother and saw a steely look in her eyes like her father's when he had taken a stand on something. Mo laughed with a kind of joy that sort of burst out without her willing it.

"He wouldn't have taken kindly to it, would he, Momma?" said Mo.

"He would've ripped Mikey's fucking heart out," said Rachel in a low growl, again channeling Tom and using words so alien to her usual vocabulary that Mo was taken aback.

"You think you're pissed?" said Rachel. "Well I'm pissed'r. It's just starting to sink in. Now, honey, tell me more about what you have in mind. What's the next step?"

Mo sat looking at her mother a moment, tears welling again in her eyes. "Thank you, Momma," she said at last.

"Child," said Rachel, using a word Tom had often used with Mo, and then a phrase from her Texas childhood, "don't you pay no never mind. You're going to need me at the board meeting next month, aren't you? And I'll be there for you."

"Next month is too soon," said Mo. "It'll probably have to be at the 3rd quarter meeting in October. You sure about this, Momma?"

"I'm sure, honey," said Rachel. "But everybody is on pins and needles here. What do you have in mind, exactly?"

"I've decided to give up responsibility for how Sheffield makes money, in most areas anyway, except for the most glaring issues. Vince and Michael can handle that part of the business. I can't control how they make money and I can't stop them from making money, even in areas where I see what they do as a grotesque exercise in capitalistic greed. I want to give something back to America, to help people. So, I figure, let's split the difference. They can run the company. I'll spend the money."

"My marriage was that way," said Doc.

"Not all the money, of course," said Mo, continuing, "They'll still have plenty for their yachts and mistresses and plenty for new investment."

"Do they have mistresses?" said Rachel. Nobody answered her.

"Now, I might be unrealistic about how this could play out," said Mo, "but in my fantasy scenario, all the money given out by Sheffield Industries will actually end up being a good investment in public relations with future benefits to the company as a result of the good will generated."

Mo was interrupted briefly by the arrival of a small army of help bringing in plates of delightfully presented Chinese dishes. Mo waited until palates had been sated and a bottle of dessert port passed around before she continued painting a picture for everyone of her utopian concept for a proper charity organization.

"Imagine the reactions in the media and at kitchen tables across the country if substantial numbers of worthy beneficiaries started getting large grants, unexpected, unsolicited, delivered by people dressed in Sheffield uniforms, or perhaps with Sheffield construction helmets or something like that. 'Good morning. I have a check here for a million dollars from Sheffield Industries so you can continue your program. Keep up the good work and have a nice day.'"

"But how would you know who the worthy beneficiaries are?" said Doc.

"Secret agents," said Mo. "We recruit retired experts in a variety of fields, art, law, social work, psychology, engineering, research, whatever, all recruited as Sheffield employees, paid well to help insure loyalty, and trained carefully as secret agents. Then they go out and join organizations or mix in various capacities as volunteers or whatever, anything where they have a low profile and avoid detection. Sound like fun?"

"Sign me up," said Doc.

"As an integral part of this network of trustworthy confederates, we build into the system very strict standards of secrecy because if the identities of the agents became known they would be hounded with requests and deceived in matters of the actual operations of programs."

"How many agents are we talking?" asked Davis.

"Month one, ten. Year one, thirty. Year two, ninety. Just a rough guess, of course, but ideally there would be a geometrical increase each year because secret agents could help recruit secret agents."

"Secret agents means spies, right?" said Rachel.

"I think we should avoid agents who are in management, on boards of directors or in high level positions because it could get sticky in terms of conflicts of interest. But yes, Momma, spies, in a way. But not spies who are asked to compromise their own ethics or lie in ways that harm people. I think of it as a sort of whistle-blower program, only instead of blowing the whistle on bad stuff the secret agents blow the whistle when they see good stuff happening.

"So that's the underground part of the program," said Mo. "Above board, couriers with Sheffield uniforms or some other high visibility identifiers will surprise beneficiaries with grants, based on spy reports, but that the recipients had no way of knowing were coming. With lots of money to give out, there will be quite a few Sheffield couriers out and about and a lot of surprised beneficiaries, and the result will be, hopefully, a media splash. Who are these guys? What's going on? What kind of outfit is Sheffield? Is there really a heart still beating in the dark depths of the capitalist jungle?"

"So Sheffield will look like the good guys?" said Doc.

"Sheffield will be the good guys," said Mo. She stood. "I am Sheffield," she said.
CHAPTER 7

A Motel, Gig Harbor, Washington

March 7, 1996

"Things didn't work out as planned," said Davis. "Rachel was ill, had a lung removed in the fall of '89, then she was on chemo and radiation for awhile so it wasn't until over a year-and-a-half after the meeting in the Chinese Room that Mo and Rachel joined forces in New Jersey and dropped the hammer on the brothers."

"Vince and Michael were furious but there was nothing they could do," said Doc, smiling. "Mo threatened to take over everything and freeze the brothers out unless they agreed to a change in the bylaws setting up the Green Helmet funding. This happened just days after the end of the Gulf War and there was a big government ship contract that needed supplemental appropriations, so the timing was good, from our point of view, and Vince finally caved."

"It didn't work out exactly the way Mo had envisioned it in terms of the scale of the Sheffield spy network," said Davis. "There are spies out there. We do call them secret agents. And, as everyone knows, couriers wearing green Sheffield Industry construction safety-helmets do deliver checks to surprised recipients. And just as Mo envisioned, the PR benefits to Sheffield Industries have been spectacular."

"I'm a secret agent," said Ange softly. "Merriam recruited me."

"That explains a few things," said Doc. "Why didn't you say so?"

"It was a secret," said Ange, smiling.

Doc and Davis smiled at each other, shaking their heads.

"In any case," said Davis, "even though secret agents seem to come out of the woodwork from unexpected places, the huge network of spies Mo had in mind didn't materialize, simply because of the nature of the large scale philanthropic business as we learned more about it. As it happens, most charity foundations are too bureaucratic, too cautious and too focused on short-term objectives.

"Listen to me, Doc," said Davis, "I sound like I know what I am talking about."

"Despite your best efforts," said Doc.

"So what the committee quickly learned," said Davis, "is that there's a huge backlog of imminently qualified individuals and programs needing help. They aren't hard to find. And the flexibility of the Green Helmet program allows us to identify them and bam, hit them with a grant in a couple of weeks. We're spending money all over the place, most of which doesn't show up on the radar. But if it did we'd be at the top of the list. Officially, all U.S. foundations and corporations combined gave $40 billion last year to non-profits. Green Helmet, all by it's lonesome, checked in at over a half-billion."

"Tragically," said Doc, "Mo didn't live to see it. Her plane went down on March 15, 1991.

"After the crash Davis disappeared and was gone for months. Rachel had him put on the board but he was AWOL right when we needed him. On a hunch, I finally found him in a lakeside cabin in the North Cascades in Washington State that Tom had used as a hunting base. I had to rent an ATV to get up there. I remember walking down a trail to the lake and seeing Davis sitting on a rock alone. There was a loon calling from across the lake just in case I had any doubt of what a mournful scene it was. Saddest damned thing I ever saw. Davis was running the top of an empty whiskey bottle along his head in a way that reminded me of a gun.

"I called to him, 'Don't shoot.'

"He looked at me, so wasted he could hardly focus, and he said, 'Don't worry, Doc. I'm already dead.'"

"That was the day I started my psychoanalysis," said Davis.

"If that was psychoanalysis," said Doc, "it was a highly unusual form of it where the therapist shouts at his patient and the patient shouts back."

"The only time I remember shouting back was when you busted up my bottles of George Dickel," said Davis.

"So there you have it, pretty much," said Doc, "the history of Sheffield and the Green Helmet program, what the brothers Vince and Michael are trying to do and so forth. But the problem is what can we do about it and the problem for you, Ange, is if you take Davis up on the idea of going to New Jersey, what are you going to do when you get there?"

"That's where Merriam comes in," said Davis. "She'll come up with something."

"Maybe," said Doc, "but you'll be going up to bat with two strikes against you, Ange. Even with Davis' proxies you can't chair the board because the chair has to be family by blood or marriage. And the chair breaks ties. That's the simple math of it."

"We'll just have to do the best we can," said Davis. "The Green Helmet program is in the bylaws. They'd need my proxies to get rid of it."

"Yes, but they'll think of ways to damage it. The way I see it, if you two want to be warriors and play with the big boys then you'll have to play smart."

"Meaning what?" said Ange.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Doc. "You and Davis should get married."

Ange stared at Doc, astonished.

"Holy shit, Doc," said Davis. "The things you come up with never cease to amaze me."

"Why send Ange into the lion's den defenseless, when you can give her real power? She could chair the board."

"Real power? It would be obvious to everyone that it was just a ploy. They'd accuse her of fraud."

"But how would they prove it was a ploy?" said Doc. "Pretty girl helps you out, you fall in love, a whirlwind courtship, a quick trip to Nevada. It happens all the time."

"Sounds very romantic," said Davis, sourly.

"Of course there's a pre-nup and certain understandings," said Doc. "Ange, what do you think?"

Ange took her hands away from her face. Her eyes flashed in anger. "Not a chance," she said.

Doc saw her reaction and tried to back off. "Ange, I didn't mean to..."

"I'm honored that you trust me to fight for the Green Helmet program, Davis," she said. "But if I'm expected to marry you, then forget the whole thing."

"It wasn't my idea," said Davis.

"Then tell Doc to forget it," said Ange. "Or I'll tell him myself when we're back on speaking terms."

"I'm sorry," said Doc softly. "I didn't mean to upset you, Ange. I have to say I'm puzzled by your reaction. If you don't want to do it, all you have to do is say so."

Ange laughed a little hysterically. "If you understood anything at all about a woman's feelings in a situation like this you wouldn't be puzzled, doctor analyst."

"You don't have to justify or explain anything, Ange," said Davis. "Of course you don't have to marry me. That was just Doc being Doc."

"You were thinking about it," said Ange, aiming a few angry eye darts at Davis, "as a ploy."

Davis lifted his hands in a gesture of confession mixed with confusion. "I was only barely thinking about it."

Ange got up and went to the motel window where she pulled back a curtain to look at nothing at all outside. Davis went to her side and touched her gently on her shoulder.

"Ange?" he said softly.

She turned on him abruptly.

"Davis, let's get a couple things straight."

Davis backed up respectfully and waited.

"You're..." Ange paused, swallowed, readied herself. "You're... a gorgeous man and all, but the fact is I'm not in your league and even if I were, the idea of being a ploy for you is just..." Ange stopped, at a loss for words, and turned to look out the window again.

"Any more bright ideas, Doc?" said Davis.

Abruptly, Ange turned from the window. "Doc's right," she said, her voice clipped. "I should have just said 'no thanks'. Instead I go off the deep end on you."

"Don't worry about it," said Davis. "Doc?"

"Back to the drawing board," said Doc, considerably subdued. "No more bright ideas."

"Tomorrow we draw up powers of attorney," said Davis. "Doc and I find a cave somewhere in the mountains and start chopping wood to keep warm while we hide out. Ange, you go to Seattle and see Merriam to plan tactics in New Jersey. Sound like a plan?"

"I don't chop wood," said Doc.

"Ange," said Davis, "you in?"

"Tell me one more time why me," said Ange.

"Same reason I told Merriam," said Davis. "If it wasn't for you, it'd be game over already. And I trust you. And I like you. And you know a lot of secrets so if you aren't aboard, we'd have to kill you."

Ange smiled and brushed her hair back coquettishly. "Get on now with your blarney and don't you be thinking you can be taking advantage of a poor lass just because you might be planning such a lovely big salary for her either."

Davis laughed, partly at the comment and more at her sudden Irish accent, which was rich with authentic inflection.

"That's a pretty good accent," he said.

"Well, I'm coming by it honestly," she said, continuing in her fetching Irish mode. "My sweet mother is as Irish as a rose in summer and don't you be thinking you can change the topic now."

"Salary."

"Salary it is that's on my mind."

"What do you think, Doc? I've been thinking that as president of the corporation I get a salary, not much compared to the yearly shareholder draws and bonuses, but still, since I won't be able to fulfill my lofty presidential duties for now, it's only fair that Ange should have that amount for her compensation."

"Sounds fine," said Doc.

"Now that that's decided," said Ange, her Irish accent forgotten due to the natural emotions of a person in her situation who has never had a lot of money, "do you mind telling me how much that is. I was making fifty-five as a paralegal."

"Add three to that," said Davis, teasing, "plus expenses."

"Three?" said Ange, looking deflated. "That's not much of a raise."

"Not three thousand," said Davis. "Three million."
CHAPTER 8

Seattle, Washington

Sunday, March 10, 1996

Merriam Lockett's Capitol Hill apartment had a grand view of the Space Needle, downtown Seattle and Puget Sound beyond, and was only a short bike ride from the University of Washington School of Law where Merriam enjoyed a tenured position as an Associate Professor of Law. Ange had fond memories of small group meetings in this apartment when she was a law student. Now she felt an emotional disconnect, being back in that cozy atmosphere, seeing Merriam's familiar, kind face with her dark hair spangled in silver, but under dramatically different conditions.

"What in the world have you gotten yourself into, girl?" said Merriam.

When Ange started telling the story the water in the distance was gray and calm, not yet catching the morning sun. Bagels and several cups of coffee later, a regatta of small sailboats in the distance had launched colorful spinnakers to greet a sunny Sunday in Seattle. After she had heard the full story Merriam went to the window and stared at the scene for long minutes.

"Please don't say 'I told you so' on my taking the job with Smithson," said Ange finally.

"Furthest thing from my mind," said Merriam, turning to Ange with a gentle smile.

"You didn't tell me Sheffield management was the enemy."

"I didn't know it," said Merriam. "Not to this extent."

"I thought I'd get closer to the action."

"I guess that worked."

"I betrayed them and they're going to be pissed," said Ange.

"Yes."

"Beyond pissed."

"They're going to see you as, one, female, which means they won't see you at all, really," said Merriam. "Two, they'll see you as young and inexperienced, as someone they can handle. If you can avoid threatening them I think it can work to your advantage."

"I'll try to look young and inexperienced. I think I can manage that."

"It could change their focus," said Merriam.

"Oh, come on, Merriam," said Ange skeptically.

"If they saw you as inept rather than deliberately trying to screw them."

"When I lay the proxies on them they'll know better."

"Not until you fly your colors by saying that you might vote against them on something. It could be a long time before you do that. In the meantime you could act like you thought you did something really good bringing home the bacon, Davis' proxies and powers of attorney. Now they have nothing to worry about."

"So I just go along with everything they want to do?"

"What we need, Ange, is information. We'll put together a team of accountants and corporate attorneys to sift and analyze materials that you get access to. Information is power. Pretend you're trying to learn about the corporation so you can do a better job, poor little inexperienced girl that you are."

"Doc thinks I need a bodyguard."

"Doc thinks everybody needs a bodyguard. I don't think you're in danger of a physical assault."

Famous last words.

****

Newark International Airport

2:00 p.m., Friday, March 15, 1996

Ange was surprised to see someone holding a placard with her name as she started along the terminal concourse from her flight. Morris, the travel clerk at the Foundation, had said a driver would take her to her apartment on the other side of town but that he would meet her at the baggage carousel, not along the concourse.

"I'm Ange Parker," she told the man with the sign, whom she noted was rather strangely dressed for a driver, in sport coat and tie.

"Please step this way," said the man, taking her firmly by the arm and guiding her to a screening panel by an emergency exit door where stood two Essex County Deputies, a portly, smiling man and a tall, unsmiling woman, in green uniforms. What in the world?

The female deputy, whose nametag said simply Collins, directed Ange to put her hands on the wall and spread her legs, while the male deputy, Phillips, began reading her rights. Then Collins patted her down and in the process must have planted something in Ange's jacket pocket.

"Please empty your pockets," said Phillips after he had finished the Miranda recital. Ange took out keys and coins and then felt an unfamiliar packet in her jacket pocket. Oh, no, she thought, as she pulled it out.

"What have we here?" said Phillips.

"Your guess is better than mine," said Ange. "Some kind of white powder, no doubt."

They cuffed her too tightly and walked her along the concourse faster than she could easily keep up, with Collins lifting and pushing on her cuffed arms. As grim as the situation was, Ange couldn't help a wry smile when they walked under a lighted sign that read "Welcome to Newark." She looked towards the baggage areas from an escalator but couldn't see anyone with an Ange Parker placard.

Just before they put her in the back of the double-parked Essex County Sheriff's car with lights flashing, Ange said, "Not to tell you how to do your job, but if you really think I'm smuggling drugs, shouldn't we wait for my luggage?"

No response. They had all put on sunglasses so now she couldn't even read their eyes. The plainclothes left in an unmarked car.

For some reason the deputies were in no hurry to take Ange to jail. They drove around on a scenic route along the Hudson then stopped for coffee leaving Ange in the car for an hour, then found a place to sit and watch traffic for another hour. The entire time the handcuffs cut into Ange cruelly, her fingers numb. She asked them to loosen them but they paid no attention. Ange was flushed with rage. Obviously, the brothers were behind this. Who else? Fear hadn't hit her yet. Surely when she didn't show for her luggage the driver would call Seattle and she would soon be out on bail.

Darker thoughts snuck up on her during the booking, fingerprinting and mug shots. Then an exchange between Phillips and the desk deputy, a woman, got Ange's heart racing. "We're going to need a strip search and cavity exam fore and aft," said Phillips, turning to smirk at Ange.

"Bitch is known to hide it inside," he said. "Way up inside, you know what I mean, Clara? Special handling, know what I mean?"

"Special handling?" said Clara, a tall redhead in uniform whose nametag said Randolph. "Don't come at me with that. I won't have nothin' to do with that."

"Where's Williams?"

"Supper break," said Deputy Randolph. "Should be back any minute."

Deputy Collins leaned her arm on Ange and said, "Goodness, how time slips away. Now here it is almost five and the courts'll be closed until Monday morning."

Ange knew what that meant. No arraignment or bail over the weekend.

"Well, we tried to get you here on time," said Collins, "didn't we, Jim?"

"Sure did," said Phillips. "Well, gives us time for a cup of coffee waiting for Deputy Williams. In the meantime, this'll give you a chance to get acquainted with your roommate for the weekend, sweet stuff."

"We're puttin' her up in the loony cell," said Collins to Clara Randolph, who shrugged and shook her head.

"Somebody already in there, I guess you know," said Randolph.

"Yeah," said Collins, marching Ange down a poorly lit hallway with a flickering fluorescent, "we know."

The "loony cell" turned out to be a padded cell, and the inmate residing there turned out to be a very large, muscular woman with wild, matted hair, a big, ugly nose by any standard and strangely excited eyes.

While Collins removed the handcuffs -- to Ange's immeasurable relief -- Phillips was having a whispered conversation with the grinning woman in a corner. Ange couldn't hear them but she did not like the way this looked.

The deputies left, closing the door with a soft thud followed by the sound of the lock and Ange was alone, very much alone, with the wild woman.

"Name's Sally," said the wild woman, ambling the 15-foot length of the cell to take Ange's hand.

"Sorry," said Ange, apologizing for the limp handshake. "Cuffs."

"Oh, yeah, I understand," said Sally, massaging the dead hand gently. "Just got to get the blood going again."

Ange tried to pull her hand away. "That's okay. I'll do it." But Sally would not release it.

"Don't be shy, Dearie," she said. "That's no way to start the weekend as fuck buddies."

Ange yanked hard but couldn't get her hand free. "We're not going to be fuck buddies."

"Sure we are, Dearie. Why do you think they put us together in here?"

Sally grabbed Ange by the hair and pulled her forward so their faces were inches apart.

"Please," said Ange.

"Ooooh," said Sally, cackling, "say that again."

"What?" said Ange, trying to avoid Sally's lips, which were brushing hers. The woman's halitosis was nauseating.

"Please," said Sally, "I love it when they say please." Then she kissed Ange with a bruising, animal passion, slopping her tongue into Ange's mouth and letting her teeth find and imprison Ange's lips. When Ange tried unsuccessfully to squirm away, they fell onto the padded floor together and Sally rolled easily on top of Ange, pinning her. Ange realized there was no way she could match the strength of the woman even if she had had the use of her helpless fingers. Sally slid a hand under Ange's blouse and bra and squeezed her nipple with vise-like fingers that hurt like fire. Sally bit Ange's shoulder and tore at her nipple of agony with her fingers, laughing. Suddenly the cell door opened. But Sally still didn't stop, running her tongue over Ange's face in a slobbery last emotional rape, until Deputy Phillips pulled them apart.

"You two lovebirds will just have to wait a bit. Williams is back already and is looking forward to your cavity search," said Phillips.

"Tell Amazon Williams she can search my cavity any time she wants," said Sally.

"C'mon slut," said Phillips, pulling Ange to her feet. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, seducing poor Sally here." He guided Ange roughly out the cell door.

"Y'all hurry on back now, you hear now, you little...." said Sally just before the door closed. Ange could not hear the last words. The room was soundproofed.

When Ange saw Deputy Williams her heart sank. The deputy had to be well over six feet tall. No wonder Sally called her Amazon. Apart from looking scarily fierce, she was a gorgeous ebony black woman with a short Afro hairstyle, chiseled features and blazing white eyes and teeth. Her apparently tailored green and white uniform did nothing to hide her muscular frame and generous bosom. She smiled broadly when she saw Ange.

"Special handling," said Phillips as he handed Ange over. Williams looked at Philips and lifted her eyebrows.

"No shit?" she said.

"All the way," said Phillips. "I'll be right outside the door if you need me."

"I'll bet you will," said Williams. "Come on, honey," she said to Ange, guiding her into what appeared to be a doctor's exam room. Williams closed the door and locked it.

"What's 'special handling'?" said Ange, her voice quavering.

"It's just a stupid joke from years ago," said Williams, who spoke with what Ange thought must be a British accent.

"What does it mean?"

"It was a code for roughing somebody up."

"Are you going to rough me up?"

"No, of course not. He was just kidding around."

"Some kidding around. He's got me in a padded cell with a crazy woman who's already roughed me up."

"What're you talking about?"

"Some woman named Sally."

"They put you in with Sally Rodale?"

Tears came to Ange's eyes as she sensed concern in Williams' response. "She's got me for the weekend and I promise you this is no joke. I'm scared shitless. Look, I'm an attorney and I've got some powerful enemies. They must be behind this. The deputies planted drugs on me and this is all apparently a way to punish me. Well, it's working. You have to believe me. Look." Ange pointed to the fresh bite mark on her shoulder.

Ange's words sounded thin and pitiful to her own ears. Ange, the wannabe warrior, wasn't feeling warrior-like at the moment. The experience with Sally and then the threat of an invasive "special handling" had left her queasy to the bowels. Her mind whirled in panic. She felt herself turning instinctively to her mother's simple Catholic prayers for Mother Mary and all the saints to rescue her, a recourse she had not sought since she was a child. The warrior pride she had touted to Davis had retreated until it was only a small voice in the back of her mind. Think, said the voice. Rise above your terror. Assess the situation.

Deputy Shaylane Williams certainly did not have the outward appearance of a likely rescuer, saints-sent or otherwise. As it happened, however, the situation posed a high test for Shaylane almost as it did for Ange. In Shaylane's case the timing could not be worse. Only two weeks before she had been transferred from street duty to her current desk job in the jail, the transfer being by way of reprimand for an incident in which she had interposed herself between senior deputies and what she had viewed as unnecessary roughness in the questioning of citizens.

Or at least those are the words she had used in her report: "unnecessary roughness." What she had actually stepped into was an incident of unprovoked police brutality with no other justification than that the deputies thought their victims were "bad actors." It had seemed to Shaylane that the bad actors being beat up were primarily guilty of being Puerto Ricans. There are some unwritten codes police officers follow in such situations and those codes do not allow cops to push other cops against a wall and snarl in their faces. Being still a "probie" in her first year rather than a full deputy didn't help. Shaylane tried the argument that her emotions had gotten the best of her because she had grown up under apartheid in South Africa. That didn't carry much weight either.

It would not be a convenient time for Shaylane to lose her job as a deputy sheriff. She had come to the United States on a visa to study criminology and had talked Immigration into extending her visa after she completed her master's degree based on the idea that a tour of duty as a peace officer would be a natural extension of her education prior to returning home. In the meantime, she was engaged to be married to a Native American doctor who was in his residency program at a local hospital. She did not want to force Kon Armenta into an early marriage and/or a battle with Immigration in order to keep her in the country.

On the other hand, Shaylane's cultural background as a Zulu and all the force and momentum of her high position as a child of honored and powerful parents in South Africa demanded that she not simply turn away from Ange. Hard situations require hard decisions. This is the Zulu way her father had taught her and what he would have expected of her. Shaylane's father had been a man of uncompromising principle during apartheid and had been rewarded with an important post under the new freedom.

That Ange was being victimized seemed pretty clear to Shaylane. She knew Sally Rodale to be a psycho. She had heard how Sally had been used in the past to terrorize perps who feared being locked up with her. In addition, Shaylane had great confidence in her instincts for truth or lies. Her fiancé Kon said she was psychic. Kon had once introduced her at a party as his "forensically psychic" fiancé. Her forensically psychic antenna vibrated now strongly in favor of the frightened young woman in the exam room.

Still, it was possible that Collins and Phillips had locked Ange up briefly with Sally in order to shake loose information about drug smuggling and that they had no intention of actually giving Sally a roommate for the weekend. If so, then what was this about "special handling?" Shaylane realized she had verbally played along with Phillips in a break room bull session the week before on the topic of "special handling." She had been trying to bolster her cop creds to counter the reputation she had gotten after she had broken up the beatings of the Puerto Rican kids. But that had been just talk. Was Phillips serious about actually "fisting" Ange during a cavity search, which was what the legend of "special handling" involved? She had to know.

"Can you help me with a quick experiment?" said Shaylane.

"What do I need to do?"

"Maybe Phillips wasn't kidding about special handling. I want you to let out a scream as if you are being abused in here, a real wail. I want to see what kind of response I get from the other side of the door. That'll tell me a lot."

"Okay," said Ange, and yelled "Oh, God!" loudly.

"Well, that's a start," said Williams, smiling, "but it sounds more like you're having an orgasm. I want a no-nonsense sound like I'd put my fist up your ass. Like you're being violated. A sound of outrage."

"Got it." Ange raised the roof quite adequately in her second effort.

A gentle tap came on the door. "Having fun in there?" said Phillips, laughing.

"I am," said Williams back. "But I'm not so sure about Missy here. This could take awhile."

"Take your time. Take all the time you want."

"Give him another for effect," said Williams quietly. "Add some begging at the end."

Ange obliged with her best Tarzan imitation, followed by a series of pleading sobs.

From the other side of the door came hoots that included Collins' voice.

"Okay," said Williams gently to Ange, "what's going on here? This is weird. I can't imagine what motivation these guys could have for this Gestapo business."

"What am I going to do?" said Ange. "I need a phone. I need to call my people. My people have a lot of money. They could pay somebody or whatever it takes."

"If they were trying to shake you down it wouldn't be happening like this. Give me a number and I can call your people for you, but once we leave this room there won't be much I can do. How quickly can somebody get here?"

"They're in Seattle."

"Great."

"I can give you a lot of money if you can get me out of here."

"Honey, I understand you're desperate, but it's not a question of money. If I can think of a way to get you out of here, I will. I'm wracking my brain." Even as she spoke, an idea began to take form.

"What am I doing?" Shaylane thought, then gave herself over to action. No time now for second thoughts or hesitation.

"I'll need some blood, please," said Williams, reaching into an overhead locker for a syringe used for drug tests. "Give me your arm," she said, but Ange's arm was shaking so badly that Williams said, "Never mind," and drew some blood expertly from her own arm. That quantity not being sufficient for her plans, she drew blood twice more into new syringe heads with the same needle in place.

Williams asked Ange to disrobe and wrap herself in a sheet. She turned away, pulled on rubber exam gloves and smeared them with blood. Then she turned to Ange, who had changed to the sheet, and splashed blood around her crotch area on the fabric. Then she asked Ange for another Tarzan call, "with some serious Caruso at the end because I've injured you inside." Ange yelled like a banshee.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" hollered Williams. She picked up Ange in her arms in the bloody sheet as easily as she would a child, and stumbled into the outer room, alarm written all over her.

"Can't stop the bleeding," she shouted. "Must have been pregnant or something. Got to get her to the hospital."

"No. The infirmary," said Phillips.

"Fuck you!" said Williams. "You bastard. You got me into this. I'm in trouble. She's going to the hospital."

Williams grabbed keys from the keyboard and headed for the motor pool area in the basement, gliding effortlessly down the stairwell and then up the line of cars at a dead run. She figured either Phillips or Collins or both would be in pursuit and might try to get in the car with them. With luck she could get out of the garage before they got to her. Then the problem would be if the deputies followed in another vehicle.

The experience of being carried at a run by her own personal Amazon savior was surrealistic for Ange. The position she was carried in put her face close to William's neck and Ange almost kissed it but she wisely resisted the impulse.

Williams flew the squad car out of the underground garage door and expertly into a four-wheel drift onto the street, just as she saw Phillips charging from the stairwell into the garage. She turned south as if she was heading for University Hospital, but she had no intention of going there. Her actual destination was St. Elizabeth's, which was located much further from the jail and in the opposite direction.

"We got away," said Ange from the back seat where she had been hurriedly deposited.

"We're a long way from out of this mess," said Williams, checking in her rear view mirror for a car following from the garage and not seeing one as she made a turn towards the New Jersey Turnpike.

"Where are we going?" said Ange.

"St. Elizabeth's Hospital. My fiancé Kon works there."

"Why not just head out of town?"

"Because then you would be a fugitive and I... would be a fugitive too."

"I've gotten you in trouble."

"I couldn't just leave you there. I know about this Sally. They must have brought her in special."

"They'll find us at the hospital."

"Yes, but going there will buy us a little time to figure out what to do. I'm hoping Kon can help."

"Do you have a cell phone?" said Ange.

"No, sorry."

"Does your police radio hook in with the phone system? They didn't give me my phone call. I need to call my people."

"No, sorry. When we get to the hospital, first thing. In the meantime, tell me about the arrest. Everything you can remember."
CHAPTER 9

St. Elizabeth's Hospital, Newark, New Jersey

Fifteen minutes after leaving the jail, Shaylane and Ange pulled in and double-parked in front of the St. Elizabeth's Hospital entrance. After listening to Ange tell her story Shaylane was reassured that she was doing the right thing and by now the two women were on a first-name basis. Shaylane ran quickly, fetched a wheelchair and wheeled Ange in her bloody sheet through the lobby, past alarmed personnel, and a short distance down a main corridor to a door marked Doctor's Lounge. She opened the door and said to the two physicians talking at a coffee table: "Doctor Armenta's patient. Where is he?" They both rose, concerned.

"Shaylane?" said a voice from the side. Williams turned to see a good friend standing there in his physicians smock.

"Jacob! Thank God. I need your help. Do you know where Kon is?"

"He's probably in the Trauma Center, where you should be. Follow me."

"No, Jacob, wait. This isn't what it looks like. I need you to trust me."

"Of course, I trust you, Shaylane," said Jacob, whose name-tag said Jacob Weinberg, M.D., Chief Resident, "But this is a medical problem."

"It's not," said Shaylane. "It's a police problem. And it's my problem. We need a room, any hospital room, and we need Kon, right away."

"Shaylane, this woman is bleeding."

"No she's not. It's fake blood. Well, my blood. Long story and no time. Please, Jacob."

Jacob motioned for them to follow and led them to the room of a recently discharged patient. The bedclothes had not even been stripped."

"Thanks," said Shaylane. "Please get Kon and can we use this phone?"

"Long distance," said Ange.

"Dial 8, then 0 and give them my name," said Jacob.

Merriam was not at the Foundation number in Seattle. The woman who answered, whose name was Marsha, said Merriam had taken a flight to Newark but had left word for Ange if she called that every possible action to get her released was in the works. Marsha said people in New Jersey were looking for Ange and they had been calling constantly trying to find out where she was. Ange told Marsha where she was after asking Shaylane for the address of the hospital and the room number. Ange hung up, then realized she had forgotten to ask how Merriam could have already known about her problems? Probably because she hadn't shown up at baggage claim. But how did Merriam know Ange was in jail? What people were looking for her? Ange felt disoriented. She was having trouble thinking clearly.

A barrel-chested Native American in blue scrubs entered the room just as Ange finished her call. Doctor Kanuna Armenta kissed Shaylane Williams on the cheek and hugged her. Shaylane turned to Ange.

"This is my fiancé, Kon," she said. "Kon, this poor waif is Ange Parker. I rescued her from jail and now I have no idea what to do with her."

"Honey," said Kon. "Your waif is wrapped in a bloody sheet."

"My blood. All part of a ruse to get her out. She was arrested for possession but according to Ange the deputies read her Miranda rights before they found the baggie. How stupid is that? Then some plainclothes dude, no idea who, apparently took off with the evidence. And then they put her in with a known pit bull psycho and gave a green light for the nutcase to fuck Ange up. Same deputies. And they tried to get me to go sadist on her."

"What made them think you would do that?"

"I guess I joked around with them. They must have thought I was serious."

"So now what?"

"I was hoping you could keep her here for a couple of days for medical observation until we can see a judge for bail."

"Could be tricky," said Kon. "There are people around here with nothing to do but make sure all beds have sick patients in them."

"We have to try," said Shaylane, "and we don't have much time. I tried to throw them off but it won't take them long to figure out we came here. Everybody knows about you being my guy."

As if on cue, the door opened and Deputy Phillips stepped in, with Deputy Collins close behind. Phillips twirled his handcuffs on an extended finger.

"Jigs up," he said, smirking.

After a brief, stunned silence, Kon said, "Officer, we're doing a medical exam here, if you don't mind."

Phillips moved towards Ange, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. Kon stepped between them.

"Don't look like much of an exam to me," said Phillips. "Shouldn't the bitch have her legs spread and you be looking inside her with one of those do-dads?"

"Officer, I must ask you to leave or I'll call security."

"Well now," said Phillips glancing over his shoulder at Collins, who snorted with amusement, "that just makes me go all weak-kneed, the idea of that old coot in the uniform down the hall coming to your rescue. But you listen to me, Doc." Phillips pushed his chest into Kon's chest like a baseball manager confronting an umpire, "This bitch didn't go to the emergency room, did she? She wasn't admitted into the hospital, was she? And I know damned well who you are, just like I knew right where to come to find missy here. Now I'm going to cuff her and haul her out to the car and take her downtown where she belongs. It so happens she has a date tonight. And if you try to stop me I'll cuff you, too, for interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duties. Any questions?"

Kon glanced at Shaylane, defeat and helplessness in his eyes, but he didn't back away.

"And I ought to cuff you, Williams," said Phillips. "Your ass is grass in case you was wondering."

"We'll see about that at the hearing when all the facts come out," said Shaylane, her eyes blazing, as she shoved her chest into the fray to make it three chests against each other in the shoving match.

"Probies don't get no hearing," said Phillips, his voice climbing to a shout.

"Then the facts'll come out at the lawsuit," shouted Ange, "and you can bet your ass there will be one if you try to put me back in that cell with that psychotic animal."

"You talking about poor little Sally?" said Deputy Collins, finding a spot at the end of the bed and grinning lewdly at Ange. "Way Sally tells it it was you coming on to her. Her word against yours, honeypot."

Head Nurse Ryan Thomas stuck her head in the door to see what the ruckus was. "Goodness," she said, seeing the room jammed full of uniformed deputies, Dr. Armenta and a young woman who had apparently been bleeding, all facing off in some sort of intense confrontation. Nurse Thomas retreated to the corridor and stood against the wall to get her wits about her. Half-heartedly, she turned to re-enter the situation, only to come face-to-face with two distinguished looking men in business suits who were about to enter the room. Time for a coffee break, Ryan, she told herself. No, wait, she thought, better call security. But what the hell was security going to do? There were already three deputies in the room. Her first thought was best, she decided: time for a coffee break.

For Ange, the entrance of two more people into the already over-crowded room reduced the situation to farce. She suppressed a hysterical giggle. Shaylane was totally bewildered. She recognized the newcomers immediately as Essex County prosecutors, best-of-show prosecutors, actually, well known in the media and around town for showing up in high profile cases: Assistant District Attorneys Walt Brannigan and Les Knight. Around the Sheriff's department they were sometimes called Abbott and Costello because of their physical appearances. But they were not Abbott and Costello in their high-powered legal careers. What in heaven were these two doing on the scene? Shaylane leaned quickly to Ange and whispered who the newcomers were.

Brannigan and Knight conferred quickly with Kon Armenta in whispers. Was there a medical problem? No, Kon told them, but the deputies posed a problem.

"We've just talked to Judge Sulmonetti," said Brannigan to Phillips. Brannigan, the Costello of the twosome, was a short, rather chubby, bespectacled man who sported a bow tie and suspenders. "He's agreed to release Ms. Parker on her own recognizance pending arraignment and we didn't object to that. Deputy, congratulations on the collar. However, it seems your involvement in this matter is at an end, at least until you are called on for testimony later."

"You have a written order from the judge?" said Phillips, his eyes squinting with suspicion.

"Just a phone call," said Brannigan. "However, I can assure you...."

"Fuck that," said Phillips. "You bring that order down to the jail and I'll release her. And why are you guys involved anyway? How did you know about the collar? How did you know where she was? What are you doing here?"

"Deputy," said Les Knight, a tall, slender man with a goatee and natty, pinstriped dress style. "Please step out into the hall for a moment, you and the other deputies. We have some things we want to discuss in private."

"No way," said Phillips.

"Deputy Phillips," said Knight, "you're crossing the line here. I assure you that your prisoner isn't going to escape from this room with you standing guard at the door. Now step out of the room, all of you, or I'll be in the mayor's office tomorrow morning and have your badges by the afternoon." Knight spoke softly but his words had the desired effect.

After Phillips and Collins had left, Knight held the door for Shaylane.

"Not me," said Shaylane. "I'm with her."

"Yes, of course, you are," said Knight, after a brief pause.

Ange, overwhelmed and exhausted, pulled a blanket from the pile of bedclothes and formed a hood and cover over her head and body. However this looks, it can't be worse than my fucking bloody sheet, she thought.

"Ms. Parker," said Knight gently, leaning over to tip back a corner of her hood, "we must ask your indulgence."

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Shaylane.

"We have a delicate situation going on," said Brannigan.

"Those drugs or whatever were planted on me," said Ange, her voice muffled under her protective hood.

"We know that," said Brannigan.

Ange pulled back the hood. "You know that?"

"Yes," said Brannigan. "We've been working to get you released. Our man watching the jail saw you and..." Brannigan looked at Shaylane's name tag to remind himself "... Deputy Williams leave in a hurry and he followed. That's how we knew you were here."

"Let me get this straight," said Ange, her face turning red. "Deputy Williams says you guys are the prosecutors around here. You know I'm innocent and you sat around watching the jail while I'm getting raped by a muscle-bound hag with bad breath. Is that what you're telling me?"

"We're very sorry," said Brannigan. "We won't let that happen again."

Ange started to laugh hysterically, and not in a good way, tears flooding her eyes. "You're sorry and it won't happen again! Well, I'm sorry, but that isn't good enough."

Brannigan and Knight looked at each other. Brannigan nodded. Knight shrugged his shoulders.

"Would you and Deputy Williams please leave the room for a moment, Doctor," said Knight to Kon. "We need to talk alone with Ms. Parker."

"Like hell they leave," said Ange.

"Ms. Parker," said Brannigan, "there are some very serious and highly confidential matters that you are entitled to know about, but the fewer people who know this information the better."

"You have a right to remain silent," said Ange, her still teary eyes blazing with anger. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

Brannigan and Knight again exchanged significant looks.

"Okay. Damn," said Knight. "This thing is so fucking out of control I can't believe it. Here's what's coming down... Or is this audience too small? Should we invite in a few nurses or something?"

"Easy, Les," said Brannigan. Then to the others: "Les has put over a year into this thing, So much is at stake. Here's the deal in a nutshell. We're close, very close, to busting up a major East Coast distribution set-up for a major Colombian cartel."

"Norte de Monte," said Shaylane.

Brannigan and Knight exchanged looks without comment.

"Phillips and Collins are dirty!" said Shaylane.

Brannigan and Knight again exchanged looks without comment.

"From their airport beat," said Shaylane.

"But we have no clue why they would pick on Ms. Parker. If we have this sorted out, Phillips would not bother himself with a grudge beef on a civilian. There would have had to be some kind of 'get Parker' order from higher up."

"And one more thing," said Knight. "The baggie taken off Parker was 100 percent pure cocaine. You don't get pure coke from police evidence lockers or from anybody on the street. So whoever supplied it for the bust was up the line."

"How do you know it was pure?" said Shaylane.

"Our guy brought it to us before he took it to evidence."

"Your guy was the guy at the airport," said Ange with an accusatory tone.

"But he couldn't blow his cover," said Knight. "He knew you were set up but he had no idea who you were and as a matter of fact we still don't know who you are. Who the hell are you?"

Sirens – many sirens – sirens of at least two kinds -- suddenly filled the air outside the hospital. Kon was near the window and pulled the curtain back for a look.

"More deputies and unmarked cars," he said.

"Okay," said Brannigan to Ange. "Questions later. But in the meantime we have a problem with the deputies in the hall. We can't be so heavy-handed that we blow the investigation, and at the same time they have us over the barrel in terms of the judges' order."

"Can't you just go get the written order?" said Ange.

"Uh, we didn't actually talk to the judge yet," said Brannigan.

"Oh, great," said Ange.

"And we don't want to lay all of this out for the judge, because it could leak," said Knight.

"Any chance you might be willing to..." Brannigan started, looking down.

"Are you going to say what I think you're going to say?" said Ange.

"Fuck me," said Shaylane. "I can't believe this."

"What?" said Kon. "I'm a little slow here."

"Ms. Williams could stand by to make sure you were okay," said Brannigan.

"No fucking way!" said Ange.

"Actually, I'm not at all sure I can go back there myself," said Shaylane.

Suddenly the door opened and in stepped Nurse Thomas, adopting a no-nonsense stance in front of Kon, her legs set wide and her hands on her hips.

"Okay, Doctor Armenta," she said. "What the hell is going on here? The lobby is swarming with cops and guys in suits and there are enough cop cars double-parked outside to start a war. Is President Clinton on the way and nobody told me about it?"

Ange could hear rapid steps and multiple voices in the corridor. Two men managed to ease their way into the small room past Phillips and Collins, who were craning for a peak, and Nurse Thomas who made a half-bid to block them. Shaylane shook her head in flabbergasted amazement. She recognized the men struggling to find space in the room as Cecil Crawford, the Attorney General for the State of New Jersey and Miles Gordon, Essex County Sheriff.

Notwithstanding the cramped quarters and bizarre scene, Attorney General Crawford raised both arms like he had just mounted a podium at a political rally and intoned: "Take a deep breath, everyone. Everything will be just fine."

Brannigan and Knight looked at each other with their mouths open and eyes wide.

Kon laughed and said, "C'mon in, gentlemen, whoever you are. Always room for a few more."

"Sheriff Gordon," said Deputy Phillips, who was still half in the corridor but managed to get his head in the room. "The woman under the blanket is my prisoner."

"Deputy Phillips," answered his boss, grandstanding to Crawford with his back to Phillips, "Let me ask you a question. What's the name of the ball field in Newark where the deputies have their softball tournaments?"

Phillips looked at the sheriff's back like he was crazy. "Sheffield Park," he said.

"Another question," said the Sheriff. "What's the name of the stadium in the middle of town?"

"Gordon Sheffield Memorial," said Phillips, "but what does that have to do...."

"Son," said the sheriff, turning to his deputy, who was probably ten years his senior, "congratulations on the collar, but you might be interested to know that you've arrested a woman who's slated to be on the board of directors at Sheffield Industries."

Ange pulled her blanket back over her head. How was it possible that this man, whoever he was, knew that? She wasn't even sure she knew that.

Phillips stood his ground, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

Attorney General Crawford eased his way through the crowd to sit beside Ange. He lifted a corner of her hood to the side. "Ms. Parker, my old and good friend Merriam Lockett asked me to tell you that she would be here this afternoon. And in the meantime I will personally move heaven and earth to make sure you have everything you need."

"Who are you?" said Ange, peering from under her hood. In so doing her blanket slipped and revealed blood on her sheet underneath.

"My name is Cecil. I'm Merriam's friend and I hope yours." Crawford glanced at Kon Armenta and mouthed, "Is she okay?" Kon nodded, indicating there was no problem with a hand gesture.

"He's the State Attorney General, Ange," said Shaylane.

"Do you suppose I could have some clothes, Cecil?" said Ange. "My sheet is stained."

"Where are your clothes, Ange? Can I call you Ange?"

Ange nodded. "My purse and my briefcase and some clothes are at the jail. My luggage must be still at the airport. My apartment is across town."

"Sheriff," said Cecil. "Can you send a driver?"

"Are you the sheriff?" said Ange, pulling her hood and blanket off. He nodded. "Am I still under arrest?"

"I'm not sure, technically," said Sheriff Gordon. "But don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll clear everything up. You're free to go if the doctors release you."

"I don't want to go anywhere without Shaylane," said Ange. She knew she risked sounding childlike, but her heart felt very shaky.

"Deputy Williams," said Gordon. "Will you accept an assignment to provide security for Ms. Parker? For however long she needs you," he added.

Shaylane nodded.

"Thanks, Shaylane," said Ange. "Can I pay you extra as well?"

"Sorry, that's not allowed," said Gordon. Then he noted Attorney General Crawford's expression, and said, "but in this case it'll be fine."

"Good," said Ange. "Five Hundred a day then, plus expenses, plus hire more people if you want, plus... Plus I'll never forget what you did for me."

"How did Merriam know I was in trouble?" said Ange to Cecil.

"Your driver at the airport called her and told her you'd been arrested and she called me. We've been chasing all over hell's half acre trying to find you until we finally got a call from Seattle that you were here."

"Now, mystery of the hour," said Sheriff Gordon, looking at prosecutors Brannigan and Knight. "What the hell are you two guys doing here?"

Shaylane, Kon and Ange exchanged quick looks. The sheriff doesn't know about the drug investigation, Ange realized. She glanced quickly at Attorney General Crawford, who was waiting for a response from the prosecutors. Looks like he doesn't know either. The Attorney General had brought the sheriff along to come to her rescue at Merriam's request. They knew nothing of the drug cartel investigation.

Now the sheriff was putting Brannigan and Knight on the spot. Could be the prosecutors didn't want the sheriff to know they were investigating his deputies. In any case, they certainly they could say nothing with Phillips and Collins listening.

"Cecil," said Ange, interrupting.

"Yes, Ange."

Ange pointed to the Deputies Phillips and Collins. "Is there any way to get the Gestapo out of here? They did more than just arrest me and plant drugs on me. They're worse than the KGB."

"Gone, guys," said the sheriff. "It'll all come out in the wash." In short order they were gone.

That accomplished, Ange waited to see if the prosecutors would mention their investigations. They didn't.

"So, I ask again," said Sheriff Gordon, "what are you two top-gun's doing here?"

Ange could see that Brannigan and Knight didn't have a cover story.

"Let me tell it, guys." said Ange.

The prosecutors were slow to react, so Ange jumped on it.

"These guys are my heroes," said Ange, getting ready to lie through her teeth: "Here I am cuffed and thrown into the back of the cop car this afternoon while the deputies go in and have a cup of coffee for an hour or so, and these two cool guys pull up and check me out. They told me the reason the deputies are dragging their feet is so they get me there after 4:30 and I'll have to stay the weekend. But they say they'll go check with the judge before then because they don't like that tactic. But they can't get hold of the judge so they decide to tell a little white lie that he gave them a verbal for releasing me on recognizance.

"This is the part I'm not clear on: You guys must have been on the way to the jail and saw Shaylane and me in our great escape and followed us here, right?"

"That's right," said Brannigan.

"What great escape?" said Sheriff Gordon.

"Not really an escape because I was still in custody to Deputy Williams," said Ange quickly, realizing that it would not be a good thing to launch an investigation into the jail episode. "Just a change in venue because I told her about my Sheffield connections and she didn't like how it might reflect on the Sheriff's Department the way Phillips was treating me."

Shaylane lifted her eyebrows at how easily Ange was creating this story. Fast thinker, and smooth. Too smooth. Surely Gordon wasn't buying it. And yet, for some reason he let it go.

"Good work, Deputy," said the sheriff.

"Thank you, sir," said Shaylane, glancing at Ange with a wry smile.
CHAPTER 10

Towne Center Hotel, Newark, New Jersey

Sunday, March 17, 1996

Merriam Lockett declared Saturday a day of rest for Ange. On Sunday, "Team Ange," so dubbed by Kon, met for brunch in Merriam's suite at the Town Center Hotel, where everyone had taken adjoining rooms. Ange hadn't been to her Newark apartment or to her cubbyhole in the Smithson legal offices but she and Shaylane had visited a nearby mall to buy some clothes. A meeting with the Sheffield brothers had been scheduled for Monday the 18th, and Ange had decided she would be ready by Monday, so the brunch was both a strategy session for the scheduled meeting the next day and a post hash of the dramatic events of Friday evening.

Merriam provided a running commentary on organic produce and sustainable agriculture to accompany the specialty brunch items she had ordered up. When that discussion had run its course she could no longer restrain her curiosity about Shaylane and Kon as a couple.

"So, how did you two meet?" she asked.

"Shaylane broke my nose and it felt so good I just had to come back for more," said Kon.

"We met at a karate class," said Shaylane. "Kon tried to block me with his head."

Merriam admired Shaylane's engagement ring, to the deputy's beaming pleasure. Pretty big rock for a doctor who hadn't finished his residency yet, thought Merriam. Further conversation revealed that Kanuna Armenta had the advantage of being a tribal member of the Cow Creek Band of the Umpqua tribe in Oregon, a very small band that owned a profitable gambling and resort casino along an Oregon Interstate. When he finished his residency in internal medicine Kon planned to start a clinic in Oregon for less fortunate Native Americans.

Merriam detected an accent from Shaylane. Australian? No, South African. Shaylane had come to America to study criminology and the American justice system. She was Zulu.

"Williams is a Zulu name?" said Merriam.

"It's an English 'given' name. Very common practice. Zulu names are difficult for western ears," explained Shaylane.

"Any new thoughts since we talked yesterday, Ange?" said Merriam, transitioning to the issues at hand.

"Have you talked to Davis yet? Does he know what happened?" said Ange.

"I talked to Doc," said Merriam. Then, changing the subject: "Ange, you look pretty dragged out. Did you sleep last night?"

"Not much," said Ange. "I had a bad dream. Sort of a relapse. Poor little Pollyanna Parker."

"A relapse?" said Merriam.

"I used to have bad dreams."

"What do you mean, Pollyanna Parker?" said Merriam.

"Oh, you know, growing up in a small town, all sweetness and light, listening to my daddy sing John Denver songs. And then the world comes along and kicks you in the teeth a little bit. Friday was just another reminder."

"A reminder of what?" said Merriam.

Ange paused for a moment. "Nothing worth spending time on now, Merriam. I'll be okay. The main thing now is to come up with a plan of action for tomorrow. Has Doc talked to Davis?"

"Yes. Davis told Doc that if you wanted to bail out he'd understand. He also said a Mr. Bellcap was available as needed."

"Belnap," Ange said.

"Okay," said Merriam. "Who's Mr. Belnap?"

"Belnap is an accountant," said Ange. "He and his firm manage funds for Davis. Davis told me several times that I could call on Mr. Belnap to release virtually unlimited funds for any purpose and he wouldn't second guess me."

"What does that mean?" said Merriam. "Virtually unlimited?"

"I have no idea," said Ange. "I didn't pay that much attention because I don't see how money is the issue. I think Davis wants us to be able to act quickly without having to check with him first."

"Uh, actually, I was going to ask Davis first chance I got to back my play on something," said Merriam, "but since you have the keys to the treasury, Ange, I guess I'll ask you now."

Ange nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable in her new financial gatekeeper role.

"The full story on Attorney General Cecil Crawford," said Merriam, "is that, yes, he's an old friend, sort of, and yes, I do regard him as being a basically honorable person. However, he didn't go riding all over Newark Friday in a motorcade with sirens and flashing lights purely out of his enduring love for me. When I called him Friday afternoon I more or less promised a sizable donation to his campaign fund. He's planning a run for governor."

"Sizeable?" said Ange, grinning.

"I think I used the word huge and he said how huge and I said huge huge."

"Well that puts some missing pieces in the puzzle," said Shaylane.

"Thanks, Merriam," said Ange. "Let me know how huge huge and I'll give Mr. Belnap a call."

"I'm going to recommend a big number. We might need Cecil again."

Merriam poured herself another cup of coffee. "Okay," she said, "let's run the highlights film on what happened Friday. Somebody, and let's not jump to conclusions on who that might've been... but somebody targeted you, Ange, for some rough stuff, maybe as a signal or a punishment, and they enlisted some cops to do the dirty work."

"That about covers it," said Ange.

"I'm trying to think of a scenario for that," said Merriam. "Why cops? If somebody wanted to hurt you, why not hire some thug?"

"Maybe because cops are better at it," said Ange.

"Maybe because they didn't know any thugs but they knew some cops," said Shaylane.

"You'd have to know some cops pretty well," said Merriam, "before you'd go out on a limb with something like that, wouldn't you Shaylane?"

"You'd probably have to have something on them first," said Shaylane.

"What do you mean have something on them?" said Kon.

"Like maybe somebody is on the take or looking away from some shit," said Shaylane. "Maybe the cop gets in too deep."

"Ange has pissed off some people," said Merriam. "We know that. But it's hard to imagine Vince or Michael Sheffield setting something like this up. They'd be making themselves vulnerable and exposed. For what? Still, we don't want to make the same mistake again. Let's err on the safe side in the future."

"We're working on that," said Shaylane. "Kon and I are working on a plan to go into the meeting tomorrow with all bases covered."

"Brannigan pretty much said the deputies were dirty, more than dirty, with some kind of connection to a drug cartel," said Kon, changing the topic.

"Dirty cops and politicians would explain a lot," said Merriam. "But it wouldn't help us understand why they went after Ange. It's hard to picture Vince or Michael Sheffield with ties to a drug cartel. What could explain such a thing? What could the motivation conceivably be for them to risk everything for some shady gang connections?"

"I might be able to help figure out who was behind it," said Shaylane, "or at least rule out some folks."

"Go ahead, Shaylane," said Ange.

"I'll be in the meeting with you, right?"

"Yes, of course," said Ange. "I want you with me everywhere I go."

"I'd like be there to watch expressions if you were to lay it on thick in terms of your experiences Friday, maybe even exaggerate a little for effect. If perps are in the group, I'll be able to pick them out."

"I wouldn't have to exaggerate a whole lot," said Ange. "If I just started talking about it I'd probably break down."

"Maybe you could still play out the young and inexperienced tactic we talked about in Seattle, Ange," said Merriam.

"What are your goals?" said Kon.

"To protect the Green Helmet program," said Ange without hesitation.

"And to find out who fucked with you Friday," said Shaylane. "And to make sure they don't do it again."
CHAPTER 11

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

Monday, March 18, 1996

An hour prior to Ange's scheduled arrival at the Sheffield Industries Headquarters Building, Shaylane arrived with a small army of hastily recruited black-belt students from her karate club, fifteen in all. The army filled most of the chairs in the chrome and glass lobby with its fifty-foot high vaulted ceiling. Shaylane wore her deputy uniform and sidearm. The others all wore identical karate jackets with the emblem of a tiger embossed on the backs. Kon was not among them, having duties at St. Elizabeth's.

A Sheffield security guard approached Shaylane apprehensively. A smile intended to reassure him did not. He actually let his hand drop to rest on his sidearm, which Shaylane thought was cute. What was he going to do, draw on her?

"What's going on here?" he asked.

"Nothing to be alarmed about," said Shaylane. "I'm here as advance security for Ange Parker's arrival. I'd like to look over the meeting room."

"What about them?" said the guard, sweeping his arm towards the lobby.

"Nothing to worry about. They're with me. Which way will Ms. Parker be escorted to get to the meeting room?" Shaylane started down the most prominent hall.

"She'll be going up in the elevator, I guess," said the guard.

"To what floor?"

"Second floor."

"No elevator. We'll walk up."

The huge meeting room, like the lobby, was all glass along one side, with lofted ceilings and outsized sculptures of warships dangling in space.

Where will Ms. Parker be sitting?" asked Shaylane. Two other security guards had now joined the first, one of whom assumed a leadership role automatically when he arrived on the scene.

Guard number one whispered something excitedly in boss guard's ear.

"What's this about martial arts guys in the lobby?" asked boss guard.

"Best we could do on short notice," said Shaylane. "Where'll Ms. Parker be sitting?"

"My understanding is that she'll sit over here by the door until she's called and then she'll have the podium in the side area there to make her presentation."

"You've got to be kidding," said Shaylane. The side podium looked like a prisoner's dock.

"No, I'm not kidding."

"How many will be seated at the center table?"

"That is impossible to predict."

"Are the seats by assignment or first come first served."

"There are no specific seat assignments, except Mr. Vince Sheffield, Chair, at the top, of course."

****

Ange arrived by limousine with five more karate students. She walked with Shaylane up to the second floor meeting room, preceded by twenty karate students, who formed into lines on each side of the most direct path from the entrance of the meeting room to the center table. Sheffield security guards made some effort to breach the line but were politely but firmly turned back with comments to the effect that the students would leave the room as soon as Ms. Parker was seated. True to their word, as soon as Ange and Shaylane had taken seats at the table, the students filed back into the outer hall.

Vince and Michael Sheffield and five additional executives or board directors were already at the table. They watched the karate teamwork with bemused expressions. Arriving within moments of Ange were Randall Smithson and Simon Frazer, partners in the law firm for which Ange had recently been a paralegal. They did not look happy with Ange. Ange smiled timidly at them, a first gesture towards her role as a young innocent.

"Deputy," said Vince Sheffield officiously, "if you would be so kind as to take a seat along the wall, that would be well."

"Can't do that," said Shaylane.

"Can't or won't?" said Vince.

"Can't and won't," said Shaylane.

"Please explain yourself, Deputy," said Michael Sheffield.

"I'm on direct assignment by Sheriff Gordon to provide security and emotional safety for Ange Parker. Just three days ago she underwent an extreme physical and emotional assault and it provides her a sense of safety to have me close to her."

"You were assaulted, Ms. Parker?" said Vince, sounding sincerely surprised.

"The most awful and humiliating experience of my life. I still can't seem to get over it. So if I seem a little shaky today...."

"What happened?" said Michael, also sounding genuinely surprised to Ange's ear.

"Deputies planted drugs on me and arrested me at the airport right after I got off the plane. They put me in a cell with a horrible woman..." Ange paused to collect her emotions. She didn't have to embellish much on her actual feelings. "...who attacked me. She hurt me, bit me and tried to use me, uh, sexually. The deputies knew what was going on but they didn't care. In fact, they encouraged it."

I hope that's enough for you to get a read on the group, Shaylane, she thought, because I'm not going to do this much more.

"My God," said Vince. "How could this have happened?"

"I don't know," said Ange, "but I don't think I'll ever be the same."

"I'm sure we are all very sorry for your ordeal, Ange," said Douglas Frazier. "Do you feel up to going into some of the questions we all have about your behavior and also this business about powers of attorney and so forth?"

"I'm looking forward to it, Mister Frazier, sir, because I'm afraid you might've misunderstood the situation."

"Really," said Frazier. "Do enlighten us, Ange."

"Well, sir, whatever else you might think, I did bring back the bacon, so to speak, in the form of written powers of attorney and proxies so that nobody needs to worry about Davis Sheffield anymore." Ange beamed proudly. Damned good acting, thought Shaylane.

"Now, it's true that I did violate the trust of the firm by telling Davis Sheffield about the lawsuit before the process server had a chance to find him. However, the way I saw it at the time, Davis Sheffield was still technically a client of the firm, so it was a slippery business to favor one interest at Sheffield over another's. So, anyway, the solution I came up with was to go directly to Davis and talk turkey. He doesn't really care anything about management of Sheffield Industries as long he still gets the Green Helmet grant money, so I talked him into signing management over in exchange for a promise that the Green Helmet money will keep coming." Again Ange beamed proudly and looked around as if she fully expected the table to break out in applause at any second.

"Signed it over to you," said Michael. "Revocable powers of attorney and proxies signed over to you? You think that's going to sound better to us than stripping that pretender of his hold over us?"

"You think we want to continue the Green Helmet grants?" said Vince.

"Well, the Green Helmet public relations is going through the roof. An article in The New York Times last week. Goodness. Of course, I assumed you'd want to continue it."

"Ange," said Randall Smithson, "don't you think you took an awful lot on yourself for..." His voice squeaked as he lost control. "... for a goddamned paralegal with six months experience!"

"Sir," said Ange, "if it's a matter of my job...."

"Your job? What job? You are so fired I can't even begin to tell you how fired you are, you stupid, damned...."

"Randall," said Vince, "as much as we might have preferred a different outcome, Ms. Parker is here with, uh, certain legal, uh, instruments that perhaps call for a measured and reasonable collaboration. With guidance and over time, I'm sure Ms. Parker can contribute a great deal to the company."

"Thank you, Mr. Sheffield," said Ange.

"Of course, you'll have to wait until January to be installed on the board," said Michael.

"Oh, but that's one of the ways I thought I could help," said Ange, "by being on the board."

"Indeed," said Michael. "Is that by virtue of your keen insights into corporate management?"

"I could help by providing a quorum," said Ange. "Davis Sheffield has withdrawn the proxies previously held by Mr. Morris Turnbull and Mr. Phillip Sheridan. So, as presently constituted, the board lacks a quorum as stipulated in the bylaws. Just tell me how to vote and voilà! Everything is legal."

"Fact of the matter is," said Vince, "we don't generally find it necessary to vote – formally, that is. Board meetings allow the management team to get wise counsel from all the directors. Final decisions on policy are made later. Still, I see no reason you can't join the board now, Ange. Not to provide a quorum, but just on general principle."

Suddenly, a man at the table whom Ange did not know shouted loudly, "What're you looking at, bitch!" He glared at Shaylane.

"I'm looking at you, sir," said Shaylane, calmly.

The man stood, shoving back his chair. He was a tall, imposing man with small eyes and a large hawk nose. He wore a tweed shooters jacket.

"Daniel?" said Michael.

"What the hell are you looking at me for?" shouted Daniel, leaning forward over the table.

"Free country," said Shaylane, again calmly.

"Bitch!" said Daniel, storming out.

"Who was that," said Ange.

"My son, Daniel," said Michael. "I've no idea what got into him. He's a little strange sometimes."
CHAPTER 12

San Francisco, California

Thursday, March 21, 1996

Robert Davis Jones, birth name reclaimed and feeling incognito with retro wrap-around sunglasses, sans beard and with a recently shaved pate so that skull and once bearded parts of his face shone stark white against the tanned portions, walked jauntily along Market Street. An early overcast had burned off and the sun had broken through brightly on the first day of spring in the city natives sometimes called Baghdad by the Bay. Davis could hear whooshes and rumbles of trains under the street. A brisk wind-tunnel breeze held dust and grit in the air along with pigeons and gulls. Street musicians, panhandlers and colorful characters were in plentiful supply as he made his way a mile or so from where Market Street intersected the business district into seedier areas, complete with strip clubs, pawn shops and fast-food restaurants. Davis felt giddy with the simple enjoyment of being on the street. He stopped at his new bank, Bank of America near Powell Street, and stuffed the pockets of his running suit with twenty-dollar bills, which he handed to any and all panhandlers along the way. Many beneficiaries of his twenties asked God's blessings upon him. By the time he reached the Castro district on upper Market he felt well blest and eager to share his general feeling of blessedness with one of his dearest old friends.

Sara Joy was a Green Helmet secret agent who was a social worker at the University of California's San Francisco Children's Hospital, but that was not her claim to fame in Davis' heart. Sara had been Mo's roommate and best friend at Reed College and Mo's maid of honor at the wedding and had flown to Denver for the funerals. Davis and Sara had wept together, sitting on a bench in a snow-covered tennis court near the cemetery, bawling like babies, sharing the grief of a loss that, for each of them, was almost too much to bear.

Davis stopped for a moment to admire Sara's "Painted Lady" Victorian home. The building was a showcase of the genre, with lacey, gingerbread carvings, stained glass borders on the windows and brilliant paint in blue, lavender and pale yellow.

Davis climbed the stairs, rang the buzzer and opened the outer steel door after an immediate response from inside. He looked up the steep stairwell to the delightful visage of Sara waiting on the top stair with a huge smile, flanked by a black lab on one side and a golden retriever on the other. Sara released the dogs with some permission signal. The lab bumped and skidded down the stairs to Davis, who had to fight off his slobbery kisses and keep a low profile on the steep stairs to avoid being bowled over. The golden was wary at first, checking with Sara every two steps down, but finally joining in the melee. Davis ended virtually crawling up the stairs loaded down with wiggling dogs until he got to the sanctuary of Sara's open arms. They hugged fiercely for a long moment, then pulled apart to look each other over. Both laughed with the joy of the reunion.

"Too long," said Sara.

"Too long," said Davis.

With Sara leading, the sprightly four, Sara, Davis, Whoopie the lab and Emmy the golden, half ran into the spacious main living area and did a circle dance for a moment before collapsing into an intimate huddle of excited dogs and hugging humans.

"Davis," said Sara, "you aren't bad looking. Not bad at all. I've never seen your face before."

"I feel naked," said Davis.

"What in God's name possessed you?"

"I'm undercover," said Davis. "I've taken my maiden name back."

"I'm sorry. I don't remember...."

"Jones," said Davis, spreading his arms, "Robert Davis Jones at your service."

"Ah, yes, Jones. Hard name to remember. Knowing you, I'm sure there's a good story coming up."

"Where's Jan?" said Davis, looking over his shoulder down the long hall. Davis remembered Jan Nelson as Sara's lesbian partner of many years."

"We split up a few months ago," said Sara. "I'm sort of going with somebody but we aren't living together."

"Nice place," said Davis, changing the subject to admire the 19th Century mahogany furniture and the jungle effect of numerous ferns and flowers, colorful tapestries, stained glass and artwork befitting a San Francisco Victorian almost-mansion.

"Yes, I've found it surprisingly easy to leverage myself into better and better homes."

"Really," said Davis, not looking in her eyes.

"I don't know why other people have to struggle so much. I just get a new place and a few months later the bank calls to tell me some anonymous person has paid off the mortgage."

"Must be a secret admirer," said Davis.

"Must be," said Sara, smiling. Then, "Davis, what's going on? You look different, and I don't just mean the Patrick Stewart treatment."

"I feel different but I didn't realize it showed."

"You're finally healing a little?"

"I don't know why I've been stuck so long. But yeah, maybe something like healing a little."

"A new relationship I hope."

"No, no."

"Are you off the sauce?"

"No, but not like it was. But the thing is, when I think about Mo and Silvie now sometimes I smile and I feel lucky to have had them. I had thought the pain demons were going to be permanent. On the way here I was warmly remembering the snow cave, if you can imagine that."

Sara, Davis and Mo had been caught poorly prepared in a sudden, unseasonable storm while climbing Mount Hood in Oregon. Mo had chosen that occasion to announce that she thought she was pregnant, which contributed to a decision to dig a snow cave rather than push their luck by continuing down the mountain. The trio spent the night huddled in the cave, taking turns reciting poetry and discussing the meaning of life, Mo sandwiched in the middle for warmth. The experience was cold but intensely intimate. They had talked about it for years after.

"And I've been remembering our last Christmas," said Davis. "You were there. So special. I haven't let myself remember things like that before."

"You and Mo and Silvie gave us a concert with your Baby Grands," said Sara.

Rachel had bought Silvie a "baby" Baby Grand for Christmas to match the twin pianos that Mo and Davis enjoyed together. The "concert," with Rachel, Doc, Davis' parents and friends as audience, consisted of Mo and Davis finding ways to riff on whatever semi-random notes Silvie banged out, the result being a kind of impromptu progressive jazz, for want of a better description. Whatever critics might have said, the audience had responded with wildly enthusiastic applause.

"I think that scene was the epitome of your relationship with Mo," said Sara.

"How so?"

"It was so joyfully spontaneous. If I had to come up with two words to describe your relationship, it would be joyfully spontaneous. Most relationships are careful. I'm thinking of my relationship with Jan and maybe that colors my thinking, but the fact is that over time Jan and I taught each other what we each expected. Everything had to be negotiated. Talk, talk, talk. We talked it to death."

"I was there with the joyful part," said Davis, "but the spontaneity was all Mo."

"It takes two to do the spontaneity tango," said Sara. "Yes, Mo was always free and easy, inordinately so."

"Wildly so."

"But you stayed in harmony with her and went on a wild ride together."

"I was just along for the ride."

"No Davis, you weren't just along for the ride. I knew Mo before you did. She was looking for you but hadn't found you yet."

"She was looking for somebody to tease to death," said Davis, smiling.

"Yes, I know. She teased me too, but I didn't like it very much."

Davis laughed. "I didn't know about that."

"I think Mo just wanted intensity. She hated predictability."

"You know, old friend, it's interesting you should come up with this angle on things. You're helping me realize why I came to San Francisco. I think I'm looking for something unpredictable."

"Something intense."

"Maybe someday. But for now unpredictable will do."

"I think you've come to the right place for that, Davis, although you aren't going to find Mo here. But why the disguise? Or were you in disguise before and now this is the real you?"

"Long version? This could take awhile."

"Let's make some tea."

In Sara's kitchen, full of light from windows on three sides, orchids galore and antique appliances, Davis told the story of all that had happened since meeting Ange on the Bainbridge Ferry, including the recent development of Ange being abused.

"Ange is how old?" asked Sara.

"Twenty-nine."

"Background?"

"I just heard from Doc this morning. You know Doc, always doing research on everything. Ange comes from a pretty modest background. She grew up in Roseville, California, as an only child. She was a cheerleader in high school. Very popular, according to Doc's sources. Her father is a retired railroad worker. In the 60's he was in the Army and was stationed in Europe. On a holiday to Ireland he met Ange's mother, married her after a whirlwind romance and brought her back with him to the States. She became a nurse and now teaches in a nursing school. As near as Doc could tell the family is close.

"Ange started the university at Cal Berkeley. Left after only a semester and transferred to Oregon State. B.S. in Fisheries and Wildlife, of all things. I never had heard of it. Law degree at the University of Washington. Wanted to be an environmental attorney. Arrested three times, four now, I guess. No convictions."

"The arrests were for...?"

"Twice for trespassing. She was a tree-sitter."

"An environmental activist."

"Yes, while she was at Oregon State. And once for prostitution."

Sara raised her eyebrows.

"Apparently she helped pay her way in law school by working as a lap dancer. Probably gave a generous wiggle to a vice cop."

"Hmm."

"You've been frowning," said Davis.

"Oh, Davis, forgive my frowning. I don't have any right to pass judgment on anything."

"C'mon Sara, hit me with your best shot. If I can't get honesty from you, where can I get it?"

"It's just that the Green Helmet grants are so damned wonderful. Knowing that grants were coming I've arranged to be on the scene twice now when these guys -- one guy and one gal -- came walking in with green helmets on. You could have heard a pin drop. Just stunning. Dreamlike. It's like winning the lottery, except the lottery is random and these grants go to the most needy and most deserving. I'm just scared, that's all. The whole Green Helmet program in the balance with a lap dancing paralegal calling the shots."

"Sara, let me ask you a question. How many lap dances do you think Ange did to get through law school?"

"Now you're angry with me."

"No, not at all. But let me paint you a picture. Here's this tree-sitter with no money who decides being a lawyer is the only way to make a difference. So she goes to law school and works her way though the hard way, with part time jobs like lap dancing. Had to take a toll. Then she decides to throw it all away, which I have no doubt was what she thought was going to happen as a consequence of warning me. She was willing to give up her career to protect the Green Helmet program. How heroic is that?"

"You didn't know she was a tree-sitter or a lap dancer until today."

"True, but I knew a lot was at stake for her."

"And now you've put her in harm's way."

"I had no idea they'd do something like that."

"But now you do."

"I've given Ange a way out, and also the resources to fight in any way she wants. I'm not going to pull the plug on her."

"Not even if she's in over her head?"

Davis held Sara's eyes for a long moment and Sara held his. She had a way of challenging him for his most honest response. In that respect Sara was a lot like Mo.

"You and Merriam Lockett and Doc have all questioned my picking Ange for this. Maybe I was hasty. Maybe I could have taken more time to think things through. But the die is cast. There is no way in hell I would pull her out now unless she says she wants out. And, for whatever reason, I believe in her."

"Okay, Davis," said Sara with a gentle sigh, "Sign me up for the Ange fan club. But I'm still scared."

Davis rose from his chair and went to the refrigerator. He looked inside. "Got beer?" he said.

"Sorry," said Sara."

Davis leaned his forehead against the fridge. "Not to worry, Sara," he said softly. "The Green Helmet program will continue no matter what."

Sara looked askance. "That's a hollow promise, Davis. I know a little about the financial base for it. Mo and I talked a lot."

"Enlighten me."

"When Tom Baskin died in 1985 Sheffield Industries had revenues of over $2 billion a year but that was in the middle of the Reagan build-up. Mo pushed through the Green Helmet program in 1990, the year after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Is Sheffield netting $2 billion now? I doubt it."

"There're some big contracts in the pipeline, they tell me," said Davis.

"But the size of the pie has shrunk, hasn't it? And the Green Helmet program has to be shrinking too, along with the money for reinvestment and the shareholder bonuses, yours included. The poor Sheffield brothers are probably reduced to cutting back on their fleet of Learjets. No wonder the pressure is growing to deep-six the program, as witness your current situation."

"The Green Helmet program hasn't been shrinking. I've been propping it up."

"You've been propping it up?"

"And I'll keep doing so."

"You can only do that for so long, Davis. I know how much you probably have."

"From Mo?"

"From gab sessions when she was in the planning stage for the Green Helmet program."

"Well, Miss smarty-pants," said Davis with a smile, "there's money Mo didn't know about."

"That's hard to believe."

"Top secret stuff. Even from Mo. That's how secret it was, and is. I learned about it in a meeting with Rachel and Doc when Rachel was dying... very sad time."
CHAPTER 13

Rachel Sheffield's Sitting Room, Denver, Colorado

Thursday, May 23, 1994

Davis sat for a time alone in "Rachel's Room," as it was called, with French windows that opened to gardens and enough photos on the walls to fill a gallery, photos of Mo, Silvie, Tom, Doc and Davis. Photos of happy times. Davis sat with a lump in his throat, trying to look out the windows at the mountain and valley panorama and not at the photos. A fire crackled in an antique woodstove, probably set to take away the morning chill and bring cheer to the room. It did neither.

When Doc rolled her through the doors in a wheelchair, Rachel Baskin-Sheffield looked small and diminished since the last time Davis had seen her only weeks before. Her eyes were sunk in dark sockets. She had refused second rounds of chemotherapy and radiation and for a time had felt more robust and healthy. But then the cancer had caught up with her and now she seemed, Doc said, to lose half her strength every day. She might not live another week, Doc had said as he insisted that Davis fly to Denver ASAP.

"Do excuse the wheelchair, dearest one," said Rachel, speaking somewhat loudly to force the quaver from her voice. "I hate the dratted thing but one must do what one must do."

Davis knelt beside her and pressed his lips to her cheek. "Sweet lady," he said.

"Wheel me through my memories, Davis," said Rachel.

And so he did, easing the wheelchair along each wall, with Doc pulling some of the best photos from the wall that were not at eye level and holding them for Rachel to see: Tom as a young soldier in his dashing dress uniform, Mo as a child learning to ski, Mo and baby Silvie, Mo and Davis at their wedding.

After awhile Rachel said, "Oh, I could do this forever, but you know what they say: The spirit is willing but the flesh...."

"We can continue another time," said Davis.

"Another time," said Rachel softly. "Yes, Davis, another time."

The three moved close to the fire, Rachel in her wheelchair and Doc and Davis settling into comfortable rocking chairs.

Rachel sat pensively for a moment. "How are you, Davis?" she said, her voice and eyes indicating a serious question.

"I'm good," said Davis, unconvincingly.

"Doc said you were better."

"You said that, Doc?" Davis shook his head, not believing.

"I said you were coming to work in the mornings," said Doc.

"I like my work," said Davis.

"It's been three years," said Rachel. "You should be meeting women, getting married, starting a new family."

Davis appraised Rachel, bemused. He had noticed her becoming more the matriarch over the last year but she had never been so direct with him. "I'm looking around," he lied.

"What about Anita, the doctor," Rachel asked. "She seemed like a very nice girl."

"You sound like my mother, Rachel."

"Very pretty, too."

"I should give Anita the doctor a call," Davis said, again unconvincingly.

Rachel sighed and gazed at Davis through tired eyes. "Would you be so kind, dear, as to bring me the photo of Silvie and the sand castle?"

Davis knew the photo and where it rested. When he brought it to her, Rachel pinioned his hand gently to the armrest of her wheelchair so he would stay with her as they examined the photo together. Davis knelt on the floor by her, his hand under hers, acceding to the intimacy of the moment.

"Do you remember, Davis?"

"Of course I do."

"One of my favorite photos of all time," said Rachel. "Best photo I ever took."

"Wonderful photographer. Wonderful model," said Davis, fighting to keep his voice from breaking.

The photo was of Silvie, age 5, standing proudly beside a quite large and elaborate sand castle. In the background of the photo were palm trees and ocean.

"You remember the day, Davis?"

"On an island in the Tahitians," said Davis. "Mo went topless on the beach and you were scandalized. Our schooner captain was stung by a jellyfish."

"Silvie didn't build that sand castle all by herself did she, Davis?"

"It was a joint project."

"I saw you through Mo's eyes that day. She talked about you while you and Silvie built the sand castle. I learned one of the things Mo loved about you."

"You did?"

"And I learned about what she hoped for you."

Davis looked at Rachel a long moment. "This is pretty heavy, Rachel."

"I'm dying, Davis."

"Rachel, I..."

"There comes a time when a person gets to say what they think."

"I see what you mean. Fire away."

"Enough of this pining away for what was, what might have been. Mo is gone. Silvie is gone. I'm almost gone; and when the three of us get together in heaven we are going to come back and haunt you if you don't get your act together."

"What did Mo say about why she loved me?"

"That you were like a child. That you knew how to play. She said you had no ambition, no drive to prove yourself. I remember saying to her perhaps you should be an architect, judging by the sand castle, and she said no, better for you to be a teacher of architects, to teach them how to play. Interesting comment, I thought."

"And what did she say about her hopes for me?"

"Well, in fairness, I think her comments have to be understood in terms of the situation. It was quite delightful watching you build the castle with Silvie. I remember – I treasure the memory -- the two of you dancing and prancing down the beach looking for seashells and bits of sticks and seaweed to decorate your castle, men-at-arms – whatever they were – tiny seashells like little shields on the castle wall. Silvie perched on your shoulders. Mo sipping her wine and laughing with love and joy at the sight of you."

Davis was not ready to celebrate the memory. It hurt too much to remember. He fought back tears.

"Sorry Davis. I see this is hard for you. But what Mo wanted for you was... She wanted to have more children with you. She wanted to adopt some as well. She thought you were the best father on planet earth."

Davis ran the fingers of his free hand through his beard and hair. "I hear you, sweet lady. You think I should find a wife and have children. I thank you for your kind advice. However, I think Mo may have confused what she saw between Silvie and me with how I would be as a parent for other children. I don't think... I don't even want to think that I will know and love another Silvie. I certainly don't think there is another Mo somewhere. People don't win the lottery twice."

"Davis," said Rachel forcefully, with short pauses to gather breath between phrases, "I refuse to die with the burden in my heart that you are going to spend the rest of your days lost and alone. I want a promise from you. A sacred promise to a dying woman."

"What promise?"

"I want you to grab a mitt and get in the game. I want you to get off your duff. And not ten years from now, either."

"I promise," Davis whispered.

"Say that again. Say it better so I can believe you."

"I promise on my love for Mo and for Silvie that I will not spend my life lost and alone. I will someday find a way to engage -- and you must understand that I have never done this. I have never dated, never courted. I was lost and alone as a boy and then there was Mo – but someday, and not ten years from now," Davis smiled, "I will, as you say so eloquently, grab a mitt and get in the game."

Rachel smiled at Doc, a little triumphantly. "And I must ask one more thing of you, Davis," she said.

Doc leaned forward. He knows what's coming, Davis thought.

"I must ask you to take over for me. I am naming you my sole heir."

Davis was stunned. "But you've talked in the past of charitable bequests. The Foundation. And what about your brothers? What about Doc? You can't be serious."

"Of course I'm serious. I don't have time not to be serious."

"Rachel," said Davis, pulling his hand from hers and putting his fingers to his temples, "I'm a drunk, darling Rachel. And that's just for starters. I don't have the aptitude or the interest in building warships or running companies or fighting with your brothers."

"You don't have to run the company. Just protect the Green Helmet program. And Doc will help you."

"Then why not make Doc your heir?"

"Oh, dear boy, there are very good reasons why it must be you," said Rachel. "I have spent many hours with Gary Belnap over the last few weeks."

"Gary Belnap is her accountant here in Denver," explained Doc.

"There will be estate taxes," said Rachel. "Doc, help me here please."

"Rachel had a family meeting with Vince and Michael a couple of months ago," said Doc. "She came away from that get-together realizing that her brothers fully expect to gain control of Sheffield when Rachel... is no longer in the picture. She tried to bargain with them to salvage the Green Helmet program but they would have none of it. They think they have her over a barrel because they believe her estate outside of her Sheffield shares wouldn't be enough to pay the inheritance taxes and therefore the IRS in the probate court will require that some of those shares be sold, thereby allowing the brothers a controlling interest.

"Vince and Michael asked Rachel to avoid a fight in probate by selling some shares to them now. That would give them the control they want. But the fact of it is that they will have control in any case unless there is a way to pay the inheritance tax so that the brothers can't argue in probate court to set shares in escrow for taxes."

"My head's spinning," said Davis.

"However," Doc continued, "Vince and Michael shot themselves in the foot without even knowing it. They were so sure of themselves and so hateful that when Rachel invoked Mo's memory in support of the Green Helmet program and pleaded sisterly love to them, they laughed at her."

"Mikey laughed at me," said Rachel. "Vincie didn't."

"But Vince didn't support your requests, either," said Doc.

"How much is the inheritance tax?" said Davis.

"First comes wrangling with the IRS over the true value of shares and whatnot, including other assets in the estate," said Doc. "Then the tax itself is somewhere between 45% and 50% of that figure."

"What's the true value of Sheffield shares do you think?"

"With a private company such matters are hard to estimate. Billions, of course."

"Rachel, you're looking tired," said Davis. "Why don't we talk later."

"No, no. This needs doing now. Doc, tell Davis about the royalties."

"Royalties is what Tom called them," said Doc. "Mr. Belnap is essentially the accountant keeping tabs on Tom's so-called royalties and has been for almost thirty years. He put them into tax-free bonds.

"Until just the other day I didn't know about any of this. It has always been a great secret. Long story short, in the Korean War, Tom was an advisor to a Republic of Korea Army unit. He and a Korean officer, a General Lee, had their helicopter shot down. They were stranded behind enemy lines. Lee saved Tom's life at great risk to his own.

"Later, Lee founded Samdai Motors. He was able to start that company as a direct result of seed money from Tom – very substantial seed money. It was a handshake deal between friends whose respect and honor went deep. Tom held no stock or ownership in Samdai, just an understanding that he would be given a small percentage of gross sales revenues, what he called his royalties. Tom, the patriotic American, was surprised and embarrassed when Samdai took off like it did in the 70's."

"Embarrassed?" said Davis.

"He hadn't planned to undercut the American auto industry."

"He never expected them to take off like that," said Rachel. "When he would see a Samdai Arrow on the street he always said, 'Well, I'll be damned.'"

"But Tom never knew the half of it," said Doc. "In the ten years since he died Samdai grew into what it is today."

"And the royalties?" said Davis.

"Just keep coming," said Doc.

"Tom never expected to get much," said Rachel. "I remember when he got his first royalties check, for a few thousand dollars, he was gleeful, like a little kid. It had cost him millions, but you'd have thought he'd hit a jackpot."

"Fact is, he did hit a jackpot," said Doc, "although he only had a chance to see the first glimmers of it."

"The good news," said Rachel, "is that millions of dollars in royalties show up in Mr. Belnap's reports every week, hundreds of millions every year."

"The bad news?" said Davis.

"That's where you come in, my lad," said Doc. "Tom told Rachel that Samdai would continue the royalties to his descendents and heirs. Lee died before Tom did but he left instructions for Lee Junior and the powers that be. These folks are big on honor. We don't think they will challenge you, being family, an in-law, with the Sheffield name. You are a descendent slash heir. And Tom remains a major hero in their eyes – virtually a patron saint -- so they are not looking to rip anybody off."

"I see," said Davis, standing and walking to face the mountain vista windows. "But why the secrecy?"

"Tom would not want people to know," said Rachel. "He thought American auto companies were in trouble and he felt like it was partly his fault."

"Rachel hopes you will keep Tom's secret as well, Davis. I didn't know about it. Mo didn't know about it. How secret is that?"

"Pretty secret," said Davis.

"The Samdai royalties will save the Green Helmet program," said Rachel.

"Because we won't have to sell Sheffield shares to pay the inheritance tax," said Davis, catching on.

"The brothers have no idea about the royalties," said Doc. "They're assuming the funding of the Foundation to the tune of a billion dollars must have exhausted most reserves. But there should be enough money in the royalties kitty to make the IRS happy with a down payment, no matter what they come up with in determining the value of the Sheffield shares."

"Sweetheart," said Rachel to Doc in a distressed tone he well understood. The pain had become too much for her. Doc rose quickly to start her chair out of the room. "Excuse us, Davis. I'll be back in a few moments."

Rachel raised a hand and Doc stopped. She looked at Davis intently, her features lined with pain. "The Green Helmet program," she said in a strained whisper, "is Mo's legacy."

"I'll protect it," said Davis. He rose from his chair and went to her quickly, kneeling beside her. "I'll protect Mo's legacy... and yours. I promise."

Doc returned a half-hour later to find Davis still sitting where he had been, except obviously he had found the liquor cabinet because he now swirled ice cubes and whiskey in a tall glass.

"She okay?" said Davis.

"For the moment. She has very little strength."

"Is she in pain?"

"Not now. She wanted to be clear-headed for the meeting with you, but normally we don't let her suffer."

"We?"

"She and I, and her doctors."

"Is she alone?"

"She is never alone. The day nurse is with her now."

"Doc, you know I'm not the guy for this job. This should have been you."

"You might surprise yourself. Plus, I'll help you. Plus, it couldn't be me. Her brothers would contest it. The whole world would contest it. Analyst hooks up with heiress, walks away with billions. I would contest it myself, in my own heart. It wouldn't be right. It would take away from what we were for each other. Not to mention that Samdai might walk away."

"I can't believe this is happening," said Davis. "I feel like I'm getting roped into something against my will that every sane person on the planet wants and I'm the only person who doesn't want it but it comes into my lap. What kind of karma is this?"

"I feel for you, poor baby," said Doc, smiling a little to soften his words, "but I don't think you have any choice if you care about Rachel. She tried to be true to Mo's dreams and now she needs to know that you can be trusted to carry on."

"But I don't know if I trust myself. What would I have to do? I don't know where to start."

"I don't think you need to do anything, Davis, for now. Just continue in your work for the Foundation and the Green Helmet program in Seattle. We'll instruct Gary Belnap to start pooling funds in anticipation of the inheritance taxes. I'll be there with you when the time comes. For now, Rachel needs me."

"Yes, of course," said Davis, putting his drink down and rising to hug his friend. "Tough time," he said, wishing he could find better words.

"Yes," said Doc. "Tough time."

****

Sara's Kitchen, San Francisco, California

Thursday, March 21, 1996

"It's been two years," said Sara, after a thoughtful pause. "I guess it worked out with the IRS."

"Our attorneys wrangled with the feds for over a year and in the end the results were good. The appraisal of Sheffield share value was fair and modest and thanks to a sizeable down payment, the IRS gave us fourteen years to pay the balance, based on the average shareholder profit shares in recent years -- mine was about $30 million last year. They gave no recognition to the potential future royalties from Samdai, because there's no ownership involved. If the royalties continue apace, we'll be able to pay off the IRS in just a couple years."

"If?"

"Well, there are some ifs," said Davis, sipping his tea then and staring at the leaves in the bottom of the dainty cup as if he were reading them for psychic insight. "We had a little meeting a few weeks ago with the Samdai boss-guy Mr. Lee. Very friendly meeting. Mr. Lee thinks Tom Baskin was King Arthur and I'm Lancelot. That's good. But will he still see me that way if it comes out that Guinevere and I enjoyed a little moral turpitude from time to time?"

"Not an apt analogy," said Sara. "Mo was Tom's daughter, not his wife."

"That's in my favor, yes, but the Koreans are pretty moralistic. A scandal could change their attitudes."

Sara poured Davis more tea and moved the sugar to his side of the table. "Do you think Michael Sheffield and Vincent Sheffield know what the IRS decided?"

"They might, judging by the timing of the moral turpitude ploy. These IRS things are supposed to be confidential but I'm sure they have their sources."

"I'd like to have been a fly on the wall in New Jersey when you did your disappearing act."

"They're probably working on plan C as we speak," said Davis.
CHAPTER 14

Alameda, California

Friday, March 22, 1996

Davis smugly enjoyed being without an automobile. He had enjoyed public transit in Chicago and in the same way he found it a simple pleasure to mix with the crowds as he took a Bay Area Rapid Transit train under San Francisco Bay to Oakland and then a taxi through the Alameda tunnel, directing the driver unerringly down shady residential streets to the modest home of an old friend, William Lasky, U.S. Coast Guard Vice Admiral, Retired. Lasky, who had retired ten years earlier from his high post as Commander of the Pacific Area, was also Davis' godfather. He had been high school buddies with Davis's father, had been co-captains with Percy Jones on the Petaluma High football team and had applied along with Percy to the Naval Academy at Annapolis just as World War II was ending. Both had been turned down in their initial applications. Later, Percy got a Senatorial appointment to Annapolis from outgoing California Senator Hiram Johnson and Lasky was accepted into the Coast Guard Academy. The two men and their wives had been close friends over the years and remained so.

"How can I help you?" said Bill Lasky frostily as he opened his door, leaving the screen fastened. He glared from behind bushy eyebrows.

"Barnacle Bill, it's me, Davey Jones."

"Noooo! Davis. My word!" Lasky opened the screen and grasped Davis fondly by the shoulders. "What happened to the hair? Did you join the army or something? Oh, God, you don't have cancer or AIDS!"

"No, no. Long story."

Hugging Davis, Lasky exclaimed, "You probably didn't come here just to make an old man happy but I'm glad you showed up. Come on in."

"I suppose Gerty is playing Canasta today with friends."

That stopped Lasky in his tracks.

"You've become a psychic," he said.

"I called last night and she said I should surprise you."

"And a most delightful surprise it is."

The men shared a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Lasky was secretly pleased when Davis turned down his offer for a touch of Irish to brighten the coffee. Good sign. They talked about the Baja cruise Mo and Davis had taken with Bill and Gerty to watch whales. Bill had sold the seaworthy 45-foot, beamy motorsailer Davis remembered from that cruise, and had bought a 26-footer for beating about the bay. The motorsailer, Bill explained, was just too much for him and Gerty to handle anymore.

"So out with it," said Bill Lasky finally. "What's up?"

"I was hoping you might call my parents and let them know I'm okay," said Davis. "I've gotten in a little jam and I don't want to have to deal with The Admiral on it. And I don't want my mother to worry."

"What kind of jam?"

"The Sheffield brothers Vince and Michael are trying to serve papers on me for a lawsuit alleging that I'm unfit to chair the board because of some wild parties and so forth that Mo and I went to many years ago. They might have a case, my attorney advises me, so I'm staying undercover for the time being to avoid being served until we figure out what to do. My father was always critical of the lifestyle Mo and I had. I just can't bear the thought of getting the third degree from him right now."

Lasky took up a pipe and loaded it slowly, taking his time. He chuckled and shook his head as he lit up.

"What's so funny?" said Davis. "Here I am a grown man and afraid of my father. Is that it?"

"No, no," said Lasky between puffs to keep his pipe lit, "I was just thinking that some things never change. This won't be the first time I've stepped in like this to keep your father off your back you know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, you wouldn't, I guess. You were pretty young at the time and it was behind closed doors."

"Something when I was a kid? You're comparing that to this?"

"Yup. Very similar. Had to do with another woman who took you to some wild parties and Percy mightily didn't like it."

"Another woman?"

"Name of Hazel."

"My mother?"

"That's the one."

"My mother never took me to wild parties."

"Is that a fact? What would you call Woodstock?"

"A jazz festival."

"Well your father thought it was a wild party and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Then there were the nude hot tubs at Esalen and so forth."

"And so forth?"

"Percy thought there was an 'and so forth' whether there was or not."

"What are you saying, Bill? That my mother and I did things we shouldn't have done?"

"Listen to you: 'My mother and I'. I believe you were about nine years old at Woodstock. I believe Hazel was the responsible adult. And I'm not saying your mother did anything wrong either. But first there was your mother getting arrested during the riots at the Democratic Convention in 1968 while you were being looked after in some hotel by people Percy didn't exactly approve of. Then came Woodstock. Sort of added up."

"I remember the riots but I don't remember it being an issue between my parents."

"Your father was taking it out on you. He had given up being able to control Hazel. He was concerned about you, I guess, but he had a piss-poor way of showing it, yelling at you about the war. So I gave him what for in no uncertain terms."

"I'm having a hard time imagining that."

"Read him the riot act. Took him to the woodshed. Actually it was a bedroom but it served the purpose."

"All I can remember was my parents being very respectful and affectionate towards each other."

"That was later, after Percy got his ship and made flag rank. But in the days of the Vietnam War protests they were on opposite sides, almost like enemies, and it was only natural for you to take up with your mother on issues of the day since you hardly ever saw your father. But you were catching a lot of heat from Percy when he did show up, too much heat for a little guy. So I took him aside and told him to knock it off or I'd punch his lights out."

"Thanks, Barnacle Bill."

"That's what godfathers are for," said Lasky, as he re-lit his pipe. "Truthie tell."

"Truthie tell!" laughed Davis. "Boy, that takes me back, that and the smell of your pipe. You're right. Some things don't change. I feel like I'm in a time warp."

"Truthie tell," Lasky repeated.

"Okay, truthie tell," said Davis. "Eye to eye and answer quick." Davis pointed back and forth between their eyes as a part of the childhood ritual between them. Then he moved close and gazed into his beloved old friend's eyes.

"Do you really want me to call your father or do you think you ought to do it?"

"I think I ought to do it. Truthie tell."

"Oh, ho," laughed Lasky. "Taste of my own medicine, is it? Okay, truthie tell. Eye to eye and answer quick."

"Did you sell the motorsailer because you couldn't handle it or for money reasons?"

"For money reasons," said Lasky. "But now listen here, Davis, don't you be thinking you're going to buy me a damned boat."

"Furthest thing from my mind. I was going to ask you for a favor and I wanted to make sure you were up to it."

"A favor, is it?"

"I was hoping you could use some pull on the Island to get me a berth at the marina for my new boat."

"What new boat is that?"

"I haven't actually bought it yet. I was hoping you could help me with that, too."

"Anything else?''

"Well, I was hoping you could teach me how to sail it. And then maybe watch out for it a little if I have to go out of town or something."

"Seems to me like you're asking for quite a bit."

"Oh, well, I suppose I am."

"I suppose I'll have to do it, though."

"You will?"

"Can't have you going out and sinking the damned thing. Then Percy would be going: 'Some godfather you turned out to be.'"

"Thanks, Barnacle Bill."

****

Rental Villa, Sausalito, California

Later that evening, Friday, March 22, 1996

"Why didn't I remember all that, Doc," said Davis, pouting into his second Dickel's.

"All what?"

"My folks being on each other about the war. Haven't you been listening?"

"Why should you have remembered it? It was between them, wasn't it?"

"Bill Lasky said I was in the middle of it."

"Well, you should have stayed out of it, in my opinion. No good can come from taking sides in a thing like that."

"Damn it, Doc. I hate it when you get like this."

"Get like what?"

"Thing is, I just can't figure out why I didn't remember all that."

"Do you remember it now?"

"I'm not sure what I remember and what I'm making up."

"Well, war's over, I guess."

"We aren't talking about the damned war."

"Well what are we talking about? The war's over and we made it through. Your parents made it through. You made it through. So, what's the problem?"

"My relationship with my father is the problem." Davis roused himself to pour another drink, splashing it carelessly into the glass.

"I'll accept that your relationship with your father might be a problem. But if it is, it has to do with Davis Sheffield, age 36, and Percy Jones, age 71, Percy being a retired sailor who lives in San Diego, not this vaguely remembered guy and some things that might have happened when you were ten years old but you aren't sure what happened and what you're making up. Geez."

"Some psychoanalyst you are."

"Forget the stupid past. Or if you can't forget it, deal with it. Call up your father and say, 'Hey, did you get on me back in 1970 about the Vietnam War and me only a little kid?' See what he says."

"C'mon Doc. Have a little empathy. I'm trying to deal with something here."

"Something here. Good. Not something thirty years ago. What is it you need here and now? Tell the great and powerful Oz. Is it a heart? Is it a brain?"

"No," said Davis, heatedly. "It's my dick. I want my damned dick back."

That backed Doc up, which was not generally an easy thing to do. He got up and poured himself a glass of what Davis was drinking. "Okay, Davis. What are you saying?"

"Mo's been gone six years."

"Yes."

"I'm still, I don't know, uninterested in other women. You may not have noticed."

"I've noticed."

"Mo would be a tough act to follow. I can't imagine another Mo. Over the years I don't remember thinking much about even trying to find someone else. The days and months and years went by and I just kept drifting along like a damned monk."

"Do you have urges? Do you masturbate?"

"I sort of nip urges in the bud. I don't masturbate. Actually, I've never masturbated."

"That's not healthy, you know, not physically a good idea."

"I have wet dreams to keep me healthy."

"Tell me about those."

"Oh, now the analyst comes out."

"You're an interesting case," said Doc, smiling and sipping his drink. "Freud didn't have much to say on the interpretation of wet dreams."

"A recent one was quite vivid. I was in a dungeon in chains, being tormented by a cackling, nightmare hag – like a witch -- who was transformed somehow into an angel bathed in light. I think she was the angel from Hamilton Island in the story I told you and Ange. I felt love between us and we had sweet sex. I didn't wake up when I came, which was unusual. But I remembered the dream quite clearly later."

"Hmm," said Doc.

"So what do you think it means?"

"As an analyst?"

"Yes."

"As an analyst I have no idea. But I think I know what the great and powerful Oz would say on how you can get your dick back."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Slight variation from the movie. You have to fuck a witch."
CHAPTER 15

Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco, California

Saturday, March 23, 1996

Lyle Morgan, a tall and powerfully built man in his early forties, was very good at what he did. His assignment felt like child's play but he was being paid extremely well for it and he planned to take no chances. Morgan followed strict protocol by changing his appearance periodically. In his outsized fanny-pack were changes of shirts, hats and glasses, and even wigs for special circumstances. If subject Jones had noticed Morgan in the park he would have seen a man in a Giants t-shirt doing yoga exercises in the shade of eucalyptus trees. If subject Jones had noticed Morgan along Haight Street he would have seen a jogger in a Reebok sweatshirt.

The assigned subject Robert Jones could walk. Morgan had to give him that. From North Beach to Haight-Asbury at a good clip. Morgan was in good physical condition but he appreciated the break when subject Jones finally sat in Golden Gate Park, and stayed sitting for almost an hour watching ducks. Then Jones took a leisurely walk along Haight Street, examining posters, flyers and notes taped and glued to utility poles as if they were of consequence despite the fact that most of them were dated and some of the glued ones were years old.

Other unusual behaviors included occasional dance steps ala Gene Kelly in 'Singing in the Rain' and ongoing comments and tips of his baseball hat to strangers.

"Whatever," thought Morgan. It was not his job to wonder why. Morgan's job was to follow, observe, take action only in extreme circumstances and avoid being detected. Not once did Morgan detect the slightest hint that Jones was concerned with being observed or followed. In fact, Jones did not seem concerned with much of anything.

Nonetheless, despite his expert precautions, Morgan thought for an alarming moment he had been made. He had taken a seat on a bench alongside two somewhat unkempt men with beards and battered hats. Subject Jones had gone in a McDonald's where Oak Street intersects with the park, apparently to have lunch. Morgan donned reflector sunglasses and pretended to read a newspaper while keeping his eyes on the McDonald's doors.

A moment later subject Jones emerged from the McDonald's, looking a bit distraught. He walked directly to the bench and sat down between Morgan and the two bearded guys. Jones glared at Morgan and said, "What does a guy have to do to take a piss in this town?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Morgan, nonplussed.

"No public restrooms in a restaurant?" said Robert Davis Jones. "Isn't there a law or something that restaurants have to have restrooms? Somebody ought to sue the bastards."

"New to San Francisco, are you?" said a fellow with a battered leather Aussie hat.

"See those trees down there?" said a bearded guy with a crushed French beret and horn-rimmed glasses. "That's the local bathroom. Help yourself."

"Might want to hold your nose a little on your first trip in," said Aussie Hat.

"No public restrooms?" said Davis.

"Public restrooms are on the drawing board," said French Beret.

"Drawing board is down the road a piece," said Aussie Hat. "You know where City Hall is?"

"You believe this?" said Davis, turning back to the reflector sunglasses guy. But there was nobody on the bench and nobody in sight. Davis thought that was more than a little spooky. Reflector Sunglasses had disappeared into thin air. Weird.

"Where did that guy go?" Davis said.

"He went behind the tree," said Aussie Hat, referring to the large eucalyptus behind the bench.

Davis got up and looked behind the tree. Reflector Sunglasses was not there. There was no one in sight except some guy with long hair jaywalking down the street. It didn't seem possible that Reflector Sunglasses could have gotten out of sight so quickly.

"Not there," said Davis, returning to his place on the bench.

"Strange," said Aussie Hat.

"Wouldn't be the first strange thing happened around here," said French Beret.

"Don't get going on the CIA again," said Aussie Hat.

"I didn't say anything about the CIA. You're the one brought that up."

"CIA. Radio waves," said Aussie Hat to Davis. "Somebody put LSD in his coke. Randy is crazy as a loon."

"Thanks a lot," said Randy, formerly known as French Beret.

"Nice guy, though," said Aussie Hat.

"Here," said Randy. "Got something for you." He went to a nearby trashcan and pulled out a 16-liter, wide-neck plastic juice bottle. He handed it to Davis.

Davis examined the bottle with a blank expression.

"Take off the lid and piss into it. You can do it sitting right there. Just put your pecker right in the hole. Look cool and pull your sweater down over it. When you're done, put the lid on and put it back in the trash. Helps keep from stinking up the neighborhood."

"This is a first for me," said Davis, unzipping and positioning the bottle.

"Hang on," said Randy. "First, we've got to establish our perimeter of defense. I got starboard watch. Gary, you got port side."

"What are you watching for?" said Davis.

"Cops, kids and ladies," said Randy.

"Clear," said Gary, formerly known as Aussie Hat.

"Clear," said Randy. "Go, go, go," he said, sounding like an Army squad leader.

"Going, sir," said Davis, wondering for a long moment if he were going to be able to perform the deed, then wishing that the sound of the stream hitting the bottom of the plastic bottle were not so loud. It took effort to suppress a giggle at the absurd intimacy of the experience. He glanced at Gary, who smiled. He looked sheepishly at Randy, who nodded encouragement. The pee sounded endlessly in the bottle and the amusement was contagious, so that all three soon struggled with suppressed giggles. Finally, Davis finished a last few spurts and trickles, capped his bottle and carried it to the trash.

Gary stood and saluted Davis smartly. "Sir," he said, "consider yourself relieved."

"That's pretty funny," said Davis. "I stand relieved." He sat. "You guys been in the military?"

"What passed for military in 'Nam," said Gary. "I fought on the losing side. Randy here was in the approximate vicinity of Vietnam, kicking back for a Navy-sponsored luxury liner cruise, which the powers-that-be count as actually being in the Vietnam War. Go figure. However, I take care of Randy because he's basically crazy."

"He takes care of me because I have a one-hundred percent service-connected disability pension," said Randy, "which means he pretends to take care of me but I actually take care of him."

Gary laughed. "He means money. He gets paid for being nutso. It works out pretty good."

"I'm Davis. I'm glad I ran into you guys."

"Yeah?" said Gary, "Why glad?"

"Because obviously I didn't have a clue as to how a person could even take a piss around here and you guys were nice enough to help me out."

"Anytime, man," said Gary. "Always a pleasure to show a brother the old bottle trick."

"What if I had to do more than just piss?"

"Starbucks," said Gary. "No keys."

"I got kicked out of a Starbucks," said Randy.

"Which one?" said Gary.

"Market Street downtown."

"Downtown is bad," said Gary. "Especially if you went in there without me or your sister. Scares people when you mumble to yourself."

"I don't mumble to myself."

"Or talk to your voices. Whatever."

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dream't of in your philosophy, Horatio," said Randy.

"He thinks he's Hamlet," said Gary.

"Not Prince Hamlet," said Randy, "nor was mean't to be. I'm an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two."

"Shakespeare," said Gary, by way of explanation.

"Actually," said Davis, "that's from a T.S. Eliot poem."

"Ah," said Randy to Davis, "you're an educated man, Davis. If we can shake this guy, you and I might have some interesting conversations."

"Whoa!" said Gary. "What's this? "You don't think what's-his-name here is CIA?"

"Davis," said Randy.

"You don't think Davis is CIA?"

"CIA agents don't pee in juice bottles," said Randy. "Think what the guys back at headquarters would say if they found out."

"Well, this is a first," said Gary. "Randy always thinks strangers are CIA. I'd shake your hand, Mr. Davis, if I wasn't worried you might have spilled some piss on it."

"I don't always think strangers are CIA," said Randy. "I just think it reasonable to exercise a little caution."

"You hungry, Mr. Davis?" said Gary. "Maybe you'd like to join us for lunch."

"Sounds great," said Davis. "Where do you have in mind? Any place but McDonalds."

"Sam'll make us sandwiches," said Gary.

"My sister Samantha," said Randy. "She's got a little walk-up on Fell Street just a few blocks from here."

****

Samantha's little walk-up turned out to be a large Victorian that doubled as an attorney's office downstairs and apartments upstairs. A sign hanging above the entrance advertised Samantha Kirkham, Attorney at Law. Gary and Randy escorted Davis through an outer office with several patiently waiting older gentlemen, no doubt clients, then past desks in active use with a pair of young women peering at computer consoles while printers and fax machines whirred and clattered. No one seemed to pay the three men any attention until they had worked their way to an inner office area with plush furniture where a prim but quite attractive thirty-something woman sat at a desk. A nameplate on her desk said Georgina Wheeler.

"Hungry, boys?" said Georgina Wheeler. "And who have we here?"

"Our friend, Davis," said Randy. "Where's Sam?"

"With a client, Randy. It isn't 1:00 yet." She appraised Davis. "Any friend of Randy's is a friend of ours," she said, smiling.

"Robert Davis Jones, Ms. Wheeler. I only recently had the pleasure of meeting Randy and Gary and they were kind enough to invite me for sandwiches."

"Well, I hope you aren't vegan, Mr. Jones, because our menu du jour is limited to ham or turkey."

Their conversation was interrupted by a man's loud voice from the inner office. The door opened and a heavy-set man in his sixties stepped through, then stopped and starred at Randy and Gary.

"Perfect example," he said loudly, turning to the woman behind him, whom Davis correctly assumed was Samantha Kirkham. "Street people, hookers, drug addicts, your name it! How we ever got mixed up with your so-called legal practice is beyond me. Goodbye, Sam, and good luck. You're going to need it."

The man shouted the last words as he launched himself forward and careened through the outer offices, not caring who heard him.

Everyone stood stunned and silent until Wheeler said: "Holy shit."

Kirkham leaned wearily against her office door jam. "Oh, boy," she said softly.

"Good riddance," said Wheeler.

"Not that simple, George," said Kirkham. Then, to Davis: "And who have we here?"

"Mr. Jones came for sandwiches with the boys," said Wheeler. "Randy called him a friend."

Kirkham brightened a little. "Well, that's very nice. I love it when my brother brings home a friend for lunch. Doesn't happen often enough. You are certainly welcome, Mr. Jones."

"Robert Davis Jones, Ms. Kirkham. Please call me Davis."

"Hi Davis. You can call me Sam."

****

Davis enjoyed watching Sam make sandwiches in the colorful upstairs kitchen. Coffee and garlic fragrances filled the air. Spice racks, a huge chopping block and iron knives and kettles announced the space as one devoted to serious cooking. Sam's interactions with Randy and Gary were gentle and loving. When Gary tried to filch pieces of turkey she shoved him and wrestled him away from the chopping block, firm but laughing. She angle-sliced generous slabs of San Francisco sour-dough, and then piled on what had to be a third of a pound or more of sliced turkey per sandwich, along with lettuce, onion, mayo and thick slices of what she announced were heirloom tomatoes.

"This is what they used to call a Dagwood," she said as she handed Davis his monster. "It's enough meal to hold the boys until breakfast if they get to watching some softball game and don't make it home for dinner."

"Where's yours?" said Davis.

"Not hungry today," said Sam.

Sam was a large woman, almost the same height as Davis, a buxom, Rubinesque brunette with a pretty face, generous lips and dark, expressive eyes. She wore heavy make-up, which worked for her, Davis thought.

"I guess I witnessed a professional setback of some kind down there," said Davis.

"I guess you could say that."

"Never did like that asshole," Randy managed with his mouth full.

"I don't know," said Sam. "The asshole might be right. I was shooting too high. I should be back in the public defender's office. Too much heat in the kitchen with these high rollers."

"None of my business," said Davis, "but when I see that sort of thing, him storming out your office and raising a ruckus, it's hard to imagine what it must be like having to kowtow to somebody like that."

"Well," said Sam, "if it was just me, you know, fuck him, but I'm sort of out on a limb with lots of people depending on me. Now I don't know what I'm going to do."

"You must have other clients."

"Clients? I have lots of clients. It's paying clients I don't have so many of. I'll think of something. Well, listen, got to go. You boys enjoy your sandwiches and nice to meet you Davis."

"Hang on," said Davis. "It so happens I am in need of some legal services."

Sam put her hands on her hips and looked at Davis skeptically, waiting. "Yes?"

"Well, uh..."

"Davis thinks we should sue McDonalds," said Gary.

"Right," said Randy. "Deep pockets."

"Sue McDonalds?" said Sam, smiling and shaking her head. "For what?"

"No bathrooms," said Gary.

"Is this what you have in mind, Davis?" said Sam.

"I'm thinking class action," said Davis.

"Guys," said Sam, checking her watch, "let's sleep on this one, okay?"

"Maybe not sue McDonalds, but something ought to be done about the lack of public toilets in San Francisco," said Davis.

"I'm sure that's true, Davis," said Sam, finding some papers where she had laid them earlier and starting towards the door. "You guys brainstorm the problem and let me know what you come up with."

"Can we retain you as our attorney?" said Davis.

"No problem," said Sam. "I'm in."

"How much?" said Davis.

"Davis, please," said Sam. "I'm having a hard day."

"How much was Mr. Asshole paying you?"

"Davis," said Sam, "can we leave it for later?"

"I'll take a guess and leave a check with Ms. Wheeler."

"You do that."
CHAPTER 16

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

March 19 – 22, 1996

Ange had not done particularly well in the business law and accounting classes she had been required to take in law school. She had found them deadly dull. In her first week at the Sheffield HQ offices, she rather wished she had paid a little more attention. She felt like Alice in Wonderland. When she expressed an interest on day one in looking at books and records to familiarize herself with the company, Vince, no doubt amused by her naivety, had sent her on a tour of floor six with a senior accountant. Floor six consisted of floor-to-ceiling printed ledgers, in row after row, receivables, payables, general ledgers, inventories, on and on. The accountant helpfully explained how the ledgers were organized, by types, by years, by kinds of accounting systems as they had evolved over the years.

"Thanks a lot, Davis," Ange said to herself more than once as Senior Accountant Walt Demarest walked her through the sixth floor labyrinth of dusty, bound volumes. Demarest, for his part, seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the organizational elegance of the vast repository of records. He made some effort to impart his passion for the oh, so fascinating ways that the records informed each other in wondrous arithmetric precision down to the penny; except when they didn't, and then, Demarest assured Ange, it was always possible to locate the source of the discrepancy if one could delve deeply enough.

Days three and four went a little better after Ange had benefited from some briefings courtesy of the management and accounting experts gradually coming aboard in the secret brain trust being organized by Merriam in the basement of a non-descript building about two miles from the Sheffield HQ.

"Those ledgers on the sixth floor can indeed constitute a resource for us at some point," explained the team's lead accountant Foster Schmidt, "because they're based on raw data theoretically independent of the computer accounting software and the inevitable company manipulations of information as they set up their various categories and sub-categories in their P&L statements and balance sheets."

"Right," said Ange, "gotcha." Clear as mud, she thought.

"It would be helpful to us at this point," said Schmidt, "if you could find out the kind of computer systems and software in current use for their accounting processes and, if possible, the systems they've used over the years."

****

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

Monday, March 25, 1996

On Monday, day five, it was easy as cake getting that information for Schmidt. Walt Demarest did not seem at all defensive or secretive. Prior to about 1970, the company, he explained, had used manual accounting procedures supplemented by punch card data storage. In the late 60's they used magnetic tape for data storage and gradually made the transition during the 70's to mainframe computers using software called Accpac, developed by a company called Computer Associates. They continued to use Accpac as the company transitioned to server-based network systems of PC's in the early 90's. Then, a few years ago, the company developed their own proprietary software system using in-house programmers.

Demarest sat Ange down at a PC in the accounting offices and explained that access to information housed in the servers was based on passwords assigned in accordance to personnel needs for different kinds of information. Demarest gave Ange what he claimed was his own password and explained that it would unlock most data related to accounting department functions such as tax preparations. For example, Demarest's password allowed access to income statements, balance sheets and prior years of income tax returns. After showing her the basics of the program, Demarest left her to explore on her own. It took Ange a few hours to realize that there were many "access denied" dead-ends when she sought additional information. Demarest left for the day and seemed not in the least concerned when she said she wanted to stay and work on the PC some more. Small wonder. No doubt he was well aware of how little she could learn from the machine.

Ange felt a brief triumph when she saw that she was alone in her assigned wing of the accountant offices. She had a stack of blank floppy disks in her briefcase and hoped to make data backup copies. Her triumph was short-lived, however, when "access denied" came on the screen in response to back-up commands.

Ange struggled for a time searching for a way to copy information. She tried import commands to spreadsheets: access denied. She tried custom functions, search functions, print-to-screen functions. Access denied, denied, denied. So absorbed was she in her efforts that she did not realize someone was sitting behind her until the woman spoke.

"What are you doing?" asked the woman loudly.

Ange jumped, her heart in her throat. She spun her office chair to face the woman. "You scared the crap out of me!" she said. The woman facing her was lounging – more like sprawling – in an office chair, a big grin on her face. Obviously she had deliberately snuck up behind Ange and was enjoying the joke. She was a stocky but not unattractive blond, maybe in her early forties, dressed in Levis, an oversized Aerosmith T-shirt and a Yankees baseball cap – no make-up. She was not dressed to impress.

"Sorry," she said. "I couldn't resist. Amazing you could find that income statement so fascinating. However, the bitter truth is that your success as an intern for Michael Sheffield will not, in the final analysis, rest on understanding company income statements. But you already know that." She spoke lackadaisically, almost snidely.

"I think you misunderstand the situation," said Ange, trying to recover her equilibrium.

"Oh no," said the woman, smirking. "I can assure you I know exactly what the situation is. I've been watching you little chickadees come and go around here for longer than I like to remember. Just as a wild stab, let me guess: Michael Sheffield asked if you could work late tonight. Maybe he'll need you for something. I'd say chances are very good he'll need you for something, if you follow my drift. And so here you sit, all bright-eyed and, uh... bushy tailed, so to speak. But guess what: In the end he'll have a taste or two of you and then spit you out."

"I appreciate your concern," said Ange, "however...."

"Now that I get a good look at you, you're a cut above the usual. Almost a glint of intelligence in your pretty little eyes."

"How kind of you to notice. You've made my day."

"Only a glint, dearie. Not enough to write home about."

"I meant how kind of you to notice my pretty eyes. Your eyes are nice, too, in a way. A little squinty at the moment. But I imagine when you're in a better mood they might liven up."

The woman looked stunned for an instant then broke into a rather jolly laugh. She pointed at her eyes. "Better?"

"Much better," said Ange. "Now could we start over? I don't see Michael Sheffield as a problem for the moment. My problem is this computer. I don't suppose you know anything about computers."

"A little bit," said the woman with an enigmatic grin, then seemed to consider. "Come with me."

Ange scooped up her purse and followed as the woman led her down the hall to a stairwell and, striding athletically two stairs at a time, up a floor to a room for which the accountant Demarest had said he did not have access, the server room. Unlike Demarest, the woman did have access. Inside were dozens, perhaps as many as a hundred computer consoles, some large, some small. Nested among the consoles were battery back-ups and routers and Ethernet hubs and switchboards with colored lights, all fastened in metal structures with complex webs of wiring behind them. Soft sounds generated by a hundred fans created an ambiance of power. The air was cool. The surfaces were antiseptically clean.

"Holy shit," said Ange.

"Pretty cool, huh?" said the woman.

"Beyond cool," said Ange.

"This is me," said the woman. "This is the brain of Sheffield. My brain."

"I'm sorry," said Ange. "Run that by me again."

The woman put her arm around Ange presumptuously, or patronizingly, or as a lesbian overture. Ange couldn't tell which but she decided not to break the mood. "See the pretty flashing lights?" said the woman. "That's me thinking."

"You're the programmer?" said Ange.

"I'm the one who decides what gets programmed, and why and how."

"But you have a boss."

"I have someone who thinks he's my boss because he thinks he's a master of the universe."

"But he isn't?"

"How can he be a master of the universe if he doesn't know what's happening?"

"And you are the one who knows what's happening."

"Clever girl," said the woman, giving Ange a squeeze then taking her by the arm and leading her down a row of consoles. "It's simple, really. Information is power and therefore computers are power. Those who think they're the masters of the universe are gradually losing the critical knowledge of that universe and have to turn to the programmers for help. Here in the brain center of Sheffield Industries I'm the one – I'm the only one \-- who truly understands what's happening."

Ange thought she had never met anyone so full of herself.

"I went to M.I.T. for my doctorate in the early 80's and I could see the writing on the wall even before that in terms of the future of information technology. I built this system from scratch and programmed the software, along with a team of programmers working for me." She squeezed Ange's arm.

"Are you hitting on me?" said Ange.

The woman laughed and released Ange's arm. "No, dearie, I'm not hitting on you. I'm actually trying to recruit you to be my intern instead of Michael's. I guess I'm trying to rescue you. You'd have a chance to learn about computers."

Pfffft went the police walkie-talkie in Ange's purse as Shaylane keyed her unit from her car outside the building.

Then came Shaylane's voice: "What's your 10-20, girl? They're locking up down here."

"What the hell," said the woman. "Are you a cop or something?"

"No," said Ange. "Not a cop."

"Ange, where are you?" came Shaylane's voice from the purse.

"Hang on a second," said Ange, fishing in her purse and dropping a couple of potentially incriminating blank floppies on the floor in the process. Ange pulled out a hand mike attached with a curly wire to the small FM radio in her purse.

"I'm okay, Shaylane," she said. "Hang tight."

"Roger that."

The woman was looking at Ange with a dismayed expression.

"You're Ange Parker."

"I'm sorry," said Ange. "I tried to tell you, sort of."

"How embarrassing. Nobody told me you were young and pretty. I just naturally assumed.... What an idiot you must think I am. Michael has these interns.... What were you doing sitting at a PC in accounting like that?"

"Trying to learn about the company."

"Well, you won't learn much at one of those modules."

"So I discovered."

"They're jacking you around putting you on one of those accounting department modules." The woman leaned her head against a metal support. "Oh, God. Some of the things I said to you. I must have sounded so pompous. I do hope you'll forgive me."

"I do forgive you, freely," said Ange. "And if you're worried about getting in trouble, all this is just between you and me."

The woman smiled. "I'm not worried about getting in trouble. I just hate getting off on the wrong foot with you."

"Why's that?"

"You're a White Knight riding to the rescue of the Green Helmet program."

"Well, yes, perhaps I am."

"I'm a big fan of the program. I'm the only one in the family that believes in it."

"What family is that?"

"The Sheffield family. I'm Jan Sheffield-Randall, Vince Sheffield's daughter."

****

Jimmy's Pub, Newark, New Jersey

Later that evening

With a series of eye messages, Ange gave permission to Shaylane to help evaluate the situation as the three women, Jan Sheffield-Randall, Shaylane and Ange, chatted over beers at a nearby pub. Ange's strong impulse was to trust Jan and confide in her.

"How much do you know about the Green Helmet program," asked Shaylane.

"A great deal."

"How so?"

"I do an ongoing analysis of the validity of the program," said Jan with a straight face.

"How's that possible?" said Ange. "The data for that doesn't exist."

"You mean cost-effectiveness data?" said Jan. "For example, criteria for success with objective and measurable benchmarks?"

"Yes."

"True, that kind of data doesn't exist because the Green Helmet program bypasses that, which is a good thing in my book. However, when the checks get cashed they're Sheffield checks and they show up on my computers. So I know where the money went."

"What are you saying?" said Ange. "That you investigate the recipients?"

"A little bit," said Jan, smiling and holding her thumb and index finger almost together, "just looking for red flags like, for example, maybe an agency administrator buys a million dollar house right after a grant. Real estate titles records are in the public domain."

"So you only look in public records?"

Jan took a sip of beer while considering how to respond. "I'll come clean with you," she said. "I have staff that checks things like real estate records on the up and up, but there's a gray area as well, having to do with new developments in computer search capabilities.

"The story in brief is that when I went to MIT for post graduate work I thought I was going to specialize in computerized weapons systems. I thought that'd open some doors for me because that world is a closed system, classified and very hush, hush. However, after I got to MIT I became interested in how computers are being linked together all over the world into one big system. The potentials of this are enormous.

"It's like a huge web. In fact they're calling it a web, a world wide web. You may have heard about it. Our computers are linked to the MIT servers and I'm on a committee that makes recommendations regarding the rapidly growing network of FTP servers in government and university systems. What I've done is use the Green Helmet grant information as a template, almost as a guinea pig, actually. Virtually every organization or agency involved with Green Helmet grants, directly or indirectly, has been approached to become a part of the system, the web if you prefer."

"This sounds like science fiction," said Ange.

"In terms of confidentiality, to go back to the earlier question," said Jan, "there aren't a lot of firewalls at this stage of the game, making information we might normally think of as confidential jump out even if we haven't asked for it."

"And you use that information to rate the recipients?" said Ange.

"Not in terms of the quality of what they do, just in the same terms the Green Helmet program uses. Are the recipients worthy and valuable?"

"Are they?" said Shaylane.

"Often I have to read between the lines, but yes, overwhelmingly the recipients are obviously worthy and valuable programs... or individuals. It hasn't been hard to conclude the truth of that."

"Why have you done this?" said Ange.

"To determine whether Sheffield money is being honestly and properly appropriated, of course."

"And you found out that it has been. So that's why you call yourself a fan of the program," said Ange.

"That's a major reason, yes."

"But you have other reasons," said Shaylane.

"The Green Helmet program expenditures go on the books as a fixed asset of public good will. I think the program has been wildly successful in that regard. Even my father is secretly basking in reflected glory, whether he'll admit it or not."

Ange refilled Jan's beer mug from the pitcher and smiled. "I guess we're giving you the third degree a little."

"Uniformed deputy and all," said Jan. "But that's okay. I don't have anything to hide and I'd like to have your trust."

"Why?" said Shaylane.

"So that we can work together to keep the Green Helmet program."

"Jan," said Ange, sipping her beer and looking over the rim thoughtfully, "I said something when we were on your servers floor that may have misled you. You said something about my being a White Knight riding to the rescue of the Green Helmet program and I agreed with that. I shouldn't have said that because it isn't true. Davis Sheffield made the continuation of the program a condition of signing over proxies. I'm just a messenger really."

"Is that so? Well, Ms. Messenger, you'll be pleased to know Daddy and Michael have bought into that 'I'm just a messenger' song and dance with both feet."

"I'm sorry," said Ange. "What are you talking about?"

"You're more than just a messenger who happened on the scene. You were a student of Merriam Lockett's in law school. Merriam Lockett is on the Foundation committee, which has links to the Green Helmet program. You were a part-time employee of two different agencies that got Green Helmet grants. Need I go on?"

"You saw my law school transcripts."

"Yes."

"That's not public information."

"You signed a release when you joined Smithson, Merriman, Douglas and Frazer."

Ange colored with anger. "How did you get my employment information?"

"Ange, don't be upset. I dug up some information and I know some things about you... good things. If I didn't know who you were I wouldn't be offering to help you."

"What kind of help do you have in mind," said Shaylane.

"Information."

"What kind of information?" said Ange.

"Well, for example, information on how accountants are trying to squeeze the Green Helmet program."

"How?"

"It varies from company to company but basically they're trying to manipulate the profit line by expensing things that should be considered capital investments."

"Beg pardon," said Ange.

"The Green Helmet pool of funds is based on net profits before capital investments. So the question is, what's a business expense and what's a capital investment? If you buy a new forklift and call it an expense, then you lower net profits. If you call it an investment it doesn't show up on the profit and loss statement but rather on the balance sheet."

"Okay," said Ange, frowning and emptying the pitcher into her glass. "But you said they're trying to squeeze the Green Helmet program this way. Are they succeeding?"

"Only marginally, so far. But that's because I've been blocking them a little bit on my end."

"How?"

"Everything from the company level gets vetted by accountants at corporate using numbers recategorized in accordance with Sheffield accounting standards."

"Who decides what those are?" said Shaylane. "Don't tell me...."

"I do," said Jan. "When there's an argument I throw IRS stuff at them. But they're getting better at it. I think they're on to me. Or else somebody is turning up the heat on them. There's only so much I can do."

A pitcher down. Up to that point the question marks Ange sent to Shaylane with her eyes had been met noncommittally. At the two-pitcher mark Ange finally got the nod from Shaylane. Psychic super-cop trusted Jan.

"Jan," said Ange, "I wouldn't want to put you in a position compromising your relationship with your father."

"My relationship with Daddy is solid as a rock. But it isn't based on anything having to do with Sheffield Industries. I love him and he loves me, plus he's head-over-heels the doting grandpa to my kids. However, when it comes to Sheffield Industries there's a reason why I don't have V.P. after my name or a fancy office. I'm at odds with Daddy and Michael on too many things. My fondness for the Green Helmet program, for example, is no secret. And I brag openly about how I really run the company using information technology. They don't believe me, which is fine. They can't say I didn't warn them."

"Are you close with Daniel Sheffield," said Shaylane.

"God no. I won't even go to a family dinner if I know he might be there. But why do you ask about Daniel? He isn't all that much a player. He carries a title of V.P. for Government Affairs, but he's just a glorified army surplus salesman. He buys and sells surplus military equipment, almost as a freelancer, mostly to Third World countries. He likes to say this or that is top secret, CIA or NSA, as if he had some high security clearance himself. He schmoozes with military brass and so forth. Likes to hang out with his father and act like Mr. Next-big-shot."

"But he could be Mr. Next-big-shot," said Ange.

"Perish the thought," said Jan.

"Why don't you like him?" said Shaylane.

"For starters, in his grandiose Maryland mansion he has a room the size of a small gym full of game trophies and stuffed animals, including rare and endangered species, tigers, eagles, you name it, all as a sort of testosterone testimonial. He shows off dead animals to prove what a big brave man he is. Also he's very right wing. He's such a windbag it defies belief. I can't stand him."

"Michael had two children, did he not?" said Ange.

"Yes. Daniel and Sean, who lives in Ireland and is estranged from his father. Sean is two years older than I am, which would make him forty-two. It's a sad, sad story. Michael married a young Irish girl in the early 50's. He had the two boys by her but then divorced her and used his power, influence and attorneys to have her declared unfit so that he could take her boys from her. They grew up without knowing their mother and believing their father's cooked-up evidence that she'd been a member of the IRA. But before she died in 1969, she left an audiotape saying goodbye to her sons and telling them how she loved them. I actually helped smuggle the audiotape to Daniel and Sean without Michael knowing.

When Sean heard the tape he was shaken beyond words. He was sixteen and I was fourteen but we were very close. I'll never forget the talks we had together. Two years later he renounced his father and went to Ireland. He started life there without the Sheffield fortunes or privileges. Years later, he married. Now he has six kids and he runs a very successful trucking business there. He made it on his own without money from his father. He refuses to mend things with his father. Michael has seen his grandchildren only once, many years ago, and then only the two older children. I know it eats at him, although he never talks about Sean. I've visited Sean and his family a few times but Michael doesn't want to hear about it."

"What do you think of Michael?" said Ange.

"Well, you've had a preview of where I am in terms of Michael the womanizer. He's kind of creepy along those lines although most people apparently have gotten used to it over the years. He can be a hothead. He's a lonely guy, basically. Insecure. Too full of himself and his riches, a heartless penny-pincher. He's like Scrooge. He could use some ghosts to pay him a visit. He has redeeming qualities. He's not beyond hope. But he hates the Green Helmet program. He personally resents every nickel spent there. He doesn't go around talking about communist conspiracies like Daniel does, but you won't find his name on lists of donors to the Democratic Party."

"Can you provide me with unrestricted accounting data as far back as you have it?" said Ange.

"Yes. I'm not sure how useful it will be, but yes."

"We have outside accountants who will go over it."

"Okay."

"Can you provide us with family information, biographical and personal?" said Shaylane.

"Depends," said Jan. "What do you have in mind?"

"On Daniel," said Shaylane.

Jan smiled and sipped her beer. "What's this interest in Daniel?"

Shaylane hesitated only a few seconds. "We have reason to believe he may be implicated in the assault on Ange."

"That's hard to believe," said Jan. "Why would he be involved in something like that? But yes, I'll provide you with some stuff on Daniel. No problem. It so happens I'm sort of the family archivist. Normally I wouldn't share that kind of thing but in Daniel's case, I will."
CHAPTER 17

City Hall, San Francisco, California

Thursday, May 23, 1996

Mayor Jimmy Stellman was turning red in the face. Not a good sign. The San Francisco City Attorney and the Police Chief glanced at each other, but neither smiled. The whole stupid fiasco of the "Underground Bathrooms of San Francisco" booklet -- or magazine as it called itself -- which had been such a joke only two weeks earlier, suddenly didn't seem so funny, not now that the Chronicle had put it on page one as a result of testimony at the Board of Supervisors meeting the day before, and not now that the Ronn Owens KGO talk show, among others, was having so much fun with it.

The supervisors and the mayor's office, for that matter, had thought they were merely being responsive to complaints by the Chamber of Commerce and by more than a few of the major hotels in town by proposing an ordinance to ban the distribution of the booklets. The publication included locations of over 300 "underground" restrooms in the city. Homeless people and panhandlers on the street were distributing the booklets, usually for the cover price of two bucks. The rationale for banning the booklets was based on the invasion of privacy and the likelihood of harm to the many businesses in town, which had been converted through guerrilla tactics into de facto public restrooms.

The Board of Supervisors meeting had not gone according to plan. The halls were filled with homeless people and their advocates. A petition was presented on behalf of the homeless. And somehow, magically, attorneys from the ACLU, American Booksellers and the National Library Association appeared, ready with testimony arguing that the proposed ordinance was unconstitutional. All this had an ambush effect, derailing the planned agenda and drawing press -- in a last minute flurry that included TV cameras from KGO -- like flies to honey.

These developments were particularly baffling due to the fact that no one in city government seemed to know who was behind the organizational effort that had to underpin these sorts of protest events. This on the heels of a weeks-long failure to determine who was behind the publication itself. The talk shows had taken to talking about the "phantom," and comparing the phantom to Zorro and Robin Hood, among others.

"Explain to me," said Mayor Stellman, tight-lipped and looking at his notes, "how the ACLU, American Booksellers and the library people could possibly be involved in this? It takes forever for those people to shift through things, write up briefs, and have their committee meetings. And we expect phone calls. We like to know what's coming. Have we been unfriendly to those organizations? No. I go to their fucking parties. They come to my fucking parties. What the fuck?"

Police Chief Bobby Green and City Attorney Boyd Petkovich glanced at each other but had nothing to contribute.

"And where did this fucking petition come from? Who the hell can get homeless people to sign a petition?"

"Actually, Jimmy," said Petkovich, "most of the 900 or so names on the petition are voters. The homeless people are the ones who gathered the signatures. And we have a lead on who might be involved in organizing it. The fellow who presented the petition had to sign with the clerk. He listed his name as Gary Walker and his last employment as 1st Lt., U.S. Army Rangers. Must be a Vietnam vet. For an address he listed care of an attorney, Samantha Kirkham. When we called Kirkham, she refused comment."

"Samantha Kirkham," said the Mayor. "Don't I know that name?"

"She was with the ballpark people," said Petkovich.

"The eminent domain case?"

"I think so but when I called them they said they'd canned her."

"So can we get to her?" said the Mayor. "Who are her other clients?"

"We're working on it but her name doesn't come up on anything significant so far."

"So she's a fucking nobody? What the fuck?"

"She used to be with the Public Defender's Office. We've got somebody checking," said Police Chief Green.

"Oh, great," said Petkovich. "I'm sure they'll drop everything down there and spare no effort on our behalf."

"Okay," said Stellman, tight-lipped and looking at his notes. "So here's our evidence after two weeks of investigations: Zip. Nada. Thousands of copies of this shit are being handed out all over town and nobody can figure out who's doing it or who wrote it or who fucking printed it. Is this what I've gotta hear from you?"

"We're working on it," said Chief Bobby Green, rolling his eyes at his own lame comment. "I don't even want to admit how many guys are working on this. It's only a damned little magazine but somebody -- God knows who or why -- is damned shrewd how they are doing this. We talk to the homeless people who are selling the things and we get leads. One guy told us somebody dropped slugs in his cup and told him to check behind the Examiners in a rack up the street. Another guy said some gal told him to check in a dumpster and there was a bundle of them. So now we have the word out to watch the dumpsters and news racks which I guess I don't have to tell you what the response is at the briefings when we ask for that kind of high level police work."

"None of it makes sense," said City Attorney Petkovich. Whoever wrote this thing, how did they do the research to know where all the bathrooms are? It'd take a small army to go walking through every goddamn building in the city looking for bathrooms. Listen to this," he said, referring to the notorious pamphlet, "'Take elevator to the 2nd floor, then walk down to the mezzanine, which does not have a public elevator stop. Turn left. Third door on the right is a break room for employees, which has a restroom you can enter before actually being seen from within the break room.' I was in Army Intelligence. This is good."

"Good enough to be used by criminals, for God's sake!" said Bobby Green.

"Don't tell me how fucking good it is," screeched Mayor Jimmy. "I'm a laughingstock in my own fucking city."

"Maybe we should...low key it," said the city attorney very tentatively, glancing to Chief Green for support.

The mayor stood, turning to the huge window behind his desk. "Low key it," he said softly. Petkovich wished he could see his face.

"Yeah. The Chamber is up in arms but the public is... if anything they're on the side of the homeless, who are obviously making out on the deal. It's turned into a collector's item. Some guy on the street tried to sell me one for ten bucks."

"There's only one possible explanation for this whole mess," said Chief Green. "Money. How do you get the ACLU to jump in so quick? Money. A big donation."

The mayor's phone buzzed. He picked it up angrily. "I thought I said not to interrupt... Who? She said what? I don't believe it. Send her in." He hung up and turned to the others. "Speak of the devil. It's Ms. Nobody, the attorney."

Samantha, enjoying the moment immensely, strode into the mayor's office with a casual élan. She wore a flamboyant hat with a wide floppy brim and a loose-fitting pantsuit that matched her large frame.

"Mister Mayor, gentlemen, how lovely you could see me with your busy schedules and so forth. I shall try not to take up too much of your time. Lovely office, Mr. Mayor, although not your regular digs, I understand, with the renovations and so forth. How wonderful if you could be in office when the new office is ready, which I understand is only in a year or two, is that right?"

"That's right... Ms. Kirkham, is it? Please have a seat." No one approached to shake hands. Sam could not have cared less. She was in a good mood.

"Did you tell my receptionist that you had a deal to offer on the Underground Bathrooms, uh, matter?"

"Ah, yes. Well, right to the point. Yes, perhaps that is best. As I said, I know you're very busy. My clients are prepared to offer a deal."

"Who are your clients?" said the Mayor.

"Well, I can probably give you some names. I'll have to check. But there are sixty-five clients and some prefer to remain anonymous."

"What's the name of the group?" said Chief Green.

"GPAC."

"What does that stand for?" said City Attorney Petkovich.

"'Give Piss A Chance.' It's sort of a joke. Like in 'all we are saying....'"

"I get it," said the Mayor. "I hope that doesn't get out."

"Why not?" said Sam. "It's kind of cute. It could help sell the program."

"In case you were wondering," said Chief Green, "we're not big fans of 'the program' around here."

"I'm hoping to change that," said Sam. "My clients would like to turn over publication of the Underground Bathrooms of San Francisco magazine to the city of San Francisco. That's the deal they offer, with certain conditions, of course."

There followed a perplexed silence.

"So, you want to hear my pitch, or not?" said Sam.

The mayor half-nodded.

"Street people still get exclusive rights to distribute. My clients continue to bear the cost of publication and distribution. The city puts its name on the magazine and can censor out locations that merchants object to. Merchants and others who agree to allow their bathroom locations to be listed get tax breaks from the city and in some instances financial reimbursement from my clients."

"In some instances?" said Mayor Stellman.

"When necessary if no other bathrooms are available within a reasonable distance, from funds placed in a ten-year escrow."

"Your clients are offering actual money for this?" said Stellman. "How much are we talking?"

"We are guessing five million or so but that's a flexible number."

The mayor smiled. "I'm warming to this, if you're serious. I think there are some potentials here for the city to gain a lot, PR-wise."

"And smell better," said Sam. "And give some small income to street people."

"Two questions," said the mayor. "Who and why?"

"I already told you; I have sixty-five clients. Some are more flush than others – no pun intended. As to why, my clients prefer not to continue in a way that angers businesses or embarrasses anyone."

"That sounds fine and good," said Chief Green, "but how can we be certain you're serious and can make good on all this?"

"I already have an escrow account ready to go. I have the paperwork with me ready for signature. I can do a bank transfer of funds from here."

"And this is the total deal?" said Petkovich.

"One last requirement," said Sam, "is a signed agreement that holds harmless any and all participants involved in the research, publication or distribution of the magazine."

****

Three hours later, calls to the president of the board of supervisors made, escrow accounts validated, t's crossed and i's dotted, the mayor shook Sam's hand, gave her a hug, then walked with her down the stairs and into a sunny afternoon on the City Hall mall.

"How did they do it, Sam?" said the Mayor. "How did they gather the intelligence on bathroom locations? This has been driving me crazy."

"Bicycle messengers," said Sam.

The mayor laughed. "Well, damn me. Yes, of course. They'd know every nook and cranny in town. And that's how they distributed it too, wasn't it? Right under our noses."

"They're a special group, these bike messengers. They can keep a secret," said Sam.
CHAPTER 18

Townhouse Tavern, Emeryville, California

Monday, May 27, 1996

The Townhouse, which looked like a Western bar with a weathered barn siding exterior and country artwork interior, was located a short distance from the offices of a sex magazine called Spectator in the Berkeley/Emeryville area across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco. The Townhouse had become the chosen site for late night planning discussions that Davis had enjoyed with Spectator editor Wayne Richards and desktop designer Boyd German as the three conspirators hatched the production of the Underground Bathrooms magazine. Wayne and Boyd had delighted in the cloak-and-dagger aspects of secrecy and the high tech toys involved in sending final designs by satellite transmissions to Hong Kong for printing. Wayne and Boyd had used the Spectator delivery truck to pick up the magazines in the wee hours from contract couriers on the tarmac at the Alameda Naval Air Station. The whole process felt like smuggling, which it wasn't, technically. However, for a couple of light-hearted fellows like Wayne and Boyd it had been fun dramatizing the situation by acting like characters in a James Bond movie.

Actually, Wayne and Boyd were simply falling in with Davis as they allowed themselves to have fun with the project. Nothing seemed to deter Davis. He had crazy answers for every obstacle, and seemingly inexhaustible financial resources for any situation, the kicker being the $5 million dollar escrow fund Davis told them about as he announced the deal with the city fathers.

"Doc called my accountant," he explained.

"Simple as that," said Boyd, grinning.

"No biggie," said Wayne, smiling along with Boyd.

Davis had started their pre-scheduled Monday Townhouse meeting with the news of the new arrangement with San Francisco. Wayne and Boyd were sorry to see the end of the drama, but both were quick to celebrate the laughs they had had pulling the caper off.

Wayne's wine, Boyd's tea and Davis' whiskey touched in a toast.

"Here's to you, Davis," said Wayne. "You came, you smelled and you conquered!"

"Taking a pee in San Francisco will never be the same, thanks to you," said Boyd. "There should be a statue in your honor. I was thinking maybe a cherub peeing in a fountain."

****

Two hours, four wines and three Dickel's later, after Boyd had left to do some work at the Spectator office, Davis overcame his natural shyness to ask Wayne a personal question.

"I was just curious," he said, coloring slightly but he hoped it wouldn't show in the dim lights of the Townhouse, "about this dominatrix business. You must have fifty ads in your paper for that, uh, service."

"Give or take."

"You personally know many of them?"

"Quite a few, yes, especially the players."

"Players?"

"Professional dominants are sometimes players who enjoy S/M in their personal lives. Others only play professionally, although that doesn't necessarily mean they don't enjoy it."

"'Play' is a strange word. Is it always just play?"

"You mean, as opposed to real?"

"Yes," said Davis. "Say, for example, a woman just takes whatever she wants, whatever she really wants."

"You're new to this I take it," said Wayne.

Davis just looked at him.

"Let me guess, said Wayne. "You've had these fantasies for many years, unfulfilled. And in your fantasies beautiful women use and abuse you for the sheer love of it, not because you asked them to and not because you paid them but because they're just naturally that way. Am I right?"

"Actually," said Davis, smiling, "you couldn't be more wrong."

"Damn," said Wayne, rapping his knuckles lightly on the table. "Wrong again. Okay, what is it with you, then?"

Davis looked at Wayne for a long moment. "Well, I'm probably looking for love in all the wrong places."

"But you do have fantasies, right?"

"I don't know if I do or not. I have..." Davis stared for a time at his whiskey.

"You have what?" said Wayne finally.

"I have... memories," said Davis. "Look, I'd rather not go into it but I'm curious about this young woman." He pulled a folded copy of Spectator from his blazer pocket, opened it to a center section and handed it to Wayne.

"Selene," said Wayne. "Very pretty, isn't she?"

"You were the photographer for this layout?" said Davis.

"Yes."

"So you know her?"

"A little. I like her."

"Your caption says she's 'metaphysically oriented' and that she's an officer of the Society for Creative Anachronism."

"Yes."

"I'm curious."

"So why not go talk to Selene?"

"Is she what you called a player or strictly a pro?"

"Her specialty is role-playing. I've heard she's very popular at Fantasy Makers, but she has a boyfriend -- I know that -- and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't be sexual with clients."

"What is this about metaphysically oriented?"

"Davis, seriously, why don't you just go meet her if you're interested?"

"I'm trying to work up the nerve but guess I don't know the protocols very well. I'm afraid I'd feel like a character in a B-movie."

"Well," said Wayne, "I can't imagine anybody easier to talk to than Selene. She's a sweetheart."

"What's this about role-playing as a specialty. What does that mean?"

"Look, Davis, instead of going in for a session with Selene, why don't you pay her for her time and take her to dinner someplace and talk?"
CHAPTER 19

Santa Fe Bar and Grill, Berkeley, California

Friday, June 7, 1996

Davis met Selene at Fantasy Makers in El Cerrito, in a small and inconspicuous suburban house -- did the neighbors know? He paid in advance for her time, five hours at $150 per hour, and drove her to a restaurant of her choice in Berkeley, a nicely appointed, upscale eatery on University Avenue, which Selene informed him with apparent emotion was a former train depot along a train route that had been bought up in the 50's by General Motors and then closed down in order to sell buses. Davis enjoyed her chatter and wished he were not driving so he could watch her face.

Along the way they also talked about her involvement in the Society for Creative Anachronism, which it turned out was originally a Berkeley organization -- although since its beginnings it had spread worldwide -- dedicated to what Davis understood as re-enactments of renaissance and medieval lifestyles. Selene had been in on the ground floor of the organization, which helped explain her status as an officer.

At the table in the Santa Fe Bar and Grill, Davis at last could focus on Selene, her eyes, her manner, who she seemed to be. He was at once smitten: Eurasian features with dark eyes, pert nose, shiny black hair in a pixie cut, slight of build but well toned. Her arms had an athletic look, perhaps from tennis because she had commented on the drive over about Steffi Graf in the French Open. Her style was easy, confident and playful. Young. Yes, she was young. But not under-aged, he told himself, perhaps 23, he thought, and she was clearly enjoying herself. The menu featured upscale cuisine, salads with organic herbs and veggies and a wine list that included Napa, California, and pricey European labels. Selene dallied and fussed over the menu, asking questions of the waiter and deciding, then re-deciding. Davis enjoyed the process but at a certain point said to the waiter when she had narrowed to three, "She'll have all three."

"Don't be silly," said Selene.

"We can get doggie bags," said Davis.

"I'll have the Chicken Marsala with French Green Beans and Almonds with Roasted Baby Carrots," said Selene, handing the menu to the waiter.

On the wines, Selene frowned and gazed at the list.

"A bit pricey," she said at last.

"Price is not an issue," said Davis.

Selene looked at him with intensity. "Not for you, maybe, but it makes me uncomfortable to spend a forty or a hundred bucks on a bottle of wine and then go waltzing back to the real world where that money could be used to much better purpose."

"Well said," said Davis. "I respect your position. Let's settle for a fifty-dollar bottle and I'll donate three hundred to a purpose of your choice to offset the extravagance."

"Done," said Selene. "But how will I know you've followed through?"

"I'll give the money to you, of course."

Selene laughed. "Who the hell are you and where have you been all my life?"

Davis shrugged. There was an awkward silence.

"So, let's have it," said Selene. "What gives? What do you want? Good looking dude, drives a Jaguar..."

"Rental car," said Davis.

"... money to throw around; what in the world are you doing taking little me out to a fancy restaurant? Shouldn't you be in Vegas high-rolling it and fighting off beautiful women? Or home with your wife?"

"No wife," said Davis.

"So fill me in. You're paying for my time. Give me something to work with."

"Could we just talk, like we were on a date?"

"A girlfriend experience?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Some sexworkers specialize in what they call a girlfriend experience. I don't think I could do that very well."

"Why not?"

"Too intimate."

"Wayne said you do role-playing."

"Yes."

"Wouldn't pretending to be a girlfriend be a kind of role-playing?"

"A boring kind."

"Intimate and boring at the same time?"

"I don't actually use the word role-playing to describe what I do. I think of it as a creation of alter egos. Dramatic ones. Polarized ones."

"Polarized?"

"Coming from opposite sides in terms of power."

"That's what all the dominant mistresses supposedly do, isn't it?"

"Not in the same sense."

"I'm lost," said Davis.

"The best way to understand is to experience it."

"Yes, but is it asking too much to want to understand it first?"

"Okay, short version," said Selene, sighing. "All around us, my cute little mysterious Davis, there are patterns of energy. In fact, our bodies and our souls are composed of energy. These patterns interweave. You're you and I'm me but we also are a part of much more. The magic, the erotic magic of S/M, comes when we create an imbalance of the energy in such a way that a whirlpool or vortex of energy is formed. With me so far?"

"Is it S/M we're talking about?" said Davis.

"Of course it is," said Selene, smiling. "Fantasy Makers is a House of Dominance and Submission. I'm a fantasy maker and you've hired me for the evening. What'd you think?"

"Yes, of course. Sorry."

What is it with this guy? Selene thought, shaking her head.

"When a client goes to a pro domme there may or may not be a vortex. If not, it may be because either or both can't forget the game being played. Too much gets scripted. Spontaneity gets lost. The energy flow is flat because it takes two to tango."

Selene looked at Davis questioningly.

"Okay," said Davis, realizing he was expected to contribute something, "so right now there's a pattern of energy between us but no vortex."

"Very good," said Selene. "Now, if I were a pro domme in standard mode maybe I'd put a collar on you, or something symbolic, and say from now on you'll do everything I say. And you'd say 'Yes, Mistress," and we'd go from there. The only way for the magic vortex to get roaring under those circumstances would be if I somehow convinced myself that you actually would do everything I say and if you convinced yourself of the same thing. Then we might have a little fun. But it's tricky, because you're paying me and I need the money, and one of us may not be able to forget that. Also, you may have definite ideas of exactly what it is you want me to force you to do, which kind of sucks, magic vortex-wise. Follow?"

"I think so."

"On the other hand, if I form an alter ego of a cruel princess and you form an alter ego of a stable boy and -- this is the key -- if we both enjoy playing our parts creatively and spontaneously, then we might be able to step outside the so-called real world into an alternative world of power imbalances."

"Like a psychodrama."

"Exactly like a psychodrama. A little imagination and all of a sudden here comes the rush."

"The rush?"

"That's what the vortex feels like, a rush. Deep and dark."

"Sounds good," said Davis, smiling.

"So let's see if it works," said Selene.

"You mean right now?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Here's the set-up: I'm your ex-wife whom you hate."

"I don't think I can do that," said Davis.

"Perhaps not, but it isn't you doing it. It's somebody else. It'll be up to you to form your own character, but I'll get you started. Your name is Jim and you drive a truck route delivering beer. You're not overly bright. You married a girl half your age who didn't treat you well, took you for everything you had in a divorce and now you owe child support and alimony and you're on probation for non-support with the threat of prison hanging over your head if I report you for missed payments. My name is Helen. I demanded we meet for dinner in this expensive restaurant and you really have no choice because you're behind in payments and fear I may turn you in. Got it? Okay. Now the key is to put yourself into the role emotionally as much as you can."

Davis nodded and watched as Selene seemed suddenly to be transformed into a wholly different person. Her mouth slacked and her head bobbed slightly as if she were mouthing ha ha ha under her breath. Her eyes half-lidded and one hand played idly in her hair. When she spoke her voice dripped with insult and sarcasm.

"Heard you got a girlfriend, Jimmy, me lad."

Davis was stunned silent. The level of maliciousness felt so real he doubted who Selene really was. The waiter came with wine and Selene was her original self briefly as she assumed the honor of the tasting process. Then the waiter left and Helen was back with a vengeance.

"I said," said Helen, her voice hissing with impatience, "I heard you got a girlfriend."

"Yes," said Davis, his mind spinning in response to Helen's realistic vituperation.

"Is she as pretty as me?" said Helen, half rising and leaning over the table until her face was close to his.

"She's older."

"Is she as pretty as me?" said Helen, taking Davis' wine and gulping on it generously.

"What difference does it make?" said Davis.

"Drop her."

"What!?"

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me."

"Sorry. But why are you doing this? Please don't do this, uh, Helen."

Helen sat back in her chair and rested her chin in her hands. She pursed her lips in amusement and suddenly he felt her foot in his crotch under the table.

"It's all for the best, Jimmy boy," she laughed, pressing hard into him. "What's her name?"

"Lillian."

"It's for Lillian's benefit. Surely she can do better than a small dick loser like you." She kicked him gently under the table.

Then Helen was Selene again, seamlessly, and without saying a word. Davis stared at her.

"I've been Helen before with a couple of boys," said Selene. "Very humiliating, don't you think? It can go on and on. That was just a quick sampler. What'd you think?"

"You're good," said Davis. "You definitely had me going. Could we try another one?"

"Shoot, Luke," said Selene.

"Young married couple. They love each other very much. She's a merciless tease but somehow she makes him love it."

"How does she do that?"

"I don't know. She's irresistible. She's beautiful."

"More beautiful than Helen?" Selene said, allowing her features to sink into a Helen look for an instant.

"More beautiful than any other woman in the world," said Davis.

"He is in thrall to her beauty?" said Selene.

"Yes."

Selene shrugged out of her light sweater to emerge in a scanty, low-cut silk top that clung sensuously to her ample breasts. Her nipples showed through the fabric. She ran her fingers lightly on her arm and said, softly, "Is she the kind of girl who would lie against you all night, warm and naked, while you ache with desire?"

"Dying a slow death with desire."

"Eating your heart out?"

"Yes."

"You woke me again," said Selene, transforming herself into a sleepy-eyed succubus. "Make up your mind, darling. You can lie against me but you must stay still so I can sleep. Or else go to the other side of the bed."

"I'll be still," said Davis, his voice thick.

Selene touched the neck of the wine bottle with the tip of her finger. "Oh dear, all stiff again. There, there," she said, caressing the bottle with reassuring strokes of her fingers, "we'll see what we can do to help you in the morning... maybe. But I'm so sleepy, my love. Come now, little kiss goodnight." With that, Selene rose and went around the table to Davis and kissed him. She let her tongue slip out to touch his lips. "Good night, darling. Try to sleep. Try not to think about sex so much." Then she kissed him again and returned to her chair with a big Cheshire cat smile because she could see Davis was staring at her with glassy eyes.

"That was delicious," said Davis after a moment. "Who was that one?"

"She's a new one," said Selene. "I haven't named her yet. How about 'Alicia'? Did you like her?"

"I think I'm in love," said Davis. "When can I see her again?"
CHAPTER 20

A remote mountain area in northern Costa Rica

Wednesday, June 12, 1996

Gilberto Gonzales, age 26, was a fit and muscular young Costa Rican who was proud of his work as a private security guard at Banco Nacional in Monteverde. He was not a policeman but all the children and many of the old folk neighbors in his small mountain pueblo treated him with great respect as though he were one. They looked to him in emergencies, such as some months earlier when there had been a serious car accident on the main highway some miles down the canyon. Neighbors had pounded on his door in the wee hours of the morning and he had hurried to the scene of the accident and helped extract victims from a dangerously smoking vehicle that observers worried could explode at any moment.

Adding to his hero image, Gilberto wore a snappy uniform and had been issued a pistol-grip shotgun, which the neighborhood kids always wanted to see, and which, by habit, he stowed in the trunk of his auto before going home each night. Unfortunately, the only rounds available for the shotgun as events unfolded on the evening of June 12th were the three shells in the gun itself.

Unable to sleep just after midnight, Gilberto made his way in his underwear to the small porch off his bedroom. He sprawled onto a hammock to watch the stars, both the stars above and some twinkling ones below in the form of tiny fireflies. Half asleep, Gilberto noticed a yellowish firefly. Unusual, he thought. No, wait, he realized, that wasn't a firefly. It was a flashlight, far below in the deep canyon that lay between his pueblo and the main highway. Gilberto frowned and forced himself out of the hammock. That canyon was forest, jungle really, and very steep, almost impassable. Gilberto tried to remember if there were any footpaths into it. There would be paths if there were coffee planted in it, but this section of forest was protected from commercial use. Perhaps there was a path that children used to get to the little waterfall visible from the pueblo. Locals called the falls "Piton Cascada" (python falls) because python snakes were rumored to live there. But the tiny glimpses of flashlight were not near the falls.

Gilberto brought binoculars to bear but he couldn't detect the light for a moment. Ah, there it was again, just a brief flicker. Perhaps some poor tourist was lost down there. Perhaps a car had gone off the cliffs along the main highway and rolled into the canyon. This was a situation that could not be ignored.

When Gilberto drove to the area on the main highway where he had thought a car might have gone over the edge he found an unoccupied and unmarked white Ford van. Checking the highway shoulder he saw where someone had stepped over the deep drainage ditch and across the shoulder onto the precipitous grade. If that were not amazing enough, he shined his flashlight on a bare-footed print in the mud at the bottom of the ditch, clearly outlined, toes and all, a small footprint, perhaps a woman's.

For a moment, Gilberto couldn't make sense of this. Then he devised a working theory. A couple had been making love in the van and the woman had become upset and fled down the hill. The man had followed to find her. Gilberto almost called out but then some instinct made him think better of it. Perhaps there had been a rape situation. Gilberto gathered his shotgun and a flashlight from the trunk. He slipped the flashlight into a large pocket of his uniform cargo pants and started down the steep slope of the highway grade. Even without his flashlight he could see by the light of a rising moon where the people from the van had formed a long slide mark, no doubt on their rumps, using their heels to slow the descent just as he began doing now. When he got to the foliage barrier, he held his shotgun in front of him to fend off brush, making his way down between trees and ferns slalom-style, dodging one way and then the other in a kind of controlled fall. Getting back up would be interesting. Probably he would need to find the streambed and follow it to the highway culvert some hundred meters up the road and hope for an access path switch-backing to the highway.

At a point a couple hundred meters down the hill, the underbrush opened up somewhat beneath tall trees and huge ferns, and the terrain leveled off a little. Gilberto paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness under the trees. At once he heard laughter -- male laughter -- close by. Easing around the bole of a large tree Gilberto saw a sight barely a fifty meters away that he would never forget, a scene that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. A flashlight positioned for illumination shone on a naked girl who was digging a hole. Her flesh was slick with sweat from her exertions and the jungle humidity. The girl's shovel fell and lifted rapidly, the pace of her digging clearly spurred by a man, a tall gringo with a wicked looking assault rifle, who lolled along the edge of the freshly dug hole.

The hole was, Gilberto realized, chillingly, a grave, her grave. The girl was being forced to dig her own grave. Mother of God! As Gilberto watched, the man poked the girl in the side with the barrel of the weapon, a cue that caused her to redouble her efforts. Moments later he issued a curt command that caused her to drop her shovel and sink to her knees in front of him, apparently to administer oral sex to him.

Gilberto, astonished and sickened by what he saw, almost charged the scene with his shotgun only to realize that his firearm was no match for an automatic assault weapon and in any case the shotgun pattern, intended for close range, would include the girl at longer range. Hidden behind the bole of the tree, his mind whirled, his heart pumping so hard he feared it might be audible across the distance in the forest. After a moment of desperate thought, still without a plan, Gilberto chanced another glance around the tree, only to see an even more chilling sight. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was seeing. He witnessed the gunman tying a last knot as he fastened the girl's hands behind her. He then shoved her into the shallow grave. He picked up the shovel and used it to force her prone, waving it threateningly. Then he started shoveling the loose dirt in on top of her. Gilberto realized with a sick feeling that the man was planning to bury her alive. He could hear the girl pleading. The sound of her anguish pushed Gilberto past any edge of caution.

With no real idea where his actions might lead, Gilberto fired his shotgun into the air and then started shouting in the hope he could fool the guy into believing an entire cavalry was arriving.

"Over here!" shouted Gilberto. "I found them! Eduardo, take the left wing. Antonio, bring the rest of the guys straight down the hill. Hurry, before he gets away."

Gilberto was reluctant to fire the shotgun again. He had two rounds left, just enough to protect himself if the fellow charged Gilberto's tree with the assault rifle. Shotgun versus an automatic weapon at close range in a cat-and-mouse around a tree gave the edge to the shotgun, but it would be cutting things pretty close if he only had one shell.

However sound Gilberto's shotgun tactics might have been, they were entirely forgotten in the instant he snuck another a peak around the tree to see the results of his ruse. The bastard had drawn a revolver and was pointing it at the girl in the grave.

"No!" screamed Gilberto, stepping away from the tree and, realizing the girl was mostly hidden in the grave, firing at the man, aiming a little high to avoid stray buckshot hitting the victim. Instead of turning his rifle towards Gilberto, the gunman, seemingly unfazed at fifty meters by the shotgun, fired three point blank rounds at the girl and then vanished down the slope into the forest.

"No," said Gilberto, dropping to his knees. He crossed himself, then stood and approached the gravesite, dreading what he would see and now unconscious about his own safety. He grew dizzy, his breath stopped with grief and anger. Arriving at the scene, he looked down at the girl, who looked back at him. She was alive.

But probably not alive for long. She had taken two of the assailant's bullets in her chest, both on the same side. Probably lung wounds, Gilberto thought. She whispered something about her baby and Gilberto could tell from her rounded belly she must be pregnant. The third bullet had struck her low in her abdomen, however. Even if by the grace of God she survived her wounds, there would be no baby. From the dark color of her skin, Gilberto guessed she might be Nicaraguan or Colombian. Even dirty and sweaty as she was, and by flashlight, he could see she was young and pretty. His heart went out to her.

She was also small. That was a good thing if he were to manage getting her up the hill. He staunched her bleeding and plugged her bullet wounds with bits of cloth from his shirt. He found he could lift her easily. She had passed out, which was a blessing, and he noted with relief that there were no sucking sounds or frothing from her chest wounds, so perhaps her lungs had not been hit.

Now to get her to a hospital. But Blessed Mary, how would he be able to manage it? And then there was the matter of the gunman. Was he lurking nearby to finish them off? Strong possibility. The killer had left his flashlight, so the tall gringo would be moving by what little moonlight penetrated the canopy. He would have to be lucky in the jungle darkness to find his way. Fetching the gunman's flashlight, Gilberto fell back on his rear with horror because near it, almost resting on it, was a human skull.

Recovering his wits, Gilberto could see where animals had dug up a previous grave in the same small plot. Perhaps the gunman had found the skull and laid it aside to throw it in the grave with the girl.

Gilberto realized that the murderer had been here before. This was a chosen burial ground. Therefore it only made sense that there was an easier way to get back to the highway than the way he had come down. The killer knew how to get out. And he had headed down the hill. Taking a gamble, Gilberto decided to follow the gunman's trail. Leaving his shotgun behind, he found a way to shoulder his precious young cargo as gently as possible and aim the gringo's larger flashlight at the same time. He set out to follow the path of the killer.

His gamble proved to be a good one, because at fifty meters down the hill he stumbled and almost fell when his ankle encountered a low-strung cable hidden in the brush. The cable was plastic-coated and thick enough for hand purchase. It stretched up the steep hill. Gilberto could see where the gunman had loosened forest sod and underbrush in his passing as he used the cable to climb the hill. The killer had been able to use both hands to climb. Gilberto was limited to one hand. He tossed the gringo's flashlight away.

"Okay, big hero," he huffed to himself as he made his way up the first section of the cable, "let's see what you're made of."

Big hero almost didn't make it. By the time he reached the highway, he had almost fallen several times. He had drawn on reserves of strength fueled by sheer will and little else to keep going when he thought he couldn't pull himself another foot up the cliff-like incline. The last section of the climb was a crumbling switchback up the highway grade without a cable to help him. He had to scramble on loose sand. When he finally crossed the drainage ditch onto the pavement of the highway his legs were trembling and cramping. He fell, but turned his body so that his shoulder absorbed the blow, shielding the girl from the impact. He lay under her a moment, then looked up the highway towards his car. In despair, he saw that all three of the tires he could see were flat.

"Bastard!" he swore under his breath.

Finally, Mother Mary answered his numerous calls for help over the hour-long endurance with a minor miracle. A car came around the corner almost immediately – a miracle because traffic was normally sparse on the highway late in the evening – and stopped to help. A half-hour later, doctors were attending to the girl and an hour after that grim-faced police were taking Gilberto's statement. Gilberto had to argue mightily with the police to avoid a visit to the crime scene that night -- finally prevailing when he told them he would be glad to show them the way down but they would have to carry him back up.

The police took him home and picked him up the next morning. Eight officers used climbing ropes to rappel safely down the grade that he had negotiated in virtual freefall the night before. Gilberto and most of the others watched from a distance as the crime scene was marked off and detective inspectors took photos and measurements. Gilberto had a bad moment when one of the detectives made a comment implying that Gilberto was a potential suspect. By the time police had finished their initial investigation, however, the same detective put his arms around Gilberto and told him they were all impressed with what he had done. Later, police took him to the Monteverde clinic to see about the girl, only to learn she had been transported by helicopter to a San Jose medical center.

"Will she live?" Gilberto asked the doctors.

"Perhaps," said Doctor Madriz. "Her condition is critical. Pray for her."
CHAPTER 21

On the New Jersey Turnpike

Thursday, June 20, 1996

"Abbott and Costello want to take us to lunch," said Shaylane, as she and Ange made their way through rush hour traffic to the Sheffield Building. "The DA guys, Walt Brannigan and Les Knight," added Shaylane helpfully.

"I remember them well," said Ange. "They called you instead of calling me?"

"I think they didn't want a record of a call to you."

"But they're willing to be seen having lunch with me?"

"In the Courthouse coffee shop."

"How discreet."

"Actually, I think it's kind of clever. Attorneys happen to meet and say hello. Besides, the cuisine is, uh, often remarked upon in legal circles."

****

"I'm having the albacore, marinated in spring water, on a bed of baked ground wheat kernels overlaid with warm greens," said Ange, joking on the Courthouse "cuisine" as they stood in line in the coffee shop later that day.

"Tuna sandwich," said Shaylane. "In New Jersey we just call it a tuna sandwich."

Ange saw their lunch dates approaching. "Ah, here they come, our favorite D.A.'s. Gentlemen, how nice to see you. Won't you join us?"

"Well, fancy meeting you guys here," said Walt Brannigan, as everyone shook hands. "What happened to the bloody sheet?"

"I packed it away for Halloween," said Ange.

"We have good news," said Les Knight to Ange. "All charges against you have been dropped. It seems a certain critical baggy disappeared from the evidence room."

"The wheels of justice move in mysterious ways," said Shaylane.

"We have a little favor to ask," said Brannigan in a lower tone as he took a chair.

"Just like old home week," said Ange, chuckling. "The last favor you asked of me was would I mind going back to a slumber party with a psychotic ogre. What is it this time?"

"We would appreciate it if you would block the Tericargo acquisition from going through," said Knight.

"Tericargo!" said Ange, surprised. "I did some research on Tericargo months ago."

"It would help our investigation if you would stop it from going through," said Les Knight.

"By the way," said Ange. "not to tell you guys how to make it look like we aren't having a meeting, but shouldn't you go stand in line and get a sandwich or something?"

"Just act casual," said Shaylane in a low voice. "Nobody will suspect a thing."

After Knight and Brannigan left for the lunch line, Ange said, "Daniel was pushing for Tericargo at one time. I haven't heard anything about it since I got back from Seattle. Maybe these guys can shine some light for us."

Brannigan wasted no time shining light as soon as the two men returned to the table. "It seems a member of the Anderson Group – the Anderson Group being the majority shareholders and managers of Tericargo -- is being blackmailed into selling his interest," he said without prelude. "Looks like a professional set up, an under-aged hooker at a convention – but she looked older with heavy make-up, hidden cameras, et cetera. Gotcha! Now let's make a deal."

"Somebody playing rough," said Ange.

"Blackmail is against the law," said Shaylane.

"The blackmail victim denies it so our hands are tied," said Brannigan.

"We know who at Sheffield is pushing this takeover," said Knight, "and we know why."

"We know who, too," said Shaylane. "Daniel Sheffield. But we don't know why."

Knight and Brannigan exchanged looks that only marginally hid their surprise.

"If you have information that would help our investigation, then you're required by law to..."

"Any information we may or may not have is part of an Essex County Sheriff's Department ongoing investigation," said Shaylane, "although, of course, we're always open to an exchange of information between law enforcement agencies. On a reciprocal basis, of course." Shaylane smiled broadly.

"Alright," said Knight after a thoughtful pause, "we'll trade some information with you, up to a point. Uh, who all in the sheriff's office is in on this?"

"Just me, so far," said Shaylane, smiling.

"Smartass," said Knight, also with a smile. "Although actually I wouldn't mind if it stayed that way. Why blab everything all over town, right? Anyway, as far as what we have, we have a snitch and we have a tap, the tap being the result of a warrant we got based on information from the snitch. We can tell you about the tap but not the snitch, okay?"

"Okay," said Shaylane.

"The tap is on the aforementioned Daniel Sheffield himself," said Knight. "He has a secret understanding with his old man – or he thinks it's secret -- that he'll be allowed to restructure Tericargo after the takeover."

"Tericargo basically moves cargo to and from ships," said Brannigan, "and guarantees the reliability of the cargo systems, including..." Brannigan paused for dramatic effect, "security, customs and so forth."

"Drugs," said Shaylane.

"Drugs," said Brannigan.

"Oh, come now," said Ange. "Why would Daniel Sheffield be involved with smuggling drugs? He's a millionaire and stands to inherit billions."

"Judge Sulmonetti's words exactly, which is why we're having to fight to keep the tap," said Knight.

"Also a question we ask ourselves everyday," said Brannigan. "Why would Daniel Sheffield be involved in something like this?"

"He is fucking involved, however," said Knight. "We could damned near bring a case of conspiracy right now, just on the basis of some conversations with certain top-ten assholes of the Western world that we have on tape."

"Damned near," said Brannigan.

"But not quite," said Knight. "And besides, we don't want to fuck around with conspiracy on one crazy millionaire. But that doesn't mean we're not extremely interested in the question of why Daniel Sheffield would be involved in this. We would very much appreciate your thoughts on the matter."

"Sorry," said Shaylane. " No clue." Ange shook her head in agreement with Shaylane.

"You knew about his interest in Tericargo?" said Brannigan.

"I knew that from some months ago," said Ange. "However, we zeroed in on him more recently because Shaylane thought he may have been involved in the assault on me."

"For the record, in case it might help you guys," said Shaylane, "we went over a bunch of personal stuff on him, photos and memorabilia that we got from a snitch. We can tell you about the photos, but not the snitch, okay?"

Brannigan smiled. Turnabout was fair play. Ange looked puzzled. Shaylane mouthed "Jan." Apparently, in cop-talk, Jan was a "snitch." Ange nodded.

"One particularly memorable photo was taken about 1985 at a party. Daniel has his arm around Marine Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North," said Ange, who waited for a reaction but didn't get one. Brannigan took a sip of his coffee. Knight worked on his sandwich.

"That particular photo inspired a search using a full-time investigation crew for several weeks," said Shaylane, enjoying dubious looks from men who had no idea of the resources available to Ange for research projects.

"I'd like to give you guys something juicy," said Shaylane. "But I should tell you in advance that the only crime we can pin on Daniel after our research is his being a Republican. Republicans are everywhere. Hell, one of you guys could be one... or worse."

"I'll take the Fifth," said Brannigan.

"However," said Shaylane, "what is interesting is that Daniel was involved in supporting the Contras in Nicaragua in the 80's, and we know from the Kerry Senate hearings after the Iran/Contra affair that the CIA and the National Security Agency had knowledge of cocaine smuggling in the region but turned a blind eye to it because it benefited the Contras."

Shaylane stopped for effect, raised her eyebrows and looked for a response from the two men, which was underwhelming.

"What exactly did Daniel Sheffield actually do in connection with the situation in Nicaragua?" said Brannigan, looking almost bored.

"He bought surplus arms and munitions and sold them to the Contras," said Ange, "sometimes overtly, representing Sheffield Industries, other times covertly, in ways that are difficult to track."

"For example?" said Brannigan.

"He purchased surplus Red Eye missiles," said Shaylane. "Red Eyes were hand-held ground-to-air missiles that were being phased out due to the new and improved Stinger missiles – and sold them to the Contras. Red Eye missiles were used during the height of conflict in 1987 and 1988 to defeat the Sandinistas' Soviet-made helicopter gunships. Militarily speaking this was a very big deal."

"But as you indicate," said Knight, "Daniel Sheffield was a Republican, working for, we should note, a Republican organization -- Sheffield Industries -- during a Republican presidency. Support of the Contras was illegal for governmental agencies due to acts of Congress but not for individuals or private organizations."

"I see you have some knowledge of the history of it," said Ange.

"Unlike some I might mention," said Knight, glancing at Brannigan, "I'm a card carrying member of the Democratic Party. I was shocked, shocked I tell you, at what Republicans did in support of the Contras. But I'm not sure how this information bears on our investigation."

"Cocaine," said Shaylane. "Cocaine and drug smuggling and lots of it went on in those days and Daniel was there being a big shot when it was going on and would've met some people."

"Might have," said Knight."

"And one more thing," said Shaylane. "I find it very interesting that the information our research crew uncovered about Daniel in Nicaragua is not more widely known. He was on the ground and in direct contact with the Contras. Daniel Sheffield is such a blow-hard that you'd think he would have trumpeted his tales of derring-do far and wide to anyone who would listen... unless he had something to hide."

"All food for thought," said Brannigan, obviously unimpressed, "but, Ange, you haven't answered our main question: Will you block the Tericargo deal?"

"In order to combat drug smuggling?" said Ange.

"In order to help our investigation. We've had to piece a lot of things together because these folks are cagey over the phone, but it looks like the Tericargo deal is a key element of a power play in which middlemen in the existing pipeline are going to be aced out."

"Like a turf war between dealers?" said Ange.

"But at a much higher level than street dealers," said Brannigan. "Here's our situation: We're close to payday in our investigation but if there's suddenly a new pipeline and new players, we could be holding an empty bag."

"Well, here's my situation," said Ange. "First, I happen to know a lot about Tericargo because I did research on it when I was a paralegal."

"You're still a paralegal," said Shaylane. Ange ignored her.

"A hostile takeover of Tericargo would be a totally rotten thing to do and I hate it," said Ange.

"Good," said Brannigan.

"Second," said Ange, lifting two fingers, "it isn't really an issue because the subject hasn't come up at meetings. They tried getting proxies some months ago and it went nowhere. I think they gave up. Or at least it's on the back burner.

"And third," she said quickly, stopping Brannigan's attempt to interject something, "I dearly hope it doesn't come up. Right now they think I'm little Miss Sweet Cakes. If I took up the Tericargo cause I'd be hoisting the Jolly Roger."

"Allow me to inform you of some matters you may not be aware of," said Knight. He lifted a finger, imitating Ange, "One, the subject is most definitely not on the back burner. They plan to launch a tender offer of 10% over the market price on Tericargo shares. Soon. With the blackmail on the principal, that'll probably swing it.

"Two, they speak frequently of you in an unflattering manner and they don't call you Miss Sweet Cakes. You might as well fly the Jolly Roger because they're on to you."

"Third," said Brannigan, joining the numbers game, "they've got something else cooking that they seem to think is going to fry your bacon but we haven't figured out what it is. Watch your back."

"Thanks for the heads up," said Ange.

"You're welcome," said Knight. "So you'll help?"

"I'll try," said Ange.

"Oh, uh, one slight problem," said Brannigan. "Under no circumstances can the news of the tender offer get out to anyone until it actually happens. If Judge Sulmonetti found out we put the word out on that using his wiretap... I don't want to even think about it. You're an attorney. I don't have to tell you what a sticky wicket tender offers are in terms of confidentiality."

"Understood," said Ange.

****

After the boys from the DA's office had left, Shaylane asked, "What's a tender offer?"

"Shareholders in a targeted company get an offer for market price as of a certain date plus an attractive bonus," said Ange. "Handy for hostile takeovers."

"Why is it a sticky wicket?"

"Tender offers are tightly regulated by the S.E.C. due to the dangers of insider trading. If somebody knew a tender offer was coming they could buy up shares for a quick profit."

"So you can't warn Tericargo, right?"

"Right. That would be misappropriation of confidential information, which is almost as bad as insider trading."

"And you can't confront Michael," said Shaylane.

"Right, because how could I have known? And we have the professional futures of our favorite DAs in our hands."

"So what are you going to do?

"What do you recommend?"

"Kick ass and take names," said Shaylane, standing and shifting her holster belt.

"Stand by to hoist the Jolly Roger," said Ange.
CHAPTER 22

Marina Boardwalk, Emeryville, California

Wednesday, July 10, 1996

"Happy Birthday," said Davis to Selene as they walked from dinner at the Hong Kong East Ocean restaurant along the mostly deserted marina in Emeryville.

"How did you know it was my birthday?" said Selene, surprised but pleased.

"You told me weeks ago."

"And you remembered. How sweet."

"I'd like to give you a present."

"You've already lavished all kinds of presents on me, Davis."

"I'd like to give you a car, but I didn't know which one you would like."

"Davis, don't be ridiculous. You can't give me a car!"

"For example," said Davis, "suppose you could have any of these cars at the end of the lot here. Which would you choose?"

"None of them, Davis. The yellow Jeep is cute, but you aren't going to buy me a car. What game are we playing?"

"I knew it," said Davis. "I guessed right."

"Knew what?"

"The Jeep is the one I bought you for your birthday."

"Sure you did."

Davis reached in a pocket, pulled out a set of keys and handed them to her. Selene took them and stared at them, dumbfounded. The insignia on the keychain said "Jeep." For a long moment she stood, looking first at the keys, then at the vehicle, then at Davis. Then she turned abruptly and went to sit at a nearby park bench.

"Davis," she said. "We have to talk."

Davis joined her on the bench.

"What if I had chosen the pickup, or the Camry?"

"Selene," said Davis, lying because he had five more sets of keys ready in different pockets, "that Jeep had your name on it."

"Tell me you didn't buy all six of those cars."

"I made a deal at the showrooms to bring back the ones you didn't want," said Davis, seeing that she was on to him.

"Davis, I don't want to seem unappreciative. Your generosity is magnificent. Overwhelming. But it isn't proportionate to the situation. I'm afraid you want something more from me. I'm feeling lost in this. Look, you're good-looking, sensitive, intelligent, and obviously a man of means. But we aren't having a romance. Or at least I'm not having one. Are you?"

"I don't think so."

"You aren't falling in love with me, are you?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, good... I think. I'm glad we got that cleared up. But then why are you trying to buy me a car?"

"It's your birthday. I'm very fond of you."

"You make it sound simple."

It may have been simple for Davis but it wasn't for Selene. "I think it's time we were frank with each other," she said.

There were catch-lights from the streetlamps in her eyes. The breeze from the bay ruffed her jet-black hair fetchingly. Her light summer top had fallen off one shoulder. All in all, Selene was the very image of romance-worthy young womanhood \-- emphasis on young.

Young or not, Davis could almost have let himself say romantic things to her. But he reminded himself that she had a boyfriend and a life and Davis himself was a shaky prospect at best for a serious relationship. He didn't want to toy with her feelings.

"Actually," he said, "I don't know you well enough to fall in love with you. I'm in love with your alter-ego Alicia, with Donna, the student nurse, and with Morgana, the King's daughter."

"You're in lust with Alicia, not in love."

"Lust and love are mixed up for me. I'm sort of an odd duck."

"Davis, you have a tease and denial fetish. It isn't really that unusual."

"Do you have a rolodex card on me with my official paraphilia?"

"I shouldn't have said that. You're not like anyone I've ever met. You're wonderful. You're beautiful. You should be having so much more with someone in a full relationship with love and with real sex, someone who sits on your face nude, someone who sucks your cock, someone you can fuck."

"Your panties were so wet when you sat on me that you might as well have been nude."

Selene stood and paced back and forth in front of him. She looked at him with exasperation. "Davis, who are you? What do you do when you aren't with me?"

"I have fun. I play golf. I'm learning to sail. I do projects."

"What sort of projects?" She looked skeptical.

"You've heard of the Underground Bathrooms magazine?"

"Yes, of course."

"My project."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Not many people know this."

"Good God, I think I believe you."

"It was a dirty job but somebody had to do it."

"It was the talk of the town. You're the mystery guy? And I know you? I can't believe this."

"It was fun."

"Davis, whatever possessed you?"

"It wasn't just me."

"That was a good thing you did."

"About my tease and denial fetish...."

"I'm sorry I said that."

"It's just that... it doesn't seem to me that I have a fetish in the sense I think you mean. Many years ago I was in a magical relationship where teasing was a big part of it. Not that I asked for it. It wasn't my fault. Long story.

"But that first night with Alicia and the alter-egos you create... you're so good at it that I came under the sway of those personalities. It isn't that I like to be teased... well, I do like to be teased as it turns out, obviously, but it's more that Alicia and Donna and all the others are so powerful and... so believable. This is silly, I know. They aren't real and the situations aren't real, but here's the thing: real or not they make my dick hard as a rock in a way I haven't felt for a long time and that's real.

"No, no, let me finish," he said as she tried to interrupt. "Maybe you didn't think I was listening all those times when you talked about the metaphysics, swirling energy and all that, but I was listening. You're amazing. When you become these alter egos of yours, you reach down for darkness in the soul. You're so utterly convincing and you relish the darkness and I relish it as well, which is my side of the swirling energy."

"The vortex."

"Yes, the vortex. And you know what? I think it's extraordinarily special, the experiences I have with you, the experiences that we have together, because it's telepathic as you've pointed out so many times. I don't know how many women there are floating around doing the kind of sexual magic you do. Not many, I suspect."

"I've had teachers," said Selene.

"Teachers? There are teachers for this kind of thing?"

"Yes, there are."

"Selene, let me ask you, do you have clients who come to you and you don't have to take on an alter-ego, because their energy matches up so well with yours that you can just be yourself and do what you feel like doing?"

"No. I'm always playing a role of some kind... well, almost always." Selene corrected herself with a Mona Lisa smile.

"Almost always," said Davis. "So there've been times when you could just do what you wanted. I'd like to be that, whatever it is."

"Davis, that was just because of the way this fellow and I matched up. You wouldn't want to do what we did, trust me."

"Try me."

Selene started laughing and laughed for a moment before saying: "Okay, Davis. The guy I'm talking about just wanted to get kicked in the balls and so I obliged him, with gusto."

"Oh," said Davis.

"Over and over," said Selene, "I busted his nuts, big time."

"Oh," said Davis.

"No alter-ego. I'd pop him and he'd just stand there moaning and groaning in front of me and I'd wait for him to calm down until he reached out and touched my breasts again, which was the big no-no. Then I'd kick him or knee him again. If he wanted to touch he had to pay."

"How did you get hooked in with this guy?"

"None of the other Fantasy Makers would do it."

"But you enjoyed it?"

"Made me hot as a firecracker."

"Would it make you hot to kick me in the balls?"

"Probably. No, absolutely. It's making me wet just talking about it."

Davis stood and turned slowly in a circle, his hands outstretched.

"What are you doing?" said Selene, laughing.

"I'm searching for the telepathic vortex," said Davis. "Searching. Searching. Can't find it."

"You won't find it that way. You have to convince yourself that you're willing to have your balls kicked by me because it'll give me pleasure. You have to let yourself accept it at a deep level."

"Maybe if you did it once I'd be able to get the hang of it."

"You're kidding. You'd do that for me?"

"Only if it makes you hot. And you have to agree to take the Jeep."

Selene stood and moved very close to Davis, facing him. Her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily.

"If I do this, I'll do it properly," she said, "because I probably won't get a second shot."

"Understood."

"Spread your legs. Then when you are ready, touch my breast, if you dare."

Hesitantly and very slowly, Davis inched his hand towards her suddenly dangerous bosom where she had pulled her top down to expose herself. Her breast was creamy white in the moonlight, rising and falling rapidly and even trembling slightly with arousal. When his fingers were almost touching her, Davis and Selene exchanged meaningful looks, charged with intensity. She cocked her head, a lifted eyebrow conveying an unmistakable message: Don't you dare.

"Is this the vortex?" he whispered.

"Not yet," she said.

"Fun though," said Davis.

Davis touched Selene's breast and let his fingers linger there for long seconds. She didn't pull away, so he cupped her breast gently and squeezed. Selene's eyes closed for an instant and then she twirled away from him in a swoon-like motion. She danced a little jig of anticipation. She felt her crotch with both hands and then approached him with a low chuckle and with menace in her eyes. She faked a kick to watch him flinch, faked another, laughed, then danced away again for another little jig, rubbing her hands and savoring the anticipation. Then suddenly she took two fast steps for accelerated impact and planted a no-nonsense, high-speed, practiced karate kick square on target. Davis fell to his knees. Through a blanket of agony he saw her feet dancing around his curled body. Looking up he saw her smirk with satisfaction. She squatted next to him and taunted him by easing her top down again to expose her breast.

"Want to touch me again, Davis?" she laughed.

Davis reached a hand to her and touched her breast.

****

Parked along the street near Selene's apartment, Albany, California

Later that evening

Davis had followed Selene's Jeep on a merry ride through the Oakland and Berkeley Hills as she put her new toy through its paces. She drove like a professional test driver and he could barely keep her in sight. Finally, Selene found a parking spot near her destination. Davis double-parked beside her Jeep.

He joined her where she stood hanging on to the wheel rack like her Jeep might try to get away. She put her hands on Davis' shoulders and kissed him sweetly.

"Thanks for the wonderful present," she said. "You do realize our relationship has entered a new stage?"

"I was hoping it might have," he said.

Selene lifted a knee quickly in a feint, then pretended that she had only been meaning to adjust her shoe. Davis, having recently experienced a series of knee thrusts that had connected, winced and hunched protectively.

"Oh, dear," said Selene, smiling broadly, "now I've gone and made you afraid of me."

"With good reason," said Davis.

"How does it feel, being afraid of me?"

"Vulnerable."

"Do you like it, feeling vulnerable?" she said, putting her lips close to his and breathing the words softly.

"Yes," he said, feeling like he was in a trance. His Levi's bulged rapidly and hugely of their own accord.

"Being dangerous makes me feel sexy," said Selene, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Makes you look sexy, too." His words came thickly.

Selene stepped back. "If you think I look sexy now, just wait until next time when I don't take it so easy on you."

Davis laughed. He was pretty sure she was joking but he didn't care. He didn't try to hide his ridiculously prominent erection from her. He didn't feel like hiding anything from her. He felt hot behind his ears. His blood felt bizarrely thick. His mouth was dry. He was almost gagging on arousal.

Selene smiled at his rising tribute and flipped it playfully with the floppy leather emblem on her Jeep key ring.

"Davis, here's the thing," she said punctuating her words with casual turns of the leather on his pants tent, "I know you don't have a compulsive drive to get your family jewels run through the ringer. You took everything I dished out tonight for me because you knew it made me hot."

"Well, it's your birthday," said Davis.

"Don't joke with me, Davis," said Selene, lifting her knee at his crotch in warning. "I'm laying something out to you right now and I need to know you hear me loud and clear."

"Okay."

"I wasn't in an alter-ego tonight. That was me messing with you and I loved it. I'm still loving it. I'm so... Oh, Lord, I'm gone. This is the vortex, Davis. How do you like it?"

Davis laughed. "Wonderful," he managed.

"You truly gave yourself up to me. And I truly took it. There's magic in that. And you said some things, do you remember? I hope you remember, about becoming whatever I wanted, being whatever I wanted. Maybe that was just hot talk. Was that just hot talk?"

"If it was..."

"No, never mind. It doesn't matter if it was hot talk. Because you don't just talk the talk, you walk the walk. I can't tell you how many times clients have said to me that they would give me everything, that they just wanted to serve me, whatever I want, blah, blah, blah. But they didn't give me a Jeep. And they didn't give me their balls on a silver platter."

Selene grabbed Davis' cock through the fabric of his pants and twisted it fiercely. "Now here is what I want to know: Can I use you and abuse you and take whatever I want from you the way I did tonight? Or not? Tell me the fucking limits so I don't get disappointed." She released his cock and looked at him with a fiercely challenging expression.

"No wait, don't answer yet. One more thing: I'm not a gold-digger. I don't want to squeeze you for every last nickel you might have. You've got nothing to worry about on that score. I know you have some money and that could make things nice, fancy restaurants and so forth. You can spend some money on me. I like nice stuff. But this isn't about that. This is about the gusher running down the inside of my legs. Give me your hand."

She took his hand and guided it under her mini-skirt to a place halfway between her pussy and her knees. Her skin was slippery wet.

"So?" she said.

"Well, I...."

"No wait. One more thing: I have a boyfriend."

"Johnny, the rock star."

"Johnny the wannabe rock star. I told you about him?"

"Yes."

"And we have a daughter, Johnny's daughter, wonderful little girl, had some trouble in the public school, second grade, but we moved her to Montessori, thanks to you."

"Thanks to me?"

Selene took Davis in her arms. "Davis, do you realize you've given me more than twenty thousand dollars over the last month. At Fantasy Makers they call you 'Mister Dream Regular.' Johnny calls you 'Moneybags'. He's fighting back jealousy and the Jeep could throw him over the edge. He doesn't believe me that I don't fuck you and I've given him a hard time about it; but now he has a point because I have no idea how I'm going to keep myself from climbing on you someday."

"Do you love Johnny?"

"Yes."

"But he's jealous."

"I'm going to bring you home some night. He'll like you. I might have you baby-sit so Johnny and I can go out and do the clubs. He'll like that. And you're going to take me to the A's game with the Yankees Friday night." Selene spoke matter-of-factly, but then said: "Oh, but I forgot. You haven't said..."

"If you can use and abuse me as you wish?"

"Yes."

"I thought you'd never ask."
CHAPTER 23

Oakland Athletics Stadium

Friday, July 12, 1996

They were late to the game because Selene had taken the scenic route from El Cerrito, through the Berkeley Hills and down the steep Marin Avenue roller coaster. The Jeep convertible top was down and the breeze blew her low-cut, mostly unbuttoned blouse sometimes open, her breasts tempting Davis to look away from the dangers ahead during her somewhat reckless drive.

When they got to the section 12 box seats, seat B1 was taken by a guy who was already in his cups from too many beers. Their tickets put Selene next to him. Davis took B3.

The guy stared at them, especially at Selene's semi-buttoned low-cut top. Selene's attention was on the field and scoreboard. She was a serious baseball fan as it turned out.

When she noticed him looking at her, she said in a friendly tone, her eyes still on the field: "How long did the starting Yankee pitcher go? And don't tell me you're a Yankee's fan, please."

"You guys friends of the Randall's?"

"The who?" said Selene, then blasted the box seats with a surprisingly resonant set of pipes: "Blue! You're blind, Blue!"

"The Randalls. These are their reserved seasons seats."

Selene turned to Davis who leaned forward to explain: "Special arrangement," he offered, although he actually had no idea how Doc had arranged the tickets.

"I don't think so," muttered the drunk, a swarthy, compact, apparently muscular man in his early thirties – apparently muscular because he was wearing a bulky sweater.

"Davis. Selene," said Davis, politely trying introductions.

"When the sun goes behind the wall you're going to freeze in that, girly," said the unnamed stranger.

"I'm not worried," said Selene innocently, looking at the play. "My boy'll buy me a jacket." They had seen A's warm-up jackets in the concessions.

"Your boy? I took him for your father."

"Selene is my dominant mistress," said Davis with a pleasant grin that was almost a leer. He glanced at Selene to check if he had used the proper nomenclature.

The man sat back in his seat with a grunt and sloshed beer on himself. "Oh ho," he said theatrically, "this is getting really fucking rich!"

Selene was surprised at Davis's uncharacteristic public confession but didn't miss a beat as she played along, lifting her fingers lightly, attention still on the game: "Hot dog," she snapped casually and Davis was up from his seat as if expecting her command. He made his way up the aisle without hesitation in a picture perfect display of submissive obedience, if a bit campy.

A long moment passed without comment from the stunned stranger. Almost a pick-off at first base. Almost another. Then: "So you're a prostitute."

Selene turned her best potent eyes on him: "A priestess. I can see what a man secretly needs just by looking at him." It was a standard line for her but not for him. Her being able to see his secret needs and his being able to catch glimpses of her tantalizing nipples were conflated in the instant.

Pitch out. Throw to second. The Oakland runner was safe. Crowd on its feet and Selene with them. When she looked back, the stranger's seat was empty.

When Davis turned from the carousel with beers in a tray and a hot dog, the stranger was standing in his path, looking more than a little menacing. Davis nodded and started to move past him but the stranger jostled him deliberately, spilling one of the beers and almost making Davis slip on the slick surface.

"Sorry," said Davis meekly, raising his hot dog hand like an umpire calling time. He returned for another beer and when he had it, two minutes and an A's home run later which he could see on the monitors, he turned and the glum stranger was still there, seemingly ready to block his path again.

"Oh, bother," said Davis, as he moved towards the section gate. But before he could get to the point of confrontation, a large, apparently drunk man staggered forward and crashed into the would be assailant, falling with him to the pavement, saying "Oops, sorry."

Davis walked past the spectacle to his seat, ready to watch the game because he knew that was what Selene really loved and the score was miraculously tied in the 7th. Moments later he wished he had traded seats with her when Mister Swacked showed up again and sat down heavily next to her.

"Hey," he said, across Selene to Davis. "Hey."

"Yes," said Davis.

"Why don't you take the hooker," he said loudly, "and get the hell back to your bleacher seats before I get security down here."

"You're so full of shit your breath stinks, you stupid fat fucking prick," said Selene, flatly, matter of factly, and equally loudly. Several fans nearby clapped on her side and she rose for a quick bow.

"Alright, damn it," said the fat fucking prick," pulling down on Selene's shirt drunkenly and too forcefully, jerking her rudely back into her seat. She sloshed beer on herself.

Suddenly, as if from out of nowhere, the same huge drunk that had come blundering on the scene at the beer carousel clapped his hands around the fat fucking prick's head, apparently using the head as a handrail in an effort to regain his balance.

"Hey, ol' buddy," he said, without apparent rancor, "wa's happening?" Falling forward without loosening his grip, drunk #2 effectively yanked drunk #1 out of his seat and the two went stumbling together down the aisle towards home plate. They collapsed in a tangle against the wire mesh of the foul ball backstop.

"Unbelievable," said Selene.

"Too many drunks around here," said Davis.

The last they saw of the drunks they seemed to be bum rushing each other towards an exit, both shouting loudly about the other being drunk. There came a good riddance ripple of applause from the stands as they disappeared.

That was the end of the "stadium drunks" episode, except as Davis and Selene worked the Jeep towards an exit in the parking lot, Selene commented: "Davis, you'll probably think I'm being paranoid, but I've seen that guy before."

"The fat fucking prick?"

"No, the other guy. The big guy who saved you from having to use fisticuffs to rescue fair damsel."

"Where did you think you saw him?"

"He was spying on us at the Marina when I was trying to teach you not to touch my tits."

"I didn't see anyone around."

"You were rolling on the ground a lot, not paying attention for some reason. But I kept checking around to make sure no one was watching. He was peeking around the side of one of your cars you had lined up just as I made a fast turn and I caught him dead to rights, eye to eye. I gave him the finger to tell him to fuck off and quit spying on people and I thought he left."

"And you think it was the same guy?"

"Or his twin brother. Don't you think it was rather good timing the way he hoisted fat fucking prick out of his seat and rode him out of Dodge just as I was being accosted?"

"Shit," said Davis. "Things go over my head sometimes. Obviously it was good timing."

"Davis, I don't like being lied to. If you have a bodyguard following you around, tell me."

"I think I may have a bodyguard following me around, but I didn't know it until just now."

****

Rental Villa, Sausalito, California

Later that evening: Friday, July 12, 1996

Davis drove his rental Jaguar into the safety of the bat-cave-like Sausalito garage alongside Doc's shiny new Lincoln Continental. He gunned the engine a couple of times to announce his arrival. Doc's smiling face appeared in the light of the stairwell. Davis brushed by him without comment, poured a whiskey in the kitchen and went to the living room to take a seat on the sofa.

"Who's the goon?" said Davis, getting directly to the point and not smiling.

"Lyle Morgan," said Doc. "Good man."

"You get reports on everything I do?"

"I don't read them, except for the good parts."

"Have you considered the possibility that I might appreciate a little privacy in my personal life?"

"Yes, but I can't let you just go wandering about on the loose without knowing you're okay."

"You're talking about these killers you think are out stalking me?"

"There are some people who'd gain a great deal if you met with an accident."

"Like that drunk today? Was he one of your killers?"

"I think Morgan made a mistake. He shouldn't have blown his cover over that situation. I'll need to replace him."

"Actually, I'd prefer to know what my bodyguard looks like, thank you. And he was pretty slick the way he handled it. I would've missed it if Selene hadn't pointed it out."

"Selene. Yes. Very interesting. Naturally, I'm curious." Doc joined Davis on the sofa and put his arm around him. "Care to tell old Doc all about it?"

"What's to tell? It's all there in your reports."

"I never would've thought you might enjoy getting kicked in the nuts, Davis."

"Well, there you go, Doc. Life is full of little surprises."

"What is it exactly that you enjoy about it, son, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Actually, I don't enjoy it, Doc. Selene enjoys it. I keep hoping she'll stop."

"Have you tried walking away?"

"No way, Doc," said Davis, sipping his drink and smiling. He was enjoying this. "She wouldn't let me just walk away. Are you kidding?"

"I see," said Doc. He got up from the sofa and went to the window to stare for a moment at the boat lights in the Sausalito harbor. Behind him he heard Davis chuckle, a deep baritone chuckle. Doc loved the sound of it. He'd heard too few chuckles like that from Davis in recent years. Still, he had to ask: "How exactly would she stop you if you tried to just walk away?"

"She'd cut me off from the vortex, Doc," said Davis.

Doc turned to face Davis, whose face was alive with mirthful pleasure. "What vortex is that, Davis?"

"The vortex of erotic bliss, of course," said Davis. "Don't you know anything?"
CHAPTER 24

Confidential Memo

July 17, 1996

From Ange Parker, representing Davis Sheffield

To: Michael Sheffield, Vincent Sheffield,

Daniel Sheffield, Jan Sheffield-Randall

And all Directors

Sheffield Industries Board of Directors

RE: Agenda item for the Shareholder's meeting on Wednesday of this week: A proposal for restructuring CFO and Corporate Treasurer responsibilities

As you all know, Davis Sheffield entrusted me with safeguarding the viability of the Green Helmet Program. The advance draft of the 2nd Quarter Treasurer's Report reflects substantially reduced funds available for the program. After due consideration of this and discussion with advisors, I have decided that greater oversight of expenditures is necessary in order to avoid this problem in the future.

There is, from my perspective, a lack of transparency in ongoing financial affairs related to the fact that Michael Sheffield is both Corporate Treasurer and Chief Financial Officer, which means, technically, that he is supervising himself. I propose that Michael Sheffield continue in his invaluable work as CFO, but that some other appropriate person be elected Treasurer, preferably someone who is not directly involved in management, but who can analyze financial matters by reviewing all available information and who can issue frequent reports to shareholders. Jan Sheffield-Randal would be appropriate for this role and for that reason I am inviting her to attend the 2nd Quarter Shareholders' meeting.

There is no provision under the corporate Bylaws for shareholders to call for special meetings. Nor is there a provision in the corporate Bylaws for shareholders to elect corporate officers, this being, as you all know, the exclusive prerogative of the Board of Directors. Shareholders do, however, annually elect a new Board of Directors. This annual election is normally scheduled for the 4th Quarter. However, in view of the present unusual and rather awkward situation in which the rights of the majority shareholder are not represented on the Board of Directors or in the management team, it seems entirely appropriate that an interim election be scheduled for the 2nd Quarter Shareholders' meeting on Friday. With that in mind, on behalf of Davis Sheffield, I will make a motion during that meeting for an interim election and will vote by proxy all of Davis Sheffield's shares -- except for one percent of those shares which I have delegated to Jan Sheffield-Randall, in favor of Jan Sheffield-Randall to be included on a new Board of Directors, presumably along with Vince Sheffield and Michael Sheffield and Yours Truly.

Subsequent to that action I will move or support motions as regards the election of corporate officers to serve for an interim period of six months in favor of Vince Sheffield as President and Chair, Michael Sheffield as Vice President and Jan Sheffield-Randall as Treasurer.

I also plan a motion, concurrent with the election of corporate officers, that major financial expenditures be frozen on a temporary basis until the new Treasurer and I have an opportunity for further analysis.

It may be fairly noted that, except for a temporary freeze on major expenditures, this proposed restructuring in no way alters the de facto decision-making structure at Sheffield Industries. In fact, it makes it binding that Vince and Michael, with Vince as Board Chair -- provided that they agree on policy and direction -- can continue to set policy and direction for the next six months without impediment. Under the existing conditions, bear in mind that Davis Sheffield remains President and Board Chair of this corporation. He has authorized me to inform you that he prefers not to expose Maureen Sheffield's memory to false scandal by challenging your proposed civil action – an action, by the way that Davis Sheffield considers to be frivolous and without substance in law or fact -- and that he has no desire to be involved in the business management of Sheffield Industries other than to protect the Green Helmet program.

If Davis Sheffield believed the Green Helmet program to be in jeopardy, however, based on my counsel or for other reasons of his own, he could theoretically show up in New Jersey, and he could change his mind regarding the extent of his management involvement. It could take a long time, perhaps years, for a civil action charging that Davis is unfit to wend its way through the courts. In the meantime, Davis Sheffield could, at his sole discretion, take the helm at Sheffield Industries and steer in directions some principals might not prefer.

On a personal note, I am aware of the contentious history of Sheffield management since the death of Tom Baskin and before that as well by some accounts. The Green Helmet program, enshrined in the corporate Bylaws, is not universally popular, to say the least. However, the majority shareholder of Sheffield Industries regards the program as the legacy of his late, beloved wife. I have had to report to him my concern that accounting systems have made it difficult for me to determine if distributions to the Green Helmet program validly reflect percentages of actual pre-tax profits. He has instructed me to take whatever measures necessary to obtain accurate information and that is what I am doing by these actions.

In order to make the best decisions possible and to guarantee fairness in view of the fact that there are few shareholders and few voting board members, I recommend that the motions described above be voted on by the entire Board of Directors, including non-voting members who can bring much knowledge and wisdom to this complex and contentious situation.

****

An office suite in Newark, New Jersey

Wednesday, July 17, 1996

"It's a little basic," said Merriam Lockett as she stopped pacing the carpeted floor of the "Roundtable Room" in the "Team Ange" offices to admire a six-foot-high modernistic art piece depicting a giraffe.

"Shaylane's giraffe or the memo?" said Ange, smiling and glancing at Shaylane. Kon Armenta and Shaylane had assumed roles as interior decorators for the offices, purchasing pieces that dramatically blended the works of Native American and South African artists.

Joining Ange, Merriam, Kon and Shaylane at the round table for the vetting of Ange's memo was the hired-gun accountant Byron King, a suspiciously constant companion of Merriam's. Ange and Shaylane had been gossiping about them for days. Byron was quite charming, thought Ange. Cute, too, in a silver-haired, dignified sort of way despite a tendency to over-dress in business suits and silk ties. Merriam, you devil.

"I believe we're talking about the memo," said Byron, "not the giraffe. It goes to the heart of matters. It should smoke them out."

"Smoke them out?" said Kon. "I thought the memo was quite straight-forward. We want truthful financial reports and we aren't going to get them from Michael Sheffield. What am I missing here?"

"Realistically," said Merriam, "we can't expect them to roll over on this." She returned to her place at the round table so she wouldn't be the only one standing. "Rather than smoking them out, perhaps a better metaphor is that we want to soften them up for January. We want to see how they respond, particularly how Vince responds, to the idea of Jan on the board."

"I have Davis' proxies," explained Ange. "But I'm not family. The president of the corporation, currently Davis Sheffield, theoretically chairs board meetings -- if he were here, that is -- and the chair breaks ties. However, the bylaws require that the chair be family, by blood or marriage."

"Jan is family," said Kon, nodding as he saw the tactic.

"Yes," said Merriam. "And in January, regardless of what happens tomorrow, the bylaws provide for the shareholders to elect a new board and for the board to appoint new corporate officers. Our tentative January strategy, if Davis remains out of the picture, is to make Jan president and chair."

"Jan is on our side, I take it?" said Kon.

"I wouldn't go so far as that," said Ange, "but she strongly supports the Green Helmet program."

"Pardon the dumb questions," said Kon, "but if Vince is currently chair, why don't the brothers simply kill the Green Helmet program now, while they have the hammer?"

"Because the Green Helmet program is in the bylaws, and it takes a ¾ vote of shareholders to change the bylaws," said Merriam. "In January, 1991 -- a month before we lost Mo and Silvie -- Rachel and Mo, playing hardball, forced through a change in the corporate bylaws. Mo and Rachel threatened to simply take over Sheffield Industries, to install new officers, a new CEO, and a new CFO. Mo would chair all future board meetings and simply freeze the brothers out. However, if new bylaws setting up the permanent funding of the Green Helmet program were put in place, then she promised to leave the brothers in charge and to return to Seattle to work with the Foundation."

"Michael had a fit of apoplexy and couldn't even speak, the way I heard the story," said Ange. "He walked out. Vince, Rachel and Maureen proceeded to have a knock-down-drag-out battle that lasted until the wee hours of the morning. Vince must've finally decided that his sister really meant it that she'd force him out."

"One more dumb question and then I'll shut up," said Kon.

"That I'd like to see," said Shaylane under her breath.

"Wednesday is a shareholder's meeting. How can we lose?"

"Bylaws again," said Merriam. "The election is a yearly event. Ange's memo shines it on a little when it comes to the idea that shareholders can have an interim election. Practically speaking, or at least, by tradition, Sheffield shareholder's quarterly meetings, except for the January meeting, exist only on paper, as a way to meet the requirements of state law that corporations, even those with only a few shareholders, hold quarterly shareholder's meetings. Three times a year the monthly board meetings are designated as also being shareholder's meetings with pro forma reports and so forth."

"When I try my motion Vince could just not allow it," said Ange.

"So this memo and motions you make at the meeting Wednesday are for what purpose, exactly?" said Kon. "Just a shot across the bow?"

"By offering to accept whatever the full board comes up with I've put a little pressure on them," said Ange. "Word gets around on these sorts of things and they don't want to look bad."

"They won't go for a full board vote," said Byron.

"But it'll put some heat on them," said Merriam. "And mostly we want to get a sense of how they respond to Jan being at the meeting, particularly how Vince responds to the idea of Jan being treasurer."

"And how Jan reacts as well," said Ange. "I've reassigned a portion of proxy votes so that Jan can second my motion."

Merriam studied the memo again for a moment. "Ange, why the freeze on major expenditures? Is that necessary?"

Ange glanced at Shaylane, who set a cautionary eyebrow. The Tericargo takeover matter had to remain secret.

Ange paused. "Fellow Musketeers -- as Shaylane calls us -- I love and respect the openness and honesty that you've all given me. Professional ethics requires me to keep the reasons for the freeze under my hat for the time being. Can you go with me on that?"

"Of course, Ange," said Merriam. Everyone nodded.

"One for all and all for one," said Shaylane.
CHAPTER 25

An apartment in El Cerrito, California

Mid-afternoon, Tuesday, July 16, 1996

"Are you fucking him?"

"Johnny," said Selene, "what is this?"

"Answer me, Marcia."

"All of a sudden you want the gory details. No, I haven't fucked him, which doesn't mean I won't." Marcia/Selene broke from his grasp and sat on the couch, legs pulled up and her head between the scissors of her knees. She didn't understand Johnny sometimes.

"Johnny, you tweakin'?"

"Not when I've got Melly. You know that."

"But over the weekend and now you're coming off and paranoid."

"You sat on his face. You admitted that."

"Admitted?" she said, flaring. "I never admitted a god-damned thing. But sure I face-sat him. For hours. More times than I can count. You want to hear all the details? What I made him do then?"

"That's against the rules at Fantasy Makers."

"In my time-off. A freebie. Because he turns me on."

"Fuck you. The money turns you on."

"If you thought that, you wouldn't have your nuts in a knot. You're jealous."

"So why? Just why would anybody pay you that kind of money, and then buy you a fucking Jeep."

Selene rose and paced for a moment. She went to the window and pulled back the blinds. Melly would be home soon from Montessori.

"Actually, that's a good question," she said finally. She went to him where he stood, arms folded and scowling. "I don't know the answer to that question. Luck." She put her arms on his shoulders but he stayed under his cloud. "Look," she said. "it's our luck. Let's enjoy it."

He shrugged her off and turned partly away. She stood back a moment and revisited her feelings about her guy. Fine man, all in all. Devoted to his daughter, which involved an amazing history in itself. Charismatic singer, temporarily without a band. Sexy, lanky stud with a baby face, luscious full black hair to his shoulders and a crooked smile that made him look like Dennis Quade, people said, and she used to see it. Doper, sometimes freak, but never so much that he wasn't there for his responsibilities co-parenting Melly. Selene loved him truly and she had no doubt of her feelings on that score.

However, sex wasn't the same as it had been, for some months now, and Selene generally blamed the speed or maybe just his lack of interest or some combination. But at the moment she was guiltily aware that she was more erotically interested in Davis than she was in her man.

"I'll let him go," she said.

He laughed. "But see, that's just the point. You can't let him go. We can't let him go. Moneybags can have anything he wants. Anything, anything, anything!" He shouted, punctuating his words with sweeping motions around the room as if to include everything they owned, including in a last gesture, her.

"Okay, good!" she shouted back. "Let's fight. Then we can fuck."

He gave her his crooked smile. "What do you mean by that?"

"We always fuck after we fight," she said. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Well, then let's fight later because Melly will be home any minute."

She closed with him but his embrace was still stiff. "Then when shall we fight?" she said, trying to get him to kiss her.

"Moneybags..." he started.

Selene pulled away. "Stop calling him that! He's a goddamned fairy godfather, for god's sake. And a sweet man." She paced to the window again to check the street for the bus. "You know, if he were just a regular sub at Fantasy Makers paying a regular fee and we were doing the same regular stuff, you wouldn't think twice about it. But the fact that he's given us the money to get out of debt and put Melly in Montessori and buys new speakers for your once and future band and buys me a Jeep, well, that makes it a bad thing. So for fucks' sake let's get rid of this guy so I can go back to Fantasy Makers full time and you can sell your speakers and Melly can go back to that shit-hole school where girls bully her and she comes home crying everyday. Then we can be one happy family again."

"Are we fighting?" he asked. And finally she saw some softness. He took her hand. "Look," he said, "here's the thing." He put their hands over his heart. "Something feels closed down."

She teared. "Yes," she said. She moved their hands to her heart. "Something here too."

"So, fix it," said Johnny.

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. You're the expert on heart channels, chakras, intrapsychological shit."

"Interpsychic."

"Right. Whatever."

"Okay, I'll work on it."

"How?"

"I've got some ideas on it."

"The problem is Moneybags -- I mean, Mr. Fairy Godfather."

"Johnny, I'm a sexworker."

"I hate that word."

"I was a Fantasy Maker before we even met. Same ol', same ol'."

"No, it's not, because Moneybags is good looking – you say – and rich and smart – you have good conversations, you say. My concept of Fantasy Makers clients is, you know, losers."

"Your concept is totally wrong," said Selene. "The lion's share of Fantasy Makers' clients are cool. Half of them are engineers or lawyers, in control, big time, which is why they like being out of control."

Selene went to the window again to check on Amelia. If she had missed her bus they would need to go pick her up and sure enough, the bus was just pulling away. No Mellie.

"Take the Jeep," said Selene, tossing him the keys. "Are you taking her to her mom's?" He nodded, sullenly. "Good, because I told Davis I wanted him to the rehearsal tonight to audition for the band. He plays keyboards."

"Great," said Johnny under his breath as he slammed the door shut behind him.

****

Later that afternoon

Davis showed up at Selene's Monterey Apartments before Johnny got back from taking his daughter five miles and back in rush hour traffic to her mom's in El Sobrante.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Davis, who had volunteered to wash up a huge stack of dishes while Selene dried and put them away.

"No," said Selene. "I'm sort of playing a wild card. You look cute in that apron." Selene was wearing a tube top, jeans cut-offs -- crotch high -- and platform heels that accented her tawny, athletic legs; quite distracting for Davis, which was Selene's intent. She playfully kept asking Davis for help reaching a top shelf, moving her butt into him as he tried to extend over her. This was nice, but unlike the erotic mood during role-play situations in their previous play; Davis was distracted by the real-life impending arrival of her real man, Johnny. He said as much.

"Now don't you worry your sweet little head, Davis. It's true I'm taking us into some uncharted territory. But relax. Not being a witch, some things may not be obvious to you, but here's the deal: You don't know Johnny and he doesn't know you, but you're still in a psychic energy triangle with me. His energy could screw up the energy between you and I and your energy could screw up the energy between Johnny and I. An age-old problem, obviously. But not insurmountable."

"Are you a witch?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think?"

"This psychic energy stuff, is that witchcraft?"

Selene took Davis' head in her hands as she might instruct a child. "If you believe that everything is energy and that the mind can influence energy, what word would you use to describe that belief system?"

"I don't know, magical thinking?"

"Okay," said Selene, giving Davis a peck on the cheek, "I'm a magical thinker, same thing as being a witch, except I like the word witch because it has more pop."

"I like the word witch, too," said Davis, smiling. Then he broke into a Sinatra imitation while scrubbing a pot: "Witchcraft, wicked witchcraft/ and although I know it's strictly taboo/ when you arouse the need in me/ my heart says yes indeed in me/ proceed with what you're leading me toooo!"

Johnny chose that precise instant, with Davis in full croon, to barge through the door, immediately showing by his stunned expression that he had not expected Davis to be there.

"Johnny, I'd like you to meet my friend Davis," said Selene. "He's going to audition for your band." Johnny did not offer to shake hands. He seemed more boy than man to Davis at first look. How could he have an eight-year-old daughter?

"Oh, well, just make yourself right at home, Davis," said Johnny, exaggerating his tone for insult. "But I see you already have. Drink?" Not waiting: "No? Well, I'd love to accommodate you on the band but it's pretty full up. Seems like everybody wants in the band." He sprawled in an overstuffed chair.

"Seems like nobody wants in the band," said Selene.

"I wouldn't say nobody."

"Who's in for sure?"

Johnny ignored her. "Shit, man, you could be my father, apron and all. I can just see the lights shining off your bald head on the stage."

"If you're going for young guys in your band to impress the teen set you'd better change your lyrics," said Davis, retorting with measured energy – not at a challenging level but direct.

"What do you know about my lyrics?"

"Selene played me your demo."

"You mean Marcia? This woman here, Marcia, my fiancé?"

"Your fiancé!" said Selene/Marcia, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Johnny. When did this happen? I'm to be congratulated and I didn't even know it! But usually, you know, the girl is among the first to know. God, to leave paramour-hood behind! Oh, blessed day!" She dropped onto the couch. Davis stood awkwardly. Long seconds passed. He took off the apron and folded it calmly.

"Aw fuck," said Johnny finally, uncurling from his chair and standing with his hand out. "Sorry, Davis. Shit. You guys ambushed me here. I'm fucked up. Smoke a doobie?" He shook hands with a slightly sweaty grip and then casually waved Davis to a rocking chair that had a sleeping cat on it. Davis picked up the cat gently, sat down and petted the stretching, yawning Siamese into his lap where she immediately fell asleep again. He took the joint when it was extended to him, toked on it quickly, exhaled carefully to the side away from the cat, and handed it back.

"What's wrong with my lyrics, man? I mean, be honest. What did you think?"

"I thought they were... interesting," said Davis. "For example, the one about the soldier writing to his mom. But that's not a kid's song. The guitar – that was you, right? – Okay, the guitar was strong in a rock progression and with rock emotion, but the song could have worked as blues or country or even as a folk ballad."

Johnny stared at Davis as if drawing a blank.

Davis continued: "Or it could work as a rock song but more in an Eagles' style, maybe, rather than so pumped up."

More staring.

"That's just my thinking on it," said Davis. "You asked. I'm not trying to..."

"No, no," said Johnny. "No, that's good. You could be right. You play what, keyboards, Marcia said?"

"Not much electric keyboards. Piano, mostly."

"You've played in a band?"

"A blues band."

"But here's the thing: Two problems. First, Marcia told me she told you to audition, like a Fantasy Makers deal, rather than it was, like, your idea, which to me raises some red flags, if you can understand that."

"I understand that."

"Second, Marcia's right, I am sort of having a little problem putting a band together. All I have is some songs, some new speakers and stuff, (smiles and nods at Davis) a prima donna lead guitar who likes dark sounds, metal, and a drummer who... I won't even go into that. So my problem is if I bring you along to audition..."

"Excuse me," said Selene in a miffed tone, "aren't you forgetting somebody?"

"Oh yeah, and Marcia and J.B. as backup singers."

Johnny was quiet and seemed to lose his train of thought, so Davis helped out: "So your problem if you bring me along to audition..."

"Right. I'm afraid it'd reflect on my judgment, you being an older guy -- no offense – and then Marcia's dominatrix games and so forth. Already they're looking at me, like, what's with these songs, what's with no bass player, what's with Marcia and J.B.?

"What do you mean, what's with Marcia and J.B.?" said Marcia, again miffed. "No, never mind. I know. We're not sweet and girly enough for 'em. We don't crawl all over 'em like groupies."

"So you're nixing the idea of me auditioning, I take it," said Davis.

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. Fact of the matter is, and I don't know if you picked up on this, but Marcia is, like, my main man... I mean, you know, not my main man exactly, but my main whatever. She's supporting me while I go for this... I don't know, she believes in me, I guess. If she wants you to audition or whatever, I mean, fuck it, how can I say no to her at this stage of the game?"

Some moments later the odd trio rode together in Marcia/Selene's jeep on the way to a rehearsal space on San Pablo Avenue.

Davis broached a topic that had been on his mind.

"You have a backup singer named J.B. -- the initials, right?"

Selene smirked and suppressed a laugh. She knew, of course, what Davis was curious about.

"Stands for Jail Bait, said Johnny. "And about the time she dropped out of high school she definitely was. When she turned 18 we stopped calling her Jail Bait, so now she's J.B."

"Just curious," said Davis, glancing meaningfully at Selene with a smile. J.B. for Jail Bait had been the name of one of Selene's alter egos, a blackmailing teen. Now Davis would meet the real thing, or at least the role model for it at some level. Oh, what tangled webs these erotic witches weave!

The rehearsal space was an inauspicious storefront just over the border from Albany in Berkeley. On weekends the space, which called itself "Deviations from the Norm," featured open mikes and acoustic folk singers for a 2-buck cover with tea and chocolate chip cookies available. Very Berkeley. During the week Deviations offered an advantage for rehearsals of being located with thrift and antique shops on either side, and an upholstery shop overhead so that at night garage bands could crank it up without complaints from neighbors.

When the trio arrived, a drummer and lead guitar player were cranking it up at a level which might bring complaints, if not from neighbors then from the adjoining block, with a young girl screeching punk style more than a little over the ability of the new sound system to handle it. The result was cacophony, although punk music always sounded that way to Davis.

In any case, the punky singer was no doubt J.B., thought Davis, and in truth, she had a sort of wet dream aspect to her, not disappointing at all in comparison to the J.B. version Selene had created: sexy, sweaty, feverish, torqued, wild, young. Almost petite, like Selene. The two would match up nicely on stage. Punky, orange hair, shaved on the sides. I love the Bay Area, thought Davis.

Davis was not totally immune to a small voice in the back of his mind saying that a fully-grown man, a man of means, a billionaire with the world potentially at his feet, should be above such adolescent fantasy nonsense. He paid the voice – his "parent" voice Doc had called it, using Transactional Analysis language – little attention. Davis knew it as his father's voice. Not to be credited.

When J.B. saw Davis, Selene and Johnny enter, she sauntered with her wireless mike, while screeching, to stand in front of Davis. The unintelligible lyrics included a hook that communicated, in basic form: "You belong to me!" In case there was any doubt of the lyrics, J.B. grabbed Davis by the shirt and pulled him close to her as she improvised: "To me! To me!"

Not to be upstaged, Selene seized Davis' shirt on the opposite side and tugged on it in equal measure while pulling the mike to her lips and singing, "To me! To me!" with substantially better tonal quality. Playfully, laughing and without any sense of actual hostility in the contest, the two young women played tug of war on Davis until the high decibel guitar feedback noise slowly faded away, signaling the end of the, uh, song. The girls collapsed in laughter against Davis and each other. They certainly did know how to make a fellow feel wanted, Davis thought.

"So, Mister," said J.B., sliding her fingers around Davis' belt buckle and lifting on it, "wanna mess around?" Davis glanced at Selene who was smiling with her eyebrows raised.

"Did Marcia tell you my name?" said J.B., running her hands under Davis' belt and around his back

"He knows you're 19, J.B., said Marcia/Selene.

"Oh, poo!"

"Johnny told him."

"That spoilsport!"

"Johnny thinks you're a nice girl," said Selene, laying her arm loosely around Davis' shoulder in a possessive gesture. "He's got no idea what wicked games you hatch up."

"I was already picking out the color of my Jeep," said J.B.

Lord Almighty, thought Davis. Selene's fantasy blackmailer to a tee.

"She's joking," said Selene, laughing. "J.B. is actually a nice girl, just like Johnny says."

"If Johnny says that," said J.B., pouting, "what's with the big eye I get?"

"You wear t-shirts like that, what do you expect?" said Selene, referring to the well worn 49rs T-shirt with holes in it that was cut barely long enough to drape gracefully over the tops of J.B.'s gravity-defying, up-lifted breasts.

So far, Davis had not said a word. But now he turned his attention briefly to the small stage where the three guys had gathered together with beers and were glaring at them.

"Uh, you think maybe we ought to...." Davis started. Selene followed his eyes and agreed, starting Davis in the direction of the stage with a hand on his back.

"Hey Ron!" she said, "Hey Butch! Wassup?" Both band members lifted their beers in gestures of indifference. "Where's the keyboards?"

"Butch forgot to bring it," said Johnny.

"Great," said Selene.

"No problem," said Davis. "I'll go get one. I noticed a music place at Shattuck and University. Be back in a jiff if I can borrow your Jeep."

"I'll go with," said J.B., grinning at Selene, who wagged a finger to say 'now you be good.'

Of course, she wasn't good and soon had Davis thanking his lucky stars that J.B. wasn't actually underage. He was also thankful that the Jeep had bucket seats and a shift knob between them. Not that it was exactly unpleasant driving along University Avenue on a summer's night with a wild-child orange-haired punker girl whose tits had a tendency to sneak from under her shirt when she reached across to run her fingers on his bald head. The fact was, however, that although his adventures with Selene had served to loosen him up quite a bit, his basically shy nature wasn't ready to cope with this much manic sex-pot in one package.

"So how did you meet Selene and Johnny, I mean, Marcia and Johnny?" he said, hoping her response might require her to take her tongue away from licking his ear.

"Oh, that's a long story," she said, sitting back in her seat. "I've known Johnny for ages before Marcia came on the scene. Me and my mom used to take Amelia when she was just a baby to visit her mom at Chowchilla."

"Chowchilla?"

"Yeah, the Valley State Penitentiary for Women in Chowchilla. You don't know this story, I take it?"

"No."

"When Johnny was sixteen he had a relationship with Amelia's mom, Dona McElhenny, who was his track coach and a teacher at his school. They got caught and she got sent to prison. She had Amelia there and they made her have her baby with shackles on."

Davis glanced at J.B. to see if she was serious. She looked quite matter of fact.

"Johnny helped Amelia's grandmother, Dona's mom, take care of Amelia when she was a baby. He felt guilty. He thought it was his fault they got caught and everything. He still thinks that way. He was just like a grown father taking care of Amelia. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty cool."

"Then when Dona got out after two years, her parole officer wouldn't let her see Johnny, although now she gets to see him. She works at a horse place, like a little ranch, where they bring handicapped kids, autistic kids and that sort of thing to ride the horses because it helps them. We have to all keep it a secret that she did time. She doesn't have much money but Amelia gets to ride when she goes there on weekends and sometimes nights. You should see her ride. Looks like a regular cowgirl."

"I haven't met Amelia yet," said Davis.

"You'll love her. Everybody loves her."

Davis and J.B. made it back to "Deviations from the Norm" about forty minutes after they had left. When they walked in, sharing the sliding of a 76-key Yamaha digital keyboard in the box along the floor, they saw only Johnny and Selene. Drummer and drums were gone as well as Butch and his guitar. Selene was sitting on Johnny's lap as a consolation prize. Johnny looked pretty glum.

"Where's Ron and Butch?" said J.B.

"Oh, they're gone," said Selene airily. "Good riddance. They were no good anyway. I was just reminding Johnny that this is where we first met. He didn't remember. Can you believe that? At an open-mike night. I liked his songs."

"Just one more groupie," joked J.B. "Naturally, he wouldn't remember."

"We were just talking about going to that rental hot tub place on University."

"You were talking about going to that rental hot tub place on University," said Johnny.

****

Slipping into the hot tub with three other people, feeling the delicious warmth and the subtle but not unpleasant, in fact, reassuring, smells of bromine and the disinfectants used in the showers and on the mats, took Davis back to his childhood with his mother at Esalen and at a series of New Age retreats. Fond memories.

The present circumstances were a bit different, to say the least. From the excited look in J.B.'s eyes, Davis thought there might be some cavorting in store. Witch Selene, however, had something more structured in mind. She placed them in the hot tub like a hostess arranging guests at a table. They formed a circle conforming to the spa, with Davis and Johnny facing each other and the women on each side. Then she clinically and coolly instructed them on the positioning of their right hands. Davis was to place his right hand on J.B.'s pussy and lay his forefinger finger gently in the slot. J.B. was to place her right hand on Johnny's cock and to take the "helmet of his soldier" between her thumb and forefinger. Johnny was to place his right hand on Selene's pussy and Selene found the head of Davis' cock with her fingers.

"Now," she said, "we are going to pass energy around the circle. When you feel a pulse on your cock, Davis, move your finger in J.B.'s pussy; and J.B., you pass the pulse on with a gentle but firm squeeze on Johnny; and around the circle we will pass the sensations. As quickly as possible, please. I will control the pace of it."

"Feel good? Amazing how fast our energy goes around the circle, isn't it? I'm pacing it to the beating of my heart." Selene's voice had taken on a hypnotic quality. Davis found the process enormously arousing. It also did indeed feel like energy passing, because he could see it in the others as it moved.

"Arousing, isn't it? Yes. Arousal is energy. All of us are a part of the energy arousing us. Love is energy, too. That's why I'm pacing our energy to the beating of my heart. My heart is pumping joyful psychic energy just the way it pumps blood. And we all are doing it, so we are all one heart."

She was teaching and witching them with her lovely hypnotic voice and the images. Davis could see that and he surrendered to it. As he relaxed and accepted her words he drifted easily into a dream-like reality of sweet energy passing between them all.

"Everything is energy," she said. "All the universe is energy, always giving, always perfect, and we are a part of all of it and it's a part of us, and this arousal that we share, and this heart energy we feel, if we feel it fully, it's called joy. Joy onto you. I pass on joy and you all pass it on to each other and back to me. Freely and easily it moves between us. No barriers, no expectations, no possessiveness; just giving and taking – partaking -- of the goodness of being."

And on she went in an inspired, poetic monologue of energy and joy, until, after what seemed like a half-hour but it must have been less, she said, "I'm going to slow the pulse of arousal now (low chuckle) because otherwise I'm going to cum and also Johnny is going to cum and that wouldn't be good for a guy to cum in the tub. Davis, you won't cum because you are a well-disciplined arousal addict. But Johnny is an addict to getting it up, getting it on, and getting it off, like most men are. And J.B. has already cum."

Selene did gradually slow the energy circle, and finally, reluctantly, stopped, but gently and with a sympathetic look in her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that, Johnny. If you want to cum you can fuck me on the mat over there. Or I'll suck you off. Or we can wait until we get home."

"I want to suck Johnny off," said J.B. "It would give me, uh, joy."

"It would give me joy if you did too, J.B.," said Johnny, his eyes wide in amazement. His fantasy girl since the Jail Bait years wanted to suck him off.

"A question, Johnny," said Selene. "Would it give you joy if Davis made me cum with his tongue?"

"Yes," said Johnny, without hesitation and with a huge smile. "Major joy."

****

Some joyful minutes later, and after some remarkable nude hugs between pretty much het Davis and super-het Johnny – go figure -- the foursome ended up back in the hot tub with an after-energy glow surrounding them. The subject of the band came up. Turns out Ron and Butch had cited Selene's professional domme reputation, her plan to have J.B. and herself wear dominatrix leathers on stage, and now the straw that broke the camel's back in Davis showing up to audition. Selene thought they were just making excuses and they wanted to leave the band in any case.

"All things have a purpose and happen for a reason," said Selene.

"Yeah, but now I have to start over and I'm afraid it's pretty much the same with everybody I've ever known who tried to start a band," said Johnny.

"We could hire studio musicians," said Davis.

"What do you mean, studio musicians?" said Johnny. He left unsaid the other question, 'what do you mean we?' although he thought it.

"I'm thinking just temporarily," said Davis. "Then once your band gets going and maybe you've cut a record, then you could gradually replace the studio musicians with permanent band members."

"No, but seriously, what's a studio musician?" said Johnny. "Obviously somebody who plays in a studio, I guess."

"A freelancer. Comes and goes to add some kick-ass licks when people are cutting an album and want to jazz it up. Or, maybe they want to add violins or trumpets or something."

"So they must be pretty good."

"The best. Just not famous."

"You must be living in a dream world. You don't see a few little realistic problems with this idea off the bat?"

"Yes, I do see some problems. It could be pretty overwhelming. But I'll share with you the way a good friend, a terrific blues guitarist -- known to freelance herself from time to time -- helped me. She and I started out together, just the two of us and worked up some songs slowly – weeks went by -- until we felt like we had something going. And then we brought in the rhythm guitar. And later we brought in the trumpet and the bass. Everybody picked up on what we'd started."

"I was thinking about the moolah. And why would guys that good want to jam with me?"

"Who pays the piper calls the tune," said Davis. "And I'll take care of the moolah part."

"You've got to be kidding. You'd do that?"

"Not unless I approve of the plan, he won't," said Selene.

"Well, you'd approve of it, wouldn't you?" said Johnny. "Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I know you better than Davis does, that's why."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that, as you know, I fundamentally disagree with your philosophy of what you need in order to have creative inspiration, what you call 'meth in your madness.' And as a matter of fact I have a problem with this idea in any case, because it goes too far. I thought it would be fun to make Davis try out, because, I don't know... Davis, I like having you around and I had a fantasy of wouldn't it be cool if you were in the band. You say you play keyboards. And even if it didn't work out I thought it'd be fun to have you audition. But I don't want to exploit you financially on some pie-in-the-sky bullshit."

There followed an awkward moment while Selene and Johnny glared at each other, J.B. looked diplomatically at the pattern of woodwork on the ceiling and Davis tried to work out how to respond.

"I respect your honor on the exploitation of poor me issue, Selene. Or should I call you Marcia?"

"Selene. I feel like Selene with you."

"Okay, Selene. Here's the thing. It so happens I have some money put aside in a kitty called 'patron of the arts project.' I've been looking for an artist to, you know, be a patron for, and the truth is, I understated my impression of your demo tape, Johnny. I thought it was more than interesting. I thought it was quite good. But I didn't want to jump out there stating a judgment like that because who am I? I'm no music critic. Just because I like something doesn't mean a lot in the music world.

"But if I'm going to be a patron of the arts I'm going to have to get off the ball at some point. And what am I going to do, decide who to go with based on what some critic thinks or go with my own gut feeling? I like your stuff. And the money is already set aside for something like that."

"Well, I don't know," said Johnny, with his charming crooked smile. "I've never had a patron before, so I don't know, what do I have to do?"

"You have to give up the crank for awhile," said Selene. "Don't look at me like that."

"Blackmail."

"Yes."

Long pause: "Okay, it's a deal. No methamphetamines."

Selene looked at Davis. "So what next, patron?"

"That was easy," said Davis.

"No," said Selene, " not easy. It's an argument we've been having for over a year. And Johnny has never, ever promised to stop. Now he has and I know he will. Johnny has honor."

"I know," said Davis.

"What do you mean, you know?"

"J.B. told me the story of Johnny, Amelia and her mom."

Johnny let himself slip under water. Selene glared at J.B.

Nobody spoke.

"I wasn't supposed to tell nobody," said J.B. to Davis in a thin voice. Then to Selene, who looked away: "I'm sorry." Johnny had come up for air. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Johnny gets embarrassed when people know about all that," said Selene to Davis.

Johnny kicked J.B. gently under the water. "It's okay, J.B. Don't worry about it."

Davis adroitly changed the subject: "It's your call, Johnny, but here's what I recommend. I have a dear friend, the woman I mentioned as a sometimes studio musician. As a guitarist she's amazing. But even more importantly, she's an honest critic and a teacher. Her name is Jezebel. One word name, like Cher or Jewel. She plays blues, but she can play anything. So picture this: Jez comes here and jams with you on your songs. Maybe I join in if I can keep up. Then we evaluate, see what we come up with. We take it step by step."

Johnny nodded.

"So if you okay it, next step is I call Jez and she what she thinks. Her group plays on weekends but if she goes for it I can make arrangements to get her out here during the week."

"Where does she play?" said Johnny. "Maybe I should go have a listen."

"A club in Chicago."

"Chicago!" said Selene, coming up out the water to stand in the center of the hot tub, water streaming from her nipples inches away and at eye level with Davis. "You're talking about flying her back and forth from Chicago?"

"Yeah," said Davis, his voice suddenly thick with arousal. "It'll be worth it, and besides..."

"Yes?"

"I've been wishing I had an excuse to bring her out her. I miss her."

"I suppose she's pretty," said Selene, taunting him with her breasts almost touching his face. She had allowed her voice to slip into the "Helen" alter ego they had used in roleplaying during their first meeting.

"As a friend," said Davis, quickly. "I miss her as a friend."

Selene slipped back down into the water to the spa ledge, smiling.

Damn this is fun, thought Davis.
CHAPTER 26

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

Friday, July 19, 1996

It was Ange's fourth visit to the oversized meeting room in the Sheffield Industries showcase headquarters. She found herself hating the glass and chrome space just as much as she had the first time. It looked like an auditorium in a Naval museum, with ten-foot long models of twentieth century warships hanging overhead, and wall length murals depicting the WWII battles of Midway and Coral Sea. A place dedicated to war. Very intimidating.

Eleven men and one woman, Jan Sheffield-Randall, sat at the unnecessarily long (and distinctly un-round) twenty-five-foot mirror-polished mahogany table, all sitting in high-backed executive office chairs like Inquisition judges. Vincent Sheffield sat at the head of the table with Michael Sheffield next to him. The two men chatted with each other, pretending not to notice Ange as she came in, but all other eyes were on her, including those on the nearside of the table, whose occupants had swung their chairs around in unison. She made her entrance smiling, raising her small briefcase theatrically in a nod to the attention. She had dressed more than a little on the sexy side, in a business suit but with some cleavage and a hemline above the knees. Her target audience, after all, was male.

Jan smiled broadly and rose to greet her.

"Look at you, girl," said Ange, in a voice others could not hear. Jan was dressed in a power-pantsuit and had a new spiky hair-do. Ange had never seen Jan in anything but jeans and t-shirts. They hugged and air-kissed.

"I don't see a chair for me," whispered Ange. "Shaylane isn't here to scare Daniel out of his," she joked. But it was awkward.

"I'll escort you to mine," said Jan in a conspiratorial undertone. She had already considered the problem. "And then I'll get somebody to put one next to Daddy for me, and later we'll trade chairs if you want to move to the head of the class." She winked. Clever girl.

As Ange took Jan's seat at the table she did a quick inventory of the faces around the table. She had met all but one of them briefly on earlier occasions and had recently studied photos and bios to prepare for the meeting.

Sitting counterclockwise from Michael Sheffield's position on Vince Sheffield's right, sat Daniel Sheffield, who did not have a friendly expression but neither did he seem upset; a similarly indifferent Randall Smithson of the law firm Smithson, Merriman, Douglas and Frazer – what was he doing here? – ditto for his cohort Simon Frazer on Smithson's right; next was the mystery guest, a tall, trim man in his forties who Ange thought would be attractive were his face not spoiled by dead eyes and deep frown lines on his forehead.

Next to Mister Cheerful, in sharp contrast, was a jolly looking retired Navy Admiral Barnes McKinley. At the foot of the table sat the former astronaut Lt. Colonel Dane "Scooter" Hamilton; on his right the Honorable former U.S. Congressman Fields Meredith; next was Jan's chair now taken by Ange. To Ange's right was Ken Black, a retired book publisher, then the retired steel executive David McManson, and finally Jan Sheffield-Randall, who had pulled up a small chair to sit beside her father. She pretended not to notice his glowering at her.

No sooner had Ange taken her chair than Vince dinged his water glass for attention.

"Might as well get started. We have a very exciting announcement to make tonight and also an unusual surprise proposal on the table from our resident Davis Sheffield fan club representative, which I dare say couldn't have come at a more interesting moment.

"First, however, as most of you know, in addition to chairing this board I'm chairman of the New Jersey for Bob Dole organization, and I think all of you have read the polls...."...and off he went for some moments -- rah, rah, three bags full -- in a pitch for political support from the mostly wealthy, no doubt mostly Republican men at the table.

Ange heard none of Vince's rambling on the subjects of Clinton versus Dole. Her mind was racing to catch up to his introductory comments. Something seemed wrong. Instead of anger and tactical obstruction, Vince seemed relaxed and confident. She could see similar emotions on the faces of Michael Sheffield and his son Daniel. Daniel glanced at Ange and smirked. He and Michael shared a giggle over something Daniel pointed out in Ange's memo on the table in front of them.

Ange flushed. She glanced around the table and was stunned to see what looked like open triumph in the eyes of the law partners Douglas and Frazer. They rudely gazed at her, and when Daniel noticed the eye-to-eye confrontation he nudged Michael and the two of them piled on as if sharing sub-rosa information. Ange was to have a comeuppance, their eyes seemed to say, and won't it be fun. Even the mystery man glanced at Ange as if having some knowledge of her. She felt overwhelmed. The men exuded malice. They were crazy Sally in the jail cell.

No, they weren't. Get a hold of yourself, girl. She heard Shaylane's voice telling her to shake it off. She heard her Planned Parenthood counselor Gwen's voice from years ago....

Gwen? She hadn't thought of Gwen in years. What was this, some kind of flashback? She remembered talks with Gwen about post-traumatic stress syndrome. Good grief, no time for that kind of nonsense now.

Ange put her hands under the table to hide that they were shaking. She glanced at Jan for support and saw from Jan's expression and subtle hand motion that something was expected of her. She realized that Vince had spoken to her.

"Sorry," she said. "My mind was a million miles away."

"You don't regard this meeting as being worthy of your attention?" said Vince.

Ange struggled for composure. "Don't take it personally, Vince. I always go to sleep when people talk about Bob Dole." That earned her a few chuckles. She avoided looking at Michael, Daniel or the law firm partners. Admiral McKinley smiled sweetly and gave her a thumbs-up. She could have kissed him.

"I asked if you would read your little memo," said Vince. "I'm afraid we didn't get copies to everyone."

Ange did as requested, her voice initially too high in what she thought of as her girly range, which she hated. It took several minutes for the reading, however, and by the time she finished her voice was stronger and had found its more professional alto register. She felt more confident as she looked up to gauge the reaction of the group. There were some nods of approval but she was startled to see the same amused looks in the rogue's gallery directly across from her at the table. She felt her confidence waver.

"You do realize," said Michael, slumping in his chair and affecting indifference, "that a motion requires a second from a voting member of this board?"

"I'm prepared to second Ange's memo in its present form," said Jan, glancing at her father, who looked suitably surprised. "Ange has allocated a portion of Davis Sheffield's proxy to me on a temporary basis as she mentioned in her proposal."

"You two are in cahoots?" said Vince. "I should've known."

"Why would you do this, Jan?" said Michael.

"That should be obvious," said Jan. "Or it would be if you'd been listening when I kept saying I'd like a seat at the table."

"You want to take my job as treasurer?" said Michael, no longer slumped in his chair and no longer speaking in droll tones. He shook his head incredulously. He lifted his hands to Vince as if to say, "Do something about your child."

"Well, Jan," said Vince, "now you have a seat at the table and you will have one as long as Ange Parker continues to so delegate. That's fine with me. Just fine. In fact, I rather like it that you can be involved, even if we don't see eye-to-eye on everything. I don't think you know everyone here. We'll get to that in due time, at our coffee break I think will do.

"Gentlemen, this is my daughter Doctor Jan Sheffield-Randall, of whom I am very proud. She has a Ph.D. in computer science from M.I.T. and she makes a strong case that in the next two decades the defense industry is going to be revolutionized by computer technology."

"In the next five years," said Jan, smiling.

"In any case I've been thinking we should get Jan on this board, so thank you, Ange Parker. I didn't realize you two even knew each other.

"Now, as to the matter of a vote of the entire board on your proposal, Ange Parker, of course, we have no objection whatsoever. We have complete confidence in our board of directors and we often rely on their collective judgment in management decisions even though we don't often ask for a formal vote.

"You couldn't be expected to know, my dear," said Vince, in a tone that could hardly have been smarmier, "that this is not the first time the entire board has been consulted and has voted on matters relating to our Green Helmet misadventures. There were no minutes recorded for the special meeting last February when decisions were made regarding the shameful moral turpitude of Davis Sheffield, but the decision to seek his removal from the board was made by a vote of the entire board.

"I see that surprises you. I'll share a little of the history of it, because it may bear on how you wish to approach the rest of this meeting.

"For almost two years after Rachel Baskin died there was a sham quality to the board of directors meetings, thanks to Davis Sheffield's little games. Without attending meetings or paying any attention whatsoever to the real life financial issues facing the corporation, Davis Sheffield arranged to protect his precious Green Helmet program by keeping his titular position as chair and installing two cronies, Morris Turnbull and Phil Sheridan on the board. Believe it or not, his two stooges sat through meeting after meeting with nary a peep, letting me chair the meeting in Davis Sheffield's absence and just sitting there like bumps on a log. Incredible.

"Then one day, lo and behold, along comes a little lady from Australia with a story to tell. Actually, we never met the saucy Aussie, as Michael calls her, but we had a deposition videotaped. Turns out this gal was abused by Davis and his wife Maureen back in the 80's, trapped in a sordid nightmare of sadomasochistic lust that included drugs and wild parties.

"We approached Morris and Phillip and told them we had evidence that Davis Sheffield had a history that made him ineligible to be on the board or in any public role with Sheffield Industries due to the scandal that would come out if these behaviors were to come to light. They didn't believe us. Davis Sheffield could do no wrong in their eyes. But they agreed to leave the matter to a vote of the entire board. After seeing the video the majority of the board voted to seek civil action against Davis and there was no way at that stage for Morris and Phillip to renege.

"Which brings us to today, Ange Parker. My question to you is this: Are you sure you want to leave these matters to the judgment of the entire board? What if we have new reports of wrongdoing by Davis Sheffield?"

"I'm sure."

"How does this man inspire such loyalty?" Vince raised his hands in amazement. "But why stop there, Ange Parker? Are you a gambling woman? Perhaps there are some other matters you'd like to have the entire board consider tonight."

"I'll stick with this memo."

"What if I told you that Davis Sheffield is a wanted criminal?"

"I'd think you were crazy."

"Well, perhaps not exactly a wanted criminal... yet. But suppose I told you that your darling Davis Sheffield, known pervert, is now also under indictment for multiple counts of embezzlement, conspiracy, money laundering and RICO and that a warrant has been issued in federal court?"

Low chuckles from the men across from her at the table told Ange this was the surprise they had been savoring.

"What're you talking about?" said Ange.

"Ange Parker," said Michael Sheffield, "meet Paul Pellete, United States Attorney for the District of New Jersey."

Mystery guest Pellete said nothing but simply slid a folder across the table to Ange. Ange skimmed the contents for a moment. The room was totally quiet awaiting her response.

"This isn't a warrant," said Ange, finally. "It's a summons."

"The summons will become a warrant if the defendant doesn't appear in court," said Pellete. His voice was high and squeaky, diminishing his somewhat imposing physical appearance.

"This is based on a grand jury indictment," said Ange.

"Indeed it is," said Pellete.

"All a grand jury indictment requires is that somebody talks a U.S. attorney into it," said Ange. "And then the grand jury only hears one side. No defense witnesses. No cross. No evidence. This has bullshit written all over it."

"I should warn you...." squeaked Pellete.

"I think this is an effort to force Davis Sheffield to appear so he can be served on a civil matter, pure and simple."

"If you have knowledge of crimes committed," said Pellete, his voice rising, "then you could also be indicted for..."

"There's nothing in this summons," said Ange, interrupting, "that says a damned thing about what Davis supposedly did."

"Grand jury proceedings are secret," said Pellete.

"How convenient," said Ange.

"The grand jury deliberations may be secret," said Michael, "but I'll tell you what isn't secret: What isn't secret is the fact that huge amounts of money, our money, money that is never accounted for in any way, shape or form after being disbursed in the Green Helmet racket, somehow finds it's way back into Davis Sheffield's pocket after being laundered in Korea.

"Don't look surprised, Ange Parker," said Michael. "I know full well you know all about this."

"Korea?" said Ange. "Are you serious?"

"Just this year," said Vince, "hundreds of millions of dollars have been funneled to numerous secret accounts from Korean sources, accounts held by Davis Sheffield. But guess what, Davis Sheffield has no shares in any Korean company, no ownership, no visible connection whatsoever, other than the fact that money is channeled to him on a regular basis, like clockwork. Passport records show he has never even been to Korea. Now isn't that interesting? And isn't it interesting that when he needed a billion or more to pay inheritance taxes after Rachael died, that money just sort of appeared, like magic, so that he didn't have to sell any Sheffield shares."

"The Green Helmet program," said Michael, "is a shell game. The only question in my mind, Ange Parker, is whether you're going to admit being in on the con, or whether you're going to claim you were led up the garden path by virtue of your youth and inexperience. Probably you were romanced, seduced and dazzled with expensive presents. Is that it?"

Ange was struck dumb. She felt overwhelmed and struggled for a response.

"The Green Helmet program isn't a shell game," said Jan, her voice calm and strong.

"Jan," said Vince sternly, "We welcome your opinion but this isn't a matter of personal opinion. It's a matter of law, criminal activity and hard fact."

Jan laid her palms flat on the table. "I know for a fact that the Green Helmet program isn't a shell game."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Jan," said Daniel, speaking up and half laughing as he did so, "quit while you're ahead."

"Furthermore, I can prove it," said Jan, not bothering to look at her cousin.

"If you have evidence bearing on this case," said U.S. Attorney Pellete, "you'll have an opportunity at trial."

"I can prove it right now," said Jan.

"Go ahead," said Michael, smiling. "Prove it."

"Michael," said Jan, "you said the Green Helmet money is never accounted for in any way shape or form. As a matter of fact, that isn't true. I've kept detailed records of the award recipients and pretty much how the money was spent. Only a small part of the Green Helmet money is unaccounted for."

"Is this true?" said Pellete, looking at Vince.

"You've done some kind of investigation and not told anyone?" said Vince, coloring.

"I do investigations every day on every aspect of Sheffield Industries," said Jan.

"Come now," said Michael. "Every day and every aspect?"

"It's a computer thing," said Jan, smiling.

"You said you could prove, right now, that the Green Helmet isn't a shell game," said Admiral Barnes McKinley. "How could you do that?"

"I can pick up the phone and ask my staff to rush a printout of the Green Helmet recipient summary."

"A summary," said Scooter Hamilton. "wouldn't necessarily show us the detail of how money was spent."

"True," said Jan, "but pick five or ten recipients from the list and I can ask my staff to bring us a printout of the detail for those randomly chosen recipients. In almost all cases, the size of agency budgets after Green Helmet grants is so large in comparison to prior budgets that it's obvious how the money was spent."

"The money from Korea..." said Michael. "You have a printout on that, too?"

"I'm sure Jan's computers contain some valuable information," said Vince. "We'll take a look and forward the records to the court. However, keep in mind, Jan, that if a recipient of a grant gets two million bucks, spending half of it could show up as good works in your computers even if half is kicked back. The evidence we uncovered, even before the grand jury was convened, is damning. In the months prior to the IRS hearings, Davis Sheffield traveled almost every week in secret by private jet to Chicago. There, under an assumed name, he frequented a low-life bar where members of organized crime are known to hang out. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he was doing there."

"Bringing kickback money to launder?" said astronaut Dane "Scooter" Hamilton.

Ange, her mind racing, had started thinking tactically in trial lawyer terms. If the indictment led to a trial it may have been a mistake to alert the prosecutor, in advance, to the existence of Jan's research. And it might be a mistake to provide them with advance knowledge of Davis' actual reasons for traveling to Chicago. The idea that he had done so to be in a jazz band and mix it up with street people would not fly anyway, without testimony to back it up. It may also have been a mistake when Ange had shown open surprise at the Korean connection. She needed to cultivate a poker face. Ange felt frozen in her chair. She needed time to think.

"I'm sure we can sort all this out without a trial," she said, lamely.

"It's a little late for that," said Michael. "The indictments are public knowledge and we've already had inquiries from the press."

"Fuck," said Ange under her breath.

"Do you still want it put to a vote, Ange Parker," said Vince, "whether to put the treasurer responsibilities in the hands of champions of the Green Helmet scam?"

Ange glanced around the group. Even Barnes McKinley, her most likely supporter, shook his head no.

"No," Ange said softly.

"What's that?" said Michael, gloating. "Couldn't hear you."

"Fuck you, Michael," said Ange.

"Personally, I'm not ready to vote now," said former publisher Ken Black. "However, since the matter has been put to the entire board, I move that we table the proposal and reconsider it after we've had a chance to look over the reports from Jan."

"I second," said the retired president of Philadelphia Steel, David McManson.

"Before that vote I have a question," said one-time U.S. Congressman Fields Meredith. "Have steps been taken to freeze Green Helmet disbursements until this all gets cleared up one way or the other?"

Law firm partner Randall Smithson spoke up for the first time in the meeting: "We couldn't freeze them, Congressman, but not for lack of trying. Judge Fishbein turned us down on several motions from every angle. No figuring her logic. She said she wanted to hear counter motions from the other side and finally said she didn't want to hear any more motions until she heard from Davis Sheffield or his attorneys. And she set the date of the summons for a month from now."

"Never mind that the evidence for fraud is overwhelming," said the other law partner Simon Frazer.

"She mentioned The New York Times piece," said Smithson. "She's probably a Green Helmet fan."

"Very frustrating, I'm sure we can all agree, given the situation," said Vince. "However, we have a motion on the table."

The motion to table Ange's proposal passed narrowly. Those board members voting Aye included Ange, Jan, Ken Black, David McManson and Admiral Barnes McKinley. Those against were Vince, Michael, Fields Meredith and Dane "Scooter" Hamilton.

All matters considered, the postponement was as good as she could hope for, Ange realized. A small victory, but more bad news was to come.

"Now we have an acquisition in the works," announced Vince. "Daniel, would you like to make the announcement, since this will be your baby?"

"Thanks, Vince," said Daniel. "This afternoon, immediately after the market closes at 4:30, we'll send out a tender offer to shareholders of Tericargo, Incorporated. It's pretty much a slam-dunk situation. We've already purchased a sizeable block of shares from one of the Anderson group members at par. The tipping point for a controlling interest is easily within reach. The market value of the company has been sliding for years. Tericargo management is saddled with legacy obligations, pensions, union contracts and top-heavy administrative costs. They're bleeding and it'll be a mercy to put 'em out of their misery. Shareholders who aren't a part of the Anderson family are going to love it. We're offering five points over the selling price as of today."

"I remember discussions about the company last year," said David McManson. "I think it was Fields who said there are hostile takeovers and then there are hostile/hostile takeovers and that Tericargo is one of the hostile/hostile kinds."

"Thanks, David," said Fields Meredith. "I did say that and I'm curious now how you plan to walk in and turn around a losing proposition with not only the unions to deal with but pissed off management as well."

"Yeah, Daniel," said Vince, grinning broadly. "How do you plan to deal with that?

"I should mention to everyone" Vince continued, "that this whole project is sort of Daniel's baby. He's suddenly decided to work for a living."

"Thanks very much, Uncle Vincent," said Daniel in a snide tone. "I think of this challenge as a sort of vacation. I've been on the front lines for quite a while and I could use a break. But make no mistake. We're in for a rude awakening. As I'm sure you know, yesterday the bastards blew up a 747, TWA flight 800, not far from here, killing two hundred and thirty innocent people. Is that enough to wake us up? Probably not. We'll see.

"Oh, oh, my father is giving me his cease-and-desist hand signal. Stay on topic, Daniel. Where were we? Oh, yes, Tericargo. It doesn't take a genius to figure out Tericargo. The unions and the fat-cat managers and their cozy set-ups with government bureaucrats, customs and so forth are, guess what? Losing money! Hello? Earth to Tericargo: This isn't working. Duh! More of the same would just delay the inevitable. My plan is to shake things up top to bottom. We'll end up with a new team and drastically lower costs. In addition, because they've lacked funds to buy modern scanners they're behind the curve with competitors. We can rectify that and lower payroll costs in the process."

"If the Longshoremen go on strike, nothing moves," said David McManson. "Teamsters won't cross the line."

"The union contracts are with Tericargo. After the merger..." Daniel started.

"Tericargo is a public company," said McManson. "Won't it be sticky to merge a private company with a public company without taking Sheffield public?"

"It can be done," said Michael, coming to his son's rescue. "Once we're in control we'll be in a position to force Tericargo into liquidation."

"Whew!" said McManson. "And Daniel Sheffield, buyer and seller of small arms to Third World countries, is going to honcho this bloodbath?"

"I've been on the scene at some actual bloodbaths," said Daniel, smiling with no warmth at McManson, his long-time critic. "By comparison, this'll be small potatoes."
CHAPTER 27

San Francisco Bay

Friday, July 19, 1996

Six bells and all's well. (Six bells in the afternoon watch equal 3:00 p.m.) The 43-foot Ketch-rigged Nautor Swan-built motorsailer Whatever was on the return leg from her weekly cruise, this one the longest yet, taking the intrepid bayfairers under the Richmond Bridge and as far as the Whatever's draw would safely allow into the far reaches and calm breezes of San Pablo Bay. They had dropped anchor and picnicked perhaps too long and now faced a return against both tide and the stiff breezes of San Francisco Bay to home berth at the Alameda Naval Station.

The adverse conditions were not a problem, thanks primarily to the presence onboard of Coast Guard Admiral (Ret.) and sailing expert William Lasky. Also on board: First Officer (a bit of a joke) Robert Davis Jones, and crew Gerty Lasky, Samantha Kirkham, Randy Kirkham, Gary Walker and, last but not least, Ship's Doctor Maynard Travestor.

Davis had had the helm, under sail with no help from the 85 hp Perkins diesel engine, on the downward leg. Piece of cake, other than a moment of slight tension having to do with certain erratic swirls of current near an island by the Richmond Bridge.

On the return leg, "helmswoman" Sam took over, to enjoy being tutored by the Admiral on the vicissitudes of, for example, true wind versus apparent wind. Lasky was delighted that Sam wanted to challenge the Bay by returning against the elements as much under sail as possible. She had a knack.

"The engine speed will increase the angle of the apparent wind," he explained, while drawing on his pipe in the pilothouse. "Apparent wind is basically an average between the true wind and what you generate with your engine on the boat's movement."

Sam seemed to think that made perfect sense. Davis, sipping tea with Gerty at a close bench behind the pilothouse, enjoyed watching them.

"Where on earth did you find Samantha?" said Gerty. "Bill thinks she's got the sailing gift."

Davis loved spending time with Gerty. He had thought of her, since he was a child, as a prototype Earth Mother, the kind who brings you late night warm milk with honey and tucks you in. He looked at her now through eyes misty with memories. He thought she hadn't changed a bit, her eyes still warm and gentle. He thought he saw an aura around her. Maybe it was the way the cabin lights reflected on her silver hair. Or maybe she was an angel.

"Did you read about the Underground Bathrooms magazine, honey?" he said.

"Well, sure I did."

"Sam runs that program. She works with the mayor."

"Oh, really? That's amazing."

"And not only that, but Randy and Gary work with her, too, on that program. They help organize the street people to keep it going."

"Well, imagine that. And here I am out here with them. I had no idea."

"Randy was the one who christened the 'Whatever,' said Davis, "after the refit. He stood for the longest time with his champagne bottle at the ready. Nobody knew what name he would come up with. I think he was inspired."

Gerty, eyes dancing, laughed in her soft, gentle way.

In the meantime, while Samantha fought the currents of San Francisco Bay and Davis and Gerty enjoyed renewing their 30-year-old relationship, other crew members were busily engaged in their appointed duties. Gary Walker shouldered a heavy responsibility for all aspects of tack and sail -- a duty commensurate with his experience as an officer who had stood some time on a patrol boat in Vietnam. His duty was made somewhat easier by the fact that the Whatever in her latest incarnation featured a push button roller-furling jib and in-boom roller-furling main, trimmed with hydraulic winches controlled from the pilothouse. Which is to say, Admiral Lasky pretty much controlled everything from his chair.

Nonetheless, as Lasky had told Gary, hands on deck were still needed. Somebody had to check and verify that all systems were within normal parameters, that lines had not gotten snagged and so forth. Gary kept an eye out for anomalies, beer in hand.

As security, Doc and Randy, the ship paranoids, sat aft in deckchairs scanning the horizon for CIA helicopters or suspicious watercraft. They were a good team. Doc was impressed that Randy actually spotted a distant speedboat keeping pace, a speedboat that Doc strongly suspected was piloted by Lyle Morgan, Davis' semi-secret bodyguard. He was at least a half-mile away, but Randy had picked them out before the Whatever cleared the Berkeley pier.

Randy, paranoid though he may be, was fun company for Doc.

"Those are our guys," said Doc, regarding the speedboat crashing through waves in the distance. "Which complicates things. Now we need to watch who might move on them."

"Gotcha," said Randy.

Doc's satellite phone rang. That was unusual. He had brought it aboard at Davis' request because Davis wanted to call his blues guitarist friend in Chicago. Normally, Doc only used the untraceable hi-tech phone for outgoing calls. When he called the Foundation or Committee offices he always pretended he was calling from a sailing yacht in the South Seas – their cover. Now here he was, somewhat ironically, actually on a sailboat and getting a call.

Moments later, Doc took the phone to Davis in the pilothouse and motioned he should go below for privacy. Doc followed him below deck.

"Sonofabitch!" said Davis, after listening to Ange and Merriam for a few minutes. It was 6:00 p.m. in New Jersey, and a snafu had developed involving, incredibly, a federal indictment. Ange and Merriam couldn't handle the legal challenge on their own, primarily because they were in the dark on the Korean money. Davis had tried to honor Rachel's request that Tom Baskin's foreign venture not become public knowledge.

Worse, there was a Wall Street Journal story that included an account of the moral turpitude lawsuit as well as the federal indictment, with a photo of Davis in his bearded persona. And if that wasn't enough, Davis picked up that Ange had had her confidence badly shaken.

Davis had a sinking feeling. Mr. Lee and associates at Samdai would probably turn off the tap on the "royalties," if faced with public scandal. A summons on a federal indictment could force him into the open to be served on the moral turpitude charges. And his parents were sure to know of both problems, his father being a regular reader of the Wall Street Journal.

It also pained him to a surprising degree to hear Ange struggling. He felt suddenly responsible for her. Protective. Perhaps the whole adventure was over and he had to face the music. He didn't like that idea at all.

Merriam helped Davis gain perspective after he had explained in some detail the history and nature of the payments from Korea. She assured him with proper documentation of the payments the indictment would be quashed. It would be a habeas corpus. No crime.

Reassured, Davis asked Ange if she wanted to continue, telling her it would be okay if she didn't. He said he could come back and face the music on the civil action if she wanted. He also mentioned something in code called the "nuclear option" and gave her a green light on that, but they didn't talk about it on the phone because neither Merriam nor Doc knew about it. It was between Davis and Ange.

Ange didn't want to quit, said she didn't want him in New Jersey and said thanks for the green light. Very empowering. But she said she was struggling with something from her past that she thought she had put behind her. Davis got little from Ange regarding the something from her past – something she was obviously reluctant to talk about – other than that a family therapist had helped her years ago.

"So go see the therapist again now," said Davis.

"She's probably still in California," said Ange. "I can't ask her to come all the way to New Jersey because poor little me is having a post traumatic episode from ten years ago."

"Sure you can," said Davis. "I insist. Make her an offer she can't refuse."
CHAPTER 28

New York City

Saturday, July 20, 1996

Ange arranged to meet with Gwen Hartley in the Executive Meeting Room of the opulent Waldorf Towers on Park Avenue in New York City. While Ange met with Gwen she offered to treat Shaylane to a massage in the Towers spa but Shaylane opted for the fitness center. Getting soft, she said as she flexed her biceps and explored them with critical fingers.

"Thanks so much for coming," said Ange to Gwen as she strode to greet her one-time abortion counselor. Gwen looked just like Ange had remembered her from a decade earlier, in her early forties now and perhaps a little thicker around the middle but still an attractive woman with a tanned California look. She wore her long blonde hair in a braid, Native American-style. Just as Ange remembered, Gwen had a calm demeanor that broke easily into jolly laughter. After extended hugs, she lifted her arms in tribute to the elegant surroundings of the meeting room with its plush Oriental carpets, polished mahogany furniture and tasteful original art and sculpture.

"Okay," she said, "I'm impressed. How is this possible, Ange? First class tickets and a limousine? My room looks like the Queen's bedroom at Windsor Castle and now the concierge tells me pre-paid theatre tickets can be arranged. I knew exotic dancing paid well but I had no idea!" Jolly laughter. Same old Gwen.

"Well, when I heard from your office that you were a doctor now," said Ange, "I realized you wouldn't be satisfied with second best."

"Maybe you could explain that to my husband."

"Is your doctorate in psychology?"

"Sexology. Sex problems? You call, we haul."

"Do you need to be having sex in order to have sex problems?"

"No. Usually the opposite."

"Well, at the moment, sex is the last thing on my mind."

"Okay."

Ange remembered now how Gwen used the word "okay". She used it a lot and always with a gentle smile that made Ange feel accepted. Gwen used a sort of therapeutic aikido. She rarely pushed back but somehow she left Ange looking at herself differently.

"The last time we talked..." Ange started, taking a chair.

"The late night phone call?" said Gwen, pulling a chair to a position where they were facing each other.

"Late night phone call? Oh, dear. I did call you, didn't I? I'd forgotten about that. I was so upset when I was arrested. I thought it'd keep me from becoming an attorney. I guess I didn't know who else to call."

"I hope I was helpful."

"You said exotic dancing was like a toothache."

"Get out of here!" Jolly laughter. "No way did I say that."

Ange laughed in return, enjoying Gwen immensely. "Oh, yes you did. You said exactly that. You said when a person has a bad tooth they keep pushing on it to see if it still hurts because the anxiety is worse than the pain."

"Okay. Maybe I did say something like that. But I don't remember the context."

"Dancing was a way for me to see if it still hurt, men's eyes, how they looked at me."

"Okay."

"And it didn't hurt. If that's what I was trying to find out by dancing, it didn't hurt, basically. Not on the stage and not with the men in the clubs. Actually, the experience was empowering to me, overall. But now, the evil eyes have come back, in my dreams. I've had some horrible dreams. Recently."

"And that's why I'm here?"

"You helped me before."

"Okay. How did I help you before? Remind me about your dreams before. It's been quite awhile. I remember some of it but I want to be sure I understand the parts that were important to you.

"But first, if you don't mind, could you please satisfy my burning curiosity on how you got from dancer to, presumably, attorney, to this in five years?" She spread her arms again in appreciation of the opulent surroundings.

In answer, Ange pulled two folded pages of yesterdays Wall Street Journal from a jacket pocket and handed them to Gwen.

"Check out the story above the fold on Sheffield Industries."

Gwen looked at the pages briefly. "Sheffield majority shareholder indicted?" she said.

"That's the one," said Ange.

Gwen read for some moments, the cover story and the continuation on a jump page.

"Okay," she said.

"I'm Davis Sheffield's attorney," said Ange.

Long pause. "Not all alone, just you, I hope."

"No, God, there's a whole army of us. But I'm the one on the point, deep in the Sheffield inner sanctum. And this is where you come in."

"Okay. Are you in trouble?"

"No, and neither is Davis, actually," said Ange. "Those are just cooked up charges and won't survive the light of day. Where I need your help is... the other day we had a big meeting and I got ambushed, big time, and I sort of blew it – or at least I could have handled it better -- because I had, like, a post-traumatic syndrome or something."

"Post-traumatic going back to your rape and your decision to have an abortion?"

"You remember the dreams I had?"

"You dreamt your baby had the faces of your rapists."

"Well, I've had the same nightmare again, only this time the face on the baby is Daniel Sheffield."

"Okay. Do I need to hear about Daniel Sheffield?"

"Yes, and his mother, and... it gets very complex."

"Let's start at the beginning. When you were a freshman at Cal you were gang raped."

"I was stupid. I went to a party. I thought they were the basketball players."

"At the party you were raped."

"I was drunk."

"They held you down."

"I remember their faces. Or I think I do. Maybe I just remember the dreams."

"Okay. What do you remember?"

"Cold eyes. Sadistic. Laughing when I bled because I was a virgin. High fives with blood on their fingers. Congratulating each other."

"Is Daniel Sheffield like that?"

"Maybe."

"So how does he enter into your dreams?"

"Shaylane – my sidekick and bodyguard, you'll meet her – thinks Daniel was the instigator or an instigator of an abusive situation I was in. But really I think my confusion is from a tape I listened to."

"Okay."

"Daniel was taken from his mother at a young age by his father, Michael Sheffield, who used his wealth and lawyers and so forth to declare her unfit. He claimed she was a member of the IRA. Before she died she made an audiotape to tell her two sons, by then almost grown, how much she loved them. I listened to the tape and it was heartbreaking. Daniel's mother sang Irish lullabies on it, including one that my mother used to sing to me. She hoped her grown boys would remember the songs. She sounded like my mother, heavy Irish, lapses into Gaelic. I don't know, I just... felt her despair that she didn't have her children. And one of those children – I don't know about the other one – has cold eyes. Daniel. He might be an awful person. I think he is an awful person. But his mother loved him."

"Are you second-guessing your decision ten years ago?"

"I've always second-guessed it; but I usually come around to thinking it was the right thing to do, for me and right for the baby, too, because I would've always...." Long pause. Ange looked away.

"Yes?"

"I would have looked for monster things in him."

"Like Daniel."

"Yes."

"But his mother loved him."

"Yes."

"And in your nightmare recently your baby had Daniel's face."

"But I didn't ask you to come out here just because of nightmares. I'm in a situation where I can't allow old emotions to cloud my thinking."

"There was a meeting and you were ambushed."

"There were these horrible men sitting across the table from me. One of them was Daniel. Their eyes were sadistic – the whole bunch of them -- and I just lost it."

"Lost it how?"

"I couldn't think straight. I acted like a victim. I should have been outraged but I lost faith in Davis a little. They said there was money coming from Korea and I didn't know anything about it. I was caught off balance."

"And now you have faith in Davis again?"

"I talked to him on the phone. He explained the Korean money. He was outraged like I should have been."

"You believe him on the Korean money?"

"Yes. My legal counsel has assured me that the indictment will be easily quashed. But I still need to get myself squared away. I can't be put off stride just because some assholes look at me cross-eyed."

"These are business people, right? They may look at you with cold eyes but that isn't the same as four men holding you down and raping you."

"Well, actually there was an assault."

"Okay, the abusive situation you mentioned."

"A sexual assault. Shaylane thinks Daniel set it up."

"Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell me the whole story."

"That could take awhile."

"Well, our hour isn't up," Gwen joked. "And if we don't finish you could always fly me out again next week."

****

By the time Ange finished her story, both women had developed an appetite. Ange called down for someone to bring them coffee and menus and also to find Shaylane and ask her up to have a bite and meet Gwen.

"Do I have it right," said Gwen, "that Davis Sheffield is off someplace having fun and you're here not having much fun?"

"I suppose you could say that. I hope he's having fun."

"And do I have it right that one reason you aren't having much fun is that you take protection of the Green Helmet program very seriously."

"Maybe."

"In over your head, I think you said."

"Yes."

"A heavy load on your shoulders. Awesome responsibility, I think you said."

"Feels that way, yes."

"Full disclosure," said Gwen, "I may have a slight bias when it comes to the Green Helmet program. A few years ago, out of the blue, there was a major grant by the program to the Sacramento Planned Parenthood clinic. You wouldn't know anything about that grant, would you?"

"No," Ange lied.

There came a tap on the door and an attentive concierge, already the recipient of substantial tips, entered with a big smile, followed by Shaylane in a running suit. After the menus were delivered and the concierge left with another hundred-dollar bill tucked away, Shaylane gave Gwen a two-handed, enthusiastic handshake.

"The woman who helped Ange find purpose and meaning in her life," said Shaylane. "How nice to meet you."

"Is that what she told you?" said Gwen, laughing a little awkwardly.

"She told me she was about to pledge to some stupid sorority at Cal until you got hold of her. Then she decided to save the world instead."

"Ange calls you sidekick," said Gwen, deflecting the conversation.

Shaylane laughed. "My family thinks I'm busy learning the American justice system. If they only knew!"

"Are you having fun?" said Gwen lightly.

"Totally," said Shaylane.

"Is Ange having fun, do you think?"

"Is this therapy now?" said Shaylane, smiling and looking at Ange.

"We were just talking about fun before you came in," said Ange.

"Does Ange need to have more fun?" said Shaylane.

"Fun is good," said Gwen. "Therapeutically beneficial." She nodded sagely with a typical Gwen enigmatic smile.

"I've been trying to talk her into taking up karate," said Shaylane. "Karate is a lot of fun."

"To each her own," said Gwen. "For me, I can hardly wait to see a Broadway play. That nice concierge fellow says he'll find me a ticket."

"What are you going to see?" said Shaylane.

"There's a revival of Man of La Mancha, I understand. Have you guys seen it?"

"Some years ago," said Shaylane.

"Ange?"

"I've never seen a Broadway play," said Ange.

"Well, I never have either," said Gwen. "Let's go together, all three of us."

"I'd love to Gwen," said Ange, "but the team is working up a slew of materials on the indictment tonight, a Writ of Habeas Corpus, a motion to quash, a motion to dismiss and a supporting brief, all for Monday morning. We want to do this quickly before the press jackals pile on."

"Yeah," said Shaylane. "Poor Professor Lockett and her staff of three attorneys and an accountant would be lost trying to do that without Ange."

"I could write you an excuse," said Gwen.

Shaylane and Gwen ganged up on Ange while they enjoyed the delicious soup and seafood salad that was brought for them. Ange finally was worn down to the point where she agreed to call Merriam, who sealed the deal by agreeing with Gwen and Shaylane that they could manage without her for one evening.

Merriam said she had gotten faxed copies from Doc of Tom and Rachel's income tax records going back years before the Green Helmet program existed. The tax returns showed regular income from the same Korean source. They had plenty to go on for the briefs.

So, Man of La Mancha it was to be, at Gwen's insistence, even with Ange grumbling about whether she was in the mood for a play about someone tilting at windmills, and although Shaylane voted for Rent, a new play that was currently the talk of the town.

Shaylane left to arrange more rooms for the night and talk to the hotel people about evening clothes, which gave Ange more time alone with Gwen. They left the cluttered mahogany table behind and turned lounge chairs to face each other.

"You think I should have more fun?" said Ange. "More plays, take up karate?"

"I listened when you said you wished you had shown outrage. I got the impression you meant spontaneous, rather than calculated outrage."

"Yes."

"You wished you had thrown a punch or two?"

"Yes."

"You want to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee?"

"Yes." Laughing.

"So, first comes the footwork."

"Are you a boxer?"

"No," Gwen laughed, "but my husband is. He'd love it if he heard me now."

"Let me guess. Fun would help my footwork?"

"My husband says the key is balance. I think a case could be made that more fun would help you be more balanced and spontaneous. However, I must admit I had an ulterior motive in bringing it up."

"To get me to the theatre tonight?"

"No, it's the mother hen in me. I want you to be happy."

"Oh, Gwen, you're so sweet. I'll try to be happier. I promise. But could you please help me with my nightmare problem."

Long pause as Gwen seemed to be considering something. "Ange, have you ever told your mother you had an abortion?"

'No," said Ange, startled by the question.

"I remember you were afraid she'd find out."

"I still am."

"She'd be disappointed in you?"

"Mama's a devout Catholic."

"You're certain what her response would be?"

"She'd be devastated. I couldn't do that to her."

"Daniel's mother sounded like your mother on the tape?"

"Yes."

"And she ached with love for a baby she'd lost."

"It was heartrending."

"And the baby she loved was Daniel, who has cold eyes."

"Yes."

"Has your mother gotten into the mix and she doesn't even know it?"

"My mother wasn't in the nightmares."

"Okay."

Ange sulked briefly. She couldn't tell her mother about the abortion if that was what Gwen was suggesting. It was out of the question.

"When you put our chairs like this," said Ange after a moment, "I thought you were going to have me talk to myself again."

"Ah, you remember that."

"Of course I do. Some people might think it was silly, changing chairs back and forth, and you pretending to be me, but it helped me sort things out. The me that wanted to be a cheerleader got a good talking to from the me who wanted to make a difference in the world."

"Okay. And when was the last time you gave yourself a talking to?"

"I do it all the time but I don't usually answer myself," said Ange with a wry smile.

"So talk to me and I'll answer this time," said Gwen, positioning her body just as Ange was sitting, with her arms folded. She crossed her legs and let her foot bounce a little as Ange had been doing.

"You listen to me, little Miss Party Girl," said Ange, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward as she remembered quickly how the process went. "I've been given the chance of a thousand lifetimes to help save the Green Helmet program. Don't ask me how I got so lucky, but if you think I'm going to blow it now by going off and having fun you're crazy." Ange smiled coyly at Gwen.

Gwen didn't bite. She was skilled in what her Psychodrama teachers called "Auxiliary Ego" techniques, so that she stayed in the role of Miss Party Girl even though Ange had playfully baited Gwen the therapist on the fun question.

"Oh yeah?" she said, using Ange's confrontational tone in equal measure. "Off to save the world again, is it? Well, what about me? What about what I want?" Then, quickly, before Ange could respond, Gwen said, "Is that the way Miss Party Girl would answer you?"

"Not really," said Ange.

"Okay. Reverse roles."

Ange and Gwen traded chairs. Gwen as Ange quickly adopted Ange's posture, leaning forward: "You listen to me. I'm not going to blow this, little Miss Party Girl, by going off and having fun. You're crazy if you think I am."

Ange surprised herself and delighted Gwen when she answered with her voice in a higher register and with an almost Valley twang. "Like, maybe I wouldn't mind kissing somebody once in a while. Like, it's been a really, really long time since I kissed a man, okay? I'm not asking for, you know, all that much."

"You need to grow up," said Gwen in Ange's confrontational style. "With so much at stake in the Green Helmet program and here you are talking about kissing men." Then quickly, before Ange could answer: "Is that the way you would respond, Ange?"

But Ange had broken out of role and walked to the window. "Shit!" she said to the New York skyline. Gwen waited her out. When Ange turned to face Gwen she was smiling and shaking her head in amazement. "I can't believe I could have buried her like that," she said.

"She couldn't have been buried that deep," said Gwen, chuckling. "That has to be the fastest insight I've ever seen."

"Like, maybe a little teeny bit of fun wouldn't hurt," said Ange in her high register voice, smiling.

****

Off they went that evening to the theater, Shaylane in new civvies, slacks and a matching jacket, but still managing to look like a cop, and Ange in a sexy cocktail-style shift with mini-skirt length brought to her on short notice by the concierge's staff dress designer. The staff also brought Ange a matching throw, cozy enough for evening wear but light enough for the theatre performance. Gwen's choice of her own patterned gown and five-strand turquoise necklace struck a nice balance between California casual and New York eveningwear, in the opinion of the dress designer.

The Man of La Mancha set, performance and music were delightful. Afterwards the trio went clubbing, using the limo driver as a tour guide and finding their way past lines and to good tables by means of a wad of hundred dollar bills Shaylane kept in her jacket pocket.

Gwen and Ange drank champagne at three clubs on their tour. Shaylane didn't imbibe because she considered herself "on duty." At the last club, a retro-style disco complete with revolving glass ball, occasional strobe lights and thunderously loud music, Ange, a bit tipsy, floated like a butterfly onto the dance floor and danced by herself with abandon in the middle of the writhing throng. Her sexy young aloneness quickly attracted the attentions of an attractive man who looked a lot like Brad Pitt, especially when he smiled. Brad was unable to formally introduce himself due to the high-decibel sound level. He nonetheless managed in short order to communicate his interest in Ange by introducing her to the latest dirty-dancing techniques. Ange was a fast learner, while analyzing whether she was having fun yet. Yes, she decided. She was.

As is the wont of some disco clubs the length of each song combo was about thirty minutes. At about the twenty minute mark Ange had worked up a nice sweat and so had her partner, in more ways than one. Ange decided she had had enough, but before leaving the floor she planted a long and passionate kiss on her good-looking dancer friend. When she attempted to extricate herself from his embrace in order to return to her table, however, Brad expressed a reluctance to let her go in the form of physical restraint just a little over the line. Suddenly a tall black woman tapped his shoulder and asked if she could cut in. When he ignored her, the black beauty flashed a dazzling smile and a silver badge – literally flashing both the smile and the badge because, as if on cue, the DJ chose that instant to turn on the strobe lights and siren sounds. Our Brad Pitt look-alike was left standing partner-less on the crowded floor with a dazed look and a faintly amused smile. Perhaps nothing like this had happened to him before.

"I'm feeling sooo balanced!" crooned Ange in the limo, putting her arms around Gwen. They rolled the windows down and sang "Impossible Dream" at the top of their lungs -- sober Shaylane joining in at somewhat lower volume. Gwen couldn't believe there were so many people on the streets at three o'clock in the morning. There were people playing cards at tables on the sidewalks.

"It's summer in New York, ma'am," said their driver. "The city that never sleeps."

West Coast women and South African cops sleep, however. All three fun seekers slept until noon and then met in Ange's spacious suite for breakfast.

"I'm feeling so guilty," said Gwen with her jolly laugh as she and Shaylane were let into Ange's room. "I called Jack and he thinks I'm having too much fun. I told him going out on the town was a form of therapeutic intervention but I don't think he bought it. He's jealous."

"Bring him to New York," said Ange lightly, as if it were a simple and obvious solution. "On another weekend, maybe soon. I think I need to talk to myself some more."

"I'll come if you like. At ten thousand a whack anytime you feel the need, just call. Name the weekend," laughed Gwen. "but don't you have to check with somebody first, about, you know, money?" Gwen lifted her arms in a flabbergasted expression.

"I called Doc this morning on the subject of money, actually. To find out how much money we have to work with for another matter. The answer is lots of it. And you know, bringing you here was Davis' idea to start with, he practically ordered me to do it when I said you might be able to help me."

"How much money we have to work with for what?" said Shaylane.

"For the sting," said Ange, smiling broadly.

"What kind of sting?" said Shaylane.

"It came to me in the middle of the night -- me being so balanced now and all -- on the issue of Tericargo."

"You have a plan?"

Ange did a boxer dance, jabbing and dodging. "I'm going to sting them," she said, then with a right cross, "like a bee!"
CHAPTER 29

San Diego Navy Base

Sunday, July 21, 1996

Davis had a sense of déjà vu in the taxi as they passed the guard station into the Navy Base at San Diego. He'd grown up in these places, in officers' residence units on bases around the world. How many? He had never tried to count them. Probably more than twenty. This base was a big one as the principal port for the Pacific Fleet. The taxi driver knew the way to the officers' club, and on entering the club Davis was ushered efficiently to the special lounge reserved for high-ranking officers and their friends and family. Davis was expected.

His parents hadn't arrived yet. In fact, the room was empty. A civilian waiter appeared briefly to take a drink order -- whiskey, please – then withdrew. Davis saw a piano in the corner of the lounge and sat himself at it. It had a nice sound and it was in tune. Minutes later, Davis was playing a plaintive blues song, one of his own composition, when his parents entered. He didn't stop. It was a poignant moment. He hadn't seen his parents in at least two years. He knew his mother would enjoy that he was playing and perhaps what he was playing and indeed she approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, not to interrupt but more as a way of expressing pleasure in the moment. He glanced at her and they exchanged loving smiles.

Davis put the lyrics to it and sang for his mother:

If you hear me cryin'/ and you see the tears come down my cheek/ If you hear me cryin'/ and you see the tears come down my cheek/ Well the tears are for my baby/ who I guess I'm never going to see. (Musical interlude)

If you see me sleepin'/ and you see my dreams won't let me sleep/ If you see me sleepin'/ and you see my dreams won't let me sleep/ Well my dreams are for my baby/ who I guess I'm never going to see.

Davis glanced at his mother and saw she was crying. He stopped.

"Oh, honey," said his mother. "That's so sad."

"Well, yes, Mom," said Davis, rising and hugging his mother. "It's sad. I got a million of 'em."

"Did you write that?" she said, standing back to look him over, mother-like, and then running her fingers over his bald head and cheeks with a big smile.

Davis felt an instant of regret that it had been so long since he saw his mother. The years had been good to her. There had always been a smiling, sunny aspect to her and she beamed it at him now. Tragically losing her granddaughter, whom she had doted on, had knocked her for a loop for a long time, so that she and Davis had shared something in the depth of their mutual grief. But now, with her silver hair and lively blue eyes, she seemed whole. Perhaps she had healed, finally.

"Yes, Mom," said Davis, "I wrote it. I've been learning to play the blues. Just simple lyrics, but the emotions are what makes the music work."

"That's so wonderful that you're playing."

Davis glanced at his father, who had not moved much past the entryway. He stood stiffly, as if he were at attention.

"At ease, Admiral," said Davis. "As you were. I'll be in the area all day."

Percy Jones didn't smile at Davis' little joke on military protocol. He strode to the center of the room and smoothed his hair back, as if there were much hair to smooth with his buzz cut, in an exaggerated expression of dismay. He strode slowly and he smoothed his hair slowly, every action slow and deliberate just as Davis had always known him. As ever, his slow movements were not languid exactly or relaxed. It was more as though there were a deliberate restraint imposed on a capacity for explosive action, as though he might at any instant lash out like a rattlesnake, but chose to discipline himself. He walked like John Wayne, Davis thought, leaning forward, his legs moving a little too slowly to keep up with the rest of him.

Percy Jones had traced his genealogy to Captain Christopher Jones, commander of the Mayflower. How far back is that? Davis had always thought that there were some dubious gaps in the genealogy tree, but more significant than the accuracy of the claim was the fact that Percy believed it. His estimation of his estimable roots went deep, and his concern about the honor of the family name and associated glorious traditions were central to his self-image. Hence, this business about indictments for fraud and accusations of moral turpitude as reported in the Wall Street Journal and quickly bandied about in circles of naval aristocracy had struck him to the core.

Percy Jones was a physically imposing man. Tall, square-jawed, with a rugged, action-figure face. Davis had been looking at himself in the mirror sans beard and mane for several months, and now, looking at his father, saw for the first time the family resemblance he shared with him, same Roman nose and strong chin. Same prominent dome, military-cut for his father, shaved pate for Davis. The eyes were different maybe. Or maybe they looked different because father and son were so different, eyes being the windows of the soul.

"I think some explanations are in order," said Percy Jones, his voice slow and deliberate.

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking," said Davis. "And you?"

"I think we need to have a frank discussion, just the two of us," said Percy.

"I don't think so," said Davis. "I'd rather have a frank discussion with my mother, just the two of us, if you don't mind."

"Leave your mother out of this, for God's sake!"

"I came here to make sure my mother wasn't worried about me."

"Well, she is. How could she not be? What in the goddamned hell have you done? If you're worried about your mother you have a piss-ass way of showing it. Good God! Embezzlement? Moral turpitude? Where does it end?"

"You think I'm an embezzler?"

"Oh, no, of course not," said Hazel Jones quickly.

"Admiral? You think I'm an embezzler?"

Slowly: "If you say you're not, I'll believe you."

'No, that's too easy. Look me in the eye and tell me whether you think I might be an embezzler."

"Life can do things to people. You've always been...." Percy stopped and slowly smoothed back his almost non-existent hair.

"Always? What do you mean, always?" said Davis. "What have I always been?"

"This is ridiculous. Just tell me you didn't embezzle and I'll believe you."

"If I'm the kind of person who'd embezzle, then I'm the kind of person who'd lie to you now."

"Just tell him, dear," said Hazel. "He just needs you to say it and we don't want this between us."

"Mom, it is between us. It's been between us for a long time. Always."

"I don't think you're the kind of person who would embezzle," said Percy. "You don't have to say it. But then there's this moral turpitude thing."

"That's a private matter," said Davis in a matter-of-fact tone.

"A private matter?" said Percy, showing considerable emotion for a man capable of calm reactions during a battle at sea. "You call a front page story in the Wall Street Journal a private matter?"

"Yes."

"That's what you want me to say to people, 'Oh, it's a private matter?'"

"Actually, I'd prefer if you said it was none of their damned business. But I'll leave the wording to you."

"Don't you see that's a mistake, being secretive about it? People will assume the worst. Better if you get it off your chest if it's something you're ashamed of and then move on. And if it's not something you're ashamed of then put it out there for everybody to see and devil take it. As long as you aren't ashamed of it then it's their problem, not yours."

Davis smiled. "You know what, that's a pretty good point. I'll take it under advisement."

"And that's it?" said Percy. "That's all we're going to get and we're supposed to go on our merry way and everything will work out with all our friends whispering about us like we're lepers?"

"That's it. Of course, we could also spend a little time together since I came all the way to see you, maybe play a round of golf on the base course, and then you could go on your merry way later."

Whoops, it was a poor choice of words making light with his father at this particular moment. Percy, his face reddening, pivoted on his heel and started for the door.

"Come on, Hazel. We're out of here."

"Don't go, Mom," said Davis, softly. He was putting her in a difficult spot and he knew it.

Percy was stunned to a stop. He turned slowly to face them. "You dare ask your mother to stay against my express..."

"Your express what?" said Davis. "Command?"

"No, not command. You know better than that. What game are you playing here?"

Hazel had paled visibly but hadn't moved.

"No game. I came to see my mother and I want to spend some time with her. I guess she's capable of deciding whether to go with you right now or stay awhile."

"Hazel," said Percy in a firm tone, "you coming?"

"You've got to be kidding, Percy," said Hazel. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away from my boy right now."

After Percy stormed out, Davis and Hazel went through sliding glass doors to an outside deck holding hands. They found a shaded table and sat for a time, not speaking much, enjoying looking at each other. A balmy breeze off the bay made for one of those famously idyllic summer days in San Diego. Hazel couldn't get over seeing Davis shaved.

"You know, honey," said Hazel after a time, "your father will get over it, but it seems to me we've just had something come to a head that's been under the surface for a long time. I've thought for years that I let you down when you were growing up. No, no, let me finish. Your father wasn't around much during the Vietnam War. It was just you and me. You were a sensitive boy. You idolized your father. You wanted to please him. But that wasn't easy because he'd only show up once in a while for short periods and he had a sort of zero-tolerance for imperfection, he hated you playing piano and pretty much anything other than manly things like shooting rifles."

"Sight picture, damn it, sight picture!" said Davis, mimicking his father's instructions on the rifle range when Davis almost inevitably missed the target by a mile. The Admiral was an excellent rifleman but a poor teacher. It wasn't until years later that Davis found out what a sight picture was from Bill Lasky. It didn't do any good, as it turned out, to line up the front sight on the target unless the front sight was very carefully aligned with the rear sight, forming a sight picture.

"It got better after that time he went at you with the belt and I almost left him. Actually I did leave him for a couple of weeks."

"I don't remember that," said Davis. "What time with a belt?"

"What?" said Hazel, incredulous. "How can you not remember that? I thought it must have been traumatic for you. I worried about it for years."

"What happened?"

"You were about 12, I guess. He opened the bathroom door and you were, you know, playing with yourself – a perfectly normal thing for a young boy. I could've killed him. You were, I don't know, sort of mute for several days. I took you to a doctor. The doctor said it was child abuse, what your father did. You must remember that."

"No, I don't. And it's not the only thing that's totally erased from my memory. I had a talk with Bill Lasky..."

"Oh, how nice. How is he?"

"He's great. Sends his love. We go sailing all the time. Anyway, Bill told me that he'd had to step in as godfather and get the Admiral to ease up on me. I guess the Admiral didn't appreciate my nine-year-old attitudes about the Vietnam War."

"Yes. He did get on you, way too much."

"I'd forgotten that entirely. I still don't have a memory of it."

"You were young."

"No, I think I must have a psychological block."

"Well, it's my fault because I didn't protect you. I wanted so much for you to have a good relationship with your father."

"Don't blame yourself, Mom. I certainly don't. And I don't blame the Admiral either. We're all just doing the best we can. Doc teaches me this stuff. Because if I blamed my father for beating me with a belt for masturbating, then he should turn around and blame his father or whoever taught him whatever kind of guilt and shame makes him tick. And on it goes. The problem is the whole messed up society. But you know what, I keep thinking about something the Admiral said today and I think he might be right. He said if we do something we aren't ashamed of we should just put it out there for the world to see and let the devil take it."
CHAPTER 30

The Anderson Group offices, New York City

Monday, July 22, 1996

When Ange entered the rather modest offices of the Anderson Group on the 46th floor of the Empire State Building at 8:30 a.m., there appeared to be a wake going on. There were a couple dozen people sharing early morning champagne and hors d'oeuvres, some tears in evidence and a lot of forced laughter. If this was related to the tender offer it didn't make a lot of sense, thought Ange. The tender offer in itself would not have spelled the end of anything, although, of course, Ange knew there were additional plans down the road that surely would be bad news for a lot of people.

With no idea whether she was addressing an administrative assistant or a vice president, Ange asked a random staffer if she could see the key principal and CEO Dwayne Anderson.

"Mr. Anderson is not accepting anyone without an appointment," she was told quite haughtily, "especially members of the press."

Ange was dressed in her best conservative power suit with modest hemline and she wasn't carrying a notebook. She wondered what about her looked like press.

"I'm not from the press and this is very important," said Ange sweetly. "I know Mr. Anderson would wish to speak with me."

"Do you indeed? Well, honey, if you're here for a job interview you certainly picked the wrong day."

"Excuse me," said a man who had overheard the interaction. He was an attractive thirty-something with a four-day beard. He wore Levi's and a sport coat over not-tucked-in shirt in a currently fashionable style. And he smiled disarmingly. Hmmm, thought Ange. Too good looking. Striking blue eyes, styled hair like a male model. Probably gay.

"Wait just a sec," he said to Ange and disappeared down a hallway. Scarcely a minute later he reappeared and motioned for Ange to follow him. Down the hall he opened an oak door that bore no designation and waved her to follow him in.

A man behind a desk in the spacious, modern office rose and came around the desk to shake her hand.

"My son says I should talk to you because you're cute," he said, smiling and almost laughing.

"Dad!"

Okay, probably not gay, Ange thought.

Dwayne Anderson at age 60 looked even better than the photos Ange had seen, silver haired, tanned, fit, and now with a huge smile as he enjoyed his son's discomfort.

"He's not married, you know," he said.

"Dad, for God's sake!" his son pleaded, and yet he seemed to be somehow enjoying the interchange as well.

"Neither am I," said Ange, then, to the son: "How about dinner tonight?"

"Okay. By the way, what's your name?"

"Ange Parker."

"Roy Anderson."

They shook hands. Ange enjoyed the playful twinkle in Roy's eyes. She didn't know if he was serious about dinner. She didn't know if she was serious either. But who knows? Time would tell.

Roy guided Ange to a leather and chrome chair that had a great view of the city. He and his father settled into adjacent chairs with Ange in the center. That rather awkward seating forced her to look back and forth between them.

"You guys seem in a good mood," said Ange, swiveling one way and then the other. "Not everyone in the party down the hall seemed like they were having fun."

"That's the hard part," said Dwayne. "For myself, I've just had a load taken off my shoulders."

Ange turned towards Roy in time to see him shake his head a little. He didn't believe his father.

"It's a long story," said Dwayne, "and I'm sure there's something else you want to talk about. What can I do for you?"

"I think I know why you've had a load taken off your shoulders," said Ange.

"If so, you're one of about four people in the world."

"You've decided to take advantage of the tender offer yourself. By acting quickly you can unload shares ahead of the rush and before the limits on the offering."

The junior Anderson came to his feet quickly. The senior Anderson rose slowly. Both glared at Ange.

"Who in the hell are you?" said Dwayne Anderson, no longer smiling.

"I'm an attorney from Seattle representing a client who's interested in being your White Knight."

"White Knight?"

"The good guy who saves the day during a hostile takeover attempt."

Dwayne went to his desk and sat behind it. "Young lady, I don't know who you are or where you came from but I'm in no mood for games. Get out, please."

"Give me just a few minutes," said Ange.

"I'll give you thirty seconds," said Dwayne. "And the meter's running." He held up his wristwatch and stared at it.

Ange spoke quickly in case Dwayne meant it about thirty seconds. "My client isn't seeking a controlling interest in Tericargo. If you accept the terms, my client will make a substantially more lucrative offer than the one on the table from Sheffield Industries. That offer would be made today, this hour just before the market opens, by Internet and telegram to all shareholders. The offer will apply if and only if accepted by 17 percent of the outstanding shares of Tericargo within 24 hours and will not apply to remaining shares. There would be a cut-off point, in other words. Your shares, if you haven't already sold them, plus the 17 percent hopefully owned by my client will prevent Sheffield Industries from the takeover. In addition, my client will provide you with a loan of up to 20 million dollars for necessary upgrades in equipment and technology. My client believes the upgrades will make your business more competitive."

"Who is your client?" said Dwayne.

"My client prefers to remain anonymous," said Ange.

"Get out," said Dwayne. "Please leave."

"My client is Davis Sheffield," said Ange.

"Davis Sheffield!" said Roy. "You want us to go out on a limb using money from ill-gotten gains? The money could disappear overnight."

"If you're referring to the Wall Street Journal article, the indictment is being quashed."

"When?" said Roy.

"As we speak," said Ange. "It was a bullshit indictment to start with."

"But not yet, not officially," said Roy. "Is that what you're saying?"

"No, but it will be. Our problem is that the market opens in... (checks watch: 8:40) just under an hour, at 9:30. Things could move quickly. I'm asking for a leap of faith here."

"So what we have here is Sheffields versus Sheffields in a bidding war for a company that damned if I know why anybody wants to start with," said Dwayne. "Weird."

"Dad?" said Roy, holding his hand to his head as if calling on a telephone.

Dwayne nodded. "Tell them to give us an hour and a half. That should be still safe."

Roy went to the desk and called. His first words were, "Has it gone out? No? Good. Hang on for a bit."

Close call, thought Ange. She hadn't considered that Dwayne Anderson would jump on the bandwagon for the Sheffield offer.

Dwayne looked at Ange hard and long. "Being cute isn't enough for this, Ange. I'm sure you appreciate that. I need some kind of proof you are who you say you are or I could lose a lot of money. Plus that, if a bidding war gets started, the client you claim you have could end up losing a lot of money too."

"Hopefully there won't be a bidding war."

"Why not? There's got to be something going on here other than what a prize Tericargo is. Who knows how much these idiots will pay."

"We can avoid a bidding war if you'll help."

"Go on."

"If you agree to our terms we need you to jawbone this right now, get on the horn with key shareholders whom you believe will give you a sympathetic ear. My people will send out the offer when I call them, so in theory the shareholders will have just gotten our offer although they may not have had time to read it. Tell them – and this is the absolute truth -- that Sheffield Industries plans to force the company into liquidation, fire everybody or almost everybody, break the unions and make the nineteenth century robber barons look like Mother Theresa. However, you have a White Knight who will salvage the situation at an even better deal, five points better, double Sheffield's offer, if they act now. If they care about the company, they can have their cake and eat it too. But they have to act now, and quickly before the 17 percent limit on our offer."

"The shooting could be over before the Dark Knights know what hit them," said Roy.

"They have no idea there could be a counter bid," said Ange. "They think it's a slam dunk. That's the words they used. And they made the mistake of using boilerplate on the tender offer with a two-week window, so it might be difficult for them to renege. When the smoke clears they could be left standing with 45 percent of Tericargo shares. Could be a good investment, though." Grinning. "They'd be smart to hang on to it."

"How can I trust this?" said Dwayne. Ange thought she saw his eyes tearing. "God knows I don't want to lose Tericargo, my life's work, but I thought it was all over. I was cursing the day we went public."

"Naturally, I anticipated you would need assurances. I have three people ready for your call, our broker, whom we chose for this because he is also your broker, and who will inform you that he has $100 million on account for the stock purchases; our banker, whom we chose for this because he is also your banker and will inform you that a $20 million dollar line of pre-paid credit will be available for upgrades; and Cecil Crawford, the Attorney General for the State of New Jersey, who will vouch for me, personally."

"I'll make those calls, and if they check out... But first, what are your terms?"

"Okay, here's the deal. Last spring when I was working for a legal firm, I was assigned a project to do research on Tericargo. In the process I learned that you're a man of honor, Mr. Anderson. I learned about your "people before profit" management, the kids' programs you support, and on and on. So, our terms are that you continue to run your company and that you don't sell your shares. If you can't run the company for some reason, you'll assign somebody who shares your values, perhaps a family member, provided they're cute." Ange smiled at Roy.

"In essence we're coming into this in support of you, personally, more than the company."

Dwayne stood, speechless. He looked at Roy, who grinned and pounded on the desk with his fist. "Yes!" said Roy. "Another admirer! And here you were moping in your beer about not being appreciated."

"Okay," said Dwayne. "I'm going to believe in this. But I need to make those calls."

Ange handed him a note pad with the numbers listed and followed Roy as he beckoned her out of the office. He led her down the hall to the party area. "Too early to make announcements, Ange, but let's have some bubbly while Dad makes the calls."

Ten minutes later (9:10) Dwayne Anderson sauntered down the hall with a spring in his step. The partier/mourners gave him a huge round of applause and spontaneously sang, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." Perhaps it was the first time he had shown himself after the announcement that morning.

"Everything checks out," he said to Ange. "Time for you to make your call. Use my office."

When Ange came back from her call to Merriam (9:15) it felt like a relay race. She waved at Dwayne at which signal he strode quickly back to his office accompanied by two administrative assistants whose job it would be to call work numbers, home numbers, mobile numbers in some cases and keep shareholders on hold until he could get to them. Most of those he called would not even have seen the telegrams or email communications yet. Ange assured him, however, that they had been sent, technically meeting the letter of the law on S.E.C. requirements. Merriam and her waiting team had gone into action quickly to get the word out, having obtained the shareholders list Sheffield Industries used in their tender offer from Jan. Blitzkrieg, the accountant Byron King called it. Lightning strike.

One of the administrative assistants hurriedly came back after a few moments to retrieve some files and whispered something to a friend. As a result, a rumor spread across the area like a grass file in a high wind. Employees crowded around Roy and Ange looking for confirmation that all was not lost after all.

"Too soon to say," Roy tried to tell them, "but the situation is more hopeful."

"More hopeful" was emotionally equivalent to total victory judging from the reaction in the group. People hugged and cried. Others prayed or crossed themselves. Ange viewed the scene as a statement of company loyalty in line with her research.

For an hour or so Roy and Ange talked, finding a corner in the crowded reception area. Roy didn't want to leave the group because he thought his presence showed support of the employees. Ange could see that was true from the warmth and respect they showed him. Roy explained that there had been a meeting that morning in which his father had announced the facts of the hostile takeover and that he would not be staying on even if asked to do so. He had told them he didn't know if their jobs at the administrative offices were in jeopardy or not. However, Roy said, his father had not been very good at shining it on and the result was a general feeling of doom.

"You said you had done research and this whole rescue plot is based on who my dad is," said Roy at one point.

"Yes."

"That makes it sound like you might have had a bigger part in this than just an attorney carrying out the boss's orders."

"It's my idea, mostly, which I say with all due humility, since I'm using Davis Sheffield's money."

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Would you believe it's because somebody looked at me the wrong way?"

"No."

"Want to hear my story?"

It took the better part of an hour for Ange to tell her story, which she told in large part, leaving out certain top secret, semi-secret and personal information. She had pretty much covered the essentials when Dwayne Anderson walked into the reception area at 10:15. He surveyed the hushed crowd for a moment and then walked around the room touching and nodding his recognition to almost everyone. When he spoke, his words were full of warm emotion.

"You know, I think this day has been a shock to the nervous system for everyone. But I think it's been a good thing, because maybe we've all learned something from it. I certainly have been reminded of how much I appreciate you, all of you, and I won't forget it as we work together in the years to come."

With those last three words the room exploded with joy. Someone, anticipating the announcement, popped a champagne cork and sprayed it wildly, (taking care, however, not to include Ange or the Andersons). The place looked like the locker room of Super Bowl winners. At a signal from Dwayne, Ange and Roy fled the scene and returned to Dwayne's office.

Dwayne sat on the edge of his desk and regarded Ange with undisguised affection.

"Okay, your client has his 17 percent of shares outstanding. Congratulations... I think. What does he plan to do with them? Keep them, hoping for a miracle in the stock market? And what about this $20 million line of credit? How does this work? Obviously it's not a straight gift."

"Basically," said Ange, "we're asking that the line of credit be used to purchase durable equipment such as cranes, fork-lifts or diesel trucks. Davis Sheffield will keep title to the equipment and benefit from depreciation write-offs while leasing them to you for a dollar a year. Eventually, you'd have the option to purchase the equipment at the depreciated value. This should free you to purchase the computerized security scanners you need and other modernizations."

"Very generous," said Dwayne. "Incredible."

"As for the shares, well, that depends on a lot of factors. I know what I'd like."

"You must mean you know what your client Davis Sheffield would like, don't you?" said Roy, smiling. Ange put her hands on her hips.

"It's Ange, Dad," said Roy. "She's really the one doing this."

"I figured that," said Dwayne. "What is it you'd like Ange? Anything I can help you with?"

"Actually, there is something you could help with, Mr. Anderson. But it involves a sensitive personal matter that I'd thought to bring up later."

"'Dwayne, please. No more Mr. Anderson, young lady. And I wouldn't dream of prying into something personal until you're ready."

"Actually, I was referring to something sensitive and personal for you."

"Well, then, fire away," said Dwayne. Roy started to leave but Dwayne stopped him. "No, stay, son. We don't need secrets."

"It involves your brother."

"My brother? Carl? Backstabbing Carl? If Carl hadn't sold his shares from under us we never would've had this problem. I've sworn I'll never talk to him again as long as I live."

"Yes, that brother, Carl."

"What has he done now? Good God. How can Carl come into the picture with you, Ange? I need to sit down. Gets my blood pressure up just thinking about him."

The three took their chairs side by side with a view again, although this time Ange took an end chair so she wouldn't have to look back and forth.

"This is very confidential information," said Ange, "for reasons that will become clear. Carl has been a victim of a vicious blackmail. That's why he sold his shares and why he sold them to Sheffield."

Dwayne was stunned silent.

"Blackmail?" said Roy. "Blackmail of what?"

"I can't tell you the nature of the blackmail, or I won't, but I can tell you this: He was set up by professionals. They got the goods on him and put the squeeze on with threats of scandal and very possibly prison."

"What did he do?" said Dwayne, his eyes wide.

"He did nothing really all that bad. But there are areas of the law that are inflexible and they tricked him so that he was up against the wall."

"Did somebody plant drugs on him," said Roy, "like they did with you, Ange?"

"Somebody planted drugs on you, Ange?" said Dwayne.

"Long story," said Ange. "Roy can fill you in. But the point I want to make now is that your brother Carl is really an innocent victim. And if you can open your heart to him and let him back into the company, and if he still has funds from his sale, I'd eventually like to sell our shares to him."

"Boy, you're certainly a bundle of surprises," said Roy.

"It's a way to heal the last wound inflicted on you," said Ange, "and recoup a good share of Davis' money at the same time. I have good reason to believe that, in due time, maybe less than a year, the people who perpetrated the blackmail will lose interest in Carl and Sheffield Industries will lose interest in Tericargo."

"You walked into my office a few hours ago," said Dwayne, "and gave me my company back. And now you're giving me my brother back. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and if there is ever anything I can do for you, anything..."

"Actually," said Ange, "there is something you can do for me, if you trust me."

"Name it."

"I hope that you'll trust me that your brother did nothing really unethical or knowingly wrong, and that you'll see your way clear to never mention the blackmail factor to anyone, not to Carl or anyone else. Just give him a get-out-of-jail-free card and take him back into your family and the business."

"Done," said Dwayne.

"Anything else?" said Roy.

"Well, we had talked about dinner."
CHAPTER 31

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

Tuesday, July 23, 1996

Shaylane had expected some sort of dirty trick when Ange finally decided to show her face at the Sheffield offices Tuesday afternoon. She assumed Vince, Michael and Daniel would be livid over the double whammy Monday in which the indictment on Davis Sheffield had been quashed by Judge Fishbein and the hostile takeover of Tericargo had been aborted. She assumed correctly. They were indeed enraged, not as much by the quashing of the indictment – to their amazement the Korean money apparently had a legitimate source – as the Tericargo coup d'état. It had not taken long Monday to discover that Davis Sheffield was the so-called White Knight of record who had pulled the rug from under them within minutes of the opening bell in the stock market. How had he acted so quickly, organizing the lightning raid? And why? What possible interest could Davis Sheffield have in Tericargo?

One thing was certain. Over their dead bodies was Ange Parker going to set foot in the Sheffield Industries office building again. That was pretty much the sort of attitude Shaylane had anticipated, which is why New Jersey Attorney General Cecil Crawford accompanied Ange and Shaylane as they approached the main entrance at 2:00 p.m. on Tuesday.

Ange had acquiesced to Shaylane's security concerns by allowing her to bring the Attorney General along. However, she had an ace in the hole stemming from a conversation by Sat phone with Davis that morning. He had unambiguously authorized Ange to proceed with what he called "the nuclear option" if she decided on it. The brothers were in for a surprise.

Three armed security guards were posted at the main entrance. When they identified the malefactors approaching, one of the guards immediately went inside the building. The other two stood with arms folded in front of the doors. When Shaylane attempted to move past them they barred the way.

"Sorry, deputy," said a rather short guard. Or maybe he only looked short by contrast, looking up as he tried to face down Shaylane. He looked nervous, no doubt from the awkward position he had been placed in. "We've been instructed to prevent you and Ms. Parker from entering the premises until Eighth Floor has a chance to talk to you." Eighth Floor was building parlance for top management, whose offices were on that floor.

"Now see here..." started Cecil Crawford.

"No problem, Attorney General Crawford, sir," said Shaylane. She glanced at the guard's nametag. "Mr. Johnson is only doing his job. Mr. Johnson, this is New Jersey Attorney General Cecil Crawford. He isn't accustomed to being barred from entering buildings. By the way, Mr. Johnson, are there bullets in that sidearm?" She pointed to his rather ludicrously huge .44 magnum revolver.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please don't under any circumstances unholster that weapon with the Attorney General present. There are regulations that would require me to take immediate action. You understand, I'm sure."

"Yes, deputy."

"Jim, for God's sake," said the other guard, an overweight, belly-over-the-belt type. "She's fucking with you. Don't be such a moron."

"Mr. Slominski?" said Shaylane, reading the other guard's nametag. "For your information, there most certainly is a regulation authorizing law officers to use deadly force in situations where firearms are aimed or directed towards legislators or public officials. I'm a law officer. Ange Parker is majority shareholder of Sheffield Industries and therefore has the right to enter this building. And Attorney General Cecil Crawford is the highest law enforcement officer in the state of New Jersey. You've been instructed to bar us from entry this afternoon and we're being respectful of that... for now. But don't push your luck."

Slominski gulped visibly. "Point taken," he said.

At that instant, Vince, Michael and Daniel came through the opaque glass door. They looked sure of themselves, not recognizing the Attorney General and not noticing that their guards were looking cowed.

"Well, well," said Michael. "If it isn't Miss Smarty Pants and her trained Zulu. I suppose you think it's business as usual, just another day at the office. Well, I've got news for you. The honeymoon is over."

"I'm surprised you're here, Ms. Parker," said Vince.

"I don't think you know who you're fucking with, bitch," said Daniel.

"Is that a threat?" said Ange.

"Hell, yes, it's a threat," said Daniel. "I'm going to make you sorry you were ever born."

"What're you going to do to me?" said Ange, meekly, hoping to provoke him into saying something actionable.

Slominski whispered something to Vince, who looked shocked but then acted quickly, his voice raised to drown out whatever Daniel was starting to say: "Mr. Attorney General. This is certainly a surprise. I didn't recognize you at first."

"My apologies for not giving you advance notice of my visit," said Crawford, "but the fact is I'm not here on official business. Ms. Parker asked me to accompany her as a friend and observer."

"Well, you're welcome, of course," said Vince. "Ms. Parker, however, is persona non grata around here. She's not an employee nor is she an officer of Sheffield Industries. Being a shareholder doesn't give her the right to trespass on private property and we're within our rights to deny her entry."

"You want me here, Vince," said Ange. "You just don't know it yet."

"Oh, really. It's hard to imagine anything you might say that'd make us want you here."

"Look, could we talk about this inside?" said Ange. "It's hot out here." The afternoon sun was beating directly on the entrance pavilion and the New Jersey humidity was living up to its reputation. Vince, Michael and Daniel were in shirtsleeves. Ange had dressed for air conditioning in a business suit.

"I don't see that we have anything to talk about," said Michael. "Why don't you just get your ass back in your squad car and get the hell out of here."

"Okay, said Ange, "I'll lay it out in simple language why you want me here. It seems this indictment business has pissed Davis off, big time. I had to talk him out of some drastic actions, one being that he'd come back here along the lines I described in my memorandum last week. It would take time for your frivolous civil action to play out and in the meantime you guys would be bystanders and Davis would do his bull-in-the-china-shop routine. The other option was for Davis to sell all his shares, a controlling interest, to a third party, probably Frontier Dynamics or U.S. Industrials Corp."

"He can't do that," said Michael. "It's in the bylaws. Family members have right of first refusal for any sales of shares."

"Fine," said Ange, "if you've got somewhere in the neighborhood of ten to fifteen billion cash dollars floating around."

"We don't operate on a cash basis," said Michael. "No one does. It works by credit. Do you think we have forty billion on hand if we win our bid on the carrier contract?"

"That's Sheffield Industries credit," said Ange, "backed up by government contracts. You can't use company credit to buy shares in the company from a company shareholder. Duh. You'd have to come up with the dough on your own.

"And here's the zinger, guys. Davis left the decision on selling his shares to my sole discretion, and I'm giving it some serious thought."

"So, why don't you just do it if it's up to you," said Daniel, obviously skeptical. "Why we are standing here talking about it?"

"Listen to you," said Ange, floating like a butterfly. "What a sucker for punishment! Didn't you learn anything on the Tericargo deal?"

"Hang on a second," said Vince, who had been looking thoughtful while Michael was arguing his losing case. "Daniel, shut the fuck up. That was you on Tericargo, Ms. Parker?"

"Yes, of course. Who else? You think Davis cares about Tericargo?"

"And you do?"

"No, but Daniel does, and Michael does, and they needed a shot across the bow."

"A shot across the bow proving what?" said Michael, moving forward and getting in Ange's face. "Sending what message?"

"Sending the message don't fuck with me," said Ange, putting her chest almost against Michael's, her soft, confident smile matched against his wolfish grimace.

"Michael, ease up," said Vince. "Quit acting like Ange Parker is one of your interns. This woman has teeth, obviously, and Tericargo shows she isn't afraid to use them. She just sent you a 100 million dollar message. Don't force her into a corner."

"She's not coming into this building," said Michael, flushed and sweating in the sun.

"Not only am I coming into the building," said Ange, "but I'm moving my office to the eighth floor. I think I'll take your office, Michael. Nice view if I remember right."

"A little on the vindictive side, Ms. Parker," said Vince, holding a hand almost in Michael's face to restrain him. "Why do I get the feeling you've been looking forward to this?"

"To what? Moving Michael out of his office? I only just thought of it. I think it's this standing in the sun business."

In short order Vince moved the group inside and up the stairs to a meeting room used mostly for visiting VIPs where they all took seats in comfortable lounge chairs set in a circle.

Michael went into a sulk. Daniel had steam coming out of his ears. It was left to Vince to try to calm the waters.

"Mr. Crawford, sir," he said to set a different tone. "I can assure you this is not the way we normally welcome guests."

"And can I assure you, Mr. Sheffield, that I don't normally escort friends to their places of business. You may not be aware of this, but it so happens I was personally involved in helping resolve matters when Ange was assaulted not so long ago. I told her at that time I'd help her in the future if she needed me. It looks as though she won't need my help for the time being but I do have some words to address to you, young man," he said, indicating Daniel.

"Me?" said Daniel.

"Yes, you. I don't know you from Adam but it sounded to me like you were threatening Ange out there on the steps. I thought you were threatening her with physical harm. Were you?"

"No, of course not. I was referring to business matters."

"Well, it didn't sound that way. So I'm giving you notice that if anything happens to Ange you'll automatically become what we call a 'person of interest' in any subsequent investigation. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly."

****

A few minutes later Cecil Crawford left with Shaylane after Ange insisted she drive him across town. It was the first time Ange had been alone with Vince, Michael and Daniel. Fascinated, Ange watched the dynamics between the three men shift dramatically. Now it was Vince catching flack from Michael and Daniel. Ange thought she was seeing them reprise childhood bickering. "Wake up!" "No, you wake up!" Vince held the controlling hand because as chair, he could break a tie if Ange and Michael disagreed. Michael's impotence drove his outrage.

"This is exactly the same bullshit situation that came down with Rachel and Maureen and you caved," said Michael to Vince, snarling. "You voted in the Green Helmet bylaws. And now here we are and you're going to do it again. When are you going to grow some fucking balls?"

"When are you going to learn not to spit into the wind?" Vince snapped back. "You think Rachel and Maureen were bluffing? No way. Our dear sister, bless her soul, was by God going to rubber stamp everything Maureen wanted to do, which God only knows what that would have been. You walked out, like that is supposed to solve something, and left me to pick up the pieces.

"And now, once again, we have a situation. Here are the hard facts of it: Every since we knew that Davis Sheffield had found a way to pay his inheritance tax without selling shares I've been worried about this situation as an obvious possibility. He could sell from under us. Some other company could end up with a controlling interest. Did this never cross your mind? And now Ange Parker puts it out there as a stark threat. And it looks to me, correct me if I'm wrong, like Ms. Parker is in the driver's seat. Put your head in the sand, brother, as is your usual tactic, but I'm going to say, Ms. Parker, can we work together on this? Because I don't think Ange Parker is necessarily against us working together."

Suddenly Ange understood why Vince was encouraging the family confrontation in front of her. Holding Davis' proxy in this situation she was family. Vince understood the reality of it.

"What difference would it make if Frontier Dynamics bought in?" said Daniel. "The chair still has to be Sheffield."

"Better read the bylaws again, Daniel," said Vince. "The actual wording is something along the lines of 'as long as the Sheffield Family continues as majority shareholders the chair shall be family.'"

"You're missing the point, Vince," said Michael, standing, "This is naked power. What are we going to do about it? The bitch takes my office. So we say, sure, go ahead, take my office. What the fuck!"

Vince stood. "You will not call this woman bitch. Let's get clear on that. We're talking about our future with Sheffield Industries and you're bent about your fucking office? You'll apologize to Ms. Parker for calling her a bitch or you'll get the fuck out of here. And I mean it, Michael, you and your fucked up son, too!"

Wow, thought Ange. Here she was, fly on the wall observing the demolition of the fragile detente between the brothers Sheffield. In the process she gained a measure of understanding of their respective roles. Vince the cool one with perspective, Michael the hothead. Had they always been that way? Interesting.

"Michael," she said, "you can keep your office. I was just light-headed from being forced to stand in the hot sun."

"Oh," said Michael, snidely, "how very kind of you to let me keep my office... bitch."

Vince exploded. Ange had never seen him so emotional. "Out!" he said, red-faced, pointing to the door. Michael ignored him: "Fuck you!"

Vince, realizing he could not force his brother to leave, turned to Ange: "Ms. Parker, would you kindly join me elsewhere?"

Elsewhere turned out to be a bar in the nearby Sheraton Inn where Sheffield sometimes hosted conferences. Vince's idea. Neutral ground, Change of scene. Shaylane squelched her with a three-beat keying at one point, perhaps alarmed that she didn't know where Ange was. Rather than answer, Ange keyed her Sheriff's Department walkie-talkie with a "shave and a haircut, two bits" response, their agreed on code for all's well. Vince hardly seemed to notice.

Vince and Ange small-talked awhile. Some talk about Jan -- someone they had in common. They ordered snacks, calamari, jalapeño poppers. Finally, Vince put the question:

"So, what're your terms, Ange?" he said.

Ange thought for a long moment. "I'll level with you, Vince. Davis Sheffield has given me the green light to sell if necessary but that isn't his preference."

Vince waited.

"If Davis sold, he'd put the proceeds into a new foundation to continue the Green Helmet grants, which would technically fulfill his obligation to Rachel, but he knows that Rachel would not have wanted control of the company taken from you and your brother."

"No, she wouldn't have wanted that."

"Nor is Davis interested in showing up here to take the chair and mess with you."

"I can't imagine why he'd want to."

"Because he's pissed, Vince. The indictment business and the Wall Street Journal article was over the line, could dry up the Korean income source, and embarrassed him with his parents. The upshot is that some things have to change."

"Okay."

"First, you need to call off your dogs on the moral turpitude angle. War's over. Same with any other legal shenanigans, needless to say. You'll need to make a public statement disavowing allegations in the Wall Street Journal piece and expressing full support of Davis Sheffield. You support making Jan treasurer in the upcoming board discussions and she should remain on the board. And you fire Smithson, Merriman, Douglas and Frazer."

Long pause.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"More in the future?"

"I doubt it."

"Agreed on all counts. However, the firing of the law firm poses problems."

"Go on."

"They're in the mix everywhere. It'd be messy. They know a lot of things, and they'd be likely to make trouble. We're more or less their entire clientele."

"I'm open to compromise on it but they need to be spanked."

"Spanked for what?"

"For taking sides against Davis. That was ethically wrong."

"Who does the spanking, and how?"

"They need a fifth partner. Somebody from our side."

"That'd spank them, alright. But offhand I can't think of anybody in the building who could be a partner in their firm without making a fool of themselves."

"I was thinking of someone from my team."

"You have a team?"

"Did you think I put together the motions on the indictment and set up the Tericargo business all by my lonesome over the weekend?"

"I thought it was possible, yes. I've underestimated you all the way down the line and I'm trying not to do it again."

****

After Vince left Ange stuck around the Sheraton bar waiting for Shaylane, enjoying an iced tea and feeling pretty smug about how the last few days had gone after the disaster on Friday. Her self-congratulatory mood was dampened slightly by Shaylane's comments when she joined her.

"Daniel didn't like the idea of some other outfit buying Davis' shares, not one bit. But his evil little pig eyes lit up like a pinball machine when you mentioned the idea that Davis might show up here. He'd love that."

"Why, do you think?" said Ange, although she knew what Shaylane was getting at.

"I think the little shit is capable of anything. I don't think it'd be a good idea for Davis to come here. Not a good idea at all."
CHAPTER 32

Oakland Metropolitan Executive Airport, California

Wednesday, July 24, 1996

Davis wasn't sure what to expect as he waited in his Jaguar for Jezebel's chartered Cessna Citation on the tarmac at the executive airport. During the phone call from the Whatever she had given him grief for dropping out of sight without calling, mixed with undisguised joy at hearing from him, both delivered in her usual blunt, honest style.

He needn't have worried. Jezebel was all smiles and open arms as she came down the ramp the charter service crew had rolled up for her.

"You won the lottery!" she said, laughing. "And let me guess, they wouldn't let you keep it unless you shaved your hair off."

They hugged and looked at each other fondly for a moment. Then Jezebel turned to where the pilot, co-pilot, and crew of three stood watching at the top of the rolling ramp. She pulled Davis toward the ramp and proceeded to introduce each of them, extolling their virtues and mentioning bits of family situation and background. Margie, the food steward, for example, was from Austin, Texas, and she was so nice, such a sweetheart and checked in on Jezebel every fifteen minutes to make sure she didn't need anything, my word! Typical Jez. The crew was all grins. This wasn't the treatment they usually received from their rich and famous guests after a flight.

Jezebel was a tall, heavy-set black woman with a pillow bosom, large eyes and short hair with big curls in an Ella Fitzgerald style. She had a wide mouth and a charismatic smile. When she played guitar she had a way of grinning hugely, when it was cooking, like Louis Armstrong, as if to say, "How about that?"

She was 60-years-old but hadn't lost a step in energy. In their Chicago days together she could easily keep up for three sets until three o'clock in the morning and be up the next day fixing breakfast for poor Davis sleeping in.

Shortly after clearing the gates of the executive airport, Jezebel lifted her fingers, palm up, in an "Okay, what gives?" gesture.

Davis cleared his throat. This was a delicate moment. His mysterious disappearance from the Chicago scene was, of course, preceded by a year-and-a-half of flagrant misrepresentation of his actual situation, which now had to be disclosed. In their phone conversation he had already explained that he had needed to go into hiding and that he wasn't actually a poor musician in the first place. The details he had postponed until now.

"Sorry?" he said with a rising inflection as though asking a question.

"Spill."

"Jez," he said, "I wanted to make it on my own as a musician in Chicago." His words sounded lame to his own ears. "I didn't want to be a rich guy buying my way into the band. It was one of the best things in my life that you respected me and that we were friends. But if I had started off letting you know I had money, it wouldn't have been the same. And once I started down that path I sort of had to stay with it."

"How much money you got?"

"A lot."

"Oh, no. Not 'a lot.' We do it different this time, okay? I tell you how much money I got. Then you tell me how much money you got. Deal?"

"Deal."

"I got about fifty grand put away and I still get offers for work, the other day from Tina Turner. Yeah, R&B, baby! I go both ways. I usually break better'n even on the band but maybe I'm a little short at the moment. The Blues has got the blues in Chicago. But I'm fine. Now you."

"I can't give exact numbers but over a billion, Jez.'"

"A billion you say?" said Jezebel, her voice rising to a high pitch. "Did you say billion? You musta said million. I probably didn't hear you right."

"No, I said billion."

"That's a lot of money," said Jezebel, her voice even higher. "I don't even know how much money that is. Is that a hundred million or a thousand million or what? Don't answer. Just tell me you give away lots of money and help people. Nobody needs that kind of money."

"I give away lots of money, sort of."

"Sort of? Don't tell me 'sort of'. Do you give away lots of money or not? First you come on like as if you was poor and now it comes out you sitting on more money than I can imagine and now you're going to tell me you 'sort of' help people out once in awhile?"

Crestfallen, Davis made a quick decision to lay everything out, including things few people knew. "It's complicated." He glanced at Jezebel and saw her arms folded. Waiting. "You've heard of the Green Helmet program?"

"Yes, of course. Everybody knows about the Green Helmet guys. So?"

"The Green Helmet program money comes from Sheffield Industries."

"Yeah, so it says on the helmets. So?"

"My real name isn't Davis Jones – I mean, that's the name I was born with -- but my name now is Davis Sheffield."

"Get out of here! You own Sheffield Industries?"

"Not exactly. Others are involved. And I wouldn't know how to run it if I did own it. But the Green Helmet program was my wife's creation. She's passed now. But it's my job to protect the program."

"My poor brain is having a little trouble with this. If you in charge of protecting the Green Helmet program, why ain't you out protecting it? Why you picking me up at the airport to go see if some kid's any good? And what're you doing creeping around Chicago like a poor orphan when you got a program to protect?"

"I've got other people protecting it for me and they're doing a better job than I could do. Plus I hate that shit. I'd rather be hanging with you and playing in your band. Plus.... Shit Jez, it's going to take me awhile to explain everything, but otherwise it's not going to make a lot of sense."

"Honey, I got nothing but time."

****

Davis drove Jezebel to the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, her choice due to good memories from time she had spent there in the past. They talked on the way, then poolside for an hour. Jezebel went to her room to shower and change while Davis watched a tennis tournament on the hotel courts. They talked more on the way to the "Deviations from the Norm" space, and then sat in the car and talked for some minutes before Davis finally finished his story. He had left very little of importance out.

Jezebel was mollified after the extensive briefing and Davis was relieved to be on the receiving end of some solid hugs and reassurance that they were still "pals," as she called it. Davis had intended to play Johnny's demo tape for her on the way from the airport and there hadn't been time for that. No problem, Jezebel assured him. She'd rather have Johnny do something live anyway, as a warm up.

Johnny and Selene were waiting when Davis and Jezebel came in, Jez carrying her guitar in its case. Johnny looked nervous. Maybe Selene did, too, Davis thought, but that was rectified quickly. Jezebel, to Davis' surprise, had reacted with hilarity on hearing the story of Selene kicking him in the balls. Now she wasted no time, walking up to Selene and announcing her delight with the concept.

"I understand you the kind of gal been known to kick a fellow in the family jewels. Honey, I like that in a woman," she said. "Yes indeed I do. Take for example a guy that would lie to a woman." She looked meaningfully at Davis but she was half-laughing at the same time. "How do you get the attention of somebody like that? There's just one way. But most girls are too timid."

Jezebel and Selene did a jive handshake with big grins. Davis glanced at Johnny. The exchange had done little to ease his nerves. But Jezebel worked her charms on him next.

"Now, young man. You must be Johnny. Very nice to meet you. You a hunk, honey. That's good. Davis didn't tell me that. And look at this smile, my, my. Davis said you got some good lyrics. But you're a hunk. So you want to use your eyes and your smile. Can't be looking at your fingers on the strings. Let your other guys be looking at the strings. You dig?"

Johnny nodded.

"You be looking at the chicks. Won't be able to see them because all you can see is lights. But you look at them anyway. Melt they poor little hearts. Can you do that? Can you play without looking at your fingers?"

"I'm not sure."

"If not you'll need to practice that. But let's hear something. I see you're all set up."

"Doesn't waste time, does she?" whispered Selene to Davis.

Johnny went to the small stage and performed a number that was a good choice because it worked well with just his chords and strong voice. Davis could see him trying to avoid looking at his fingers. He mostly succeeded. The song was one Davis had enjoyed on the demo: Hollywood Hookers. Davis thought the lyrics worked and hoped Jezebel would agree.

"Good," said Jezebel, when Johnny had finished. "Very nice."

Wham bam, went the door and in rushed J.B., late as usual. When she was introduced as a back up singer, along with Selene, Jezebel wanted to know if they had anything worked up for the Hollywood Hookers number. It turned out they had something Johnny had never heard, a call and response like a Ray Charles song. Could they do it hooker-style, Jezebel wanted to know, without specifying what that meant, exactly. Oh, yes.

Johnny and ensemble went though Hollywood Hookers twice, with Jezebel as choreographer, encouraging the girls standing behind Johnny, to vamp it up. Step in unison, she instructed, hips exaggerated each way. More exaggerated, up 50%. Yes.

"I love it!" said Jezebel. "This is good. Johnny, you can't see them. Once more, girls out in front where Johnny can see you."

"This is nice, guys," said Jezebel, when they had finished. Johnny had a huge smile. The girls looked hot. "Now again, and this time maybe Davis could add in some keyboards. What do you think, Johnny? I'm thinking if Davis put in some rhythm support, just sort of underneath, it could free you up a little so you wouldn't have to carry it all. Okay with you? Good."

Hollywood Hookers cooked that time. Johnny was moved to salute Davis afterwards with a thumbs-up for his contribution. But Jezebel wasn't finished. She got her guitar from its case, checked the tuning and jacked it in to the system.

"One more time, guys. I'm going to just add a few licks and give me some room at the bridge to go with it. But keep going with the inspiration, girls. You're turning me on."

Davis had heard Jezebel do her thing many times. The others hadn't. When she joined the girls with her insanely wailing guitar while simultaneously doing a sort of bump and grind along with them, meaning she bumped and grinded against them quite a bit (naughty old dyke), Selene and J.B. almost lost it, laughing and falling in love.

Johnny was even more in love. He had never heard one of his songs given a professional makeover. A universe of possibilities opened to him.

Afterwards at Jezebel's request, they went to a Berkeley restaurant called Chai Am for Thai food. At an appropriate lull in the conversation, Johnny asked the burning question. "So, what did you think?"

He had asked it, obviously, of Jezebel. But Davis the joker jumped in: "The lead guitar left a little to be desired. But the dancing hookers were great."

"Very funny," said Johnny.

"I thought everything worked," said Jezebel. "It was fun. Good lyrics, good singer, good back up singers plus sexy dancers. Even the keyboards managed not to mess it up."

"You guys are a trip," said J.B.

"How many songs you got?" said Jezebel.

"Maybe ten I feel good about. A few more in the works."

"I just listened to a couple on your demo," said Jezebel. She and Davis had driven to the restaurant together. "Clone me, Baby was pretty tight."

"I like that one," said Selene.

"Not enough of me to go around," sang J.B., softly, from the song.

"Good hook," said Jezebel. "So, Johnny, what're your plans?"

"Huh? My plans? Gosh, I don't know. Davis came up with the idea that maybe you'd be willing to help me out to get started."

"You mean help you form a band?"

"Yeah, I mean, if you want to."

"Hell no. Ain't no way I helping no fool form a band. You know what I'm trying to say? Been there and done that too many times. Now, if you want me to join your band, well then, I'd be honored to do so. What time are the rehearsals?"

"Well, Jezebel, the problem is I don't really exactly have a band yet."

"You mean me and Davis and your backup singers ain't enough?"

"I don't think we're enough, do you?"

"Well, boss, that depends. What kind of band you got in mind?"

"We've got to have a bass, for sure, and drums."

"You got somebody in mind?"

"Davis said we could hire studio musicians. Freelancers."

"Well, Davis say this and Davis say that. You know what Davis said to me? He said, Jez, how about he flies me out from Chicago every week – and we're talking private jet, baby – and then he says how about he flies me back so I can play in my own band on the weekends. Now I don't know if you see a problem with that but it sure don't make no sense to me. First place, my band back home ain't really making it, you know what I'm trying to say? So here we go, big money down the drain to fly me back and forth so I can lose a little money on the weekends. How much that cost, Davis honey, to fly me to Chicago on that luxury liner in the sky with that nice girl bringing me drinks and shit?"

Davis looked embarrassed. "I don't actually know."

"He don't actually know. There you go. See what I mean? Davis, honey, when you call the airplane people and give them your credit card number, don't they tell you how much it's going to cost?"

"Somebody else sets that up, Jez."

"Could be two grand," said Jezebel. "Could be three grand. Davis don't know. Davis don't care. But I care. Because I'd rather have that money in my own grubby little meat hooks than have it go up in vapor trails across the friendly skies. So I'm thinking about maybe making a deal with Davis. I stay here and he gives me the money that would otherwise have gone to the jet fuel industry, this being in addition to the already extremely generous stipend, as he calls it, for coming here in the first place. This additional money would be placed in the Jezebel retirement and vacation fund, a worthy charity."

"That's fine, Jez," said Davis, "of course."

"You hear what I'm trying to say, Johnny? Studio musicians will run you between $200 and $400 a day. There's a lot of talent those guys can bring. But at $400 a day there might be some pretty good local drummers you could bring into the fold and have some left over, and spread the wealth around a little in the local scene so you become everybody's daddy, you know what I'm trying to say? Whereas freelancers going to come in and think they're the cat's meow and who you, little boy? But it needs to be your band, Johnny. You say, Davis, give me a budget, and then you call the shots and put it all together.

"And another reason too, because when you out there on the stage and all the girls are screaming, you want to be the man. You know what I'm trying to say?"

"I think I do," said Johnny. He looked at Selene and gave her his charming, crooked smile. "Am I the man, Marcia?"

"You the man," she said.
CHAPTER 33

Doubletree Hotel, Berkeley, California

Friday, August 23, 1996

Johnny's band, which was called Johnny & Jez, came together in record time for such endeavors, just a little over a month. The word had spread quickly throughout the Bay Area that serious money could be made playing for a new band that already included a top-level lead guitarist. Johnny was able to pick from some of the best musicians in the region and he picked well -- a young drummer who could also do vocals, a thirty-something female bass player named Margie, who added visuals as well as a solid beat; and two highly versatile gentlemen who were long-time gay partners and came "in tandem or not at all" for their audition. Frankie and Johnny didn't crack a smile when giving their names. Yes, those were their real names. They were in their fifties and both had had symphonic orchestra experience. They were sometimes guest lecturers in music theory at San Francisco State – and yes, they lectured in tandem as well. Between them they could play horns, reeds, flutes and harmonicas. It turned out after they joined the group that Johnny was also pretty solid on rhythm guitar.

This highly eclectic bunch was selected entirely by Johnny, with virtually no input from Jezebel or Davis. The only advice Jezebel seemed willing to give was the same thing she said every week: "Write more songs."

That was good advice. It soon became apparent that the group was anchored by Johnny's lyrics interwoven with Jezebel's inspired blues-rock accompaniment. Jez focused on underscoring Johnny's voice more than making her own musical statement. The result was magical. All the other band members found ways to embellish as well. Jerome the drummer worked on some duet pieces in close harmony with Johnny. Jerome's tenor voice gave them a Bee Gee's sound on some songs.

A language developed. When Johnny liked something he turned and nodded. Davis, along with Frankie and Johnny, had a knack for bringing rich tonal backgrounds that had Johnny turning and nodding a lot. Davis taught harmonies on the piano for Selene and J.B to use in their call-and-response interludes with Johnny. It was good practice for J.B. to learn to discipline her punk-rock flamboyance.

Towards the end of August, relying on comments from Jez and Johnny that they felt ready to book performances – take the show on the road, as Jez phrased it -- Davis decided it was time to kick around ideas for a concert. However, in order to do that he decided he needed to finally disclose his true identity to those who were still in the dark, including Selene.

The situation had changed, primarily because the Sheffield brothers – or at least Vince Sheffield, thanks to Ange -- had backed off on the moral turpitude lawsuit. The embezzlement indictment had been quashed.

Thanks to the Wall Street Journal story, however, a media buzz still thrived regarding the allegations against Davis of so-called moral turpitude. Photos of Davis with beard and long hair were showing up in tabloid newspapers with headlines like "Billionaire's Secret Orgies."

In addition, the Admiral's words at the officer's club in San Diego had stayed with him. It's a mistake being secretive, the Admiral had said, talking about the accusations of moral turpitude: "If it's not something you're ashamed of, then put it out there for everybody to see and devil take it."

Good advice, Davis had decided, and the truth was he was not ashamed of anything. Davis remembered his early years with Mo as a time of innocence and harmless fun. So why keep secrets?

And so it was that Davis planned a meeting with the Band principals to spring some concert ideas. He had decided not to let the whole band in on everything – not yet -- because Doc threatened a mutiny if Davis told "half of San Francisco" about his Sheffield background. The initial meeting included just Johnny, Selene, J.B., Jez and Doc.

They met around a table in a private meeting room at the Doubletree Hotel in the Berkeley Marina. They had come from rehearsal and everybody except J.B. was dressed in Levi's and T-shirts. J.B. was in what Davis thought of as Madonna underwear. They all knew Doc because he often watched rehearsals.

Davis came straight to the point. "Confession time," he said. "Doc and Jez know all this, but I've been holding back on everybody else on a lot of stuff and it's time to come clean." With that by way of introduction, Davis proceeded to tell the story of his identity, why he had gone into hiding and why he now was free to disclose the truth – the 30-minute version.

When he had finished there was a period of silence. Selene looked okay with it, which had been Davis' main worry. She nodded reassuringly and silently mouthed the words "Now I understand." J.B. looked confused.

"This moral turpitude," she said, "is that the same as perverted?"

Davis shrugged and nodded simultaneously. He wasn't quite sure himself.

"Half the people I know are perverts," said J.B., "I've got a tee-shirt that says 'Pervert and Proud.'"

"Moral turpitude is a law thing," said Jezebel. "They can put you in jail for it."

"Oh, I doubt that," said Davis.

"You don't think so?" said Jez. "Well, tell that to Judge Asshole Bryant in Memphis, Tennessee, who threw me in the slammer when I was 19 years old for moral turpitude. His exact words, which I'm unlikely to ever forget, were 'Moral turpitude, to wit sodomy.' Six months in the county jail and count myself lucky. 'Course that was 1956 and I shoulda' known better than to mess with no white girl in Memphis, Tennessee."

"Was she under-aged?" said Johnny.

"Naw. She was about maybe 30 or so. Nothing happened to her but the difference was me being a poor black queer as opposed to her being a rich white queer."

"That can't be right," said J.B. "They can't put you in jail just for being gay."

"Well now, listen to you," said Jez, laughing. "You a sign of progress, girl. There's hope for the world. God bless San Francisco."

"I'm serious," said J.B. "And being gay isn't the same as being a pervert, either." She turned to Doc for validation. "Ain't that right, Doctor?"

"That's true, J.B. It used to be the same thing. But they changed it a few years back."

"Who changed it?" said J.B., looking skeptical.

"The psychiatrists. They voted on it. It was a close vote but now it's official."

"That doesn't sound like any way to do things," said J.B. Nobody argued with her. She looked at Doc with a furrowed brow. "What do you think, Doc?"

"Freud thought everybody was a pervert," said Doc. "I'll go with that."

"Well, I'm not a pervert," said Johnny, "but I've still had a moral turpitude thing hanging over me. Dona and I – Amelia's mother – we have to be careful not to do what they call 'create an environment of moral turpitude' or else the caseworkers would put Melly in a foster home."

"It's all bullshit," said Davis. "Hypocritical, judgmental bullshit. But here's the thing: You guys are talking about looking around for a gig and I want to be a part of it. Ange Parker is totally on top of things in New Jersey and there's no reason I can't stay with the band. But I don't want to stay in hiding. I want my friends and family to be able to see the band, for example. Somebody would recognize me. And then the press would come yapping around and it would take away from Johnny and Jez. You can see the problem."

"Yes," said Johnny, "but what's the answer?"

"What would you think of starting with a concert?" said Davis. "Johnny and Jez as headliners along with several of the best Bay Area groups. Paramount Theater. A benefit for the homeless. And Davis Sheffield on keyboards. No big deal. Nothing to hide. If the press wants to talk to me they can catch me later."

Davis waited for reactions. Johnny and J.B. looked thoughtful. Doc hid his face in his hands, which Davis knew was related to security. Doc thought it was a huge mistake for Davis to go public.

Selene shook her head no.

"Selene?" said Davis.

"You need to make a stronger statement, Davis Sheffield."

"A statement?" said Davis. "At a music concert?"

"You're guilty, Davis Sheffield."

"Guilty of what?"

"Moral turpitude."

Davis looked at Selene for a moment. He couldn't think of a response.

"They'll come to me, you know," said Selene. "What should I tell them?"

"The truth, of course."

"The truth? They'll eat it up with a spoon. You know that. I can write the headlines for you if you want to hear them. No, better if you beat them to the punch."

"With a song," said Jez.

"Yes," said Selene, with excitement. "With a song. Perfect."

"What song?" said Davis, dubious.

"Johnny'll write you one," said Selene. "I'll help, just to make sure we get in all the really horrible stuff and all the terrible moral turpitude."

****

Three days later Johnny had the song. It was intended to be half-spoken, rather than sung in full voice, since in Johnny's estimation Davis did not have much of a singing voice. It was intended as a solo -- after an introduction with the Sheffield name -- Davis at keyboards alone on the stage in the spotlight. The rest of the band would come in for lengthy refrains afterwards, and during the refrains they'd work up some choreography for Selene, J.B. and their sexy bass guitar Margie to dance teasingly around Davis.

Johnny picked up his guitar and sang the first verse for him:

When I see someone pretty,

Flashing pussy, ass or titty,

In me occurs a phenomenon.

It's become my favorite habit,

Knowing I can't have it,

Deprivation turns me on.

Davis laughed. Not what he had expected but cute and true enough.

Johnny sang the next verse:

You see I love it when I hate it,

I really can't explain it,

Comes from some higher echelon.

There's just no denying,

If I did - I'd be lying,

Deprivation turns me on.

One more verse, Johnny told him.

My dream is just to dangle

Underneath the Triangle

Of a dominating Amazon

I'm looking for a teaser

Who will just let me please her.

Deprivation turns me on.

"It's fun, Johnny," said Davis. "It's perfect. Thanks."
CHAPTER 34

Sheffield Industries Headquarters, Newark, New Jersey

Friday, October 4, 1996

At 2:00 p.m. when Ange's Sheffield administrative assistant told her Vince wanted her on the Eighth Floor immediately, Ange thought Vince must have found out about Davis' San Francisco concert, scheduled for that evening, and no doubt Michael had heard about it too. It was all over the San Francisco papers and had been picked up by the Associated Press: Bad Boy Davis Sheffield surfaces as a musician in an unknown band.

Michael was waiting by Vince's office door for them, which Ange at first thought was a bad sign. Michael hadn't been attending board meetings and had stayed mostly out of sight since Jan had become treasurer.

However, if the concert publicity had given Michael an opportunity to score I-told-you-so points, Ange couldn't tell it from his expression as he waited by the door. He swayed unsteadily as if he might be drunk and lifted a hand towards her as if he wanted something from her but couldn't find words. He was sweaty and pale and his normally impeccably knotted silk tie was pulled loose and askew. As he opened the door for her, he touched her gently and hung his head. Ange glanced at Jan, who lifted her arms in a gesture to say she had no idea what could be going on. As they entered the office, Newark Assistant District Attorneys Walt Brannigan and Les Knight rose from chairs and nodded at Ange. A woman in her forties rose and introduced herself to Ange and Jan as FBI Special Agent Ruth Reid.

Vince started to introduce Brannigan and Knight to Jan. Ange indicated she had already met. Vince guided Ange to a chair, using solicitous body language like a funeral director. Jan sat on an edge of her father's huge desk.

Special Agent Reid wasted no time coming to the heart of the situation: "Are you in contact with Davis Sheffield?"

Ange looked around the circle. "With respect, why do you ask?"

"His life may be in danger. Is he aboard a sailing ship in the South Pacific?"

"No. He's scheduled to perform in a concert at the Paramount Theater in San Francisco tonight."

"So the news reports are accurate. Do you have a way to contact him?"

"Not reliably. He usually contacts me."

"I need to contact our offices in San Francisco, if you all will please excuse me for a moment."

Vince guided Agent Reid to an adjoining office to use the phones.

"Will someone please brief me," said Ange.

There followed a long silence. Michael, looking hangdog, glanced at Vince and nodded. It was up to Vince.

"Ange, there's been some kind of big sting operation – is that what you call it? – of drug kingpins or whatever and Daniel has been implicated. Several different, uh, what do you call them, witnesses?"

"Three different scumbags, all trying to go state's evidence to save their sorry asses, have told the same story," said Brannigan.

"Could you tell it, Mr. Brannigan?" said Vince, putting his fingers to his temples.

"The worst of it is they say Daniel Sheffield is a murderer many times over, that he gave the orders to murder Maureen Sheffield-Baskin, and that he has put out an open contract on Davis Sheffield."

"My God!" said Ange, struggling to absorb the information.

"They say he's a sadistic killer who developed a taste for it during the Nicaraguan conflicts in the 80's. They claim he provides weapons and materials to certain groups and in exchange they provide him...." Brannigan hesitated.

"With women to torture," said Michael loudly, his eyes bulging. "They provide him with women to rape and murder. Rape and murder. That's what they said, and it fits with things... but I didn't think...."

"Michael..." Vince started, softly.

"And Maureen!" shouted Michael, his features cramped with horror. "Oh, God! His cousin! My sister's girl! And her little girl, her innocent little girl! He's a monster!"

"Where is Daniel now?" said Ange, her voice as calm and flat as she could make it.

Michael, distraught, didn't seem to hear her. "It's my fault. Things I said to him. He must have thought...."

"What did you say to him?" said Knight.

"Don't answer that, Michael," said Ange quickly.

Michael looked confused.

"Is Michael a subject of investigation, Les?" said Ange.

"No, he isn't," said Knight. "You're right, Ange. I withdraw the question."

"You guys are on a first name basis?" said Vince.

Ange waved Vince off for the moment.

"What's going on?" said Michael. "A subject of investigation of what? I had nothing to do with what he did!"

"We know that. We know you were ignorant of Daniel Sheffield's activities, sir," said Brannigan. "You aren't under suspicion of anything."

"If you'll all excuse me, I'm not feeling well," said Michael. "I'll be in my office." He left the room with his face in his hands.

"You never cease to amaze me, Ange," said Vince. "How deep does your involvement go in all this?"

"I need to get in touch with Davis, if I can," said Ange, again waving off Vince's question. "But first, I need to know where is Daniel now? Is he in jail?"

"We didn't have enough for a warrant." said Knight. "Daniel Sheffield had some advance warning and left the country."

"The charter flight plan had him going to Costa Rica," said Brannigan.

"He has a place in Costa Rica that he talked about a lot," said Vince, "somewhere around Lake Arenal."

"Have the Costa Rican authorities been contacted?" said Ange.

"We called our embassy in San Jose," said Brannigan. "They aren't encouraging. Extradition takes time and there's nothing automatic about it either. They say Costa Rica will go over the situation with a fine-toothed comb. If all we have is the testimony of Colombian drug smugglers...."

"But that testimony is enough here?" said Ange.

"It's enough for an indictment," said Knight, "and then we'd have to build a case."

"Getting him out of Costa Rica will be hard enough," said Brannigan. "It could be worse if he skips to Colombia. He apparently has put together a paramilitary unit somewhere in the jungles of Colombia."

"What in hell would he need a paramilitary unit for?" said Vince.

"There's a war going on down there," said Brannigan. "Leftist guerillas are fighting with paramilitary groups which are supposedly on the side of the Colombian government and the U.S. drug efforts. Both sides use terrorism and both sides are involved in drug trafficking to support their efforts. Our informants also naturally mentioned that the CIA was involved, piggybacking on the Gary Webb thing."

"Gary Webb?" said Ange.

"Gary Webb is a journalist who ran a series in the San Jose Mercury News last month," said Knight, "to the effect that the CIA has turned a blind eye to massive amounts of cocaine going into L.A., in effect meaning that the CIA was in collusion with the Colombians and so forth. It's being talked about on the street."

"Maybe, maybe not," said Brannigan. "But the point here is that even without this CIA business, Daniel Sheffield was, according to our informants, running a paramilitary outfit to fight against the bad guys and in the process got to terrorize civilians and do his sick thing."

"It fits," said Jan, speaking up for the first time. She looked at her father grimly.

"I know what you're thinking," said Vince. Then to the others: "Jan has said for years that Daniel was in need of adult supervision. Turns out she may well have been right."

"What did your informants say about the murder of Maureen Sheffield and her daughter?" said Ange.

"And pilot and crew," said Vince in a low voice.

"They all claimed, of course, that they personally had nothing to do with it," said Knight, "but I have to tell you the picture they painted was chilling. They talked about it, almost lightly, as just the way it is, that a network of assassins and hit men exists in the United States to enforce the underground rules of the road in the drug trade and that if the word comes down, you're as good as dead."

"And now the word has come down on Davis Sheffield?" said Ange.

"One of the witnesses, one Juan Corteza, laughed about Davis Sheffield escaping in a sailboat," said Knight, "and said if Davis ever set foot back in the U.S. he'd be dead within 24 hours."

"Because that's just the way it is," said Brannigan. "No problema to these guys."

"Jesus!" said Ange. "Davis can't go on that stage tonight."
CHAPTER 35

Paramount Theatre, San Francisco, California

Friday, October 4, 1996

The big day was finally here. It seemed to Davis like a long time had passed since they had started on it, but really six weeks is a very short time to mount a production on the scale they had planned. It would have been impossible without the help of Dave Lucas Promotions and all the professional talent Lucas had brought to bear. Davis had learned a lot about how what it means to be a producer and enjoyed the process immeasurably. Prior to beginning the project, for example, Davis hadn't known what a stage manager was. Now he thought of a stage manager as much like a chief of staff. Somebody had to know everything about what everybody was supposed to do and when – and make sure they did it.

Davis had only half realized prior to starting the project that there would be lighting people and sound people and make-up people and on and on and now all of them were running around in a seemingly chaotic pattern, setting things up, checking things, making last minute changes. How grand! There surely is no business like show business! Davis thought this could get in his blood.

Davis was also learning about stage fright. Soon that cavernous space of empty seats would fill with people expecting to be entertained. And Davis was going to sing a solo. About how deprivation turned him on. Gulp.

There had been fits and starts as they began the project. Davis had thought to invite big name entertainers and make it a free concert for all so that seats would be filled.

First Selene -- and later a potent combo of Selene and Jez -- knocked him back on both counts. No big name draws. Who needs Stevie Nicks? There were plenty of great groups in the area who would love to perform. And no free concert, either. Instead, they proposed an honor system sliding scale, free for street people and pricey for the Nob Hill crowd. They also nixed the idea of a benefit. Gross proceeds would be distributed evenly amongst the performers with a local accounting agency in charge of the math. TicketMasters had sold the house out on that basis and the accountants had ended up with a tidy amount to distribute.

A last minute hitch featured two FBI agents who showed up out of nowhere on the day of the show. They insisted it was too dangerous for Davis to go on stage, citing vague warnings from Washington. Davis had refused to meet with them but they had talked to Doc, who predictably went ballistic. Davis made the mistake of using poor language when he said "over my dead body" would he cancel his performance in the show, a comment that resulted in what could only be termed a temper tantrum on Doc's part.

Doc showed up late in the afternoon carrying a Kevlar vest that he wanted Davis to put on. Davis turned down that precaution as well, even when Doc threatened to leave Davis and go back to Seattle. Davis knew Doc wouldn't do that and he also was quite certain gunmen were not going to attack him during a performance with cops around. If he was in danger, he told Doc, it would be on a dark street late at night, not in front of a thousand witnesses. In a fit of pique, Doc put the vest on himself and stormed out.

In the end, there were four local musical groups -- plus Johnny & Jez \-- and a dance group scheduled to perform, all of them well known in the area but from widely different musical genres. First up, an hour before curtain, was a Dixieland band, whose role was to walk up Market Street like pied pipers and induce street people to follow them to the theatre with the aid the Underground Bathrooms distribution team. This group was given front row seating, actually in what was sometimes used for an orchestra pit, separated a bit from the rest of the audience for olfactorially aesthetic reasons, as Randy put it.

Following the Dixieland opener, but still a half-hour before curtain time, a reggae group rocked it in the balcony. The same group would perform later in the show. The word had been passed covertly that weed would be tolerated in the balcony just before the show. Within an hour after doors-open, a smoky haze resembling a cloudbank had drifted from the balcony to form a dome over the main floor.

Davis was enjoying himself as he sat in the balcony with the laid back crowd. The stage manager had assured him he had plenty of time to watch the first of the show before he headed backstage. The balcony was almost half full already. Davis had taken a seat near a side entrance several rows above the early crowd. His relative isolation didn't stop a guy holding a joint from trying to include Davis in the fun. Davis waved him back but the fellow came on, approaching in the row behind Davis with a smile.

"No thanks," said Davis, as the man held the joint before him.

Suddenly the joint was discarded and the man's arm locked around Davis' head with a ferocious grip that bent his neck backwards over the seatback. Davis clawed briefly at the arm with no effect. The assailant covered the action with his shoulder so that if a spectator below had glanced up if would have looked like they were friends hugging. Davis felt cold steel pressing against the back of his skull.

"Adios, amigo," whispered the assassin, his words simultaneous with Doc's voice from behind, shouted so it could be heard over the music: "Davis, look who's here!" And then, alarmed: "Hey! What's going on?"

Davis felt the man twist his position without loosening his arm-hold and fire four rapid rounds, obviously from a firearm with a silencer but it sounded very loud so close to Davis' ear. Davis made another effort to break the iron arm-hold on his neck and suddenly, miraculously, it was easy to do so. In fact, the arm seemed to slide free on its own accord and now his attacker was lying heavily on Davis' shoulders. Davis twisted to free himself and in that instant saw another man running towards him along the aisle from the same direction the first assailant had approached. That man crashed into the back of the first man and then slumped onto the floor as if he had fainted. Davis finally extracted himself by pulling forward. The guy on his shoulders fell heavily on top of the second man and they both lay there unmoving.

"Doc!" said Davis. He looked around in a panic. Doc was nowhere in sight. Davis saw a handgun with silencer on the floor balanced against a seat brace and grabbed it. He stood and looked around warily for additional attackers. The crowd below was enjoying the music and paying no attention. Suddenly – Davis thought he was hallucinating -- Steve Zavala appeared. It could only be Steve, with his head and shoulders showing from above a row of seats near the entrance. He beckoned to Davis.

"Doc is down," said Steve. "He's hit."

Before Davis could make sense of what was happening, a tall man in a dark suit appeared at the entrance and aimed a handgun at Davis.

"Freeze," he shouted. "FBI. Drop your weapon, now!"

Davis dropped the handgun with alacrity, tossing it into the next row down, where it went under a seat and then went clackity-clack sliding for several rows. The reggae performers had seen the FBI agent with his firearm at the ready. They had stopped playing and suddenly the small crowd was scattering like quail to hide beneath seats and behind the makeshift bandstand.

The next hour and a half was a welter of confusion. Davis, cuffed and preoccupied with concern for Doc, was initially unable to identify himself as Davis Sheffield, the person the FBI agents had been sent to protect, because his driver's license and credit cards identified him as Robert Jones. The FBI agents and the uniformed San Francisco cops who were quickly on the scene assumed Davis was the likely perpetrator of a double homicide – two unidentified bodies on the floor between rows, one of them perhaps Davis Sheffield – and another attempted homicide of a man carrying the identification of a Doctor Travestor. It had not been possible for Steve -- not cuffed but considered a witness and told not to leave the scene -- to convince agents or cops that the two bodies on the floor would awaken in approximately 30 minutes and should be cuffed as a precaution. Davis witnessed a memorable scene in which a police officer attempted to relieve Steve of his Light Saber/tranquilizer gun. Steve stated that it was not considered a weapon and the officer bought it, looking for all the world like a drone in a Star Wars movie being mind-controlled by a Jedi.

Firefighter paramedics arrived in very short order – they must have had a unit detailed in case of problems at the concert -- and took over the scene. Two paramedics worked on Doc while a paramedic with a stethoscope quickly determined that the presumed corpses were alive and verified the existence of tranquilizer darts in the necks of both. The cops could be forgiven for thinking the two men were dead because the neurological effects of Ken's darts mimicked death by dramatically slowing pulse and respiration.

The men were cuffed with their hands in front of them and laid on stretchers, at which point Davis saw that the second assumed assailant was actually his shadow bodyguard Lyle Morgan. Steve had naturally assumed he was another attacker and had shot him in mid-stride. The fast-acting tranquilizer had dropped him on the spot.

Davis was desperate for information about Doc's condition and kept asking everyone within hearing what was happening. He was finally told by a helpful paramedic that Doc had been wearing a Kevlar bullet vest, which had certainly saved his life. Only a single small caliber bullet had missed the vest and struck Doc in the throat. They had performed an emergency tracheotomy because blood had created an air passage obstruction but Doc would probably be fine.

Assuming he would get nowhere with the cops, who still saw him as the primary suspect, Davis told the firefighter that the big man they had on a stretcher was actually a good guy, which would come out later, and that the little, Latino-looking man was as strong as an ox, so watch out for him. The firefighter nodded and moments later Davis saw him talking with a police sergeant and pointing to the stretchers.

In the meantime, the scene on the street was a mess. Crime scene tape kept ticket-holders from the box office. Emergency vehicles with flashing lights and vans from local TV channels had created a massive traffic jam at a key intersection along Market Street.

It was three hours before the situation was unsnarled. The theatre manager had stood outside with a bullhorn for most of that time assuring everyone that their tickets would be refunded and that the show would be rescheduled. By that time Davis had been duly identified – thanks to the presence outside of a very concerned Admiral Lasky.

Once released, Davis made his way as quickly as possible -- accompanied by Steve and escorted by a phalanx of police and FBI agents -- to the University of California Medical Center on Parnassus where Doc had been taken. Before leaving he had seen Jezebel and asked her to attend to Selene and the others, tell them he was sorry and make sure they knew the show would go on later. Within a matter of a few weeks, he assured her.

But that reassurance took place before Davis had a chance to talk with Steve and to hear the story of what had come down in New Jersey. That conversation took place in the waiting room at the hospital. Doc was in surgery.

"What in God's name are you doing here, Steve?" said Davis. "Of course I'm grateful that you are. You saved my bacon for real, although you do realize you also shot one of the good guys." Slight smile.

Yes, Steve had heard about that. It turned out Lyle Morgan was a SFPD detective on leave of absence. A police captain had him released when he recognized him cuffed on his stretcher. Morgan hadn't been injured by his fall after getting darted, which was a relief to Steve.

"I came down because I could get here faster than anybody in New Jersey but maybe I didn't get here fast enough or barely fast enough by about three seconds. There are things you need to know, some of which will make a difference in how you see the risk to you, and other things... well, you just need to know. Ange Parker wants you to call her or Merriam Lockett ASAP. But I guess it falls to me to lay out the basics." Steve hesitated, then: "It appears your wife Maureen Sheffield and your daughter and the flight crew of their plane were murdered under orders of Daniel Sheffield."

Davis stared straight ahead as though he hadn't heard. Some seconds passed. "Go on," said Davis in a dry, low voice.

"I say 'appears,' said Steve. "There's been a drug cartel bust and several guys in the bust have gone state's witness and they all said it was common knowledge."

"Common knowledge," said Davis in the same low voice.

"And apparently, Daniel Sheffield has put out an open contract on you."

Davis said nothing for a long minute. The only emotional reaction Ken could see was a pulse in his neck beating high and hard.
CHAPTER 36

30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, east of the State of Georgia

Thursday, October 10, 1996

By any measure, it was an unusual seven-person coterie riding aboard the Cessna "Posse Plane," as Kon had dubbed it, bound for Costa Rica in hot pursuit of the unindicted criminal Daniel Sheffield. First and foremost in pursuit was Davis Sheffield, single-mindedly not to be dissuaded from chasing Daniel to the ends of the earth if necessary.

Sitting near Davis in the plush cabin of the Posse Plane for much of the way to Costa Rica, Ange Parker was the only person Davis would allow into his personal space close enough for physical contact. In New Jersey he had allowed her to hold him when they were alone and he had cried, but so soundlessly that she hadn't known it until she felt later where his tears had soaked into the cotton of her sweater.

In Newark she had been able to break through Davis' tight-jawed silence, to uncover, as she had expected, that his plans were quite simple. He intended to find Daniel Sheffield and kill him. Unable to convince Davis that it was better to allow the legal processes to take their natural course, Ange had insisted she come along on his mission. Rightly or wrongly, Ange felt like she was his emotional lifeline. When he looked at her, Davis' eyes warmed and connected. With everyone else he seemed distracted and uncentered. This state of affairs brought out a mama-lion protectiveness in Ange's breast. It was a strange feeling for her but she didn't resist it.

On the plane, it took Ange some time to successfully wrest from Davis' tight fingers a photo of Daniel Sheffield that he had been gazing at obsessively with furrowed brow and intense eyes, sometimes swaying back and forth in his seat like a cobra.

"You're looking weird to the others," she explained in a whisper against Davis' ear. "You're the leader of this group."

"Am I?" he said with a gentle smile, his eyes searching hers. When he saw alarm there, he touched foreheads with her. "I'll be okay, Ange."

But he didn't release the photo just then. They held it together, staring at the stylized photo of Great White Hunter Daniel Sheffield, decked out in a khaki bush jacket and pants, cradling an over-and-under large bore rifle. Beside him, with a toothless grin, stood a Bushman tracker whose diminutive stature, in contrast, well emphasized Daniel's tall, broad-chested frame. It was a photo Daniel had used for Christmas cards the year before.

"He doesn't look like Michael," said Davis, "and he doesn't look Irish either."

"What does Irish look like?" said Ange.

"Like you," said Davis.

"Red hair," said Ange, arching an eyebrow. "Freckles?"

"And eyes that'll melt your heart away," said Davis, after a pause.

"Don't you be listening to Irish songs, Davis. They're full of blarney."

"Are they?" said Davis. Something intimate in his eyes startled Ange by seeming so out of character and out of context. Her face flushed. She redirected his attention to the photo.

"The way he carries his head so high -- and not just in the photo -- you know who it reminds me of? Liam Neeson as Rob Roy. Did you see the film?"

"No."

"Not that Daniel is any Liam Neeson. But you're right, Daniel is more like a Scot than Irish -- broad face, hawk nose and that way of looking down his nose at you."

"What happened in the movie?"

"Rob Roy is a hard, stubborn man who wins a sword fight by sheer strength of will. Very dramatic."

"Daniel reminds you of that?"

"The stubborn part."

"But not the winning part?"

"Daniel has already lost, Davis."

"Not yet, he hasn't," said Davis, finally handing the photo to Ange.

Ange knew he had a point. Daniel could yet slip away. The legal situation was complex. In Newark, Merriam had outlined the results of her legal research on Costa Rican law. Their best chance of getting Daniel in custody in Costa Rica, before he could flee elsewhere, was to be found in Article 11 of the U.S./Costa Rica Extradition Treaty, which provided that the U.S. Department of Justice could request provisional detention prior to sending a formal request for extradition. By the terms of the treaty they were on shaky ground without a warrant from a U.S. court, but it was worth a try. If Costa Rica did detain Daniel, it would give them 60 days to file formal extradition papers, which meant 60 days to put a case together for an indictment, a case that would necessarily include more than the testimonies of known criminals.

So it was that Ange carried with her a signed and sealed Justice Department application for provisional detention, including statements of the facts of the case so far. Their first stop was to be the Ministerio de Justicia of the Republic of Costa Rica in San Jose. Davis had grudgingly accepted this legal effort as a first step in lieu of immediately heading to the Mount Arenal area to hunt Daniel down.

Also on the Posse Plane was Shaylane Williams, whose mandate to provide protection for Ange was upgraded to international status by virtue of having been assigned as a temporary Deputy United States Marshal. This standing was approved by the International Investigations Branch of the Marshals Service on the condition that Jerrold Pattison, a Marshals Service Chief Inspector, also accompany the group on their mission. Having Pattison along fit with Ange's agenda of curbing Davis' vigilante ambitions. The Marshals Service is the agency charged with the statutory responsibility for extradition of international fugitives. This gave the group a measure of legitimacy.

Jerrold Pattison was a lean – verging on thin \-- six-footer, with sharp features, thinning hair, and a way of looking someone over that made them very glad they were not on any wanted posters over the last twenty years. When he was introduced to someone, he had a mannerism in which he would lift his wrap-around sunglasses -- the athlete's kind with a thong around the back – and perch them on his head. The better to see and catalog you, my dear.

Pattison hit it off well with Kon Armenta, who had introduced himself as the Posse's doctor. The two had been chatting away since the take-off in Newark. Pattison was a runner, as it happened, and in April had been almost in the lead in the Boston Marathon until Heartbreak Hill. He had finished behind a score of Kenyans, Ethiopians, a Brazilian and an Australian, but he was obviously very proud of his achievement and gave Kon a colorful blow-by-blow account that included the names of many of the runners and how he had felt as they blew by him in the last leg of the marathon.

Shaylane was not the only recently deputized Marshall assigned to the Posse. Hulky Lyle Morgan, the former San Francisco detective hired by Doc to watch out for Davis, was also aboard and had been duly deputized. At Doc's insistence, Morgan had accompanied Davis, along with Steve Zavala, on the flight to Newark from San Francisco, and at Doc's continued fervent insistence by phone, now accompanied him to Costa Rica.

When Ange asked him why he was no longer a police officer Morgan gave a one-word answer -- with a smile: "Money." It seems Doc had somehow identified Morgan as an Eagle Scout cop, one of the most highly regarded detectives in the area, and made him an offer. A very lucrative offer.

The last but not least seventh member of the posse was Steve Zavala. Spanish was Steve's native tongue, which argued for his inclusion in the group. The only other person in the group who spoke Spanish – in his case as a second language -- was Pattison, who was often assigned duties involving Latin America.

There was also the matter of Steve's Light Saber, of course. Rescuing Davis at the Paramount Theater had silenced skeptics of what the Little Person could do with his 'toy.' The three marshals were authorized to carry handguns in Costa Rica... maybe. At least they hoped they would not be challenged on it. But if they did have to check their guns at least there would still be the Light Saber -- arguably not a weapon -- as a line of defense in an emergency. Not that anyone except Davis thought firearms could come into play on the mission.

Steve had purchased a large umbrella, which nicely hid the Light Saber in its folds. He was a little worried about what he would do if it rained, since October is a rainy month in Costa Rica. It might look a bit strange if he was caught in a rainstorm and couldn't use his umbrella without giving away the existence of the Light Saber.

Steve, the aspiring journalist, had benefited from his lucky timing and marksmanship at the Paramount in an unexpected way. On the flight from San Francisco a grateful Davis had promised him an exclusive interview. In fact, Davis had said Steve could have the inside scoop on everything, past, present and future, and that he would ask Ange to agree to the same. In the wake of the attempted assassination, the indictment and its quashing, the allegations of moral turpitude and a concert which had to be cancelled in the wake of a violent attack, and now rumors of a top Sheffield executive implicated in a drug cartel, news media all over the country and even worldwide were in a frenzy of speculation. Talk shows and late night comics were having a field day.

Steve had no illusions about what an incredible opportunity Davis had handed him and wasted no time from the moment Davis gave him the green light. Davis had not been interested in talking on the flight from San Francisco, but he had indicated to Lyle Morgan that it was okay for Lyle to tell all, and the calm but sly detective ended up being an absolute treasure trove of information about what Davis had been doing in San Francisco over the preceding months. Morgan even agreed to allow Steve to use a photo of him in his first article.

Steve made voluminous notes and hurriedly dashed off a 2000-word piece highlighting the essentials of Robert Davis Jones AKA Davis Sheffield and the Underground Bathrooms caper. He handed it to Davis for his approval before landing. Davis didn't read it. He handed it back and said he didn't need to approve anything. He trusted Steve.

The piece appeared in The New York Times two days later. Front page with a photo of Morgan. It included a byline: "Steve Zavala, Special to The Times." A call from Davis to The Times editors, placed from the Sheffield Industries headquarters in Newark, had removed their doubts about the veracity of Steve's tale. Steve was sitting with Davis when he made the call. No, Davis would not meet with Times reporters. No, he would not tell them anything over the phone beyond the fact that Steve had his confidence. If they wanted to know more, interview Steve. When Davis hung up he looked at Steve and smiled the first small smile since San Francisco.

"How was that?"

"Good that was," said Steve, slow-blinking in his best Yoda imitation. "Happy it is you have made me."

Steve had brought his Yoda fake ears along for the Costa Rica trip -- although he wasn't sure why. Just in case, he explained.

"Just in case of what?" Ange asked, amused, as they sat together for a time on the plane. She found the ears and the Light Saber fascinating, however, as Steve explained how they worked. He showed her the loading of the CO2 canister and the darts. The darts functioned much like miniature hypodermic needles. When the dart hit the target a tiny weighted plunger collapsed, forcing the fluid forward. Steve described how he reloaded the darts much as one would load a medical hypodermic, by inserting the needle in the neuroparalytic concoction (as he called it) and manually drawing back the plunger until it locked in position. Ange followed Steve's descriptions with interest.

Steve's patient explanation of the Light Saber came at a price for Ange as Steve the journalist pumped her for more details on her harrowing arrest and rescue by Shaylane months before. Deputies Collins and Phillips could not be identified by name since they had been implicated in the recent cartel busts. Other than that, however, there was no reason the full story couldn't be told as a part of Steve's series. By the time they landed in San Jose, Steve had another piece ready for The Times.

Two hours into the flight Shaylane and Lyle Morgan broke off a cop-to-cop talk they had been having and asked for a general meeting to discuss their ideas. Shaylane gave Lyle the floor.

"In Newark I read testimony transcripts provided me by prosecutors Knight and Brannigan," said Lyle. "On the basis of that information and information obtained by Deputy Williams I think we can establish a profile for Daniel Sheffield which might give us an angle in addition to our extradition request. There's a chance we could nail him on violations of Costa Rican law.

"Here's what we think we know so far – if anybody wants to add anything jump right in. In the 1980's young Daniel Sheffield helped provide hand-held missiles so that the Contras could shoot down the Sandinistas' Russian made Hind helicopter battleships, which made him a big man in Nicaragua and buddies with various anti-communist factions such as Ollie North, the CIA and other clandestine elements in the so-called cold war. In the process he developed a taste for massacres of civilians who were deemed as having supported the wrong side in some way or another.

"Fast forward through the next ten years or so leading up to the present day and guess what? The cold war is over, they say, but Daniel Sheffield carries on -- in Colombia, in Africa, in Indonesia, all over the place, wherever you find pockets of communist guerrillas or whatever, there you'll find Daniel Sheffield, organizing paramilitary groups, providing arms and money for mercenaries in some cases, just a regular little one-man anti-communist crusade.

"And here's the problem. There's a huge element of deniability of criminal acts in all this because it's war, right? Case in point, Colombia, where there appears to be collusion in these activities by Colombian authorities, including army and police units that are either passive or active participants in massacres, tortures and what have you, and who are also buddies with Daniel Sheffield. And apparently both sides do this stuff. So how can we make a case against Daniel Sheffield on that front?

"No proof of conspiracy to murder Davis. Just hearsay. The assailant at the theater isn't talking. Same problem with the alleged murders of Maureen Sheffield, her daughter and crew of the Learjet. Again, hearsay. There wasn't any evidence of foul play after an investigation of the crash, so there's no place to start.

"We already know we might have a problem on the drug trafficking charges."

Nobody glanced at Davis, knowing his feelings on the matter since the word had come down two days earlier that the DEA was being hampered in its probe of Daniel Sheffield by CIA or unnamed "national security" interests. New Jersey was still pursuing drug charges based on state conspiracy law but the federal interest in Daniel's drug crimes had been diverted to other characters implicated in the cartel.

"Where Sheffield might've slipped up is in Costa Rica," Morgan continued, "because two witnesses -- if I can glorify the lowlifes who gave him up by calling them that -- have said there are young women held captive at Sheffield's place near Tilarán by Lake Arenal. These might be young Nicaraguan girls from poor villages who are lured by promises of work only to be kidnapped into virtual slavery. It's hard to say. One of the witnesses is Colombian and he says the women are Colombian. In any case it sounds like human trafficking and it so happens Costa Rica frowns on that. We're thinking we can check around for stories of women who claim to have escaped from a situation like that.

"The other hook is very bizarre, straight out of a Hollywood psycho movie. Both the guys who ratted Sheffield out have a low opinion of him, which is due to the fact that they're only drug dealers, this being understandable since the poor guys came from bad homes with alcoholic fathers or whatever. Richie Rich Sheffield, on the other hand, according to both these fellows although neither claims to be an eyewitness, is known to bury his personal slave girls alive when he is tired of them, which puts him in a different category according to them and I'm inclined to agree. The word is he did this in the presence of others at one time but it so freaked out his fellow scumbags that his later M.O. is to take the women to secret places to do it. But everybody knows what's going on, or at least so say our informants. And you have to ask why would anyone make something like this up.

"Now this is an unusual pattern to say the least and therefore gives us a marker. At this point I'll ask Shaylane to comment, because she has some information on the burying alive business."

"Thanks, Lyle," said Shaylane. "I learned about the burying alive from Vince Sheffield. I was curious why it was that Michael Sheffield seemed so easily convinced that the charges against Daniel were valid. Didn't seem to fit. Then Vince told me the burying alive story. When the prosecutors were first outlining the charges Michael was very skeptical, until they mentioned the allegations of burying victims alive; then Michael turned white.

"It came out – not just from Michael because Vince knew the family story too – that after Daniel was taken from his mother at a very young age he apparently overheard a conversation, maybe a phone conversation, in which his father was talking about burying Daniel's mother. Michael had probably meant he had buried her in legal paperwork, buried her in the kind of obstacles a rich man can create for a poor woman, buried her figuratively, in other words, like Khrushchev was going to bury the United States. But little boy Daniel took it literally and he believed his father had buried his mother alive, and believed it, in his heart, without saying anything, all the years he was growing up. It wasn't until his mother was dying and he received a taped message from her that he learned the truth. But by then it must have eaten at him – we can only imagine -- and so he was already twisted, already warped. When he was ten, as a graphic example, he buried a litter of puppies... alive."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Lyle began again: "So, I propose we divide into two teams, one to start the process on the extradition, while Davis, Steve and I do some basic ground-work looking for any evidence or local police knowledge of allegations of sexual trafficking or people having been buried alive. We'd concentrate, I should think, on northern Costa Rica in the general area of where Daniel reportedly has a place somewhere around Lake Arenal."

"Why do you want Steve and me with you?" said Davis.

"Steve speaks Spanish," said Lyle, "and I figured you'd want to head on up towards Lake Arenal as soon as possible."

Davis nodded but he knew the real reason was that as his keeper Lyle had promised Doc he would stay near him.
CHAPTER 37

San Jose, Costa Rica

Friday, October 11, 1996

As a study in contrasts, Day One in the experiences of the two newly formed tactical teams could hardly have been more different. Team One, consisting of Ange, Shaylane, Kon and Marshals Service Chief Inspector Jerrold Pattison spent the better part of the day doing an elaborate slow-motion dance of diplomacy accompanied by the U.S. Ambassador to Costa Rica himself, the Honorable Leonard Bond. In the end they had little to show for their efforts beyond promises that matters would be looked into and please be available for additional information because there would be questions. There would be forms to fill out. The Costa Rican Embassy in Washington, D.C. would be consulted in some manner that remained vague despite efforts to clarify the nature of that involvement. To Ange, the polite bureaucratic process had a quicksand feel to it, an impression which was not remedied later in the day when Ambassador Bond left them to their own devices and she and Pattison found themselves sitting in front of a clerk for hours while he pecked away with two fingers on an antique typewriter. Forms to fill out. More to come. Flickering florescent lights, paint peeling on the walls and a bored clerk. Costa Rica was not a Third World country but sometimes things moved slowly, Pattison told them, counseling patience.

"Pura Vida," said Pattison, citing a Costa Rican slogan. "Muy tranquilo."

Whatever that means. Pattison and the clerk looked tranquilo. Ange could see Shaylane and Kon through a plastic window where they sat chatting in a waiting area like young lovers. They looked muy tranquilo. Ange did not feel muy tranquilo. She was worried about Davis and, as it happens, well might she have been.

Team Two, which consisted of Davis, Lyle Morgan and Steve, started off the morning with considerably more excitement, to put it mildly. Their original intentions were modest enough. They had an appointment, facilitated by Ambassador Bond, with Laura Cassada, the Fiscala Coordinadora (Coordinating Prosecutor) of the Oficina de Asesoría Técnica y Relaciones Internacionales (Office of Technical Assistance and International Relations) for the Fiscalía General de la República (Prosecutor of the Republic of Costa Rica). They hoped Cassada could help them navigate the Costa Rican police records.

At 9:00 a.m. the team left the Crowne Plaza Hotel, lodgings chosen because the hotel was near La Sabana Park, where Marshall Pattison, when he came to San Jose, liked to go for runs at ungodly hours of the morning. They left the hotel by taxi, which Pattison said was the easiest way to get around the congested city. There were always plenty of taxis around, Pattison assured them and indeed, a dozen red taxis waited in a line along the street as they exited the hotel.

There was a protocol, they learned on first effort, for this particular taxi line. They were supposed to go to the first taxi in the row. Okay, fine. Had it not been for that instruction, Morgan would not have noticed that a taxi with a passenger pulled out behind them from somewhere near the end of the line. He was not initially alarmed but his cop instincts went on automatic pilot and notified him some blocks and a few turns later that the same taxi was still following. Perhaps a coincidence, but to check, Morgan asked their driver – or more precisely, asked Steve to ask the Spanish-speaking driver -- to pull over for a moment. Sure enough, the other taxi also pulled over, a half-block behind them.

"What's up?" said Davis.

"We've got a tail," said Morgan. "I guess somebody knows we're here."

"That doesn't sound good," said Steve.

"I'm not packing a sidearm," said Morgan. "I thought it might be unwise to take one into the prosecutor's office so that makes me feel a little vulnerable."

Morgan handed his gold shield San Francisco badge – which looked more impressive than the slip of paper with his Deputy Marshall credentials -- to Steve, who was sitting in the front. Morgan also passed forward an immodest stack of twenty-dollar bills. "Tell the driver we're cops and we want to shake that taxi behind us."

Driving in San Jose on a good day is more than a little adventurous, especially for gringos who don't know the subtleties of Costa Rican rules of the road under which, for example, vehicles have the right-of-way over pedestrians. In any case, using a honk-and-go system – look out, pedestrians – and a series of dangerous maneuvers that Hollywood stunt drivers could use in their tricks manuals, their taxi driver did lose the other taxi inside of a couple minutes and seemed to enjoy the process.

"Next time," said Davis to Morgan, tugging on his clinging shirt, "let's have a shootout or something safe."

Morgan smiled. "Point taken."

"A question for the driver, Steve," said Davis. "The 180-degree skideroo and chickey-run straight at the other taxi... how did he know the other guy would blink and pull away?"

The driver laughed as he answered Steve. He seemed to think something was very amusing. Davis heard one recognizable Spanish word repeated several times: "Loco." Loco, I guess, thought Davis.

"He says he knew the other driver," said Steve, "and he knew the other driver isn't crazy. And the other driver knew our driver, whose name is Mario, and he knew Mario is crazy. So that's why the other guy had to respect him."

"Andretti, si?" said Davis to the driver. "Mario Andretti?"

Mario thought that was very funny. Morgan insisted on hiring crazy Mario for the week. When Steve explained the offer, Mario shook everyone's hands with gusto. During the name exchange process Mario called himself Mario Andretti Cantero. He had a big smile.

Off to a rousing start this morning, thought Davis. If our luck holds maybe we'll make it though the rest of the day.

****

Luck held for Team Two at the prosecutor's office thanks to an administrative assistant.

Prosecutor Coordinator Laura Cassada, a small, neat – almost prim – and attractive thirty-something woman who spoke excellent English, said she had no awareness of any police reports describing anyone being buried alive but she would check further if they would come back the next day. She turned to an assistant and instructed her in Spanish to start a search. The woman answered at length with excitement.

"She says there was a news report on TV and in the papers a few months ago," said Steve, translating. "An awful situation. Young Colombian girl. Pregnant. Forced to dig her own grave." Steve waited for the assistant to continue in her statement to Cassada and then asked a question of his own before continuing his translation.

"She says a brave young man rescued the girl even while guns were fired at him. Very handsome. His photo was in the news. I asked if there was reason to think the girl might have been buried alive had she not been rescued. She said yes, that was in the stories. In fact, it was in the newspaper headlines.

"I guess I should read the daily papers more often," said Cassada.

The story had been in La Nación, a major daily tabloid published in San Jose with offices only a short taxi ride away. Mario knew the way and Cassada came along. The newspaper kept archives and it was a matter of minutes, searching with the help of a friendly editor, to find the story. Steve translated the large, sensationalistic headlines: "Colombian Woman Almost BURIED ALIVE! Bank Guard Comes to the Rescue! Gunman Escapes in Forest!"

The front-page story included a photo of Gilberto Gonzales, a security officer at the Banco Nacional in Monteverde and a lengthy story dramatizing his heroics at a macabre scene in a jungle setting. The girl, not identified by name, had been severely wounded and had been airlifted by helicopter to an unidentified San Jose hospital. Her assailant was described as a tall gringo.

The team returned to the prosecutor's office with Cassada promising to help check with hospitals to locate the victim. En route, Cassada asked for a detailed rundown on their investigations including possible suspects. When they got to her office she assigned three officers to contact hospitals while she heard the story. An hour later Cassada was fully informed and ready to assist in any way she could but the officers assigned to check with the hospitals had come up empty. Helicopter evacuations were rare in Costa Rica and the girl would have almost certainly been taken to Hospital Mexico, the large public hospital in San Jose that had a landing pad. However, no record existed during the stated time frame or any other time of a young, pregnant girl with critical bullet wounds in the abdomen and chest being taken to Hospital Mexico, nor to the largest private hospitals, CIMA and Clinica Biblica. Checking all possibilities they were eventually convinced that none of the state or private clinics or hospitals in San Jose had records of an admission or emergency treatment of any such patient, nor did morgue or coroner records have a record of accepting the body of such a person.

Cassada said the girl could have been taken to a hospital in Alajuela or Cartago or conceivably to the northern city of Liberia, although those options seemed highly unlikely to her. She could think of no other cities with medical facilities able to cope adequately with trauma of that nature. By then it was nearly lunch hour. In the afternoon, Cassada promised, her staff would check with hospitals in those areas outside San Jose. In the meantime, she offered to guide the team to a proper restaurant nearby.

She took them to a quite nice and rather hidden cafeteria-style eatery not visible from the street. Not for tourists, she explained. Crazy Mario joined them for lunch and Cassada seemed to enjoy Steve's version of the wild taxi ride (in Spanish for Mario's benefit). Beef with a rich sauce improved Morgan's mood. He had felt starved since a rushed breakfast of dried scrambled eggs and cold toast at the Crowne Plaza. Steve and Mario passed up the main dishes to feast on creampuff pastries. Davis ate lightly and seemed fascinated with the archive copy of the June 14 La Nación even though he couldn't read the Spanish text.

Laura Cassada, beaming, showed them photos of her two toddler grandchildren, which was more than a little surprising because petite Cassada did not look old enough to have grandchildren. On the other hand, thought Morgan, now that he noticed, Cassada did have wisps of gray hair around the edges and her eyes showed life weathering from some dues paid. Perhaps she could be forty.

Morgan liked the way Cassada was immediately engaged in the case. He had known many prosecutors in his day and was not generally impressed with the breed. Many of them, he had decided, worried too much about their batting averages. The prosecutors Morgan admired were tuned to a higher calling. He thought Cassada might be one of those. If there was some bad guy burying people alive in Costa Rica, she wanted to know about it. Morgan thought she might not want to sit around and wait for cops from North America to solve the case either.

Morgan also liked the unassuming, egalitarian way Cassada related to Mario the cabbie, and to Little Person Steve and to the brooding Davis. She had an easy, balanced style that took whatever came her way at face value. Steve introduced himself as a freelance journalist on special assignment from The New York Times and she didn't bat an eye.

"Please let me know if you plan to quote me," she said.

"I'll ask if I want to use something on the record," said Steve.

When the group returned to Cassada's offices they found that the investigation was stalemated. Bizarrely, the unnamed girl had vanished without a trace.

"Very interesting," said Morgan calmly, easing back in his chair. The team, which now included Cassada, had met in a conference room to discuss their next plans.

"Frustrating is what it is," said Davis.

"Ms. Cassada..." said Morgan.

"Laura, please."

"Laura. Is it possible that evil-minded and very wealthy individuals could arrange for the disappearance of a hospitalized patient in Costa Rica and destroy all evidence of that patient existing from the public records?"

Cassada considered for a moment. "I don't think so."

"Even with huge bribes at high levels?"

Cassada considered carefully. "There are bribes that do happen in Costa Rica. And they do happen at high levels. But you have to understand the Costa Rican system. There is paperwork for everything. And everything is verified over and over. Cross... how do you say it?"

"Cross-checked," said Morgan.

"Yes. Cross-checked. You would need bribes at many different points."

"Is it possible," said Steve, "to destroy evidence of a patient in order to protect that patient, if the doctors and the administrators agreed to do it?"

"That would be difficult," said Cassada, "but if the reason was good and if the word was spread around inside an organization, such as a hospital, even to the clerks, yes, then that might be possible. I think you might have solved the mystery, Steve, the New York Times journalist. Are you also a police officer?"

"Perish the thought," said Steve with a smile. Then to Morgan: "No slur intended, detective."

"None taken," said Morgan with a smile, "although I don't think we can rule bribes out. Normal bribes are one thing. Bribes involving millions of dollars are something else."

"Either way," said Steve, "what do we do now?"

"We can't go back to the Crowne Plaza," said Morgan. "Most likely the guy following us this morning was a private investigator hired to keep tabs. He probably picked us up at the airport and staked out the hotel. But it's possible he could he could be a contract guy looking to score Davis."

"Charming way to put it," said Davis sardonically.

"I'm sorry," said Cassada. "Keep tabs? Score Davis?"

"Keep tabs means gather information," said Morgan patiently. "Daniel Sheffield could have people in New Jersey watching us when we left and they want to know what we we'd do when we got here. That's to be expected. But it's also possible somebody's trying to collect a reward for killing Davis."

"Which you call a score," said Cassada.

"Yes," said Morgan, "although I doubt that's it because the situation has changed. The rats are deserting the sinking ship and scattering for the hills."

"This is good for me, said Cassada, grinning. "I know pretty good English but now I am keeping on my toes. There might be a rat or two who hasn't deserted the ship yet."

"Exactly," said Morgan. "Which is why we can't take the chance of going back to the Crowne Plaza."

****

Following Laura Cassada's recommendations, the two teams found rooms at La Sabana Apartotel a few blocks from the Crowne Plaza. Cassada went to the Crowne Plaza to retrieve luggage for the group, since she would not be recognized by surveillance.

That night they discussed tactics, deciding finally that the entire group -- including crazy Mario as a driver and Laura Cassada, who believed in the validity of the accusations against Daniel Sheffield and thought the matter too important to delegate -- would travel in the morning to Monteverde. There was no need for anyone to stay in San Jose since the formal hearing on their request for provisional detention of Daniel Sheffield had been scheduled for ten days later. It would take that long for the Costa Rican authorities to do whatever it was they needed to do, and they could not be budged from that schedule despite heartfelt pleas.

They made the drive, which took them northwest from San Jose along the Interamerican Highway, in two new four-wheel-drive Toyota Land Cruisers. The four-wheel-drive capability might come in handy. Much of the drive was on paved highways but Mario had told them that it had been a rainy year and it was very possible gravel roads could be washed out on the last leg from the Interamerican to Monteverde.

Lyle Morgan asked for two vehicles, even though one of the roomy Land Cruisers could accommodate all nine of the group. Morgan wanted to leapfrog the vehicles from time to time to insure they weren't being followed. He arranged the maneuver several times in what Davis thought was an excess of caution. Coordinating with Sat phones, the lead vehicle simply left the highway at some point to hide behind trees or a building in order to observe the second vehicle and take note of any others following. After the third such procedure Morgan announced himself satisfied and allowed the caravan to proceed to Monteverde.

They had left San Jose early enough to time their arrival in Monteverde well before the Banco Nacional closing time. The bank manager had assured them by phone that Gilberto Gonzales would be present for an interview since he never missed work.

Well, never until today, the bank manager said sheepishly when Chief Inspector Pattison, Laura Cassada and Ange entered the bank and asked for Gonzales. The young man had appeared nervous when he heard officials were on the way to interview him, said the manager in Spanish, and later he had called in to say he would be taking a holiday. No, he had not said when he would be back. He has a lot of leave time accumulated and rarely takes any. No, the manager had no idea where he might have gone. "I am very sorry," he said in English for Ange's benefit.

"Interesting," said Morgan, as the group conferred outside under a store awning. It had begun raining, a foggy, light rain. The air in Monteverde was chilly compared to San Jose. No one except Laura Cassada had packed jackets for the drive.

"Ideas?" said Davis.

No one had any.

A pretty young woman came from the bank, opened her umbrella and walked to the awning where the group huddled miserably in the drifting mist and chill. The young woman and Laura Cassada had an extended conversation in Spanish that was too rapid for Pattison to follow. However, without understanding the words, it was apparent from the way she spat the word "Gilberto" and tossed her hair that she had a vindictive attitude towards him.

Sure enough, after the woman had left, Laura turned to Lyle Morgan: "She was getting even. I think he doesn't love her, so she... how do you say, 'rat on him?'"

"Ratted him out," said Morgan.

"Yes. She is deserting the sinking ship. She knows where he is because he only goes to one place when his car is broken down -- as it is now -- by bus to Playa Hermosa a few miles from Jaco. I know the beach. He takes a room there. At night he mixes with the international surfboard young people. She makes fun of him because during the day he runs along the beach kicking a football – you say soccer ball -- by himself. Instead of being with her, I think. Maybe they went to Playa Hermosa together and he ignored her. She's in love with him."

"Did you ask why he's avoiding us?" said Davis.

"Yes. She doesn't know."

"Surely he can't enjoy the beach in this weather," said Ange.

Cassada laughed. "It is only a few hours from here but the weather will be different. There are many, how do you say, 'microclimates' in Costa Rica. Did you bring your swimsuits?"
CHAPTER 38

Playa Hermosa, Costa Rica

Saturday, October 12, 1996

The sun came up over Playa Hermosa with blue sky and a pleasant breeze off the Pacific. There was scarcely a cloud to be seen except in the distance over the mountains – perhaps over Monteverde, thought Ange, not oriented enough to be certain. In the previous evening the group had gone shopping and improved their wardrobes to include lighter garb appropriate to the tropical climate, shorts, sandals, tank tops and light shirts. Casual wear was also more appropriate to their task if they managed to find Gilberto Gonzales. They didn't want to frighten or intimidate him. No one suggested that they might physically restrain him.

The jealous senorita at the bank was exactly on the mark as an informant. The group parked their vehicles in a lot near the beach and only waited an hour or less before Kon, during his turn at the binoculars, picked up a young man kicking a soccer ball along the black sand beach about a quarter mile in the distance. The tide was out, which gave the barefooted man a lot of running room on the hard-packed sand. He booted the ball high in the air and ran to capture it before it got far, followed by feints and fancy footwork while being pursued by imaginary players.

Gilberto easily spotted the group of seven gringos (Steve and Mario had stayed with the vehicles) while they were still a good distance off. The seven walked casually but might as well have been a task force the way they stood out by sheer numbers and with no kids, dogs, boards or towels.

So they had found him. But they would have to catch him, wouldn't they? He smiled as he picked up his ball and began walking casually in the opposite direction on the beach. He decided to let them get just a little closer before running from them. More sport that way. With the tide out there were miles of beach before him. There was not a chance that these probably fat and probably lazy gringos could catch him. No one could catch him. He was the fastest forward in the top recreational football league in northern Costa Rica. Some had told him he should go pro but he knew he didn't have the all-around skills for that level. He had the speed, however. This would be fun.

Gilberto waited until the group was about two hundred meters away. He heard them calling to him. Laughing, he waved and turned to begin a leisurely loping run away from them up the beach. He ran a few hundred meters at that pace, then turned to run backwards, just to add a little joke to the game. Startled, he saw that two of the gringos, one of them a tall black woman, and the other a man, bare-footed like Gilberto with large sunglasses, had broken from the others and were fleet enough that they had closed the gap considerably. The woman looked like a sprinter. She probably couldn't keep it up. But the man ran with the easy, long strides of a distance runner. He could be a problem.

With an anxious surge of energy, Gilberto flew down the beach, so fast shore birds almost couldn't get into the air in front of him. He soon regained the distance his pursuers had gained, but he also used himself up somewhat in the process. The truth was that Gilberto was also more a sprinter than a distance runner. He was muscular and heavy by soccer standards. Youth was on his side and he found a second wind, which carried him far down the beach past amused surfers carrying their boards, past a resort where early picnic groups under umbrellas and shade trees watched his run in amazement. He gave it all he had. But when he finally looked behind him he was dismayed to see that the gringo, running easily, was only a hundred meters behind and closing. Gilberto realized he couldn't outrun him, slowed, stopped reluctantly, and turned to face him, not wishing a physical encounter but bracing with the realization that it might be inevitable.

Pattison also slowed and finally stopped when he was ten paces away. He grinned and then started laughing, a winded sort of laugh, holding his belly and bending forward. He lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead and pointed at Gilberto with friendly eyes and a big grin.

"You are fast," he said in winded Spanish. "That was fun."

Gilberto, also breathing hard, didn't answer but couldn't help smiling. At least he was getting some recognition from this amazingly speedy gringo.

Jerrold Pattison, clad only in shorts because he had pulled his tee shirt off and tossed it along the way, sat suddenly on the wet beach and then rolled onto his back. "Whooie!" he shouted, and laughed again. A shallow wave of warm water just glided up to them. Pattison splashed at it happily, washing sand off his bare feet.

This had a disarming effect on Gilberto. Obviously his fears of a physical confrontation were unfounded. He laughed tentatively. "Why did you chase me?" he said in English.

"Why did you run?" said Pattison, also in English, as he raised himself on an elbow that sank in the sand.

Gilberto did not reply but he joined Pattison, moving closer and sitting on his ball, although still at a few paces. The black woman was still a distance down the beach and was walking now.

"You rescued a girl in the forest. We wanted to talk to you about that," said Pattison.

"Yes, poor child," said Gilberto. "She died."

"I don't think so," said Pattison. "She's alive, isn't she?"

Confronted, Gilberto reverted to rapid Spanish: "You say that but you don't even know her name, do you? You don't know anything about her. You chase me down the beach to tell me she is alive. If you know something I don't know why do you need to talk to me?"

"Do you know her name?" said Pattison, smoothly transitioning to Spanish as well.

"Are you police? Are you going to arrest me?"

"No one is going to arrest you."

"Then leave me alone. I don't want to talk with you."

"If she were dead you wouldn't mind talking. You want to protect her. She's afraid and you've promised her no one will ever find her."

Gilberto stared at Pattison for a moment. "That's an interesting theory. I suppose you think it could explain something. But let's say it was true. Well, it wouldn't matter to you, would it? If this girl were afraid she could have something to be afraid about, couldn't she? If powerful men who can do anything they want in the world were to find out she was alive and that she could testify against them, that would give her something to be afraid of. But that wouldn't matter to you. So I don't respect your questions even if she were alive, which she isn't. She's dead."

Pattison had struggled to follow Gilberto's comments spoken in rapid Spanish.

"And besides that," said Gilberto, "you are a liar because you are going to arrest me. I see that because your vehicle is coming up the beach with your men and guns in it."

Pattison turned to look, and sure enough, one of the Land Cruisers was racing along the beach almost in the surf.

Gilberto stood suddenly and Pattison thought he was going to run again. But instead Gilberto shaded his eyes and watched the vehicle in amazement.

"There's nobody driving it," he said.

Pattison stood with Gilberto and shared his stunned confusion. There was nobody at the wheel and apparently nobody at all in the vehicle.

The Toyota stopped beside them and the door slowly opened. Steve, a little over four foot three on tiptoes, smiled at them from almost under the steering wheel where he could just see through it. He had used his umbrella/Light Saber to push the accelerator down because his legs wouldn't reach.

"Buenos días," said Steve.

"Enano!" said Gilberto, a word Pattison didn't know but took to be Spanish for Little Person.

"Yes," said Steve, still in Spanish. "Get in, Gilberto. No, this side. You drive. Not you, please, Jer. Give me some time alone with Gilberto."

"Okay," said Pattison, who watched, nonplussed, as the Toyota drove away with Gilberto at the wheel and Steve in the passenger's seat. Pattison had no idea if Steve's actions had been vetted by Ange or Davis but it was just as well to give him a chance. Pattison had thought he was going nowhere with Gilberto and a part of the reason was the limitation of his Spanish when Gilberto started talking rapidly and emotionally about the situation. He started back down the beach towards the others, to be joined in short order by Shaylane, who had closed the distance at a walk.

"What's going on, Jerry?" said Shaylane.

Pattison shrugged. "Got me."

It was better than three hours later that Steve showed up. The group, all but Mario, was having lunch at the Hotel Terraza Del Pacífico coffee shop.

"Didn't see you guys at the rooms," said Steve cheerily. "Figured you might be here. Good thing. I'm starved."

Nobody said a word about Gilberto as Steve ordered his sandwich, although numerous smiles and headshakes signaled the anticipation around the table.

"I suppose you're wondering...." said Steve, finally, with a smile.

"Wondering what, Steve?" said Ange. "I wasn't wondering anything. How about you, Davis?"

Laura Cassada had a perplexed expression on her face. What strange people these gringos from the United States are.

"First, I must know," said Steve, "if there's anyone at this table whose professional or personal ethics would demand of them, for example, in the filing of reports or so forth, that they could not withhold information concerning whether the victim we are seeking is in fact alive, if she were alive, which I am not saying. I will say, however, that prior to any statement by Gilberto as to whether or not she might be alive, he demanded a promise from me that no one in this group would let that be known, if it were true that she was alive. Anyone who cannot live with this promise I made to him should please leave the table for a time."

Steve waited patiently. No one left. However, he pinned Laura Cassada with a look. "Laura?"

"I accept that."

"She's alive," said Steve, satisfied. "However, she's in convalescence, both physical and emotional. She's very fragile."

"Where is she?" said Davis.

"I have no idea."

"Where is Gilberto?" said Ange.

"I don't know that, either," said Steve. "I lent him the Toyota and a credit card for gas."

Ange and Shaylane exchanged smiles at that.

"He's going to take a photo of Daniel for her to ID?" said Lyle Morgan.

"No. He wasn't willing to do that. He's taking the photo to her psychologist, who'll decide whether to show it to her."

"How did you get him to talk to you?" said Pattison.

"I was lucky to find some common ground. At first I got nowhere. I told him stories about Maureen Sheffield and her daughter, about all the things we believe Daniel has done, who he is, what he represents, other things Daniel might do in the future and that he must be stopped. Gilberto listened for a long time, but he refused to say anything.

"Then to break the ice I told him about my Yoda persona in Seattle. He perked up at that. He loves the Yoda movie character, and he taught me how the Yoda voice sounds in Spanish. I showed him my Light Saber and my Yoda ears.

"Somehow I got through to him this way, as Yoda, I guess."

"Well done, Steve," said Shaylane. "But at the same time, our hands are tied, because if Daniel found out there was a victim who could testify against him, she wouldn't be safe. So even if the girl ID's Daniel we can't really use it."

"If I hear she's identified him," said Cassada, "even if we can't use it in court, that's enough for me to at least get him kicked the hell out of Costa Rica." She looked around the table. No one looked happy. "That's not much, I know."

No one spoke for a while.

"I think Daniel wouldn't like that very much," said Ange, breaking the silence. "Getting kicked out of Costa Rica. Maybe he'd resist."

"Good thinking. You should be a cop," said Morgan. "Resisting arrest. Then we'd have him, for a time anyway."

"It wouldn't work that way," said Cassada. "The migration authorities wouldn't arrest him. Only as a last resort. It would be more a matter of notifications."

"I think I know a way to freak him out," said Kon.

"I'm sorry," said Cassada. "Freak him out?"

"Make him over-react and maybe violate some law, punch somebody out, so you could arrest him."

"Go ahead," said Davis.

"DNA," said Kon. "If the victim identifies him, then we march up to his place at Lake Arenal and we tell him that we want a sample of his DNA. We tell him we know he likes to bury his victims alive and we show him the newspaper story and say that the girl died but she described someone a lot like him before she died and a DNA sample from the murdered fetus was kept which we could match for paternity."

"That could work, Kon," said Ange. "I think he would freak."

"We could do that now," said Davis, with new interest. "We don't have to wait to see if the girl identifies him from the photo."

"No," said Cassada. "We must wait. If the girl picks him from the photo I will help you with this idea. But I must tell you that otherwise I would be very much overstepping my authority and I would be in a weak position to explain."

"We could go in without you, Laura," said Davis.

"Bad idea," said Shaylane. "We want things to go bad so he overreacts. But we're on his property and without Laura and some cops there, it's his word against ours. So then he calls the cops."

"We don't want too many cops with us," said Morgan. "In fact, just Laura is enough. If we go in like a small army he won't be tempted to pull anything."

"Something about this plan is starting to make me a little nervous," said Shaylane.

"What about it, Shaylane?" said Ange.

"I don't know. Just feels like we should have some backup. Do you have a sidearm with you, Laura? No? So we have exactly three weapons the way I count them, plus Steve, and without Steve I would really have questions. What has Daniel got? We don't know, do we?"

"We don't all go in," said Morgan. "A team stays out with a Sat phone to call for backup if there's a problem."

"I don't know," said Pattison. "I'm with Shaylane on this. This isn't San Francisco, Detective. Even if we have backup waiting down the road, they don't have what you think of as SWAT teams in Costa Rica."

"Jesus!" said Davis, standing. "Daniel isn't going to start a war. And if he does... well, I hope he does. I, by God, hope he does."
CHAPTER 39

Hotel Tilawa, Lake Arenal, Costa Rica

Tuesday, October 15, 1996

It was several days before Kon and Mario returned with both vehicles to their new base of operations at Hotel Tilawa near Lake Arenal. They had met with Gilberto in Monteverde to find out the results of his contact with the psychologist and to pick up the other vehicle. They reported some good news. The psychologist had told Gilberto that the unnamed girl had identified Daniel Sheffield from the photo as the man who had shot her.

Before returning to the hotel, they had made a side trip. Kon had asked Gilberto to show him the spot where he had rescued the girl. It was along the road from Monteverde to Lake Arenal, about 25 miles from Hotel Tilawa.

So far, so good, except for a slight problem. Despite their best efforts since arriving at the Lake Arenal area, the posse had not been able to determine the location of Daniel's residence. It was starting to be a little embarrassing for the high-powered law enforcement officers. Jan's reports informed them that Daniel's property was near the village of Tilarán. They had quickly found Daniel's post office box in Tilarán. However, venders in Tilarán didn't recognize Daniel's photo.

Addresses as such, which is to say numerical locations on some kind of logical grid, do not exist in Costa Rica, as amazing as that is to North Americans. So Jan had no address to give them and their search became one of simply following every possible road and asking a lot of questions from people they met, and in particular asking agents in the several local real estate offices.

It was a helpful real estate agent who finally suggested a workable search technique. When she wanted to find out who owned a property she would copy the registration number on the electric meter, which is inevitably along roads at the end of driveways. Then she would take that number and pretend to pay the electric bill where such things are normally done at the local bank. When the bank clerk handed her the receipt for paying the bill, the agent would take a look at the name registered to that account and then ask for her money back while explaining she had meant to pay for a client but this was the wrong account.

Clever girl. And after learning that Laura Cassada could not simply go into the electric company, known as ICE, office and ask for records without obtaining complex authorizations from San Jose, the team was not long in copying the real estate agent's technique, except they didn't bother asking for money back. They just paid the bills for any meter that could conceivably belong to Daniel's property. ICE didn't care who paid as long as they got their money. Still no luck.

They went back to the helpful agent. "It didn't work. What could be the problem?" The agent explained that many properties are purchased but somehow the old owners name remains on the ICE records.

They made a Sat phone call to Jan in New Jersey. Can she find out the name of the earlier owner of the property? It took her a few hours to check because Daniel had purchased the property in the 80's before Jan's computer systems were in place. However, good old Senior Accountant Walt Demarest was proudly able to dust off some paper ledgers thanks to the oft-boasted "organizational elegance" of his vast repository of ancient records. He came up with the name of the previous owner, and gave it to Ange over the phone: Carlos A. Rodriquez Morera. They hurriedly cross-referenced that name with the names they had collected. No match. Another dead end.

It was Kon who found the answer to the puzzle. He and Shaylane were making yet another drive, with Mario at the wheel, along a muddy side road that they had been down several times. Suddenly he spotted an electric meter hidden behind foliage. They stopped to look. The disk in the meter was turning, showing it was alive. Yet there was no driveway, just a fence and jungle, although they could see where a road may have been at one time. The wires from the metal pole above the meter disappeared into the forest.

Kon and Shaylane looked at each other and exclaimed simultaneously: "Helicopters!"

"Or maybe an airfield," said Shaylane.

They hurried with the registration number for the meter to Banco Nacional. The name on the ICE account was Carlos A. Rodriquez Morera. Bingo. But this time they didn't pay the bill.

"Daniel can pay his own damned electric bills," said Shaylane.

****

"So now I guess we need a helicopter," said Shaylane, half-shouting to be heard as they discussed tactics that night around a stone fireplace in one of the lounges in the massive Hotel Tilawa. The hotel's Minoan columns and colorful hand-painted neoclassical murals dramatically imitated the famed Palace of Knossos on Crete. The effect was a bit tomb-like for Ange's tastes. There was also an acoustics problem due to the noise from windsurfer tourists partying in the bar downstairs with hard rock on the speaker system. Crazy Mario had joined them earlier for beers but became bored because the conversation was in English. He had left to flirt with some girls playing pool at a nearby table.

"Not necessarily," said Lyle Morgan, after considering the helicopter idea. "Let's take our beers outside, guys. I can't hear myself think."

It was windy outside as it usually was at the northwest end of the lake due to the sheer size of it. The wind came down from the Arenal Volcano on the other side of the reservoir and there was nothing to stop it for over 18 miles as it gathered force across the water. Hence the windsurfing. They came from all over the world for it.

Windy, yes, but least the group had the deck to themselves and the wind was warm.

"Helicopters are too provocative," said Morgan, after they had formed a small circle with plastic deck chairs. "Daniel transported his victim in a white van. So there are roads. Actually, by my count there are three cow-path access roads probably leading onto the property. The most likely one, with a locked gate, has recent tire tracks going in. If they can go in, so can we."

Davis had been with Morgan on his reconnaissance mission that morning. "That road looks like it goes up into the hills," he said. "I have to wonder why would Daniel bother to take his victim thirty miles away. Why not just bury her somewhere around there?"

"Maybe he doesn't like stepping around graves when he goes for a walk," said Kon.

"In other words, it might creep him out and so he wants some distance," said Ange.

"And what's with this mass grave business?" said Shaylane. "They found two bodies, right, Laura, on top of each other? And what a weird spot, complete with a wire assist to get back up the hill. What's with that?"

"Later they found another in a different grave. Three altogether," said Laura Cassada.

"What's the point in this?" said Steve. "What difference does it make what theory we have?"

"Theories are good," said Morgan. "Sometimes it can give us an edge if we can figure a profile. This is all new to you guys, but I've been a homicide detective for a long fucking time. So, if you guys are interested, I'll share the understanding I have accumulated, such as it is."

"You go, Lyle," said Shaylane.

"Okay, so stop me when you've had enough. But first off, I think the purpose of this burial place with a wire to assist getting back to the highway is so Mr. Daniel can go back, hang out, and take other victims to the same place. Maybe he sits by the graves, gloats, cries, feels guilty, feels something, anything.

"Which brings me to the profound insight I've had regarding the various psychopaths, sociopaths or whatever who have crossed my path during the murder scenes where I had to stand around and look like I knew what the fuck, and the various perps I've questioned and the testimonies at the trials by all the experts I've listened to. My profound insight is this: I think people like Daniel Sheffield are not capable of feeling much of anything. However, they'd like to do so.

"Now, this is the opposite of the theory, advanced by some so-called experts, that the Ted Bundys of the world, which I would compare Daniel Sheffield to, are like rabid animals, drooling with some kind of mental sickness that drives them to do what they do, like vampires who've got to have blood.

"For example, they say Ted Bundy read some pornography and it pushed him over the edge. But I don't think Ted Bundy would've known what to do with pornography if it came up and bit him on the ass. And that's because he couldn't feel anything. Only the most extreme things could make him feel anything at all. Sure as shit not some sex book.

"Same with Daniel. So I'm thinking he goes to visit these graves, not in his backyard but his own personal graveyard and he sits there and tries to feel something. All these poor women, buried alive under his feet. What does he feel? Anything? Who knows?"

"The terror of his victims sets up a vortex of psychic energy which allows him to feel something," said Davis. "So in that sense he is a vampire because he feeds off them."

Ange's mouth dropped in astonishment. "Where did that come from, Davis?"

"It's metaphysics," said Davis, with a half-smile.

"Well, I think it fits with what Lyle is saying," said Ange, "and it makes me think, okay, so he manages to feel something; and then when he buries his victims he's burying his feelings just like he did with his mother."

"I'm sorry," said Laura Cassada. "My English is not so good. What does this mean, 'vortex of psychic?'"

"Don't worry about it, Laura," said Pattison. "Nobody knows what it means. Davis doesn't even know what it means. And nobody knows if this dirtbag is burying feelings about his mother, either. We're just jacking off here."

"I'm sorry," said Laura. "Jacking off?"

"Wasting time," said Kon, helpfully, "and maybe we are, but I'll add one more thing to the mix. Maybe it was just knowing what terrible things had gone on there, but when Gilberto showed me the spot where he went down into the forest, I was struck with a kind of irrational dread. Chills went up my spine as if I'd seen a ghost."

"Look guys," said Pattison, "can we bring this back to basic walking? We have some decisions to make. Do we do an air reconnaissance? Are we thinking about going in by helicopter?"

"Or by two helicopters," said Shaylane.

"What are you guys talking about?" said Davis. "We don't have time to charter airplanes and helicopters. This isn't Operation Desert Storm. We know where he is. We've got a pretty good idea how to go in. So we go in and confront the bastard. Am I missing something here?"

There was a long silence during which a non-verbal census was taken with head nods and shrugs.

"Okay," said Shaylane, "we recon on foot."

"They might have closed circuit cameras," said Morgan. "Better to just go in when we find the most logical entry. If it's a dead end we try another one. We should keep the element of surprise."

"So we go in blind," said Shaylane. She shook her head to register her disagreement even though she could see the group consensus was against her. "But the second vehicle holds back with Ange and me, at least, and Mario driving because he shouldn't be put in harm's way. If there's trouble we can go for backup and we should be sure there are cops waiting somewhere in the wings."

"Kon can stay with the second vehicle," said Davis.

"We need Doctor Armenta to draw blood for the DNA tests if we get that far," said Steve.

"Davis can stay back," said Morgan.

"Like hell," said Davis.

Faced with what appeared to be intractable logic in the situation, the posse finally decided that Shaylane's formula was best. Mario, Shaylane and Ange in the backup vehicle with a platoon of cops hidden away down the main road. The others would go in the first vehicle. Assuming they had found the correct access road, they would simply drive to the residence first thing Thursday morning. A day's delay should give Laura time to arrange for police backup.

"I'm starved," said Morgan, finally. "Anybody for another round of bland beans and rice with little dabs of meat on it?"

Everybody rose except Laura Cassada.

"I think I'll sit awhile and enjoy the night," she said. "How do you say it, 'jacking off.'"

The uproarious laughter generated by her effort to use a new phrase left Laura puzzled. North Americans are difficult to understand sometimes.
CHAPTER 40

Near Tilarán, Costa Rica

Thursday, October 17, 1996

"Three?" said Shaylane with dismay. "Three motorcycle traffic cops? With sidearms? You've got to be kidding me! And they look like kids. Why do they look like kids? Because they are kids!"

"Please try to understand," said Laura, looking awkward as they discussed the matter along the highway near Tilarán. Actually, it was more a parley between opposing sides than a discussion. The hard-liners, which was everyone but Shaylane, with Ange willing to support her on principle and Steve on the fence, had a philosophy of damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Shaylane foresaw potential disaster.

"It was impossible to explain our situation to the police officials," said Laura, "because, you see, we have no warrant or proof of a crime to justify using force. They said to me, 'why do you need to go there' and all I could say was to check someone's DNA. But there is not even anything to check it against, do you see? And so I had to accept what they would give me.

"Also, this is a period of reorganization. The Ministry of Public Security and their Fuerza Pública have only recently been organized and the old organizations are no longer in operation. So some of my friends are reassigned."

"I understand it's a problem," said Shaylane, "but don't you see this is crazy?"

****

Crazy or not, the group, looking anything but formidable in Levi's and T-shirts -- except for Shaylane, who opted for her deputy trousers and shirt with a Kevlar vest -- moved forward as planned. Morgan led them to the likely entry point to the property, a locked gate along a barbed-wire cattle fence, with muddy ruts showing traffic in a path going up the hill. Morgan, man of many talents, easily picked the lock. They stationed the so-called police backup at a nearby side-road and Shaylane kept one of their hand police radios with her so she could contact them.

The area they drove into was yellow grass cattle pasture, interspersed with surviving strands of tropical dry forest with mangoes, espies, coyol palms and wild cotton. The jeep trail was muddy in spots from recent rains but mostly followed rocky terrain. The area was not a jungle like in the mountainous rain forest at the burial grounds site. Nor was it at all like the cloud forest they had driven through along a high ridge on the way to Tilarán from Monteverde. This scene was pastoral and serene. For a short distance they drove next to a small herd of stolidly curious but unafraid humpback Brahman cattle. Kon had to get out and hand-push an indifferent beast off the jeep track since they didn't want to use the car horn.

They had driven less than a mile up the hilly terrain -- Mario, Shaylane and Ange following a hundred yards behind the lead vehicle -- when Morgan braked at the top of a rise. He signaled Mario to keep the second vehicle back and then took a moment to survey the buildings that lay ahead in a small valley.

"Interesting," he said. He had expected a western-style mansion of some kind with tended grounds and luxury decks, perhaps including tennis courts and swimming pools with kidnapped slave women serving drinks. Jan told them that Daniel had spoken of this place in prideful tones as his getaway Shangri-La. But what Morgan saw before him now looked more like an industrial park.

The only residential building was a sprawling stone and adobe ranch-style hacienda with a red Spanish tile roof, large by Costa Rican standards but hardly the showplace Morgan had expected. Numerous louvered windows appeared as bright silver, like mirrors. As they drove closer they saw that they were indeed mirrors, one-way mirrors. And the louvers were angled down to prevent the intrepid posse members from seeing inside but with enough space between louvers to theoretically allow weapons fire from within. Morgan had a sudden chill of apprehension. In the event of an armed threat he had counted on Steve's darts, his own 15-round 9mm Browning and Pattison's compact 9mm SIG Sauer P228 pistol. Until now that had seemed like plenty of firepower for any likely situation. But perhaps Shaylane was right. They were driving up to a virtual fortress with thick adobe walls and unknown dangers within. He glanced over his shoulder at Pattison, who looked back with a worried expression.

The scene beyond and to the sides of the hacienda was somewhat ominous as well. Morgan counted seven windowless steel buildings with spinning fan ducts, all aged to dirty white. One of the structures looked big enough and tall enough to be an aircraft hanger, although there was no airfield in sight and the terrain certainly didn't favor one. The other steel buildings were of various sizes and conformations in a seemingly haphazard arrangement around the hacienda. There was no landscaping to speak of. The only nod to a lifestyle of the rich and famous was a stock barn and corral with several horses. The animals paused from their morning flakes of hay to regard them with mild interest. There was a large solar-panel farm on the hillside near the corral. A tall antenna and satellite dish were perched on a hill beyond the corral. There was no sign of human inhabitants. Two large dogs slept in the shade of the hacienda porch and so far hadn't noticed them.

"Shall we ring the bell," said Kon lightly. "See if anyone's home?"

"I expect there is," said Steve. "Somebody fed the horses."

"I'm having second thoughts," said Morgan, pulling the vehicle to a stop short of the hacienda. Before he could turn the Land Cruiser and start back up the drive, however, several things happened in rapid order. The dogs woke up and went into paroxysms of barking and dashing about, Daniel Sheffield came out of the residence to stand on the low deck that served as a porch and Davis exited his passenger door and walked towards Daniel, using slow, deliberate steps like a gunfighter in the old west, except he didn't have a gun.

"Holy shit!" said Morgan, jumping from the vehicle and moving quickly to put himself between Davis and Daniel. His reaction served as an unintended signal to the rest of the group that it was time to move forward, so that in seconds the entire group, plus two excited black Labs with wagging tails, stood facing Daniel well within the theoretical field of fire from the windows.

Morgan could not imagine a worse tactical situation until he looked around at the group and saw that a dozen or so small red laser-sight dots had lit them up, all coming from inside the building. They were sitting ducks.

"Stand down, Mister Sheffield," said Jerrold Pattison, showing his badge. "I'm a United States Marshal and the woman standing next to me is a Costa Rican prosecutor. I strongly suggest you disengage your laser targeting of us before you stand in violation of Costa Rican and international law by threatening law enforcement officers."

Daniel did not appear intimidated by the warning. He was dressed cowboy-style with Levi's and a blue work shirt. He wore a white Stetson, which he now tipped back on his head in a nonchalant gesture.

"Well, Mr. Marshal," said Daniel, with a wolfish smile, "I'm not sure where you stand on matters, but I strongly suspect, Madam Costa Rican Prosecutor, that you don't know you've been had. What tall tale did they tell you to get you out here?"

"There have been allegations in police reports from the United States of atrocities you committed in Costa Rica involving murder and the burial of persons alive," said Laura Cassada in a strong voice.

Morgan thought Daniel turned a little white but recovered quickly. "And you fell for it," said Daniel, shaking his head. "Here's the fact of it, darling. This is a vigilante group. They came here to assassinate me and I have every right to protect myself."

"Mr. Sheffield," said Cassada, "I can assure you...."

"I'm not saying you came here to assassinate me, Madam Prosecutor. I assume you've been played. But if you had evidence of a crime you wouldn't need Davis to come along while you arrest me. No, this is a set-up. You've been set up and I would've been, except I'm not easy to set up. What did you think, that you'd come out here and ask me if I'd committed a crime and then these guys would take my word for it and go home?"

"We would like you to give a blood sample to check against the DNA of a fetus from a girl who was murdered," said Cassada. "If you are innocent you should have no objection."

Daniel took off his hat and tapped it nervously against his leg as he considered her words. Again Morgan thought Daniel looked guilty and caught for an instant and again recovered quickly.

"Let me guess," he said, turning to Kon. "Chiefie here takes my blood, right? I know who you are, Doc. Read all about you. You think I'd let you near me with a needle? I know how easy it is to kill a person with a needle, even an empty needle \-- inject a little air in the vein, whatever. And if that didn't work there's a back up plan, sure as shit, some excuse for Davis' hit man there (indicating Morgan with a wave) or Ange Parker's Zulu to assassinate me."

Davis thought he saw doubt in Cassada's eyes and his emotions flared. "You don't assassinate a rabid dog," Davis said through clenched teeth. "You put them out of their misery."

"I rest my case," said Daniel, his palm up towards Cassada.

There was a momentary silence as Davis glared and Daniel smirked.

"So we've got a stand-off," said Pattison.

"No," said Daniel, "what we have is an unconditional surrender."

"Meaning what?" said Morgan.

"Meaning first I relieve you of your weapons."

"Like hell," said Morgan.

Daniel chuckled. "Over your dead body, right?"

"No need to threaten," said Laura Cassada. "We don't need a blood sample. It's not as fast, but give us a lock of hair and we'll be on our way. If it is necessary for me to return I'll come with only Costa Rican authorities. None of these people will be with me. You can have your attorneys with you to protect your rights."

"Madam Prosecutor," said Daniel, "try to see it my way. I have it on good authority that these people have planned to assassinate me. I don't know about the midget. Perhaps he's along for comic relief. And I'm not sure about the so-called marshal. But the rest of them believe I'm a murderer. Davis believes I arranged for his wife and daughter to be killed. Do they have proof of this? No. Have the courts in the United States indicted me for these alleged crimes or issued warrants? No. Do these would-be assassins care about fine points of the law? No.

"But here they are now, armed and dangerous on my property. They drove right up to my house, bold as you please. They must think I'm an idiot and that I'd be sitting here waiting for them to gun me down. And you must think I'm an idiot if you think I'm going to just let them go, firearms and all, to try again tomorrow.

"For that matter, you must think I'm an idiot if you think I'm going to let you go just yet either. Everybody will stay right here where I can keep an eye on you until I can get this mess straightened out. And when I say everyone, I'm including Ange Parker and her Zulu -- who, I'm reliably informed, are waiting in your other car over the hill.

With that Daniel pressed an electronic button on a porch post, obviously a pre-arranged signal, because a score of men carrying AK-47s at port arms came at a disciplined run from where they had been waiting behind one of the steel buildings. With sinking hearts, the small group watched helplessly as the dark-skinned, swarthy gunmen formed a half-circle behind them. Morgan thought they looked like hardened soldiers for all their faded and irregular uniforms.

"Madam Prosecutor," said Daniel, "I present to you volunteers from an elite unit of what shall soon be known to the world as the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. Please don't be alarmed to see them here on Costa Rican soil because I assure you they're here with the knowledge of certain ministers at the highest levels of your government. The contents of the buildings you see around you are also known to your government in cooperation with certain agencies of the United States and beyond that I can say very little. All very classified, you understand."

"No," said Cassada, her face reddening with outrage, "I do not understand, not that or any of this. I don't believe for a minute that President Figueres would allow a Colombian military group in Costa Rica. Furthermore, I am not staying here. I am leaving and everyone who came with me is going back with me. Or else I'll be back and bring some 'Self-Defense Forces of Costa Rica' with me. You must be crazy if you think you can run your own little army up here and get away with it."

Daniel lifted his arms in a gesture of dismissal, then issued commands in Spanish to his troops. Several advanced to pat down and disarm the outnumbered and dismayed band. Marshal Pattison held his badge in front of him and argued loudly against the pat down maneuver but didn't reach for his pistol as it was taken. Lyle Morgan also saw the futility of resistance and held his arms wide while he was relieved of his 9mm.

With a snap of his fingers and a hand motion, Daniel indicated to a trooper that he wanted Steve's umbrella. He wagged a finger knowingly at Steve after only a cursory examination of the umbrella/Light Saber/tranquilizer gun. He seemed to know is wasn't a simple umbrella as he inspected it carefully, opening the umbrella and then unscrewing the end piece on the Light Saber to look inside it.

"What have we here?" he said, holding it out as evidence for Cassada.

But the Costa Rican prosecutor was otherwise engaged. A soldier following search protocol had touched her between her legs. Reacting with fury, Cassada tried to knee him in the groin. Avoiding her knee, the Colombian swung at her with the barrel of his rifle, striking her head with a grazing blow. She stumbled to the side and fell to her knees in front of another soldier, who pushed her casually with the stock of his rifle. Cassada grabbed the rifle and wrested it away from the loose grip of the surprised man. It was a fatal mistake. The red laser dot on her forehead mushroomed to something very different and the back of her head exploded with a soft crunch sound, spraying Morgan with specks of her blood and brains. There had been no sound from the building, indicating that the firearm had a silencer. Laura's hands went to halfway to her head in slow-motion surprise as she leaned forward stiffly then toppled heavily to the ground.

A stunned silence followed. No one moved. Daniel tipped his hat forward and stared at the ground so that no one could see his eyes. His shoulders slumped. The soldiers, eyes wide, looked at each other and at Daniel. Even the dogs were frozen with uncertainty.

Kon, holding his hands high, the Sat phone in one of them, knelt in front of Cassada's body, slowly shook his head and, hoping Ange and Shaylane would hear on the open line of the phone, said in hushed tones: "They've killed Laura."

"Stupid bitch," growled Daniel in a barely audible voice.

The next to speak was Lyle Morgan, his voice low, steady and matter of fact. "You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Sheffield. You'll need to go to San Jose to make your statement, you and the shooter."

Daniel eased his hat back and stared at Morgan with a crooked expression that was trying to be a smile. "Think so, do you?"

"You didn't give an order to fire," said Morgan. "Someone was too quick on the trigger. But it'll have to be sorted out."

"You're the detective with your photo in the newspaper story. Morris, if I recall."

"Morgan."

"This isn't San Francisco, Detective."

"A cop is dead," said Morgan. "That's a problem anywhere in the world."

"Not one that going to San Jose would help," said Daniel, turning on his heel to issue orders in rapid Spanish to his troops. They must have been anticipating the orders because they proceeded quickly, two-on-one, to manhandle the now unarmed group to the ground; and they were ready with plasticuffs. Moments later everyone in the unlucky coterie was lying belly down with their hands pinioned behind them. With the example of Cassada's shooting fresh in their minds no one struggled against their captors, although Marshal Pattison made sure Daniel knew what the likely consequences of his actions would be.

"You won't get away with this, Sheffield," Pattison said as his arms were pulled behind him. "I'll personally hunt you down. Do you hear me? That's a promise."

"Is that right?" said Daniel calmly, almost in a drawl. "Join the crowd. Can't say I've ever been hunted down by a United States Marshal before."

"It's just a matter of time until the cavalry gets here, Daniel," said Davis. "What's your plan then?"

"By cavalry I suppose you mean Ange Parker and her Zulu," said Daniel, "plus your little squad of Costa Rica's finest waiting at the bottom of the hill."

Daniel took up the Sat phone from where it lay on the ground near Kon. "Hello, Ange Parker," he said.

****

"Shit shit shit," Shaylane mouthed to Ange silently. Their heads were close together as they sat in the back seat of their vehicle with the phone held between them so they could both hear.

"What the fuck have you done, Daniel?" said Ange.

"Ange, baby," said Daniel, "is that you? Come to Papa, darlin'."

"Ange, look out!" came Kon's voice, shouted to be audible over the phone. "They've got an army here."

"Not my whole army," said Daniel, laughing, "but a sizeable retinue."

"Let me talk to Kon," said Ange.

"Sure, sweetie pie," said Daniel. "He's a little tied up at the moment but I'll see if he can fit you in."

A few seconds later with Daniel holding the phone for him: "Ange?"

"Kon, what the hell? Did I hear you say Laura has been killed?"

"Yes, and now we're all tied up and lying on the ground. Ange, worst-case scenario. He's gone crazy. Get help."

Then Daniel's voice: "The good doctor is exaggerating. Come on up and join the party."

"I don't think so, Daniel. Sounds like I need an army before I come up to talk with you and your army."

"Too late. You should've thought of that before, babe. You do realize you have no choice, I hope. You want to do this the easy way or the hard way?"

Shaylane wanted the phone but Ange pushed her off.

"Cards on the table, Ange," said Daniel. "First, a machine gun is posted along the road you came in on. You've got no way out. Second, you either come over the hill with your hands up, you, your driver and your Zulu, in the next thirty seconds, or I execute one of your friends. Another friend gets it thirty seconds after that and so on down the line. Am I making myself clear? Oh, yes, and one more thing. Don't hang up this connection. If you do, I'm going to assume you're trying to call out. That's a no-no."

There followed a panicked discussion between Shaylane and Ange, both uncertain, as they grappled with the impossible hostage demand. Shaylane believed that once having killed, Daniel would just kill them all. Better to fight. Ange, on the other hand, could not bear the thought of another life on her conscience.

They heard a shot first over the phone and then again an second later in the distance from the ranch, then Kon's voice on the phone, full of unmistakable horror. "He killed Jerry, Ange. Shot him in the head. Oh, God!"

"Okay, we're coming up," Ange said, brooking no dissent from Shaylane as she pushed her away and broke from the car, starting up the road with her hands up, one of them holding the Satellite phone. Shaylane jammed her sidearm in the glove compartment and motioned for Mario the driver to join them as she started after Ange.

Mario didn't understand what was happening because everything had been communicated in English. The road back looked vastly better than the road to the ranch, however, given the sound of gunfire and the fact that Ange had her hands in the air in an apparent surrender, so he put the Land Cruiser in gear and tromped the accelerator to the floor, spinning in a half circle to center on the jeep tracks. Then he headed back down the rise as fast as possible. He heard Shaylane shouting for him to stop and in the rear view mirror he could see her waving at him with frantic motions. He hoped she knew he wasn't trying to steal the Land Cruiser. There would be time to explain later.

.50 caliber rounds blew out the passenger side windows and the right side of the windshield and struck Mario in his right leg below the knee before he could take a defensive maneuver, which he quickly did by turning off the jeep trail and down the hill towards a wooded gully, throwing the machine gunner off target for an instant. Between the careening vehicle and the possible temporary safety of the trees in the gully, however, there was a meter-high rock wall and Mario was headed directly at it.

Mario was to tell the story of the rock wall many times in years to come. Here is how he told it: "I knew I had to leap the wall because if I hit it this would be a head-on collision and then the machine gun would kill me. So I calculated how to do a purposeful roll and at just the right instant I turned the steering wheel to go into a roll, counting on the roll bar to protect me. I bounced once and then rolled over the wall on the second bounce, hardly touching it, and then came back into position headed down the hill and into the stream. No hay problema."

No doubt it happened just as Mario described it. However, there were a few other factors that Mario's angels threw into the mix to save him that day. First, when he hit the boulders in the streambed – which was, in fact, a head-on collision \-- his airbag deployed. Second, just at that moment the motorcycle cops, having heard gunfire, came up the jeep trail, diverting the attention of the machine gunner, who could have shredded the ravine at leisure, including Mario, but now struggled to reposition himself to fire at the police. Third, it had been a rainy season, and the small river in the gulch at the base of the hill, dry during the dry season, was running full enough for the wounded Mario to make his escape by dragging himself from pool to pool and over some small muddy waterfalls towards the highway in the distance. Fourth, the glove compartment had popped open and Shaylane's .45 was sitting in the drivers side seat – too obvious to miss -- as Mario fought his way from under the airbag. It would later prove handy when Mario ran into searchers from the encampment.

****

"What's all that racket down there, Ange?" said Daniel on the Sat phone. He could hear Ange's hard breathing over the phone. "Did your Zulu make a run for it?"

Shaylane had just overtaken Ange, heard Daniel's voice and took the phone from Ange. "You can add an innocent taxi driver to your list of victims, dirt-bag!"

"Oh, good. I'm glad you're still with us, Zulu bitch. I've got plans for you. But you'd better hurry. If I don't see your black ass coming over the hill very soon, another one of your friends dies. Counting to ten. One, two...."

Shaylane sprinted past Ange and broke over the rim of the hill just as Daniel counted "eight, nine..." Shaylane saw that Daniel had a weapon aimed at the back of Kon's head.

"I'm here!" she gasped at the phone, waving to attract his attention.

"Ah," said Daniel over the phone. "So you are, and just in time."

Shaylane unfastened the police radio from her belt. "Abort. Abort. Pull back. Get help. Bring soldiers." No response. One of the officers knew English and would be waiting for a call. She tried once more. No response. With a sinking feeling, Shaylane realized that the motorcycle cops, only a mile away, must have heard gunfire and had come to the rescue. She should have radioed sooner to warn them. An inexcusable blunder. Those kids would have been defenseless against the machine gun. Disgusted with herself, Shaylane hurled the police hand radio far down the slope into the deep grasses.

There was still the Sat phone. It had been programmed with a number Laura Cassada had given her. But Daniel had anticipated their tactics. Shaylane stared helplessly at the phone as Ange came alongside her. Seconds later men with rifles jogged up to them along the road. One of the men gently took possession of the Sat phone from Ange, and, grinning, said in English – in an accent so heavy it took a moment for Shaylane to realize it was English -- "Welcome to Dead Monkey Ranch. We hope you enjoy your stay."
CHAPTER 41

Dead Monkey Ranch near Tilarán, Costa Rica

Thursday, October 17, 1996

The stunned prisoners were standing lined up against the wall of the hacienda and the dogs were sniffing uneasily at the two bodies in the dust as Shaylane and Ange trudged to the dismal scene with their guards strolling behind them.

"Git!" shouted Ange at the dogs, kicking at them as best she could with her hands pinioned behind her. The dogs, confused, shied away from the bodies.

Ange dropped to her knees in front of Laura Cassada's lifeless form. The prosecutor was face down in the bloody dust, the back of her head a concave mess of hair and blood. "I'm so sorry, Laura," Ange sobbed. "Damn!" She looked up at Daniel. "What've you done, Daniel? Have you lost your mind?"

"Things are not always as they appear," said Daniel.

"What in hell are you talking about?" said Ange. She tried to stand but couldn't manage it with her hands fastened behind her. She staggered forward, trying for balance. Daniel stepped to support her but she twisted away from him in uncoordinated rage. "What are you going to do now, kill us all?"

"Perhaps not."

Ange was helpless with her hands tied but she nonetheless half lunged at him. "We're witnesses to your murders," she spat. "You can't let us go."

"Too bad about the Tica," said Daniel. "She was a fool. Different story on the marshal. I didn't trust him in any case."

"Daniel, for god's sake, man," said Ange, her voice a low growl, "you're not making sense. Trust him to do what? What does trust have to do with it?"

"The point is," said Daniel, "I know who you are. I don't know who he was."

"There's nobody home, Ange," said Kon wearily.

"And I also don't know who you are, little man," said Daniel, ignoring Kon as he pulled a pistol from his waistband – the same weapon he had used to shoot Jerry – and aimed it at Steve's face.

Steve gulped and blinked very slowly. "I'm only too willing to tell you who I am if you're interested," he said, his voice a dry croak.

"Just tell me this," said Daniel. His eyes were cold. "How it is you're carrying weaponry that's highly classified? It so happens I helped develop that tranc gun. You know how many people know that tranc gun even exists? The President of the United States doesn't know that tranc gun exists."

"As to how I came to have it," said Steve, "Doctor Travestor got it from a Sheffield research facility. Doc hired me as a guard at the Seattle Foundation offices. I was costumed as Yoda from Star Wars and the tranquilizer gun was in my Light Saber."

Daniel shook his head, flabbergasted. "This is your cover story?"

"I've got my Yoda ears in the car. I can show you," said Steve, lamely.

"He's telling the truth, Daniel," said Ange.

"I'll play along," said Daniel, his gun still aimed at Steve, "just to hear what else you might come up with. Let's see if I've got it straight so far. Doc hired you as a guard and provided you with top secret technology?"

"Yes."

"In case of what? Terrorist attacks?"

"Doc saw danger everywhere. He thought Maureen Sheffield was murdered. (Pause) Would you care to comment on the record about that?"

Daniel lowered his sidearm and chuckled. "Cheeky little fucker!"

"I'm a reporter and I'd like to get the story straight. I can help you tell your side of it."

"A reporter for whom?"

"The New York Times."

Daniel angled his weapon towards Steve's face again, then paused to consider. "What's your name?"

"Steve Zavala."

"Zavala with a Z? You wrote that send-up on San Francisco toilets?"

"It wasn't a send-up."

"Well, it was very funny." Daniel, grinning, slowly returned his pistol to his waistband.

"And Ange Parker in the Newark jail? Loved it," said Daniel, looking pointedly at Ange, who turned her face away. "Especially the lesbian love scene."

"You get The Times out here?" said Steve. That piece had been published three days earlier. Steve hadn't seen it yet.

"Online," said Daniel. "The Internet."

"I didn't realize The Times was online."

"You write for The New York Times and you didn't know it was online?"

"I'm new."

"What a world," said Daniel, putting his hand on Steve's head to emphasize their relative heights. "The Times must be pretty hard up is all I can say. No way are you making up this story, though. And your photo in the paper, Mr. Detective, (speaking now to Lyle Morgan) squares with the intel on you as Doc's man. So I'm going to figure you dummies are all clean."

"Clean meaning what?" said Ange.

"Clean meaning I've got no particular reason to waste your ass," said Daniel. "Unless you give me one."

There was a pause during which everyone in the group considered the possible meanings of Daniel's comment.

"Again, for the record, Mr. Sheffield," said Steve, "do you have personal knowledge of whether Maureen Sheffield was murdered?"

"Steve!" breathed Ange.

Kon, who was in Steve's line of sight, silently mouthed the words, "Steve, no." Morgan rolled his eyes. Davis looked at Daniel intently, awaiting his response.

Daniel paced back and forth, then took a militaristic parade rest position, feet apart, hands clasped behind him, his chin raised, looking, Ange thought, like George C. Scott's Patton.

"Define murder," he said, without apparent rancor. Apparently Steve's question did not rise to the level of a reason to waste his ass.

"Well,' said Steve, thoughtfully, "most people would say...."

"Most people don't know their ass from a hole in the ground," said Daniel. "Give me your definition."

Steve ventured: "In the letter of the law...."

"Sometimes circumstances require that we not follow the letter of the law for a greater good," said Daniel, anticipating the logic flow.

"Uh, huh," said Steve noncommittally. "Go on."

"If hundreds or thousands of lives are at stake, if the welfare of nations is at stake, if basic liberty is at stake, how do we measure one life against that?"

"It wasn't just one life, was it?" growled Davis, almost under his breath. Steve caught Davis' eye in a caution.

It so happened that Steve had written a book titled "Needs of the Many, Needs of the Few" as well as several well-received papers, in the process earning a good reputation in pacifist circles for his keen insights. In the present moment, however, he drew a blank.

Finally, he ventured: "So the murder of Maureen Sheffield...."

"The killing," said Daniel.

"The welfare of nations was at stake?"

"Maureen Sheffield was a bull in a china shop, meddling in affairs that were over her head. We were at war."

"At war?" said Steve.

"The Gulf War. Operation Desert Storm. Do your research, Mister New York Times reporter."

"Maureen Sheffield was meddling in the Gulf War?"

"She was going to be a problem for a broad range of strategic priorities in the Gulf and elsewhere. Killing her was a pre-emptive action, necessary and justifiable... from the perspective of a field commander."

"A field commander meaning you?"

"Yes." Daniel lifted his Pattonesque chin.

"Have there been others killed because you thought it necessary as a field commander?"

For answer, Daniel waved his fingers at the bodies on the ground.

Steve drew a breath. He looked around at the scene with its bizarre contradictions, the Costa Rican countryside with clouds forming over hills in the distance, horses enjoying their breakfast while swatting flies with their tails, the scruffy and dangerous looking Colombian soldiers with their rifles, pompous Daniel in his cowboy duds, the still bodies, his friends sweating in the sun, happy panting dogs.

"I have to warn you," he said, squinting in the sun as he looked up at Daniel, who towered over him, "that Times readers are going to think you're certifiable."

"Comes with the territory," said Daniel. "They don't understand the broader picture."

"This is your opportunity to educate them."

"You tempt me. I liked your piece on crazy Davis Sheffield."

"I can't promise you won't look a lot crazier than Davis."

"But hopefully not as ridiculous. What I'm doing is a hell of lot more important than finding toilets in San Francisco."

"It would help if I could take notes."

"You'll have to go by memory."

"It would help if we could move into the shade."

Daniel obligingly moved everyone, prisoners, guards with rifles still at the ready, and his interviewer, into the shallow shade of the long veranda. He had chairs brought out for himself and Steve.

"Tactics," he said without preamble after they were seated facing each other.

"Tactics," said Steve, feeling like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate.

"The history of civilization is the history of war," said Daniel. "And the history of war is the history of military tactics."

Steve raised an eyebrow.

"However," said Daniel, "you and your liberal friends and the readers of The New York Times don't understand military tactics. You never have and you never will. Would you like to know why?"

Steve raised the other eyebrow.

"Because you believe there are rules. There are no rules. War isn't chess or baseball. Truman fired MacArthur because MacArthur understood the nature of war. Now we've had forty years of stalemate in Korea and our most powerful enemy grows stronger every year. Same story in Vietnam with a different cast of characters. And now we face threats all over the world from an enemy who isn't governed by any rules whatsoever while we are forced to fight with our hands tied by fools in Congress and now in the State Department."

"What enemy is that?" said Steve.

"Exactly!" said Daniel. "You prove my point. You believe our enemies should show themselves like gentlemen. En garde. Here we are. Well, little fellow, that's old school. We can no longer think in terms of national borders and identifiable armies. Now everything is invisible: guerilla tactics, hit and run, target civilians, no mercy -- none. And if we are to prevail we must adopt the same tactics. No rules. No quarter asked and none given."

Steve had had more than a few debates with people who argued that the end justifies the means along these lines. He decided to change the focus.

"Prosecutor Cassada was investigating testimony from informants that you held women captive in Costa Rica, abused them and buried them alive. Could you comment on that?"

"Your informants were no doubt referring to certain girls who were rescued during combat operations."

"Rescued?"

"Essentially, yes. Communist collaborators and sympathizers who volunteered for re-socialization and were given an opportunity to prove themselves."

"Communist?"

"Call them what you will, communists, leftists, socialists, cockroaches."

"Only women, not men?"

"Only young, pretty girls. That's the way it goes when soldiers select volunteers."

"There's a selection process?"

Daniel threw up his hands theatrically. "Oh, come now. You can't be that naïve. A village is raided. The population is punished. Many die. Unfortunate, but sometimes there is no other way. The other side does the same. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to identify the pretty girls crawling around begging for someone to rescue them."

"Did you personally rescue girls?"

"I did weaken from time to time, yes."

"And were you able to re-socialize them?"

"Sadly, none could pass the test of time."

"What happened to them?"

"They met the destiny they chose."

"You buried them alive?"

"They dug their own grave so in a way they buried themselves."

Morgan and Shaylane exchanged grim looks. If the murder of Pattison was not enough, Daniel was now casually confessing to multiple murders. How could he allow them to live with this information?

"You realize this is not going to sit easy with people when they hear about it," said Steve.

"It's no worse than what would have happened to the girls if I hadn't given them a chance."

"But why bury them alive? It's so macabre. Is it a fetish or something?"

"You know what? I like you. For a little runt you've got a set of balls."

"Gee, thanks. But, why bury them alive?"

"Poetic justice. They dig their own grave in the ground just like they dug their own grave in life by the way they lived. Then they lie down in the dirt grave they dug for themselves. Cold earth covers them. One last inevitable lesson as the light dims. It seems altogether fitting to me."

"No last minute pangs of regret? No remorse?"

"You must understand. These girls come from a life of squalor, of grinding poverty. Death is no stranger to them and can even be a blessing. They breed like animals so there are always more of them."

Shocked, Steve couldn't think of a response and didn't have to do so, because in that instant his bizarre New York Times interview was interrupted by the high-pitched screaming of two 250 cc Honda 2-cycle dirt bikes being driven hard over the rise and up to the hacienda. The hatless Colombian militia riders, long hair flying, braked in a cloud of dust beside the hacienda and hurriedly dismounted. They had much to say to Daniel for several moments in excited, rapid Spanish. Two other soldiers joined them from inside the hacienda. Daniel looked concerned. One of the soldiers from inside the building, the English-speaking officer who had met Shaylane on the road, fetched a map from the building interior and all five huddled around the map as Daniel drew on it with his finger and discussed something obviously urgent. He dispatched the officer in the direction of the horse shelter.

"It seems Mario got away," said Steve to the group.

"Thank God," said Shaylane.

"He may be wounded," said Steve. "They said something about blood."

After a few more moments in discussion, Daniel sent the motorcyclists with their whining 2-cycle bikes back down the road. From the barn the officer brought two saddled horses, dark bay Costa Rican Paso Finos. Daniel mounted one, issued shouted instructions in Spanish to the three guards left with the prisoners and rode away with the officer close behind. They rode first to one of the buildings, a barracks as it turned out, where Daniel shouted to a guard at the door. Then they headed their mounts up the hill at a fast pace in the unique Paso Fino gait, hooves dancing high, past the oversized satellite disk. Soon the two disappeared over a rise, Daniel sitting his steed easily while the officer had lost a stirrup and was last seen bouncing out of control.

Seconds later a half-platoon of men exited the barracks, split into two squads and left the area in different directions at double-time pace.

"I think they're worried," said Morgan with a smile.

"Gutsy interrogation, Steve," said Shaylane.

"He wants to talk, to defend himself," said Steve. "He doesn't realize who he's become."

"I'm sorry, everyone," said Davis. "I'm so very sorry."

"Not your fault, Davis," said Kon.

"Of course it's my fault. None of you would be here if it wasn't for me."

"You couldn't have realized what a monster he is," said Morgan. "None of us realized."

"I wish we didn't have to look at Laura and Jerry lying there," said Davis. "I can't bear it. I wanted revenge for Mo... I see how shallow that was now... stupid and shallow. Revenge wouldn't bring Mo and Silvie back. And now I've brought you all to this horror. If I get a chance, I'll..."

"You'll what, Davis?" said Ange sharply.

"I'll try something. I don't know what. Anything is better than just waiting...."

"Davis, no!" said Ange, her voice rising. "Don't do anything stupid." Ange glared at Morgan as if he should help discourage Davis but Morgan looked away, not wanting to comment and draw the attention of their guards. He had found an edge that held marginal promise on the building panels and had been working his plasticuff tie against it, hoping to fray the plastic.

"I don't care about myself," said Davis.

"Well, I care about you, Davis," said Ange. "And if you care about me, please don't do anything stupid."

"Ange," said Davis wearily, "do you hear what I'm saying? Everybody is in this mess because of me."

"Actually, I'm in this mess because of Shaylane," said Kon.

"And I'm in this mess because of Ange," said Shaylane.

"Because you guys love each other," said Davis.

"Why is Ange in this mess, Davis?" said Kon.

Davis looked at Kon with a blank expression.

"Kon," said Shaylane in an admonishing tone.

"It's okay, Kon," said Ange.

"What's okay?" said Davis.

The mystery of why Ange was in this mess would have to wait until later because at that instant there arrived on the scene a gruesome distraction in the form of a fast-moving backhoe tractor which braked to a halt in front them, raising a cloud of dust. As the dust cleared, the driver brought the front loader down to eye level and they could see the bodies of the three young police officers in the bucket. The driver dismounted, motioned for help from one of the three guards, and proceeded to unceremoniously lift the bodies of Laura Cassada and Jerrold Pattison and roll them into the bucket on top of the officers. The driver then remounted the tractor, lifted and tilted the front loader so the bodies wouldn't slide out, and drove away back down the road that he had come on.

Ange spit a mouthful of acid tasting bile on the ground, almost hitting the boots of one of the soldiers. Davis banged his head on the wall behind him in frustration. Then no one spoke for long moments. Morgan ceased his sawing on the plastic because it would have been too noticeable.

A shaggy-haired soldier looking rather a ruffian in his disheveled uniform trotted from the barracks building and spoke to the guards in a gruff tone. He pointed at the barracks after which the guards motioned for the prisoners to move along that way.

"What did he say?" said Shaylane to Steve as they walked.

"Unclear," said Steve. "Something about orders from Daniel that we were to be, I don't know, rigged up like a horse or outfitted like a sailboat. Sorry, bizarre language, like a code. Then we are supposed to be put back in the Land Cruiser."

The Land Cruiser entered the building before they did, driven quickly and expertly by one of the Colombians through a wide, sliding barn door. As the prisoners entered the large structure, estimated by Morgan to be over 100 feet long by at least 40 feet wide, it didn't take long for their eyes to become accustomed to the darker interior, because it was well lit by Mercury Vapor lamps overhead. It was indeed a barracks, with bunks, tables, a TV, a few posters, a ping-pong table and a Fidel Castro dartboard. Along one wall were a dozen small 8 by 10 cells, some with young women as occupants. Each cell featured a cot, a sink and a toilet, but no privacy. Undergarments were hung to dry from bars. The cell residents hastened to the fronts of their lockups and peered through bars with great interest, their faces reflecting a mix of hope and fear, as the new prisoners stepped into the building.

"Volunteers," said Shaylane dryly.

Shaggy Hair guided the group to a table in the center of the barracks and picked up an electric wire-connected heating implement of some kind, perhaps a wood-burning pencil or a soldering iron. He tested it on the wooden table surface and was rewarded with a thin spiral of smoke. He turned to the group and brandished the small implement with a sinister grin. He poked it at Shaylane in a fencing stance and laughed, but as it turned out he was only teasing. The heated tip was not intended as a torture device but as a means to fuse knots in the line that was to serve as their new bondage constraint, supplanting the plastic strips.

One at a time, the plastic bands were snipped from the captives and Shaggy Hair roped them into a body harness using exactly the same effective routine: a long looped Dacron line held three knots; the head went through the first section and the remaining length pinioned arms to the side and then created a belt and from there passed around the legs at crotch level to tie off behind. Both hands were then fastened snugly to the belt section using short lengths of line. The hot iron was then used to melt portions of the knot behind and the knots around the wrists, fusing them so they could not be untied without cutting.

Shaggy Hair, despite his disreputable appearance, adopted a strangely courtly manner, bowing like an Oriental to each captive and handling them patiently. He appeared to be in charge of the overall situation, positioning the guards with casual motions and summoning a young woman with a water bucket and ladle, who stood nearby to offer drinks when the prisoners hands were momentarily free. Shaggy Hair also allowed time for each of them to rub their wrists in order to restore circulation.

When it was their turn to be trussed, first Shaylane and then Morgan were alert to any potential opportunity for combative action. However, complicating the situation was that one of their guards had set his firearms aside and held a Taser at the ready during the process. Shaylane recognized the stun gun as one of the newest law enforcement Model 34000 Air Tasers. She had no doubts of the neuromuscular incapacitation that would result it was used on her, the failure of Tasers during the Rodney King episode notwithstanding.

Morgan, who had earned the nickname "Houdini" during a precinct in-service training by demonstrating the art of picking handcuffs, was dismayed by the new bonds. A sometimes sailor, he recognized the distinctive colorful weave of the Dacron line used on sailboats. Dacron doesn't fray easily, doesn't cut easily, and doesn't stretch like Nylon. Shaggy Hair cinched the line snug on Morgan's wrists. No wiggle room whatsoever. Bad news. The good news was that the new bindings mercifully didn't cut into his flesh or hamper circulation the way the plasticuffs had. Morgan recognized the harness as similar to the cuffs and chains harnesses used by law enforcement to transport prisoners. It was possible for a person encumbered in this way to slip their pants down for toilet purposes. It was a bondage system for long-term situations.

Steve's translation of Daniel's orders proved accurate. One by one, as soon as the new bindings were applied, the prisoners were escorted to seats in the Land Cruiser, first Shaylane, then Morgan, then Steve, all in a calm, orderly procession, the captives, the three guards and the women in the cells silently watching Shaggy Hair orchestrate the process.

Then, suddenly, the scene exploded into a small riot. As Ange had returned the water dipper to the young woman she had placed her fingers gently on the woman's face in a gesture of sympathy, at which the woman and Ange had spontaneously touched foreheads. This brief contact for some reason enraged the guard with the Taser, who seized the unfortunate water-woman by the hair and threw her hard onto the concrete floor. He then lifted his booted foot above her, preparing to stomp, at which Ange swept her leg hard to upend him from his one-legged stance. In the process, Ange ended up prone on the concrete herself. The guard recovered quickly onto his knees and aimed the Taser at Ange. Before he could let fly, however, Davis came low and hard, linebacker-style, from thirty feet away, hands still fastened behind him, to drive his 180 pounds, shoulder first, into the much smaller man. The guard went down heavily, catching a knee in the face as Davis' momentum carried him over. The Taser clattered wildly across the floor.

Shaggy Hair scooped up the sliding Taser like a baseball shortstop and moved quickly to position himself between the other two guards -- who, wild-eyed, had shouldered their AK-47's -- and the various people lying and sitting on the floor. A hand signal, palm down, calmed the anxious riflemen and Shaggy Hair turned immediately to restore order. He helped Ange to her feet and patted her on her head as he steered her to her previous position by the table. He helped the young slave woman up and patted her on her butt as he sent her away. He helped Davis to his feet and firmly pointed him back to his waiting area where Kon waited. Shaggy Hair stood over the vanquished guard, who had had the wind knocked out of him. Shaggy Hair shook his head sadly. Then he laughed. The guard glowered at first, then laughed as well with a false tone, trying to save face as he was helped to his feet.

"Where were you, buddy?" said Davis as he rejoined Kon in their waiting area. "I could have used some help."

"You're going to joke about it?" said Kon. "It's a miracle you weren't shot. What were you thinking?"

"You're right," said Davis. "It's just that Ange was..."

"Ange was crazy to do what she did but I don't know who's crazier, you or her. Has it dawned on you we're in a tight situation here?"

"You're right, Kon. I just sort of reacted without thinking."

"Are you in love with Ange? Is that what's going on?"

"In love with Ange?"

"I'm just trying to figure what would possess you to charge a room full of armed goons with your hands tied behind your back."

Davis stared at Kon for a moment. "As a matter of fact, maybe I am in love with Ange. I hadn't really thought of it that way."

It was Kon's turn to stare. He shook his head. "You'd know if you were in love. It'd be nice if you were, since Ange is in love with you."

"How do you know that?"

"Just a wild stab. And it's your turn. They're waiting for you at the table. Walk, don't run. Smile and be nice."
CHAPTER 42

Dead Monkey Ranch near Tilarán, Costa Rica

Thursday, October 17, 1996

When all the newly fettered captives were seated in the Toyota, Shaggy Hair backed the vehicle from the building and parked it on the shady side of the structure, windows down, with two guards on duty. There the prisoners sat in silence for some moments wondering what would come next.

What came next was that the soldier who had been ignominiously upended by Ange and knocked flat by Davis, marched the water-woman at the center of the episode to the vehicle, pulled back her flimsy blouse, shoved and lifted her onto the hood, forced her forward so that her face was mashed and her breasts were flattened against the windshield, lifted her skirt and mounted her from behind. Thus he revenged his humiliation for a moment or two, his leering face inches from the glass, staring at Ange, who was in the front passenger seat. Ange stared back, eyes cold and unblinking, although everyone else in the vehicle looked away.

Steve later roughly translated the rapist's mostly inarticulate grunts and triumphant exclamations as an expression of the man's ownership of the young woman. The words Steve caught included "esposa" (wife) and "puta lesbio" (lesbian whore), -- although he may have been shouting the latter at Ange. In any case he threw his so-called wife roughly off the engine hood when he had finished and waggled his tongue lewdly at Ange. Instead of turning away, Ange leaned forward and spat vehemently against the glass. This caught him by surprise and he recoiled. He tried for balance but his pants were around his ankles. One hand sought purchase in a puddle of his emissions and slipped while the other hand grasped at a wiper blade, which bent and would not hold his weight. He rolled off the vehicle engine hood, landing heavily on the ground beside his "wife."

Enraged, Mister Graceful managed to stand and pull up his pants. But when he reached for the handle of the passenger-side door he was nudged firmly back by the barrel of an AK-47. After some sharp words in rapid Spanish between the two guards – "captives not to be harmed," Steve translated -- the twice-vanquished rapist managed to storm away while sulking at the same time. He was followed into the building some paces behind by his stoop-shouldered, unfortunate victim, who buttoned up and dusted herself off as she walked. Before entering the building she chanced a glance back with a thin smile for Ange.

Ange turned briefly to see the reactions of the others, her eyes still blazing with anger but softened with a hint of amusement. In that instant Davis knew beyond a doubt that he loved Ange. Of course he did. Good God, he had loved her from the afternoon on the Bainbridge Ferry, even if he hadn't put words to it. He had loved her when he saw her giving up her life's career on a principle. He had loved her for her environmentalist tree-sitting and lap dancing through law school. And now he loved her for her brazen defiance. Why had he not awoken to his feelings before now?

After the windshield rape scene there was a two-hour wait in the vehicle, during which little was said, everyone lost in thought. Conversation would have proved difficult in any case because a light rain became a torrential downpour, almost deafening on the car roof. The guards moved close to the wall of the building for shelter. Ange and Kon, next to windows open on the windward side, were soon soaked but it was a warm tropical rain and not chilling.

Davis glanced covertly at Ange. The light through the rain cascading down the windshield painted her face with moving patterns that swept down her cheeks like tears. Davis wept in his heart as he watched her. But when Ange turned to look at Davis, it was to send reassurance. It's going to be all right, she mouthed. Davis nodded affirmation. Yes. Stay strong, he thought. Chin up, old boy, and all that.

When Ange looked away Davis rolled his eyes and shook his head. Shaylane, who was wedged against Davis on his right, leaned a remonstrative knee and shoulder against him. Her eyes darted to Ange and back to Davis, sending a clear signal: Ange needed something from him and he was not to let her down. Davis nodded.

Daniel Sheffield chose that moment to arrive at the scene walking his horse and leading the second Paso Fino with his dead officer tied across the saddle. He dismounted in front of the Toyota and watched while the guards tended to the body of their fallen comrade. Their conversation was low and muffled by the rain but Steve was able to pick up on some of it.

"The driver shot the soldier and Daniel killed the driver, meaning Mario," he said. A pause while Steve struggled to hear more of the conversation. "Daniel says he left the driver's body in the forest where it will never be found."

"He's lying," said Shaylane. She could not understand the Spanish but she had been watching Daniel's manner towards the soldiers.

"What makes you think that?" said Morgan from the back of the Land Cruiser where he shared the small catbird seat with Steve.

"For one thing, no swagger," said Shaylane. "Big brave field commanders swagger after they win a fight."

"Mario didn't have a gun," said Kon.

"I left my sidearm in the glove compartment," said Shaylane.

"Why would Daniel lie to his own guys?" said Davis.

"Good question," said Shaylane.

More good questions arose from Daniel's behaviors over the next hour. After he made a trip to the hacienda to change into dry clothes, he proceeded to drive his captives on a vehicle tour of most of the buildings on the ranch, complete with running commentary.

"I'd be a poor host indeed if I didn't give you a little tour before showing you to your rooms," said Daniel, smiling as he started the bizarre guided expedition. With the two guards trotting along behind them Daniel steered the Toyota to the nearest steel building and drove inside through twenty-foot-wide sliding doors. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated a mostly empty weapons warehouse with a few display samples, bazookas and sniper rifles, sitting on tops of crates.

"Armory and supply depot," said Daniel. "Not too impressive at this stage. We're in the process of moving to a different facility."

"Why's that?" said Shaylane mockingly. "Set-backs?"

"You could say that," said Daniel, with little emotion, as he backed the vehicle out the doors and headed for the next building. "We're fighting a war on many fronts and we can't expect to win every battle."

Ange, who remained in the front passenger seat – the "seat of honor" Daniel had called it – repeated his word "war," her voice flat with contempt.

Daniel reached over and patted Ange on her knee, laughing when she jerked away.

Most of the metal buildings in the compound featured oversized doors allowing drive-in inspections and Daniel systematically toured them with his prisoners in bondage. He seemed to take a perverse pride in the operational details, even though the facility was obviously in the process of being dismantled.

Two buildings were clearly dedicated to the cocaine trade. One, Shaylane immediately realized when she saw filtering and drying equipment, was a lab for converting base cocaine to cocaine hydrochloride as a final product for sale. The other coke-dedicated building contained stacks of metal airline food trolleys and galley boxes as well as work areas with oxygen tanks and oxyacetylene welding equipment. Some of the galley boxes had been dismantled and it didn't take Shaylane long to realize the basic smuggling strategy. Galley boxes are commonly reloaded with food trays and swapped back and forth between catering vendors. Bricks of cocaine had made the journey to North America sealed within the metal boxes.

"Let me guess," said Shaylane to Daniel. "You ran a catering service at each end."

"Very good, Deputy," said Daniel. "Unfortunately, they've sniffed us out – pardon the pun." He laughed at his own joke.

Smaller structures included a supply building, a small officer's quarters and a mess hall that featured a grimacing stuffed howler monkey mounted above the main entrance. Daniel had shot the monkey during the early building construction, a callous act that had horrified the Costa Rican workers. The shooting and taxidermy gained enough notoriety that the ranch had been dubbed Dead Monkey and it had stuck.

After passing it by several times, Daniel finally took them inside the huge building Morgan had thought looked like an aircraft hanger. Indeed, it was a hanger. Inside sat two immense heavy-lift transport helicopters. 25 feet high, 89 feet in length with rotor diameters of 72 feet, each of the Sikorsky CH-55 Sea Stallions could carry four tons of equipment or 55 troops.

"My Air Force," said Daniel as he drove in a circle around one of the massive helicopters.

Suddenly a blond white man in maintenance overalls stepped around a helicopter wheel casing under the snub-nosed cockpit and blocked the path of the Toyota. He had his hands on his hips in a belligerent posture and he didn't look happy. Daniel stepped out to talk with him but the conversation didn't go well and it was a moment before Daniel could get a word in edgewise.

"Was that German?" said Kon after a moment.

"No," said Shaylane. "It was Dutch. Enough like Afrikaans that I could follow. He needs parts and mechanics that were promised him or he can't put the helicopters in service. The Colombians are worthless as assistants. Also the Internet and telephones aren't working and he can't contact his people. But after his tirade Daniel answered in French and they switched to French and I can't follow them."

"Anybody get the feeling Daniel's military operation is crumbling a bit?" said Morgan.

"He keeps checking his watch," Davis observed.

"If Mario got away Daniel must know the shit is going to hit the fan," said Steve, "and it could be soon."

"And if he can't get his birds to fly there is no way he can get his little regiment out of here," said Morgan.

"But he's shining it on," said Ange. "He must have a backup plan or he wouldn't be driving us around on this stupid tour."

"He probably pulled the plug on the Internet," said Steve.

"And the telephones," said Morgan.

Daniel returned to the vehicle while the Dutchman sulked off, distinctly not mollified.

"Problems, Daniel?" said Shaylane.

"No more than usual," said Daniel as he drove out the doors. "Hard to find good help anymore."

Daniel drove at a good clip 300 yards or so on a winding dirt road up the hill past the satellite dish to a flat area at the top. He parked in the shade of an enormous mango tree. It took the armed guards several minutes to catch up but Daniel didn't wait for them.

"Everybody out," he said. "End of the line."

Not words of cheer. However, there was not much for it but to do as instructed, a somewhat awkward process with their hands tied. Finally they were all out of the Land Cruiser and sitting as bidden under the mango tree. Daniel paced in front of the prisoners like a general inspecting his troops as the guards arrived on the scene, breathing hard and glaring at Daniel.

"We're going to play a little game, boys and girls," said Daniel. "But first, a small history lesson so you'll have no illusions regarding the choices you'll face."

Daniel went to the luggage bay of the Toyota and retrieved Steve's Light Saber, which he must have stowed there at some point. He flourished it grandly in front of them and sang (badly) a bit of the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.

"Lovely touch, actually," he said, "the tranc gun in a Light Saber. But there is another chapter to the story you should know. You see, prior to the development of the technology which made this tranc gun possible, there was no safe tranquilizer that could be used on a human without very possibly killing them. And, this being the point of the story, there was no way to experiment in order to develop a safe version without using live human subjects. Such a dilemma. Which is where Yours Truly enters the picture.

"Ah, I see from your reaction you're catching on, little man," said Daniel to Steve. "With my available supply of live human subjects I was in a perfect position to assist the needs of science."

"Monster," growled Ange.

Daniel ignored her. "Fascinating research," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Touch and go sometimes and we lost a few. But then we'd just meet with the science guys, modify the formula, try again. It all worked out in the end."

"Your point, Daniel," said Davis, his voice flat.

"My point is if people die, so be it. That's the cornerstone of my philosophy."

"Well, that's a fucked philosophy if I ever heard one," said Ange.

Daniel ignored her. "Which brings me to the matter at hand. My fucked philosophy, over the next little time here, shall be at the core of your philosophy, Ange Parker, my dear."

With that, Daniel placed the tip of the Light Saber under Kon's chin and used it force his head high.

"Worth?" he said to Ange.

"Daniel stop," said Ange. "What do you mean 'worth'?"

"What is the doctor worth? What will you pay for him?"

"What are you talking about?"

Daniel lowered the Light Saber and looked at Ange. "I'll make it simple for you. When I have finished with you, Ange Parker, you'll be home, and will, once again, through powers of attorney and other documents, have access to large amounts of money. That's what I'm talking about. The doctor will be here with me or with my associates and you can buy him back if we can agree on terms."

"Why Doctor Armenta? Why choose him?"

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course, not just him, all of them, all your friends here. But one at a time."

"I'm not going to play this game."

"Oh, but you are. Because if you don't name me a good price for the doctor he's going to die, right now because if he's worthless to you, he's worthless to me."

"Daniel, good God."

"Yes, I know, my fucked philosophy, but still my dear, let's hear it. What am I offered?"

"A million dollars?"

"A million dollars? You've got to be kidding. Are you going to be serious or do I have to prove a point here?"

"Twenty million," said Ange. "A hundred million."

"Much better," said Daniel. "Now we're in the ballpark."

He turned to Steve and aimed the Light Saber at him. "And this little fellow? Yoda, the Jedi Knight journalist? How much for him, Ange Parker? But wait. Did you say you had a set of Yoda ears, runt? Yes, well, let's get them on you. Jedi Knights are worth a lot more than New York Times journalists in the grand scheme of things, you know."

Steve directed Daniel to a small green satchel in the luggage area of the Toyota and with Daniel's assistance it was a matter of only a few minutes before the Yoda headpiece was firmly on Steve's head and cinched tight. The cap made Steve appear bald as well as providing huge ears that aimed sidewise from it. Even with his hands bound, Steve found and manipulated the wires that dangled behind it, allowing him to wave and waggle his ears. Daniel loved it and laughed heartily as he displayed the effect for the Colombian soldiers. Perhaps he loved it overly much, Morgan thought. He was having too much fun putting on a show for the soldiers.

"So, Ange Parker," said Daniel, "here we have a Jedi Knight, worth much more than an Indian internist, I'm sure you will agree." He squatted beside Steve. "Say something wise for us, Yoda, and wiggle your ears."

Obligingly, Steve did a slow Yoda blink and turned one ear down. "Stalling for time, Mister Sheffield is," he said, in his low and croaky Yoda voice. "Worried, Mister Daniel Sheffield is, yes."

Daniel stood from his squat and laughed. "You never cease to amaze me, little man."

At that instant everyone heard the distant sound of a helicopter. All eyes searched the horizon.

Daniel squatted again beside Steve. "Here's a riddle for you, Jedi Knight: Two people in our little group are dispensable and it is time to say goodbye to them. Which two, all-wise Yoda?"

Steve looked at Daniel in speechless horror.

"The Colombians," said Morgan.

"Very good, Detective," said Daniel as he pointed the Light Saber. He fired a dart each at the backs of the soldiers as they stood distracted by the oncoming helicopter. They dropped instantly, arms and legs akimbo like marionettes.

Daniel spoke calmly to Steve as though nothing had happened. "You have more darts and refills for this wonderful toy? Yes? In your green bag? Very good.

"Now listen up, people," he said, shouting like a drill sergeant over the shrieking turbo shaft engines of the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter as it hovered and then began to slowly settle onto the nearby flat area. "We don't have a lot of time. So everybody up and move your butts into that bus, and I mean now! Go go go go!"

Daniel picked up one of the AK-47's dropped by the darted soldiers and fired it into the dirt for encouragement behind the scrambling group. Steve's ears flopped wildly in the wash from the prop blades. Daniel followed the group and helped some climb aboard the waist-high entry area by hoisting them. Crewmembers pulled and helped from inside. In less than a full minute, everybody was aboard and the helicopter lifted off the makeshift pad. Not a moment too soon, they realized as they looked back down the hill at angry soldiers who were running in their direction and firing their rifles at them. Several pings sounded audibly on the fuselage but without effect.

As they swept away to the south, Shaylane nodded her head to Ange, indicating something below. Ange leaned forward and saw that a long line of police cars with flashing lights was parked along the highway near the ranch with more in the distance headed that way.

"Mario made it!" said Shaylane with a grin.
CHAPTER 43

A Camp on the Caguán River, South of Peñas Coloradas, Colombia

Thursday, October 17, 1996

Flying with instruments and the pilot's long familiarity with the route, the Black Hawk touched down in Colombia after dark at a remote jungle location with few lights or markers. The four-hour non-stop flight was possible thanks to both internal and external auxiliary fuel tanks. The prisoners were sore and exhausted from the small, hard benches and uncomfortable positions on the deck.

"Please remain in your seats until the pilot has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign," Daniel joked.

There was no sign of civilization since the helicopter pad was a distance from anything. They were, however, met by a small contingent of soldiers in combat fatigues, visible because some carried lanterns.

An officer ducked under the spinning blades and approached Daniel, who had dismounted. Rather than fatigues, the officer wore a waist-length leather flight jacket, khaki trousers, an officer's dress hat and large Ray-Ban mirrored sunglasses, creating the effect of a small town Georgia policeman from central casting. The cracker-cop aspect was amplified by his short stature, pudgy build and tight, grim lips.

It was an awkward moment for Lieutenant Colonel Ernesto Murillo Castaño. He had enjoyed a long friendship with Daniel Sheffield, and had benefited greatly from the association. They had shared many bottles, many poker games during which Colonel Murillo had relieved Daniel of excess funds, and they had also found common ground in their attitudes regarding the proper role women prisoners should play in the perks due military officers.

They also shared political views. Colonel Murillo was a Colombian Army officer, but the troops in his command were paramilitary, except for his Sergeant Major, organized to fight leftist insurgency groups, including the Marxist Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) and the National Liberation Army. Daniel and his connections had been the major source of funds for their operations.

Daniel moved to exchange hugs but Ernesto, still unsmiling, put up a hand to hold him off.

"I'm so sorry, Capitán Dan," he said in English, "but I must caution you that it is perhaps not advisable for you to be here."

He spoke loudly due to the whine and whistle of the helicopter blades as they wound down. The prisoners inside the Black Hawk could hear most of what was said.

"Only two days ago we had a visit from our friends Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hyde and they asked about you. I did not like their tone and they brought disturbing news. Your bank funds have been, how did they say, frozen. Is this true?"

"Ernesto, my friend," said Daniel, with a hearty tone, "you worry too much. No problem with my secret accounts nor yours. Allow me to introduce you to my friends from North America."

"I think maybe Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hyde would prefer that some of our bold exploits not be made public," said Ernesto.

"Yes, there will be changes, Ernesto," said Daniel, "but...."

"We used to laugh and call Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hyde the Gestapo. But maybe that is not so funny anymore."

"C.I.A, I bet," whispered Shaylane to Ange.

As the last turning of the blades groaned to a halt, Daniel led the Colombian colonel to the open bay door.

"Just as things started to look bad for the home team," said Daniel, "Santa Claus paid a visit and look what he brought me!"

Ernesto peered into the lit cargo bay.

"Santa played a trick on you, Capitán. They are mostly men and one of them is deformed."

"They are worth for ransom, all together, conservatively..." Daniel paused for effect, "a billion United States dollars."

The colonel laughed. "A billion, is it? Once again you overplay your hand, amigo. Or perhaps I didn't recognize Mr. Bill Gates or Mr. Warren Buffett at first glance."

"The one with his face turned away is Davis Sheffield, who has never personally earned a dime in his life but he married cleverly and as a result he's the principal shareholder of Sheffield Industries. The fiery little redhead giving us the evil eye is my fiancé, whom I have yet to bed, you old coot, so don't get any ideas."

Enjoying Ange's wide-eyed reaction, Daniel pointed at her and smiled.

"Congratulations," said Ernesto, lifting his fatigue cap to Ange. "May you have many children together and a long life, señorita."

"Fuck you," said Ange.

"And the black one?" said Ernesto to Daniel.

"Too much for you," said Daniel. "She's a pit bull. You'd have to put a muzzle on her or she'd bite your dick off."

"Perhaps she just needs a little softening up."

"In any case this isn't about that. This is about serious money."

"Ah, yes, well, serious money," said Ernesto, running his fingers thoughtfully along the safety strap across the cargo bay entrance. He looked at the prisoners emotionlessly as if they were animals in a zoo -- which is how they looked to themselves as well, seeing their distorted faces mirrored in his sunglasses.

He continued looking at them rather than at Daniel as he talked: "I'm afraid you may be, how do you say it, barking at the wrong tree, old friend. Money is one thing. However, I am, you may recall, an officer in the Ejército Nacional de Colombia \-- the National Army of Colombia -- as was my father before me and my grandfather before that. My country is an ally with the United States fighting together against common enemies. You and I have both fought in that cause. How would it look now we if held United States nationals for ransom? We would be no better than the FARC peasants who fund themselves by kidnappings and ransoms. Honor demands...."

"Piss on honor," said Daniel.

"And besides that," said Ernesto, not phased by Daniel's caustic reaction, "there are logistical problems. Once the word got out that high profile American nationals were being held...."

"I've got it worked out," said Daniel, pausing for a moment as they were approached by one of the two Dutch helicopter pilots. Daniel pointed out a tanker truck positioned in the jungle and waved the pilot off to attend to a fuel refilling process. Then he rejoined Ernesto at the cargo bay opening to talk in front of the captives, apparently not concerned if they knew the details of his plans.

"First of all, you're right, we don't want the word getting out that an honorable Colombian army officer is detaining fine upstanding Americans against their will. You're also right that I don't want to hang out around here with Anderson and Hyde sniffing around. So here's the way it plays: It all stays under wraps."

"Under wraps? Sorry...."

"It doesn't get out. My sweet bride Ange Parker will see to that. She will go to the U.S. and use her powers of attorney to arrange for sums to be deposited in certain offshore accounts, which will immediately be transferred to other secret accounts and so forth, including yours. You know the drill."

"But what if your beautiful bride has a change of heart and decides you are not, after all, the love of her life? What if she notifies the authorities?"

"She won't. The authorities will camp on her doorstep. The authorities will know she is paying off and they will know whom she is paying off. They will demand she tell them everything. I will be cast as the villain."

"You are the fucking villain," said Ange, in a matter of fact tone.

Daniel ignored her. "But she won't cooperate with the authorities. She'll be a good girl."

"Because?" said Ernesto.

"Because of her precious friends. And she won't consider a rescue plan because her precious Davis won't be sequestered in the Amazon basin or wherever along with the others, half-starving and miserable, tied up in their little huts. He'll be with me in an undisclosed location enjoying the good life and helping me count the money as it comes in."

"However, eventually...." said Ernesto.

"When all the hostages are safe at home and we have the money, we retire. They'll come looking for us but we'll not be found. No change from the way we had planned and now the pot is sweetened."

"This other Sheffield, however, will know the place."

"I won't go with him to our little Shangri-La. First we visit the lair of Harimau Lelaki. Quite secure, as you know, and while there I will be free to conduct certain essential business. Then, after wifey dear leaves for the States I have yet another location in mind. Not until the end do we meet at you-know-where. In the meantime we talk by Satellite phone as needed."

"But I remain here for now?"

"Not in your camp, no. You must stay with these hostages and they can't be in this location. They represent one hundred million dollars U.S. each. We can't risk delegating this to your sergeant major or anybody else. Is there somewhere...?"

"There is a peasant village down the river. Very isolated and mostly coffee and little plots. Nobody cares much about it. We would have to go through FARC areas on the river -- at night to not be seen."

"Are they that strong now?"

"It's embarrassing."

"Doesn't sound very secure."

"This village is like an outpost. And it is -- how do you call it -- a stand off. The men ran away and joined the rebels. But they don't dare attack the village because they're afraid for their families who are still there. The women go out each day to their farms but they always return to their children at night. On the other hand, our men don't go on patrol outside the village. Too dangerous. So we supply the garrison at night by riverboats."

"I don't know," said Daniel. "Sounds like a Fort Apache situation. Why do we have soldiers there if they can't even go on patrol?"

"No good reason at all. Very stupid. Just so General Mancuso in Bogotá can put a pin in his map along the Caguán River to show we are there. The FARC, they don't care anyway because they're busy elsewhere collecting their taxes for the cocaine. Not many cocoa farmers around -- how do you call it, Fort Apache? Not much base to weigh out and collect on."

"Is there no safe place to stow the hostages in the areas we control?"

"Too many Colombian soldiers. Word would get back to the Americans. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hyde might pay a visit. You must trust me on this. Besides, I think it would be much more pleasant than the other choice you describe, little huts in the Amazon Basin. If we went far south on the river sometimes it is very difficult returning upstream. The water could be too high. The water could be too low. It's not stable anymore because of the logging."

"But I don't think it's a good idea to continue supply runs if you go there," said Daniel, as he tried unsuccessfully to chase away a bothersome mosquito. "Too much chance it would get back that you're holding them there."

"They have to have the supplies."

"Live off the land. You know how to do it. We've done it before."

"Or..." said Kon in a firm voice.

The two jungle warfare strategists looked at Kon in surprise.

"Yes, Doctor," said Daniel with a bemused expression.

"I think I know what you mean by live off the land," said Kon. "You mean live off the people in the village by robbing them. But there's another way."

"Go on," said Daniel.

"Bring medical supplies and I'll set up a clinic. The people can pay for medical care with donations of food for your troopers."

"And they will see us as benefactors," said Ernesto to Daniel, with quick enthusiasm.

Daniel looked uncertain.

"And the situation will calm itself," said Ernesto.

Daniel still looked uncertain. "I don't know. I don't like it. He'd try to pull something."

"What could he do?" said Ernesto. "We'd watch him very carefully. You know, the village used to have a clinic and other services. They even had a store and video shop. All that is gone now. They were there one day and the next day they were gone. And who gets the blame, even though it is not our fault? We get the blame and the Marxist rebels are seen as heroes. This could be a good influence."

"Damn it, Ernesto," said Daniel. "Keep your eye on the ball."

Ernesto looked at Daniel blankly.

"In other words, don't be distracted by side issues," said Daniel. Then, to Kon: "Why would you do this, Doctor?"

"In exchange for a promise none of us will be harmed," said Kon.

"You aren't going to be harmed. Have you been paying attention?"

"Also, I'm a doctor and I help people. Perhaps that's difficult for you to understand."

'We'll do this my way, Capitán Dan." said Ernesto. "I understand the situation in the villages and I know what's best."

"Only the doctor ever has his hands free."

"Agreed."

"And then he's under constant guard."

"Agreed."

"These hostages may look harmless as they are now but two of them are cops and far from harmless. The big guy is a San Francisco detective with a serious reputation. Think Dirty Harry. You want Dirty Harry on the loose in your village? And the black babe was a Zulu Amazon who probably had heads stuck on her spear before she decided to become a deputy sheriff. Trust me, you don't want her running loose either."

"I see your point. But now, please, keep me in suspense no longer. The little fellow with the ears."

"His name is Yoda," said Daniel with a straight face. "He's a Jedi Knight and therefore the most dangerous of all."

"Ah, yes, of course. I should have recognized you, Mr. Yoda. What news from the galaxy?"

Steve looked away.

"Oh, come now, Yoda," said Daniel. "Do tell us the news from the galaxy."

Choosing to accommodate them, Steve as Yoda tipped an ear and blinked slowly. "Lost it has, the Dark Side, and on the run it is, yes."

Ernesto laughed heartily. "Good news, then."

Daniel looked askance at Ernesto. "He's talking about us, Ernesto."
CHAPTER 44

The Cabin of a Learjet Model 60 en route from the Airport at Florencia, Colombia, to a refueling waypoint at Kona International in Hawaii

10 a.m., Friday, October 18, 1996

The crew of the chartered aircraft, two pilots and a steward, didn't seem surprised that two of their passengers, escorted on board by their usually predictable client Mr. Sheffield, were wrapped up in rope. This they had seen before, although there had never been a man so bound. Always before -- and there had been at least a dozen such flights -- the sometimes rope-wrapped and sometimes not had been young girls of ethic origin. And very pretty ones. God only knows what kinky games went on back there in that cabin. Oh, for the life of the rich and famous.

They were, however, a bit nonplussed when the male prisoner, having overheard a brief comment as they were boarding, said: "What the fuck! Are you Americans?"

The moment passed. Daniel shoved Davis forward from behind with a firm grip on his rope harness. Davis stumbled, falling into the henchman goon who was steering Ange aft and they all went sprawling like dominos. But they regained their feet and made it down the narrow corridor between a bathroom, galley and small office and communications space on either side to the larger cabin in the stern. The crew exchanged shrugs and went about their pre-flight check-off lists. At the forefront of their minds was the fact that the solvency of their nascent charter company was dependent on the largess of their best customer, Mr. Daniel Sheffield of Sheffield Industries, who used the company for freight purposes as well as oddball personal flights, and to Sheffield's government connections, which had also resulted in some lucrative contracts. Best let sleeping dogs lie.

Ange could scarcely believe the small cabin. It looked like a poorly designed Turkish harem, complete with Oriental rugs, psychedelic pillows and a hookah pipe. In the center was a mattress on the floor made up in paisley patterned silk sheets and on one side was a garish throne -- or at least a distinctively throne-like, high-backed chair. The plastic aircraft window shades were all drawn closed. Colored blue and amber mood lighting had replaced the standard overhead mini-lights.

On the opposite side of the cabin from the throne was a video monitor and floor to ceiling mirror. She guessed that the accoutrements of Daniel's flying bordello were easily installed and removed for other flights. Other charter customers no doubt preferred a different ambience. That didn't help her as she tried to absorb the absurd impact of it. Someone should have told Daniel not to mix prints and plaids. The space displayed the aesthetics of a six-year-old.

"Your bridal suite, my love," said Daniel.

"Like fucking hell," said Ange defiantly, but her heart sank. She was the captive of a 200-pound, six-year-old sadist.

"And here, Mr. Pervert," Daniel said to Davis, indicating the throne chair, "is your seat of honor from which you shall have the opportunity to observe and learn. No, no, don't thank me. Under the circumstances it's the least I can do. Do have a seat."

Davis glumly sat in the throne chair rather than being forced onto it. Daniel retrieved a padlock from a cupboard next to the throne chair and attached it through the ironwork framing of the chair to the Dacron line around Davis' neck. Simple but effective. Davis fumed at his helplessness.

"And now, my dearest, do lie down here where you belong," said Daniel, as he forced Ange to the mattress with his bulk and strength and then enjoyed a moment of triumph by shifting his weight heavily on her when she tried to squirm from under him. Trussed as she was, there was no escaping him, Ange realized. She groaned in despair and let her body go slack. Daniel chuckled and then signaled with a toss of his head to his Colombian accomplice that he could leave the airplane.

Indifferent to the taxiing of the aircraft and the angle of the jet as it lifted off, Daniel spent the next twenty minutes cutting away the Dacron line and stripping Ange of her clothing. The line was supplanted by sturdy straps and cuffs of the type one might see for restraining patients in a psychiatric ward, clipped onto recessed handles in floor access panels to secure her in a spread-eagled position on the mattress. He took care that she was fastened at one point before he cut the Dacron away at another.

Ange, the former exotic dancer, was not a fan of feminist theory regarding the sexual objectification of women but she found herself reconsidering the issue as Daniel unfastened and cut away her clothing while commenting on various aspects of her body parts. There was nothing clever in his critique. He sounded like a child opening Christmas packages. She was just what he had always wanted. He loved her "redhead snatch." Loved the "peach fuzz" hairs on her belly. Loved her freckles everywhere against her "alabaster" skin. He commented on her lack of tan or bikini lines. She "shouldn't be such a workaholic." She "should get out in the sun once in a while." On and on he chatted merrily as he worked.

Ange saw no opportunity to fight him and sensed he would probably enjoy it if she did, so she meekly endured the process until she was completely nude and gallingly available with her legs spread on the mattress. She glanced at Davis and saw that he had his eyes closed and his head turned away. Irrationally, Ange worried about Davis' feelings at her debasement. Was he disgusted at seeing her body in such a lewd display?

Daniel left the cabin for a moment and returned, sauntering while lighting a cigar. He knelt at Ange's side and puffed on the cigar a moment before blowing smoke into her face. He grinned. "How sweet it is!"

Daniel moved his hands in the air above Ange's body, not touching at first. For Ange, the preliminary air sculpting gesture was worse than the feeling of his hands on her while he was stripping her. After a long moment of his game he touched a nipple with his forefinger, very lightly for a second only. She jerked at the touch, which is what he desired. There followed more of his hands wandering in the air above her, this time interminably, or so it felt. She closed her eyes. Then suddenly he touched her other nipple. Again she jerked and he laughed with delight. He patted her twice, quickly and gently with his fingertips on the cushion of hair between her legs. She gasped despite herself.

"This is going to be such a kick! What do you think, Davis?" said Daniel. "Oh, you aren't watching. You must watch, old boy. That's part of the fun."

Davis was unresponsive to Daniel's demand, his eyes closed.

"Davis, don't be a fool. Obviously you have no choice but to obey. Now open your eyes and watch or I will take it out on Ange. You don't want her to suffer, do you?" Daniel drew on his cigar and then moved it so that Ange could feel the heat of it almost touching her along the side of her breast. Frightened, she gasped. There was enough fear and panic in her exhalation that Davis' eyes opened.

"You fucking bastard," said Davis, his lips curling with rage.

"Silence, Davis," said Daniel. "That's rule number two if you don't want poor Ange Parker to suffer. However, do watch. That's rule number one and besides, you might even enjoy it. I had no idea Ange Parker would be so responsive. The slightest touch and she goes off like a little firecracker. Maybe it's true what they say about redheads." He patted her pussy again, this time harder -- a light slap. This caught Ange by surprise once again and she gasped despite her resolve to avoid responding to him.

"See?" said Daniel. "Although I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. Once a whore, always a whore. Right, Ange Parker?" When Ange didn't answer Daniel brought his face inches from hers and gripped her chin to keep her from turning away. "But that was a long time ago," said Daniel with a snide drawl. "I'll bet it's been awhile since you were well and properly fucked."

"A few months, I guess," said Ange, sensing a way to put him off stride.

"Oh," said Daniel, sitting back, surprised she had answered him. "So you've kept in practice then. Who was the lover boy, Davis here?"

"Roy Anderson."

"A paying customer, was he?" said Daniel, nonchalantly puffing on his cigar while leaning on an elbow that dug into Ange's stomach.

"Dwayne Anderson's son," said Ange with difficulty, due to the weight of his elbow prodding her. "You know, the Tericargo Andersons. We were celebrating after we blocked your take-over. I got carried away."

That unexpected information got a rise out of Daniel. Literally. He stood, glared at Ange for a moment while puffing hard on his cigar. Eventually he recovered, got rid of the cigar by dropping it into the hookah pipe, and regained his composure while sitting on the edge of the mattress with one hand roaming possessively on Ange's torso. He laughed at himself, shaking his head.

"You got me that time, Ange Parker. You have a way of doing that, which is why I'm so fond of you. So tell me, how was Roy Anderson? Did he fuck you fifty million dollars worth? Because that's what we figured it must have cost you."

"He didn't bury me alive afterwards," said Ange. "How much is that worth?"

Daniel laughed easily. "You believe this girl?" he said to Davis, who didn't answer. Then to Ange: "Of all the little fuck bunnies I've bedded on this mattress, I do believe you're destined to be the very best." For the first time, Daniel explored folds of pussy with his fingers, parting her slightly. Ange turned her face away. In the process she made eye contact with Davis, who mouthed silent words to her: "Be brave. Be strong." His gentle big eyes somehow radiated love and support. Strength flowed into her as if in a psychic transfusion.

"You know," said Daniel, forcing her chin back to face him, "I didn't expect you to deliver yourself to me on a silver platter like this but it was inevitable from the first, one way or another, that I would eventually fuck you."

"You can rape me but you can't fuck me," said Ange in a matter-of-fact tone. "There's a difference, you know."

"Yeah," Daniel smiled, "rape is better." He nuzzled the side of her neck, vulnerable because she had turned her head away again. Again she made eye contact with Davis. This time he mouthed: "I love you." Again she felt somehow strengthened by his eyes.

"I've been raped before, Daniel," said Ange, her head still turned away, her eyes locked with Davis, "but they did it differently. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Davis smiled, encouraging her. It was as if they shared some kind of cosmic joke together.

Daniel laughed. "How did they do it? How many have there been, anyway?"

Ange turned her face back towards Daniel. "They took off their pants for starters."

"All in due time, Ange Parker."

"You can't fool me, Daniel. You haven't taken your pants off because you don't have a hard-on."

Daniel looked at Ange in open-mouthed amazement.

"You probably did fine with terrified Nicaraguan children," said Ange, pressing her small advantage.

"Children?"

"Very young girls. Volunteers."

"I don't believe you!" said Daniel, smiling and attempting nonchalance but not very convincingly.

"Terror turns you on, doesn't it, Daniel? Otherwise you don't feel much."

Daniel looked at Davis and gestured as if appealing for help with the crazy woman.

"Fear and pain," said Ange, her voice strong. "Helplessness -- and you with all the power. You're a sociopath like Ted Bundy. You call yourself a field commander but you're just a little man who can't get an erection unless you can beat somebody up."

"Jesus!" shouted Daniel, standing. "You're unbelievable. How dare you push me like this? It's almost not worth it sending you back to the States. What's a billion bucks compared to the satisfaction it would give me to...." Daniel stopped mid-sentence and brought his emotions under control.

"It's a billion bucks, that's what a billion bucks is," he said, mostly to himself. "I think I'll have a smoke." He drew a second cigar from a package in a shirt pocket and took a seat on the floor under the video monitor with his back to the wall. He smiled and shook his head as he methodically snipped the head of the cigar with a single-blade guillotine cigar cutter. He lit up, took a few puffs, blew a smoke ring and studied his cigar a moment.

In the meantime, Davis and Ange exchanged glances. Davis blew kisses in the air. "I love you," he said again.

"You're putting on a brave front, Ange Parker," said Daniel, while drawing on his cigar, "but really what you are is a cold fish. You don't care whether you get fucked or not -- or who fucks you. You roll in the hay with some asshole to celebrate screwing somebody in a business deal. Like I say, once a whore, always a whore. But you take it to a whole new level."

"It wasn't just a business deal I was celebrating, Daniel," said Ange. "It was a sting operation. I was working with Newark prosecutors who were on to you. They didn't want you moving your cocaine operations to Tericargo."

Daniel stared at Ange for a full 30 seconds, his mind racing. His cigar went out and he had to re-light it. "Go over that one more time for me," he said.

"They had a tap on you. They were one step ahead of you for months. But they couldn't figure why a guy like you would be involved in drugs."

"And you helped them."

"Of course. They're the good guys. You're the bad guy."

"Who are these so-called good guys?"

"Brannigan and Knight. What difference does it make?"

"Did they say how they got onto me?"

"They had a snitch but they wouldn't say who. What difference does it make?"

"I just had it figured different and I don't see how Newark got involved."

"How did you have it figured?"

"That the CIA screwed me."

"The CIA?"

"They need a fall guy."

"A fall guy for what?"

"The thing is, back in the day, there was a lot of support at the top and the objectives were clear," said Daniel, ignoring the question. "Now we've got Warren Christopher and the honorable fucking John Deutch for director and we're fucked."

"And they need a fall guy for what?"

"Not necessarily a live fall guy if you get my meaning."

"Your buddy the Columbian Colonel mentioned Mr. Anderson and Mr. Hyde."

"Covert Ops."

"And you thought Pattison was CIA."

"Pattison?"

"The man you recently shot in the back of the head."

"I thought he might be and in any case he had zero asset value."

Daniel re-lit his stubborn cigar. "You say these Newark guys didn't want the Tericargo deal because why?" he said, after a moment.

"Because they were on top of the airport galley system and the Tericargo system would have been all new personnel. They'd have had to start over in the investigation."

"It doesn't make sense that the CIA would have been in on that, because they wanted the switch to Tericargo. It was their deal. I was just a pawn in it. In fact, I thought that the reason they turned me out was because Tericargo fell through."

"Come on, Daniel. Are you saying the CIA is in the cocaine smuggling business?"

"Not directly but there are connections that can be made."

"What kind of connections?"

"You know what they say, follow the money. However, there aren't many people who could name names. In fact, I only know one person who could."

"You."

"Bingo."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Fucked if I know."

"Not that I believe you. I saw you in the shareholder's meeting, drooling over the hostile takeover of Tericargo. Didn't look to me like you were a pawn following orders."

"What can I say? An enthusiastic pawn. A team player. I bought the program and I still do. However, my problem now is I apparently know too much."

"So your ass is grass."

"Not necessarily. Not yet. I wouldn't trade places with you at the moment."

"Why not? I'm going back to the U.S. Or so you say. You're going on the run for the rest of your life, which may not be long."

"You underestimate me, Ange Parker," Daniel said, as he leaned to reach for a leather satchel. Ange remembered him bringing the satchel onboard slung on his back and she also remembered Daniel and the Colombian Colonel Murillo examining the contents of it. "Sometimes it pays to take precautions," said Daniel, unfastening the bag strap and holding it high. "Names, dates and numbers," he said. "And not just my word for it, either. Sometimes even the most careful agents leave a trail. I learned that the hard way. Years ago they let it be known that they'd secretly videotaped private moments in which, well, perhaps my judgment had lapsed but in any case moments which, taken out of context, might..." Daniel waved a hand to dismiss the matter as irrelevant. "Not," he said with satirical emphasis, "that they would ever use such a video for blackmail or anything like that. The videos were a matter of routine surveillance. We were friends. However – which they didn't have to explain -- in case we should ever not be friends, well, there's the little matter of the videos.

"Two can play at that game, of course. And so..." Daniel lifted a rubber bag from the bulky satchel. "Waterproof," he said. "It'll float in water. Can't be too careful." He unfolded a tied end on the rubber bag and peered inside, eventually pulling out a videotape. "Not," he said, "that I would ever use a video of a private moment to blackmail friends. However, sometimes...."

Daniel stood and inserted the video in a player. Seconds later a horrendous scene played on the monitor. A young girl, nude and terrified, was cast into a fenced enclosure by someone not seen in the frame. The video camera view swung to focus on a huge tiger in the enclosure. The cat tensed, poised on her haunches, head low. Her tail flicked to one side and then to the other. Then she sprang through the air so fast the cameraperson couldn't keep her in the viewfinder. When the camera came into focus again the tiger had seized the girl by the shoulder. Behind the horrible mauling, just outside the fence enclosure, four men could be seen watching, talking calmly and in one case laughing. Then the tape was edited to show the same scene repeated with the men in close-up view. Ange recognized none of them. They all appeared to be Caucasian. One was in a military uniform of unknown nationality. The others were dressed in topical whites and jaunty, wide-brimmed hats against the sun. "Her name is Kitty-Kitty – the cat, that is," said Daniel, as he used a remote to pause the tape. "You'll have a chance to meet her but not in such a close quarters unless you are a very bad girl." Daniel laughed.

"That poor, poor girl," said Ange. She glanced at Davis, whose eyes smoldered with rage.

"Yes, poor girl," said Daniel with no emotion, as he re-wound the tape, "but the important thing is our big, brave American CIA operatives standing by. They didn't seem particularly upset, did they? Of course, they had no idea a record was made of it."

"Tapes can be edited," said Ange.

"But some things can't," said Daniel, as he ejected and carefully replaced the videotape in the satchel. "For example, fingerprints." He lifted a pint-sized Mason jar from the bag and cradled it gently. It was sealed inside a plastic Zip-lock baggie. "On this highly incriminating jar are the same fingerprints that may also be found on certain incriminating reports and on certain photos documenting the testing of this particular joy-juice."

"What is it?" said Ange.

"It's an experimental..." Daniel stopped and looked at Ange thoughtfully. "Guess what, Ange Parker."

"What?" said Ange, not liking the look in his eyes.

"Just thinking maybe I'll drop you down the rabbit-hole, Alice. Sip or two of this stuff and you'll forget your own name. In fact, that was one of my test questions: 'What's your name?' Most subjects failed it."

"Subjects?"

"Yeah, you know, experimental subjects. I supplied the subjects and so it was only natural I'd help with the experiments."

"What sort of experiments?"

Daniel grinned as he swirled the brown, sludgy liquid, holding it between them. "This stuff is... shit, I don't even remember what they called it. Jungle witch doctors supposedly used it for their juju. Can't say I've tried it myself."

"What sort of experiments?"

"I'm not sure what the white coat guys were doing, to tell you the truth. Trying to see if it could be used for interrogations, I guess. My own experiments were a little more, uh, intimate. The subjects had hallucinations and I'd play along, goose 'em a little. It was like being in somebody's nightmare."

"Let me guess," said Ange. "Then you'd get a hard-on."

"Okay, go right ahead, little Miss Psychiatrist. We'll see how clever you are after a slug or two of Love Potion Number 9."
CHAPTER 45

A mid-day phone call

Friday, October 18, 1996

"Doc, it's Jan."

"Yes, my dear. To what do I owe...?"

"My father just got off the phone with Ambassador Bond in Costa Rica. There's been... Ambassador Bond called it an 'incident' but it sounds like a bloody disaster to me. Ange, Davis – everybody -- gone, missing, kidnapped or dead. Nobody seems to know a damned thing."

"Slow down, Jan. Take a breath and start from the beginning."

"In other words you haven't gotten a Sat phone call this morning?"

"No."

"Neither have I. Damn. Shaylane always checks in with me. Morgan always calls you, right?"

"Yes, usually, or Davis."

"The ambassador says a taxi driver who was with Ange and the group barely escaped with his life under heavy fire and the police found nine women murdered there, lying together, blindfolded and shot, plus a white man, also shot, a maintenance worker of some kind."

"Whoa, whoa, Jan. Where is 'there'? Where are we talking about?"

"Daniel's ranch near Tilarán, where everybody was headed yesterday morning. Oh, boy. I can't believe this."

"Do we have any indication what might have happened with our people?" said Doc.

"According to the ambassador the cops think there was some kind of small army at the ranch and that they escaped in the night headed for Nicaragua."

"How far is Nicaragua from there?"

"I don't know. Fifty miles, maybe."

"Then they could be cut off."

"Bond says the cops had the ranch surrounded during the night but they came under heavy fire and decided to wait until dawn. By then everybody was gone. Bond isn't sure the Costa Ricans even want a fight. The firepower capabilities of Daniel's group are apparently substantial. He thinks they might just let Daniel and his army escape to Nicaragua."

"And our people with them."

"And a Costa Rican prosecutor as well. Bond says the Costa Rican's don't think harm will come to our group unless they corner Daniel's force and there's a shootout."

"What about the murdered women and the man?"

"I don't know, Doc. I'm outside the loop and we're dealing with a foreign culture. This whole thing is crazy. I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

"Help me with this, Jan. The government of Nicaragua is Ortega and the Sandinistas, right? Daniel isn't exactly buddies with those guys. Why would they be headed to Nicaragua?"

"No clue, Doc. And I can't figure how this could be happening to start with. Daniel is crazy but not this crazy."

"Obviously we can't just wait and see how things turn out," said Doc.

"Maybe the Marshal's Service..." said Jan.

"I'll call Percy Jones," said Doc. "I don't know if there is a way to get our military involved or not."

"What a mess," said Jan.
CHAPTER 46

The cabin of a chartered Learjet Model 60 over the Pacific Ocean

Friday, October 18, 1996

With Daniel's assistance supporting her head to the side, Ange vomited into a plastic pail for the third time. For the third time, Daniel laughed. "Poor baby," he said. "Don't worry. This is normal with high dosages." He wiped her mouth and chin thoroughly with a damp cloth, then for the third time took the pail and wash water to the head to rinse them.

"How are you feeling, sweet pea?" he said, returning to sit beside her. He moved his face close to hers so that his looming features dominated her field of vision. His lewd grin was magnified by the drug effects so that he appeared grotesque to her, surrealistic.

"Like shit," said Ange truthfully through chattering teeth. The chattering came when she relaxed her jaw to speak, although she found she could suppress it if she tried. Her eyes had a tendency to dart around, from side to side, up and down, and to lose focus, although she could also suppress that with a will... so far. There was a perceptual morphing – for want of a better phrase -- a shifting of shapes in the room. However, in the background of her awareness – in an undisclosed location is how she thought of it -- independent of the physical discomforts and perceptual distortions, Angela Emma Parker was still present and accounted for, mentally intact – after a fashion -- and aware.

It had been almost an hour – or was it several hours? -- since Daniel had forced her to swallow several tablespoons of the foul tasting concoction. While waiting for the hallucinogenic drug to take effect Daniel overcame the air conditioning capacity of the aircraft cabin with cigar smoke while launching a series of monologues featuring self-absorbed commentary on political themes, panaceas for the resolution of various global problems and further discussion of incriminating materials in his CIA satchel. His strategy was to force the CIA to protect him – from necessity -- rather than pursue him.

"And this!" said Daniel, waving papers at Davis because he doubted Ange was mentally alert enough to understand, "This is the pièce de résistance, so secret that heads would roll at Langley if it ever got out. I kid you not. Especially after the Ron Brown assassination."

"Who?" said Davis, drawing a blank.

"Ron Brown, you idiot. The Commerce Secretary whose plane went down six months ago. Under very suspicious circumstances, you'd better believe, and he was no friend of the CIA, I guarantee you. Plane flew into a mountain. Whoops. No good explanation. The guy responsible for the Croatian airport navigation died by gunshot a few days later. They said it was suicide. Uh-huh."

"First I heard about it," said Davis, half mumbling.

"No wonder," said Daniel. "You've been busy wandering around San Francisco toilets but in the meantime the world keeps rolling along. That's the trouble with you perverts and degenerates. You've got no clue."

"So the CIA assassinated the Commerce Secretary," said Davis mildly. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't know if they did or not. But they could've, very easily, and nobody would ever know. Investigators could analyze every scrap of metal from the crash and go over it all with a fine tooth comb and a microscope, just like they did with the jet after your wife went down." Daniel rolled over from where he had been lying beside Ange to better see Davis' face. He used Ange's belly for a pillow and watched Davis' reaction.

Davis held his emotions in check. He had somehow found a way to set his rage aside. He wasn't at all sure that Ange's provocations of Daniel were wise and he didn't want to add fuel to the fire. However lucid Daniel might sound at times, the fact is they were in the hands of a total madman.

"Aren't you curious?" said Daniel. He lifted the papers. "Schematics," he said. "You may not be aware of certain advances in auto-pilot technology. Modern aircraft can land themselves. And they can be landed by ground controllers. The crew of an airplane could be dead and the plane could still land."

"I've heard that," said Davis calmly.

"Transceivers communicate data between ground and autopilot, elevation, flight path."

"So?"

"These schematics are for an intermediating transponder with a do-dad they call a transverter that sends false messages in both directions by double-swapping frequencies. It gets complicated but the upshot is when an aircraft is flying by instruments you can fly it into a mountain from a remote ground location, using this device, and nobody in the plane or tower has a clue."

"That's what you did with Mo and Silvie?"

"It was easy. The hard part was getting the schematics and building the thing."

"And that's why they couldn't find evidence."

"Yes."

"Why did you do it?" said Davis, his voice and emotions still under tight control.

"I thought we went over that at the ranch."

"I think you said Mo was in the way of the war effort or something like that. But we were interrupted."

"Davis!" said Ange suddenly, shrill panic in her voice. She sounded like a lost child.

"I'm here Ange," said Davis.

"Oh," said Ange, magically relieved by the sound of his voice.

"The truth is," said Daniel, paying no attention to Ange beyond a glance and smirk in her direction, "with hindsight, I might have overreacted. Just before I gave the go ahead, things were falling apart. First the bomb at the London Stock Exchange, then the mortar attack on 10 Downing Street. IRA. And the straw that broke the camel's back was the bomb in Paddington Station. I could see it coming."

"See what coming?"

"Race war, dummy. Helter Skelter. The South Central riots. The Crips and the Bloods. The commies. The United Nations. Patty Hearst."

Patty Hearst?

Davis couldn't help responding. "What does the IRA have to do with Patty Hearst?"

"They both got away with it. Birds of a feather. Mick bastards show the way. Blacks right behind. It goes over your head, doesn't it, how it's all connected?"

I shouldn't let him bait me. "You're half Irish yourself, aren't you?"

"So I'm told but I'm not half IRA. You'd understand if you'd been cheated and used like I have."

Shut up, Davis. Don't push him. "How have you been cheated and used?" said Davis, unable to stop himself.

"Since before I can remember, man. All my life. My IRA terrorist cunt mother, lying bitch Grandma Ginger, big-shot bitch Rachel and then the Green Helmet bullshit. Unbelievable. But I'm not a little kid anymore where anything goes and you just get away with it. Uncle Vince rolled over and kissed Maureen Sheffield's butt. Not me. Am I getting through to you?"

"Yes, you are." Psychotic.

"I'm sick again," said Ange, which prompted Daniel to quickly move the plastic pail to her mouth before she puked on him. She gagged into the pail but no vomit was forthcoming.

"The nausea will pass," said Daniel with clinical detachment. "However, I'm afraid your dementia has only just begun, darlin'. You know the feeling when you're on a roller coaster ride and you're at the top of the first climb and about to go over the edge?"

"Uhhhh."

"Do you remember your name?"

"Ange Parker."

"Very good. Hang on to that. As long as you can." Laughs. "Do you remember my name?"

Ange started to remember. But when she looked in Daniel's eyes she saw – with sudden fright – someone else. One of the Cal basketball players who wasn't really a basketball player. Her rapist nightmare. How could this be? Then the face morphed back to being Daniel. With a rush of relief, Ange realized she much preferred Daniel, evil and disgusting as he was -- but at least he was real -- to the nightmare face. Oh shit, thought Angela Emma Parker at the same time from her undisclosed location, that was a goddamned realistic hallucination. It was gradually dawning on Angela Emma Parker that this drug – whatever it was, an extract of some Amazon jungle plant used for Shamanic ritual, Daniel said – might be more than she could handle.

Her head spinning, Ange looked at Davis. Her anchor. His eyes were like an antidote to Daniel's eyes and the basketball rapist. Davis didn't disappoint her. He was there. Thank God. It was as if he understood how she needed him. "I'm here," he mouthed, as if he could hear her thoughts.

And then suddenly Ange wasn't there. She lifted magically into the air above the charter plane and flew alongside it chasing the sun across the Pacific at hundreds of miles an hour. Well now, she thought, strangely unalarmed, this is a most remarkable development. I can see where we are. We're traveling northwest. What's out that way?

Looking behind her she saw the proverbial silver cord connecting her to her physical body. Ah, yes. Very reassuring that I won't get lost while astral traveling. Must go back. Can't leave Davis.

And then she was back, quick as intent, with Daniel's face above her trying out more leering looks. Ange thought he looked like a child at Halloween putting on a mask. Trick or treat. He was lying on her now and she could feel his cock becoming erect. He must think she is becoming more vulnerable and perhaps she is. How exciting for him. Asshole.

"We're traveling west by northwest," said Ange. "Where to, Daniel? Hawaii?"

"What makes you think we're headed west by northwest?"

"I went outside the plane to take a look," said Ange blithely, although already she was wondering if she had imagined it. She glanced at Davis, who raised an eyebrow. The remnants of her rational self in the form of Angela Emma Parker, sounding a little more distant and muffled, was definitely skeptical. Very impressive illusion, said Angela. Ange wasn't sure it was an illusion. It had felt very real.

"How was the temperature out there?" said Daniel, grinning. "A little nippy I imagine with the wind chill factor."

"I was astral traveling," said Ange.

"I see," said Daniel with a delighted smirk. "Do you remember your name?"

"Ange Parker."

"Very good. Now for the hard one. Once again, do you remember my name?"

Suddenly Daniel became Sally from the jail cell. "Who am I?" said Sally. She was an illusion, wasn't she? But damn, she seemed so real. All the terror of the original encounter with Sally came flooding back.

"Get away, bitch!" screamed Ange, straining at her bonds. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, Sally became Daniel again. This was getting old very fast.

"Daniel, you bastard," said Ange. "You set that up in the Newark jail, didn't you?"

"And now your lesbian lover has come back, hasn't she?" said Daniel, gloating. "You must want her or else you wouldn't imagine her. This is going to be a lot of fun." Ange could feel Daniel's dick pushing against her.

"You set that up, didn't you?"

"What, the welcoming committee? The jail therapy? It was spur of the moment, something already in place for small timers who cross the line. We had no idea you had the attorney general in your pocket and a platoon of karate champs."

"Who's 'we'? You and Michael?"

"Michael? My father? Don't be ridiculous. Contract guys. Cartel. It's not a big deal to roust some cunt for a weekend."

"Cunt!" said Sally.

"Cunt!" said the basketball player who wasn't a basketball player.

Ange couldn't hold her eyes still. The cabin had turned on its side. She looked for Davis but couldn't see him. "Davis!" she cried.

"I'm here," said Davis, ignoring a warning look from Daniel.

"Who are you?" said Daniel. "Do you remember your name?"

Ange started to answer and again Daniel's face morphed under the influence of the drug, this time into a child's face. Ange gasped, almost retched, because she thought it was the face of her lost boy, her aborted child. The child looked like a younger version of the basketball boy. He would have looked that way, like his father. But then she realized she was looking, not at her own aborted child as he would be if he had lived, but at Daniel as a child, the same Daniel as in photos she had seen from the family materials Jan had given her. She couldn't be sure. The child's face wouldn't hold still for her to focus her eyes on him.

Then, suddenly, the child's face leapt into sharp focus, and it was Daniel as a child and Ange – was she still Ange? – felt enormous grief overwhelm her, grief for the poor child, lost, alone. And her own loss, frightful loss like falling from a cliff of the mind.

"Who are you?" said Daniel the child. "Do you remember your name?"

"They call me Caitlyn," said Ange's voice, suddenly steady but with a heavy Irish accent and in a register unnaturally high for her usual alto range.

"Oh, ho," said Daniel, the man, morphing back from Daniel the child. "Caitlyn, is it?"

"Caitlyn it is and O'Mara and once for a time Sheffield. I'm your Mam, Danny, and I love you truly and I always shall. You're my boy." Tears flowed freely down Ange's cheeks as she gazed up at Daniel.

"What the hell!" Daniel reared back from Ange.

Caitlyn /Ange began to sing softly, in a high falsetto and heavy Irish accent, the words of an Irish lullaby:

The birdeens sing a fluting song/

They sing to thee the whole day long/

Wee fairies dance o'er hill and dale/

For very love of thee.

Daniel's chin dropped and he starred, aghast.

"Do you remember then, me boy, me boy?" said Caitlyn /Ange. "The very song I sang to you these long, long years ago."

"You lying bitch. How the hell!? How did you...?" Daniel started, but he couldn't find words.

"Such a beautiful boy you were before ever you were taken from me. And even now I see that boy in you. Yes, there you are. So sad. Such sorrow. I fought them but I was just a girl, you know, and alone."

"You lie," said Daniel, sliding back from her on the floor.

"Michael, your father, did us wrong, child."

"Ange Parker," said Daniel, "quit this."

"No," said Caitlyn, "she knows naught of me. How could she know? Is this her voice? (words in Gaelic he didn't understand:) An tíre gaillimh labhairt sa teanga na hÉireann agus tá mé amháin."

"My IRA bitch mother is dead, Ange Parker."

"Does Ange Parker have tears for you, then? Tears like these that show how I ache for you and that have flowed from me all this time. See my tears and know they are for you, precious boy. I love you and always will. Could Ange Parker say these words as in a game? Ange Parker is not so cruel as that. I know her because I speak through her and thanks be to God for this drug as well. It has brought me to you at last."

"Am I supposed to believe I'm talking to a ghost?"

"Ghost is it now? Pish, Danny. Pish."

Daniel looked stricken. "I remember 'pish'."

"Away with your ghosts and monsters and with your fear of living, too, and thinking you were alone and unloved. Where in God's name did you get all that from? I love you and God loves you. You've naught to fear and it's a long while I've wanted to tell you that. I would've learned it to you had you not been taken from my arms, Danny."

Daniel cowered against the wall, his eyes wide. "I don't believe in God."

"Well, God believes in you and that's what matters."

Daniel inched towards the cabin door.

"Now don't you be leaving me yet, darlin' boy. I've more to tell you."

"Tell me what? I don't believe any of this."

"That I was never with the IRA and that I forgive you and that God forgives you."

Daniel gripped the handle on the cabin door, his knuckles white and his hand trembling. "I don't need you to forgive me, or God either." He hesitated with his hand still on the door handle and turned to face her. "Forgive me for what?"

"For seeking revenge, against God and against me."

Daniel stared for long seconds, his face pale, his features pinched with horror. He turned away, opened the cabin door, staggered through it and slammed it behind him. He slammed it hard enough that the latch didn't hold. He pulled it to again and could be heard fumbling with the latch and then testing it urgently.

"I love you Danny and I always will," Caitlyn/Ange called after him. There was no answer.

Caitlyn/Ange starred at the cabin ceiling for a long moment, then turned her head to look at Davis.

"Ange?" said Davis.

"Davis?" Ange spoke in her normal, alto voice, her teeth chattering a little and her eyes darting again.

"Good Lord. Was that you or was it really Daniel's mother?"

Ange half-laughed softly through chattering teeth. "I don't know, Davis. I swear I don't. This drug is... the only thing real to me, that I can be sure of, is you. Your eyes. Don't change on me into someone else, please."

"Not if I can help it. Was that Gaelic you spoke?"

Ange chuckled again. "My mother calls it the Irish tongue. I know a few words but I'm not sure what I was saying to Daniel. Maybe I was faking it."

"Faking it pretty good if you were. But you remember all of it, the whole conversation?"

"Yes. But more like I was allowing it than thinking it up. This drug really takes over when it feels like it."

"Or Daniel's mother. Maybe she took over."

"Or the mother in me took over. I... had an abortion once. (long pause) It's complicated."

Longer pause.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want," said Davis.

Ange smiled. "Oh, Davis, believe me, there's nothing I want more than to talk to you. Your voice... and your eyes... they keep the drug at bay, or maybe they even make the drug a positive thing instead of a negative."

Suddenly the cabin door cracked open. Ange lifted her head and faced the door with dread. But instead of Daniel, one of the flight crew appeared, a rather handsome young man with blue eyes and a military haircut, shaved on the sides. He was carrying a first-aid kit with a red cross on it.

"Holy shit," he breathed as he surveyed the scene. "I didn't sign up for this," he mumbled as he set the first-aid kit down and opened it. "Sorry, folks. I don't know what's going on here but you must've said something to shake up Mr. Sheffield pretty bad. He said I was supposed to gag and wrap tape on you, miss." He took gauze and a roll of tape from the kit.

"Can't do that, buddy," said Davis.

The man responded with a quizzical look at Davis.

"Daniel Sheffield gave Ange a drug that makes her vomit," said Davis. "If you gag her she could suffocate on vomit and that'd make you a murderer."

The crewman -- who had no wings or insignia on his coveralls so he probably wasn't an officer on the flight -- paused to consider.

"Mr. Sheffield probably hadn't thought of that. I'll talk to him."

"Of course," said Davis, "you're already an accessory to kidnapping, so...."

The crewman interrupted Davis and held his palm up to indicate an end to the conversation. "A rendition, we were told. For the CIA or whatever, but the fact is I don't know what's going on here. I don't get paid to know and I don't want to know." He turned to leave, first-aid kit in hand.

"Sir," said Ange, her teeth chattering loudly. The crewman turned to face her. "I'm cold. Are there blankets?" Without comment he reached into an overhead compartment and pulled a regulation airline blanket from it that he laid over Ange's nude body, tucking it gently around her shoulders. It didn't reach to cover her ankles but it felt soft and warm. Indeed, perhaps due to the tendency of the drug to amplify sensations, the blanket felt like a gift from heaven.

"Better?" said the crewman with a kindly look. Ange almost choked with gratitude. Tears came to her eyes. The drug effects again perhaps, but what she was aware of was that the man didn't wish her ill; strange how the smallest things can nourish the soul.
CHAPTER 47

Pueblo de Los Ángeles along the Caguán River in Colombia

Early Saturday Morning, October 19, 1996

After traveling Thursday night and on Friday after dark until early Saturday morning, all by boat, Lieutenant Colonel Ernesto Murillo Castaño with his exhausted prisoners and three militia soldiers arrived at their destination. The namesake angels who had once frequented Pueblo de Los Ángeles must have deserted the area; the tiny village now more nearly resembled the Fort Apache Colonel Murillo had nicknamed it than an abode for angels.

The village occupied a place where the meandering of the Caguán River was detoured by the talus rock from a small mountain. The Caiman alligators preferred other areas along the river and so did the growers of coca leaf, and therefore the villagers had continued as they had been for as long as they could remember, enjoying a simple life based on subsistence agriculture \-- mostly from fruit orchards and small gardens with chickens and sometimes a goat or two – supplemented by sales of coffee beans in season. Then, last year, a paramilitary unit of the nascent United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia had arrived, purportedly to rescue the village from Marxist guerrillas of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, FARC).

Most of the village cabinas and huts on the mountainside had survived the "rescue", as had the gardens and coffee plots where the jungle had been beaten back. However, the central village itself, with its small church, school, shops, coffee storage buildings and two grand Kapok trees providing shade from the equatorial sun, had been enclosed within four hectares (ten acres) of a wire fence built by the government-supported militia.

Within the wire enclosure, some numbers of the village children huddled miserably in small buildings at night and most days, chained hostages as insurance against attack by the village men, who had fled into the jungles and had organized as an ad hoc FARC unit, although without much logistical support from FARC.

After their arrival, Murillo went ashore by himself then returned a half hour later with an all clear and instructions for everyone to disembark. From the first moments after making their way across the flimsy dock onto the dirt road and then through a gate into the village, Shaylane didn't like the looks of the place. It felt more like a military compound than a village. Contributing to the Fort Apache ambience was a chain of tungsten lights outlining the perimeter of the pre-dawn compound, giving it the appearance of a military installation. Adding to the effect was the continuous sound of the gas generator that powered the lights.

The hour was early but there were plenty of militia troupers around and hardly a villager to be seen except for a few women peering out of dark huts. The few dogs looked like they were starving and the soldiers under the titular command of Colonel Murillo appeared sullen and unappreciative of his arrival. Steve was able to pick up snatches of conversation and reported to Shaylane in a whisper that the soldiers were unimpressed with the medical supplies and disappointed that Colonel Murillo had not bought more in the way of food stuffs, especially beer, whiskey and snacks. Shaylane noted that not a single soldier saluted Murillo or shook hands with him. This did not auger well.

The soldiers did seem to appreciate Shaylane. They pointed at her, nudged each other, smiled and laughed as she made her way into the small village. This also did not auger well.

Steve generated a great deal of initial attention in the form of laughter and ridicule and it went downhill from there. A man who was easily identified as the commandant of the encampment/village by his bearing and officer's cap approached Steve with Murillo. Steve was fitted with his Yoda ears and after a brief gale of laughter by the gathered soldiers (there appeared to be approximately thirty of them), the officer blew a whistle.

The whistle was a command of some kind to the village women and the elderly who filed obediently from their huts and shelters along with their children, perhaps a hundred villagers in all. As the American prisoners were to learn later, over twenty children were not included in the assembly. These were the chained hostages, who remained with their guards in several selected locations. The rest of the villagers assembled in what apparently served as a town plaza under the twin Kapok trees. What followed with the first light of dawn was an entertainment in the form of the humiliation of Yoda the Jedi Knight.

The village children in the assembly – the oldest boys were no more than 10 – knew who Yoda was. They had seen the videos. Yoda was a great hero to them. And now he had been captured by this Colombian officer and forced to submit. The great Yoda, bound and helpless, was kicked like a dog, pushed about, spanked like a child in the most insulting manner over the colonel's knee. The soldiers laughed. The villagers did not.

Colonel Murillo had an ulterior motive for putting Steve though the mock Jedi comeuppance. In his initial rather testy exchanges with militia Captain Manuel Lopez immediately after arriving and even before the prisoners left the boat, Murillo had been rebuffed on the idea of Doctor Armenta holding a clinic. Why? Unfortunately the situation was even worse than Murillo had feared. Power over the villagers had gone to the heads of the soldiers. The villagers were being subjected to cruelty and abuse, so much so that the idea of providing them with a medical clinic seemed absurd to Captain Lopez. He as much as said if the villagers are sick, let them suffer. It was no concern of his.

This was no way to win the hearts and minds of the people in the war against the FARC. Murillo knew that well. But Murillo also knew that he was on dangerous ground coming into such an out-of-control situation. Lopez and his men could turn on Murillo as easily as not. What could he do with his small cadre against over forty soldiers, all with assault rifles? By tormenting Steve in his Yoda character, Murillo was co-opting a potential mutiny, becoming one of the boys, as it were. He would no doubt also have to give them the black woman. As long as he kept them from killing her, all would be well in the end.

From this tactical perspective the Yoda baiting was successful. The villagers were visibly demoralized and the soldiers jubilant. The Colonel was not so bad, laughed the soldiers. He had brought some good entertainment with him. The soldiers mostly knew this Yoda was a fake but they rubbed it in with the villagers as if he were real. If even the great Yoda could not resist their power, how could these humble peasants hope to do so? There would be no rescue for them. Their men-folk in the forest were not going to rescue them. The FARC was not going to rescue them, either.

Before an hour had passed a fire was built against the morning damp and the scene was set for the entertainment du jour. Soon there was no doubt that the guest of honor was to be Shaylane, because a half-dozen men seized her, untied her, stripped her, slapped and beat her when she resisted – although the soldiers suffered two bloody noses and a some cracked ribs in the process -- and finally secured her to a pole fence railing, her arms extended along the railing with her hands fastened with stout cord. She supported herself with her arms along the railing because her legs were pulled up and tied behind her. A pole was then lifted into position behind her, forcing her pelvis forward. The soldiers worked quickly, having used the same system with other victims in the past.

Once Shaylane was immobilized the soldiers surrounded her, touched, groped and laughed. Villagers were forced to watch -- even the children. The rays of the rising sun highlighted Shaylane's straining and quivering body. The villagers watched as if hypnotized. They had seen this horror before but never with such a woman as this. She looked awesome and fierce even in her helpless state.

Steve, Lyle Morgan and Kon watched in despair from where they had been secured in a wooden shed fifty meters away. The shed, in a low area and therefore on pilings against rainy season floods, was one of several relatively secure buildings in the village used as hostage jails. Indeed, the three men shared the space with six selected hostages, children from the village. In the event of an attack, hostage children would be killed. In fact, a child had been recently executed because someone from the jungle had shot out tungsten lights. Armed guards were stationed in or near the sheds at all times as well as at perimeter locations for early warning.

On this occasion, the main door of the shed was perversely left open to allow the prisoners a view of coming attractions in the plaza. The guard with his Kalashnikov stood outside the door to get a better view. The Dacron bindings on the prisoners had been augmented with neck chains secured by padlocks – the same kind that were used on the child hostages – which were fastened to the center pole of the small structure. Given the extensive bindings, the guard was not in the least worried that the VIP prisoners might escape. He therefore settled outside in a squat to watch the fun in the plaza.

From his vantage point in the shed, Steve was able follow the proceedings in the plaza well enough to understand that the soldiers were throwing dice or stones, no doubt gambling to see who would have the first crack at Shaylane. A trooper with a vicious whip appeared to be warming up his whip hand, standing where Shaylane could see him and be duly terrorized. It appeared she would not only be raped, but whipped as well. Steve felt a building rage. A helpless rage.

Suddenly a board in the floor exactly where Steve sat rose a fraction of an inch and pushed against him. Surprised, he scooted to the side. The board lifted an inch or so and Steve heard a low whisper from a young voice: "Yoda?"

There would be space for a youngster to crawl under the shed, Steve realized, because it was built on pilings. He slid into position so he could put his mouth to the place where the board had lifted. "Si," he whispered. Then, miraculously, a pocket knife – a small one but a goddamned Swiss Army knife, no less – nosed its way through the opening and slid softly onto the floor. "Muchas gracias," whispered Steve almost inaudibly as the board went quietly back in place.

Kon had his eyes closed against his own personal nightmare, but Morgan saw what had happened, as did the village children, who remained silent. Morgan signaled with his eyes to Steve and moved his legs to indicate that Steve should slide the knife with his feet to where Morgan could reach it. Steve struggled to oblige but his short legs couldn't span the necessary gap. Even if Morgan could reach the knife he didn't know if he could open it with one hand. The child hostages, however, were chained by the neck but their hands were not tied. A young girl – perhaps seven years old -- reached the knife, opened it and began sawing on the line at Morgan's right wrist. It took her some moments because the Dacron was tough, but eventually the line parted and it was a matter of seconds before Morgan was cutting much more rapidly on a key section of his rope harness.

Activities in the square had reached a crucial point. The winner of the gambling had stripped off his pants and was showing his erect cock to the villagers while doing an obscene chicken-walk with bowed legs. Their lone guard was calling to the winner and laughing. He paid no attention to his prisoners. Morgan got through the second section of Dacron line and then with both hands free, began work on picking his neck chain padlock using a secret Houdini trick in the form of the specially filed tongue on his belt buckle. He made short work of the padlock.

In the plaza, the chicken-walk guy was motioned aside, forced to delay claiming his prize by the guy with the whip, whose possession of the whip constituted an effective means of motioning people aside. Then, whicker went the whip, with just a flick of the wrist, to slice a mean thin line across Shaylane's belly and dig into her side. It so happened that this particular 7-foot whip closely resembled whips used in South Africa during apartheid and thereby carried an extra emotional potency for Shaylane. So give her credit that she neither moved nor cried out and in fact smiled at her tormentor, smiled broadly, her white teeth broadcasting insult.

In the shed, Morgan quietly laid his neck chains aside and moved to Steve's side to begin freeing him. Morgan worked in a squat, ready to spring to the attack if the guard outside took notice of them.

Whicker, whicker went the flesh-eater whip, forehand then backhand. The leaded tip tore at Shaylane's breasts. She smiled and spat. "That all you got?" she said in English, which the Colombian didn't understand literally but he got the meaning. He walked to her and smiled. She smiled back. He walked to the fire ten paces away and pulled a fire poker used as a makeshift branding iron from where it had rested with its tip in the coals. He walked to her with the iron, blew on the red-hot tip and smiled. She smiled back. He applied the hot tip to the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh, perhaps choosing that vulnerable spot because her muscles there were quivering in protest against the strain of the bondage. Shaylane's smile became more a grimace and her lips rolled back against her gums. Her breath became a hiss, but she didn't cry out and when her tormentor pulled the iron away she spat at him. Openly amazed, the Colombian backed away for an instant, then raised the poker and brought it towards her face.

In the shed, Steve's ropes had been cut lose but when his neck irons were set aside they made a clink sound. A tense few seconds. The guard didn't notice. Morgan went to work on Kon's ropes, sawing frantically while again working from a squat that would allow him to take quick action if needed. The young girl who had cut Morgan's hands free motioned to Steve and then whispered in his ear in Spanish as he leaned over to her: "Yoda, please help us."

In the plaza, the soldier with the poker was restrained by two other soldiers who came to him from behind. The soldier with the poker twisted away from the two and looked back to the watching troopers for support. It was not there. Silent looks informed him that the group mood did not favor more torture of the amazing black woman, not for reasons of mercy, but because most of them planned to have a turn at her at some point during the day and didn't want her ruined.

In the shed, Morgan had finished cutting the Dacron line from Kon and quickly picked the lock that released the chain from Kon's neck. Morgan gently began removing the chain, taking care not to make noise, but Kon, with an eye on Shaylane's predicament in the plaza, was in no mood for caution. He abruptly laid the chains aside. The guard heard the sound and turned, surprised. He reached for his rifle. Kon, dragging loose ropes behind him, lunged through the door. He dispatched the guard with a fierce brick-busting karate stab, fingers extended -- a single blow upward and under the ribs that reached to the heart. The guard fell across the doorsill and Morgan pulled him as quickly as he could into the shed, hoping no one had seen.

"Kon, get back in the hut," Morgan whispered.

Kon started back in the door but Steve stumbled past him, exiting the shed. He took possession of the Kalashnikov leaning against the wall as he went.

"Steve, no," said Morgan.

"Steve, wait," said Kon.

Steve ignored them. Checking for a safety and moving a lever to semi-automatic, then laying the rifle across an arm, Steve walked up the gentle road towards the plaza. He was backlit by the sun so one saw him at first. He angled across the road and took a position next to the bole of one of the Kapok trees that sheltered the plaza, a huge tree, ten feet or more in diameter and over one- hundred-and-fifty feet tall with crags and nooks in the bole big enough for a little person like Steve to almost hide in. Then, in a strained tenor, he shouted in Spanish, "Attention! Nobody move!"

The thirty or so militia who had crowded the plaza for the entertainment had no way of knowing that Steve was possessed of paranormal skill with a rifle and had the potential to be extremely dangerous were he not a devout pacifist. What they saw standing by the Kapok tree was a comical character, a very small fellow who, even without his rubber ears, apparently thought he was a Jedi Knight. After a few seconds of stunned silence, laughter broke out. In short order the scattered laughter grew into general uproar. Some wiped tears from their eyes. Steve stood stolidly, waiting.

Colonel Murillo, standing in the back of the crowd with Captain Lopez, was aware of the fact that if the little fellow was on the loose that must mean that the detective, a very dangerous man whom Capitán Dan had compared to Dirty Harry, had also escaped. It took him a moment to get Captain Lopez's attention on the matter but when he finally did, Lopez promptly pulled two laughing soldiers aside and sent them to investigate.

The two soldiers headed for the shed at a trot, half-laughing and watching Steve at the corners of their eyes as they ran. Steve waited until they were almost to the shed and then fired a warning shot into the dirt in front of them. They stopped. Hey! Not so funny any more. They crouched and aimed their rifles at Steve, who had backed a step or two into a protective nook in the tree so that he was not visible from the plaza although he remained in plain view of the two soldiers.

What would Gandhi have done? An excellent question and in fact the subject of a workshop that Steve, the once and future pacifist, conducted a few years later. Could he have shot the rifles out of the hands of the soldiers like the Lone Ranger? Probably, but in the view he had, with the two soldiers facing him and sighting at him over the tops of the weapons, any round hitting the rifles would have deflected inevitably into their faces. Could he have simply ducked behind the tree to avoid confrontation? Yes, but that would have put his friends Morgan and Kon in dire jeopardy. That tactic would also have put his hoped for rescue of Shaylane into stalemate, with Steve hiding impotently inside a tree. Not that he had time to think about it.

And so it was that Steve Zavala, author of a book and articles on alternatives to violence, killed two men by shooting them in their foreheads, bam/bam, in such rapid order that it sounded like a single burst.

Steve paid an immediate cost for the killings, an emotional cost as quick as the recoil of the rifle, equal and opposite and as natural and inexplicable as his Zen abilities in shooting. Without aiming or thought he somehow knew the inevitable destination of a bullet. The destination felt like an extension of his will. But the other side of the coin was that the killing effects of the bullets returned a load of sorrow along the same inevitable path. This didn't surprise him. Without claiming insight into the science or metaphysics of it, he had always known it would happen and, in fact, it partially formed the basis of his attitude about violence. Nonetheless it was a blow that made him gasp. He had killed. He felt diminished.

In the meantime, as Colonel Murillo, Captain Lopez, thirty militia and uncounted villagers watched in stunned amazement, detective Dirty Harry Morgan darted from behind the shed, retrieved one of the two AK-47 rifles and darted back, with no one firing a shot at him. (The other rifle had been tossed by reflex into a coffee hedge as the militiaman had gone down.) Now there were two North Americans armed and dangerous – one of them reportedly very dangerous -- in the village. The time for hilarity was over. It was time to get serious. The militia looked to Lopez for orders but before he could respond Colonel Murillo cleverly decided to end the matter the easy way and demonstrate a little command savvy in the process. He strode confidently to where Shaylane was strapped to the pole fence and aimed his revolver at her.

"All over!" he shouted in English loud enough to reach Morgan's ears. "Drop your weapons or your friend dies."

This presented an opportunity for the aforementioned Lone Ranger trick courtesy of Steve Zavala. Leaning forward quickly from his protected position, Steve fired off a snap shot, pointing rather than aiming. The pistol flew out of Murillo's hand like it had a mind of its own, breaking an index finger and severely lacerating a thumb in the process. Murillo hunched over holding his crippled hand, then raised his head and shouted orders in angry Spanish, orders that could be roughly translated as "Shoot the fucking bastard, fire, fire!" An obedient fusillade of automatic weapons rounds thundered into the Kapok tree and made bark and splinters fly on both sides of it while Steve waited out the hail of bullets on the back side.

With his back to the bole of the tree, Steve's attention was drawn in the opposite direction from the plaza. He saw both Kon and Morgan. Kon was running without a rifle, following the berms in the coffee hedges above the village, hunched over and running low so he wouldn't be seen. Apparently he was trying to outflank the action and come into the plaza from above and behind.

Morgan was kneeling with his rifle stabilized against a tree, aiming at something along the row of boarded shops another fifty meters further up the dirt road from the shed. Steve looked that way and immediately saw the problem Morgan had identified. A child lay sprawled in the road and a soldier with a handgun was dragging two other children from a storefront building. Steve swore softly. The hostage guard in the building must have interpreted the gunfire as an attack by outside elements and he was in the process of executing hostages according to plan. The guard kicked one child to the road, a boy, and held the other child, a little girl, against him, hiding behind the child as an obvious tactic to avoid being shot at by attackers. The ploy worked against Morgan, who didn't trust his aim well enough to avoid shooting the child. It didn't work against Steve, who, at a distance of over a hundred meters, shot his third man of the day in the forehead.

"Yoda, please help us," the little girl had said. Her words came to Steve now as a comfort and also as a spur for action. He knew from his brief conversation with the children in the shed that there were three hostage buildings. Two had been neutralized but that left another. Steve frantically tried to recall if the kids had mentioned where the third one was, but couldn't remember. Not the church, surely. Well, not surely, but Steve didn't remember that it even had a door. And not the former coffee warehouse now used as a barracks. And not along the row of shacks currently housing most of the villagers. Those weren't secure enough. And not on the outer perimeter wire fence – too vulnerable. The small school building near the church! That must be it.

Steve couldn't see the school from behind his tree. He had to move, and quickly. The other Kapok tree was further towards the plaza from Steve's position, just a few meters from the pole fence where Shaylane was lashed down. From there he should be able to see the school but to get there he would have to charge directly into the line of fire against thirty guns, which would be suicidal.

While Steve was considering his limited options, the tactical situation changed. Captain Lopez, screaming at the top of his lungs at the idiots who were wasting ammunition shooting at the Kapok tree, finally managed to call a ceasefire. Pointing at his three corporals, his squad leaders, and using primarily hand signals, he quickly communicated his intentions. Squad A, consisting of seven men, would form the assault on the little person behind the tree, three men to lay down covering fire, two fanning out on the left and two fanning out on the right to flank the position and set up a cross fire. This was a standard squad tactical maneuver and was quickly understood.

More important than the cartoonish Yoda problem, Lopez decided, was the Dirty Harry problem. He decided to advance Squad B directly along the road towards the shed, where the detective had last been seen, while Squad C and Squad D under his direct command, would leave the compound by a gate behind the church and move quickly along the river trail to reenter the compound by the seldom used gate at the far end of the fence near the guard post. This would effectively pin down the detective with overwhelming force almost no matter where he sought cover.

Once the three squads moved out as ordered, Steve was effectively under substantially less covering fire. He saw the squad headed towards the shed and he saw movement where troopers were headed up the hill on his right to flank him. Thinking there was no better time than the present, he leaped boldly into the open on the plaza side of the tree, rolled once on the ground and stayed prone to engage as best he might. He was amazed that he faced only three enemy combatants, and in fact didn't even realize that until he had already shot all three in quick succession and looked around for the rest. The militia had split their forces and the bulk of them had gone. This was alarming at first because Steve couldn't shoot them if he couldn't see them. He turned first one way and then the other. He saw a man moving on his left up the hill but let him go. Steve still hadn't adjusted his attitude about violence to include shooting someone who wasn't obviously about to shoot at him.

... Or was about to shoot a child. Steve had risked everything to get a look at the school and now he wished he had gotten into position sooner. As he had feared, there were two small bodies on the ground outside the school and their killer was emerging from the building with another. He was also holding a hostage in front of him, obviously a planned protocol. The tactic didn't help him any more than it had helped his cohort in the building with the shops. His thoughts only on the children and with the heartfelt plea from the little girl in the shed vivid in his mind, Steve the pacifist dropped the killer at the school at a distance of a hundred meters almost as a reflex action.

With the hostage children at least temporarily safe, Steve turned his attention to Shaylane. He scrambled to her side and fumbled to release her while watching for the inevitable counterattack from the coffee plant areas on the other side of the Kapok trees. He glanced at the nearby former coffee warehouse, now used as a barracks, and saw Lieutenant Colonel Ernesto Murillo Castaño cowering in the shadows of the building holding his injured hand. Not a threat.

A guy Steve hadn't seen on his left flank had made it up the hill much faster than his chubby comrade and was making his way on his knees through the leaves and detritus along the bottom of a coffee berm to get into position. Peaking over the berm, the soldier could see the little man untying the black woman from her bondage. Holy Mother, where was the covering fire? The soldier started moving a little further along the berm to get a better shot when a Forest Spirit Being rose up out of the leaves in the berm gully and clobbered him in the face with a fiendishly powerful blow. As the soldier lay semi-conscious with a broken jaw, the Forest Spirit Being leaned over him and said something in English: "Old Indian trick."

Doctor Kanuna Armenta had seen the trooper coming up the hill and, laying on his back, had hurriedly covered himself with the abundant leaves and plant material from the coffee plants and smelly stuff blown from the Kabuk tree high overhead. And yes, it was an old Indian trick to hide under leaves, in a sense, since Kon had learned it from an Indian cousin during a boyhood game of Capture the Flag in his family apple orchard along the Umpqua River in Oregon.

Now Kon had a rifle. And he knew how to shoot one decently, also a benefit of his boyhood in Oregon. As he looked over the berm from a higher position, he saw Steve releasing Shaylane, saw the soldier Steve had let go and he also saw the two who were slowly moving towards Steve and Shaylane from the far side of the Kabuk tree. He fired quickly at all three, in bursts because the rifle was set to full automatic, winging one, he thought, and missing the others but his efforts had the desired effect of pinning them down. He ducked so they wouldn't know where the rounds had come from.

****

Morgan had seen the three squads moving out and he had a pretty good idea that they were headed his way but he couldn't figure out what to do about it. One thing was certain: He couldn't use the storefront building for cover because it would endanger the kids who were still chained up inside. He also estimated that he didn't have time to somehow make it through the wire fence because he could see through the brush that there was a sandbag guard post at the corner and he would have to deal with the guard before anything else. The three squads would be on the scene in just minutes, even moving cautiously as they seemed to be.

He finally decided the best course – not a good one but the only one he could come up with -- was to somehow kill or overpower the guard at the guard post and use that position to make a stand.

Well, someone beat him to it. No sooner had he started trotting towards the guard post than it exploded from a mortar or grenade attack. At the same time a ferocious firefight, at least by the sounds of it, broke out at or around the guard post and in the general direction of the river. It took Morgan a minute to process what was going on. Then he realized: it was the FARC, or at least the local FARC village men deciding to engage. But why? They must think their kids are safe. Perhaps all three buildings with the hostages were secure.

Well, if they were secure they might not be for long, because as Morgan turned to look back at the storefront building he saw the first squad of militia moving towards it double-time. They had probably come to the same conclusion and realized they needed the children as hostages. They had to be stopped. And Morgan was the man.

Panicked by the situation, the oncoming squad was dashing towards the building in the open, in a tight group and not taking cover. Morgan took a kneeling position, levered his Kalashnikov to full automatic, said a silent prayer that the fifty round clip was full, and opened fire. Under fire, the ten-man squad scattered, with four down and the rest diving for cover. Morgan rolled to the side, anticipating return fire and finding only marginal cover in a small depression. Rounds flew all around him, chewing up the dirt and destined to chew him up as well. There was no way he could raise his head without getting it blown off and there was no way they were going to keep missing him as they moved closer.

"Ah, well, old boy," said Morgan to himself, "you had a good run."

Suddenly there were no more rounds hitting around him, although he could hear continued rifle fire from towards the river. After a moment he risked a look up and saw one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. Walking slowly towards him through the smoke and dust past the bodies of the militia squad was Shaylane, dusty, bloody and stark naked, with her Kalashnikov and a huge smile, and beside her was Kon, also with a smile and also with a Kalashnikov -- and a little behind them, walking backwards to cover their flank – militia were still on the loose -- was Steve Zavala, Steve the magnificent, carrying not one, but two Kalashnikovs.
CHAPTER 48

Transcript: A conference call initiated by Jan Sheffield-Randall, including participants Maynard Travestor, Percy Jones, Vince Sheffield

3:00 p.m., Saturday afternoon, October 19, 1996

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Hang on to your hats, guys. I got a call two hours ago from Shaylane on a Sat Phone – not our Sat phone, a different one -- from some jungle village in Colombia in the middle of nowhere.

PERCY JONES: Colombia! Not Nicaragua? Good God!

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: We talked for almost an hour. She briefed me and we can call her back as soon as she recharges her phone batteries. The situation there is stable. It was touch and go for a while. There was a shootout. Pretty major battle. However, Daniel had already left Colombia to take Ange and Davis to Malaysia.

PERCY JONES: Malaysia! Good God!

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Daniel executed the Marshals Service Chief Inspector who went with them on the trip. In cold blood. And a Costa Rican official was also killed. This was while they were all still in Costa Rica. Then he flew everybody by helicopter to Colombia, leaving his militia in Costa Rica to face the music, which apparently they were none too happy about. Before he left with Ange and Davis, he said he was planning to ransom everybody for big money. But who knows what he might do? He's obviously unstable.

PERCY JONES: So we should abort the Nicaragua mission?

VINCE SHEFFIELD: And inform Costa Rica and Nicaragua that there are no hostages with the militia.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: We have one advantage: Daniel has no way of knowing that the tables have turned on him in Colombia.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: There's no way Daniel could have got them to Malaysia yet, just in terms of the time.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Shaylane's last visual, as she called it, was Thursday evening.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: So they should be still on the way.

PERCY JONES: They could be, if this is to be believed. It sounds bizarre. How do we know Shaylane wasn't at gunpoint during the call to you, Jan?

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: I know Shaylane pretty well. She was laughing and light-hearted, talking a mile a minute. No way somebody had a gun on her.

PERCY JONES: Let's get them out of there. Then we'll know for sure.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: They don't want out just yet. Long story short, Doctor Armenta is treating wounded, including some children.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: Wounded in the battle?

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Shaylane called it a shootout – O.K. Corral, jungle version. The little fellow Steve Zavala was a big hero so I guess we'll read about it in The Times.

But there's a pressing matter before we go on. Shaylane wants us to emergency airlift a little girl and another victim to Alcívar Hospital in Guayaquil, Ecuador. They called Doctor Armenta's hospital here in Newark -- before they even called me -- and got names and addresses. It happens Detective Morgan is type-O negative so they have him doing a whole blood transfusion to the little girl. But her condition is critical.

Admiral? Can we do this?

PERCY JONES: Our long range Nicaragua helicopter team is assembling on the guided-missile destroyer USS Carney, which is on sea trials near the Canal. I could ask Admiral Fletcher for a mission change. But why not ask the Colombian authorities for help? That'd be much quicker.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: That's where it gets a little tricky. It seems the guys who were shooting at our side were Colombian Army and the guys who rescued us were the guys we usually think of as the bad guys, the so-called FARC. So it may not be such a good idea to call 911 in Bogotá.

PERCY JONES: Oh, for crying out loud!

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Shaylane says they're holding a Colombian Army colonel as a hostage, this colonel being Daniel's accomplice and the only person who knows where Daniel is headed with Davis and Ange. That's where we got the Malaysia information but Shaylane doesn't want him out of her hands yet. He's apparently quite terrified that they'll turn him over to the rebels so he's being cooperative.

PERCY JONES: Are you seriously suggesting we set down a lightly armed Navy helicopter in the middle of an armed camp of terrorists? To save a child? How do we justify that? And what do we say to the Colombian government?

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: We tell the Colombian government that we didn't have time to get authorization but, of course, we assume they had no knowledge that one of their officers was holding U.S. nationals as prisoners.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: Our people are in the middle of this. We shouldn't second-guess them.

PERCY JONES: Holy Jesus Christ on a crutch, I can't believe I'm going to go along with this. Hold the phone while I make some calls. I'll need locations and so forth.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: My staff is faxing coordinates as we speak, sir. Speed is of the essence, sir.

PERCY JONES: I'll ask them to scramble the bird and hopefully we can get authorization in mid-flight. Hopefully.

****

While Admiral Jones was away from the conference call, Jan proceeded to brief the remaining participants on the events in Costa Rica and Colombia, saving what little information she had on the Malaysia situation until the Admiral was back on the line. Twenty minutes elapsed.

PERCY JONES: I'm back. I got Fletcher on his special golf course hotline cell phone. He sank a putt for a birdie while I waited on the phone so he was in a good mood. He gave us a green light on everything and said he was saying prayers for the little jungle girl. What he would have said if he had missed the putt I have no idea.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Thank you, sir. I've waited until you were back on the line to fill in the blanks on the Malaysia situation. Over the last two days I've had a team of staffers researching and preparing reports on Daniel's activities in all his far-flung ports-of-call.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: Something we should have done long ago. You don't have to say it.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: I should have paid more attention, too, Father. But the fact of the matter is, nothing in our company information comes close to the bizarre story Shaylane got from the Colombian colonel. Putting the two sources together, here it is in a nutshell: Daniel's involvement in the State of Sarawak in Malaysia, which is on the island of Borneo, started in the late 80's. Indigenous peoples were blocking logging roads so Daniel organized a militia unit to scare them off. Once again our hero Daniel Sheffield saves the day for the march of civilization, basically using extra-legal methods with a wink and a nod from the logging and palm plantation developers and the government. He is known in Sarawak by the nickname Harimau Lelaki, which means "Tiger Man" in the Malay language. This is due to a tactic he invented of driving a truck with a tiger in a cage to the scene of protests where logging roads were blocked and then threatening to release the tiger. Our Colombian colonel says he doesn't know if tigers were ever actually released, but it was apparently a very successful tactic because the indigenous peoples are terrified of tigers. The colonel says he has seen tigers in cages at Daniel's base compound in Sarawak and he says he has heard stories of human beings being fed to them.

PERCY JONES: This just gets better and better, doesn't it? (pause) Do we have Intel on the location and size of the contingent at this base compound?

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Only that it is not far from the Tanjung Manis Airport in Sarikei. I'll ask Shaylane for more information when she calls back. Sheffield records show some pretty hefty arms sales associated with that region but that was years ago.

PERCY JONES: Do we have Intel on flight plans, waypoints, charter companies Daniel might be using? Southern Air Transport, I wouldn't doubt.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: World Air Express. It's practically Daniel's private airline. He's bragged on it like Sheffield Industries was sharing it with CIA covert operations. All classified, of course. I always took that with a grain of salt.

PERCY JONES: If we move quickly we can arrange a welcoming committee at the airport.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: But we'd have to rely on Malaysians at the airport and the danger is in alerting Daniel that the game is up. If Daniel feels cornered, God knows what he might do.

PERCY JONES: So what do we do?

VINCE SHEFFIELD: What do we have in that area?

PERCY JONES: Good God, Vince, you aren't suggesting...?

VINCE SHEFFIELD: Davis is your son. I can't tell you what....

PERCY JONES: I just got done pulling strings to send boys into Colombia but why stop there? Why don't we launch some kind of operation on the other side of the world at the same goddamned time? I'm not the President of the United States. I'm not even active.

(Long silence. Nobody speaks.)

PERCY JONES: Jesus Holy Christ on a crutch!
CHAPTER 49

The cabin of a Learjet Model 60 with a flight plan for

Tanjung Manis Airport, Sarawak, Malaysia

3:00 p.m., Sunday, October 20, 1996

(After crossing the International Dateline)

When the chartered aircraft landed for refueling, Davis assumed they had reached their destination. He expected to see Daniel reenter the cabin at any moment and awaited that eventuality with a resigned dread. He was surprised when the engines restarted and the aircraft taxied and eventually took off without Daniel making an appearance.

Ange was beginning to come down from the effects of the hallucinogenic drug but she was still disoriented enough that sudden noises from the refueling and from doors or hatches slamming startled and confused her. She repeatedly asked Davis for confirmation that they had landed and then that they were taking off. Davis answered her questions with as much gentle sensitivity as he could muster.

Some moments after the aircraft leveled at cruising altitude, the cabin door opened and the blue-eyed crewman from their earlier encounter entered the cabin with small cartons of fruit juice and bottled waters on a tray.

"Thought you might be hungry or thirsty," he explained. "I was also told to help you both with a potty break if you'd like."

"Told by Daniel Sheffield?" said Davis.

"By the captain. Mr. Sheffield is no longer aboard," said the crewman matter of factly. "He's catching another flight." He knelt beside Ange. "Miss? Do you need to go to the bathroom? I'll help you to the head if you like but I'll have to refasten you afterwards."

Both Ange and Davis took advantage of the bathroom opportunity, Davis with some difficulty while still harnessed in his Dacron bondage, Ange while wrapped discreetly in her blanket while the crewman waited outside the toilet stall. After, both captives avidly sucked juice and water through straws provided.

When Ange was refastened on her mattress and covered with her blanket, she ventured: "Sir? Thanks for your kindness. I'll not forget it. I'm Ange Parker. My friend here is Davis Sheffield, principal shareholder of Sheffield Industries."

"Miss," said the crewman. "I'm sorry. My situation is delicate."

"Are you German?" said Ange.

"How did you know? Vas it my accent?"

"Just a guess," said Ange.

"Very strange happenings on this flight," said the crewman, shaking his head. "Mr. Sheffield must have drunk a whole bottle of vodka. He could hardly make it off the aircraft."

"Where are we bound?" said Ange.

"I shouldn't tell you that," said the crewman.

"Why not?" said Davis. "What's the secret?"

"The captain is very tense. He did not want Mr. Sheffield to leave the aircraft. Now he is responsible and he does not like that."

"I'd like to speak with your captain."

"Not possible. The captain does not vant to talk with you and he does not vant me to talk with you, either. He only vants to deliver you to the destination. Now I must go."

And go he did, pausing only to adjust Ange's blanket, which had slipped from her shoulders. Then he hastily left the cabin.

"Daniel's afraid of his mother," said Ange, after a long moment.

"You may be right."

"He's afraid of her love. She loves him."

"How do you know that?"

"I... just do. And he dreads it. He dreads her love."

"Why?"

"Because it means his life has no meaning. His life is based on hate. He has to hate his mother. He had to choose between her or his father. I... feel sorry for him. He was taken from her. Or maybe I feel sorry for myself."

Gently: "For yourself?"

"My own babe was... Oh, God, I'm sorry, Davis. I'm not making any sense. It's this drug. Please forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive, Ange."

"How can I say I feel sorry for him?" said Ange, her voice tight. "He murdered your family."

"Ange."

"Yes?"

"If we can, let's put all that aside for now, the hate, Daniel, and instead let's talk of beautiful things."

"Beautiful things, uh huh. But how can you put your hate aside, Davis? What's beautiful about this mess?"

"The future. Let's talk about our beautiful future, after all this is behind us."

"I must look like such a slut to you, spread out for that asshole like a piece of meat, and out of my mouth came those things I said to him as if I didn't care what he might do to me. How beautiful was that? Do I look beautiful to you, Davis?" Ange squirmed so the blanket slid down, exposing her breasts. "Do you like my tits, Davis?" Then, shaking herself from the drugs effects: "Oh, God, Davis, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Ange," said Davis softly.

"Colleen!" Ange screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. "My name is Colleen!" Then she calmed and looked at Davis. "That was my stage name as a dancer. You knew I was a dancer, Davis?"

"Yes."

"Colleen is Irish for 'girl'. I thought I was clever when I came up with that. You want girl? I'll show you girl, up close and personal. That's why I could lie there with my legs spread for Daniel and say the things I said, because I must have shown my girl pussy on the stage for a million guys. And that's why I knew he didn't have a stiffie because a girl can tell after she's sat on enough laps. So what do you think of me now, Davis?"

"Moral turpitude," said Davis with a smile.

Ange recovered from her drug-induced tirade enough to chuckle softly. "Very funny."

"I'm serious," said Davis. "I think we're soul mates."

Ange looked at Davis for a long moment before speaking again. "I'm glad that bastard Daniel left," she said finally, "because I'm afraid I might have responded to him sexually on this drug. Hell of a body rush. Oh, shit, what am I saying? First I feel sorry for him and now...."

"I'm glad he left, too," said Davis ruefully.

"I astral traveled, Davis."

"Was it fun?"

"I'm trying to think if maybe I couldn't astral travel over there to you and suck your cock."

"Give it a try," said Davis. "I'm game."

Ange laughed. "Davis," she lectured, "as your attorney I have to advise you. Astral travel sex would not look good in court."

Davis laughed with her. "Especially with my attorney, I guess."

"And worse yet when it came out that you seduced me into it!"

"And how exactly did I manage that?"

"With your eyes. How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with your eyes. You think I haven't noticed? Are you hypnotizing me?"

"You mean the psychic energy?"

"Is that what you call it?"

"Or I could call it love."

"Oh, please do call it love. I won't hold it against you."

"I thought you might prefer a more romantic setting."

"Oh no, right now is perfect. Anything along the lines of love couldn't come at a better moment."

"Okay, I love you Ange."

"Colleen."

"I love you too, Colleen."

"Yes, but I'm a slut."

"Yeah, me too."

Ange laughed. "I love you too, Davis, especially if you keep doing that thing with your eyes, shooting love at me like that. Do you promise to keep doing it?"

"I promise."

"Tell me more love stuff. Not too platonic, please."

"Okay. I'm thinking maybe we should have two marriages."

Long silence. "Go on," said Ange in a small, tentative voice.

"Ange and Colleen should have separate marriages, don't you think?"

"What sort of marriages?"

"Big ones, I suppose. You probably should decide that."

"I'm not going to hold you to this, Davis, but it's fun, I admit. Let's plan them now."

"The guest list for my marriage to Colleen," said Davis, "should be restricted to those who have demonstrated a significant level of moral turpitude."

Ange laughed.

"And there should be a spanking in it," said Davis.

"Who gets spanked?"

"You do, of course, for being naughty."

"Sounds delightful."

"Yes, it will be deliciously humiliating, I assure you, with your wedding gown hiked up."

"Davis, you've missed your calling. You should be a wedding planner."

"And the ceremony will be conducted by my friend Selene, who's a witch."

"A witch, is it?" said Ange, with a snorting laugh and in her Irish accent. "Then she'll summon spirits, will she?"

"Only good ones who'll bless our union, either the Goddess Aphrodite or the Goddess Hera. We'll need to decide."

"Couldn't we have both?"

"No, no. They don't much care for each other, I'm afraid."

"You've asked them about this, have you, Davis?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Oh, Davis," said Ange with a huge grin, "do tell me exactly what they had to say and why they don't care for each other."

"Not that we couldn't worship either one from time to time, you understand, but we couldn't very well ask them both at the same time."

"Well, why not one for the Ange wedding and the other for the Colleen wedding?"

Davis scowled mockingly but quickly smiled when he saw alarm in her eyes. Her emotions were volatile. She needed the constant reassurance of his smile and love in his eyes.

"You're kidding, I hope," said Davis. "Surely my wedding with Ange will be a Catholic ceremony. Your mother will be there, won't she?"

"You'd have to convert."

"And give up Paganism? No way. I know a bishop who'll give us a dispensation. In exchange for a sizeable donation, of course."

"You've actually thought this out?"

"I'm thinking as we go. So, would you like to hear more about the Goddesses Aphrodite and Hera?"

"Why not? Anything to keep you talking. God knows I love your voice and your crazy imagination. You're my trip guide."

"It's important which Goddess should bless our marriage, so please pay attention."

"Yes, sir." Grinning. "You're the one who signs my paychecks, sir. Whatever you say, sir."

"Actually, I believe I told Mr. Belnap that you could sign your own paychecks but that's neither here nor there. What's important is this Goddess business, which first came up with Selene when she...."

"The Witch Selene."

"Yes, also known as Domina Selene and also known as Marcia, backup singer in the Johnny & Jez rock band. You'll like her. Her moral turpitude credentials are impeccable and she's very wise."

"Do you love her?"

"I'm not in love with her, like I am with you."

"You're in love with me?"

"Yes. What did you think we were talking about?"

"I thought we were just... I don't know."

"Yes, I'm in love with you but maybe I'm taking advantage when you're vulnerable on this drug. Maybe we should stop and talk later."

"No, don't stop."

"So, the Goddess thing came up with Selene..."

"Have you made love with Selene?"

"Only once in the fullest sense and it was the very time she introduced me to the Goddess Hera. Would you like to hear the story?"

"Yes, if you keep looking at me like that."

"Selene taught me about that, too. She says everything is energy and we're all connected. She taught me to open my heart channels. That's what you're feeling and what you see in my eyes."

"Pretty good trick, for sure."

"So, anyway, one night Selene got on her high horse and challenged me on my relationship with Mo. I got pissed off but I had to listen to her.

"She said Mo was like a sun and I was like a planet in orbit around her and when Mo died I went flying out into outer space waiting for another sun to come by and capture me. She said I was in thrall to the Goddess Aphrodite, the Goddess of Desire. She said she was tired of playing Aphrodite for me and so she was going to introduce me to the Goddess Hera, who is the Goddess of Hearth and Home."

"The wife," said Ange.

"Yes."

"The Earth Goddess."

"You know about these things?"

"Celtic versions from my mother."

"When I went to San Francisco, footloose and fancy free, I saw Selene's photos in a magazine along with a description of her professional Domme work. I met with her and right off the bat she took me on some cool adventures."

"Sexy adventures?"

"Yes, every which way but loose, just what I was looking for at the time. Then she took me under her wing, brought me into her life with her guy Johnny and we formed the band with my friend Jezebel."

"Oh, good. I was hoping there was a wicked Jezebel in the story."

Davis laughed. "Jez can be wicked enough when she feels like it. You'll like her, too."

"So when did the Goddesses show up?"

"Selene showed them to me. She's got thousands of psychodramas in her repertoire and she's worked me over with quite a few of them. She was correct in her diagnosis of me. I was in love with desire."

"In love with desire. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all. However, it's the realm of Aphrodite. Selene taught me a lot about desire and I loved every minute of it. But she said when a man worships Aphrodite there's a weakness in it, weakness on both sides, she says. When we worship Hera, on the other hand, we worship strength, because it takes strength to be a husband and a father, just as it takes strength to be a wife and mother."

"I like Hera better."

"Selene became the Goddess Hera one night and we fucked each other to Paul McCartney's Band on the Run. Aphrodite would not have approved."

"What would Aphrodite have approved of?"

"Something melancholy. Sinatra mooning over Ava Gardner."

"Let's go with Hera."

"Good. So the Goddess Hera it will be for my marriage vows to Colleen. Now we must decide on our honeymoons."

Ange laughed with pleasure. "Two honeymoons as well?"

"Yes, of course. For Ange, Ireland, I should think, with perhaps a week or so in Paris. A villa on the coast of Spain might be nice. Yachting around the British Virgin Islands."

"And for Colleen?"

"San Francisco. New York. Las Vegas. New Orleans at Mardi Gras."

"Colleen would like to visit some of her old dancer friends in Seattle."

"Perhaps they'd enjoy a group adventure."

"Oh, that'd be wonderful. There'd be trouble. No controlling those guys."

"Perfect. They'd fit right in."

"Tell me about the British Virgin Islands. I've never been."

"I'll paint a picture for you. A high-masted sailing ship slicing through turquoise seas, looking for hidden coves, beaches to explore and lots of beachside restaurants with live music, rum drinks of every kind you can imagine. Coral reefs, mangrove forests. And of course, we could always sail to Puerto Rico and rent out Castillo de San Felipe del Morro that sits high on cliffs above the ocean. It's a castle ruins that guards the entrance to San Juan Bay. Totally windswept and romantic. We could bring in the Johnny and Jez band. Throw a little party for your friends."

Ange closed her eyes with a smile, listening to him.

Davis continued his poetic travelogue through the French and Creole cuisine of Martinique, the powdery soft beaches of Antiqua and snorkeling around shipwrecks in Barbuda before realizing Ange had not only closed her eyes with a smile on her face but had fallen asleep. He watched over her for almost an hour, alert to any sign of nightmare or distress, but her lips kept their smile and her breathing was easy. Her freckled breasts rose and fell, with her small rosy nipples at exactly the edge of the blanket. So pretty and vulnerable, sleeping like an innocent.

Davis estimated that they must have been aloft for at least 20 hours and probably more. It was dark outside the aircraft and had been since not long after the refueling stop. However, he guessed that they must have been in the air at least 13 hours before that stop, and they had left Colombia at around 9 or 10 in the morning, so obviously they were flying west, chasing the sun. Their destination must be in the Far East, the Philippines perhaps, or Japan.

Satisfied that Ange was sleeping soundly, Davis at last succumbed to sleep himself, leaning against his neck harness. He woke from deep sleep what could have been hours later. It was still dark outside. The aircraft had suddenly banked and was losing altitude, no doubt on approach for a landing.

Ange was already awake.

"Hi Davis," she said. "Back in the land of the living are you, then?"

"The drug losing its hold on you?"

"Oh, yes. And I've decided to go ahead and pay your ransom when I get to the States. I thought you'd like to know."

"That's good news."

"It does seem like a bit much for one person, but you were so sweet to me, helping me through that, complete with Goddesses and weddings on sailboats and I can't even remember what all. You're amazing."

"I meant every word."

"Well, sure you did," said Ange in her Irish voice. "Maybe with just a wee bit of blarney here and a wee bit there."

"After we're out of this mess, I'll court you properly."

"I'll ask me Pa if you may call," said Ange. She giggled and Davis joined her.

As the aircraft landed, their light-hearted repartee gave over to somber anticipation. They didn't have to wait long. Only a few short minutes after the aircraft came to a stop, they heard voices and the cabin door flew open to reveal two grinning Asians. Looked Chinese. They wore pajama-esque mono-color outfits (blue and green) with collars fit tight to the neck. Their outfits and mindless grins made them look like they might have been sent over from Central Casting to play the guys about to get beat up in a Bruce Lee movie. One slight problem: No Bruce Lee.

"Oh, brother," said Davis.

"This doesn't look good," said Ange.
CHAPTER 50

Transcript: A conference call initiated by Admiral Percy Jones, including participants Maynard Travestor, Jan Sheffield-Randall, Vince Sheffield and Deputy Shaylane Williams by Sat phone from Colombia

3:00 p.m., Saturday, October 19, 1996

PERCY JONES: Back to the drawing board, my friends. Daniel knows what's up. We couldn't keep the lid on it. The Marshals Service is swarming like a hornet's nest. They got wind that Daniel had chartered an aircraft in Hawaii with a flight plan to Seletar Airport in Singapore. He used a Sheffield Industries credit card. With only an hour or so to work with, they asked Singapore guys to meet the plane. But guess what? Daniel Sheffield was on board but no hostages -- nobody else, basically. The Singapore cops let him go. Nothing to hold him on -- although they can fucking hold you in Singapore for spitting on the sidewalk. This was at 0200 hours Singapore time – it's early Sunday morning in Singapore -- 1800 hours Zulu time, about two hours ago.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Wait until you hear what Shaylane has to say. If anybody can't hear her, speak up. We had to rig the conference call system a little. Shaylane, go ahead.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Thanks, Jan. Who all is on the line?

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Doc, Vince, and Admiral Percy Jones.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Hi all. I talked to Daniel by phone about an hour ago. (gasps from Doc and Vince) He must have called just after the cops rousted him in Singapore. I didn't know it was him calling when I answered. I thought it was Jan. He was trying to reach his co-perpetrator colonel pal to find out what was up. I tried to play hostage negotiator, stay calm, we can work something out, rah, rah. He wasn't having it.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: What else did he say?

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: He tried to be cool, save face, show he was still on top of things. He said congratulations to me on getting the upper hand here and too bad because he would have to lower his ransom demands to only a half billion and by the way how did we do it? I told him we just grabbed a few rifles and shot the shit out of his pathetic army. He said we should go ahead and shoot the shit out of Colonel Ernesto if he wasn't already dead. He was fishing but I didn't bite. He must know Ernesto is alive though, because otherwise how could we be on to him so quick. He said he recommended we not try anything with him because he's not Ernesto and if he goes down, Davis and Ange will go with him. I said he could call me later if he wanted to talk. Then he hung up.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: What's your professional assessment, Shaylane?

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Desperate and dangerous. Also crazy. Paranoid.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: Any ideas why he would've shown up in Singapore on a different airplane without Davis and Ange?

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Ernesto says Daniel has plans to leave some sort of incriminating materials with a third party. These materials paint the CIA in a bad light and would be insurance because the CIA would protect him to avoid these materials coming to light, or so Daniel thinks. Maybe this third party is in Singapore or thereabouts. If so, it could be a day or two at least before Daniel gets back to Davis and Ange who are sure to be at the place Ernesto talks about in Borneo. Right?

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: Right.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: So send in some Navy Seals. Get them the hell out of there. Right, Admiral?

PERCY JONES: If I had my way, yes.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: What's the problem?

PERCY JONES: In the first place, Malaysia is a military ally. They've stood shoulder to shoulder with the U.S. military in places like Bosnia and Somalia. I had dealings with them myself when I was with the 7th Fleet. We can't send in an armed group and risk bumping heads. And we can't go through channels, because on the political side, relationships aren't so good. In fact, they're terrible. Maybe they'd help us... maybe... but we'd have to lay some groundwork.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: We don't have time for groundwork. Think about it through Daniel's eyes. He was counting on Colonel Ernesto to be his bagman. Nobody was supposed to know where Daniel was holding Davis and Ange. Certainly we never would have guessed on the other side of the world in some backwater like Sarawak. Now he's got no bagman and he's exposed. How can he move Davis and Ange kicking and screaming to some other location with U.S. Marshals watching every charter airline in the region? How can he have any hope of collecting ransom under the circumstances? His only option is to somehow disappear and establish a new identity somewhere. So what does he need Davis and Ange for? That's what scares me. He's already in deep. What's a couple more murders?

VINCE SHEFFIELD: You're right, Deputy. We can't wait. Maybe we can't use U.S. military but we can send in mercenaries. Hired guns. The best money will buy.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: We don't need to send somebody with guns blazing. They go in looking like tourists with cameras. Only we need somebody good. Marc Boles.

PERCY JONES: Marc Boles! You've got to be kidding. How do you know Marc Boles?

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: I met him at your barbecue last year.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Who's Marc Boles?

PERCY JONES: A friend. I couldn't ask him for something like this. He's retired and settled down with six kids.

[WOMAN'S VOICE SHOUTING IN THE BACKGROUND]: Bull roar, Percy!

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Who was that?

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: That was Hazel, Percy's wife.

PERCY JONES: Get on the extension, Dear, if you feel like you have to be a part of the conversation.

HAZEL JONES (picking up): Marc would do it in a heartbeat. You couldn't keep him away if he knew Davis needed him. For God's sake, Percy, we have to get our boy – and Ange Parker – out of there before that maniac kills them.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Marc Boles has what we need? Is that what I'm hearing?

PERCY JONES: He was a lieutenant commander in Special Ops under my command. But damn it, if I ask him for this, I'm going with him.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: And I'm going too.

PERCY JONES: Doc, don't be ridiculous.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: It's perfect. Who's going to think a couple old farts like us are any kind of threat?

HAZEL JONES: You're both being ridiculous. Marc Boles is Mister Navy Seal and a young fifty-something. You guys are in your seventies.

PERCY JONES: Now look, Hazel, and listen up, everybody. This isn't a damned combat mission. We aren't going to hire mercenaries. We aren't going to ask Marc to risk his neck. And we're not going to risk ours. We're going to play it smart. We're going to find a way to expedite things without getting snarled up in the political bureaucracy. I'm not sure just how and wouldn't mind having Marc along, I admit.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: How quickly can you get over there? Time is our enemy.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: There might be a way to slow Daniel down.

PERCY JONES: Go ahead, Jan.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Shaylane says Steve Zavala has stuff ready for The New York Times. A story in tomorrow's paper with photos of Daniel, Davis and Ange would get picked up by wire services all over the planet. Shoot out in Colombia, hostages to Malaysia; everybody will read it.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: It'd be like a worldwide Most Wanted poster.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: It would definitely cramp his style. He'd have to sneak around, find alternative transportation.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: He won't have World Air Express anymore or any Sheffield Industries credit cards.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Good. We know from Ernesto that he has other money stashed away but it may not be easy for him to tap it.

HAZEL JONES: But what if he gets stuck in Singapore and sends word to whoever is guarding Davis and Ange to just....

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: That's a chance we'll have to take.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: Oh, oh. This isn't good. An aide just handed me a note. The Marshals Service says Tanjung Manis Airport hasn't had a charter jet land there in the last few hours. In fact, they say it is just a small airport and the airport guys can't remember ever having charter jets land there.

PERCY JONES: Oh, great! Now we don't know where they are. They could be anywhere.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: How did the Marshals Service find out about Tanjung Manis?

PERCY JONES: God only knows, but you can bet they're thinking more about nabbing Daniel than worrying about Davis and Ange.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: The World Air Express probably changed flight plans at the last minute to a different airport in the region. It might be just a standard covert tactic of some kind. I still think we have to go with the information from Ernesto. Daniel had no way of knowing there was a problem until he got to Singapore. Davis and Ange are in some kind of compound called Harimau Lelaki.

PERCY JONES: Tiger man.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Ernesto says it's about an hour from the airport -- but maybe a different airport. You go on a highway over a large river and through a lot of dense jungle and take a left on a gravel road. You can't miss it from the gravel road. Big high concrete wall in the front of it with Harimau Lelaki written on it and there's rolled razor wire, a huge stack of it in front. How many places have rolled razor wire in front? The locals must know about it.

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Hang on. Daniel bought tons and tons of surplus razor wire from the army about 7, 8 years ago or so. We were all shaking our heads about it. He said he had a buyer but we never heard anything about it after that. He used a heavy helicopter to hoist it off a ship in the China Sea. And we have the coordinates the helicopter pilot used to deliver it.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: You still have the coordinates?

JAN SHEFFIELD-RANDALL: Yes. I'm sure we do, scanned into our computer database.

VINCE SHEFFIELD: Well, I'll be damned.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Ernesto says the compound is surrounded on three sides by a river and there's a log boom with razor wire protecting it.

PERCY JONES: This changes things. Jan, get us those coordinates as soon as possible. I need to call Marc. Doc, if you're serious about going with us there's no time for you to come to San Diego from Seattle. We'll meet up someplace along the way.

MAYNARD TRAVESTOR: I'll have my pilot call your pilot.

SHAYLANE WILLIAMS: Does everybody agree let's keep the lid on this, especially from the Marshals Service?

PERCY JONES: If we can.
CHAPTER 51

At the Harimau Lelaki compound,

35 Miles Southeast of the Sibu Sarawak Airport

At the same time as the conference call:

4:00 a.m., Sunday, October 20, 1996, Sarawak Time

(2000 Hours Zulu Time)

Their new wardens had hurriedly deposited and fastened Davis, still in his Dacron harness, along with Ange, still nude and newly handcuffed, into the back of a surplus Korean War era ¾-ton U.S. Army truck with a canvas cover -- hurriedly perhaps because a monsoon rain was whipping up and their captors didn't want to get their pajamas wet, Davis thought -- not because they feared being seen on the tarmac at the end of the runway of the virtually empty airport. It was the Sibu airport, as it happened, although Davis didn't know that at the time. They had barely hoisted Davis into the vehicle when the chartered Learjet taxied away and took off with a roar and no doubt with sighs of relief in the cockpit.

The flapping canvas top at highway speeds was no match for the growing downpour, and there was only a metal floor with no benches or seating, along with conspicuously absent shock absorbers during the last half of the ride over rough road, so it was an uncomfortable hour before they got to the so-called Harimau Lelaki compound.

Matters went downhill from there. Davis and Ange were pulled from the vehicle into the driving rain in front of the high-walled facility and ushered through a metal gate, down a staircase, then back into the heavy rain and through a narrow fenced passage into a muddy field. As they went through the fenced corridor, two very excited tigers charged about and paced on the left side of the fence enclosure. Davis thought the frightful beasts looked thin and hungry.

After reaching the muddy open area, one of the creepy-looking, probably Chinese fellows took up a position with a rifle at the fence gate while the other unfastened Ange's handcuffs and then cut Davis's Dacron harness with a sharp knife in several places. Working without a word in the monsoon rain, he proceeded to relieve Davis of both his bondage and his clothing, so that, in the end, both Ange and Davis stood stark naked in the open while the two delivery guys headed for drier quarters without a glance behind them other than when one turned to lock the gate. When they were no longer in view, they triggered some kind of gate release that freed the tigers to roam along the fenced enclosure, an enclosure that stretched in both directions as far as Davis could see.

There was obviously no way to return the way they had come. Perplexed, Davis and Ange shrugged and then wordlessly waded out into the almost ankle deep mud to see what awaited them in the darkness. Nothing good, Davis supposed, but anything was better than standing there listening to the padding and occasional deep coughs of the hungry tigers.

Some light filtered through the rain from twin security lamps along a catwalk atop the building. The stiff wind created little chill factor because the air was warm and even the rain felt warm cascading on them as if they were taking a shower bath. They trudged ahead 100 meters or so, out of range of the tiger sounds and almost out of range of the security lights, until they see little more than their own nude bodies framed by dark and rain. It was disorienting. Ange stopped and started to laugh a little hysterically.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "This is just so absurd. We're like Adam and Eve." She turned to Davis. "Hold me, Davis." They came together in the warm wet, rain streaming down their faces, and kissed. Then they both started to laugh, a laughter that built contagiously for a moment, only ending when they kissed again.

"I was so afraid I might never have a chance to hold you," said Davis, lifting Ange's small body gently up into his taller one and finding that they fit together very pleasantly as she molded herself against him.

"I love the rain," said Ange. "It's washing the cigar smell off me."

Davis buried his face in her hair. "Mmm. No cigar smell at all. Clean and sweet as can be."

They kissed again, this time longer and with passion, so that Davis felt an erection growing rapidly. He tried to ease it away from her but she had felt it too and didn't make it easy for him. She lifted her leg into him and grinned. Then she broke free of him and put her hands on her hips.

"Davis! She said, reverting to Irish, "sure, you'll not be thinking to have your way with me here in the mud."

Davis returned her playful grin and they both broke into laughter again. "No, of course not," he managed.

"So what's this then?" said Ange. She stepped to him and put her hand on his cock.

"Now you're asking for it," said Davis. He reached for her. She broke away and stepped backwards, only to slip and fall on her butt in the mud.

"Ooh," she exclaimed at the unaccustomed sensation of mud oozing around her ass checks. Davis gave her his hand and pulled her up just as lightning struck -- almost simultaneously with an ear-splitting crack. In the brilliance of the sudden light Davis could see foliage just ahead, a single skinny palm tree waving energetically in the wind and low bushes wet with rain. Now they were truly night-blind but without waiting for their eyes to readjust they felt their way cautiously forward, seeking a less muddy area.

There was no escape from the rain, but they found a spot where a few matted palm fronds overlaid the soggy ground. Davis generously helped swipe away the mud from Ange's rear, taking care to do a thorough job of it despite her giggled protestations. Then they eased down onto the palm fronds to find as much comfort as they could sitting side by side.

Davis touched Ange on her shoulder and lightly traced the lines of her shoulder and neck with his fingers. Ange laid her head on his fingers, and trapped them gently with her fingers.

"It would be sort of magical if we made love out here in the rain," she said. "I can tell you're thinking about it just like I am."

"Yes."

"My body aches for you, even in this totally bizarre situation."

"Yes."

"But I can't. I'm sorry, Davis."

"I wouldn't want you to do anything you weren't comfortable with," said Davis softly, "or anything you weren't ready for."

Ange turn her face to Davis and kissed him tenderly. "I love you, Davis. I have told myself it was infatuation because I didn't think I had a chance, but the truth is I do love you. And I'm ready for you. Rain, wind and dark really don't mean anything to me at the moment and it's a lovely bed you've found for us. Very comfortable." She laughed.

"But?"

"They say there's a high chance of pregnancy if you go off the pill for seven days."

"You're worried about pregnancy? Oh, my God, that would make it even more magical, don't you see? Think about what a wonderful soul would choose to be conceived in the middle of such drama, someone who wants a challenge for sure. If it was a girl we could name her Stormy."

Ange tightened her fingers on him to interrupt him. "No Davis, you don't understand. I thought about this a lot when I thought Daniel was going to rape me. And he might still rape me. Plus, there's a chance I might get raped by his goons."

There was silence for a moment as Davis struggled to understand the implications of her fears. "What would you do if Daniel raped you and you got pregnant?"

Ange's voice was strained. "I would have his baby. There's no way I can explain it. I was raped when I was 19. I had an abortion. I won't do it again. But that's my karma, not yours. If we make love and then Daniel rapes me and I get pregnant... don't you see? We wouldn't know. I couldn't put you through that. The uncertainty. My worst nightmare. And you caught in the middle of it. And then what? Paternity tests and the wee babe's future at stake and our future too?"

"Oh, Ange," said Davis, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her to him, "You mustn't feel alone with this."

"I am alone with it, Davis," said Ange, but she didn't pull back from him.

"Ange, any wee babe of yours will be a wee babe of mine."

"Any other baby, perhaps, Davis. Any other baby in the world, except Daniel's. He murdered your family. He's a monster. No one could blame you for hating him."

"I don't hate Daniel, Ange." Davis turned her face to his and blinked away the rain so she could see the truth of it in his eyes. "I fear him because of what he might do, just as I fear those tigers. Once I hated him. That's true enough. But that was before I got to know him. He's crazy, that's all. If I was on a jury I would go for 'not guilty by reason of insanity'." When he tried to explain to me why he assassinated Mo and Silvie he was all over the paranoid map, all the way from the Crips and the Bloods to Patty Hearst. He murdered because of Patty Hearst. How crazy is that?"

"Patty Hearst probably matched up with his image of his mother, the terrorist."

"Whatever. In any case, he's crazy. It's tragic that he's crazy. It's tragic that he's a murderer. It's tragic what Michael did taking him from his mother. But hate isn't the answer. I know all about hate. Hate is what got us into this mess. Hate had me all fucked up, like a logjam. But now the dam has burst, because of you, because of our friends, and you know what? There's a huge reservoir of pent-up love in me. So look out, because here it comes and there's no stopping it."

"Oh, Davis, I do want to believe you."

"That's what you saw in my eyes on the plane."

"But it's so scary, the potential for such a mess down the line."

"Look, worst case scenario, Daniel rapes you."

"Okay."

"But he can't make you pregnant if you're already pregnant."

"Davis, you silver-tongued devil."

"Just sayin'."

Long pause.

"Davis, would you like a lap dance?"

Laughter.

"How much do you charge?"

"If you have to ask, you can't afford it."

"I've never had a lap dance."

"Trust me, you'll like it. Besides, you say you're all pent up."

"You don't know the half of it."

"That's what they all say. Anyway, this is new for me, too. I've never given a nude lap dance."

Banter suddenly aside, Davis found a sitting position that allowed Ange to turn with her back to him and lower herself very tentatively into position on her knees as she prepared to tease herself slowly onto his lap. There was to be no teasing, however. The combination of high and hard cock with gushy wet pussy preempted their mutual intention for slow and tender union. Instead, they found themselves lost in high passion from the instant Davis entered her. Whatever they had believed in their heads lovemaking would be between them, their bodies had their own ideas. Davis slid into her and stayed deep inside her while running his hands over Ange's breasts and belly with strong fingers, possessing her flesh. Ange encouraged him in his aggressiveness with her hands atop his. Then he began to move inside her.

The monsoon added to their intensity with gusts of warm water dousing them and blowing Ange's hair back. Ange screamed into the night and began to orgasm almost as soon as Davis began thrusting into her. Her pussy clenched at him and ejaculated hot fluids and she laughed triumphantly and then sobbed and cried as she continued to orgasm in response to Davis' unrelenting plunges into the very core of her.

When Davis released into Ange there was a electrifyingly explosive quality to it, not only because of the release of pent up love and desire but because Mother Nature chose that instant to join them in a spiritual ménage à trois by firing off a lightning bolt somewhere very close to them, and then another, accompanied by shattering sounds and deep thunder.
CHAPTER 52

The Harimau Lelaki compound

6:00 a.m., Sunday, October 20, 1996, Sarawak Time

Ange and Davis were ready to go exploring at first dawn. "Must be a Starbucks around here someplace," said Davis.

The wind and rain had quit not long after their rapturous joining. With growing light they could see why there was so much mud. There had been logging sometime in the last year and they had been left to wander in an area which was at the apex of several bulldozed roads. Further on they could see more by way of foliage, a few slender palm trees, a lot of low brush and a few small hillocks. Davis left Ange to her privacy during an impromptu potty break and headed a short distance to a small knoll for a better view.

Davis was watching his step carefully to avoid stepping on rocks in his bare feet or he might not have seen the snake. Its yellow and black coloration provided good camouflage in the dim light. Davis made a hasty, stumbling retreat.

"Snake," he said with emotion to Ange. "Big old guy. I almost stepped on it."

"Show me," said Ange, as if pleased by the news.

"Maybe we should just let it be. It was curled up, maybe sleeping. Why wake it up? I'm not much for snakes. Never have been."

"Well, luckily for you, I happen to be practically an expert on snakes. A girlfriend at Oregon State called me 'snake girl'."

"I remember, you majored in Fish and Wildlife."

The snake was still there in all its yellow and black-banded glory. "My, my," said Ange, after checking it out from a distance.

"You know what it is?"

"Oh, yes. It's a krait." She pronounced it 'crate.'

"Poisonous?"

"Venomous, yes, very. Much more than a cobra or a rattlesnake. Slow moving during the day but we should give it a wide berth just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds good to me. Think there might be more of these fellows around? I feel a bit nervous at the idea of walking barefoot around here."

"Wouldn't hurt to be careful. I'm sure glad you didn't step on it."

They quickly discovered a raised access road with a gravel base leading onto the property. They had to step with care to avoid sharp rocks but at least there was no danger of stepping on snakes. They walked hand-in-hand for a while, their nudity making them feel vulnerable like children.

As they walked it became increasingly clear that were in a secure, if bizarre, prison. The tiger enclosure and building were situated on a narrow neck of land that opened onto a parcel about 400 yards across and 600 yards deep, as determined by golfer Davis, who claimed to be able to estimate such things based on multipliers of his 250-yard driver distance. The shape of the lot was formed by the almost full circle meandering of a small river, the river being about 200 yards across at most points according to Davis, the golfer. The hard-packed access road followed the river, which allowed Davis and Ange to circumnavigate the entire containment from near one end of the tiger cage around the loop to the other. Along the river all the way around the parcel was a log boom 12 to 15 feet from the shore, cabled to heavy logs along the shallows. In the moat between the boom and the shore logs was a hodgepodge of razor wire, always several feet above the surface of the water and extending down into the riverbed.

"They don't even have to post a guard," said Davis. "We could be here all alone, just us and the tigers, and there'd be no way to get out." Not long after that comment they came across a human skull and bones, scattered around a forlorn little ridge of wet grass and briars. They gazed at it for a long moment without speaking. Then Ange took Davis by the hand and silently led him away.

As the sun rose in the sky, the heat and humidity increased alarmingly, promising an oppressive afternoon. Davis noticed pink on Ange's face and worried about sunburn on her fair skin. There was almost no shade to be found on the entire small peninsula other than was provided by a few scrawny palm trees. They finally found a cove, for want of a better word, along the river. It was about 15 feet long and was protected from the early sun by a small bluff about ten feet high. The shade might not last past noon but it provided relief for the time being. In addition it gave them a measure of concealment. Almost everywhere else in the containment area they could see the catwalk on the building, which of course meant anyone on the catwalk could also see them.

A few small springs spurted water from the earlier rain onto the tiny mud beach in the cove, which allowed them drinking water without having to test the river water. In addition, putting their backs against the rocky bluff allowed them to protect their backs from mosquitoes so that they could concentrate on looking out for the pesky insects on their fronts. Already their nude bodies were dotted with bites.

"Next year what say we winter in Maui?" said Davis, affecting an aristocratic tone. "These bloody tours to wherever we bloody are leave a lot to be bloody desired."

"I'm guessing New Guinea," said Ange.

"Well, I'm sending off a letter to the New Guinea tourist bureau and tell them what I think of their God-awful island."

"What do you suppose the Guineas – is that the correct term? – have got planted over there across the river?"

"I've been wondering about that," said Davis. From their vantage point they could see orchards of some kind, trees in neat lines on some parcels.

"They look to be palm trees," said Ange.

"Oil palm plantations," said Davis. "Yes, of course. That could mean we're somewhere in Indonesia."

Ange explored along the shore logs and came back with some small, brown freshwater mussels.

"Are they edible?" said Davis.

"Probably. I'm going to nibble on one and see if I have a negative reaction."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Could be dinner. You hungry yet?"

"What are they?"

"Just little freshwater mussels. Unionoids. Environmentalists study them all the time as bioindicators. I once searched a section of an Oregon river with a buddy looking for them. We only found a few, which was not a good sign."

"What would we do, eat them raw?"

"Just like oysters. Good for the libido, they say."

"Well, I guess I'd better have a few in case it rains again tonight." Davis looked hopefully at cumulous clouds over the mountains in the distance.

They sat in the shrinking triangle of shade and talked. There were a great many birds in the air, including some that dive-bombed into the water after fish. Frigate birds, Ange told him, and over the next hour she periodically interrupted their discussions to identify other birds, cormorants drying their wings, an egret, numerous gulls and terns, vultures high overhead and a fish eagle that she seemed to think was most remarkable.

Davis was impressed. Snakes, birds -- Ange was a font of knowledge on wildlife.

At one point they saw a small boat with sail making way in midstream.

"Ahoy," shouted Davis, but the lone boat skipper didn't seem to hear them. Not that Davis had any idea how they would manage to cross the razor wire to a rescue boat.

The boat with sail gave Davis a chance to show off his newfound knowledge of sailing. How could a boat sail against the wind? The sail acts as an airfoil, like an airplane wing, he explained, drawing the boat forward as the keel or centerboard compensates for the sideways motion. The fastest way to sail is with the wind coming from the side. Light sailboats can actually sail up to two times faster than the wind speed with the wind coming from the side.

Davis saw her looking at him with respect. He was aware of wanting to impress her but not with pseudo-knowledge. "Just stuff my old friend Bill Lasky has been teaching me," he said. "I'm not a sailor yet."

They talked about things they loved and things they didn't. Davis told Ange that he remembered fondly the days when the Admiral was away during the Vietnam War and his mother took him to Esalen, Woodstock, protests and jazz festivals, and that he had hated dinners and barbecues with Navy aristocracy when the Admiral was home in later years. He told Ange about the pleasures of learning to play the Blues with Jezebel in Chicago and how he really liked street people more than the hypocritical upper crust world of foundation parties and fundraisers.

Ange said she loved wilderness and wanted to help save it, as an attorney or activist. She was in harmony with the way Davis felt in whom she preferred to party with. She still felt close to friends from her exotic dancer times. She missed her parents. When she had come into money from the salary Davis had bestowed on her she had offered to buy her parents a home. But her father was a proud man, and also, Ange had to admit, the little ranch-style they had bought in the Sierra foothills near Sacramento suited them both quite well. Her father had become an organic gardener and they raised chickens for eggs.

Inevitably, the sun moved overhead and their shade whittled to nothing. The heat and humidity were both intense. They had to move or come up with a solution very soon. It was Ange who solved the problem.

"Mud," she said.

A half-hour after this profound epiphany they were both covered with mud from head to toe, front and back. As a bonus, the process of applying the mud to each other was entertaining and more than a little erotic. As the mud applications dried in the hot sun, they simply applied another handful of water from the springs along with another handful of mud, so in effect the mutual massage lasted all afternoon amid much joking and laughter.

"How do I look to you now, Davis? Still want to marry me?"

"You look like a refugee from a bad minstrel show. How did you come up with this?"

"It's what the elephants do."

"I'm sure they don't enjoy it this much."

"Oh, I'll bet they do. Elephants are some of the most loving creatures on earth. And they love taking care of each other."

Later in the afternoon a light breeze started off the water and the blast furnace effect of the sun mellowed, so that they began allowing the mud to dry and flake away. Even the peeling process was fun, "like a strip show," Ange said.

Suddenly they heard a vehicle engine and a horn beeping. Davis stepped onto a boulder and peered over the top edge of the small bluff. Ange joined him. The ¾-ton old Army truck drove to a spot not far from them and the Chinese-looking driver left the vehicle briefly to drape a plastic bag over a fern bush. Then he got back in the truck, turned it around and drove back towards the lone building. From the catwalk on the roof of the building Daniel stood, watching. Ange and Davis both saw him at the same instant. They quickly ducked out of sight although they couldn't have said why. Daniel obviously would have no problem finding them if he wished.

"Shit," said Davis.

"Fuck," said Ange.

It took some minutes before pride would allow either of them to scamper across the short distance on the access road to retrieve the plastic bag. Daniel was no longer on the catwalk but he might be watching from a window. No doubt he would enjoy watching them grasping at straws. But in the end curiosity got the better of them. Daniel walked to get the bag in as dignified a manner as he could muster, naked and mud-spackled, while Ange waited in the cove.

Inside the large plastic lawn bag were three items: Steve's Light Saber (!), a small packet of saltine crackers and a hand-written note.

My Dear Ange Parker,

Bad news, I'm afraid, bad for me and worse for you. But first you'll be glad to know, Ange Parker, I figured out your little game. Obviously, you had access to the tape my bitch mother sent trying to worm out of her sordid past. That's where you heard the lullaby. And of course you had the accent down from your own Mick background. Well done, I must say. You had me going there for a bit. Once again, I underestimated you.

And now the bad news. Long story short, for reasons beyond my control I must now initiate plan B, which does not include a trip stateside for you or ransom money for me. Too bad, but I've set aside a substantial fund for contingency situations so I'll be all right. You and your witless companion, on the other hand, are destined to be tiger poop in the very near future.

I dearly wish we could drag this out for a few weeks but conditions necessitate that I expedite matters, so I've determined to have the most fun I can in the short time allotted.

Here's the game, Ange Parker. Have you been on a foxhunt? Well, now is your chance to play the fox. I shall come for a visit tomorrow – alas I must make a side-trip tonight, but tomorrow we shall play hunter and prey. In the name of sportsmanship I am providing you with weaponry. I shall be armed only as an archer. However, I should warn you: I am an expert bowman, not to mention a professional hunter. You'll have your work cut out for you to survive for long.

Enclosed you will find your dinner for the evening. Unfortunately, I only budgeted for Davis' meals so you'll have to share.

As regards Davis Jones, keep him out of the way. The hunt is between you and me. If I see him, I'll have my man gun him down.

Ta ta then, little fox, until tomorrow and the hunt! Sleep well.

As the sun went down Ange and Davis dined on crackers and mussels. It rained for a time in a thundershower that washed the mud from their bodies, but neither felt amorous. They held each other lying on their mud mattress but neither slept. Some time after the rain quit a nearly full moon came out from behind the clouds. On a hunch, Ange used the moonlight and the glow from the Light Saber to check the tranquilizer darts. Her hunch proved accurate. The tiny hypodermic nodules were forward instead of back like they should be if the darts had been loaded.
CHAPTER 53

The Harimau Lelaki compound

5:00 a.m., Monday, October 21, 1996, Sarawak Time

"Wake up, Davis," said Ange, rolling away from him and rising to her knees. "I'm going to need your help."

"What are we doing?" said Davis, who hadn't really been asleep. He had actually been enjoying cradling Ange against him while she slept, thinking it might well be the last time he would hold her in the night.

"We're going snake hunting," said Ange, in a matter-of-fact tone as if it were no big deal.

"I see," said Davis, not rising to the bait. "Is that something best done in the dark, then?"

"We have a light now, the glow from the Light Saber, and I want to catch him before he crawls into his hole."

"You mean the poisonous guy that I almost stepped on?"

"That's the one."

"You mean the one that's more poisonous than a cobra?"

"Yep."

"And you want to catch him?"

"With luck. I'm guessing he might have his daytime hideaway somewhere near where you saw him."

Ange was already moving in that direction by the dim light from the Light Saber. Davis had to scramble to catch up. The little footpath to the access road was slippery from the rain the night before.

Amazingly, they found the snake. It was curled in a spot not far from where Davis had seen him the first time. Ange said she thought the rain might have filled his usual hideaway with water, so the normally nocturnal reptile was waiting it out for a bit.

"Here's what I need from you, Davis," said Ange. She unscrewed the end cap on the Light Saber, which in effect formed a small cup. Then she handed him a piece of plastic torn from the plastic bag provided by Daniel. She wrapped the cup in the plastic and gripped it firmly underneath.

"You must hold this firmly and not let it slip. I'm going to milk venom from the snake. His fangs will fit over the edge of the cup and puncture the plastic and the venom will spray into the cup. But you mustn't slip."

"Okay," said Davis bravely, but in his heart he was scared to death. He had had a snake phobia all his life.

Dawn was coming and they could see the snake clearly. Ange slipped the Light Saber under the belly of the krait and lifted. The snake uncoiled slowly. Ange lifted it into the air and reached down for its tail. Seizing it by the tail she lifted the entire 5-foot long snake into the air and let it turn helplessly. Then she laid its head on the ground and sought to capture its head with the end of the Light Saber. Several times she tried, until she finally pinned the head of the reptile to the ground. Quickly, before it could wrestle loose, she reached down and grabbed the krait by the neck close to its head and lifted it into the air.

"Okay, Davis, hold the cup firm." Ange put the snout of the snake against the edge of the cup, which caused its fangs to advance and puncture the plastic. Ange pushed and rubbed on the top of the snakes head, coxing as much venom from it as she could.

"Don't spill it, Davis," said Ange. "Leave on the plastic but just tilt the cup a little so when I pull it free, none drips on you."

Ange carried the snake a distance and gently released it. "Thanks, my friend," she said as the snake slithered away.

"That was fun," lied Davis with a smile. "Remind me to assist you with this hobby in the future."

"I should've told you what I had in mind," said Ange, "but it was a long shot. Still is. I can load the darts with venom. Daniel will think I'm shooting blanks. It could give me a chance if I can get close enough. The venom can cause initial paralytic shock. Could incapacitate him for a while.

"You know how to load the darts?"

"Steve showed me on the flight to Costa Rica. It's pretty simple. It's like loading a miniature hypodermic needle."

"How will you get close to him?"

"They say you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar."

Ange finished loading the venom darts with plenty of time to spare. Their cove was just losing the last of its shade with the sun high overhead when they heard the sound of a vehicle. They walked to meet it, Ange taking the lead with the Light Saber and Davis staying far behind her, ready to quickly return to the cover of the cove if the promised rifle got pointed in his direction. The vehicle, which they hadn't seen previously, was a large, flatbed Isuzu, complete with a tiger cage and an obviously aroused tiger in it. Daniel was in the driver's seat. He was accompanied by one of the Chinese-looking guys.

As the truck approached, Ange began a pre-planned exotic dance routine. She used the Light Saber as a dildo, moving it between her legs suggestively and then licking the end of it and sucking on it lasciviously. As the truck slowed to a stop in front of her, she went to her knees and lifted her hands in a prayer position. Daniel put his head and shoulder outside his window.

"Ange Parker, I'm disappointed. You're spoiling the hunt with this disgusting display. And it won't do you any good. Be a good little fox and trot yourself out into the brush so we can do this properly."

"Daniel, in the name of God, have mercy on me. I'll do anything you ask. Anything. I don't want to die."

"You pathetic slut. I gave you a chance to die with dignity and instead you grovel like a shameless hussy."

"I'd be good to you, Daniel, if you'd just give me a chance."

"I don't even want you anymore. Look at you. You're filthy dirty. But I'll tell you what. A test. Drink my piss."

"Okay. Anything. And you'll let me live?"

"We'll see. First you have to prove yourself."

"I'll do it."

"From the faucet."

"Okay, Daniel. Sir."

"Drop the tranc gun. I'm not going to make it that easy."

Ange laid the Light Saber down to the side, but within reach.

"Stupid bitch," said Daniel, stepping down from the truck. He took several steps until he was directly in front of her, then, while unzipping, he turned his head towards his companion in the truck.

"Get the video camera on this. For the record."

He turned back to Ange and took three darts in rapid succession. Thwup, thwup, thwup. The first took him in the groin, the second in the chest and the third in the neck.

"You idiot," he began, "did you think..." And then his throat seized and he staggered backwards, hands on his throat, and fell to his knees. He managed to crawl to the truck and half onto the seat. With great effort he got his hands on the large-bore over-and-under game rifle from the window mount and pulled it free, but in the next instant Davis, after a 40-yard dash, reached past him and yanked it from his failing grasp. In the meantime, the goon from the passenger side had gone to the front of the truck and was aiming a handgun at Ange, who raised her arms in surrender from her sitting position. In that instant Daniel made a fatal error, in desperation and confusion, by pulling the lever that sprang the gate on the tiger cage.

The tiger, who had been teased, poked at (on a daily basis) and half-starved to make her vicious, came around the side of the truck in a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow, took her principal tormentor by the shoulder and tossed him fifteen feet through the air. The fellow hadn't even seen her coming, so focused was he on trying to decide whether he should shoot Ange.

The tiger padded to the man and took a few seconds to savor the crunchiness of her victim, but her rage was by no means appeased. When Ange started to cautiously crawl towards the possible safety of the truck, the tiger looked up, came to a crouch position and her tail twitched once, just like in the awful video Daniel had shown them. In an instant she would charge.

In the meantime, Davis had come around the truck and stood behind Ange with the 500/416 Rigby Magnum on his shoulder, holding down on the cat. "Sight-picture," said the Admiral's voice in his head. "Lean into it." In the split second the tiger began her charge the rifle discharged with a roar and recoil and the mighty cat fell dead on the spot, shot through the heart.

All this high drama had taken place in less than fifteen seconds but it had seemed to take much longer. Ange and Davis looked at each other in stunned amazement. They looked at the tiger. Was the huge animal really dead? It certainly looked very still. Daniel's thug was beyond hope, his head and chest terrible to look at. Daniel himself was alive and hunched in a ball of paralytic misery.

Ange went to him. "Daniel, listen to me. Davis and I have got to try to get out of here. You'll probably feel better soon but you won't be better. You need anti-venom medication for a krait snakebite or you might die. Do you understand me?"

He seemed to acknowledge her, which would have to do. She turned to Davis. "Any ideas? Do we try to ram through the main gate with the truck?"

"No," said Davis. "Look on the catwalk." The other goon was there. "No way we can get through a double gate with the other tiger and a guy with a rifle. Are you a strong swimmer?"

"Not really. Sorry."

"Do you think you could swim across the river?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Then we'll have to work our way along the side of the river, but I think I know a way we can get across the razor wire."

"How?"

"We'll drive the truck off the little bluff so it crashes onto the wire and makes a bridge for us."

"Good on you, Davis. That could work."

"Let's get out of here. No time to waste. Is there anything in the truck we could use for floatation once you get in the water?"

Ange took a quick look. "Ahha! Daniel's satchel is here. It's made to float, remember?"

"Perfect. Put the strap over your shoulders and hop in."

After Davis positioned the truck on the road twenty yards from his planned launch spot, he pitched the fifty thousand dollar fancy engraved Rigby rifle into the river. If Daniel recovered from the initial paralytic shock, he didn't want him taking potshots at them from the shore. Daniel's recurve bow followed. However, the bow fell short and hung up on the razor wire.

Davis quickly looked around the cab and behind the seats for something to tie down the steering wheel and found a jumper cable that worked perfectly for lashing the steering wheel to the passenger-side window framing across the cab. Then he propped the Light Saber between the accelerator and the seat cushion. With the engine running he adjusted the driver's seat forward until the engine was at a high rev. A rifle round pinged against the vehicle. The guy on the catwalk was shooting but with little accuracy at 500 yards.

"Stand back," he shouted to Ange over the engine noise. He sat on the edge of the driver's seat with his feet outside, released the brakes, jammed the automatic transmission into drive and then stepped gingerly out of the truck as it lurched forward and headed for the bluff.

Davis couldn't see the results of his scheme at first, but Ange had a good view of it from her vantage point. She smiled at him: "Cool." Then she ducked for cover down the edge of the bluff because a bullet had slammed into the dirt in front of her.

The tactic of using the truck to create a bridge over the wire could hardly have worked better. They were able to scamper over the slightly tilted tiger cage and onto the snub-nosed cab of the truck with no problem. They had to be careful as they dove into the water because there were a few curls of razor wire that had been pushed forward over the boom, but they accomplished this without accident and soon found themselves swimming into the open river. And none too soon. Looking back they saw the second tiger pacing along the top of the bluff. He must have been released in a last ditch effort to stop them.

Ange reported, in a somewhat nervous voice, that the satchel felt like a pair of water wings. "If you wait up for me I'm sure I can kick my way to the other side," she said, breathing hard from her exertions. "Is there a reason you want to cross the river?"

"I thought I saw the edge of a dock or building of some kind over there," he explained, coming alongside her to swim with a sidestroke. He swam on the side that put his body between her and the rifleman on the catwalk and at the same time he watched for tiny splashes from bullets. He saw none. They would present a small target in the water at 600 yards and the sun would be in the eyes of anyone shooting from that angle. In addition, the rifleman would not be able take up a closer position along the shore because the released tiger now owned that real estate.

Davis stayed beside Ange all the way to mid-stream, giving her small assists and sneaking a feel or two as he gained confidence that they were out of danger from rifle fire. With both hands gripping her makeshift water wings, she was helpless to fend him off but she swore vengeance. They grew giddy with escape emotions and relief after the horrors left behind, which is perhaps why they were not aware of a boat approaching until it was upon them. It was a long craft, made of wood, somewhat like a canoe but it looked twice as long as the 17-foot Grumman Davis and Mo had used to paddle about Lake Washington. It slid softly by them propelled by a very silent engine of some kind, making only a soft putt-putt exhaust sound, so it was no wonder they had not heard it, given their chattering and laughter. The engine, Davis was to learn later, was a 4hp Curlew British Seagull. The lone boatman was a scrawny, bare-chested youth with a bright smile. He reminded Davis of a high-cheek-boned Native American.

"Taxi?" said the young man.

"Best offer we've had all day," said Davis.

"Hold on to the side while I steer to a shallow place," said the youth.

The shallow place he had in mind was not shallow enough for the swimmers to stand, but it did allow the helmsman to reach bottom with a long pole. He used the pole to correct for the tipping of the boat as Davis and then Ange managed with some effort to climb aboard.

The young man reached to shake hands with Davis, respectfully taking care to avoid looking in Ange's direction. "My name is Andy anak Tulih," he said. "Everybody calls me Andy. My father was watching from our boat dock. He said you escaped Harimau Lelaki and no one has escaped from there before. He wants to know how you did it."

"You can tell your father that I floated like a butterfly," said Ange, "and when Harimau Lelaki came close to look at me, I stung him like a bee."

Andy laughed. "My father will like that explanation." He shook his head with amusement, still not looking directly at Ange. "Here," he said, offering a brown bottle to Davis.

"What is it?"

"It is called Tuak. It is a rice wine traditionally offered to guests by my people. Very strong."

"Who are your people?" said Ange, taking first sip after Davis uncorked and handed the bottle to her.

Andy looked in the distance, perhaps to avoid looking at the nude woman, but the effect of his gaze was to emphasize his pride. "I am of the Iban, known in the past as Sea Dayaks, and still we are good with boats."

"If you don't mind my asking," said Davis, "where are we, Indonesia?"

"No," said Andy, amused, "you would have to go to the other side of the island to be in Indonesia."

"And what island is that, exactly."

Andy looked at Davis to see if he was joking. "Borneo," he said, finally, "on planet Earth. What planet are you from, exactly?"

Ange laughed in mid-sip, spraying a little of the wine. "I'm sorry, Andy. You must understand, Harimau Lelaki brought us here as prisoners and never told us where we were. I'm Ange, and this is Davis. Thank you so much for picking us up."

"You are very welcome," Andy said, with his eyes down. "We have great hatred for Harimau Lelaki and my father wishes to help you in any way we can. I wish it also."

"Is there a major city nearby?" said Davis, taking his turn at the wine.

"Sibu," said Andy. "Very big city on the Rejang. About 50 Kilometers. The Rejang River is flooding from the rains and full of logs but I could take you there. My father said you would want to go to Sibu but he said I should warn you. Full of gangsters. The gangsters are friends of the wealthy loggers and the loggers are friends of Harimau Lelaki. The government of Sarawak turns a blind eye. Very dangerous."

"Dangerous for you?" said Ange.

"No, because I will take you to the edge of the city and then come home. But dangerous for you if you have no clothes and come to the attention of the authorities. I'm sorry. I should have brought you clothes but we had none at the boat dock." Andy glanced nervously at Ange.

"How long will it take us to get to Sibu," said Davis.

"If the moon is out and I can see the logs, not so long, but if we have to stop then perhaps tomorrow noon."
CHAPTER 54

Along the Rejang River

5:00 p.m., Monday, October 21, 1996, Sarawak Time

It took Andy only two hours to make it to the Rejang. The river was a very impressive body of water, obviously at or near flood stage and darkly muddy compared to the meandering tributary. It appeared to be a mile wide, reminding Davis of the Columbia River in Oregon. There were indeed dangerous looking logs bobbing in midstream, many looking like giant octopi with roots spreading high above the water. Andy skirted them by staying away from the center channel.

After an hour or so on the Rejang, the sun began to settle towards the horizon, resulting in a spectacular sunset. The muddy waters glowed like polished copper.

Davis and Ange had taken up seats in the bow, Davis foremost with the long pole at the ready to ward off logs at Andy's command. Ange sat immediately behind him with her breasts warm on his back, using his body to block the sun's rays from her delicate skin. Andy had a difficult time watching for obstacles ahead. Coming of age in a very conservative culture, he had never seen a naked woman before.

"I think this might be the part they call going off into the sunset to live happily ever after," said Davis, as the vista reached its penultimate moment, jungle on the shores bathed in golden half-light.

There was a long silence.

"Davis, we need to talk."

Davis tensed. Oh, oh.

"It's just that we need to get clear on some things," said Ange.

"Okay."

"I'm not sure I want to get married, at least not yet."

No response.

"I want to have a baby. Your baby. I love you. I want to be with you. I just can't quite decide to get married yet."

"Why not?"

"All due respect to the Goddess Hera, I'm not the wife type."

"What type are you?"

"I'm a warrior type."

There was a very long pause, almost a half-minute.

"Of course you are," said Davis at last. "I love the warrior in you."

"And I don't think you're a husband type, either."

"At the moment I'm ready to give it a hell of a shot."

"I just don't think you'd be happy with..."

"No, no. Stick with what you want for yourself, Ange. I'll worry about me."

"Okay. Look, thanks to you I've got millions in the bank. I can help a lot of people. I'm an attorney. I can pitch in big on environmental problems. I feel like a racehorse at the starting gate. I'm not ready to settle down. It's a question of footwork, like a boxer. I want to be light on my feet, without expectations and responsibilities."

"Give me a minute to think."

Davis took several minutes to think. As he thought he gazed off over the golden muddy water and ran his fingers along Ange's arms where they wrapped tenderly about him.

Finally he spoke very softly: "If you don't want to marry me, Ange, it's okay. I'm opening my heart to the idea. You want to feel free and so that's what I want for you, too. I started to say, well, you could be married and free at the same time; and you could be light on your feet and change the world just as well married to the likes of me as not because I love freedom as much as you do, for me and for you.

"However, then I realized it isn't me that's the problem. It's the rest of the world, because of the way they'd look at you, Mrs. Sheffield, wife of the billionaire. It's funny, because I was once in that role as Mo's husband, so I understand. At parties no one would hit on you."

Ange turned her head and frowned in denial that getting hit on mattered.

"Just kidding," said Davis. "They'd still hit on you."

Ange gave him a slap on the top of his head for joking.

"Seriously," said Davis, "I'm thinking a pre-nuptial agreement could make it work."

"Yes, of course, but I don't see how that...."

"If we split up, you get everything."

"Davis, quit joking."

"I'm not joking."

"Davis, stop. You can't possibly be serious."

"You say you don't want to feel like a wife. You want to feel free, unencumbered. You want to be a powerful warrior and change the world. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, but...."

"Well, what I want is to watch you do it, to raise our kids, to go on tour with Johnny and Jez and to go sailing with Barnacle Bill."

"What about Sheffield Industries? What about the Green Helmet program."

"I'd love to leave all that to you. If we were married, you could be chair at Sheffield if you wanted."

It took Ange a time before she answered. "You have a way with words, Davis. But even if there were a crazy pre-nup like that, you know I'd never in a million years exercise it. It would just be words on paper."

"Not if we publicized it. Then the whole world would know that you were nobody's little wife."

Ange thought about that for a moment.

"And then they'd hit on me at parties, wouldn't they?"

Davis laughed but didn't get a chance to answer because Andy shouted from the back of the boat, "Log!" and it was time for Davis to show his stuff with the pole.
CHAPTER 55

Camp Oya: Headquarters of the 10th Ranger Battalion

of the Royal Ranger Regiment of the Malaysian Army

6:00 p.m., Monday, October 21, 1996

As the sun set on the Rejang River, making navigation difficult for Andy and his longboat, the approaching nightfall also complicated matters for Rear Admiral Percy Allen Jones (Ret.) and his anxious companions. Percy surreptitiously glanced at his watch from time to time while working his way through the informal but vital gab session aimed at enlisting the help of the commanding officer of an elite Malaysian Army battalion headquartered at Camp Oya in Sibu.

Retired Navy Seal Lieutenant Commander Marc Boles wasn't concerned about the time because he had no illusions that they could mount any kind of operation before morning. Boles was dressed in light khaki appropriate to the tropics and to his undercover identity as a tourist, but there was no mistaking his military bearing. He bore a resemblance to Christopher Reeve, the actor who played Superman and had tragically become a quadriplegic after being thrown from a horse in 1995; enough of resemblance that in 1987 Warner Brothers had hired Boles as a stunt double for Reeve in Superman IV.

Lieutenant Colonel Ismail bin Yacob was clearly impressed by the surprise visit of a retired American admiral, a former U. S. Navy lieutenant commander and a distinguished doctor. His battalion Sergeant Major Akal ak Ujang was also impressed. He had initially greeted the visitors and at once called his colonel. The call was a risky matter under most circumstances because the colonel didn't like to be bothered at home. However, in this case the sergeant major had done the right thing.

Tea was ordered, of course, and poured by the sergeant major. Almost an hour was consumed in the exchange of what Doc later referred to as "war stories." The two naval officers understood well the importance of establishing Admiral Jones' credentials. There are admirals and there are admirals. The Seventh Fleet had been active in the China Sea and Admiral Jones' involvement had been distinguished. Of course, he didn't lay out his "war stories" as a vita, or in an obvious way, but rather, he skillfully managed to make casual mention of a number of common cause actions and cooperative exercises in which he had appreciated the professionalism of Malaysian armed forces.

It was also important that Lieutenant Colonel Ismail bin Yacob be given plenty of opportunity to relate the storied history of his battalion and regiment as well; and indeed, in less pressing circumstances his flourished descriptions would have made for a fascinating history lesson. Once composed of Iban trackers and scouts, the soldiers of the Royal Regiment are the only ones in the Malaysian Army entitled to call themselves "Rangers." Marc Boles saw a parallel with Navy Seals and said so. The colonel beamed with pleasure.

At last, with the sky turning to dusk, the discussion came around to the central purpose of the visit. No, there was nothing whatsoever official about the visit. They were acting on their own initiative to try to bypass red tape and rescue the admiral's son and his friend. Of course, they knew they couldn't take action without some kind of authorization but they were hoping that the 10th Battalion might have access to a helicopter and perhaps could help them with a fly-over to take a look at the so-called Harimau Lelaki facility, for which they had coordinates. From this they might learn something that would aid them in their efforts to locate their missing persons.

Percy thought at first there might be some reluctance around the helicopter request. However, attitudes changed visibly when the name Davis Sheffield was mentioned. The hostages Davis and Ange were international news and there would be credit and glory for a unit that could help in their rescue. Suddenly the answer was "Yes, of course." They would have to ask for a helicopter to be sent from Kuching, which was a short distance by air and should be no problem and they should have it ready at dawn. Happy to be of service. Hoped the admiral could get his son back. Anything they can do to help, just ask.
CHAPTER 56

Along the Rejang River

Early morning, Tuesday, October 22, 1996

In the hours between nightfall and moonrise, Andy had to put into a backwater for a few hours. While Davis and Ange waited, Andy foraged somewhere in the dark and came back with two huge fruits which he called bachang.

"It looks like mango," said Ange, salivating like Pavlov's dog as she held one close to peer at it by starlight. "Smells like mango, too."

"Yes," said Andy, "wild mango. Many wild mangos in Sarawak." Andy used a knife to peel and remove the pits from the succulent, eggplant-sized fruits and handed them to the starving, nude Americans, who ate them with both hands like slippery watermelons, juices running down their bodies in the dark.

"Oh, Holy Mother," said Ange, laughing with pleasure between bites.

"Yes," agreed Andy, but with a different meaning in mind as he could see the outline of her juicy breasts.

With the rising of the moon some time later, Andy decided visibility was adequate for navigation so they started downriver again. They could see lights from buildings along the sides of the river and a glow representing the lights of Sibu in the distance.

Some time between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m. – not having a watch, Davis had to guess – by moonlight and pre-dawn light they thought they could see a highway along the side of the river.

"Yes, but it is flooded in places," said Andy, "so no cars."

Soon after, just by the earliest dawn light, on the other side of the highway, Davis saw what looked distinctly like a golf greens flag. Andy said yes, it was the Sibu Country Club.

For a reason Davis couldn't explain, perhaps because a golf course seemed like safe terrain, he decided they should go ashore. After thanking Andy profusely and Andy's father as well, Davis and Ange managed to climb out of the longboat without having to swim, crossed the road, which was not flooded in this area, and slipped easily around flowering bougainvillea bushes onto a lush fairway next to the 6th green as indicated by the number on the greens flag. No golfers or course maintenance workers were to be seen. A low fog hung across most of the 6th fairway with shadows still dark in the undergrowth along the sides.

"Hang on a moment," said Ange. She picked up a rake beside a deep greenside sand bunker and started digging in the sand with it. "Help me," she said to the puzzled Davis. "I want to bury Daniel's satchel."

Davis didn't ask for an explanation but simply went to his knees in the bunker and started digging with his fingers. In a few moments they had dug a hole in the sand about two feet deep and they had reached soil at the bottom of the sand base. Ange deemed this sufficient. They laid the satchel at the bottom of the hole and refilled it, raking the bunker smooth afterwards.

"Should we say a few words over it?" joked Davis, brushing sand off his knees.

"If the local cops are arresting nudists these days," said Ange, by way of explanation, "I'd just as soon not have them get their hands on it."

"Now I guess we should go check on the greens fees, maybe sneak in a round before breakfast," said Davis, and they started along the cart path in the direction of the 6th tee-box.

Just before they got to the 4th green by following the cart path, a helicopter could be heard at some distance. How amazed would Davis have been if he had known that his father, Doc and his long-ago San Diego men's doubles tennis partner Marc Boles were aboard the helicopter?

Davis predicted that they would see golf players at the 3rd fairway, and sure enough, when they got to the 3rd green they could see them in the distance on the par-five fairway, two men and two women, addressing balls and swinging clubs, the men in shorts and the women in long white pants and long-sleeved white shirts that made them look like cricket players.

"How did you know where they would be?" said Ange.

"There are always some hardcore golfers who tee off at the crack of dawn," said Davis. "It would take them about this long to get here."

When the two-cart foursome got close enough to see the naked couple walking along the cart path, the golfers stopped, conferred, left their golf balls on the grass, and drove away back down the path as fast as their electric carts would carry them. The men looked back over shoulders furtively and the women hunched forward urging more speed from their carts like the devil was chasing them.

Davis and Ange rounded the corner from the 3rd fairway tee-box, walked through a garden and alongside ponds protecting the par-three 2nd and then crested a small ridge to see a phalanx of golf carts spanning almost the entire width of the 1st fairway. The carts were abandoned and the golfers, mostly men with a smattering of cricket players, were huddled in the middle of the fairway with every face and every eye watching the approaching nudists.

There was, however, one fearless soul in his golf cart who ventured out ahead of the others and headed their way. When he was a dozen yards away he braked and got out of the cart to walk towards them. He was a tall, muscular white man, looking fit in dapper tennis garb. He sported a waxed, pointed tip mustache. He smiled and looked at them with apparent amusement.

"Mister Sheffield, I presume," he said.

Davis was stunned speechless, but he did manage to extend his hand in response to the man's offer to shake.

"Major Paul Mackey, Royal Marines, at your service, sir." Sir sounded like suh. "Pardon the small humor. Always did want to do the Stanley-meets-Livingston bit and I couldn't pass it up."

"And you would be Ms. Ange Parker, I should think," said Mackey, who took Ange's hand and bestowed a courtly kiss on it complete with a small bow. As a follow-up gesture, he pulled his shirt over his head and offered it to her. Ange took it gratefully. Thanks to Mackey's large frame the shirt fell nicely low on her, allowing a timely modesty.

"Thank you for that," said Ange.

Mackey turned to Davis. "For you, sir, I'm afraid a golf towel will have to suffice until we can fetch you up to the pro-shop." He stepped to the golf cart and unfastened a large towel from his bag on the back, motioning at the same time that they should take seats in the golf cart, which they did promptly, glancing a little nervously at the row of spectators and carts arrayed against them.

"Never mind that lot," said Mackey, tossing the towel to Davis. "I daresay they rather fancy you've gone against their dress code. Called the locals, I shouldn't doubt, which is a bit of a bother but we'll put it right soon enough."

Mackey wheeled the cart in a wide circle on the fairway but instead of returning to the cart path, he headed straight up the fairway towards the center of the fleet of carts and gawking golfers. The players scattered to make room for the oncoming cart. The bare-chested Major Mackey sped through their ranks while bestowing small waves and a thumbs-up to one side and the other.

"All will be forgiven once they know who you are and then they'll be all aflutter and calling home to tell the tale."

"How exactly do you happen to know who we are?" said Davis with a wry smile.

"No fancy detective work, that," said Mackey. "You're all over the BBC, battles in the jungle and all that, and then I had on my two-way coming for a bit of golf this morning and heard the 10th Rangers dispatchers. Biggest news of the year, you chaps in the area. I'm attached to the 10th Rangers, military advisor, don't you know, as if they needed one, and they'll be thinking I missed the action. Hah. Laugh's on them, what?"

"What battle in the jungle?" said Ange.

Mackey glanced at Ange. "Hah. You don't know. But you wouldn't, would you? You've only just escaped, haven't you? Not even the shirts on your back. Hah. Frightfully good show in Colombia. Your chaps won the day. Showed the buggers a thing or two. No losses on your side. Good news, what?"

"Frightfully good," said Ange, tears starting down her cheeks.

Davis glanced behind them as they neared the lodge-like combination pro-shop, restaurant and hotel. A caravan of golf carts had followed them. Mackey came to a stop in front of a clothing and golf shoe storefront and escorted them inside. He whispered something to the startled clerk, tossed a credit card on the counter, grabbed a shirt from a rack, slipped it on and then motioned for Ange and Davis to pick out some clothes. In the meantime the clerk had scurried out of the room.

"Dress quickly," said Mackey. "Best to look smart before the gendarmes show up. I'm off to radio the 10th. Jeep's in the lot."

Mackey was back in short order, radio mission accomplished. By then Davis and Ange had dressed and found golf shoes with soft spikes that could pass for street wear. Mackey brought them sandwiches from the pub and then stood guard duty outside the store to hold off the gathering locals while waiting for Rangers to show up.

Less than ten minutes later, a white limousine with dark-tinted windows slid to a halt in the circle drive. Two men dressed in white linen suits, one black and the other white, exited the vehicle, asked questions of the crowd and quickly found Ange and Davis where they were working on their second sandwich.

They flashed identifications and introduced themselves as Murphy and Smith, U.S. State Department, sent to rush Ange and Davis safely out of the situation before they got caught up in the Sarawak justice system such as it was. The men seemed relaxed and professional but very much in a hurry. Ange and Davis should please bring their sandwiches and leave with them at once.

Major Mackey was mildly concerned. How could these men be State Department? There was no U.S. Embassy on the Island of Borneo. And where had they come from that they could arrive so quickly? However, it did make sense for Ange and Davis to make a prompt getaway and not have to face questions from the local police. The State Department must have mobilized to handle the high profile situation. So Mackey stood by while Ange and Davis got into the limousine. But then he remembered. Hah. He had intended to provide them with a copy of the London Times with the story of the jungle battle. Quickly grabbing his copy from where he had laid it while Ange and Davis were eating, Mackey ran from the building to catch the limousine before it left. He tapped on the window and held up the newspaper. He couldn't see inside. The limo started moving. Mackey rapped again on the window, harder, but the limo picked up speed and made the turn around the hotel reception circle at a speed entirely too fast for the safety of pedestrians who might happen along.

"Bloody hell," said Mackey out loud. Now he was quite concerned. Something was obviously not right. He headed for his jeep to radio the Ranger's dispatcher with the changed situation.
CHAPTER 57

At the Harimau Lelaki compound

5:00 a.m., Tuesday, October 22, 1996

At the same time that Davis and Ange were making the acquaintance of Major Mackey, the helicopter with Admiral Percy Jones, Doc and Marc Boles aboard, along with Lieutenant Colonel Ismail bin Yacob, Sergeant Major Akal ak Ujang and a pilot, made a wide turn around the coordinates provided for the Harimau Lelaki compound. There was no visible movement below but there appeared to be bodies here and there. The situation looked grim enough that Colonel bin Yacob decided to bring the helicopter down for a closer look. Moving slowly around the compound at a hundred feet off the ground they identified three human bodies and two tiger bodies. They also saw that the gates were open and that a pair of vehicles were hooked together at waterside, one half in the water.

Doc said no, the bodies were not Ange and Davis. He felt sure of it. Percy was not so sure. Seeing that one of the bodies was badly mauled, probably by a tiger, he felt sick.

They landed to investigate. Ange and Davis were not among the bodies, and a quick search of the building area failed to find them. Daniel Sheffield, his body found near the center of the compound, was dead. His hands were tied behind him and from the looks of his face he had been badly beaten. He was shot in the back of the head. Another man, found near Daniel, was heavily mauled, no doubt by one of the tigers. The dead tiger nearby had been shot once through the heart by a heavy caliber bullet. An Oriental man found near the building area was dead from multiple gunshot wounds, and a tiger near the river had apparently died from multiple small-bore wounds.

The scene posed many mysteries. "Touch nothing," said the Ranger lieutenant colonel. "This is a matter for police investigators." No one disagreed.

The two vehicles posed another mystery. An Isuzu truck with a cage on the back had apparently been driven into the river. An antique U.S. Army vehicle with a winch had been used to drag the larger truck half out of the water. And, just to challenge any Sherlock Holmes-types who might be assigned to the case, a modern recurve archery bow was hanging on the razor wire beyond the trucks like some kind of sculpture piece.

"Perhaps these fellows ran into a little too much to handle when they kidnapped your son, Admiral," said Sergeant Major ak Ujang.

"Davis didn't do any of this," said Percy. "He would never shoot a helpless person and I'll guarantee you he didn't shoot a tiger. He never could hit the broadside of a barn."

"The question is," said Marc Boles, "who did do it?"

Doc walked up to the river's edge where the others were talking. He had been on the Sat phone with Shaylane.

"CIA," said Doc. "Shaylane says her Colonel Ernesto says black ops. A clean-up crew. Ernesto is apparently very certain about this. Daniel has been afraid they might catch up with him before he had a chance to hide evidence and set up some kind of fail-safe. Apparently they did."

"So the CIA cleaned up," said Marc Boles, "and that's the end of the Daniel story. But where in the hell are Davis and Ange Parker?"

"Playing golf it would appear," said Lieutenant Colonel bin Yacob, who walked up to the group from where he had gone to meet his helicopter pilot. The pilot had left his helicopter, a breach of protocol, but for good reason because he had gotten a radio communication of interest.

"Your son is at the Sibu Country Club with his friend Ms. Parker. Our British advisor Major Mackey chanced into them there. Major Mackey recommends we come there quickly before local police arrive. I agree. I will inform the authorities of the situation here and leave my sergeant major here to meet with them. In the meantime, we should go immediately."

Doc, Percy and Marc exchanged broad grins and headed for the helicopter.

They had almost gotten to the country club when the helicopter pilot received another communication. The dispatcher put Major Mackey through to talk directly with the colonel.

The colonel frowned as he listened. He shook his head. He looked out of the window as if trying to see something on the ground.

Doc looked at Percy. Now what?
CHAPTER 58

In a limousine northbound on Highway 1 from Sibu

6:00 a.m., Tuesday, October 22, 1996

Davis and Ange were in the limo only seconds when they realized they were trapped. There were no door or window latches and there was a Plexiglas barrier between them and the so-called State Department guys in the front. As the vehicle started forward Major Mackey came alongside and tapped on the glass. Ange desperately tried to signal him but he couldn't see her through the dark window. The limo careened out of the Country Club grounds, down a side road for several miles and then onto a major highway. They were speeding down the highway before the Plexiglas was partially lowered.

"I believe you have something that belongs to us," said the black man.

"Where in the hell are you taking us?" said Davis.

"To a de-briefing," said the black man. "Nothing to worry about. But it would simplify matters for both of us if you'd let us know the whereabouts of a certain satchel of information."

"Daniel's satchel?" said Ange. "The last I saw of it, it was in a truck that Daniel used to carry his tigers. Why? Was it important?"

"We searched the truck," said the black man.

"I doubt that," said Davis. "The truck is underwater in a mess of razor wire."

"Does this look familiar?" said the black man, holding up Ken's Light Saber where they could see it. "We got it from the truck. And forget this 'Why? Was it important?' bull. Daniel Sheffield told us you knew it was fucking important. He said you knew most of what was in it."

"You've talked to Daniel?" said Ange. "Is he okay? Did he obtain the anti-venom?"

"Sadly," said the white man, who was driving and didn't turn around so they couldn't see his face, "he didn't make it."

"Look," said the black man, lowering the Plexiglas all the way down and sticking his head through the space, along with the barrel of a 9mm Glock 17 for intimidation purposes, "you knew it was important. You wouldn't have thrown it away. We want it. We will have it. And you will tell us where it is. All that is a matter of simple fact. How this happens, well, that's up to you. Understood?"

Ange took a moment to deliberate while the black guy with the Glock waited patiently. All the time in the world, his indifferent eyes seemed to say, until a helicopter flew low overhead and made a tight circle in front of them. Then his eyes said, what the fuck? and the Plexiglas slid up between them again.

With the Plexiglas barrier, Davis and Ange couldn't hear what was being said by the men in front, but they could see through the windshield when the helicopter landed on the highway a quarter-mile ahead to block the road. Somebody with a rifle got out and stood in the highway, rifle at port arms in an authoritative manner. At a distance the fellow looked to Davis almost like Marc Boles, which was impossible, of course. Wishful thinking. Of all the people in the world Davis would like to see at the moment, Marc Boles was at the top of the list.

The limo skidded to a halt, turned around in a series of quick maneuvers and sped away back down the highway. A few minutes later the helicopter flew over them again, no doubt planning to land ahead on the road once more. It was a little like a baseball run-down. But almost immediately the driver turned down a muddy side road into an oil palm plantation area where small trees had been planted in rows. In a half mile he turned again into a mature oil palm plantation where the trees were uniformly sixty feet tall and planted close together in neat rows on the gently sloping plain. The symmetrical tree branches nearly met at the canopy, forming an essentially helicopter-proof barrier. It might even be difficult for the guys in the helicopter to keep them in sight under the foliage. They drove along a corridor between rows for some distance and then stopped.

"Out," said the white guy, opening the passenger door and waving at them with a sidearm. Ange and Davis exited and stood holding each other helplessly.

"They didn't have time to leave it with somebody," said the white guy to his companion. "Probably buried it. If somebody finds it they won't know what to do with it. It's a chance we have to take." He glanced up at the sound of the helicopter searching at a distance. "Do what has to be done," he said to the black man.

"Hold on," said the black man. "What's the exit plan?"

"Don't know. We think of something or we go down. The stakes are too high. Do it."

"Shit," said the black man, lifting his Glock but hesitating.

"Damn it, Ray, have you got what it takes or not? When you know what has to be done, don't hesitate. Just do it. Understood?"

"Understood, sir," said Ray, who pivoted and shot his partner in the heart, twice. The man fell forward on his face, dead on the spot, twin red rosettes blooming on the back of his white linen suit jacket. Then Ray offered his firearm, butt first, to Davis.

"Sir," he said, "I hereby surrender myself to you." Davis reached for the weapon.

"Don't touch it, Davis," said Ange sharply.

"What?" said Davis, confused.

"Your fingerprints would be on it. He has another firearm."

"Smartass bitch," said Ray, drawing a second weapon from a holster at the small of his back. "No matter. Your fingerprints will be just as good after you're dead. Only let's make you the shooter, bitch."

As Ray turned his second weapon towards Ange, Davis stepped between them. Ray hesitated and then there came the sound of the helicopter approaching overhead, along with a sound like the crashing of branches. Ray turned to see a man flying through the air towards them along the corridor between the palms, ten feet in the air and prone like Superman. He even looked like Superman -- Superman with an assault rife.

Ray aimed his piece at the flying man but Davis tackled him from behind, so that his rounds went low. The two of them fell to the ground together. Superman flew past them and then triggered a snap on his belt, releasing him from the cable to the helicopter. He dropped to the earth and rolled into a prone firing position.

Ray struggled to his knees and lifted Davis by his shirt collar as a shield. Before Ray could take aim at Boles, however, Ange threw her body onto Davis. The gunman lost his grip on Davis and was exposed to Marc's aim for an instant. That was enough. It was over. Obviously, it was a dream, bad guy dead like in a video game or movie, Marc Boles moving swiftly to secure the situation by placing the barrel of his rifle against the dead foe, grinning at Davis like they had just won a doubles tennis match.

"Marc?" said Davis, unbelieving.

All the last minutes felt dreamlike and confusing. Only later would Davis understand what had happened. If Ray's exit tactic had worked, it would have looked like Davis had grabbed a gun and shot the white CIA guy and then Ray had killed him and Ange in self-defense.

When Marc came flying along the corridor at twenty miles an hour it was no dream but just one more Marc Boles circus stunt that people would talk about around future campfires. Marc had lowered himself on a rescue cable until he was a few feet above the ground and then had the helicopter fly along the corridor above him.

But in the fog of the moment Davis could make little sense of any of it. Marc Boles helped him and Ange to their feet. This was no dream and yet how could it possibly be true? Fuck it, thought Davis. He's here. It's a miracle. Then, fifty yards away, Davis saw the Admiral and Doc walking along the corridor towards them.

Davis stumbled in the direction of the new apparitions. "Admiral?" said Davis. "Doc?" On they came, smiling. Then the Admiral gave him a bear hug, which he had never done in memory, and said: "I love you, son. Don't call me Admiral. Call me Dad. I told myself if I ever saw you alive again the first thing I would say is that I love you. By God it feels good to hold you, son."

Well, that cinched it. It was a dream. Good one, though.

And then Ange came running to embrace Doc and Doc had them both in a bear hug and Marc was pounding him on the back and it all started to feel magically real. Time enough later to learn how in the world it could possibly be true.

For the present, a few slight problems remained, namely five assorted dead people lying about here and there in Sarawak. Lieutenant Colonel Ismail bin Yacob gave them the bad news as they all gathered around the helicopter. He had been on the radio with his sergeant major. The police were adamant that Davis and Ange must be arrested and held during their investigation as well as anyone associated with the shootings of the men in the oil palm plantation. Colonel bin Yacob was very sorry but they must all remain there until the police arrived.

Percy got on the Sat phone and called Admiral Fletcher. Was there any way strings could be pulled? Admiral Fletcher was sorry, but the best he could do was to hook up Percy on the line with the only person who could possibly help at this point, Fletcher's friend Don Michaels, who was the Vice President's Chief of Staff. But Fletcher wasn't hopeful. The problem was the election in two weeks. If they had to kowtow to Malaysian authorities it would look bad at this point. Bob Dole was toting his foreign policy credentials over those of the president and would no doubt love to score some last minute points.

While Percy waited for a chance to talk to Don Michaels, Doc turned to Colonel bin Yacob.

"The police are local, I take it."

"Yes, responsible to the Sarawak government," said bin Yacob.

"But the army is responsible to the Malaysian government?"

"Yes, but we would not be able to intervene in Sarawak matters without authorization from the highest levels."

"Thank you, Colonel." Doc turned to Percy. "From Jan's research into Malaysian affairs we know that the top Malaysian guy is one Mahathir bin Mohamad, who happens to be a thorn in our side primarily around U.S. foreign policy issues. He takes a dim view of the CIA, to put it mildly. So, suppose the Vice President of the United States or his Chief of Staff gave him a call to thank him for the heroic efforts of the Royal Rangers Regiment, in particular the daring battalion commander and the helicopter pilot who participated in a shoot out, killing rogue CIA agents who had earlier murdered three people in Sarawak."

Percy put Doc's ideas forward in his conversation with Chief of Staff Don Michaels a few minutes later but couldn't convince him. Michaels didn't want to risk rocking the boat days before the election. How would it look for the administration to take sides with Malaysians and assume guilt on the part of CIA agents?

However, just as he was about to end the conversation, Ange motioned for the Sat phone.

"Let me talk to him," she said.

Rear Admiral Percy Jones shook his head. "No child, sorry. It's no use, Ange."

"Let me talk to him," she insisted in a firm voice. Michaels heard her on his end.

"Is that Ange Parker? Put her on," he told Percy. As soon as he had Ange on the line Michaels started to congratulate her on her escape but Ange interrupted him.

"I could only hear one side of the conversation from here, sir," said Ange, "but the way I understand it you're concerned about adverse publicity regarding foreign affairs prior to the election."

"That's it in a nutshell."

"Well, it so happens I have possession of materials which if released to the public would create -- to put it mildly -- explosive adverse publicity regarding covert operations of the CIA. There are two CIA covert ops guys lying dead on the ground out here who just tried to kill me to get these materials and I can pretty much understand why. If you think it might look bad what these two guys did, believe me, that's nothing compared to the stuff I've got. So where should I take it, to you or to The New York Times?"

Long silence. Then: "I read about the existence of some such materials already in the Times article by Steve Zavala but not the details, of course. You have the materials?

"I do."

"And you can get them to me, the originals – no copies -- secure and unseen by anybody else?"

"Under lock and key."

"We'll get you out of there, Ms. Parker."

"All of us, and it has to happen now. We aren't in any mood to sit in a Malaysian jail."

"Without going into details," said Michaels, "it so happens there is something the Malaysians want from us that we've been sitting on. It's going to piss some people off around here but we can do it. It's a matter of a phone call. It'll happen as soon as I can make the connections."

"I think we can wait here until we hear back," said Ange, glancing at Colonel bin Yacob, who nodded.

She handed the phone back to Percy after the Chief of Staff had hung up.

"Admiral, do me a favor."

Percy looked at her with newfound respect.

"Yes?"

"Don't call me child. If you do it again, I might cut you off."

"Cut me off from what?"

"From seeing your grandchildren." She smiled.

Percy looked at Davis. "She plays hardball," he said.

Davis put his arm around Ange.

"She does, Dad. She surely does."
CHAPTER 59

Manila, the Philippines

Tuesday, October 24, 1996

A full forty-eight hours after arriving in Manila and taking a two-room suite at the Peninsula, Davis and Ange finally plugged the phones back in and took away the Do Not Disturb sign on 502. Housekeeping had cleaned away dishes in the adjoining room 501 several times but nobody had seen the hibernating couple ensconced in 502 at all. Staff must have been on alert to watch the Do Not Disturb sign and notified Doc and Percy immediately when it disappeared. Marc Boles was long gone on a flight to Washington with Daniel's satchel.

"We've been worried," said Doc.

"Why?" said Davis, yawning. "Did we oversleep?"

"You must have been exhausted," said Percy.

"You think?" said Ange, laughing. "I can't imagine why."

Two more days of R&R at the Peninsula followed, during which Davis and Ange entertained Doc and Percy with dramatic, sometimes graphic and often hilarious descriptions of their adventures. They left little out. Doc dutifully took notes to pass on to Steve by Sat phone. Ange also talked with Steve by phone, so that by the time the group's Philippine Airlines 747 lifted off on a direct flight for San Francisco, Zavala's New York Times series had further fanned what had already been a virtual firestorm of interest. When they landed at San Francisco International they were greeted with a special escort through Customs and onto the main concourse where they were amazed to find what seemed like thousands of cheering people waiting for them. Airport police had roped a special corridor and herded them through the throngs of applauding fans and flashing strobes.

When they got to the open area of the main terminal they saw floodlights, television cameras and an improvised stage on which stood Mayor Stillman, Shaylane, Kon, Morgan and Steve, along with several dignitaries they didn't recognize. Davis took Ange by the hand and they broke into a run for the last hundred feet along the red-carpeted corridor, clambering over the low stage railing to reunite with their friends in a orgy of hugging, laughing, and joyous weeping that was broadcast live across the nation and around the world. Ange broke down and fell to her knees, hugging Shaylane's legs. Davis lifted Steve in a bear hug and twirled him in a circle. Percy and Doc joined the melee so that there was almost no room left on the small stage. TV crews were poking microphones into the chaos but the only person they managed to corral for comment amidst the jubilation was a laughing Mayor Stillman, who was interviewed while holding people off with a large silver Key to the City so he wouldn't be pushed off the stage.

Davis realized in the middle of all this that one of the dignitaries on the stage whom he hadn't recognized at first was Mr. Kim, Chairman of Samdai Motors. As well as he could with all the jostling bodies around him, Davis managed a polite bow.

"Mr. Kim," he said, shouting to be heard.

Mr. Kim bowed in return, then gave Davis a thumbs-up with a huge grin, followed by a western high-five.

Suddenly, live music broke out, adding yet another layer of magic to the surprise party, and incredibly, Davis recognized the song as Johnny's Gotta Be Kiddin' Me.

"No way. No way, girl. You gotta be kiddin' me!" Johnny's amplified voice rocked the crowd. Jezebel's bended notes soared though the steel and glass overhead.

"You gotta be kiddin' me!" shouted a delighted Davis at Ange but she cocked a hand to her ear to show she couldn't hear him.

Davis turned to look behind the stage and saw the band where it was set up in a waiting area. The entire band was there, including Selene, J.B., Margie the cute bass player, Frankie and Johnny, what's-his-name the drummer and some new gal on keyboards (we'll see about that) -- and not only the band: Bill Lasky was there. And Gerty. And Samantha Kirkham, complete with her newest flamboyant hat. And Randy and Gary duded up for the occasion. And his dear friend Sara Joy. All waving and jumping around rather manically.

Unbelievable.

Davis was stunned. What kind of airport was this? Are they holding flights or something?

No, they weren't holding flights. There was a lot of creative engineering in terms of moving passengers where they needed to go. But what Davis had no way of knowing was the impact of Steve's New York Times series. Issue after issue, like a soap opera come to life with danger, romance and adventure, Steve the journalist had chronicled events that captivated the world. Davis, Ange, Shaylane, Steve, Kon and Morgan had become storybook heroes, larger than life. And now here they were, miraculously alive and well, and the public could not get enough of them.

The airport party and media coverage was not enough to satisfy the public thirst for more, so it was only natural that the idea came up to reschedule the Johnny and Jez concert that had been abruptly cancelled three weeks earlier. Davis being a huge celebrity now, they would be sure to pack the place. Jezebel brought the idea to Davis.

"You said you'd be back for the concert and I never doubted you for a second," she said, tipping back her third glass of champagne in the downtown Hyatt ballroom where friends and family had escaped after the airport extravaganza. "When have you ever lied to me before?" she joked.

"Sorry to take so long," said Davis, grinning. "You know how it is, tigers and whatnot. Seems like if it wasn't one thing it was another."

Jez had already done some research: "Lucky thing is," she said, "the Paramount Theater is dark November 3rd. We can book it if we jump on it."

Davis looked for Ange to chat up the idea but couldn't find her.

"Urgent call on the Sat phone from Jan," said Doc. "Ange went to find someplace quiet."

Davis left the ballroom and met Ange as she was just rising from a lounge area. She had her game face on. Davis knew that look well.

"What?" he said.

"They had a small, private service for Daniel today in Newark. Michael is losing it. Disrupted the service, which brought things to a head. But he's been a serious problem for days. Vince can't control him. He's a loose cannon. He's overbidding contracts, underbidding contracts, firing people...." Ange looked at Davis with a challenge in her eyes.

It didn't seem like a good time to talk about a concert. "What do you think?" said Davis. "Do we go to Newark?"

"At the moment," said Ange, "I'm afraid that would be like waving a red flag at a bull."

"So what can we do?"

"Jan says Michael's rage goes back to the injustice of the way shares were split between Rachel and the brothers. The shame that Daniel has brought to the family and the loss of his son have put him over the edge. He always was close to the edge I think."

"I don't see how we can help with that."

"Well, if you were to..."

"If we were to," Davis interrupted.

"Okay," said Ange with a slight smile, "if we were to sell Jan a block of shares..."

"Give up controlling interest?"

"Yes. I trust Jan to protect the Green Helmet program. Selling shares to her would help heal the old wound of the injustice. Jan is family, not an outsider. And it might stabilize the situation in Newark because she'd have more authority and could help Vince put out fires."

"What would we do in the meantime?"

"We'll think of something," Ange said with a grin, sweeping her hair back coquettishly.

"Would you like to go to a concert?" said Davis.

Ange smiled. "Somebody got to you already, I see. Johnny and Selene were assigned to me."

"What do you think?"

"Sounds like fun."

****

Six days isn't realistically enough time to mount a production at the Paramount Theater. However, they were fortunate that the same Dave Lucas Promotions crew from a month earlier was available, including the stage manager, as well as lighting and sound techies. Advertising was as easy as informing the press that the show was on, information that made the news on every TV and radio station in town. Within a day, ticket sales were off the charts. There was no time to bring in other bands. This concert would be all Johnny and Jez. Johnny had some new songs and they had added a few of Jez's blues songs to the repertoire.

Davis balked at singing the Deprivation Turns Me On ditty. It had been perfect at one time as a way to avoid having his notoriety detract attention from the band. The idea had been to defuse the issue by meeting it head on with a light-hearted song.

Selene and Jez agreed that the song was no longer apt. "Now it seems precious," said Selene. "It's beside the point compared to what you have been through this month."

They decided Johnny would write a new song for Davis' solo. Johnny and Davis stayed up late one night talking and Johnny wrote a song the next day. Davis loved it. Just as in the Deprivation song, Davis would start alone in the spotlight with his keyboards. The rest of the band would enter in with instrumentals later. They had a few rehearsals, including the new song. Ange came by to watch and after hanging out for a couple of afternoons she went on lunch breaks with Selene, J.B. and Jez. Davis enjoyed seeing them together. Bonding, he thought. Could be risky, of course. Who knows what mischief those four might come up with?

****

The house was packed for the concert. The applause was generous and gratifying. Davis' solo was listed on the program for late in the performance. When the lights went down and the spot came up on Davis alone at the keyboards there was an electric sense of anticipation in the theater. Davis looked poised and elegant. He had changed his mind about leaving the beginnings of his re-grown beard and hair and had shaved for the performance. His mother and father were in the audience as were Ange's parents, who Davis had finally met that night before the show. Davis knew his mother would be proud. She had always wanted to see him on a stage performing at the piano.

He sang, reaching a little on some notes but in good voice:

Angels, angels

Angels where did you go?

Lost in darkness,

Darkness of the soul.

Somewhere in the night

Must be home.

Can't see the light,

Can't find the road.

Then came love

Then came love

Then came love

Then came love

As Davis sang the last words of the chorus, the audience suddenly burst into applause. He was momentarily confused because, yes, the joyous message of love was supposed to feel good after the dark lines in the opening verse, but he hadn't expected such a strong reaction. Davis couldn't see that someone had stepped into another spotlight behind him, hence the applause.

With the second verse, Johnny was supposed to bring in soft rhythm chords and vocal backup. Instead, a sweet, strong female voice on full amp hijacked his solo. Davis swiveled to look behind him. It was Ange, singing with full-throated confidence. The rich timbre of her alto voice sounded like Anne Murray. Davis let her have the solo.

Alone Alone

Alone in wind and storm,

The night is cold

But your touch is warm,

Then we kissed

And I came home

All I had missed

Your loving arms.

Before starting the chorus, Davis said to the mic so all could hear: "You didn't tell me you could sing, Ange."

"You didn't ask, Davis."

Then Ange sat beside him and they sang the chorus together, Davis taking the harmony.

Then came love

Then came love

Then came love

Then came love

Then they kissed. And brought the house down.

###

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Arla Marjorie Reid, poet and dreamer. She lives in my heart.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My editor, advisor, cheerleader and critic during the writing of _Moral Turpitude_ , over the two years from earliest chapter drafts – almost none of which survived – to final copyediting and formatting for e-publication, was my wife and life partner Kat Sunlove. Kat is also a writer, and we have served as editors for each other, working side-by-side during careers that now span decades. We have learned to trust each other for unvarnished feedback, even when it hurts. There exists another entire book of drafts that didn't make the cut and often that is from Kat's influence. So, in a real way, this book is a joint venture. Thank you, Kat, for this and so much more.

Thanks also to Janine Johnson and Marcy Sheiner, both accomplished writers who read chapters and gave me wise and timely advice. And thanks to my friend Sally Timm, who seems to know something about everything and proved that fact once more by helping me understand techniques for the proper milking of snake venom; and to Kevin Foster, who is a pilot and who reassured me that the idea of a device to crash airplanes using fake autopilot transmissions has theoretical plausibility.

Full credit to Mr. Google and Ms. Wikipedia. I kept most of the research URLs and could fill many pages with online citations in lieu of footnotes, which of course no one would ever need. Readers can Google for themselves. Times have changed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In the span of 76 years I have enjoyed professional careers as parole officer, psychiatric Social Worker, editor, publisher and small business manager. In the decades of the Eighties and Nineties, my wife Kat Sunlove and I helped guide the fortunes of Spectator Magazine, a weekly San Francisco Bay Area adult newsmagazine that celebrated sexual minorities, safe sex and First Amendment freedoms. During that era Kat and I adventured freely and openly in the best delights the San Francisco kink scene had to offer.

Later, as the magazine fell victim to the forces that have bedeviled print publications in the Internet age, we continued to carry the banner of free speech and sexual freedom through our work with the Free Speech Coalition and as consultants for an Australian adult company. Readers may detect elements of bias in favor of sexual freedom in the pages of this novel, but hopefully not in a preachy way. My intention from the beginning was to write an entertaining yarn with fun twists and some challenges as well. I hope I have succeeded. If I have, please post a review. Thank you.

Now Kat, Winston (our chocolate Lab) and I have returned from a four-year semi-retirement in Costa Rica, where I wrote this book, to our "Wild Geezer Ranch" in the California Sierra foothills and I am at work on Book Two of the Ange Parker series.

CONNECT WITH ME

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