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About the author

Jp Leet is a loving husband, father and lifelong retail flunky. This book, 29 Moves began as a NaNoWriMo project that grew a publishable novel. When he is not writing (hopefully) captivating works of fiction, Jp also writes a blog and runs a podcast raising awareness of mental illness by telling stories of his own experiences with major depression and surviving suicide which provides a highly relatable source of comfort and inspiration to his listeners. He can be reached at 29moves@gmail.com.

# 1

The length of the shadows extending from the dew drops on Russ's tent told him he'd overslept. Stretching the stiffness out of his back he considered Brit's suggestion he take this solo getaway. Somewhere beyond the reaches of modern technology.

"You never have any fun," his wife had said.

"Really? I believe I'm always having fun," Russ replied, displaying a sly grin.

"Well, you never do anything fun," she argued. "One day, your son or daughter will want to go camping and fishing with you. What will you do about that?"

"First of all, sweetheart, when did we decide we were having children? Second, I know what needs to be done while camping and fishing." This time Russ gave Brit his best eyeroll.

"I know you know, well, probably know more about camping than any single camper in the history of camping, but you've never experienced it." She put her hands firmly on Russ's shoulders, "It's different when you actually do it."

Brit, of course, had been correct. Russ had read seventy-three books on the subject of camping. Books from The Pocket Guide to Camping to everything Bear Grylls had written. Hell, he even owned a copy of The Zombie Survival Guide. If it had been published within the past hundred years, Russ had read it.

The air south of Boston was never so pure, so exhilarating or so serene as he was experiencing here, the pacific northwest. The sky was such a deep blue, seemingly without end. The smells of the forest, birth and decay mixed together in a wonderful balance. The sounds of nature in their purest forms, no cars or airplanes or mp3s to drown them out. The water from the lakes and rivers, so fresh, a perfect elixir.

"Walden simply didn't give nature its due," he thought.

Russ heard the crack of a small branch as he pulled open the zipper of the thin membrane that had been his sole protection from the wild while he'd slept these past three nights. Thirty-eight degrees to the right, twenty meters away an animal maybe one fifty to one hundred seventy pounds with a wide foot was foraging for some breakfast. Far too light to be a wolf. Much too wide to be a deer. Aware that young grizzlies never stray too far from their mothers, Russ slowly and carefully emerged from his cocoon.

Once clear of the damp forty denier double walled nylon structure, Russ stood upright to his full six-foot-two height. He could see the child bear, a female, alongside of her brother; and just beyond them both, their mother. The fully-grown sow grizzly looked to be three hundred and fifty pounds. She would be just under seven feet tall if she were standing on her two powerful hind legs. For now, though, she was on all fours, maternally keeping watch on her young ones feasting on huckleberries and attempting to dig up some sweet roots.

At twenty meters, Russ knew so long as he moved slowly and deliberately while packing up his camp he would unlikely be seen as a threat and generally ignored by the family of bears. In fact, momma bear gave him a quick glance but seemed bored by the prospect of keeping an eye on him.

Now, with a clearer view of it, Russ was able to better gauge the height of the sun. He decided 7 a.m. was plenty late enough to get a start on his day. He grabbed the last of his Honeycrisp apples and walked over to the edge of his camping area, away from the bears. It was time to "See a man about a horse." A phrase that to Russ's bewilderment, Pops was so fond of saying. The first time he'd heard Pops use the phrase, at two, little Russ got so excited. He'd thought he was going to see a real horse. Some thirty-five years later, remembering his youthful optimism never failed to bring a smile to Russ's face.

As the man with the horse was finishing up, Russ caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Nature nature everywhere," he thought.

Turning his head to the right he saw a one-year-old male grizzly cub, its nose testing the appeal of each and every branch, rock and blade of grass it could get to. Strange that this cub would be away from the others.

Shouldn't you be thirty yards stage right little fella?

SNAP

Russ didn't have time to turn around to see what he already knew. A branch the size of his wrist being broken by a three-hundred-and-ninety-pound momma bear. A second bear. A much bigger second bear.

The first hit came with the force of a small car. He felt his right collar bone snap, quickly and cleanly. But that spreading warmth beneath the skin: the bone had perforated his subclavian artery. He was bleeding internally!

The follow through of the bear's hit crumpled him to the ground. Immediately Russ flipped over onto his stomach and covered the back of his neck with his hands. Seemingly dissatisfied with this, the bear began lashing out at Russ's back and shoulders.

His ultra-thin thermal-wear offered little resistance against the powerful arms of the grizzly. Five claws from each paw sliced into his skin. Each claw between a half and one and a quarter inches deep inside him. Five nearly perfect parallel cuts from his left shoulder to his low-rise Wranglers. The middle claw being the shallowest offender. Russ considered this, perhaps a prior injury had misaligned the digit.

As he'd hoped, the swelling around his clavicle was significant. The added pressure on the injury was, fortunately, acting as a tourniquet of sorts, slowing the flow of blood from the damaged artery. If he could get out of this, he could position the broken bone to apply even more pressure upstream of the tear and buy himself more time before bleeding out.

After two more, less powerful, lashes to his back -Is she getting bored?- The bear took a few steps back. Absent the full weight of the bear, Russ was able to take in a slow, silent breath. His alveoli were eager to get to work. Motionless, Russ felt trickles of blood from his back wounds curling their way down his sides, tickling his stomach, -Fortunately less than half a pint, so far.

Russ could hear the one-year-old moving off from the urine stenched area where the two had met. Casually brushing through the forest flora, no interest in the actions of Mom. Having moved three meters out, the adolescent huffed, followed by three nasal exhales. Russ hoped that was grizzly-speak for, "Come on Mom.".

It was then that Russ's ravaged back betrayed him and gave out an involuntary twitch, a muscle spasm in response to the savage injuries. Enraged that the threat was not dead, momma grizzly roared and pounced towards Russ.

Unsatisfied with the position of her prey, the bear struck Russ on his right side, flipping him over, exposing him completely to her. The beastly maneuver broke three ribs, Russ felt rib six puncture his lung. The right to left motion also jostled his broken collarbone, fortuitously applying the needed torque to compress the torn artery above the tear. Small favors.

The surprise of the maneuver had Russ's eyes open, staring at the face of his attacker.

"Don't move. Don't you dare move. Body still, eyes stay open. Just as she found you."

The ground he was now lying on felt different. Where he initially had felt all grass and soil, he now found patches where the native granite was exposed. His head rested on a soft tuft of grass. His left arm was perched upon a surprisingly sharp piece of stone, one that threatened to puncture his prone limb. His right calf seemed to be stretched over a rolling pin of unforgiving granite.

The grizzly bettered her advantage over Russ, straddling him with all four legs, her face inches from his, sniffing, nudging looking for signs of life. Eyes open and fixed on the space seven inches directly in front of his right nostril, Russ had an easy view of his tormenter.

"Such an impressive animal. She's beautiful," he marveled silently.

"The artery seems be stable, significantly slowed blood loss there," Russ mentally taking stock of his predicament. "Back as well, about a quarter pint additional loss. Right lung is of minimal use, if I can keep my pulse below seventy and breathe slowly I'll be fine. This twig on my eye may be an issue. A just-so motion could scratch my cornea."

The sow's front paws now on his chest. Pressing and probing. Seeking out any sign of life left in the threat to her calves.

"Enough with the CPR, huh?" Russ thought.

In one final test of her dominance, the enormous grizzly stood upright and roared to the world that she had won. Her right hind paw came down an inch from the sharp rock threatening to puncture another artery, in his left arm. Her left, firmly planted on Russ's calf, positioned right above the rolling pin. He heard both his tibia and fibula snap to either side of the stone, the tibia first, giving him the look of a man with three knees.

The distance between the bears face and his eyes now gave the appearance of two attackers with his cross-eyed view.

"So majestic."

Satisfied with her triumph the, now, gentle giant got down to all fours and slowly padded off towards her offspring, leaving diminishing bloody paw prints as she went. Russ counted off ten minutes before he uncrossed his eyes and lifted his head...

#  2

"Ok, Russ, time to see what's what," he thought to himself.

Including the internal bleeding, my circulatory system is down two and a half pints. Still only a Class 2 hemorrhage. Once I start walking the rate of loss will likely increase. Best case three hours until shock sets in. Worst case, one and a half. The lung is still useless. Focus on keeping your heart rate low, take slow and measured breaths through the left lung. Let's get up and see what's what with the leg.

As he'd expected, the broken right lower leg would not support his weight. Any attempt to place weight on his right leg and he could feel the above-break bones start to slide alongside the below-break bones. The unnatural bone movement threatened to cause increased damage to the already injured tibia and fibula as well as potentially causing damage to the surrounding muscle and blood vessels.

The fracture of the two bones were nearly identical in relative position along them as well as the angles of the breaks. With four and a half kilometers to the nearest lodging, and then seventy-five more to the local hospital, three hours didn't seem to be enough time until the increasing loss of blood left him unconscious or worse. No time for a proper splint.

Russ removed the belt Pops had given him when he was seven.

"This is the belt my father, your grandfather, used to whoop me with when I got out of line, and sometimes when his drinking got out of line," Russ's father had told him. "Russ, I hated this belt. So many nights I wanted to sneak into his bedroom and take this damned thing off the nail that had been hammered into the back of his door. Then I'd take it out back and toss it in the food trough, with some taters and swill, and let the hogs eat the whole damn thing."

"When he died, all he had to his name were the clothes on his body. No way in Hell I was gonna let him keep it, so we buried him without it. I imagined him getting to the Pearly Gates, standing waiting for his judgement, with his bloomers fallen down around his ankles. To Hell with this one, St Pete would say with a laugh."

"I've kept it all these years, I'm not much sure why. But today I'm giving it to you, son. I've never raised a hand to you, and I never would. You keep this belt with you, Russ. You keep it and always remember that we're not here to cause pain to others. You keep it and you think about that."

Sitting as upright as his swollen and damaged body would permit, Russ took the belt and fitted it loosely around his broken lower leg, above the break. He rolled up the denim of his jeans as high as they would go. Then slowly and steadily he tightened the belt just under his right knee. The first pull dug deep into his calf muscle, nice and tight. Then summoning up as much strength as he could, he strained to pull the leather even tighter. Beneath the muscles and tendons, he could feel the broken tips of his tibia and fibula bending towards one another. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he pulled harder yet. Still unsatisfied, Russ gave one more hard yank, he felt the tap of bone tips touching. Tying off the belt, he said to himself, "Now for the tricky part."

Reaching farther down his leg, Russ curled the fingers of his right hand underneath his heel and pulled hard against the sole of his Keen Targhee hiking boots. The swelling and weakness from his broken clavicle prevented him from applying much lateral pressure up his leg.

"Guess we'll go southpaw on this," he muttered to himself.

Russ grabbed just above his ankle with his left hand and tightened his fingers around his leg in a test clench. Satisfied his off hand would provide enough grip to perform his field triage, he placed his right hand just below the break in his lower leg. A little up, down, left and right testing suggested he would be able to adequately align and realign his below the break bones in relation to the bound upper tips, despite the reduced capacity of his right arm.

With the care of a first-time parent swaddling his newborn, Russ began to pull his leg up towards his knee. Accepting that some nerve damage was certain to occur, Russ was very aware that he could not afford additional ruptured blood vessels. Little by little, ever so slowly, he could feel the bound upper bone slide into the interosseous membrane between the lower tibia and fibula.

Russ felt the bones begin to tear through the soft membrane. The compression along the length of his lower leg created slack in his soleus muscle as it became longer relative to the shortening of his leg. His calcaneal tendon began to bulge away from his body due to the shortening of his leg. Finally, he felt the outer bones above the break press against the inner bones below the break.

Tapping into his primal energy, Russ reached down to his heel with his right hand and gave out a warrior's scream as he pulled with all he had. The bones scraped by each other another inch and a half, he could feel the fractured bones splintering from bone on bone friction. Then loosening the belt he'd used to constrict the bone above the break, he moved it to just below the break and tightened it until he thought it or his arm would snap. He secured the belt to hold tightly around his leg maintaining the pressure was the only means he had to provide lateral structure and stability to his piecemealed extremity.

Raising himself up off the ground, Russ was pleased, though not surprised, to find he was able to place weight on his damaged leg. The belt provided compression enough to keep his upper bones from moving farther into the space between the lower bones. The loss of three inches to his right leg, however, gave too substantial an amount of vertical pressure to the damaged leg. Each test step taken transferred too much of his weight vertically along the intertwined bones, forcing them to wedge further into and around each other. Not wanting to cause more damage to the already ravaged leg, Russ picked up a fallen branch to serve as a staff, using it to offset the weight of each step.

***

For the first two kilometers, Russ simply navigated by the sun. Being 23 arcminutes above the 43rd parallel, he easily deduced due east, slightly more northerly than magnetic east.

The swelling aside, Russ realized he had little functional use of his battered right leg. His lower extremity virtually immovable from ankle through knee due to the increasing swelling. Thankfully, though, he found he was able to swing his leg forward from the hip with each step, thereby forgoing the need to bend his knee. The new, shorter length of the appendage allowed for easy clearance of most of the obstacles and small rises within each step.

At that two-kilometer mark, Russ's mini leg started to take on a decided sausage look, the swelling threatened to test the material strength of Wrangler's finest. With so much restricted swelling potentially creating added pressure within the circulatory system, thus causing greater blood loss under his broken collarbone, Russ knew he had to remedy the situation.

Fortuitously, mama grizzly had begun the tearing process nearly an hour and a half ago. Sliding a finger sized stick in one hole and out the other Russ twisted and ripped a generously sized hole along the front of his jeans. Two more sets, one to either side of the first and the denim material began flapping in the breeze.

As he'd expected, a few hundred meters past three kilometers Russ came across the first man made path. There may be countless great explorers in the world, climbing mountains or searching the seas, but most folks preferred to wander close to home. Now it was just a matter of taking the road more travelled at each intersection until he came across a house, preferably an occupied one.

***

By the time Russ politely knocked on the door of the first, and occupied, house he found, he was certain his internal and external wounds had cost him considerably over three pints of blood. His best-case scenario clearly wasn't in the cards.

Jeff Fullerton answered the door, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and sensible slippers on his feet.

"Good Lord son, what's happened to you?" he asked.

"I ran into some of your local fauna, sir. Seems I wasn't as warmly welcomed by them as by yourself," Russ replied.

"Come in, let's have a look at you. Get you off that kielbasa masquerading for a leg at least," Jeff said setting down his coffee.

"Sir, if it's all the same to you, I need emergency medical assistance and I'd..."

"Mary, call 911, there's an injured man here," Fullerton began yelling over Russ's words.

"...like to offer... Sir, I've lost thirty-six percent of my blood in the last few hours. If that number rises above forty, shock will likely set in and I..."

"Mary, tell them he's lost a lot of blood!"

"...won't be able to guide the surgeons...No, again if it's all the same to you, I need transportation to the nearest emergency facility, I believe it's thirty..." Russ attempting to regain control of the conversation.

"Mary, grab the keys to my truck, we're taking him to Fairview ourselves!" Jeff yelled louder yet to his wife.

"Thank you, sir. My name is Russell Felton Williams."

"Jeff Fullerton, son. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but I don't think either of us is set to enjoy this very much."

"The situation could be kinder, yes. Could I trouble you and Mary for some water for the ride? And if you have a cellular phone to bring also, that would be perfect," Russ asked with an easy smile.

"Jeff, they said they're sending the ambulance. Probably Monty and his crew," Mary yelled from the rear of the house.

"Mary, for Chrissakes, grab a water bottle out of the fridge, the big one, your purse, make sure your phone is in it and help me get this young man out to the truck."

"Thank you, Jeff, but I can manage myself out to your vehicle."

With Mary riding shotgun, Jeff shot out of the driveway and sped down the road, south towards Fairview Regional Hospital.

"For goodness sakes Jeff, we don't all need to show up needing a visit to the ER. Slow down," Mary barked, not bothering to hide her anxiety at the speed.

"Now you just leave the driving to me. How's our boy doing?" Jeff said.

"Are you hanging in there...now what did you say your name was?" Mary asked.

"Russell, ma'am. Usually my friends call me Russ. I think we can agree the three of us have attained a rather intimate relationship rather quickly."

"OK, Russ. You hanging in there?"

"Yes, I am, Mary. Thank you. Now if I could bother you to allow me to use your cellular phone so I could call ahead and inform the medical team of my specific injuries. They'll need to be prepared when we arrive."

"Oh yes, yes. Here you are. Push the button near the bottom to turn it on." Mary projecting her cell phone naivety onto Russ.

"Thank you, again, Mary." Russ smiled appreciatively while trying to rub his hands clean on his shirt before taking the phone.

"Yes, again, my name is Russell Williams... Oh negative...I've sustained a Broken clavicle which has perforated the corresponding subclavian artery, ribs five, six and seven are fractured on my right side, rib six has punctured my lung, it's completely deflated, I have major lacerations on my back... Yes, I realize this is a lot... No, that's not all. I also have a fractured right tibia and fibula... Yes, it's splinted, internally... Yes internally. The upper bone is compressed within the lower bone and it's been placed in an external tourniquet... Yes, I understand that probably caused more damage... No, it hasn't cause much pain... No, I'm not yet in shock... Yes, tell the doctors, artery then the lung then back then leg. Tell them they won't be giving me general anesthesia, I need to be awake to direct them... No, I'm not worried about the pain of surgery... Again, no I am not in shock... Yes, we'll be there in..." Russ caught Jeff's eyes in the rearview.

"Ten more minutes, son," Jeff interjected.

"...ten minutes. Thank you, miss, you've been a great help." Russ hit the end call button without Mary's help.

"And you, Jeff, and Mary, when this is done I'll owe my life to you. Thank you," Russ said.

"Don't you worry about that, son. Let's just get you there so they can get you better," Jeff said, replying for the both.

"Better" took ten days at the hospital and seven months of physical therapy and another twelve before most of his limp was gone. Two weeks after they'd met Russ, a bouquet of three dozen roses was delivered to the Fullertons. The card read

"Thank you!

Always,

R.F.W."

It was accompanied by a personal check for $250,000 the memo line read filled out, "For the 'Big' water bottle."

#  3

Joseph Larry "Pops" Williams cussed as his wipers made their final distressed journey across the windshield of his '04 Ford Focus. The heavy, wet snow had proven too much for the old gal and her parts. The rear defrost had gone out the previous winter. The heat the year before that. No matter what size batteries he put under the hood, they didn't last but half of a New England winter when he had his replacement, DC powered, space heater constantly on full blast. Boy did she still get the mileage though. Thirty-eight miles per Arabian gallon over the life of the car, and still about thirty-six this past summer. They say you always remember your first car fondly. Well, Joe would take his little Ford over any other car he had driven.

He pulled off to the right side of Central avenue, put the car in park and began warming his hands in front of the feisty little heater belted into the seat next to him. At the ripe old age of seventy-five he no longer could remember the days before the arthritis had set in. First his hands, then his legs. Back, neck and all hell else set in shortly after. It was the fingers, though, that gave him the biggest amount of pain, discomfort and discouragement. He figured he could stoop and limp his way through most of his days, but when it really flared up in his hands, that's when he felt the most defeated by it.

"What good's a fella who can't even pick a lucky-penny up off the ground?" he'd often say.

The wet snow, perfect for snowman making thank you very much, had changed over to sleet. Joe sat in his car listening to the tiny balls of ice pelt the passenger side windows. A strong westerly wind was doing its best to break through the mostly rolled up passenger windows, all the while leaving the driver side untouched. The striking disparity in sleet coverage brought up one of his favorite memories. He and Russ had taken a road trip to go see the now extinct Old Man of the Mountain in Franconia, NH, the spring of '79. Russ had recited, from memory, Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story "The Great Stone Face" on the way up. On the way back home, they encountered a heavy spring rain that had, on one long straight stretch of I-95, seemed to only want to water the northbound side of the expressway, leaving the southbound lanes dry as a bone.

With the wipers dead in their tracks, there was no way Joe would make it far in this weather. Instead, he tipped his seat back a few clicks, shifted his Boston Celtics cap forward over his eyes and contemplated a short nap. Oh, the simple joy for an old man to take a nap. He thought of the days when he hadn't been sure he'd ever sleep again. Those days, so long ago.

The long inhale that precedes a satisfying sigh triggered the coughing. First a hitch on an incoming breath. Followed by five sharp coughs, almost gags, as his lungs protested the attempt to be inflated. He immediately found himself without air as the connection between his brain and lungs misfired. After what seemed an eternity, an involuntary quick gasp temporarily remedied his suffocation. That gasp then became the creator of the next round of coughing, this time slightly longer and fuller. The cascade of coughing fits took over his entire body, his very being. Soon his whole body began spasming as his lungs fought to provide the necessary oxygen to keep Joe alive while also fighting to expel that same air that irritated it so much.

After a few minutes of the escalating internal body war, Joe felt the first clenches of his stomach as it joined into the growing waves of spasms. Bloody phlegm, or was it lung tissue, shot forward onto the windshield. His eyes filled with tears, his body covered in sweat. Joe knew where this was going. He was going to puke.

"Not in my old girl here," he thought to himself.

Barely able to open the driver's side door, Joe slid out onto the ground. The puddle of mud, snow and sleet that should have felt ice cold to him provided a momentary reprieve from his overheating. The relief he felt as the puddle cooled his skin and the frigid air cooled his lungs was short lived though, as the coughing began once again. Stomach clenched, eyes closed and curled up on his side, Joe was ready.

The foulness that spewed out of his mouth as his body seized was mostly bile. Joe didn't eat much these days. A stomach full of ulcers simultaneously kept him from eating much of substance all the while creating an ever-present pain as his stomach found it had only itself to digest.

At the hospital later, Joe would admit he puked more blood than bile. So much, in fact, that the EMTs who picked him up spent an extra few minutes before lifting him onto the gurney examining him for the wounds they were certain he had sustained falling from the car.

Joe hadn't received much medical assistance in the past forty years. He'd long given up on the medical community being able to figure out what ailed him. It never did. Joe died five months later, having never left the hospital, his lifetime of sickness and disease brought to a close. He would pass as he had lived his life, optimistic for tomorrow and grateful for the son that he had raised. Finally, though, it was time for him to be at peace.

#  4

Long before adopting the moniker Pops, Joseph Larry Williams met and fell in love with Marie Joan Everett. He had been pumping gas and changing oil at the local 76 gas station twenty miles south of Boston. She and a car full of her friends were on their way to see The Byrds in concert and needed some smokes and a fill up. Marie caught Joe's eye as she was the only one who hadn't pitched in for cigarettes, only for the gas. He smiled at her, she smiled back, and before he knew what was happening they were talking. She was working at Carl's Diner in over in Stoughton. He should "come for the Sunday Night Dinner Special," she said to him with a wink.

A year later Joe was running the 76 and saving up to buy Ed's garage down the road. Marie gave up waiting tables and started working at the new Kresge store. The store manager, Scott, told her the company was aiming for rapid expansion and that they would need people with her intelligence and work ethic.

Joe and Marie became inseparable. It seemed to everyone in town that the day just wasn't a day until they'd seen the two out somewhere talking and laughing together. One warm summer evening, as they were walking down Main Street, Joe bumped into Marie and her purse fell to the ground. Joe quickly knelt to retrieve it for her. He looked up at her with a loving smile on his face and a diamond ring in his hand.

"Marie, I can't imagine there is anyone in the world that I could have a more perfect future with. Will you marry me?" he asked, holding the ring a little higher.

As if she'd known he would pop the question in advance, Marie replied, "You know I will, Joe."

A month later they were married. Six weeks after that, it was announced that Marie was pregnant.

As Marie and baby entered their third trimester together, Joe invited Ed over to listen to the Celtics take on the New York Knickerbockers in the final game of the season. It had been a long one as Tommy Heinsohn adjusted to being the head coach. As Boston took a 55-64 lead into halftime, Joe presented Ed with his offer to buy the garage. Ed said he needed to think about it, as Joe suspected. Just then, Marie came into the living room carrying a tray of ice cold milk and two giant pieces of homemade apple pie. By the time the game ended, they shook hands on a deal for Joe to become the new owner of the shop.

June 25th, 1970 Marie gave birth to Joseph Larry Williams junior. Healthy and pink, 8lbs 6ozs and twenty-one inches of baby cuddling goodness. The very next day, the three returned home, as a family, halfway up the mountain with clear skies above.

***

It started out small, normal events, really. Nothing any parent would think twice about. A little fussiness before naptime. Spitting up a little milk now and then. Maybe a little too much crying when his diaper was full?

Joseph's one-week checkup was great. "Don't worry. All babies cry and spit up. See you in three weeks," Dr Winfield told the Williamses reassuringly.

It wasn't long before the midday fussiness became midday crying. The little spit ups turned into what Marie would describe as, "more like baby-vomit." Full diapers included spots of blood mixed in with the mucousy stool. Not too much at first, you'd have to be really looking for it to see it, but alarming for any parent.

By his one-month checkup, little Joseph had gone from the 95th percentile in weight to the 35th.

"It's just that he spits up so much," Marie explained to the doctor.

"I'd like you to try one of these new commercial formula alternatives to breast milk," Winfield said. "This one is called Similac, 'similar to lactation'."

To Marie and Joe's delight, little Joseph took to the bottle right away. One as soon as they got home and another just before bedtime. Diaper changes in the afternoon only hinted at some blood, Joe assumed that they it saw because they were looking for it. Little Joseph was out like a light at 8pm as mother and father breathed easy for the first time in a week.

Joe went out and bought a dozen cases of Similac on credit against the garage.

***

"Hunny." Joe nudged his wife. "I think I hear the baby."

"He's on the bottle, remember. Can you get him?" Marie replied without opening her eyes. The sleep felt so good.

Joe rolled over to check the same wind up alarm clock he'd had on his nightstand since he was seven.

5:40am.

"OK," he sighed as he got up and fished for his slippers which always seemed to get pushed deep under the bed by night trolls. He slipped his feet into them and grabbed his robe off the nail he'd hammered into the back of the bedroom door. Joseph's cries were a bit louder once he opened the door, he quickly closed it as he made his way across the hall.

Marie woke up two hours later, the sun having come through the window and crept steadily up the bed to settle in, shining brightly on her face. When she heard Joseph wailing down the hall, she swung her arm over to whack Joe, thinking he'd just fallen back to sleep before taking care of their son earlier. His side of the bed was empty and cool.

Grabbing her bathrobe, she headed down the hall towards the kitchen to see what was going on. She turned the corner into the room and saw Joe pacing back and forth from the KitchenAid oven to the small butcher block kitchen table, the baby up over his shoulder trying to summon forth a burp from the distraught infant.

"What's going on? How long has he been like this?" Marie had to shout to be heard over Joseph's sobbing.

"Oh, not long, this time," Joe replied.

"This time? What do you mean, this time?"

"We were fine first thing," Joe began. "I got up and we came to the kitchen to fix up a bottle. He must have been really hungry, I swear the bottle was empty before I managed to get him set in my arms. I got him up over my shoulder and he gave me an award winner of a belch. Even the guys down at the shop would have been impressed.

"Before I could get him back down the hall and into his crib again he started fussing," Joe continued. "I figured he had a little more bit of gas floating around in there. So I set him up on my knee and gave him a talking to about how his Celtics had recently finished up the greatest decade of winning that sports had ever seen."

"Yes, yes. John Havlecheckov and J.J. White...and that Red guy," Marie cut him off impatiently. "What happened after that?"

"Havlicek, dear, John Havlicek," Joe correcting his wife. "So we're having a good discussion, I thought, until he made this face like he was pushing out some of your mom's meatloaf..."

"Joe, tell me about Joseph," Marie angrily yelling louder than necessary to be heard over their son.

"...and suddenly, out came all the formula he had just taken in. I mean it was every last drop, and then some. Fast and hard, what do they call that? Projection vomit? Anyway, out it came, all over and into my pj's. A real A+ showing if you ask me." Joe finishing with a proud Papa grin on his face.

"OK, so you got cleaned up and gave him another bottle, I hope?" Marie asked.

"Yep, all that," Joe said. "He finished that one down just as fast. Before I could get him up to burp him, he started crying. A few minutes later he tossed up all that too, straight over my shoulder. So I thought maybe I'd mixed it too thick or something. I read the label again, tested the temperature and we did another bottle. Oh, and I popped in one of those first born nipples, you know the ones that don't leak as fast. I thought maybe he was just sucking it down too fast.

"Took him longer, of course, but he got it all down," Joe continued. "The I got him up to burp him and the little bugger started crying again. This time before he put out the sequel to the original showing of the barf-a-rama, he let out one hellacious fart. That seemed to please him for a minute, but it didn't change the end outcome."

"How many times have you fed him, then?" Marie questioned, wiping the beads of sweat off her brow with a shaking hand.

"Well, we took a break after that. We went out for a walk, I thought the cool air might do us both some good. Just got past the Webb's place and he was at a seven out of ten on the wail-o-meter. I figured it was too early for the neighbors to hear all that, so we came back in.

"I tried one more bottle, a smaller amount of formula this time, same slow-go nipple. And now here we are. Walking and trying to burp. He's been crying this whole time, but it's been maybe fifteen minutes with no puking," Joe said with pride.

"I don't like this Joe. Not at all. We need to go back to the doctor's, today!" she demanded.

"It's Sunday Marie, no chance."

"Then the emergency room at Mass General," Marie said while reaching for her purse.

"Whoa, let's slow the horses. Maybe we're just going through an adjustment period. You know, new food in a still pretty new belly. I have to say, I'm a little jealous of all the food this one's getting. Think you could whip up some of your famous French Toast with bacon?" Joe asked with a smile.

Ignoring Joe's attempt to lighten the mood, Marie put both of her trembling hands up towards his right shoulder. A move that clearly said, "Give me my baby, now!" Joe sighed, kissed his son on his tear-soaked cheek and handed the infant over.

Marie immediately put Joseph to her left shoulder, her right hand caressing his head as she tried to calm the wailing infant.

"Shh, Mommy's got you now. It's all right little Joseph, Mommy has you. Shh..."

Joseph's cries turned to sniffles as his parents locked eyes. Joe gave Marie a smile and a wink to say, "Way to go Mom."

Marie let out a tearful laugh, relief from the fears in her mind.

"We're out of bacon, will sausage do?"

***

As the sun set that Sunday, Joe took stock of the day. Little Joseph had resumed crying just as he and Marie sat down to eat. The infant only stopped crying either because he had a nipple (real or fake) in his mouth or because he wore his little self out and fell asleep from exhaustion. Marie took a few minutes just before supper to take a shower, but Joe could hear her sobs through the bathroom door. The two had decided that if this carried on overnight, and oh boy didn't it seem likely to, they would bypass the pediatrician and head straight to Mass General.

There was, as expected, little sleep that night. The two tried taking turns, one trying to console baby Joseph while the other rested. His first shift in bed, Joe managed to drift off for a little while, although later he swore he had lain there listening to Marie sing to Joseph. At five a.m. Marie announced it was time to go. They took turns changing into clothes and making themselves presentable. Marie put on her makeup and Joe shaved his two-day stubble. They hopped into Joe's car and headed north towards Boston.

#  5

The next three weeks included five trips to the emergency room, three resulting in overnight stays, two trips to the pediatrician and countless mother-in-law telephone advice sessions. Every potential diagnosis came up empty. Every change of formula produced the same result. Allergies? No. Croup? No. Whooping...No, no no. It seemed everyone had sympathy for baby Joseph and his parents, but no one had answers.

Marie was forced to give her notice at work because her maternity leave had run out. Joe did his best to keep the garage running smoothly. He brought on another mechanic to do the work normally portioned out to him and took on the role of owner/manager. This allowed him to "work from home" as often and as long as the guys on the floor would stomach before bellyaching about it. Still the lion's share of the care of, and responsibility for, their son fell on Marie.

As the weeks passed by, both Marie and Joe slowly lost faith that the doctors would be able to figure out what was going on. In some cases, ideas given to them by doctors would make things worse for tiny Joseph. After it was suggested that bottles be made mixing half formula and half breast milk, the bits of blood returned with each stool. Also suggested was to try using some new swaddling techniques, hopefully making Joseph feel more secure (and thus less fussy), he began sobbing and wailing even while feeding.

By the time they had given up on continuing trips to the ER, Joseph was only finishing half or less of each bottle before his misery took control of him and he could no longer finish nursing. A couple days later, Joseph began vomiting directly after each feeding. The off-white color of formula mixed with blood would leave stains of pink wherever the vomit pooled.

Joe decided to ask Ed if he could stop in at the garage every couple of days to keep things going smoothly for him. Ed eagerly agreed, explaining that retirement would "be the death" of him and that he relished the idea. He refused to allow Joe to give him any money for it.

The lack of sleep took a toll on the young parents. The hours of missed rest became clearly evident on Marie's face. Each day, Joe would take the baby out for a ride in the car in hopes of giving his exhausted wife some much needed rest. The first time Joe took Joseph out, Marie was able to sleep for an hour or so before they returned. When the boys came home three hours later, Joseph's bawling jolted her awake, her heart pounding in her chest. Unbeknownst to Joe, after that one time, Marie would use that time alone to cry and pray.

After the third time that Marie forgot to turn off the electric stove burner, which had brought the fire department out, she and Joe agreed that they should take cooked meals off the menu. Cornflakes and Rice Krispies became the breakfast selection and cold cut sandwiches would fill them up the rest of the day.

Joe realized that not only was he watching his son live in misery, he was also witnessing that same misery take his wife away from him. It seemed Marie was always crying and forgetting even the most basic of things (one day she was changing a diaper and forgot to put a new one on Joseph before picking him up off the changing table and handing him over to Joe). One day she started running from room to room trying find "the other babies crying" in the house. It was then that Joe decided they needed to find professional help for her.

It took a few days of asking around, but Joe was able to find a psychiatrist who specialized in mothers who had lost their minds after giving birth. Post something depression was what the business card read. Ed's wife, Geraldine, agreed to spend a few hours with Joseph so the two could visit the shrink. She'd said she never had grandkids and even a crying baby would be a delight for her.

The night before Marie's first appointment Joseph was at his worst. He hadn't eaten all day, he simply was unable to gather himself enough to take the bottle. He had gulped so much air while crying that he was passing gas throughout the day and night. When Marie looked to see if his diaper needed to be changed all she saw were dark pink smears of what could only have come from bloody farts.

Looking down at her naked son, Marie realized just how small he had gotten. Practically just skin and bones. A look she had associated with the very old and dying. Not a three-month-old baby. Her baby.

Joe couldn't remember the last time either of them had really slept. Marie continued to insist there were other crying babies in the house. Each time Joe was holding their son, she would run from room to room and try to pick them up and console them. Marie would collapse to the floor in tears every time the baby would disappear in front of her eyes just before her hands could pick it up. It seemed one crying infant was fond of sitting in the living room, fussing and crying on the soft worn fabric of Joe's reclining easy chair.

In the morning, they got a call from Ed. He was down at the shop and one of the mechanics had been changing the rubber on a wheel, he had been distracted while filling the tire up with air. He overfilled it and it exploded. The incident didn't seem to seriously injure the young man, but "You never know with these sorts of things." Ed was waiting for the ambulance to arrive. He wasn't sure what information they would need for insurance purposes and asked if Joe could come down and help oversee. Joe checked his watch, three hours until Marie's appointment, Joe said he'd be right over.

As it turned out, no insurance information was needed at the scene, but would be necessary upon arrival at the hospital. Ed volunteered to follow the young man over to Signature Healthcare Hospital of Nursing, with the insurance information, and make sure all the paperwork was filled out properly. He apologized for dragging Joe away from Marie. Joe replied, "No big deal, Ed. A little fresh air and sunlight on my face feels pretty good right about now."

When Joe arrived home, the house was silent as he opened the front door.

"Marie, hunny? Where are you two?" he called out from the entryway.

The silence continued.

"Did you finally get Joseph to sleep?" he said in a softer voice, just in case she had.

Nothing.

The bedrooms were empty. The kitchen was empty. The family room, empty. Joe went down to the basement to see if Marie was in the middle of doing some laundry and couldn't hear him over the machines. Anxiety was all he found.

Joe ran upstairs to look out the back-kitchen window to see. Maybe the two had taken a trip out to the laundry line. Nothing.

It was then he realized not only was the yard absent his wife and son, but also the beater of a car that Marie's dad had given them was missing as well.

"What the hell?!" Joe said quietly to himself.

Panic set in.

Joe spun around on his heels and readied himself to sprint out the front door to his own car. An open book on the kitchen table caught his eye.

Joe couldn't remember the last time he saw Marie reading. There hadn't been much time and even less energy to these past few months. He walked over and picked up the book. He turned it over to see the title, it was the "Greater Boston Parks & Rec" 1968 edition. Joe flipped it back over to the opened pages, written in red ink above the D.W. Fields Park entry were the words,

"I'm sorry Joseph Larry Jr, I'm so sorry."

A single red X had been written on the light blue colored section of the page indicating the lake. The mark was made in little cove, just off the shoreline, tucked away from roads and paths.

Joe arrived at the edge of the cove, having sprinted the half mile from the nearest parking area, out of breath with his vision blurred by the tears spilling from his eyes. Twenty-five feet from shore he saw his wife. She was standing in waist deep water, naked. The eyes of her expressionless face staring off somewhere to Joe's right. He looked over, hoping to see his son.

"Marie, hunny, where's Joseph?" Joe called softly across the water.

"He's not crying anymore, Joe. I saved him," she replied. Her eyes still fixed to his right.

"That's wonderful, Marie. But, where is he? I'd like to see him." Joe's voice wavered as he felt a knot tightening in his stomach.

"Don't worry, hunny, I've got him. He's not crying anymore."

"Marie, I really need to see Joseph. Right now!" Joe trying his best to sound both authoritative and soothing.

"I don't want to wake him up from his nap. It's been so long since he's napped, since any of us have napped. He looks so peaceful when he's sleeping, Joe," Marie whispered back to the shore.

"Marie. Please get him up from his nap for me. Please."

Marie turned her face to look at Joe. She smiled and said, "OK." Without shifting her eyes from his, she reached down, between her legs.

"Are you sure you won't let him sleep?" she asked.

"Marie. Please," he managed while choking back his tears. "I just want to see our son."

Marie brought her arms up from below the water. In her hands she held Joseph, his body grey and emaciated. She lifted him up to her left breast. Adjusting her hold on him, she placed her nipple between Joseph's blue and lifeless lips.

"Just let me give him breakfast and then change his wet diaper first. Then you can play with him all you want. OK, Joe?"

#  6

Russ's cell phone rang just as he was getting in the shower. "6:53 a.m. already," Russ thought, "A 'Manic Monday" indeed." He had already fallen a full minute behind his usual morning schedule. He didn't want to lose any more time today.

"Sweetheart, could you see who it is for me?" Russ called out as he stepped into the perfectly heated, one hundred and six-degree water.

Brit Williams looked up from her case files. She'd spent the early morning hours reviewing her opening statement in Philadelphia V Harrow, a case she'd pulled three weeks ago. It was a pretty straightforward arrest. Mr. Harrow had been stopped by the Coast Guard in the Schuylkill river, high on meth with a complete cook lab below deck. When the Coast Guard had asked what the lab was for, all he would answer was "Heisenberg." Even the best public defender drew dud cases from time to time.

She walked over and picked up her husband's phone. The caller ID read "Evan Novella."

"Not again," she thought. "Russ just finished helping you assholes out."

"Sweetheart, it's Evan," Brit yelled into their oversized bathroom.

"Let it go to voicemail, please. I think I've earned the right for him to have some patience with me," Russ replied, already using the shampoo for a body wash as it rinsed from his hair.

Not a minute later, as Russ began toweling off, the cell phone rang again. This time the ID read, "FBI Philadelphia, PA." Brit sighed. This was how the game was played. First Evan would call from his personal cell, thinking he was being nice, as if he were just calling up his old buddy Russ to catch up with each other. When Russ doesn't answer that initial call, FBI Special Agent Evan Novella then called from his desk phone, up on the eighth floor of the Philadelphia Field Office.

A moment later Russ came around the corner, out of the bathroom, his hair wet and mussed up the way she liked seeing him. She knew he knew that she knew he mussed it up just for her, after each shower. Some habits are kept for the sake of habit.

"Did he call from his office phone too?" Russ asked after giving Brit a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Of course he did," she replied before returning the kiss. "Shouldn't you have earned a break from the FBI with all you did to help them with the last case?"

Russ pulled Brit closer and kissed her first on the lips, then a peck on her nose and finally he pressed his lips on her forehead which ended with a resounding smack sound.

"Now now, you know that I've given Evan carte blanche when it comes to asking me for help. I enjoy the puzzles he brings to me. And we both know he wouldn't bother me unless the case was beyond the collective brain trust of the Bureau.

"Besides..." Russ began before giving Brit a longer, more sensual, kiss. "I could go for a new puzzle today."

"You say that every time, that you enjoy new puzzles," Brit said pushing him back. "What you should be doing with your time this week is heading up to Boston to visit your father. You haven't been up to the hospital in nearly two months.

"And careful with my makeup, huh. I've got Judge Ranno presiding for this one. You know how he loves to see porcelain faces and dark red lipstick in his court. I can't get Harrow off, but I think I can manage to get his time reduced. That is so long as I don't show up looking like a kindergartener's makeup practice canvas."

"OK OK," Russ replied, putting both his hands up in the stereotypical I surrender pose.

"I'm not a smart man," Russ continued in his best Forrest Gump voice, "but I don't believe there's anything in this world that would be able to compromise your beauty." He finished by reaching over and carefully moving a stray hair back in place.

The corners of Brit's lips curled up ever so slightly. The same way they imperceptibly move when she was trying to hide the fact that Russ had scored a point in the heat of battle. She reached up and softly placed her hand on the back of Russ's neck. She pulled him in and gave him a long, slow lipstick smearing kiss.

"You win, Russ," She said softly as their lips separated. "I'll be in court at least four days, maybe up to a week to ten days if the prosecution decides to fight dirty against my 'diminished capacity' defense."

"I promise to be home before the streetlights come on," Russ responded, returning to his usual joking mood.

"You just be sure you tell Evan that I'm taking you on a vacation after this one. And tell him I want a full nine days of him leaving us the hell alone," Brit said in her most professional courtroom voice.

"Nine days," Russ parroted back to her. "Gosh Mrs. Robinson," Brit being two months older than Russ. "How are we going to fill nine whole days?" Russ finished by sliding his hands down to her rear. "Hmm, new panties for your big day in court?"

"Mmhmm," Brit responded. "You men will never understand the confidence boost a woman feels from wearing new, sexy undergarments."

"Undergarments? Plural?" Russ said. "Well koo-koo-ka-choo." Russ began moving his hands up her body.

"Uh uh uh, Mr. Williams. There's no time for us to start reviewing each other's briefs. I've got to touch up my face," she said, "and you need to get yourself dressed so you can go on your date with the FBI."

Russ replied by sticking his tongue out at her.

"And be sure to tell Agent Novella about our pending vacation. I'm serious about this. We'll go up and visit Pops first. After that, you can take me somewhere tropical." Brit slid his hand back down to her ass on the word "take."

"Koo-koo-ka-choo indeed," Russ thought as he turned to walk over to his closet, a smile on his face.

#  7

Russ slowly walked the quarter mile from the Eighth and Market rail station to the FBI's Philadelphia field office. He'd spent his commute mulling over the past week's top news stories, trying to get a feel for what crisis Agent Novella might be asking his help for. It being an election year there surely was no shortage of stories, as well as non-stories, going around. Between the Middle East, China, Global Climate Change, the world economy, the Kardashians as well as that lady out west whose body seemed to be stuck in baby making gear, there wasn't much left with any real meat on it.

Russ could still hear Pops hollering at him, in his head, "If you're not planning to be a half an hour early you might as well show up an hour late. And you'd better make sure you're the best dressed man there, so you can at least claim you're being late with fashion, or however the saying goes." Pops would be proud of his son this morning: he arrived at 600 Arch St a full thirty minutes and twenty-two seconds before the building officially opened.

Agent Evan Novella was already standing just inside the thick bulletproof glass doors as Russ walked up. Evan pressed down on the inside bar opening the door and waved Russ in.

"Hey Russ, how are you doing?" Evan asked. "I really appreciate you coming in and giving me a hand on this one."

"Good morning, Evan," Russ replied as the two men shook hands. "Brit sends her best."

"Best what, Russ?" Evan replied dryly. "I'm pretty sure I won't be on her Christmas card list this year. Hell, you've probably seen more of me this year than her."

"Seventy-three hours more, so far," Russ confirmed. "And believe me, Brit is a lot easier on the eyes, Agent Novella."

"That is an undisputed fact, for sure. But I won't ask you to cuddle afterwards," Evan joked. "Come on, let's get you upstairs and settled in."

The pair of men walked over towards the main security desk for Russ to sign in on the visitor log. Russ didn't recognize the rookie agent hunched over, studying the closed-circuit television feeds.

"Another fresh recruit I see," Russ said while searching for a pen.

"You know it. At least they're not replacing us old guys with robots like they're gonna do with all those fast foodie types," Evan replied. "Sigler says we can afford three newbies for every old timer that retires early. Don't get me wrong, I get it, budget constraints and all, but some of these new ones...well, let's just say they may have full six packs, but they're missing the plastic thingy to hold them together."

"Yokes, Evan," Russ said softly. "The plastic thingies are called yokes."

Evan rolled his eyes long enough for Russ to see then turned towards the young agent who had yet to realize he and Russ were standing in front of the desk.

"God dammit Jackson," Evan yelled as he rapped his knuckles on the desktop. "Mr. Williams here needs to sign the fuck in. Did you forget your crayons at home with your bagged lunch?"

Agent Jackson's head spun towards Evan as he stammered, "Uh, no sir, well I mean, Agent Novella, um sir. The supply closet hasn't been opened as of yet this morning. The front doors are still locked, no one can enter the building yet, much less sign in, um sir."

"Jeez, relax kid." Evan's face had a hint of crimson to it. "I was just messing with you, you know. Tell him, Russ. Tell him I'm not an asshole. I'm really not an asshole, kid."

"Oh, no, not at all sir," Jackson said with a nervous smile. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a thin shiny pen. He reached it towards Evan. "Uh, here, I've got this Bluetooth video recording pen."

"A simple Bic will do just fine, son," Russ said after clearing his throat.

Agent Jackson's eyes bugged out in surprise as he turned to look at Russ, as if he just realized there was a second man in the lobby.

"Russell Williams?" the young agent asked. "You're Russell Williams. You're a legend at the academy, sir."

"Russ will do just fine, son. I'm a civilian."

"Yes sirrr, Russ. Here, take it, take the pen," Jackson said while practically forcing the pen into Russ's hand. "Full HD and it does audio too. Take it, please. It would be my honor."

"Tell me it writes in ink and I'll be glad to take it off your hands," Russ said with a smile.

The agent laughed, "Oh yes, it does that too."

"Thank you very much, then," Russ said taking the pen from the young man. "Now what's this about the academy?" he added while signing in.

"Oh, just stories, you know," Jackson replied, attempting to compose himself. "I think the one I heard the most was that Boko Haram case over in Africa."

"I see," Russ said. "Well, Agent Jackson, thanks again." Russ tipped the pen at the young man.

Evan and Russ walked over to the elevator to take it up to the eighth floor. Russ chuckled as Evan punched the passcode into the heavily used security keypad. A four number, non-repeating code. Each numbered button pressed was slightly, but clearly, worn out. The amount of wear diminished with each successive number in the code. Each number press having left progressively less oil, and thus less wear, than on the number before it.

"I would have thought you guys would have moved to retinal scanners by now. I figure that way the bad guys would have to have a close up of your ugly mugs to get in, instead of a basic understanding of Eccrine gland secretions. I'll wager no one would be willing to look at those photos all day while trying to break in and get your goodies," Russ joked.

"Ha ha, funny man. Listen this one is a big one, so leave the jokes at the door. OK?"

Russ had noticed low level stress in Evan's voice on the phone earlier, and now looking at the rigidness of Evan's face and body, it was clear the jokes would have to take a backseat this time. Russ silently wondered what current world event he'd missed the past few days. The elevator dinged open to the eighth floor and they headed straight to the main conference room.

As had become the protocol when Evan brought Russ in to help with a case, keycard authorization to the conference room was changed to only allow the Deputy Special Agent in Charge, or DSAC, and higher access. Evan handed Russ his temporary access card as they approached the door.

"After you, sir." Evan bowed slightly and motioned Russ into the room with a flourish.

In addition to the change in room access security, the room's blinds were drawn and all CCTV surveillance of the area was suspended. Russ may be only a civilian, but when he was working alongside Evan and the FBI he was granted SCI or Sensitive Compartmentalized Information clearance. Only President Adler had greater access to documents. The room was filled with "need to know" information which very few individuals would ever need to know.

"Have a seat, Russ. I'll get you up to speed with what we're working on here," Agent Novella said.

Russ worked his way around the table towards the only chairs in the room. He took the longer, counterclockwise route to the pair of leather office chairs situated at the far-left side of the room. His eyes carefully and methodically taking in the vast assortment of items piled in heaps on the comically large eight by twenty-foot conference table. Phonebooks, terrorist watchlists, photos from several political meetings, calendars of events, folders with newspaper clippings, assorted timetables, personal journals -The amount of data threatening to overwhelm anyone who took on the task of crunching it down into bite-sized, usable intel.

The two men sat down, then turned to face each other. Was that a twitch in Evan's right eye? Russ calmly placed his hands on his lap as Evan fussed with his suit jacket. "This is big," Russ thought to himself.

"OK Russ, you know the drill. Confidential information, treasonable offense, yadda yadda yadda," Evan said with a pained sigh. "I know you know it, but I'm required to say it just the same. Good? Good. Three weeks ago, we began receiving credible intel from our best sources that..."

"There's going to be an assassination attempt on the President's life," Russ interrupted.

"Dammit now, you know I hate it when you do that. How could you have possibly known what I was going to say?"

Waving his arm across the table, "This, Evan. All of this."

#  8

The first few hours of every investigation had become routine for Russ. He followed the same four steps which would turn the array of discordant information given to him into usable pertinent data. First, he did an evaluation of the kinds of information he was given. Bound books were similar to newspapers, but different from memos and reports. Pictures with landmarks in them were significantly different than those without. And so on.

Next, within each kind of data, he would sort the information into chronological order. First a rough sorting by year followed by a more detailed ordering within each calendar year. Pieces of information which were not dated he would first attempt to validate where each item fit into the timeline by analyzing the contents to infer a date. If there were remaining items which he could not date himself, those pieces would be clipped together and placed on top of the chronologically sorted data.

Once all the kinds of information were sorted, Russ proceeded to sift through each stack, year by year. The as yet undated items were the first to be gone through, Russ catalogued those items in his mind, that way, his theory was, he would be able to determine where each undated item fit into the developing, overall timeline.

In addition to creating an overall flowing timeline, this step allowed Russ to further sort the collected items by informational value. Items which were related to a specific operation, line of investigation or even data which pertained to a peripheral character, for example. He called these groups, families.

This was also the step where Russ set aside any information he determined to be junk data, intel which appeared to be irrelevant to this particular case. While there were rare instances when he'd only realized the value of a piece of information when he came across a related document in a different family, the overwhelming quantity of paper pertaining to this specific case convinced Russ to have the junk data removed from the conference room as soon as it was deemed superfluous.

After having reduced the mass of data to only the information relevant to the case, Russ would organize the families of data in way to help facilitate the physical retrieval of data, should the FBI need it. He did this by laying out the individual families of data in a giant circle on the eight by twenty conference table. A ring of data twenty-five feet in circumference.

Russ did this by placing the stacks of data around the circle in an ever-changing order. The stacks were placed as though they were times on a clock. Information Russ deemed to be "priority" or "crucial" would be placed from one o'clock to four o'clock. Beyond that he was less concerned about the specific order of the stacks.

If a case, such as this one, that had more families of intel than twelve, Russ would place a smaller, concentric circle of stacks representing half hours. On rare cases when the amount of information exceeded even this capacity, another, smaller circle within the half hours would be used, corresponding to quarter hours.

Russ had found being able to tell Agent Novella to, "Look at two thirty," or, "You'll find what you need at seven o'clock," was an effective method of sorting and retrieving data. Evan had total trust in Russ's process, thoughts and results. Evan's boss, Director Sigler, however occasionally wanted to hold the evidence in his hand. This method facilitated that want efficiently.

Russ's final step was to commit each piece of information to memory. Starting at twelve o'clock, he would flip through each individual family. Each stack a chronological story about a single individual, piece of evidence or idea as it related to the case.

Pictures and tables were mentally recorded as whole, medium resolution images. Russ found being able to mentally zoom in on a photograph or large table of data to some degree was valuable. If at any point in the case he needed a finer resolution of the item he was trying to recall, well, he knew anyone would be able to find, say, the forty-third page located at seven thirty and get a more detailed scan to him.

Information in a textual format, journal entries, news articles, government reports and the like, Russ would take in at near World Championship Speed Reading rates. Most speed readers claimed fifteen hundred to two thousand words per minute at about a fifty percent comprehension, Russ had long ago adopted a speed of 1362 wpm, which comfortably allowed him a hundred percent comprehension. Above simply being able to recall the body of a text, this speed also enabled him to remember the location and frequency of specific words, sentences and ideas not only within individual documents, but across the entirety of his information set.

Finally, he stepped back from the table and surveyed the evidence in totality. A foolproof circle of data, laid out in a manner which facilitated perfect data retrieval. Satisfied that he now held all the information needed to solve the case, Russ returned to his seat and let his mind wander.

It was usually in this last step that he would start to sing softly under his breath.

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone

'Neath the halo of a streetlamp

I turned my collar to the cold and damp.

The songs were always clues in themselves. Russ's subconscious was always the first to figure it all out. He knew he had the answer floating around in his mind, that consistently was the case. The easy part was done. The real trick of it all, was to consciously put all the information together. To chisel away the flotsam, parse through all the data and dispose of the noise.

Just remove anything that doesn't look like David.

Time to get to it.

#  9

Joe woke up when the first customer of the day pulled in front of the shop, that all too familiar air-hose double-ring bell. He'd been sleeping at the garage since the day after he and Marie had buried Joseph.

Oh what a little coffin it had been.

Joe had made some tough decisions in his young life. At the age fourteen he'd taken his dad's Corvair out for a joyride to impress his friends. In all the excitement, he'd misjudged and sideswiped a parked car. All his friends in the car yelled for him to take off, "Come on, no one saw you." Joe, however, decided he should wait for the other car's owner and fess up to what he'd done. He turned around and parked beside the other damaged vehicle. His friends were out the door and around the corner before he'd put on the parking brake.

When he was nineteen, Joe had been out with his best friend Julio. Julio had too much to drink at the party they attended and ran a Lincoln off the road on the way home. Julio panicked and sped home, making Joe swear not to tell anyone. When it came out the next day that Mrs. Lowe had been forced off the road and suffered a broken wrist and hip, Joe went to Julio and asked him to come forward. He declined. Joe saw no other choice and went and reported what had happened. Julio got off with parole and time spent. He never spoke to Joe again.

In what was to become the only time in his life he felt regret for doing what he thought was the right thing, nine months ago Joe had taken Marie and their drowned son home and constructed a new narrative. First, he put Marie in the shower and gave her a long overdue, thorough washing. Next, he dressed Marie in the cleanest set of pajamas he could find and forced a couple of her prescribed Darvocets in her mouth and waited for her to swallow them. After, finally, laying her down in bed, he went to the kitchen for his son.

Joe carefully took the swollen diaper off Joseph. He then secured the drain plug in the kitchen sink and began filling it with warm water.

"Not too warm, just the right temperature for babies," he thought to himself. "Joseph may be dead, but he's still my baby boy."

He then slowly and caringly, washed his infant son for the last time. After completely sponging Joseph's emaciated body and washing his thin wisps of hair Joe could still smell the stench of death and lake water on his son. He swaddled Joseph in a towel then drained the sink and ran a second, hotter bath to try again. After drying Joseph's body again Joe reached for the bunch of cotton swabs he'd placed next to the sink. First, he swabbed inside the infant's nose and ears to soak up any remaining lake water. Then, after rinsing out Joseph's tiny mouth with hydrogen peroxide, he again swabbed his nose and ears, this time with peroxide as well.

Confident he'd removed all traces of the lake water, Joe picked up his son and held him one last time in his arms. Softly cradling the infant, Joe's own body began to slowly sway back and forth, in that unmistakable parental slow dance performed when holding a sleeping baby. Slowly moving side to side. Holding his little boy. Hugging him. Kissing him.

Eventually the tears came. Not tears of exhaustion, but the tears of a man at his breaking point. These tears were of mourning, of misery, of regret.

After a seeming eternity, Joe carried his son into the master bathroom where he had washed Marie. He set him down in the tub and started one final bath.

The official cause of death was declared a bathing accident. A sleep deprived new parent had started giving his son a bath when he was startled by the sound of breaking of dishes. Dishes that had crashed to the kitchen floor having fallen from the poorly constructed cabinet shelving. He'd run to see what had happened, and, sadly, had left his infant son alone too long in the tub. Mom had slept through it all having mistakenly taken double her prescribed dose of sleeping medication.

No charges were brought. No investigation was started. No, autopsy was performed.

"Hadn't the boy been through enough," the Sheriff had reasoned.

Better than half the town came out for the funeral. Strange how the death of an infant can really bring a community together. Later, when Joe and Marie returned home from the service, Marie announced that she didn't want to sleep under the same roof as Joe anymore. She said she couldn't bear to look at him. She was both ashamed of what she had done and felt too much guilt for Joe having taken the burden of murder off her.

That was all nearly nine months ago. Joe hadn't been home since. He continued to pay the utilities and mortgage on the house. What money that remained from keeping the garage afloat he deposited into the checking account he and Marie shared. Ed still came by the shop now and then, always expressing how impressed he was seeing Joe being the first to arrive in the morning and last to leave each and every night. The truth was, Joe parked his car in one of the two work bays each evening after the last customer picked up their vehicle and would try to get it back out in the lot before any of the guys showed up for work.

Today's first customer, however, would have to come back later, once Jake or Bobbie got in. Joe had something else, something more important than an oil change or tire rotation to tend to today. Today would have been Joseph's first birthday. It was finally time to go home and see his wife, Joseph's mother.

***

Marie had been expecting Joe to come around on this morbid anniversary. It was the right thing to do, after all. He had given her the space and time she'd requested, but this day was different. Joe had silently, invisibly, taken such good care of her. Him having dealt with all the bills aside, he'd done so much. Joe had worked it out with some boys down the road to make sure the yard was kept neat, the garbage got out to the corner on Tuesdays and any snow that need to be shoveled was done so. For the past nine months, the only responsibility she held was to "get well."

Of course, being certain that he would come to the house hadn't made her any less anxious about it. Her palms were sweaty and cold, while her face was flush and warm. She and her therapist, Dr Collins, had recently been talking about the possibility of her and Joe sitting down and have coffee one day. A chance to see what, if any, feelings still existed between them. The months of therapy had been grueling, so far, and even though she still woke each morning feeling overwhelming guilt and shame, she had to admit life was looking a little brighter lately. To her surprise and delight, she found she had a sense of comfort and relief upon hearing Joe's car pull in the driveway.

The doorbell rang.

"Jesus, he's ringing the doorbell to his own house," Marie thought.

"Come on in Joe! In the kitchen," she yelled from behind her cup of coffee.

Marie stood to greet Joe when he entered the small kitchen. After an awkward few moments, neither one sure of how to say hello, they fell into a hug. Oh it felt good to be in his arms. Realizing how much he'd missed his wife, Joe hugged her tighter. The both broke into tears, the too long pent up sadness was uncaged. A cathartic outpouring of mourning that the two parents hadn't been able to share since that day of destruction.

"I'm so sorry, Joe," Marie managed between sobs. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh, it's all right, Marie," Joe replied, stroking her long black hair.

"No, it isn't," she raised her voice. "What I did. What I did to Joseph. What I made you do for me. None of that will ever be all right."

"Marie, hunny. Nobody made anybody do anything. Joseph is at peace. I forgive you. I want you to forgive you."

Another fifteen minutes passed before the hug broke. The two sat down at the butcher block kitchen table and for the first time in months, they looked at each other, really looked at each other. Nine months? Maybe nine years by the aging of their faces. Both still in their early twenties, but with a lifetime of wear and tear.

It was early afternoon by the time each finished catching the other up on their time apart. Marie thanked him for supporting her financially all this time. He commended her on the progress she'd made with therapy.

"Maybe one day we can support each other emotionally again?" Joe asked with a tone of hopefulness.

Marie bit her lip in thought.

"Do you wanna come back for dinner tonight? Tuna casserole, extra crispy on top. Just the way you like it," Marie asked, again surprising herself with the upbeat cadence of her offer.

"I can't imagine anything else I would rather do," Joe replied with a smile.

***

After dinner, Marie produced a bottle of whiskey and the "His & Her" wine glasses they'd received at their wedding and placed them all on the table between them.

"These are the only glasses that survived the first week I was here alone," she said sheepishly. "As good as it felt to smash everything I lay my hands on, I couldn't bring myself to destroy these."

"Well, we certainly can't let the day end without paying our respects to Joseph. He was born from our love and we love him still. I hope that we gave him our best. He didn't deserve what came to him, and I'll be carrying that until the day I see him again." Joe wiped his tears away before finishing. "We love you Joseph. We'll always love you."

They clinked their glasses and drank one for their son.

"I may have not been the mother you needed, Joseph, but your father, he's the best daddy any little boy could hope for."

Another clink, another drink.

Joe lost count of how many toasts Marie had made. He did remember at one point her toasting to "However many toasts it takes to get to the bottom of this bottle." Shortly after midnight, Joe got up to leave.

"Yooouuu can't drive home like thissssss, Joe," Marie slurred her way through.

"I'll be fine. Besides you didn't fill my glass nearly as fully as your own, Mrs. Williams."

"OK, but you be ssssuuuuure to st-ssstop and shh-shleep it off if you need to."

"I will hunny. Don't you worry."

Joe leaned in for a goodnight hug but was met with a kiss. Then another, this one long and deep. Marie grabbed Joe by his collar and lead him down the hall. She, moving backwards so as to not break the kiss. Into the bedroom they stumbled, Marie tearing at his clothes. Joe was more than happy to return the favor.

"I love you, Marie, since the day I first saw you. I've missed you so much."

"Shut and love me right now."

Three months later they announced they were pregnant.

#  10

Saturday morning was the best of all the mornings for five-year-old Russ. At precisely 6:51 a.m. each Saturday, Russ would shoot out of his bed and slide his piggies into his Dynomutt slippers. Next, he would make his bed, beds should always be made in the morning.

"It's the right thing to do, son," Daddy always said. "If you're going to use something, you need to put it back where you found it when you're done." The bed was made when he got into it last night, and now that he's done with it, it's back as he found it.

Once that was complete he would silently make his way across the hall to the bathroom.

"Always sit while going at home, there's no splashing that way," he reminded himself.

Wash, wash, wash your hands,

Play our handy game.

Rub and scrub and scrub and rub

Germs go down the drain

Russ loved the way a song could be fun to sing as well as be helpful and teach him new things.

"But where do the germs go once they're in the drain? And how did they get on my hands in the first place?" Russ asked his father when learning the song.

Finally, with the biggest bowl of Honeycomb cereal that he could carry into the living room, he'd get to his favorite spot in front to the big color TV console and kick off his slippers. Dyno's ears got all bent up when sitting Indian Style. Then, just as he would take his first bite, the beginning of the 7 a.m. Hanna Barbera cartoons would come on. Daddy had told him that as long as he kept the noise down while eating his cereal he could watch all the TV he wanted until noon. And being quiet was easy.

Russ had mapped out which parts of the floor squeaked the loudest when walking down the hallway. He knew if he placed his cereal bowl down on the counter twelve inches from the left of the sink the noise never made it to the bedrooms. Acoustics are fun. And lastly, Russ knew his ears worked so well that he barely had to turn the TV up to be able to hear everything Captain Caveman was yelling about.

Russ could not figure out why the characters on the shows looked so out of proportion or why the animals needed to wear clothing. What he did know, though, is that he always smiled when Yogi would eventually get a pic-a-nic basket. Besides, clothing or not, talking animals were funny. Cartoons felt good.

Commercial break. Time to get some more cereal. Maybe some Honey Smacks this time.

By now, the house had begun to warm from the morning spring sun shining brightly from the southeast. Russ knew to take the path around the far side of his father's recliner, to keep away from the mid-morning creaky boards. As he came around the left side of the chair he stepped on a piece of his Honeycomb that must have been stuck to the side of his bowl and fallen off as he was walking.

"Gross, it feels wet," he thought.

Russ leaned against the side of the big chair and reached with his free hand to pick the soggy piece of cereal off the bottom of his foot. He was surprised when he found there wasn't a milk-soaked piece of sugary cereal stuck to his foot. Instead he found the doll needle he had been using last night to try to sew up Mr. Ursus Arctos, his favorite teddy bear. He must have dropped it while cleaning up and now it was protruding out of the bottom and right up through the top of his foot. For a moment he thought about how unlikely it was that the needle would have fallen and stood upright in the nap of the shaggy carpet of the living room. How lucky was he to have been part of that happening.

"What are the odds," he thought to himself with a smile.

Snapping back to the moment, Russ began to realize the problem he faced. He didn't know how to get the needle out of his foot. It would probably be too slippery with all the blood to grab onto with his fingers. Daddy wouldn't let him play with his tools, so he couldn't get a pair of pliers, and besides, they were always so dirty. Most importantly, how was he going to get more cereal before the commercials were over?

"This sucks," he said softly.

Russ spent another minute mulling over his options. He tried to push or pull the needle out of his foot but found he couldn't pinch the slick metal tight enough to create the needed friction to move it. He tried holding his cereal spoon so that his thumb was inside the concave curved end and pushed down on the needle, metal to metal.

"Boy, that's pretty stuck in there," he thought defeatedly.

Russ realized his time was running short when the commercials on the television changed from the national ads, featuring toys and hamburgers made by clowns, to the less interesting local ones. It seemed he would have to yell for his daddy.

"But daddy's still sleeping," he reasoned. "I need to stay quiet or he won't let me watch The Banana Splits next Saturday. And if I go get some towels from the hall closet to catch the blood I'll make a bigger mess than I've already made. This really sucks.

Russ began thinking of what he could do for his father in the upcoming days to earn back next weekend's cartoons. Maybe he could help daddy finish his tax return or maybe he could start doing the laundry. Russ was certain he'd think of something. Russ returned the spoon to his empty bowl before calling for help.

CLINK

Russ had his first epiphany. He knew how to solve his problem. He hopped over the arm of the recliner and sat down on the front edge of the chair. He took the spoon out of his cereal bowl and licked it clean.

"Why is blood so salty," he wondered as he dropped the spoon to the floor.

Then he set the oversized cereal bowl down in front of the chair and rested his pierced foot on top of it. The blood dripped off his foot and into the bowl, no mess. He didn't like the way that the blood drying between his toes was sticky, but aside from that this was fine. Sure, he'd not be able to have more cereal, but that didn't matter, The Jetsons were coming on.

#  11

Russ finished reading through the last stack of intel and returned it to the eleven fifty-two position, it occurred to him that he'd never had to utilize a fourth ring in a case before. He pondered this as he rubbed his eyes and arched his body over the low-backed chair until he heard five distinct, pressure relieving cracks along his spine. Holding the position, he forced his shoulders down and backwards until he felt the rapid pop-pop-pop of his sternum. Russ's ever ticking internal clock, as well as the grumble from his stomach, let him know it was time to get some lunch.

He stood up and walked toward the conference room door. There were no light switches to turn off here as the room's overhead LEDs were infrared-heat sensor activated. Upon the last occupant leaving the room three triangulating thermal sensors would work to agree the room was empty and turn the lights off. Quiet, stationary readers were no longer subject to motion sensing blackouts.

Russ closed the distance to the magnetically secured door and heard the faint click as the impossibly strong electromagnet was powered down, enabling an easy exit. Once the occupants had left and the door closed shut the room would register the absence of human heat signatures and immediately return the flow of electricity to the magnetic system. The course of actions worked relatively the same way in reverse upon an authorized user submitting the correct identification to enter the room.

Russ was surprised to find Evan's office empty when he poked his head in. The agent headed a weekly conference call with the other Deputy Special Agents in Charge from around the country, scheduled until twelve thirty. Russ spotted the five by seven bright orange Post-it notepad Agent Novella used when taking, and keeping, notes. Scratched on the top sheet were the words, "Sigler's office...SOS."

Director Sigler had been part of some amazing feats of counter intelligence before being brought in as the head of the FBI late last year. As a lead field officer for the CIA, Sigler had pieced together an aborted assassination attempt of the President during his planned Global Climate Change summit in Mumbai. The president had been scheduled to visit Shanghai and Kuala Lumpur on her way to the summit. As Air Force One was being cleared for takeoff from Pudong International, the decision was made to forfeit the rest of the trip. A large tropical depression was being tracked in the Indian Ocean and it was forecasted to intensify rapidly into a severe cyclonic storm in the coming days. The projected path had it skirting by Malaysia on its way to southern India.

Sigler had already been on the ground in Mumbai as part of the early vetting of the President's agenda. On a hunch he re-interviewed two lieutenants from the Indian army whose stories hadn't quite matched up to each other. During that process, Sigler discovered what had been a plan to blow up the President's motorcade as she was travelling to the summit. Had it not been for the decision to cancel the President's appearance at the summit, the President very well may have been assassinated.

The story never made it to the public, of course. The Indian army's involvement and the discovery of the assassination plot were kept behind closed doors. In fact, small bits of the story only came to light when President Adler had tapped Sigler for the Director position. Even then any details were only seen as unsubstantiated rumors.

Russ could hear Sigler's booming voice well before he reached his office at the end of the hall.

"I've given you all the playbook for this one. Just follow the damn plays!"

It seemed Sigler had assumed the lead on Evan's DSAC call. And he'd issued the playbook for the case already? Russ wondered why Agent Novella had brought him in so late into the case. Having the playbook meant the case had firm direction, locations set to be scoped out and a significantly reduced suspect pool. Surely if Evan had been aware of the Director's advancement of the case Russ would have been at home this morning reading up on theoretical super solids, instead of completing four hours of file keeping.

"DSAC Novella has point on this case, gentlemen. Anything to add Evan?" Sigler's voice now a decibel below booming, but still crystal clear through the office door.

The room became quiet as Evan took control of closing statements on the call.

"OK men, let's do good work out there!" Sigler, it seemed, needed to get the last word in.

Russ decided that now was not the time to knock on Sigler's door. There was no need to open himself up to crossing horns with the Director. Anyway, it seemed he would be headed back home after lunch. Instead, Russ sat on the brushed leather love seat adjacent to Evan's office, still with a clear view down the hall, and waited for the agent. At the very least, Russ hoped to hear what direction the Bureau was taking with the case. Based upon the intel given to him, Russ was surprised Sigler had an advanced plan in place already. It was obvious some information was kept secret from Russ.

Agent Novella emerged from the Director's office five minutes after Sigler's resounding end to the conference call.

"Jeez Russ," Evan called out, still halfway down the hallway. "I was worried about you earlier. Usually you're calling me in after an hour or two to explain to me the painfully obvious ways the FBI has missed piecing together important data.

"What do you expect," Russ responded. "You've given me fifty three percent more bits of data than usual. Contrary to what I hear you've claimed at office parties, I am not a machine."

"Psh. You've got us all fooled," Novella said with a smile.

"Besides, most of that intel was rubbish. You wasted a lot of my time having me dig through it all. Still using the new recruits to sort your intel?" Russ smiled back.

"Hey, cheap labor."

"Uh huh, sure. Saving my tax dollars for the big-ticket items, I'm sure."

Russ let the conversation dangle for a solid three count, waiting to see if Evan would open up about the conference call he'd had with Sigler. The FBI agent took full advantage of those three seconds to straighten his tie and check his Johnston & Murphys for scuff marks.

Russ added another two seconds just to see how Evan responded to the silence.

"I couldn't help but overhear the end of your call with Sigler. Hell, I think the whole floor could. Why did you bring me in if the Bureau already has its plan of attack?" Russ asked matter of factly. "You don't need my help interrogating the four or five primary suspects you've narrowed it down to."

Evan gave his tie another straightening before replying.

"Well, you're right, Russ."

The agent let out a short sharp sigh.

"Sigler hit me with this just before the DSAC call. In fact, he laid it out for me before I had the chance to let him know you'd already started your thing."

"And now it's time to give me my walking papers," Russ said, rising up from the love seat.

"Well, not quite. Let's not have any misunderstandings here, Sigler wants you as far away from this as possible. He feels a case of this magnitude is too big to include outside interference, even your particular expertise."

"Nothing surprising there," Russ added. "Sigler has been a stubborn ass for as long as I've known him. He doesn't want anyone around who might cast doubt on his infallibility."

"That may be, Russ, but as you heard, I've got the lead on this case and I want you here. It took a bit, but I explained to Sigler that it's because this is such a big case that we're better off pursuing as many angles on this as we can."

"You mean cover your asses from as many angles as you can." Russ chuckled.

"That's how I sold it to him, Russ. Listen, I've been paying attention to you all these years, Russ. You've clearly got the lead in the smarts department, but I'm a pretty clever guy, myself, no stooge here. One of these days I'll have an idea before you, maybe even get the better of you. Until then, though, truth is, I've become spoiled by your help. I don't think I'll feel we've given this our best without your input," Evan said.

"OK OK, agent," Russ began. "If you're going to lay it on that thick can I at least get some lunch out of you first? I'm wasting away here."

"I'm afraid we don't have time for dining out today. I'll have Renee order in something. You still like Thai?"

"If the FBI is buying," Russ smiled, "I like it just fine."

#  12

"OK, Russ, we don't have time to waste here, lay it on me. Whatcha got?"

"Whoa, slow down there Agent Novella," Russ replied. "What kind of 'TS & SLTT' is the Bureau holding back from me," Russ said in his best Huckleberry Hound southern drawl.

"Not a damned thing, Russ." Evan waved his arm dramatically over the conference room table. "Sigler personally made sure all the intel ended up on this table. You've seen what we've seen."

Russ shook his head. "There must have been new information given to Sigler before he took over your conference call. What I've seen doesn't fit with the direction he gave."

Evan, feeling the lack of confidence Russ had in him shot back. "I updated everything myself, this morning!"

"What about in the past four hours?" Russ asked. "Sigler must have something more than me."

"Nothing newer than the eight-a.m. update has come across my desk, Russ. You heard the Director say it himself, I've got point on this, everything passes through my office first." Agent Novella growing more frustrated with Russ's questioning. "You're up to date!"

"We're going to give you an encrypted Bureau SAT phone with a Bluetooth 5.0 tethered tablet so we can put everything in front of you as soon as we get it. 5.0 means you'll be able to access the tablet via your SAT phone, or vice versa, from up to eight-hundred feet away." Evan cracked a smile and added, "You can take a crap in the lobby of the Dubai Marriott and still be able to access the tablet seventy floors up while playing Angry Birds on your phone."

Russ decided to roll with Evan's break in the mounting tension. He let out a long, low whistle and added, "Impressive. The Bureau has jumped from 1970s technology straight on up to the twenty-first century."

Evan felt a surge of pride swelling his chest. He had impressed Russ? "First time for everything," he thought to himself.

"What we're working with is that we have information from credible sources that there is an imminent threat aimed at an assassination attempt on the President of the United States," Evan began. "We believe the funding for and the coordination of this threat is coming from a foreign terrorist organization. Al Qaeda, ISIS, someone else, we don't fucking know. But we suspect they are using US citizens as their operatives here, on the ground."

The agent continued. "We believe there are two likely locations that could be targeted by terrorist organizations. Adler has a scheduled campaign stop in Richmond, Virginia in ten days and a speech at the U.N. the following day. The President has additional events planned for the days before and after these, but none as prominent or as publicly known as these two."

"Right, I saw her calendar as I was sorting. It's at 2:48 on the table," Russ said, pointing towards the northeast quadrant of the amassed intel.

Evan shook his head as the smile returned to his face. "You always get me with that memory of yours and your O.C.D. placement of things, Russ."

"There's nothing obsessive or compulsive about it," Russ cut in. "It's no different from you putting your skim milk in the same place in your fridge," he explained. "You place an item you need frequently in a place where you know you will find it, time after time.

"What...How...Why do you think I drink skim milk?" Evan asked.

"You've lost about five pounds in the past six weeks. It's clear you've been dieting," Russ replied.

The agent's face turned to a slightly redder complexion.

"Let's get back to the case, huh?" Evan began. "We believe that because of the specific locations of these events, the environments surrounding them, long sight lines etcetera, that we're looking at a long-range firearm attack. Maybe ex-marine snipers, US rangers or..."

"That might be true in Richmond," Russ interrupted the agent, "but the U.N. speech wouldn't involve anything longer than eight-hundred-fifty yards while entering or exiting the building, under a hundred-fifty feet once inside. Any gun club in the country has at least three members who could make that shot. Now if it were winter, or maybe very early spring when the trees are first cut back, the distance would be longer. But not now. Ever since the Billion Tree Campaign, those sight lines have been getting shorter and shorter."

Russ paused, giving Evan time to digest the information.

"Have you looked into handheld explosives? Cabrinovic style? I'm sure your friends at DARPA can vouch for the advancements of the destructive power of handheld devices. And I bet the CIA can track down at least a dozen foreign groups they've sold lightweight Anti-Structure Missiles to."

"We're not in a fucking Tom Clancy wet dream here, Russ. No one, outside of sovereign states has the kind of funding needed for those options. And we've heard no chatter that suggests anything other than terrorist organizations. This is strictly professional gangbanging. We know that much at least."

Russ put his right hand on Evan's left shoulder. "OK OK, I know you guys know what you're doing. Relax a little, huh."

"We've got a credible threat to the President of the United States, due to occur within two weeks and you want me to relax? We're not all robots like you, Russ. Now what do you have to share with me?"

The next few hours were spent with the two men going back and forth on potential theories. Trying to match clues with locations. To trace overseas money to known cells within the U.S. What could be the specific motives? Sure there are countless, but there is always a specific motive when it came to assassinations. A message maybe? How was the communication between the cell and the funders happening?

All questions they needed answers to. All questions without answers, yet.

They ended at 5 p.m. The decision was made to brief the Director, outfit Russ with his gear and arrange for him to visit both of the potential assassination sites. The director put a plane and a helicopter at Russ's disposal. Russ opted for a car. He always thought more clearly when he was driving.

"I'll head home to pack a bag. Brit will want to know what the plan is, anyway. I'll be on the road by midnight and in Richmond before sun up. Make sure I get any new data as soon as you get it, before you get it. And make sure no one touches my table."

#  13

For his thirteenth birthday, Pops bought sixteen shares of Boston Celtics, LLC stock for Russ. Longtime fan, first time part-owner. Russ couldn't believe it. He was Larry Bird's boss now.

"Your mother used to joke about going down to Atlantic City, winning big at the poker table and going down to Red Auerbach's office and buying the place up," Pops said as Russ was opening the envelope sealed with a laughably oversized bow.

"We never made it to the boardwalk in New Jersey, though."

Russ knew Pops didn't like talking about Mom. He could always hear the sadness in his voice when he did. He stood up and gave his father hug and a kiss. "This is awesome, dad! I can't wait to go to my first team practice," Russ talking a mile a minute.

"Well, now, you're not the biggest of the big bosses, but now as the team wins, you win."

"What do you mean?" Russ asked.

"I don't know all the what's and why's, uh, Russ. But what I was told is that as the Celtics keep winning and become more popular they'll make more money. As they make money, you can make money from these stocks," Pops explained.

As if Russ's smile could grow any bigger. Russ leaned in for another big hug. As he wrapped his arms around Pops and began to squeeze he could hear his father wheeze out as the air in his lungs was forced out of his body. He immediately let go and began to apologize.

Pops cut him off as he broke into a series of violent coughs as his lungs desperately tried to re-inflate. Oh no! Russ raced down the hall and into the bathroom. He flung open the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Triamcinolone steroid inhaler. He sprinted back down the hallway to Pops, who was now laying on his side desperately trying to draw a breath.

Russ kneeled down beside his father and rolled him over onto his back. Pops's face was already showing the bluish discoloration of cyanosis. He was asphyxiating.

"It was just a hug," Russ thought to himself.

Pops's eyes were wide with terror. "No not yet! My boy isn't ready," he screamed inside his head.

Russ placed the inhaler in Pops's mouth and sprayed in a puff of medicine. And then another. The nebulized steroid shot out of the plastic applicator and towards the back of the suffocating man's throat. But there it stayed. With Pops being unable to draw a breath, the mist could not find its way into his lungs. Russ realized the futility of trying to of continuing to express more medicine into Pops's mouth.

He had to think fast.

Russ took several deep in and out breaths, finishing with as deep an inhale as he could manage. He brought the inhaler to his own mouth, opened as wide as possible while still being able to seal his lips around the plastic applicator. He then blasted four shots into his mouth.

He leaned down to his father and gave him two more doses of the medicine. Russ tossed the inhaler aside. He pinched Pops's nose shut, placed his lips over his father's and blew as hard as he could. From the corner of his eye he saw Pops's chest rise as air and the six attenuated doses of aerosol filled his father's lungs.

Before Russ could take his lips off, Pops began coughing out the carbon dioxide rich breath from Russ. His chest sank down as he exhaled, then rose again as his lungs regained their ability to draw breath. He watched as his father's chest rose and fell on its own three, four, five times.

Confident Pops was strong enough to continue breathing on his own, Russ propped his father up against the old recliner in the middle of the room. Neither of them spoke for the next half hour. Each quietly feeling their own sense of pride. Pops, proud of his son for his quick action, saving his life. Russ, proud of himself for devising the mouth-to-mouth method of medication delivery. The boy made a mental note to study the science of aerosols and medication dosing.

But not before he mastered the stock market. He had so much to learn about his new personal portfolio. For now, though, it was time for him to make dinner.

#  14

Later that night, Russ found it uncharacteristically difficult to fall asleep. Years before he realized that parts of his hypothalamus and brainstem needed to be activated for sleep to come. He hadn't worked it out very well, but in general he found he could fall asleep within three minutes each night if he focused hard enough. Tonight though, his mind was racing with thoughts of economics and business, topics he'd never given much thought to before.

He had heard of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, the NASDAQ composite index and something called the Standard and Poor's 500 index. Each of these seemed to be arbitrary samples of the whole stock market which was composed of over three thousand individual stocks. And none of this accounted for the nearly six thousand stocks traded outside of the major exchanges.

"So much to learn," Russ thought to himself.

And then there was the apparent age and dress code of businessmen. It had all seemed so old-men-in-suits to him, never young men, or any women at all. Pops didn't own a suit and he has a business. Russ decided that he did not have any need for rooms full of old men in suits. Nope, he would figure out what those men do and do it better. All while wearing t-shirt.

But first he needed a ride to the library.
***

Russ convinced Pops to drop him off at the library on his way into the shop the next morning. He promised he'd be done by five so he'd be ready for the return trip home after Pops closed up the garage.

Russ loved the library. So many ideas warehoused in one location. All the creative works created by countless authors. A seemingly endless source of knowledge. On the first day of summer break the year before Russ had ridden his bike the two miles to the library and waited for the librarian, Janet, to arrive and open up for the day.

"You're awfully eager today Russ," Janet said with a smile. "What are you looking to read this week?"

"I think I'd like to read Dewey Decimal Classifications 530 to 549.9," he responded, matching her smile.

"Physics and Chemistry?" She let out a slow whistle. "Very impressive, young man. Do you have any specific books in mind already?"

"I already said, Ma'am. I'm going to read all the books DDC 530 through 549.9," Russ replied.

"Yes, I heard you, child. But which selections?" The librarian surprised Russ was having difficulty understanding her question.

"All of them, Ma'am."

Janet stifled a chuckle, not wanting to discourage the boy.

"There must be three hundred to three hundred and fifty books that fall into those Classifications. That would take me at least a year just to skim through the bold type."

There are three-hundred-eighty-seven books in this library that fall within that group, Ma'am," Russ stated matter-of-factly. "Some of them you won't let be checked out, so I'm going to come every morning until I'm done. Then I'll figure out what's next."

"I think we could all use more of your ambition, Russ." There was that smile again.

"Maybe if we could get more copies of "Cosmos" and "The Dragons of Eden" by Carl Sagan more people could read them, like I did yesterday, and see just how important science is."

"Maybe so, Russ, maybe so," she responded nodding her head. "Did you say you read both of those yesterday? Weren't you at school yesterday? I know it was the last day, but I thought it was a full day."

"Oh yes, Ma'am, but I didn't feel like playing outdoors at recess," Russ answered.

Russ finished the last book on Mineralogy before noon on his ninth day. When he asked Janet which subject she recommended he start next, she replied, "Why don't you just start at triple zero and see how far you can get this summer?"

Russ considered this for a moment and replied, "I think I'll continue on to 550, Earth Sciences, and go from there."

He'd made it back around and finished through 109.9, Theory of Philosophy, before school resumed in September.

Now, nearly a year later, he was back in the library, heading to DDC 330 (Economics). He ran his fingers across the titles as he walked between the stacks of books. He counted fifty-two books sitting in the lower section at the end of the left shelving unit and another thirty-one at the top left of the opposite facing shelves.

He grabbed the first ten books on Microeconomics and settled in to begin reading. An hour after the library closed, as Janet was preparing to lock up, Russ re-shelved the last of the Macroeconomics books.

"Did you find what you were looking for today, Russell," Janet asked.

"Oh for sure, Ma'am," Russ replied. "And thank you for allowing me to stay a little longer than usual tonight. That John Keynes was a smart man."

"I'm sure he was," Janet began. "I think you may be able to give him a run for all that money he wrote about." She gave his hair a quick tussle

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Edwards," Russ said shouldering his Magilla Gorilla backpack.

"Oh?" Janet asked, "Didn't get your fill today, Russell?"

"Mostly," he replied. "I would like to get a handle on advanced probabilities and statistics tomorrow."

The librarian let out a smile. "See you in the morning then. It's supposed to be a rainy day tomorrow, perhaps I should open the doors at seven." She gave the young man a wink as she shouldered her own bag. "Is that your dad over there?"

"Yes, Ma'am. And he's been waiting since five for me. I hope he's not mad."

"Oh, Pops is the most understanding man I've ever met. I'm sure you'll be fine," The librarian said as she turned to cross the street.

"Thanks again, Ms. Edwards."

As she walked away from Russ she thought she could hear Russ whistling "The Wall Street Shuffle" by 10CC.

You get a tip

You follow it

And you make a big killing

On Wall Street

#  15

"I've answered all these questions already, pal. First the CIA, then the FBI, NSA, Homeland and then the Secret Service took a run at me. There ain't nothing more you're gonna get out of this. Go talk to them and leave me the hell alone, huh."

Russ was sitting in the office of the Executive Director for Venture Richmond, the events firm that oversaw the use of Brown's Island for gatherings and events. Dr Stephen Bernstein was at wits end. He'd been the main planner for the President's impending campaign speech next week. On his way in, Russ walked past Bernstein's 2014 Lincoln MKS in the parking lot. The luxury vehicle adorned by a vanity plate that read "S BERNS" and a bumper sticker which read "In God We Trust -America the Beautiful."

Now sitting at his desk, Russ found himself face to face with a man who clearly spent more annually on his appearance than even on his belt loosening lease payments. With his Brooks Brothers suit and Lorenzo Cana tie the man had on a cool two grand. Style be damned, though, pinned to his right lapel was a small, jeweled American flag. On his left, an equally dazzling golden cross.

Hanging on the wall behind Bernstein was a framed copy of the iconic Battle of Iwo Jima photograph. Those six heroes of heroes whose names would have otherwise been lost to history. Dr Bernstein was clearly the epitome of a Christian patriot.

"Yes I understand Dr Bernstein. Surely this has been an awful ordeal for you," Russ said with a pained look. "Planning and scheduling each and every second of President Adler's visit."

"You've got no idea son. There's been more red tape and security clearances to wade through to get this thing done than Carter has liver pills." Bernstein leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If Ida known what I was in for, it wouldn't be happening here, I'll swear to that on a bible."

"I can't even begin to imagine the headaches, sir. I do feel confident in saying that I'm sure Sergeant Strank, Corporal Block, and PFC Sousley, there," motioning to the framed image behind the director, "would thank you for keeping God and Patriotism alive all these years since they were killed in action shortly after that photo was taken."

Dr Bernstein swiveled in his chair and looked up at the framed photo behind him. "I do believe you're right, son. What I would give for more men's men like those fine Marines. Heroes, each one of them. He turned back to face Russ, wiping a tear from his eye.

"I like you son, err Mr Williams. What can I do for you?"

"Thank you, sir, I like you as well. Do you mind if we head over to Brown's Island and walk while we talk? I think better outdoors, and I think I'd like to listen to the waters of the James River."

"I could use a little time out of the office," Bernstein said getting up from his chair. "Say, have you even ridden in a Lincoln?"

***

The two men walked from the rotary intersection of Tredegar, Seventh and Tenth streets onto the island, crossing the manmade canal which had created Browns Island back in 1789. The footbridge brought them right into the small amphitheater which seemed the logical location for the campaign stumping to occur. With six semi-circle rows of seating stretching to the south from the stage area, the southerly sunlight would give ideal opportunity for the cameras to catch the President's winning smile.

"How many people can you seat here for the campaign speech?" Russ asked as he sat down third row, middle and pantomimed a supporter leaning forward to catch every word the President would be saying.

"Oh, not here son." Berstein let out a sigh. "No no no, that would have been too easy on us, you know. No indeed. They want a stage set up over by the Outfitters Outpost, adjacent to the cement pad there. They want to have a band playing, some carnival games and a spot for people to dance. Like we're throwing some sort of Executive Branch hoedown.

"Believe you me, I told them how all the best photo opportunities come with the President in the amphitheater," Berstein said boastfully. "That early evening sunlight coming up over the river, that'll make anyone look good. We could still use that area for the events, I told them. But they were hell bent on doing it the way they wanted."

Russ got up and walked over to the grassy area the director had pointed out. Sure, this put the events closer to the historic James river and it did narrow the angle of open space in front of where the President would be speaking. An easier secure perimeter to be made. But why here? In the end, the answer didn't matter. She is the President after all.

Russ took a minute to take in the spot. Slowly turning in a circle. The American Civil War Museum, the river snaking its way around to the State Capitol building, an assortment of nameless buildings, all could be seen from this spot. If Russ could see them, he could be seen by them. Every building seemed well within the perimeter of a textbook Secret Service sweep.

Wait, back up. What's that?

Turning to his right twelve and a half degrees Russ saw it. The reason this part of the island was all wrong. Standing high above all the other buildings, and with a clean line of sight between 901 and 951 E Byrd street was the James Monroe Building. The highest point in the city. At four thousand feet away that was easily the best place to set up for a long range sniper shot.

"Thank you for your time Dr Bernstein. You make me proud of this great nation of ours. If you'll excuse me, I need to go. I'll walk from here."

Without waiting for a response, Russ turned and walked west, off the island to Tredegar St.

#  16

Before calling Evan on his SAT phone, Russ mentally sifted through the pertinent Richmond, Virginia data he'd sorted yesterday morning back in Philly. The President's plan was to put on display her understanding of and commitment to the needs and desires of rural America. To prove she was in touch with all citizens, that she knew there were deeper issues needing her attention. That she did not simply focus on the revolving door of sensationalized twenty-four-hour-news-cycle topics.

Just this past year, Richmond had hosted one of the largest Black Lives Matter protests, saw multiple instances of law enforcement officers being killed and just as many citizens being shot and killed by the police. Hell, they'd even endured a pack of creepy clowns roaming the city streets day and night.

President Adler also wanted to tug at the country's heritage heart strings. Richmond is a diverse, southern homestyle city steeped in Revolutionary and Civil War history, a city rich in American culture with deep family values, one that celebrates life. Some good old fashioned down-home was sure to bolster her standing with those who longed for the good old days, the enormous baby-boomer vote.

And this was to be a family affair as well. The first First Gentleman had grown up just outside of Richmond. Why not work in a quick visit to the in-laws with the grandkids on the taxpayer's dime?

Russ found himself at a loss to make the information he had fall into place, for Richmond to be the assassination location. This was the most politically mundane stop any sitting President could make. There were no protests expected. There was no indication that President Adler's speech would involve any sort of political, social or economic commentary. There simply weren't any global implications to this speech. What reason would there be for any Middle Eastern state or isolated group to pick this location to make a world-wide statement?

Lincoln was shot while at the theater. Kennedy while parading down a Dallas street. Hinckley shot Reagan to impress an actress. Two of those certainly had political motivation, "Sic semper Tyrannis!" but they were actions of a lone man in Kennedy's case and a small unorganized group in Lincoln's. Small-time men who otherwise would have been historical nobodies.

Assassinations have become more than just doing away with a public figure to stop or prohibit this or that agenda or policy. No, today when a political figure is killed, especially by a terrorist group, it's also, and probably more so, about sending a message. Not just, "Your leader's policy is wrong and weak. This is what we do to those who espouse those ideas." But also, "See what power we wield over you!"

The scheduled event in Richmond had nothing to do with any modern political issue. ISIS does not care about the US Civil War, or how many dosey-does the President can do. This didn't feel right. No messages would be sent from an attack here.

Russ called Evan and told him what he'd found and what he made of the info he'd gathered.

"I know you're the mentalist here, Russ, but the physical parameters you've discovered make this a likely scenario according to our experts," said Agent Novella. "We're going to set up inside the Monroe building and maintain surveillance inside and out. This is great work, buddy!"

"Do what you need to do, but I'm telling you, this is a dead end," replied Russ. "I'm going to catch some sleep and head up to New York tonight, so I can be there first thing in the morning."

"I know buddy. Always early, always engaged."

"Here I thought you were the predictable one," Russ joked. "I'll check in with you tomorrow morning."

#  17

Marie and Joe's second pregnancy was simultaneously a time of wonder and happiness, and a time of stress and anxiety. Every routine visit to the doctor was a roller coaster ride in itself. The night before each appointment the fears and uncertainty would start. What bad news would they find out from the test results? What would the sonogram show? Is the baby growing at a normal rate? More than once they thought of turning back while driving to their appointment. If they didn't find out there was something wrong, maybe it wouldn't be.

Happily, though, with each visit to the obstetrician baby and mother proved to be doing perfectly. The baby's heartbeat was strong, mom's weight was ideal and at one appointment the nurse said it was a boy! All smiles for that trip home. At least until the night before the next visit. A never-ending ride of emotions.

Eventually, though, around the seventh month, after yet another superb checkup Joe decided it was time to vocalize what he'd been hoping and feeling all along.

"We've been given a do-over, Marie. This is God blessing us for the struggles we've endured. We're going to have the family we've dreamed of. I love you so very very much."

Marie could only cry tears of happiness.

***

After only two hours of labor, Mr. and Mrs. Williams had their baby boy. A whopping ten pounds three ounces.

"We did it Marie. We really did it," Joe said holding his wife's hand tightly.

Joe leaned down to kiss his sweat-covered wife, first on her forehead then her mouth. Just as their lips met, the doctor cleared the baby's airway and the newborn let out the healthy cry every new parent wants to hear. Marie though, tensed violently, her jaw spasmed and her teeth unforgivingly grabbed onto Joe's lower lip. He instinctively recoiled away, but her bite held tightly as a thin rivulet of blood ran down Joe's chin.

A second later it was over. It had happened so fast no one was really sure what had happened. Joe wiped his chin with his shirt sleeve and curled his lower lip in to keep anymore blood from escaping. The newborn was swaddled and given to mom to hold for the first time. Still a little glass-eyed, Marie had a worried look on her face as her son tried to focus on his giver of life.

"What's this little man's name? Do you have one picked out, mom and dad," the head nurse asked.

Marie and Joe looked at each other in embarrassment. Through all their emotional turmoil the past nine months, never once had they discussed a name.

The nurse who had handed the baby to Marie asked, "How about Joseph Junior?"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Marie snapped. "There is no way this son will be called that. Don't you ever say that name again!"

The nurse took a step back, a little stunned, a little offended. "Sa-sorry. I was just trying to be helpful."

Joe extended his hand to her. "It's been a long day for all of us. Please accept our apologies."

"Well, not to worry, folks. Babies leave here all the time without their names declared. We recommend you have a name picked within sixty days, but legally you have longer than that to come up with one.

There it is, Marie," Joe said. "We've got plenty of time to pick the perfect name for this perfect little man." And kissed her, this time on the forehead.

Marie closed her eyes tightly and lay back on the bed. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

***

Joe and Marie pulled into their driveway just before 9 a.m. the next morning. The doctor had said everyone looked so pink and healthy he didn't see any reason to keep the family from going home any longer. Walking up the cracked concrete path to the front door Joe felt the warm sun on his shoulders. He stopped abruptly and turned to put his arms around mother and child. He kissed Marie on the lips and held her face softly in his hands an extra beat. She smiled at him, understanding and sharing the moment. Today was the first day of the rest of their lives. No longer a corny sentiment, today it was real.

The rest of the day was spent napping, feeding and changing diapers. Joe took to calling the infant ESS, Eater Shitter Sleeper. Feeling pretty confident that Marie wouldn't care too much for the nickname, he explained to her S was for son. A place holder until they found the perfect name.

Shortly before they called it a night Joe double checked his construction of the bassinet on Marie's side of the bed. She'd asked for it to be lower to the floor so that she could reach in and stroke S's back at night. And angled away from the bed so she didn't stub her toes getting up in the middle of the night to feed him.

Confident that he'd jerry-rigged the structure relatively competently, Joe announced he was done for the day.

"Why don't we see about getting some sleep, huh? It's been a good, full day. A really good day," he said quietly.

"Get those Yogi Bear pj's we bought last week," she said. "He'll just love them, I know he will."

Freshly bathed, changed and fed, mother and father put S down for his first night at home.

"Oh, no, not like that sweetheart," Joe said calmly. "Remember what the doctor said. Lay him on his back. All that talk of SIDS is so scary."

"Right right, sorry. You are such a good daddy, Joe."

Joe's eyes were closed before his head settled into the pillow. Marie stayed up a little bit, listening to her newborn coo and gurgle. When it seemed he was settled in for good she said a few prayers before rolling over for sleep.

"Please God, bless us with the life of our son.

I beg of you, if Joe junior was our burden

Make S our blessing."

At 2 a.m. Marie was ripped awake by a scream coming from the bassinet. Her eyes flew open, her heart racing, pulse pounding in her head. Her body frozen in fright.

"Was that a nightmare? Why can't I move? Is Joe awake," she was screaming in her head.

A cranky whine off to her left. S was awake and explaining to the world he was a bit wet and more than a little hungry. Marie's brain slowly worked out what was going on. There were no nightmares, just her son trying to make sense of life outside the womb. A quick diaper change, a little boob time with some soft singing and mother and son were soon back to sleep.

***

Joe was already awake just before six when S woke again. He'd been watching him sleep for the last half an hour. He scooped up his son and took him out to the living room, shutting the door behind him, Marie had earned some extra sleep.

After changing a very full diaper, "Where did all that come from?" Joe carried S around the house. Stopping at every window to show and explain to his son all that was to be seen. In reality, S was drifting in and out of sleep in the warm comfort of his daddy's arms. Joe found himself in love with this nameless, but perfect, little boy.

***

Marie's eyes wouldn't open, couldn't open. Her ears stung from the cacophony of baby screams, cries and wailings coming at her from all angles. Just as in the middle of the night, she found herself unable to will her body to move. So many screams. So much fear. By sheer force of will, she managed to pry her eyes open. Joe's side of the bed was empty. She hurled herself up and out of the bed. The bassinet was empty!

"No no no. Joe's back, isn't he? We had a baby together. A good baby this time. Not like the last, the bad weak one," she whispered harshly to the empty room.

She ran out of the bedroom, tears streaming down her face. She yelled from room to room as she went down the hall. She looked behind doors, in closets and under furniture. Where was her son? In the room that was to be the nursery she opened the window and screamed, "Where is my baby?!"

Finally, she made it to the living room where she found Joe and baby sitting in Joe's chair. He was holding the infant on his lap, they were facing each other. Joe was talking to his son about how things just hadn't been the same at the Garden since Bill Russell retired.

"Joe, why didn't you answer me," Marie asked breathlessly. "I was yelling for you."

"Huh?" Joe barely paying attention. "We've been sitting here for a bit now. I heard you open the bedroom door about five minutes ago and I called to you letting you know we were here and that S is looking hungry. I figured you'd stopped to pee or something. Here, do you mind giving the boy some breakfast?"

"Yeah, sure. Um, thanks for letting me sleep in," Marie replied as she picked up the infant.

#  18

Joe was back at the shop two days later with an extra bounce to his step. His life was perfect. A small family, a small profitable business and he was young, energetic and full of life. The American dream was still alive.

About noon Marie called.

"Joe, the baby is crying. What do I do?"

He could hear the stress in her voice. Had she been crying?

"Sweetheart, it's OK. Babies cry," Joe said as calmly as he could. "They don't come out with a college vocabulary to explain their every thought and need. He'll be fine."

"No, Joe, he won't. They never are. Remember?"

Remember

"Sweetheart, I'm on my way." This time with a little urgency in his voice. "Check his diaper again. Is he hungry? Take him over to the living room window, the big one with all the light. He seems to really like that."

"I'm trying Joe, I really am." Marie was clearly sobbing between words, now. "Trust me. You have to trust me."

"I know you are, Marie. I'll see you in a few minutes."

She hung up before he could say he loved her. Joe told the guys in the shop he was headed home for the day. Being the boss sure had its perks.

When he arrived at home he found a gurgling, happy baby in the arms of his sniffling but happy mother. Marie had streaks of mascara down both of her flush cheeks. He walked over and kissed them both on the forehead. S cooed a little. Marie kept staring at a single spot just above the fireplace mantle.

"Sweetheart, let's see if we can get the two of you down for a nap. You both look like you could use one," Joe said scooping up the baby.

"Yes, Okay. That sounds good." Her eyes never moving from the wall. "I did good, right. He stopped crying. I made him stop crying."

A chill shot down Joe's spine. "You sure did do good, Marie. You sure did."

***

By the time their one-week checkup came, S was beginning to sleep a little better, eat a little more and seemed to focus more. He was also driving his parents straight into the maddening world of colicky babies.

The doctor confirmed all this with the nervous parents. He was responsive, alert and had maintained his birth weight. Which essentially is comparable to gaining weight. Most babies lose a little the first week out of the womb. Everything looked great. "I know how difficult on parents it is, let the little guy cry, but let him know he's not alone. He'll grow out of this in a week or so. I'll see you in three weeks," he said leading them out of the exam room.

On the way home Marie announced that she no longer liked this doctor and was going to find another one.

"Colic my ass. Our boy deserves better than him."

Joe told her she should do what's best. Just find one before the one month checkup.

S cried a full three hours that afternoon. They took turns holding and walking with their inconsolable infant. Joe would sing and talk while he slowly walked from son to window. Marie seemed to be on more of a march. Walking quickly and stiff legged up and down the hallway. Only stopping when she was trying to get the baby to latch on to her breast.

Eventually the fits subsided and the house grew still. Dinner was eaten by everyone and they settled down for a relaxing evening.

"I know that was hard, Marie," Joe said putting his arms around his wife. "But maybe the doc was right. Look how content he is right now. Cozied up in your arms. Kinda makes you forget this afternoon, huh?"

"I think you're right, Joe," she replied.

In her mind though, she was replaying every minute of the ordeal. From the first crab to the final sniffle. How could she forget all those familiar sounds of misery?

The next day brought two full-on bouts of misery and wailing. Just as the day before, however, they passed before dinnertime. The first lasted only about half an hour. The second nearly a full two hours. But they got through it. Joe was proud of Marie for the way she handled it. She seemed to be really taking this head on and dealing with it.

"I can't imagine a more loving mother than you, Marie," he whispered to her as they cuddled in bed. Their son began to snore nearly imperceptibly, they buried their faces in each other's shoulders to stifle their giggles at the sound.
***

Joe returned to work the next week. Each morning he'd get up with S and feed him a bottle of breast milk. Marie had gotten a hand-me-down pump from one of the women at church. Once the bottle was gone and a fresh diaper was in place, Joe would put his son back down for a little more sleep. He'd kiss Marie on the head and then leave for the shop. Each evening, he'd be home by five to take his son out for a stroll before dinner.

"I could get used to this," he thought to himself.

Joe was so wrapped up in the wonder he was feeling he didn't notice the growing bags beneath Marie's eyes, the ten pounds she'd lost since giving birth, all the times she would tune everything out and stare at the wall. It wasn't until he woke up one night and heard Marie talking to S, "Shhh, it's ok Joseph junior. Mommy's right here. I got you," that he realized something was wrong. Very very wrong.

That Friday, Joe decided to take off of work and stay home with Marie and S. She could use the break, he thought. There were enough bottles stocked up in the fridge now that he thought she could take the whole day to herself. He'd take on solo parenting duties for the day.

Marie spent most of the morning rummaging through the various bookshelves and junk drawers throughout the house. Joe wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she was determined to keep looking until she found it. He saw her return to the same few drawers three or four times, muttering something to herself as she dug.

"It's not here," she finally said frustration filling her voice. "I'm going to the library, Joe."

And out the door she went.

***

By midafternoon Joe was exhausted. He hadn't fully appreciated the emotional and physical toll caring for S alone was. During those 6 hours Joe had changed four dirty diapers (two of which were nothing but thick mucousy blood), cleaned up vomit three times and was on his fifth shirt. All the while his son cried and wailed nearly non-stop. The only moments of quiet came while the infant was taking a bottle. Sitting in his recliner, baby in his arms, Joe's focus turned to the television where a rerun of Gilligan's Island was on. Gilligan was riding a stationary bicycle hooked up to a washing machine the Professor had made from some spare parts.

"Geez, we could use that set up after all this mess today, huh?" Joe whispered to his son. "One day you'll be smarter than that Professor, won't you? Russell Johnson has nothing on my son."

"Hey, that's not such a bad name. Russell."

Shortly after four Marie returned home. Joe felt a wave of relief wash over him. He wasn't alone any longer. Even though he was grateful to have another parent in the house, Joe was still determined to give Marie the full day off. It seemed Marie had that same desire as she quietly slid in the door, banged some dried mud off her shoes and headed straight to the hall bathroom. A moment later he heard the shower curtain pulled close and the water start.

"Hey little buddy, looks like your momma is getting in a peaceful hot shower for a change. Yay for mommy." Joe raising the infant's right arm up and giving him a high-five.

The infant's response was to gear up for another round of fits and tears.

God bless you Marie. You're a stronger person than I am.

#  19

Shortly after midnight and a little south of Baltimore Maryland, as he was singing Roger Miller's version of "King of the Road" to himself, the message notification on Russ's SAT phone chimed. He glanced over at the unit he'd mounted to the dash before heading out the night before. The screen read "Attachment received. Details on tablet."

"About time there was some new data," Russ thought to himself.

Russ had spent the last two hours mostly driving in silence trying to refit the pieces of the puzzle to make a new picture. The original facts and evidence he'd absorbed thirty-six hours ago now seemed stale, absent of any juice. Russ always welcomed the addition of new information to help stir up the pot inside his head.

Established and vetted intelligence was great, but new details brought with them new ideas. New ideas provided the opportunity to bolster current theories or, more excitingly, overturn those theories and demand fresh thinking about the matter at hand. It was clear to Russ this case needed a change in thinking.

Given the time of day, traffic was nearly non-existent Russ hadn't seen but a dozen cars along I-95 in the last hour, and only southbound traffic in the past twenty minutes. It was a clear night with a full moon, so Russ dimmed the dashboard console and turned the car's headlights off, leaving just the parking lights on, to get a good look at the road ahead. A mile and a half of straight road, then a four and half degree bend to the right and finally another straight mile to the top of the next hill.

He turned the high-beams back on and leaned over to his bag that had been sitting shotgun. With his left hand deftly steering the car, Russ opened the bag with his free right hand and unlocked the tablet. The home screen came into view for a moment then automatically switched over to the OS's native messaging app. He tapped the icon indicating the newly received message.

"Russ, attached is data handed directly to me by the Director himself. It outlines surveillance intel we've collected concerning arms sales in the Richmond area. Looks like some real top-line Army sniper shit has been changing hands down there. I'm shocked I'm saying this, buddy, but you may be wrong on this one. -Evan"

Russ scrolled through the fifteen pages of intel Director Sigler had produced as his left hand eased into the curve. Dates, inventory manifests, photographs of the supposed location of the sales, possible suspects involved and a short briefing on each of the four. All men, all Middle Eastern and all high-profile suspects on the Terrorist Watch List.

At the bottom of the last page, Director Sigler had hand written his thoughts on the suspects.

"Find these men. Bring them in, dead or alive."

Russ rolled his eyes. "Who knew the head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was such a melodramatic cowboy?"

***

For the next thirty minutes Russ mentally scrolled through the information he had seen at the FBI building, looking for how this new intel fit with it. He mentally picked up specific pieces of evidence from the conference room table to review. He started at four o'clock and swung around to seven fifteen. The Middle Eastern heavy intel started at six thirty, with the weaker intel later and earlier as it transitioned to other groups and locations.

Director Sigler's new intel just didn't fit with all the other data Russ had seen. Certainly, on its own this was great intel. Amazing, in fact. The FBI's ability to set up and successfully implement such an operation on short notice was remarkable. Sigler was certainly determined to let nothing fall to chance.

Sigler had already saved this President once on a hunch in India, now here he was following his gut and he managed to dig up with this new field intelligence. The man just had the Midas touch it seemed. That the Director was involved in the minutiae of this case was testament in itself to his dedication as well as his nose for the work. Russ made a mental note to follow up on this intel when he arrived in NY and was waiting for his 8:30 appointment with the head of UN security.

#  20

Pops loved talking about his son, Russ, to anyone who'd listen. It seemed he had more stories to share than there were days of the week to tell them. Run into him at the food store, he'd have a short story for you. See him outside his garage, he'd grab you a glass of lemonade and tell you the latest thing Russ had done. Catch him sitting on a bench at the park, well you'd better have an hour or so to sit and listen.

The first thing you learned while listening to Pops is that Russ is smart. "Smarter than smart" he'd tell you. It seemed that if the boy wasn't reading Moby Dick in a new language he was building backyard rockets or learning a new subject down at the library or even memorizing the phonebook. The second thing you'll find out about Russ is he's always thinking about how to help others out. At seven he'd begun doing tax returns for the folks living in the old-age home. That summer he'd designed and built a rainwater irrigation system for the widower Premo who didn't want his dear wife's azaleas to die.

One would have thought the town would have grown tired of Pops's stories, had enough of the seemingly never-ending list of "Lemme tell you about when Russ was..." stories. But, no, not Pops's tales. He had come to be a living and breathing local legend. The man was adored by everyone, and Pops, it seemed, adored each and every one of them. He was the man who kept the motors running. Need an oil change, go see Pops. Engine replacement, go see Pops. School bus won't start, get it to Pops.

"Pops", though, had recently stopped meaning Pops the mechanic and come to mean Pop's Garage, down on Old Main St. It had been about four years since Pops had the strength to do the work himself. Once where he had been owner and head mechanic, he was now owner and trainer, mentor, to the young men who were fortunate enough to work at his shop. His mind ever willing, his body ever deteriorating.

Several of his "boys" had moved on to open up their own businesses, most opened garages in other towns, a few went into other areas of business. One, Matthew, had made his way through college debt free on the money Pops paid him and went on to start his own accounting company. After a few years, when it seemed the home computer was here to stay, he sold the firm and went on to software development.

For all the good he did for his "boys", and for the community, Pops had his share of struggles. He had the lungs of a seventy-year-old-two-pack-a-day smoker, though he hadn't touched a smoke since Russ was born, and even then it had only been a smoke or two when trying to look cool. He would rank the winters based upon how many bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis he developed. Arthritis seemed to live in every joint he had. Odd for such a young guy, but Pops blamed it on the hard work he'd put in to get the shop to where it was. Glaucoma, hearing loss, heart issues, these all plagued the man of thirty-five. It was rumored that Russ had worked out a way for his father to wear a sort of adult diaper, just in case.

In the past year, Dr. McHale had been heard to mention that Pops looked like he was showing signs of early multiple sclerosis.

"If I could just get that stubborn bastard to come in for a checkup, just once," McHale lamented.

Through all his maladies, Pops maintained that he would be just fine on his own.

"It's my body," he'd say. "Who better to know how to take care of me than me?"

On this particular day, Pops had the ears of the men down at the barber shop. It had become a sort of must see event when Pops went in for a haircut. The shop was Pops's theater in the round. He had a comfortable chair to sit in that was in full view of the entire room. You didn't want to miss the stories or advice he was bound to share after a trim and a shave. And today was certainly no different. His cut and shave had finished an hour or so earlier and though others had come in behind him and were waiting for their turn in the chair, no one took notice of the passing time.

"Lemme tell you about when Russ was just a baby," he started with a twinkle in his eye. "You know the stories you hear about babies being, well babies? Crying over this or that? Whether they crapped their pants or wanted another turn on the nipple, seems they all cry about everything, all the time.

"None of that for my Russ. You won't believe the things he figured out as a newborn. I kid you not, as a baby, now barely working on his first tooth, Russ would show me what he wanted. Now I don't mean he grabbed pen and paper and drew me a picture, no he would do this little baby point to where the problem he wanted resolved was. If his diaper was wet, he'd kinda pat the front of it. If he'd crapped himself he'd do this arm wrap around thing. You know like he was trying to pat his other end but couldn't quite work it out on account of, well on account of being a baby and all.

"If he was hungry he'd tap at his mouth. Tired? Well, he'd pat at his eyelids. Now I'm sure you're thinking, 'sure Pops, but what about at night when you couldn't see him in the dark motioning like that, surely he raised holy hell when he wasn't getting what he needed.' To that I tell you he would sorta talk to me."

"Sure Pops, I'm sure he talked your ear off, just like his old man," Eric Cote chuckled standing near the door.

"I'm not saying he had words, but it wasn't too long after he figure out how to crawl that he was speaking better than some of you, I tell ya. The first night I wasn't really sure what was going on. I just woke up to this Pa Pa Pa sound. I was just about to write it off as air in the radiators or some nonsense when I realized it was coming from the crib next to the bed. I got up and walked over to see what Russ was going on about, there he was calm as could be Pa Pa Pa'ing away and patting his mouth. Can you believe that? And this was him being not yet four months old."

"You're pulling our legs, Pops. No way a baby, even one that growed up into Russ could do that," Eric chortled.

"God's honest, fellas," Pops said raising his right hand. "How do you think I got this name Pops? Pa pa pa. After telling the story a few times around town the next day, people would come up to me and asked to hear the Pah Pah Pah-ping story. By the end of the week, folks were calling me Pops."

#  21

Try as he might, Russ simply could not find a way to make the Director's new intel mesh with the data he already had been through at the FBI field office. He pressed the On/Off button on the car's dashboard killing the engine and let the pre-dawn silence surround him. Russ had parked across the East River, adjacent to the New York Water Taxi hub. When he'd arrived in New York just after four a.m. he hadn't seen the need to make the overnight UN security team anxious by parking within the United Nations complex.

After subconsciously counting down three minutes of relaxation Russ opened his eyes and called up on his tablet the intel Evan had sent him a few hours ago. He wanted to triple check that there wasn't some small detail he'd missed on his first two times through it. Statistically speaking it wasn't entirely an impossibility and given the urgency of the events unfolding he thought it wise to leave nothing, even himself, to question himself and take another look.

The information in Agent Novella's attachment was precisely as he'd recalled. The location of the alleged firearm sales had long been a known illegal arms dealer. Until now, the dealer had been mostly the neighborhood go-to for impressive looking guns for the wannabe thugs. Handguns that could be flashed giving the appearance of toughness, but not actually deadly enough to cause much harm should a finger slip while showing it off. As such, neither the FBI nor the ATF had bothered to invest the time to shut it down. The five individuals Sigler had identified had turned out to be a who's who list of suspects on the Terror Watch List. Each one physically tied to, or suspected to be, at least forty events in the past ten years.

2007 Yazidi

2009 Fort Hood

2010 Syriac Catholic Church

2011 Tikrit

2013 Quetta

2014 Kano

2015 Paris

2015 San Bernardino

Each of these significant terror attacks involved at least one of these five men, often two or three of them joining up for a single attack. Officially it was suspected that they were in the areas during, or in the weeks leading up to, each event. The men were believed to have planned, funded or trained the perpetrators of the attacks. No direct evidence of their involvement was ever produced so they were never charged with any crimes. The secretive masterminds of terror, always in the shadows with hands wiped clean.

"It's in the shadows where the answers lie," Russ thought to himself.

Russ put the tablet down and headed back into his mental office. He picked up the summary briefs of the top one-hundred suspected terrorists he'd placed in the top right of his circle of information. He flipped to the sheets on the five men. None of them had any significant military training. There was scant intel on any of them prior to 2006. There were no official ties to any foreign state or known group. They were Muslim extremists, fighting their individual delusional holy wars.

"The President's primary campaign focuses were the environment and education reform. Where's the holy war in that? Why Richmond? Why now? What am I missing?"

Russ was hoping to get a meeting with the entire UN Security Council after he evaluated the established security protocols as well as the physical layout of the United Nations complex. He made a mental note to run the suspect's names by the council to get their thoughts.

Knowing Evan was already in the office back in Philadelphia since five a.m., Russ sent a secure message to him with his SAT phone.

Sent: Evan, image the TRRST SSPCT files re: Sigler's men. Conf table one o'clock

Received: Roger that

Received: Sigler's men not in file. Advise

Sent: Pages 7 23 51 53 75

Received: Those page nos not in stack

Russ punched the "call now" button in the messaging app.

"What the hell do you mean they aren't there?" Russ barked. "I saw them forty-two hours ago. In your building. In your secure conference room."

"I believe you, buddy. But I'm telling you the stack was right where you said it was, but those pages aren't there."

Russ sighed sharply. "Who else has access to that room?"

"Just you and me, buddy. I hope you're not suggesting I had anything to do with this."

"No, but you need to get your house in order, Agent."

"Roger that. Listen while I've got..."

Russ hung up. He didn't have time for any of Evan's chit chat this morning.

***

After only twenty minutes with the head of security for the UN facility Russ was confident there would be no attack at the location. The routine level of security within and without the building had an impressive protocol in place. Add to those the increased measures to be layered on top of what was existing would, in essence, close up even the most unlikely of scenarios for an assassination attempt.

Russ caught a break and was able to get a meeting with the Security Council at nine thirty. Twelve of the fifteen members were available today. They all settled into a conference room on the thirtieth floor.

"With all due respect," Russ began, "I'd like to forgo the pleasantries and ass kissing one would normally spew in these meetings. I, and the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation, do sincerely appreciate you taking the time to see me this morning and I don't wish to keep you any longer than needed."

Some of faces looking at him grinned. Most showed disdain for Russ's frankness, but each nodded in approval of his intention to move quickly.

"Originally my agenda for this meeting was to ask for your assistance in helping me narrow down a list of possible terrorists that could be planning an assassination attempt on the President of the United States during her visit nine days from now. Since then, we've had a credible lead presented to us that excludes this as the probable location of such an attack. Our focus is now on five lesser known individuals with the intended location being two days before President Adler's visit here. That location being Richmond Virginia."

"In front of each of you you'll find short dossiers on each of these five men. I ask that you please take a look through them and share with me your specific thoughts on these suspects and what you believe their potential to be for an assassination attempt on American soil. As I know you are extremely busy, I've been given access to the small meeting room next door and I'll ask once you've read through this information if you believe you have any details pertinent to this matter please come discuss it with me. If not, we thank you for your continued dedication not only to the global community, but also to the safety and security of the United States government and its citizens."

With that Russ exited the room, grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat in the small next-door meeting room. One by one, the members of the council exited the conference room, turned towards and walked past the open door towards their respective offices. Russ wasn't surprised in the least.

Oh, tiptoe by the garden

By the garden of the willow tree

Come tiptoe through the tulips with me

#  22

Russ made his way down FDR Drive and hopped on the East River Ferry. The lack of sleep over the past two days had worn him out. Until he boarded the ferry and found a seat, he hadn't fully appreciated the tightness in his muscles and joints.

"Middle age is coming," he thought as he sat down. "Three thousand feet, dock to dock," Russ reminded himself. "Plenty of time to clock out and relax a bit."

As he sat, Russ massaged his quads and iliotibial bands. Working and loosening the taut muscles and ligaments. He stopped kneading his legs as the sunlight shining on his right arm accentuated the pale scars on either side of his forearm.

Russ let out a chuckle as he thought about how Brit had thought he was a child of the system when they'd met at Harvard. With so many scars from injury, emergency operations and burns on display when she first saw him exercising at the Hemenway gym on campus, Brit had understandably thought the worst. Russ was heading into his senior year, Brit a wide-eyed freshman.

They had been the only two in the facility for nearly an hour before they spoke. Judging by his boyish face, Brit had assumed he was a fellow first-year student. And a cute one at that. After a half hour of hoping he would turn to look at her, Brit resigned to the fact that the boy was never going to show interest. She decided it was time to stretch out and cool down before heading out.

Two minutes into her stretching, the cute boy wandered over to comment on her form. He pointed out how she was clearly stretching in the most ineffective way possible, but he did so in a way that was supportive, not condescending. Having mistaken him for a freshman, Brit had been amazed at just how mature and kind he was. Most of the guys her age, even the brilliant ones at Harvard, had the manners of horny sailors with weekend passes.

They agreed to meet for coffee across the river at Charlie's Kitchen later that evening. Brit sat in amazement as Russ talked about his childhood, his future plans and his father. He seemed to have nothing but praise and positive feelings about his youth, as if he hadn't had a bad day in his life. On top of that, he paid close attention when she spoke about herself, as if they were the only two in the diner.

As they sat and shared life stories, Brit made a mental list of the scars she could see. She counted three on his face, one above each eye and a nearly horizontal one just below the lower lip. Russ had taken off his jacket and revealed four more scars visible on the skin not covered by his green t-shirt. The shirt seemed to feature as many cartoon characters as the screen printers could fit.

A few of the scars were clearly defensive wounds, one on the palm of his right hand and two on either side of his left forearm. The fourth seemed to be three concentric half circles just below his elbow.

"Is that a burn?" she thought.

Knowing it would be a bit too forward, and really none of her business, Brit had suppressed the urge to ask Russ about his scars. She held out hope he would mention at least one of them while mentioning camping trips with his "pops" or playing t-ball, but he only spoke of the good times. During a rare lull in the conversation her curiosity got the better of her.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"Hmm," Russ replied setting his coffee down. "Who was what?"

"I'm sorry, and please don't hate me, but I grew up with a friend who had been in an abusive family. She had scars like yours. Around the eyes, the hands and forearms. It was so hard on her. You're fortunate," Brit continued, "you've been able to get away from that and come here. That magnificent mind of yours saved you."

Russ's face lit up in surprise and amusement.

"You mean all of this?"

His hands swirling around his face and over each arm like he was presenting the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. For good measure, and maybe a little drama, he pulled up his right sleeve to show off a jagged mark just above his bicep.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I know it's not my place. But I'm fascinated how someone could grow up like that and still be so", she measured the last word, "so sweet."

"I know it looks like I was the old man's punching bag. But I could not be any clearer than to say my Pops is the kindest, most caring, most sincere man you'll ever meet. All of this." His hands flourishing more like Vanna White this time. "These are all on me. You might say I've had a special kind of clumsy youth."

"You're serious? You're not covering up for someone? Embarrassed to tell me? I'm not trying to right some past wrong." Brit reached across the table placing her hands on his. "It's just, I'm fascinated by you."

Russ smiled at those last words, he wanted to know everything he could about her, too. But his mind began to race as he pondered his hands in hers. She certainly is a pretty girl, but he hadn't considered getting coffee to be anything other than being friendly. "Is this a date?" he wondered.

"I promise," Russ replied moving his hands to pick up his coffee. "He's coming up next week, I'll introduce you to him, if you like."

"Already met a sweet, cute guy and am going to meet his father. This college life is pretty OK," Brit thought as she took another sip of her own coffee.

Another two hours passed before she realized the time, Brit reluctantly announced that it was time to call it a night. She'd promised her roommate she would bring back some Devil Dogs from the corner store. They walked out together and stood on the sidewalk. Russ had no idea what to do.

"Should I hug her?" he asked himself. "If this is a date I should at least hug her. Was this a good date? Maybe I should kiss her. How do I kiss a girl?"

He decided the best option at the time was to simply offer to walk with her to the store and then to her dorm. He'd buy some more time before being forced to make the decision.

The pair slowly walked the three blocks, and they kept the conversation light. Russ found himself apologizing every few steps, each time their hands bumped into the other's. Brit smiled to herself as she realized he was making no effort to put more space between them. They compared class schedules, Russ gave her the lowdown on her Trig professor, they talked majors -Brit was Pre-law- and the most important topic of the night was the best place to do laundry.

"Really, you don't have to wait, Russ. I can get back from here," Brit said as they approached the convenience store.

"Nah, not to worry. And besides, Pops's voice would be echoing in my head all night. 'Never let a pretty lady walk home alone at night,'" Russ replied.

"Well, at least come in and let me buy you a soda or something." Brit smiling and blushing a little at Russ's confession he thought she was pretty.

"Make it a 7-up and you've got a deal."

They walked in together, Russ turned right, heading down the cooler aisle, while Brit went looking for the Drakes Cakes rack. The register clerk pointed to the back of the store.

"If the pot heads haven't cleaned it out yet, you'll find em down there."

After grabbing his can of soda Russ wandered up to the front counter. He could see the top of Brit's head over the rows of short merchandise counters. It looked like she'd found the rack as her dark hair stopped moving and ducked down out of sight.

Not wanting to waste an opportunity to learn, Russ began reading the ingredients of the checkout counter candy and to determine which was the most commonly used chemical to maintain junk food freshness.

The bell above the shop's door jingled as two men walked in. The first short, five foot six, two-hundred-ten pounds, maybe two-fifteen. He had a baseball cap covering his receding hairline, jeans and a Red Sox jacket zipped to his neck. The second towered over his companion by ten inches, taking long strides in his Bermuda shorts. A plain white t-shirt seemed two sizes too big hanging off his slender frame. One fifty, Russ decided.

Red Sox looked to be about thirty-two years old, while Bermuda was maybe eighteen. Not likely to be father and son out for a gallon of milk. Red Sox carried himself as a man with a plan, confident, like nothing could slow him down. Bermuda, however, didn't seem as self-assured. His eyes darted from left to right, glancing down every aisle as he walked past it. His hands squeezed into tight fists, white knuckles looking like they might split the skin and pop right out.

The two approached the cash register, Red Sox asked for a pack of Marlboros. When the clerk turned around to the cigarette case, Bermuda, with his long gangly arms reached over the counter, and tried to get the cash drawer to open. He, of course, was too slow.

The clerk, having heard the young man clumsily pressing the keys on the cash register, swung around with a Louisville Slugger that he always kept leaning up against the fire extinguisher. You never know when it could come in handy. He slammed the bat down onto the Formica countertop, more dramatic than forceful but clearly effective.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, slim?"

The tall, would-be robber stumbled backwards in fear at the sight of the bat in the stocky clerk's hands. He found his footing and slunk in behind and to the left of Red Sox. Emboldened by the cover of his accomplice, he once again stood fully upright. His stance seemed predetermined to Russ, practiced over and over, in hopes of appearing menacing and tough in situations like this.

Neither the clerk nor the Louisville Slugger were impressed. Matt, the clerk's name tag read, got as close to the counter as he could and lowered the bat, poking the shorter man in the chest as he spoke.

"OK, you low life scum need to get out of here right now before I skip the rest of batting practice and start hitting grand slams with your heads."

Before the clerk could blink, Red Sox reached up and grabbed the bat with his left hand. With laser fast quickness, he shoved the bat into the chest of the clerk, then ripped it violently towards himself. The maneuver had its intended effect. In less than a second, the bat had changed ownership, leaving the clerk stunned.

Barely registering what had happened, the clerk made an off balanced lunge towards the little man in an attempt to reclaim the bat. Red Sox transferred the bat into his right hand and raised it high over his head as the clerk's upper body fell halfway across the countertop. With the same super-fast speed, the assailant brought the bat down onto the top of Matt's head.

Before the Whack! of the bat fracturing the clerk's head registered in Russ's ears the victim's jaw slammed down on the Formica countertop. Blood and teeth spread across the smooth surface as Matt's body slunk backwards and fell to the floor. Red Sox turned around, eyes wide open, lips pulled back exposing a full set of pearly whites. Bermuda's face betrayed the increasing panic he felt.

#  23

"What the Jesus Harold Christ is going on here!"

Russ turned to his left and saw that Brit had made her way to the front of the convenience store. He was surprised that, even with all the commotion, he hadn't heard her footsteps.

Red Sox's eyes grew even wider upon seeing her standing a few feet away.

"What's going on, sweetheart, is me and my pal here are making a little withdrawal from our personal ATM, here." The baseball bat-wielding man tipped his head towards the cash register.

"The Hell you are, buddy," Brit roared back. "If you don't want us to go to the police once you leave you'd better just drop the bat and go."

"Well well," Red Sox began, looking directly at Russ. "Seems your girlfriend has a mouth on her."

"Oh, she's not my girlfriend", Russ explained. "We're not even dating. I mean", turning to Brit, "was this a date?"

Brit looked at Russ with astonishment. "All this is going on, and he's worried about if we're on a date?" she thought.

"Oh well if she's not with you," the short man ran his eyes up and down Brits body, "then you won't mind if she comes with us after we get our party money. Hey stretch, make with the cash register while I talk to our new friends here."

Russ locked eyes with Bermuda. The tall man's left eye had an ever so small squint to it. Stress. The index finger on his right hand was working on a hangnail on the adjacent thumb. Nervous. His eyes were darting from the smaller man to the blood and teeth on the counter. He's never done this. He's too scared to move.

"OK, sir, I can see that this is a stressful situation for the both of you," Russ began.

"Trust me pal, this is like an afternoon game at Fenway to me," Red Sox cut in.

"I don't think your tall friend shares your calmness," Russ said nodding towards the gangly teen. "I'd say he has about another minute before he either pisses himself or runs out the door. He doesn't seem ready for his first smash and grab."

"What the hell do you know about his first time? You been watching us?" The older man's voice raising in pitch and volume.

Red Sox swung the bat up to Russ's face, stopping an inch from his ear. Brit gave a shriek and grabbed Russ's arm. Russ didn't bat an eyelash. While hitting the clerk, the man's upper lip curled ever so slightly up, with this swing he was only smiling, trying to get Russ on edge. He brought the bat back and rested it on his shoulder.

"Oh you're some kind of tough guy? Showing off for your girlfriend?"

"Please, sir, you might make her uncomfortable if you keep calling her my girlfriend. We've only just met today," Russ replied quietly.

"Right right, you mentioned that." Clearly the man in charge, Red Sox gave Bermuda a shot with his elbow. "Get the God damned money!"

"Listen, um stretch," Russ said. The tall man's eyes focusing on his lips, the tension in his face easing with each word. "Don't let this go any further for you. You haven't done anything here, he's the one who's committed all the violence." Bermuda's eyes moving from Russ to the blood, now dripping over the front edge of the counter. More fear. Sadness. "Why don't you turn around, go out that door and get out of here before you do something you'll regret?"

"He's not going anywhere!" Red Sox declared while slapping the bat into his meaty left hand.

The tall man's eyes shifted from the blood covered counter to his bat-wielding friend to Russ then to Brit. Bat, Red Sox, Russ, Brit. Bat, Red Sox, Russ, Brit.

Brit was trying to understand how Russ could be so calm in this situation. He was talking to the maniac and his friend as easily as he had been ten minutes earlier at the diner.

"OK, listen here, you scared chicken shit," the frustrated, scared yet commanding voice of Brit. "It's obvious this jackass is the leader of whatever this is." Her hand making small circles, palm down fingers spread wide. "So maybe it's time you take my friend's advice and get the hell out of here before you get yourself hurt."

"Friend," Russ thought. "She said friend. OK, so this isn't a date? Phew, no pressure for a kiss."

Russ was impressed at the way Brit was able to command attention while obviously, to him, being frightened and stressed, even as the smallest of the four. He'd only ever seen Pops be able to so convincingly project such an outward image, counter to internal emotions and feelings.

"Wow, you're going to make an amazing lawyer," Russ thought to himself with a smile.

"Lookie lookie. This one's got some spirit," Red Sox said, tipping the bat her way.

"Get that bat away from me or I'll shove it right up your ass with my spirit." Her spirit coming out decidedly arrogant and condescending.

"Better find a mop, buddy, we're going to have a cleanup in aisle ten if she keeps this up," Red Sox said to Russ.

Unable to handle the situation anymore, Bermuda let out a sharp whimper.

"Slight nose flare, clenched jaw, he's about to cry," Russ thought.

The lanky man displayed amazing grace as he spun towards the door. Before his diminutive friend realized what was happening, Bermuda had taken two long strides and was out the door. He turned to the right and looked back at the scene inside through the plate glass window, staring wide eyed. With trembling lips and watery eyes he once again looked from Red Sox to Russ to Brit, finally taking a long look at the mess on the counter. His face broke into tears as he turned and ran.

"It's just you now, asshole," Brit yelled at the man in front of her and Russ.

"I've just about had enough of you, sweetheart."

Russ Took a small step forward. "OK let's talk about this. You've already injured, if not killed, one man tonight."

Concussion, reconstructive oral surgery, maybe some brain swelling, but he'll live.

"If you want the best chance of not spending the next thirty years behind bars you should pick up that phone by the cash register and call 911. Turn yourself in and tell the operator we need emergency medical services."

"You know, between your yammering and her yelling", leaning the bat towards Brit, "I don't know which one of you I'm gonna take out first."

"There are three CCTV cameras in here," Russ pointed out. "The one behind me has been recording your face since you got here, you will be cau..."

"I said don't point that thing at me," Brit roared at the man and swatted the bat back to the man's shoulder.

Russ saw the man's eyes change focus from Brit's eyes to her left temple. The knuckles on his right hand turned white as the man's weight shifted to the balls of his feet.

He's going to swing at her!

As the muscles in Red Sox's face began to tighten Russ started twisting his body around to the left. His right leg lifting up and swinging towards Brit's body.

He's fast, so fast.

As the bat started its trajectory away from the assailant's shoulder, Russ brought his right arm up across Brit's body. Obviously Red Sox had been in his share of scuffles, he anticipated the coming body punch and clenched his abdominal muscles. The nearly imperceptible action caused a slight hitch in the swing of the bat, slowing it down ever so slightly.

"Stupid kid, a gut punch isn't going to keep you from getting covered in her brains," Red Sox thought.

The bat now halfway between Brit and her attacker, Russ continued the upward arc of his arm. Elbow bent at ninety degrees, his hand appearing to move towards the rack of chips to Brit's left.

Now twenty inches and closing the gap faster and faster as the stocky man accelerated the wooden weapon towards its target.

Fifteen inches, Russ's upper arm reaching past the man's waist.

"He missed, the scared little prick missed me," Red Sox thought, smiling.

Not wanting the girls blood to splatter in his eyes, the man closed them tight, preparing for the coming impact.

Finally, Brit's reactions kicked in as she began to flinch and recoil away from the bat, nearly matching the speed of the bat.

The resounding crack as the bat found bone echoed off the back wall of the store. Russ's forearm bent, wrapped really, around the thickest part of the maple. He'd slightly miscalculated the speed of the man's swing and the impact came closer to his elbow than expected. Russ saw his wrist and hand swing around the bat, grotesquely angling towards the floor, as he felt his elbow shatter.

The man's eyes opened to a carnage he hadn't expected. Instead of blood and brain on the bat the boy's arm was wrapped around it, seeming to only be held in place by the skin pressed around both sides of the weapon.

"What the fu..."

Russ reached up with his left hand grabbing the end of the bat. He pulled hard with both arms and wrenched the wood free from the attacker's hands. Standing there unarmed and stunned, the local sports fan focused in on Russ's mutilated arm. He doubled over and puked out what Russ later told the police had been a McDonald's Big Mac, most of a large order of french fries and twenty ounces of Coca Cola.

Finished vomiting and still bent over the man started yelling.

"You god damned freak. How the hell..."

Brit's knee ended the sentence for him by smashing up into his face and knocking the man backwards to the floor. As the blood began pouring out of his broken nose, Red Sox's head smacked hard into the tile over concrete floor, knocking him out instantly.

"Wow, that's some serious knee action, Brit," Russ said impressed.

"I had to learn to fight and protect myself early," she replied. "But look at your arm! How the hell are you not writhing in pain?"

"Adrenalin, I suppose," Russ lied. "Let's get that phone and call the police before this guy wakes up. I don't think I want to do that again."

Brit walked up to Russ, careful not to bump his right arm and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

Oh man, maybe this was a date. How do people figure this out?

"So, this was a date?" Russ asked as Brit picked up the phone's receiver.

#  24

Russ's SAT phone vibrated in the front pocket of his jeans as he opened his car door. It was Agent Novella. He and Sigler were in the New York field office and the Director wanted to see Russ, "ASAP." Mid-day traffic was lighter than usual, and Russ pulled up outside 26 Federal Plaza only half an hour later. Evan was waiting for him just inside the entrance, visitor ID ready in hand.

"What does Sigler want with me?" Russ asked, taking the badge from Evan. "I've given you my report on Richmond and surely no one seriously considered the UN as a probable location for an assassination attempt. You'd have a better chance of breaking into the Pentagon."

"Russ, I don't know. But when the Director asks for you, you answer," the agent replied.

"Maybe YOU answer, Evan. I don't work for him. In fact, as government employees, you both work for me." Russ loved pointing this fact out to Evan at all opportunities. "Regardless, he's wrong on Richmond. I can't put my finger on why just yet, but he's wrong."

"I'll thank you to not phrase it like that when we get up there. He's the unofficial lead on this one, and he doesn't like being second guessed." Evan appeared noticeably unnerved by the thought of upsetting his boss.

"To hell with that. That's why you bring me around, to second guess," Russ feigning being irritated. "And what's an 'unofficial lead'? I thought this was your show."

The two men rode the elevator up in silence. Evan, suddenly concerned about manicuring, diligently surveyed his fingernails for overgrown cuticles. Russ pulled out his personal phone to check his messages. A couple of voicemails from reporters looking for information on why he was with the FBI. How do they find out so quickly? And a message from Brit, her case was going as well as she could hope.

The elevator chimed at the twenty third floor and they filed out.

"We're meeting with Sigler in twenty minutes. Let's go over what we know so far before we head in," Evan said. Tension giving his voice a slightly higher pitch than normal.

"What we know so far, Evan, is that we've wasted time checking out the UN, there's one shot available in Richmond that you should easily close up AND you've got a problem in your home office."

"We have a problem in the home offi...what are you talking about?"

"Those files I asked you for that you couldn't find. They were there when I left and missing the next day. That sounds like a security issue to me."

"I told you, no one has a key to that room. They weren't there. Maybe you didn't sort that pile the way you thought."

"Don't you freaking try to pin this on me, Evan. It's your house, get it in line!"

Russ took in Evan's response to his pushing buttons. He showed no signs of guilt or worry over his accusations of malfeasance. All he saw was frustration with what Russ was saying. He presented no signs of either knowing of a recognized issue or even suspecting himself there was one. As usual, Evan was the good guy. Clearly, he was not the source of the security breach.

***

"You want us both to go to Michigan because you got an anonymous tip that one of your five suspects was possibly seen in Dearborn?" Russ couldn't believe what the director was saying. "Dearborn has the most Arab Americans per square mile in the whole country. This could easily be a mistaken identity."

"Evan is always telling me how smart you are. I don't know, I don't see it. We have a credible assassination suspect, who we believe is planning said assassination within days and we have a physical sighting of the suspect. We need to check it out."

"And you're sending one of your most senior agents and your best intel analyzer to go play Where's Waldo in the Midwest?"

"Evan, I thought you told me you had his guy under control," Sigler said.

"Who's got you under control, Director Sigler?"

Russ was pushing buttons again. Trying to get a read on the man pulling the wrong strings in this investigation. He couldn't read a thing from him. No voice inflection change. No facial tells. Seated behind his big mahogany desk there was little to pick up with body language. His hands had lain relaxed and motionless with every word. He is either oblivious or some sort of Zen master.

"OK boss, we're in the air within the hour. We'll be on the streets of Dearborn before dinner. I'll let you know what we find."

"And try to keep your friend here focused on the mission. On task, on time", the Director said finishing with a slight upturn in the corners of his mouth.

***

It was a twenty-minute drive from the airport to the Arab American National Museum. Since it was founded in 2005, the Museum had been considered a hotspot for potential Middle Eastern terrorist cells, a testament to the power of the alarmist media and ignorant lower and middle-class whites of the United States. There had not been one credible lead to associate the AANM with terrorism, yet it remained high on lists of mandatory surveillance since before the opening ceremony ribbon hit the floor.

"Evan, what are we doing here", Russ asked, feigning frustration while riding shotgun in their FBI stipend approved 'rent-a-wreck'.

"Jesus, Russ, Sigler told you the who, what, why and when of this visit. You are a civilian, you know, you could have said "No.'"

Russ was still trying to keep Evan on edge, to keep him off balance, and see what he would say "off the record" to him. He wasn't implicating Evan in any wrongdoing, but the FBI agent was the longest tenured member of the Philadelphia office. Surely he had some thoughts and feelings about who would want to impede the investigation.

"Why is Sigler holding you back on the break-in at the field office? A breach of security within the building should be a high priority, not something to simply look past."

"Huh, what? Oh, you're still on your misplaced pages? Come on Russ, let it go. Sigler sent out a memo yesterday morning just after midnight about the possibility of there being some issues. 'Be aware of your areas, people' was the message sent and received."

Midnight?

"I suppose he's wrapped up in busting this case wide open with his intel," Russ replied, emphasizing "his".

Their SAT phones chirped simultaneously. Russ pulled out his phone as well as the tablet the FBI had given him. "See tablet for communication" flashed on the phone's screen. He punched up the attachment from the Philly office.

"Looks like our suspect pool is shrinking. Reports are coming in from Basrah that two of our guys have been killed in what looks to be coordinated suicide attacks."

"Well I guess that makes this trip all the more important. We're on the heels of one third our suspect pool."

"Actually, we're nowhere near close to the heels of one half of our deceased suspect pool."

"You're kidding me. He was just here and now he's dead in Iraq? The guy gets around"

"Unless he was never here. Qatar Air routinely has the shortest travel time from here to Baghdad. Usually just over twenty hours. Another four and a half to drive to Basrah, assuming ideal conditions, and ideal is not a word anyone would use to describe conditions around Baghdad."

"I guess we had some bad intel on this one, buddy," Evan conceded.

"I agree, we were given some piss poor intel," Russ pushing buttons again.

#  25

Fifteen-year-old Russ set his father's dinner down on their old butcherblock kitchen table. Many years ago, the men of the house had struck a deal: The older cooks and the younger cleans. Even at six years old, Russ quickly realized the mistake he'd made in shaking hands on the agreement. While cooking dinner was clearly more time consuming than cleaning up after, scrubbing pots and pans wasn't nearly as enjoyable a task.

By the time Russ turned eleven it had become apparent that the rolls of the men had changed. Russ had become the main man when it came to the doing. The thinking? Well that was still squarely planted on the lap of the elder Williams man.

His father's physical health had been declining for as long as Russ could recall. Memories like the one of Pops lovingly putting toddler Russ down for a nap. No sooner had he placed Russ in his crib then Pops was overtaken by a coughing fit. The memory of his father barely able to contain the involuntary spasms until he was out of the room circled through his mind as he put down the plate. He could, in his mind's ear, still hear those wet coughs followed by the spitting of phlegm into the one of the spittoons Pops had once thought were interesting nostalgia of the Wild West but were now a necessary part of daily life.

Back when Russ was six, Pops no longer had the wind to keep up with him at the playground. By eight, he'd lost the strength to shoot baskets with his son any more. The morning of Russ's twelfth birthday, while making pancakes and bacon for the birthday boy, Pops had the first of the muscle spasms which had since become routine. Holding the fry pan with his left hand and scooping out bacon with the right, Pops' left arm violently seized straight down, flipping the fry pan towards him and splashing the three-hundred and fifty-degree bacon grease from his chin to his knees. Fortunately, he'd ended up with only second degree burns on his exposed skin, only first degree where his clothing had run interference for him.

Russ returned to the table, this time with his own food and sat down across from his father. Pops was finishing saying his silent grace. A ritual, disappointingly to Pops, Russ had declared foolish and antiquated at his third birthday dinner.

"Another fine-looking meal, son. Thank you," Pops said.

"It's not a problem at all, dad. Don't worry about it," Russ replied after taking the first bite.

"The level of effort expended by the giver is not the reason to be grateful for it, Russ. I'm grateful, and so I thank you, because you've given and shared part of yourself with me. Now pass me the garlic salt, you know these taste buds of mine prefer to have a little extra pizzazz."

"Dad, I've been thinking about college and what I'm going to do after I graduate this year", the fifteen-year-old began. "I know we don't have the means to pay for tuition. If I was older you could take me on down at the shop and I could work my way through school like Logan did."

"Son, you know I wouldn't do that to you. That mind of yours wasn't made to be no grease monkey like your old man. You've got all those scholarships lined up that should more than cover whichever school is lucky enough to have you attend," Pops said. His eyes twinkling with tears of pride.

"I know, Dad, but here's the thing about that. You've always taught me that to give charity is our responsibility to the many. But to take charity when you have the ability to do for yourself doesn't improve the greater good."

"You know I love the Celtics stocks you gave the two years ago," he continued, "and you always say once you receive a gift it's yours to do as you please with. I'm not old enough to trade stocks on my own, but with a custodial account set up you could make the buys and sells for me. And the money stays in my name, I could pay my own tuition!"

"Son, I don't know much about Wall Street but from what I hear, the stock market is a long-term growth game. I'm not sure you could, even if you get lucky, make enough fast enough."

"Leave that to me, dad. Say you'll do it. Please, please?"

"Where do I have to sign?" Pops grinning and sighing at the same time.

Russ reached over for their now customary high five.

"Now let's finish this feast before it gets cold," Pops said with a pronounced air of authority.

#  26

The day after Russ first left for Harvard, a whopping twenty-five miles away, Pops believed was the longest he'd ever had. He knew he loved his son more than life itself but hadn't realized just how much companionship and happiness he and Russ built together. Over the past sixteen years their respective roles had dosey-doe'd around 180 degrees.

Pops hadn't become dependent on incontinence pads just yet, he had a year or two before that indignity entered his life, but he knew he relied on Russ for so many things just to get through each day. Russ handled it all, from doing the cooking and cleaning to making sure the bills were paid on time. His son had jumped right in taking to heart the aphorism, "If it needs to be done and you can, you should."

The previous morning had been an emotional one for Pops, tears either falling over his wrinkled cheeks or threatening to pour out from his glaucomatous eyes. Russ, of course, was more pragmatic about leaving home, thanking Pops for the years of teaching and love. Pops tried his best to match his son's emotion, not wanting to place any guilt over leaving on Russ.

He returned home from dropping Russ off in Cambridge just before noon. Walking up the front steps a sense of dread came over him. He realized when he went through that front door, for the first time in sixteen years, it would be quiet inside.

"What do I do now?" Pops mumbled to himself.

He took a deep breath, unlocked the front door and began to survey his new life.

"Russ, I'm home. How was your day? Come tell me about it", he called out knowing the familiar response was not coming, but felt he had one more in him to get out.

He walked towards the living room, past the stairs leading down to the basement. Ghosts flashed before his eyes, the memory of the time Russ took a tumble to the bottom. He had been six years old then. Pops had come in from a long day at the shop and Russ exuberantly came running out of the kitchen to meet his dad. Russ had wanted to tell him about the book he had read that day about Isaac Newton and how he had developed a new math to help him study motion.

Russ's sock caught on a nail sticking up out of the transition strip between the linoleum covered kitchen floor and the carpeted hall. Russ immediately lost his balance and took a header into the door less frame of the entrance to the basement. Pops winced as Russ's forehead cracked into the oak frame and then shuddered as he heard him start tumbling down the stairs.

He rushed to the top of the stairs in time to see Russ's final flip before came to rest on the cement floor of the unfinished lower level. Russ had been giggling as he went ass over towards the bottom. Damned if he didn't almost stick the landing, too. Pops ran down the stairs to comfort his son and assess the damage.

"Wow, dad," Russ began as the gash above his eye, from the wooden doorframe, poured blood down his face. "I was gonna tell you about calculus, but this was so much more fun." His face beamed with delight beneath the thickening veil of blood.

"I bet it was Russ. I see you have that nasty cut on your forehead," Pops said as he tested Russ's skull for signs of fracture. "We're gonna have to get you to the hospital for some stitches there. Can you tell me, do you have any other injuries?"

Russ contemplated the question for a moment. He gave his head a little wobble, then shook out his limbs counter clockwise from right arm down and back up to the left arm. Finally ending with a body twist and a deep gulp of air.

"Well, I think my right shoulder came out as I was falling but I wasn't really paying attention to it. Boy was it was fun getting dizzy on the way down." The boy's smile growing with each word. "It feels back in place now. My left ankle is sprained again, and these two fingers are twisted funny."

He held up his left hand to show his father. Indeed, his index and middle finger were dislocated up onto the knuckle bone and pointing towards his pinky.

"OK, son, got get your coat. We can get a pizza on the way home."

"Woohoo, pizza! Pepperoni and extra cheese this time."

"That boy never says no to pizza," Pops considered this as he walked through the kitchen. How many meals had they prepared together? The kitchen was where life lessons were taught. It was those teachings where Pops had been able to stay ahead of Russ the longest.
***

When he was eight and in the fourth grade, Russ had been playing at recess. He was the youngest and smallest child in his grade, trying hard to fit in. Most of the other kids were too scared to climb to the top of the jungle gym, and of those who did none could resolve to stand up at the top. Fearless, as always, Russ climbed easily to the top bar on the play structure. Believing he would be the cool kid for doing it, he hoisted himself on top of the bar and stood straight up. He thrust his hands straight up in the air and yelled.

"Look at me everybody!"

A girl from Russ's class pointed up at him and screamed, "Look what Russ did, everyone!"

Soon every face on the playground was looking up at him. Russ couldn't believe how popular he was at that moment. He envisioned pats on the back and high fives each day as he walked into class. Maybe the story would get out and he'd be in the paper.

With all that daydreaming, Russ lost focus on the task at hand: balancing. His left foot slipped off his perch, a one-inch steel bar. As he was crashing to the ground he heard the gasps and shrieks as the other children saw him bounce off of successively lower levels of the jungle gym.

The shrieks turned to giggles which turned to laughter as he came to a stop laid flat on his back. The commotion had drawn the attention of teachers and he could hear them rushing to his aid.

"Call the nurse."

"No, we need to call an ambulance!"

"Russ, don't move."

Determined to reclaim what fleeting celebrity he'd gained, Russ thought his best move would be to get up and show everyone he was alright. He pushed himself up onto his right leg and shifted balance to pull his left leg underneath his small body. Ready to stand straight and replay his triumphant stance from the top of the bars, his left leg was unable to find purchase on the ground. He simply toppled over onto the grass again.

As he fell down the giant play structure, Russ's left leg had slipped between two bars. As his momentum tried to keep him flipping and falling downward, the lower part of his leg became stuck and motionless for the tiniest of moments. Once his knee dislocated, his descent continued unimpeded.

Now once again laying on his back he reached a hand down to his knee and found his calf jutting out at a forty-five-degree angle.

"Look at that, he's so gross looking!" a younger girl yelled.

"The teacher says he's so smart. The dummy didn't even know his leg was broken," an older classmate said. "Idiot!"

Russ looked up at the boy, "My knee is dislocated not broken."

"Shut up freak!"

"I'm not a freak. It's not my fault it doesn't hurt," Russ professed calmly.

The laughs began again as Russ futilely tried to swing his lower leg back into place. His short, not yet matured arms unable to find enough leverage to manually force his leg straight.

As the teachers started to herd the children back into their classrooms Russ could hear the name calling and twisted stories begin.

"Freak. What a loser. Moron didn't even know. Showoff."

***

Students and teachers alike were surprised to see Russ show up for school the next day. The teachers found it remarkable that the young boy was so dedicated to his education.

"He must be in such pain still," Russ's homeroom teacher said. "How is he able to walk?"

Principal Butler was impressed at how well Russ seemed to be walking. "Really no limp to be seen. Just a small hitch in his step, probably his knee is still swollen."

The students, however, saw things differently.

"I heard his dad asked the devil to fix him."

"No, his dad is a witch doctor."

"No, his dad is a mechanic, Russ is a robot. He just bolted a new leg onto him."

Russ couldn't understand why the kids were being so mean to him. Every time he would correct his classmates, they laughed at him more.

"I. Am. A. Robot. Do not laugh at me", a goliath of a fifth grader mocked in a mechanical voice.

"I'm not a robot," Russ pleaded. "I'm just a kid like you."

"You're not like us. You're like an alien."

Russ managed to make it through the morning by focusing on his teacher's lessons. He sat by himself during lunch, watching the other kids stare and point. A fifth grader threw a chicken wing at him, the bone had been cracked and twisted to the side to mimic his injury from the day before.

Recess was more of the same. None of the kids would let him play with them. Each game he tried to join would either dissipate immediately or he'd be ignored until he walked away. So he chose to spend his time throwing a playground ball against the brick side of the school building, figuring the angles of reflection to maximize the time of the flight of the ball.

Three of the school's older students walked over to the remote area Russ was in.

"Hey kid," the largest of the three called out.

"Oh hi," Russ replied, happy to see that anyone wanted to talk to him.

"We saw you yesterday, when you fell off the jungle gym." The same boy said as he stopped in front of Russ, the other two flanked Russ on either side.

"Yah, I wish I hadn't missed the rest of school."

The boy on Russ's right seemed to be hunched over a little, and his eyes, he looked sad.

"And you said it didn't hurt? At all?" the lead boy asked, now standing so close Russ could smell the peanut butter and fluff sandwich he'd eaten. And sweat, Russ could smell the boy perspiring.

"But not just sweat," Russ thought, "something else too. It smells aggressive?"

Suddenly feeling vulnerable, Russ glanced from boy to boy. Mr Sad was on his right, still. The boy on his left looked happy? His eyebrows seemed too high on his face. And his whole body was slightly leaning towards Russ.

The boy in front of him clenched his jaw for a split second, his ears rising just a bit as he muscles grew taut, unseen through the remaining baby fat rounding out his face. When he spoke, Russ heard something different in his voice. He sounded, proud?

"Me and my friends here we were curious how that works. How it works that you didn't feel anything."

"I didn't say I didn't feel anything, it just didn't hurt."

"See that's just weird. How do you do that? We're here to find out."

With that, the boys on either side of him grabbed Russ by his shoulders and forced him down to the ground, flat on his back. Each boy then kneeling on Russ's respective arm, rendering him immobile and prone. The larger boy dropped to his knees, straddling Russ at his waist. Russ's legs effectively useless for defense.

"Can you feel this?" The boy sitting upon his waist punched him in the nose.

"How about this?" The boy on his left punching him in the jaw.

"Yes, I can feel you hitting me," Russ replied. "Please stop. You might hurt me."

"Oh, now you can be hurt, huh? Are you going to cry again like yesterday? Cry for your mommy?"

"I didn't cry. I meant you might injure me."

With that came a series of blows to Russ's face. The boy on top of him picked up a stick and began poking Russ in the face and chest with it. The boy on his left spitting on him. The boy on his right? He didn't do anything but to help hold down Russ.

"Please. Stop. We're going to get in trouble," Russ tried to reason with the boys.

"Shut up, freak!" The boy now sitting on his chest. "I don't want to hear you."

"But we need to go inside soon," Russ said in between blows to the head.

"That's it," the older boy said, his voice now frustrated. "Open his mouth."

The boy on his left grabbed the stick and thrust it into Russ's mouth, using it as a makeshift bit. Russ's lips pulled tight, stretched across his teeth.

From his back pocket, the leader of the trio pulled out a small penknife. He opened it and held it up for Russ to see. "You should have shut up."

"Ungh gug hugst geegdging"

"SHUT UP!!" The knife wielding boy screamed at Russ. He thrust the knife past Russ's stretched white lips and plunged it into his tongue. Russ could taste the cold metal blade as it easily punctured his tongue. His mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.

The boy on the right gagged, then fell back off of Russ's arm. Suddenly freed from restraint, Russ felt for and found a rock. He flung his arm up, fingers clutching the rock. Russ was surprised, and happy, to feel the rock strike the side of the older boy's head. Completely taken off guard, the boy fell to the side clutching his head.

The gagger had seen enough, he got up and ran away. Russ took a swing at the boy on his left, but only managed to connect with his shoulder. But it was enough.

"Let's go", he said to the boy bleeding slightly from his ear. The two assailants slunk off as the school bell signaled the end of recess.

Later on, Russ insisted that he had been playing alone with the playground ball. He'd thrown it too hard against the wall and it caught him under his chin. He had bitten through his tongue and bumped the side of his head when he fell.

That night, in the kitchen, while having Russ wedge an ice-filled washcloth between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, Pops talked to him.

"That's some bite through your tongue, son. I've been in my share of playground fights. I took a few good shots up under my chin and put more than one tooth through my tongue. But never was I able to do from top front to lower back. Are we going to have to get you some braces for those gnarly teeth of yours? Why don't you take a minute and tell me what really happened?"

Russ took the washcloth out of his mouth and gave his father the full series of events that day.

"Now, Russ, you know you're not a freak or an alien or some kind of lab experiment gone wrong. But you also know you are different from other kids. You're special. You experience things differently than the rest of us."

With that Pops spiraled into a coughing fit. His eyes watered as he pulled out his handkerchief and finally spit out a mouthful of phlegm.

"And people", picking up as he left off, "people are going to see that difference. Unless you learn how to act like them."

"I know you're wicked smart, I've seen that since you were about this high." Pops held up his hand off the kitchen table. "You gotta use that smart to fit in more. To know the room you're in. The things you notice and the ideas you get, they can do so much more for you. I'm certain of it."

"Now these boys on the playground, did you see anything different about them? Before they jumped you?"

"The one boy, the big one, he smelled kinda weird. He was super sweaty, but there was something else. He smelled like he wanted to hit me. Another boy, his body looked sad, like he didn't want to be there. He's the one who left first. And the other, his face looked rounded out like his whole head was smiling. He seemed too happy"

"There you go, boy. You just described all three boys and their emotions at the time. Now what could you have gotten from that, before they grabbed you?"

"Well, maybe I could have scared off the one who didn't seem like he wanted to be there. I don't know about the other two. I remember at lunch they had the same expressions when they all looked at me, and threw the chicken at me."

"Should I have known then", Russ asked his dad.

"Maybe so, Russ, maybe so."

While waiting to fall asleep that night, Russ replayed the day in his head. Reliving what he'd seen of his classmates and teachers. How they appeared first and then how they acted. He realized he knew ahead of time who hadn't finished their homework, who had to pee before they knew themselves, he could guess when the teacher was going to yell at the class. He drifted off vowing to himself he would spend more time learning about people's actions, expressions, movements, thoughts, feelings. How much could he learn?

#  27

Director Sigler leaned back in his custom-built Herman Miller chair. The office overhead lighting was off. The only lights in the room came from the Waterford Kingsley lamp softly shining on the mahogany desk and the soft glow of the computer monitor to his right.

The LED screen was showing a map of the Rust Belt region of the United States. On the left end of that region two dots pinged away, just outside Detroit. Those dots represented Agent Novella and Russ Williams. The two men were en-route to DTW to catch a five-a.m. flight back to New York. The men were in for a long morning.

Sigler rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Recently it seemed that everyone was having longs days and nights. Today had been an exceptionally long one. The director couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his bed.

It had been all hands on deck for the past nine days. The Secret Service caught wind of the growing pool of intel pointing towards an attack on the President. Sigler had wanted to keep the whole thing quiet until his people had narrowed down all the possible scenarios. The entire case grew to the point where it seemed everyone from the Secret Service to the President's ass wiper needed round-the-clock updates.

Sigler had cashed in a significant number of his political chits to keep this an FBI investigation only. This was a big one. This one could remake or fully break a career. He didn't want to leave anything to chance. He alone controlled the flow of information. He alone decided who knew what and when they were allowed to know it.

That was until agent freaking Novella brought in his superstar buddy. Sigler had chosen Novella to spearhead the investigation, the head agent all the others would follow. That would leave Sigler free to deal with all the non-FBI acronyms from Washington. He trusted Novella implicitly, he believed him to be one of the best agents in the office in fact. Everyone within the organization respected his work and dedication to the job, Sigler knew he would be able lead the task force. That and the fact that Novella blindly and strictly followed the chain of command. "Yes sir. Right away sir. You heard the Director, men, let's move out." He could trust Agent Novella to toe the line and not ask questions.

When Evan approached him about bringing Williams in as an advisor, Sigler had given a quick thumbs up to the idea. Undoubtedly, anyone Novella brought in would be qualified. He had heard Williams's name in different circles, he was well regarded by whomever you asked. Besides, it's always wise to have a fall guy in case things went south. Since he'd been brought in on so many other investigations across all areas of the government, no one would question Williams's addition to the team. Having a civilian on the team gave Sigler plausible deniability from blame if a mistake was made, one Sigler would be sure to announce to the press was made based upon the advice of the outside counsel.

What he hadn't planned on was just how good Williams was. He seemed to have a photographic memory. His emotions always seemed to be in check, never high or low. The man seemed to have a world of information at his fingertips. And Jesus, the track record of success he had. Williams had broken open international spy rings in the nineties, he discovered an assassination attempt on Clinton, he served as economic advisors to the previous two Presidents. He'd even been knighted by the Queen of England. Hell, rumor was some small remote South American village had made a deity out of him.

"Where did this guy come from," Sigler thought to himself.

He decided the question was irrelevant at this stage of the game. What mattered now was how could Sigler control him. Keep even closer tabs on him. The last thing he needed was some maverick hot shot asking too many of the wrong questions. The sooner he moved out of the conference room down the hall, the more relaxed Sigler would feel.

He hated loose ends.

#  28

The flight back to the greater New York area landed Russ and Agent Novella at the Teterboro Airport, twelve miles east of the city just past seven a.m. The hours spent waiting at Detroit Metro had given the two men a chance to catch up on old stories and put the case on the back burner for a bit. Now back in New York their conversation returned to a more serious tone.

Evan voiced his concern about making their nine o'clock meeting with Sigler.

"He's going to rip me a new one if we're late," Evan said.

"Take the George Washington and turn down Broadway," Russ replied. "That'll be our best shot at making it."

"There's just something we're not seeing, Evan," Russ said, changing the subject. He'd been subtly urging Evan to get back on target since the first cup of coffee at DTW. The time for subtlety was over.

"You know I have all the faith in that instinct of yours," Evan began.

"It's not instinct, Evan," Russ cut in. "I build hypotheses based upon the known solid facts of the case. And I'm telling you, the facts aren't meshing together on this one."

"So, what are you saying," Evan asked, growing impatient with Russ's stubbornness. "You keep suggesting that there is a mole in my office. Of which you have no concrete evidence..."

Russ cut him off again, "I'm telling you those pages were there. I saw them. I can still see them in my head. That's as solid of evidence as you're ever going to see, agent."

"No concrete evidence to support your accusations," Evan added, revving the engine for effect. "You've seen everything we have, Russ. You filtered it down to what you decided was pertinent. Maybe you let some piece of intel slip by? The magic linchpin that will hold whatever theory you come to together?"

"No, everything we need is on that table. Or was," Russ snapped back.

"Enough!" Evan snarled at his civilian passenger. "There's no proof. There hasn't been opportunity and there's no motive for anyone to mess with the intel. I've known half the people in that field office twenty years. We came up together. The other half, I trained them, supervised them. They are all good people. Just stop, Russ. You're barking up the wrong tree here. And frankly, I'm tired of hearing it."

Russ was not surprised how the FBI agent had responded. Evan was a top-notch detective, a passionate company man and a friend, in that order. It was clear to him that Russ didn't have a leg to stand on, not a piece of hard evidence to corroborate his allegations. The detective in him satisfied with that absence of evidence, Agent Novella backed the agency.

"You're right, Evan," Russ conceded. "Let's focus on what we know. When we get back to the field office in Philly this evening I want to show you some scheduling discrepancies I could use some more intel on. Maybe you can put in a good word for me with Sigler so we can keep him in the loop."

Evans SAT phone chimed, signifying an encoded incoming call. He reached into his breast pocket as he turned right onto Broadway to check the caller id.

"Speak of the devil, will ya," Evan said. "It's Sigler."

"Tell him I said thanks for trip to Detroit. Only wish I had had time to get him a souvenir."

"Agent Novella," Evan answered the call.

"Yep, we're headed to the NYFO now...Yes, we were surprised in Detroit too...Philly? Sure we can meet you there. I thought you had sta- Yes sir...He was just mentioning he wanted to verify some scheduling discrep- No sir, I don't know...Yes he's in the car with me..."

Russ was half listening to Evan, trying to piece together Sigler's end of the conversation while admiring the scenery. As Broadway bent to the left towards the southwest corner of Central Park, Russ thought about how impressive it was when the park came into view. If you didn't know it existed, what an amazing discovery it would feel like to find a plush wood in the middle of a concrete jungle. He tried to imagine how Captain García López de Cárdenas felt in 1540 when he and his travelling companions came up to the south rim of the Grand Canyon, appearing as if from nowhere, out of the trees.

"Alright boss, we'll see you there."

"Olly olly oxen free," Russ asked after Evan ended the call.

"Yep, he says he has some new intel that strengthens the theory we're building now. He wants to get us both to have a look."

"The three amigos ride again," Russ joked. "Keep heading around the circle, back up to Central Park West. We can jut over to Columbus and go through the Lincoln to get on 95.

Neither man saw the black SUV screaming up Eighth Avenue and shooting into the rotary. The two-ton vehicle slammed into the passenger side of their rented car. The SRS curtain shield airbag deployed as the cabin buckled inward, pushing the airbags toward the center of the car. No sooner had they inflated and they were gone, their appearance barely registering for either man.

As the heavier SUV continued into the smaller rental, the two vehicles began moving in concert. The SUV continuing its forward trajectory, the car now moving laterally, tires sliding across the asphalt sideways instead of rolling along. The driver side wheels slammed into the curb around Columbus Circle creating a pivot point for the entire vehicle. The overwhelming force from the SUV on the passenger side forced Russ's side of the car to move the only direction available, up.

The car began to barrel roll into the circle, flipping right over left over right. With the SRS system spent, the men were slammed side to side, oscillating from weightless, bound by seat belts, to concussively slamming down and sideways.

Russ's last thought before fading to darkness was, "I should have seen this coming."

***

Russ came to in a shared hospital room, the curtain was drawn around his bed giving him some privacy from whomever else was in the room. Upon seeing he was in a hospital, Russ instinctively began to take stock of his injuries, mentally running through his body, flexing muscles and testing the movement of bones, ligaments and tendons. His skeletal system seemed fine. There was a little tightness in his right shoulder, most likely bruised. He was surprised to find he had yet another concussion.

He reached over to punch the,

the umm, call bu - call button. Yes call button for the doct - no nurse. Yes the nurse.

"Why am I so groggy?" he thought.

A moment later a nurse arrived in the room, pulling back the cocoon of curtains sequestering Russ's bed. He saw he was in a two-patient room, the other bed cloaked behind its own set of curtains.

"Hey there, sunshine" the nurse said, a little too cheerily. "Glad to see you up."

"How, how long have I been here?"

"Oooh, let me see", taking what seemed to Russ to be an over exaggerated look at her watch. "Just a bit under eleven hours."

"How is the man I was with? Evan, is he injured? Is he here," Russ asked. "You over there buddy", he called out to the unseen bed.

"Agent Novella? He's down the hall waiting to see you back in action, hun. He came out a little better than you."

"What do you mean? I'm fine. Just a concussion, I've had them before. I'll be fine."

"I'll say you've had them before. MRI scans suggest more than twenty. Hunny, you're all the talk in the nurses's lounge. The over/under on the number of edema clusters in there is set at fourteen."

"Take the over", Russ told her. "Twenty-three, sorry twenty-four now. Can you get my friend up here so he can get me out of here?"

"You're not going anywhere, sugar. Doctor says at least twenty-four hours."

"We're saving the President from assassination."

"I'm sure you are, handsome. I'll go get your friend, but you best just settle in for a bit."

A few minutes later Evan came in, looking fit as could be.

"Hey, Russ, how you doing? Hell of a bump you took," Evan said, walking up to Russ's hospital bed.

"Are we at Jefferson University?" Russ, as usual, skipping the formalities.

"Jefferson U? Buddy we're at Mount Sinai West. We're still in New York."

When did we come to New York?

"How did we end up here?" Russ asked. "What exactly happened to us?"

"Some doped up crackhead stole an SUV and t-boned us outside Central Park. Bastard didn't get a bump. Witnesses say he jumped out and ran off."

SUV? Yes, the accident, by the park. Accident?

"Right right, I'm caught up now. What's our next step? We were on our way to go see...um"

"We're not going anywhere, Russ. Sigler doesn't want word to get out that a civilian was injured while assisting in an FBI investigation. We'll come get you in a couple of days when the doc gives you an all clear."

"You can't be serious", Russ barked. "I'm fine. You know me. Tell them I'm fine. Get me out of here."

"I'm sorry, hun", the nurse chimed in, "the doctor..."

"Yes, get the doctor in here, would you please", Russ cutting her off.

An hour later Russ was released from the hospital. His doctor turned out to be the on call recent grad doing his residency. Russ talked circles around him and convinced the young man the concussion diagnosis was incorrect. He was released with a prescription for 800mg ibuprofen.

#  29

Joe's bedside windup alarm clock sprung to life at a quarter to five a.m. Not that he needed it to wake himself up. There had been no sleeping the night before. Baby Russ had, seemingly, found a higher level of misery shortly after midnight. Just when the exhaustion of countless sleepless nights began to outweigh the infant's crying, Russ got louder.

A week earlier, when Russ was still a few decibels lower, Joe had approached Marie about converting the basement laundry room into a sleeping area.

"No! No way, Joe! We are not putting our son down in the cellar like some Medieval bastard secret. I won't have it," Marie had responded.

"Oh Marie," Joe said reaching for her hand, "it would be for us, to take turns getting some rest during the long nights. I think I can make it a bit quieter in there with the right supplies."

Marie scoffed and turned her face away from his.

"It just seems wrong to have a room designed to keep me from being a mom."

Joe converted it anyway. Making use of the utility sink across the basement and adding a dozen or so feet of dryer ducting, he was easily able to relocate the washer and dryer. A few batts of insulation from the hardware store, some old plywood from the garage and a gallon of paint were the only other items he needed.

The last step was to bring the spare, twin sized bed from the guest room and the side table with table lamp. There were no windows in the former laundry room making light and fresh air an impossibility. In an effort to make the area more appealing to Marie, Joe hung a couple of pictures on the walls and hid an air freshener under the bed to dampen the basement smell.

As they, and Russ, entered the second week of the nearly non-stop crying, Joe convinced her to at least take a copy of the National Enquirer down and try to relax during his shift with Russ. She remained resistant, spending all of five minutes in the room her first try.

"No matter how thick you make the walls, I can't not hear him, Joe. He needs his mother, that's why he cries to me through the walls. I always hear him."

By Marie's third round of "down time" that first night she managed to use up her full hour and a half in the makeshift bedroom. Joe was exhausted from not only his overnight Russ time, but also the long days he'd been putting in at the shop preparing it for his bi-annual state inspection.

How did I let the shop fall off so much?

He had little trouble falling asleep within the confines of the relatively quiet sanctuary. Barely making it under the single sheet before passing out. Some nights, Joe couldn't remember walking into the room when suddenly his alarm was going off, declaring his break time was over.

How he missed those mini mid-night breaks of just a week ago. Last night, Russ's voice grew hoarse from the hours upon hours of crying and screaming. The new-again parents were simply unsure what to do for their son. Was the new slightly softer, lower toned, noise the new normal?

It didn't take long to get their answer. Just after midnight Russ became still, and quiet. The sudden change drew both hope and anxiety from Marie as she was holding her son. She held him up, in front of her face and brought the boy's nose and mouth to her cheek.

Is he still breathing? Is this it, the end?

Soft breath tickling her cheek brought both happiness and sorrow. Her son was still alive.

Is the misery still alive?

In the new quiet of the house she heard the bedside alarm go off downstairs.

Joe is coming up, what do I do? Russ isn't crying. I can't hear him. This isn't right, he always cries. Joe junior always cries.

Joe walked up the top few basement stairs and saw his wife holding his son, standing before the big living room window. Moonlight filtered in through the sheer curtains. The soft glow illuminating the two.

"This must be how the Virgin Mary and Jesus looked," he thought to himself.

He walked over and put his arm around Marie's waist and just stood beside her, looking at his peaceful son.

"What happened," Joe asked.

"I, I don't know, Joe," her voice slow and uneasy. "He just stopped crying, just like that."

"Maybe you finally got through to him, Marie."

Maybe your love overcame."

"I, I swear he's alive. I checked. You can check if you want. I put my cheek right up to him and felt his little baby breaths. I swear it."

"Shhh, Marie. It's OK, I believe you. Look at his little face."

"I swear it, I checked. He's breathing and everything."

Joe looked at his wife and realized she wasn't speaking to him. He followed her gaze to the rocking recliner in the center of the room. He thought back to the days when she swore there were crying babies in that chair, hallucinating them, trying to pick them up but unable to.

"Sweetheart, who are you talking to? Look at me right here. Talk to me."

"FUCK YOU! I SAID HE'S ALIVE!" Still looking at the chair. "HE'S NOT DEAD YET YOU LITTLE SHIT. JUST SHUT UP!"

As the words came out of her mouth, Marie clutched the baby hard against her breasts. A thin line of spittle dripped out of her mouth onto Russ's forehead. Either the crushing grip of his mother or her yelling startled the infant. Eyes now wide open he let out an ear piercing, voice cracking scream. It started with the crying they'd been used to hearing, then the scream went up in volume and pitch to the point Joe had to cover his ears.

"SEE! I TOLD YOU HE WAS ALIVE STILL," Marie yelled at the chair, raising her own voice further to match her son's.

In the only time he ever raised a hand to his wife, Joe gave Marie a hard smack across her face. "God dammit, Marie. Snap out of it. You're hurting him," he barked at her, unsure if she could hear him over the shrieking infant in her arms.

Marie's eyes focused on Joe's as her grip on Russ loosened. Tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed down her cheek. Russ started to slip out of her arms and towards the floor. Joe had to bend down to cradle his son in his own arms before he broke into a free fall to the floor.

Joe turned from Marie and walked to the kitchen to examine Russ for injury under the powerful overhead ceiling light. Each time, as he would raise Russ up out of his firm arms, the infant's own arms and legs would kick and punch into the air, the kicks seeming to align with the high-low pitch change of the screams, the arms flailing at will.

Though he was unable to get as good a look as he'd wanted, Joe finished his examination of the infant confident this new style of crying was not related to injury. Marie walked into the bright kitchen, head down, shuffling her feet as she moved. She reached up and slapped the overhead light switch off and moved closer to father and son.

"It's OK, baby Joseph," she said to the baby. "Shhh, it's OK."

I didn't hear her say Joseph, did I?

Joe stood frozen in time. His senses shut down. Russ's wailing faded away, his eyes went black. The name, reverberating through his head, was all there was.

Joseph

Joseph

Joseph

He snapped back to reality just as fast. Russ crying, crimson liquid leaking through his diaper, Marie shushing the infant, sheer madness.

Madness, Marie has gone mad. I couldn't have heard her correctly. That's it. How could I hear anything over Russ? Sleep, I need sleep. Marie needs sleep. Yes, get her to sleep.

"Marie, sweetheart, I've got Russ for now. It looks like he needs a diaper change. It's my shift, you go get some rest downstairs. We've got this." Joe nearly yelling at full volume to be heard over his son's screams.

Marie nodded softly with each word. A weak smile on her face, her eyes focused on Russ's face. "OK, Joe. That sounds good. I'll sleep. I told you Russ was OK. See," Marie stroking the side of Russ's face as she spoke. She turned around and disappeared down the stairs, across the hall.

Daybreak came before Joe realized Marie hadn't returned to relieve him. Instead of being frustrated at her lapse in childcare, Joe found he was happy. Happy that Marie was getting some extra sleep.

It was another two hours before Marie returned to the main level of the house. Grinning and bright eyed she walked over to Joe and scooped Russ out of his arms. She leaned in and gave Joe a soft kiss on the lips and gave him a wink as she pulled away from the kiss.

"I've got him for now. Why don't you go take a shower before heading to work?" she said.

"Oh, OK, sh-sure. You look better. Guess some sleep was just what you needed."

"Oh yes, Joe. I got my focus back on track while down there. I think I'm ready to see it through. We're gonna get Russell just where he needs to be. To a place where he's finally peaceful. I can see it, now." She leaned in with another kiss. "We're going to be OK. Now go get in the shower before I change my mind and put you back on Russ detail." Wink.

#  30

Russ and Brit had agreed upon a small guest list for the event. In fact, the happenings of their wedding day had nothing at all to do with what was typically thought of as marriage. Neither the bride nor the groom espoused any notions of an all-knowing deity or the need to pay the so-called marriage penalty each year to Uncle Sam. Their ceremony was specifically worded to appear to the guests, specifically their parents to appear to be no different than any religious ceremony.

They both understood the importance of marriage to their parents. None of them would be able to fully grasp the idea that a couple could be truly happy and truly in love yet not marry. Surely a legal contract was necessary to seal the relationship.

It made no difference to either Russ or Brit, so when Brit brought the idea up of having a wedding, air quotes, one night over a shared pint of Ben & Jerry's, Russ said "I do" to the thought. They picked a date for just after Brit's graduation and, as it turned out, just before she passed the State of Pennsylvania Bar exam.

Once they had been presented as Mr and Mrs Williams, Brit told her new family that she couldn't shake the romantic notion of changing her name to his.

"Your name is yours to do what you like, dear. But the Williams name is yours now. We'd be honored." Pops had told her.

Brit, Russ and their three parents went to dinner following the short mid-afternoon ceremony. Brit's sister elected to leave the "partying" to those who have said "I do" and went out with her fellow incoming freshman friends.

A few drinks into the meal and the conversation turned into a sort of a parental bragging fest. Nostalgia settled in, took a seat at the table and joined in for a few rounds.

Stories of Brit as a child. Always wanting a pony. Pigtails. Smurfs and Lisa Frank. Brit's mother and stepfather beamed with pride while retelling the story of Brit's valedictorian speech at her high school graduation.

"It wasn't always rainbows and unicorns, mom," Brit acknowledged. "Things were really rough until biological dad left. It was a little better after that, and then Jim came into our lives." She put her hand on her stepfather's. "You really made us into a family, dad. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. We're both so proud of you," Jim replied, a tear threatening to run down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"So, Joe, how about you take the floor for a bit. We've heard so much about Russ from Brit's perspective. Why don't you give us the real low down on our new son-in-law?" Brit's mother, Rose asked.

Joe took a hit from his inhaler, smiled and said, "I might have a story or two I can share."

"What do you think, Russ? How about the skiing trip up to Loon Mountain? Remember that one? You must have been, what, six or seven?" Joe's eyes twinkling even in the soft light of the restaurant.

"It's his first time on skis. He didn't have a clue what to do. So we go over to the kiddie practice hill, right. He wasn't gonna go up unless I went first. I show him how to line up next to the tow rope and grab onto the little strap. 'Just keep your skis pointed in the same direction of the rope', I told him."

"We get up to the top, and I'm thinking he's gonna love it. He was always sledding anytime there was snow. So I get up there and ski off to the side so he's got plenty of room, right, I figured he'd wipe out as soon as he let go of the rope. Well, I couldn't have been more wrong."

"I get off to the side and turn to cheer him on, or whatever, and there he is, still gripping onto the strap, real tight like. Kinda leaning over the rope. Around the curl and back down the hill. My son, riding the tow rope, round trip, down the mountain. God I almost fell down laughing, who wouldn't, right? But he's not done. When the little bugger gets to the bottom, he keeps holding on. Next thing I know, he's on his way back up!"

"Tears were freezing on my face by now. That was a cold one, wasn't it, son?"

"Very," confirmed Russ. "Two degrees, Pops. Negative fifteen with the wind."

"Right, colder than a witch's ti...um bosom," forgetting his mixed company. Joe smirked hoping he'd recovered nicely. "But anyhoo, he's back on his way up. This time I can see him getting close and I talk him off the rope."

"What did you say to me, when I asked what happened? What, what was it," Joe asked his son.

"I told you, that you hadn't explained to me how to get off at the top. The last, and only, thing I knew was to keep my skis pointed the way the rope was. I had been watching my skis below the rope. I was leaning over so I could match up the direction of the rope with my skis. When I reached the top and the rope started to bend around the top, I assumed it was me veering off to the left, instead of the rope curling around to the right."

Pops let out a roar of a laugh, a laugh that declared both that Russ was the butt of the joke while also showing his allegiance with Russ. A true 'That's my boy and I love you' moment.

"You might be still going around and around had I not given you those three simple words. Let. Go. Now." Pops said, thumping his palm on the table with each word.

Another roar of laughter, this time everyone at the table joining in.

"Yep, that's a good one, Pops," Russ managed to get out through his own laughing.

The waitress came by to check on the table. They all agreed one more round of drinks were in order.

"It wasn't all shi...er smiles and giggles, though. There were those two weeks you were in the foster home."

"Wait, what?" Brit rubbed her hand on Russ's shoulder while sharing a look with her mother. "You never told me about that. When was that?"

"It was nothing, really. A misunderstanding. I was seven. Not a story worth dusting off tonight."

"Nonsense, Russell" Brit's mother said reaching over to hold her daughter's hand. "Every life story is one worth sharing."

"Mom..."

"Brit, I'm his mother now, and I'm interested in Russ. I find him fascinating and am enjoying getting to know him."

Joe checked his watch, ten-thirty. Time to take his evening medicine. He reached into his breast pocket and produced his travel pill case. The lid popped open with a simple flip of his right thumb. Mr. and Mrs. Valade were amazed at the pile of pills he poured into his left palm. Blood pressure, blood thinner, indomethacin for gout, a Leukotriene modifier, an Amebicide and about half a dozen more.

"Now Russ, listen to your mother-in-law and let's share this one. I'll start. Gimme a quick second," Pops said palming his medication.

"These," Joe held up his left hand, "are a story for another day." He popped the pile of tablets and capsules into his mouth and swallowed them whole. A twice daily routine, he'd long since stopped taking the time to chase them with a glass of water. And, besides, he had a beer on the way.

"It's no secret that my boy here has received his share of bumps and bruises. Breaks and tears and cuts and...well you know."

"From the moment he could walk it seemed he was determined to explore his surroundings. Not so unlike any other child, mind you. But Russ here, he would get lost in his learning, he'd forget where he was and trip on a step or try to find out just how sharp something was or how fast it was spinning. He's been known to simply trip over his own two feet, also," Pops said winking at Mrs. Valade.

When he was three he wanted to know what the ceiling felt like. He went from standing on a step stool on the back of the couch to taking a header into the corner of the coffee table before he was able to find out. Luckily he only need four stitches."

During his fourth birthday party, when all the other kids were watching Bozo the Clown or what not he snuck into the kitchen, where his cake was sitting on the table. He was curious to figure out what exactly fire was made of. He must have put 30-40 candles in his cake and lit them. He stood there staring at them, looked at them from front to back. He figured out he could light one, blow it out and then relight it from the smoke coming from the wick."

"Well, he got too close and his party hat, you know those cone looking things, caught on fire. I came running in when I could smell his hair burning, right off his head. He'd been so engrossed in his figuring, he hadn't noticed for himself his head was on fire."

"And oh did he get bit by all sorts of animals. Never could get enough of comparing species, cats to dogs to squirrels, that sort of stuff. Jesus, if there'd been all these designer dogs when he was five, he'd of spent a whole summer getting rabies tests."

"So he's seven, now. Third grade. I'm down at the shop ordering our stock of winter tires when I get a call from his school principal. He asks me to come over to the school to have a talk about Russ. It was one of those asks where you know you're being told, not asked."

"It wasn't the first time I was called down to school either. In first grade, Russ's teacher was convinced I was doing his homework for him. Things looked too 'grown up' she would say. Grown up, can you believe that? Like I was pointing out to him which was the puppy, and which was the baby elephant on his papers. If she had paid attention to him, she'd have seen he finished his work before leaving for the day. In second grade his teacher was upset that I was making corrections on the assigned homework, correcting spelling mistakes or misused grammar, even mislabeled dinosaurs. Not Russ's work, mind you, the actual assignment from the teacher. I was there thirty minutes before Russ convinced the red-faced teacher that it was him doing it."

"Anyhoo, so I get down to the school and see there's a squad car and two DCFS vans parked in front of the entrance. I didn't think anything of it, right. It was a poor town in those days and some families had more going on than they could handle. I park and head in to see what Russ got into this time."

The drinks arrived at the table and everyone took a minute to take a few sips. Joe took an extra-long pull on his tall glass of beer. All this talking had made his pills settle in funny, he hated the taste of whatever those capsules were made of when they repeated on him.

"Anything else for you folks?" the waitress asked.

"I'll take the bill," Brit's father raising his index finger to get her attention. "We'll be a bit, but we can settle up now."

"That's awful kind of you Jim," Pops said digging in his shirt pocket. "But us Williams's, we always pay our own." He slid a hundred across the table with a sincere smile.

Russ saw that Pops was getting a second taste of his pills and added, "Maybe a round of waters as well?"

"Good idea, son. Now, where was I?"

"Before I can get to the school office Sheriff Cote walks up to me. 'Joe I'm going to need you to come this way', he says kinda angling me past the main office and into the principal's office. I can see Russ is sitting in the nurse's room, kind of behind where the teacher mailboxes were. He's got on a different shirt than he had in the morning. There were two people with him, a woman who was talking to him with a clipboard and a fella standing by the door. He sees me looking in as the sheriff is moving me past, we make eye contact and then he closes the door."

"I asked the sheriff, Eric was his first name, what was going on. Who were those people with Russ? He told me not to worry about them, the principal was waiting for me."

"We get down the hall and Principal Butler invites me in and motions us both to the chairs across the desk from him. Standing in the corner, kind of behind and to his right, are two other men. Both dressed up, coat and tie types, real official looking."

"'Mr. Williams, thank you for coming down here on your own accord. We appreciate your willingness to help us get to the bottom of this matter,' the taller of the fellas says."

"Well I laid into them pretty good then. Asking them who the hell they were. Why couldn't I see Russ?"

"Butler stopped me, asked me what I could tell him about my morning with Russ. Did anything unexpected happen?"

"Of course, I told them the only unexpected thing what happened that day was being dragged out of work to be asked all sorts of nonsense."

"The shorter of the suits jumped in then. Said they were just trying to understand the events of the morning. He said my assistance was voluntary, but I got that feeling again, like I was being volunteered to talk."

I asked the Sheriff one more time if I could see my boy. He told me not just yet. Not until we get to the bottom of Russ's signs of physical abuse.

#  31

Pops needed a second glass of water. Talking about his son was dry work and he wasn't nearly finished with his story. He became so engrossed in the memory the restaurant and diners faded away, he felt he was reliving the tale.

"Mr. Williams, we've been receiving reports from several school employees that there is concern about cuts and bruises and the like that Russ, your son, routinely shows up to school with," the larger DCFS agent said in a rehearsed, almost bored manner. Agent Ranno had twenty-five years on the job and he'd grown weary of seeing parents kick the crap out of their kids.

"His homeroom teacher says he comes into school often with wet clothes and fresh open cuts on his hands and face," Ranno continued. "After a routine lice check, the nurse reported seeing several contusions on Russ's head and scars above his hairline. His gym teacher says Russ doesn't change out of his long sleeve shirt and that he appears to have a different limp each week. Can you help us understand all these reports better, Mr. Williams?"

Joe let out a derisive scoff. Leaning forward in his chair he put his face in his hands and let out a long sigh. "Jesus, you had me scared for a bit. I thought something was wrong with Russ."

Agent Ranno let out an audible sigh. "Mr. Williams, I just explained to you many things that have been observed by his teachers that I would describe as being wrong for Russ."

"So, what, you're thinking I'm doing that to him?" Joe said angrily.

"We are not suggesting anything, Mr. Williams." The other agent, Green stepped forward. "Are you offering a confession?"

"A CONFESSION! You little fucker. You're not going to stand there and question my love for my son."

"Joe," Sherriff Cote put a hand on Joe's shoulder. "No one is questioning your love for Russ."

"No, you just think I kick the crap out of him. Fuck you Eric, and the three of you too. I'm taking my son and we're going home."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Williams. That is not an option at this point in time," Agent Ranno stood between Joe and the door.

"The hell you say." Joe stood up, muscles tensed, ready to act.

The sheriff reached to put his hand on Joe's arm, Joe flung his arm away.

"Mr. Williams! The Governor of the state of Massachusetts has authorized the Department of Children and Family Services to take action in cases of child neglect and/or abuse. In this matter, the decision has been made to remove Russell F Williams from your home and place him in a suitable foster care home while we conduct an investigation into whether or not he is safe and well cared for in your home. Do you understand what I have just said to you?" Agent Green's voice growing in strength and volume as he spoke.

"Wha...I don't...you've got it all wrong." Tears began running down Joe's face. "Don't take my son. He's all I have."

"Listen Joe," Sheriff Cote calmly spoke, "we all know it's been hard on you. You haven't been the same since Joe junior and Marie passed."

"Don't you fucking bring their names into this. Don't you ever let their names come out of your mouth!"

"Mr. Williams, we'll be in touch with you in twenty-four to forty-eight hours to schedule our first home visit with you." Agent Green handed Joe a business card. Sheriff, Principal Butler, thank you for your assistance, we're done here."

***

The next morning, as Joe was getting ready to head down to the shop, two deputies and the agents from the Principal's office pulled into his driveway.

"I thought you were going to call me to schedule a visit," said Joe, not trying at all to mask his anger.

"Normally we would, but in special cases, such as this one, we want to get our investigation started as soon as possible," Agent Ranno explained.

"My son is special; this case is all bullshit!" Again Joe displaying his ire.

"Sir, if you no longer wish to voluntarily assist with our efforts, we can obtain a court order compelling you to do so," Agent Green barked.

"Come on in then," Joe conceded, dramatically waving the group through the front door.

They filed in and moved into the living room. The deputies stood to either side of the living room's front facing windows as the DCFS agents took the couch.

"Have a seat, um, Joseph...Joe," the older agent, Ranno, looking at his notes.

"Joe is fine."

"Fine, thank you, Joe. Now for the record, we have all the pertinent information regarding the accidental death of your first son from the police report. We don't wish to stir up those memories for you, but it's only fair to point out that information could be taken into consideration as we progress," Agent Green pulling out the big guns to start off.

"Now, you are a single parent and Russell is the only child living at this residence, is that correct?" Agent Ranno trying to keep the conversation non-argumentative.

"Yes, it's just Russ and me here."

"Thank you, Joe. And who else does Russell spend time with? I assume there are afternoons when you are still at work when school is let out," Agent Ranno followed up.

"Well, outside of school, no one, really. Now anyway."

"Could you expound upon that, Mr. uhh, sorry, Joe?", said Green, making sure his voice was still in the mix.

"Well, Russ has always been a mature kid, you know," Joe began. "I mean you look at him and he's every bit a seven-year-old. But talk to him? Whooo, I mean, you've talked to him. The world would be a lot better off if teenagers were more like him, am I right?"

"Mr. Williams, this interview is about you and your ability to raise and protect your son." This time Agent Green not bothering to hide his growing frustration.

"Now that's where you're wrong, buddy. It's all about him, Russ. If you want to find out if I'm fit to be his charge, you're gonna need to know him. You don't have a checkbox on that clipboard for him, I promise you that."

"All right, Joe." Agent Ranno holding his hands up, palms out. "Tell us about Russell. Tell us about your son."

"Like I was saying, he's mature beyond his age. When he was five he was placed into first grade. The school board had given him a test and said he was too advanced to spend a year with kindergarteners. Back then things were busy at the shop, more work than workers. I would get Russ to school just fine and head to work. Being the boss I can do that kind of stuff, you know?"

"After school he'd be taken down to the gym where they had an after-school program for six to twelve-year olds. The Board gave us special permission so he could go. They'd play games, they could go in the library and pick a book to read, some of the older kids would do homework, that sort of stuff."

"By spring break Russ had read all the books he was allowed to pick out. There was only one other kid there around his age. He was always a handful, they told me, so he got most of the attention from the woman running the thing. Russ ended up sitting alone most of the time. At least until the older kids figured out he'd help them with their homework, anyway. He was pretty popular then."

"Second grade came and Russ asked me to not send him to the after-school program. He said he was too bored there. So we got him a library card and I would pick him up from school each day and swing by the library. He'd pick out two or three books and I'd bring him back to the shop. I'd set up a little table and chair in the corner of my office."

"I'm sorry, two or three books? A day," Agent Ranno asked.

"At first, sure. Once he was past the Judy Blume's and such, one or two."

"Would you guys like something to drink? All this talking about Russ is making me thirsty."

Joe went into the kitchen and came back with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses.

"This is delicious, Joe," Agent Ranno said. "Is that mint I taste?"

"Sure is. Russ came up with that. Not bad huh?"

"So then Russ was passed over third grade," Joe continued. "I wasn't so sure about it, I mean he was already young enough in class. But the school board said he was so much smarter than his classmates. And socially, although he did seem a little shy, he associated with the older grades better."

"Of course, a bunch of his new classmates were latchkey kids. I had a helluva long struggle trying to talk him out being one himself. As usual, In the end he had more answers than I had questions. It's a short walk with very open, very public streets from the school to here. And I wasn't too concerned about him walking home. Finally I agreed to let him have a go at it."

"I didn't tell him, but for two weeks I would leave work early and sneak into the house so I could keep an eye on him. Each day he would come in the house, put away his shoes, put the mail on the table and have a piece of fruit. Then he would come in here and sit in this very chair with a book. He'd read for an hour, then watch half an hour of TV. After that he'd finish his book and usually doze off. That's when I would sneak out and 'come home'."

After two weeks of monitoring him, I was completely confident in him handling the latchkey life."

"What about the four hospital visits the year before that?" Agent Green hitting hard again. "A child that, as you say, gets injured on his own surely shouldn't have so much time alone. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Any other kid, maybe so. But I'm telling you, Russ is different. Sure he gets more than his share of bumps and such, but most of the time he's the one who takes care of the nursing. Hell, I reckon half the time no one has any idea he's got a new sprain or strain. He may be clumsy, or whatever, but he's smarter than you, me, damn near anyone you'll meet on the street."

With that, Joe turned his head down and to his right. Eyes closed, jaw clenched his right hand digging into the arm of his recliner.

"Mr. Williams, I know this is emotional for you, take your time," the DCFS agents pausing to compare notes.

A low noise coming from Joe's direction. His right hand now pounding on his knee.

"Grrrrhhhhaaa," Joe's voice weak and trembling. "Here comes a big one."

"I'm sorry Joe, a big what is where?" Agent Ranno asked.

Joe began taking slow deliberate breaths.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Joe reached to his chest. Not quite pounding, but more tap tap tapping his left pectoral with a soft fist. "You got this Joseph Felton Williams, you got this."

Joe leaned forward, doubling over until his forehead rested on his knees.

"Nnnngnnngnn!"

More practiced breathing, deeper, faster. Sweat trickled down his face, dripping to the carpeted floor between his knees.

"Joe! What's happening Joe?! Officers, Mr. Williams is having a heart attack."

The deputy closest to Joe set down his drink and jumped into action. Kneeling beside the sick man. "Mr. Williams..."

Joe held up his left hand, palm out to the policeman.

"Mr. Williams, do you need emergency services," the deputy asked.

Joe curled three fingers in and held them in place with his thumb, indicating "Just a minute."

One more deep breath and a series of deep, phlegmy coughs and Joe began to sit himself upright. Leaning back in the chair, his cheeks a mess of tears and sweat, his chin dripping snot onto his shirt.

"I'm, I'm OK. Just having a moment here. They come and go." Another cough, into his closed hand. "Maybe you could get me a paper towel or two," Joe looking at the deputy kneeling beside him.

"Get those looks off your faces, will ya. Doc says I'm right as rain. I stopped bothering him a few years ago with this nonsense. Like I said, they come and go, and I move on."

"I think we have enough for today, Joe," Ranno said. "How about we call it for the day. We'll call you a few days and we can reconvene. Sound good?"

"There's no need for that. Hell, you got Russ over to who knows where, you're the only company I'm likely to have today. And like I said, I'm fine." Joe's eyes pleading.

"Just the same, we have some reports to file and we're scheduled to drop in and see how Russ is doing this afternoon."

"Alright, you do what you need to do. Tell the boy I love him, when you see him. Please?"

The agents called upon Joe two days later to finish up their questions. This time instead of the deputies, they brought a nurse. After Joe had another "moment" she was at a loss to explain what had happened.

"No, he wasn't faking. That's for sure. Yes, his vitals all appeared normal immediately following the episode."

The agents stopped by Dr McHale's office on their way to visit Russ. Joe's physician confirmed the details he had given them. Overall his health was deteriorating in line with an aging man, but "about thirty to forty years ahead of schedule". The doctor had been concerned about Joe's so-called moments, but as the nurse had seen, he appeared absolutely no worse for wear afterwards. The symptoms left as sudden as they came.

"The guy is tough as nails," McHale told them. "Other than calling me up a few times a winter for some antibiotics when the bronchitis gets him, I don't hear a peep from Joe. Not since he asked for me to give him a copy of his file for, get this, for Russ to read through. Heh, I think I was bumped for a child."

#  32

The first check in the agents had with Russ at the foster home was every bit as strange as their time with his father. They arrived and were welcomed into the home by a nervous nanny. The agents assured her they weren't interviewing her or judging her work. They just wanted to check in with the foster parents and see how Russ was doing.

The four adults sat in an immaculate and finely decorated living room, Mrs. Hammer's husband was at work. There was a tray of lemonade and four glasses waiting for them on the coffee table. "Have you tried adding mint," Agent Ranno asked after taking a sip.

Routine questions were asked.

"Yes he seems comfortable."

"No, not at all distressed, if anything he's adapted marvelously."

"Yes he's eating his meals."

"If I could editorialize," Mrs. Hammer interrupting the line of questions. "Russell is easily the most well-adjusted child we've had here these past fifteen years. He's affable, helpful and easy to converse with. Oh the topics he's able to discuss. Such a bright young man. You brought him here saying he was from an abusive family, I don't mean to doubt you all, but if he was being abused, they sure were doing everything else right."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hammer," Agent Green began. "But we generally rely on professionals to determine how a child's situation affects their development. I have made a note here though. May we speak with the boy, now?"

"Oh yes, of course," Mrs. Hammer said quietly. "I just want to mention ahead of time, Russell has taken a little fall and has a cut above his eye from it."

Green rolled his eyes, "Mrs. Hammer, we brought Russ here to keep him safer. He's barely been here twenty-four hours and has already sustained an injury while in your care?"

"Well, yes, that's true," Mrs. Hammer began. "Let's get Russell out here so we can explain what happened. Russell, dear could you join us in the living room, please?"

Russ walked into the room nearly immediately. It was clear he had been standing just around the corner listening in as the adults spoke.

"Sorry about the lemonade, Sir," Russ said. "Mrs. Hammer doesn't have any mint to add to it. Gerry is getting some later on when she goes to the food store."

"Quite alright, young man," the agent responded with a smile.

"Russ, tell us about that cut on your head," Agent Green bending the conversation back to the issue of the injury. "Looks like you got some stitches there."

"Yes sir. I only did three. It's nothing really."

"What do you mean you did, son?" Ranno asked.

"How about you just tell us how it happened," Green cut in, bending and steering the conversation still.

"Well sir, I'd never seen a Venus flytrap before." Russ sat down between the two women on the couch. He picked the newspaper up and started looking over the classified ads.

"I haven't either, Russ," Agent Green rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I'm not sure what that has to do with your head though."

"Oh OK," Russ having skimmed his way through the black and white pages.

"When I got here last night Davey told me about the Venus flytrap."

The agent looked to Mrs. Hammer.

"Davey, you know, one of the other foster boys here," Russ explained.

"Mr. Hammer told me I could check it out this morning after breakfast. So last night I read through the encyclopedias here in case I'd forgotten something about them from when I was four. I hadn't."

"Droseraceae, that's their family. Did you know there are over a hundred and fifty types of plants that can eat insects? There are six different styles of traps they use too. Pitfall traps, bladder traps, snap traps that's the kind the Venus flytrap is."

"That's very interesting Russ, but we don't have the time for that right now," bending and steering some more.

"That's what Mr. Hammer said last night when he was going to bed and I was still in the library. I had gotten through a hundred and fifty-seven plants, but he said I needed to get some sleep. That's what dad always tells me, too."

"Anyhoo, this morning after I made breakfast for everyone I got to see it. It's super cool. I can show you if you want. I sat there for like forty minutes, watching it, counting its spots and hairs. But I wanted to see it eat something. Davey said you could trick it into closing with a toothpick, but I wanted it to eat. Davey said a dead fly wouldn't work, it has to move around on the hairs, but a live fly won't let you put it in the trap. I told him my idea.

The first thing we needed to do was catch a fly in our hands. Then we needed to drown the fly. This is so neat, have you done this?"

Both agents shook their head.

"OK, so you catch it and drown it. If you use a flyswatter you might kill the fly or smoosh it too much and it doesn't move around."

"Hold it under the water for twenty seconds and it drowns. After we took it out of the water we pulled off one of its wings. It's not nice, but he couldn't feel anything. Then was got a little needle and tiny thread and put the fly on a string. If it could fly it would be like a kite."

"Then, this is the cool part. We cover the fly in a pile of table salt. You know how salt absorbs water? That's what it does to the fly, it sucks the water right out of the fly and it comes back to life. Cool, huh?"

"After that we just dangle the fly into the trap on the thread. It won't fly away, but when it gets inside it tries moving around. Next thing you know, SNAP! bye bye fly. It's soooo coooool."

"That is very interesting, Russ, but your head?" the agent tapping above his own eye.

"Russell, why don't you let me finish for the agent," Mrs. Hammer cut in.

Russ agreed and returned to the classifieds.

"I told Russell he wouldn't find any flies in my house, he'd have to go outside," Mrs. Hammer began. "I asked Geraldine to sit on the front porch while David and Russell hunted flies. They were out in the front yard for about ten minutes when Russell came back in and headed straight towards the bathroom, his hand pressed up to his head."

"I asked him what happened. As he walked past me he said with a smile that he had bumped his head and just needed to use the bathroom. While he was in doing his business Geraldine and David came back in. Geraldine was rather distraught. It seems just after Russell had come in David went to her and told her that Russell had been running after a fly in the yard. As he reached out to grab at it, he ran his head right into our birch tree."

"Well I went right to the bathroom door and asked Russell if he was OK. He'd been in there a bit and I wasn't quite sure what his usual amount of bathroom time was. He said he was fine and would be right out."

"A few moments later out he came. With his cut sewn up so tight Betsy Ross would have been jealous. He asked where we kept our bandages because he had used his last one. We tried to put one on, but there was no good way for it to stick right near his eyebrow."

"I told him his fly hunting days were over, he'd just have to use a toothpick on the plant. He smiled that big smile of his and showed me the fly he'd caught while hitting the tree. Hanging on the end of a piece of suture. He yelled to David to get the salt and he was off to the kitchen."

"Russ," the Agent Ranno called to the boy long since finished with the classifieds, "Where did you get the suture kit?"

"Oh, I asked dad if he could get me a small travel kit I could keep in my pocket. It's always such a long time to go to the hospital and wait for them to do it. We agreed, if the wound looks like it needs more than six stitches I'd ask to go. Otherwise I'd just do it. Good idea, right?"

"This just happened this morning?" Ranno asked. "How does it feel? It looks OK."

"Oh it doesn't hurt or anything. I did a good job on it." Russ tapped his stitches with his finger to show no pain.

"Geraldine is a registered nurse as well as the finest nanny in New England," Mrs. Hammer added. "She checked it out and said there was nothing more anyone could do, isn't that right Geraldine?"

"Yes Ma'am," Gerry answered almost before the question had been fully asked. "Boston General should have someone who does as good a job."

"Well, this lemonade has gone right through me, may I use your restroom, Mrs. Hammer?" Agent Green asked.

"Geraldine, would be so kind as to clean up the beverages, and take that newspaper with you," Mrs. Hammer sternly but politely asking of the nanny.

The agent got up and walked down the hall. Russ took the break in the talking to pick up the pen and paper pad from the coffee table and wrote a note on it. He tore off the small square piece he'd written on and folded it in two.

"It was really cool. SNAP!" he cupped his hands and used his fingers to show the catching motion of the flytrap.

The agent returned to the room and stood by his chair. "I'd say everything is as good as we could hope, here. Mrs. Hammer, we thank you and your husband for opening up your home yet again to help out a child in need."

"I'm not in need, sir. I'd like to be home with my dad. I don't need to be here. No offense Mrs. Hammer." She smiled and winked at the boy.

"And you, young man," the Agent Ranno reached over and ruffling Russ's hair. "Try to pay more attention, huh. Running into a tree? Boy oh boy."

"But I caught the fly, sir. Soooo worth it."

"I'll see you in a few days. Thank you for your time, each of you." Catching Russ's eye, he nodded at the boy, "Mmmm mint, good idea kid."

As the agents reached their car Russ came running out of the house, bounding down the steps. Instinctively, Green reached in and pressed the record button on the tape recorder sitting on the dashboard. This was usually the time when a foster child gives up what's really going on inside the house, sometimes pleading to not ever go home.

"Mr. Green," Russ catching up the agent.

"Yes Russell," another ruffle of his hair. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing for me. Unless you want to take me home," Russ glanced in the back seat.

"Afraid I can't do that just now son."

"I know. I thought it would sound funny. Guess not."

"No, it's a good one, Russ. Real good," the agent trying to appear friendly and involved so Russ would feel comfortable opening up to him.

"Anyway," Russ went on. "I saw when you got up to go to the bathroom that the heel on your left shoe is shorter than the right."

"What? I don't think so." The agent took a few in place paces demonstrating how the shoes felt fine.

"Oh it is," continued Russ. "Looks like about one to one and a half millimeters. Maybe two, the floor is carpeted."

"Milla what? Doesn't matter. I can't tell the difference, so it can't be too bad."

"Millimeters, it's metric. And even a single millimeter difference, over time, can cause knee and back pain. You should get them checked out. You seem nice, I don't want you to hurt.

"Here," Russ handing him the folded-up square of paper.

"What's this? Should I stick this under my left heel," the agent's turn for humor.

"No, that wouldn't work. It's the number and address for La Rossa Shoe repair. I saw it when I was looking through the paper when you were talking to Mrs. H. Gerry had already taken the paper away when I saw you leaning as you walked. Since I couldn't give the pages to you, I just wrote down the information."

"Heh, so what? You memorized the classifieds?" the agent asked with a bewildered look.

"Yep," replied Russ. "Everyday. You never know when you might need something. Anyway, have a good day, sir. Tell my dad I love him if you see him."

"I will, Russ" the agent smiled appreciatively. "You can count on it."
***

The next couple of days were spent following up on the hospital's emergency room reports from Russ's injuries. Each time he was seen by a different nurse or resident. Not the slightest suggestion that his injuries were inflicted by someone else. Never any emotional trauma often seen with abused children. Broken bones had been fractured consistent with the story given. He never seemed anxious either with or without his father present.

It was starting to look as if Joe was telling the truth. But how could Russ be so clumsy? For an apparently bright kid, he sure seemed unaware of danger. Wouldn't he get tired of the pain of injury and wise up? No, he just learned ways to fix himself up, so he had more time to try something else new.

Agent Green phoned the office on his way to his second visit with Russ, after Joe's own second visit. He had already decided Russ should be at home with his father. They were an odd pair, but it was working for them.

#  33

Hello darkness my old friend

I've come to talk with you again

Russ found himself once again humming in the elevator with Evan. He and Agent Novella had been summoned to Director Sigler's office. Judging from the crease above Evan's right eye while talking on the phone with Sigler, the boss was not very happy that Russ was released from the hospital so soon. Evan had tried to assuage him, tell him that Russ was fit and fine, but it seemed the Director had a little bit more to get off his chest.

"You a Simon and Garfunkel fan now?" Evan interrupted Russ's rendition of the classic track.

"For now I am, I guess. It's been bouncing around in my head since you first brought me on for this case," Russ replied. "I like the part about cobblestone streets, something something da di da."

"I hate it when you try to act like an average Joe. We both know you know the words to practically every song ever written, ever. You would have cleaned up on the 'Name That Tune' show," Evan said holding his right hand up, rubbing his fingers with his thumb.

"Come on Evan," Russ chided. "You know I'm bound by the Superhero Code to not use my abilities for personal gain."

"I told you," the agent breaking into a smile. "We get you on one of those millionaire game shows. You clean up and then give the money to me. It's win-win."

"Sounds like only one win to me," Russ tapping the agent on the chest.

"You got it all wrong. Sure I win the money, but you get to uphold your Superhero creed. Win. Win." Evan tapping Russ in the chest twice.

The elevator chimed their floor and the men stepped out. Evan unconsciously checking his hair and the position of his tie.

Man, he's really nervous about this meeting, Russ thought.

Smoothing out the front of his pants for the third time, Evan motioned for Russ to follow him.

"Now listen, Russ," the agent pulling him just inside the empty office to the left of Sigler's.

Russ saw how the agent's tongue stuck ever so slightly to the top of Evan's mouth as he made the "L" sound.

"Dry mouth, really nervous," Russ thought.

"Sigler is, well he's in a mood. This case is really stressing him out. Word is, breaking this one open will fill his coffers with political clout. We're talking Cabinet level shit.

"He wasn't totally onboard with me bringing you in, I think he is worried it might show weakness on his part. That and he'd have to share some of the glory. But I wanted you in on this one."

"I get it," Russ holding his hand up. "He's personally invested in this case and he probably called us in so he can send me packing and maybe even give you a slap on the wrist after you nearly killed a civilian," Russ finished with a smile.

"Something like that, yes," no smile from the agent. "So, if you could hold back from working him over. No button pushing. And for God's sake, wipe that cheesy ass smile off your face. It's ugly enough without it."

"Can do on the smile, Agent Novella." Russ snapped a salute.

***

To say that Agent Novella was taken aback by how the meeting with Sigler began would be an understatement. He anticipated that his boss would start off by cordially thanking Russ for his help, saying he was invaluable yadda yadda and then drop the news that he would be taking the case completely internal and Russ would no longer be needed. Confidentiality, blah blah. Thank you, have a nice day, close the door as you leave...now.

Russ felt a little guilty about not preparing his friend for how he saw it playing out. He'd considered it, but knew that by Evan being off guard, it would add to the tension of the room and maybe help get Sigler off his game.

Before the agent could unbutton his suit jacket the director began laying into him.

"Goddamnit! I told you when we gathered our first piece of intel that this was a supremely delicate case. I didn't want any screw ups. No mistakes. Didn't we all sit down in the very conference room that you handed over to him for his research," he air quoted the word research, "and discuss this?" Sigler nodded towards Russ.

"Yes, bos..."

One minute

"Shut it, Novella. I'll tell you when it's your turn to speak.

"Somehow, I don't know how, maybe I was having a stroke at the time. I let you convince me that with the amount of data we were collecting we should bring in this human supercomputer to help work the intel."

"Umm, sir," Russ interrupted. "Actually, a computer is a very poor analogy to use for the human brain. You see, computers use hardware and..."

"I don't think I was speaking to you yet, Mr. Williams."

Two minutes

"...software in processing information. The human brain is more like wetware. You see."

Turning back to Evan, "And somehow I agreed to it. You vouched for his work, his discretion and his results. You forgot to tell me about the ties he's had with international governments. Jesus H, Novella, this guy has gone to bed with more countries than Carter has liver pills."

"Well, sir," Russ interrupting again. "I've done some consulting with several heads of states, yes. But I received clearance from the NSA, the CIA, Homeland Security, even Congress itself."

"You haven't received clearance from me," the director bellowed.

Three minutes

"Well, sir, the FBI mandate states that the FBI's purview is only within the borders of the United St..."

"I don't need you coming in here and telling what my purview is. You seem to want all my attention, but how about we come back to Novella in a minute. While you're sitting there, agent, maybe you can come up with an idea for what we're going to release to the press about why the U.S. government is picking up the bill for a civilian's hospital visit."

"...ates. Well, sir, it seems as though you were unsure about my needing the FBI's permission," Russ finished.

The director's eyes scanned from Evan to Russ, dropping ever so slightly as his line of sight passed over his desk clock. "Mr. Williams."

Four minutes

Sigler leaned back in his chair, put his hands to his face making a triangle shape fingers on the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. He sat up straight and once again made eye contact with Russ.

"Mr. Sigler, the Director of the Secret Service is on the phone for you," a small voice emanating from the desk phone.

Five minutes

"Not now, Renee. Tell him I'll call him back after this meeting," the director forcing composure and authority back into his voice.

"Clever but so see-through," Russ thought. "Such an old play, to make us feel this charade is of the utmost importance."

"Renee, this is Russell Williams. Would you mind telling Director Larson I said hello and that I hope he's been working on his backhand. Oh, and remind him he was due to meet with the President ten minutes ago. Best not to keep the lady waiting trying to speak with Sigler, now." Russ hoped he'd used the right amount of condescending tone.

Sigler's eyes filled with fire. He'd been caught perpetrating such a rookie ruse. He now found he was the one back on his heels, instead of being the attacker. He'd have to scramble to regain control of the room.

"Let me help you out here, Director," Russ said with a reassuring smile. "We, I get it. You're the head honcho here. This is your show and I don't want to get in the way.

"Evan made the right call bringing me in. You, you made the right call. There was a lot of data to comb through. Something I'm quite good at, as you've seen. Larson's as well as all the other high-level directors' calendars, past and present was included with all the intel. I think it was only meant to include the President's, but when you source your data collection to the kids you bring on as new agents, they're going to cut corners.

"That reminds me, Evan. Before I let Sigler release me from obligation, I want to tell you about how I changed the clockwork with the intel in the conference room. Calendars and journals are at six thirty now, not ten."

"Russ, you always...," Evan began.

"I know I thought about not changing it," cutting the agent off, "but there was just so many people's itineraries. There was just more room at six thirty to spread it out.

"Where was I? Oh right. So you made a good call and brought me in. Then right after I'd sorted all your intel and narrowed things down to three possibilities, you find the nails for the coffin. You have your suspects, the guns they're going to use and the location of the attack.

"I know I've been out-of-the-office," Russ using exaggerated air quotes, "but I would have thought the decision to cancel the Richmond speech would have come over the SAT phones. I know Larson wouldn't take any chances. No situation can be completely contained after all, right."

"That isn't a decision which would necessitate informing a civilian. Even you," Sigler spitting venom.

"One hundred percent true, I get that. I just thought you'd have taken me off the case once the threat was no longer viable, seeing as how you would prefer I hadn't been part of this to begin with.

"So here we are, director. Say the word and I'll be on my way."

Director Sigler took a long slow breath and smiled. He stood up and extended his hand to Russ. "Mr. Williams, the FBI thanks you for your service. If you have any personal items in the conference room you may retrieve them now. The passcode for that room will be changed within the hour and you will no longer have access. We mandate, and will enforce, a strict confidentiality policy concerning these past five days. If we discover you have violated this non-negotiable policy, you will be arrested under the charge of treason and you will be prosecuted as such. Thank you and have a nice day."

Russ shook Sigler's hand and smiled.

"Evan, I think you may be tied up in here for a few more minutes. If it's all the same to you Director Sigler, I'd like to wait for Agent Novella down the hall by the elevator until he's dismissed."

"That's fine, Mr. Williams."

"Twenty-nine moves, Evan," Russ winked at the agent on his way out.

#  34

Russ returned home from his afternoon run. It was Sunday, the long run day. He was halfway through training for his first marathon. Most couples spent their honeymoon basking in that blissful space between love and lust. Forgetting the world around them, only seeing the one they vowed to be with. Russ and Brit had spent theirs planning out the next five years.

Among the "write a book" and "visit the Pyramids in Egypt" Russ had added "run the Boston Marathon" to his short-term bucket list. Since conquering the Checkers, Chesses and Gos of the intellect world he thought he'd like to put a notch on his athletic achievement belt. Though he'd never gotten a stitch in his side from running, Russ had never been much of runner, his lungs and leg muscles would simply fail him.

Today, six months after their wedding, Russ was bounding up the stairs to the third floor flat he and Brit had moved into. Pops chided the two, saying the third floor was no place to raise a child. The newlyweds had no interest in starting a family just yet. Triumphantly he burst through the front door, his chest puffed out, ready to brag about his eleven-mile run.

"Brit, hunny! I'm home! Come get a manly sweaty kiss from your marathon husband," he shouted to the empty living area. "Brit?"

Russ grabbed a cold bottle of water on his way to the bedroom. He downed most of it in one pull as he entered into the small but cozy room. "Honey, I'm soaked right through. You better give me a kiss before I start to drip my manly essence onto the carpet."

Brit was sitting with her back to the door on the edge of their double sized bed since the queen sleigh bed they'd ordered had yet to be delivered. Russ had warned her about the increased risk of stubbed toes in the middle of the night once the larger bed was in, but her mind was made up.

"Hello? Earth to wife, come in wife."

She turned to face him, breathing in a short hard slurp of a runny nose. Tears streaming down her cheeks. "Not now Russ, please."

"Whoa, hey, hunny. What, what's going on," Russ dashing to kneel beside her.

"Oooohhh." sniffle "My sister. She was out with friends last night. They'd been drinking, too much. I kept telling her those friends were no good for her."

"Right, the gang from Avon. Statistically, given their ages and socio-economic background they are more likely to..."

"Not now, Russ! Please, not now."

"Alright." Russ's eyes took in the nap of the carpet from his vacuuming earlier. "Time to get the hair off the roller brush," he thought.

"So, what happened? They get tossed in jail, again?"

"She's dead, Russ. They'd been drinking and shouldn't have driven themselves from the bar. They went off the road, speeding on 95. They hit an overpass abutment. Everyone in the car is dead."

Russ inhaled sharply. "They must have been going eighty-five? Ninety maybe. If they had their seatbelts on, that is."

"God damnit Russ! Stop being you. Can't you stop being you and be like everyone else for a minute? This hurts. It hurts a lot."

"I understand that that is a normal reaction. Mourning the loss of a family member. There's five stages, traditionally."

Brit put her head down on Russ's shoulder and began to sob. Her tears falling onto his already sweat soaked shirt. "Damnit Russ."

"I'm sorry, Brit. I really am."

She slid off the bed next to Russ and put her arms around him. Too many tears to speak. She hugged him tight to her. Russ reached up and stroked her hair.

"Shh, I know, hunny. Let it all out. I know...shhhh."

Brit violently pushed him away. Two hands to his chest flung him back over his heels, pulling tight on his fatigued quads. "That's just it, Russ. You don't know what it's like. You don't feel sorry, ever. You never get sad or mad or scared. I bet you've never even cried a single tear, have you?

"You're a beautiful man, Russ. And I love you with everything I have. But we don't share this. We can't share this. I'm hurt and sad, devastated Russ. I'm scared. I feel guilty for things I didn't say to her. Ashamed of the things I did say to her that I can't make up for now.

"I love that you always have your shit, our shit, together. You're such a brilliant man. But this, this you don't, can't, have a clue to help me with. Maybe, if ever, only once, you knew what sadness felt like, maybe you could help me. But you can't, and I get that."

Russ gave a weak smile and put his arms around Brit. "Maybe I can't, but I can stay right by your side through it all."

The closed casket service was held two days later. Russ and Brit rode quietly to the cemetery. He held her hand, stood by her during the service and the friends and family gathering that followed. Brit had tutored Russ on situational phrases he could use. He promised to put the rest of his thoughts on the back burner for the day.

On the drive back to their apartment, Russ reached across the center console and held Brit's hand. "I did, one time."

"Hmm? What?" Brit had been staring at the street lights as they passed them by. "You did what?"

"I cried once. You said you wished I had cried once before, so maybe I could help you better. I did. When I was eleven."

Brit's attention came back to the present. Her mourning taking a back seat to this revelation. "This is big," she thought.

"Oh, hunny. You never told me. What happened? Would you share it with me?" She placed her free hand on top of his, each holding on to the other, now.

"Pops was in the hospital. He hated going there or anywhere there were doctors. He would say 'They've never done a damn thing to help out my family. They have never once figured out how to help the Williams family.' It's the only thing he's ever expressed negativity about. But he couldn't avoid them that time.

"He had been coughing up blood for weeks. A little at first. No big deal he would say. Then one day he coughed for twenty-seven minutes straight. Each wretch produced phlegm and blood or blood only. I knew he needed to get to the hospital. I called 911 so the paramedics could try convincing him for me.

"Forty minutes after getting to the ER he was admitted. Lung x-rays showed a large mass on his right lung. Given the amount of blood he was hemorrhaging the doctors opted to take him straight to surgery. They didn't want to delay with a biopsy."

"Oh Russ. How scary that must have been for you. And for Pops," Brit said squeezing his hand tighter.

"I was too caught up in listening to and learning about what was going on. The doctors and surgeons were telling me everything. Pops was furious they were going to cut him open. He didn't want to be put under. Like he was afraid of what could happen.

"The Chief of Staff came down and told him if he didn't consent to the procedure he would release him and readmit him on a 72-hour psych hold which would forfeit his right to decline the surgery. Pops relented."

"Jesus Harold, Russ." Brit squeezing his hand tighter. "How bad was it?"

"Bad enough for the time. If it had happened now, with today's advanced medicine, it wouldn't be as much of a big deal. For sure it was still surgery, but we know so much more, now. They booked an operating room and prepared him for the surgery.

"I was taken to the waiting room. A nurse was assigned to keep me company. There wasn't anyone I wanted to call to come wait with me. She was nice, but said I ask too many questions. I could tell she just didn't know the answers to what I was asking.

"About two hours into the surgery I started feeling this tightness in my chest. And then a strange sinking feeling. Like my heart and lungs were sliding down towards my stomach. I knew they weren't, of course, but still. Then my nose started to run like when you come inside to a warm house and a hot chocolate. Just a little at first, I didn't feel a fever, so I didn't do anything about it."

"Oh Russ." He could hear the "Oh sweetie" smile in her voice that she got when she thought he was cute.

"The nurse got up to get some tissues for me. I was glad she left. I was getting a feeling of wanting to be alone. I couldn't keep my shoulders from kinda hunching over. I wanted something to hold to my face, something soft like the blanket on my bed or Pops's flannel shirt he always wore in the fall."

"You were sad, Russ. You wanted something comforting." Brit picked up his hand and pressed it to her cheek. "Poor little Russ." And kissed the back of his hand.

"Well, I didn't know what was going on. I thought maybe it was depression. Then suddenly my nose completely stuffed up. My heart felt like it was racing, but it never went over 80 bpm. My eyes started to feel really dry and wet at the same time. My whole face sorta crunched up. I brought my hands up to cover my face and the tears just began flowing. I couldn't stop them, I didn't want to stop them.

"It was another ten minutes before the nurse returned with the tissues. By then I had stopped crying. My heart and lungs no longer felt distressed. My nose was clearing up. Almost as quickly as it started, it was over."

"What a horrible experience for you, Russ," Brit's own eyes welling up, hearing her husband's story.

"There was more than just the crying, Brit. Something that didn't make any sense then, or now."

"Oh no, what was it hunny? We just saw Pops at the service, so I know the surgery went OK." Brit's tone shifting from sadness to concern. "Tell me, please."

"Well, I'm not sure exactly what it was, but I think I felt pain during that time too. The injuries I've had, I can always feel them. But I feel a tendon tighter than its counterpart on the other side of my body. I can feel scar tissue, sometimes it hinders smooth joint movement and I feel the hiccup, you know?"

"I don't really understand that, I guess I can't. Who could really?" Brit kissed Russ's hand again.

"Right, I know. But I felt more than that during the sadness, or whatever it was. I don't know how to describe it. I could feel the areas I've injured, but it was as if my body was fighting that feeling. The knee I had dislocated in second grade, that was the one I noticed first. My leg seemed to act on its own, away from positions that brought about the most feeling. When I tried to extend that leg out straight, my muscles instinctively fought the movement.

"The feeling would intensify, and my leg would stop, on its own. Try as I might, I couldn't get the command from my brain to my leg. Earlier that day I had cut my finger while making breakfast. Nothing big, really. Just a nick. When the tears started I went to brush them off my cheek, using that hand. The salty tears got into the cut and it felt like nothing I'd experienced before. I wanted to shake that hand, as if to shake the tear right back out of the cut. I tried sucking it out, put that finger right into my mouth.

"I mean, come on, why would I want to do that. They were my tears, from my body. I don't know."

"Russ, sweetheart. That was pain. The sensation in your cut was a stinging one. A kind of burning feeling, but without the heat. You experienced pain." Brit's voice cracking a tearful laugh.

"But it was just that once. Why then? Why the hospital? I've never figured it out. It's my one mystery, the one I can't figure out."

#  35

"I apologize for my outburst, Agent Novella. I unloaded on you hoping to soften Mr. Williams up before sending him out. He just pushed me too far. I had to improvise. Aside from bringing that little prick in on this investigation I believe your work has been exemplary so far." Director Sigler lowered himself into his chair with an audible sigh.

"No problem, boss, but you sure did lay into both of us."

"I wanted him out and he's out. No sense second guessing any of it now." Sigler sounded weary to Evan. "Before I forget, make sure he returns his SAT phone and tablet, we're not made of money around here.

We've only got three days before the President gives her speech in Richmond. I've hand picked a team of agents I want you to lead up to, and including the President's arrival, speech and departure." Sigler stood up behind his desk. "Anything you need, you let me know." Now leaning, nearly halfway over the maple wood desk. He pressed his right index finger into the desktop, partly emphasizing his words, part to maintain his balance. "No screw ups, agent. Nothing less than your full attention will be acceptable. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir, Director Sigler. Crystal. Will my team have access to the arranged intel Russ left in the conference room?" Evan asked hesitantly.

"Yes, of course. But I've scheduled your first briefing with your team in conference room B. I want to review Mr. Williams's data myself, first. To see if I can figure out why he was so convinced I was wrong. If he's half the data cruncher you say, there may be value in figuring out his mindset."

"If there's time before my meeting, I'd be curious to look it over with you. I'm surprised myself that he seems so far off on this one." Evan, in fact, was not convinced Russ was mistaken.

"I appreciate your want to learn more, agent Novella, but your team will be ready for you in half an hour. I'd like you to go over these notes to make sure you're familiar with how I want you to handle this going forward." Sigler handed Evan a two-inch binder filled with typed notes, maps and dates.

"He's putting me in charge of the unit, as a puppet leader only," Evan thought to himself.

"One last thing, agent Novella, what was that twenty-nine moves garbage Williams said to you on his way out?"

"Oh, that." Evan's face turning slightly red. "That's a reference to a mission we were on years ago, in Bangkok."

"Bangkok? What had you in Thailand. An odd place for an FBI agent, don't you think?"

"It wasn't what you would call an official mission, sir. We were there as a favor to Hiroshi Okuda, the Chairman of Toyota at the time. Okuda was in talks to build manufacturing plants in Thailand, as a cost cutting measure. There had been many rumblings about alleged ties between Toyota's financial arm and the Yakuza, making the Chao pho nervous. On one negotiation visit to Thailand Okuda brought his family, to make a vacation out of it.

"Okuda's oldest daughter was kidnapped by the Bangkok group, as a bargaining chip in the darker side of the negotiations. Okuda was determined to keep the outsourcing deal legitimate and was unable to find common ground to secure the release of his daughter. Okuda called Russ to help him figure a way to do so. Russ called me, to cash in a favor I owed him."

"Are you telling me you went on an unsanctioned mission, overseas, and bargained with known gangster, agent?"

"Me? I was merely accompanying my longtime friend on a trip to southeast Asia, sir."

"Uh huh. As you say, agent."

"So we, I mean Russ, tracked down the Chao pho to a storefront adjacent to the Nana Entertainment District, notorious for its Red Light activities. Now get this, completely Hardcastle-ian, they ran a backroom high stakes chess room. Millions of Bahts would change hands a night at this place, and it's all run by the same group that was holding the girl."

"High stakes chess?" Sigler asked incredulously.

"Yes sir. Russ got into that night's competition by playing the drunk American mouthing off about being a chess master, or some such nonsense. Of course, he wasn't drunk, and the closest he's ever been to a chess master is when Bobby Fischer refused to play him claiming Russ wasn't a ranked opponent. Really I think he was afraid he'd be embarrassed."

"Great, so your buddy is good at chess. Get to the point, agent, I'm starting to regret asking," Sigler said with a sigh.

"Right, so they all start playing, sixty-four players, the champion then has the option to take on the boss, at increased stakes. Game one Russ is chatting up one of the barmaids slash hooker the whole game, until finally he looks the other player dead in the eyes and yells out 'four moves'. Sure as hell, four moves later, checkmate, Russ wins.

"The next game, more of the same. This time, though he yells out 'eight moves'. Then fifteen, twenty-one, and twenty-three. By the championship game everyone is watching him. They were making side bets on when Russ would call out his winning number. It was chaos. The head of the Chao pho, who had been sitting in a darkened corner, not too dark that everyone couldn't see he had Okuda's daughter with him, was wrapped up in the excitement. He took on a five million Baht wager in the championship game. When Russ yelled out twenty-seven moves, the boss had lost, and he was furious.

"Normally this was where the champ was given the option to play one more game, at whatever stakes they wanted. Russ wasn't given a choice, the boss wanted to recoup his money and then some. The wager was set at six million baht, chosen by the house. Russ threw a shitfit. He'd already made enough money to cover his vacation, he said. He had no interest in more money, and sure as hell didn't want to lose it. He refused the wager. The boss, not wanting to appear weak in front of the foreigner, negotiated. He told Russ if he put up the five million, Russ could pick what the boss put up. Russ pointed to Okuda's daughter in the corner. 'I feel like a little Japanese tonight'.

"Five million for a roll in the hay with his enemy's daughter sounded pretty good to the mafia man. The game was set. House rule was that the boss played with the white pieces. He took the first move of his opening salvo. Five turns later Russ studied the board for a moment. He then looked the most powerful man in Thailand square in the eyes and softly said 'twenty-nine moves'.

The room went crazy. The opening moves had barely begun and he was calling his victory. Russ's cash was brought out and set next to the board, the girl as well. There wasn't going to be any escape when Russ's bluff was called."

"So, you're telling me he won? He did it? In twenty-nine moves?"

"Damn straight he did. He's a legend over there still today. Like freaking Paul Bunyan or something."

"And the girl? He got her out?"

"Yep, Russ had the whole thing laid out for me. He told me to be ready at one twenty-six a.m. by the third southern window, second floor. At one twenty-seven, I still bust him for missing his mark, the window opened and out they came. We had a chartered jet waiting for us Don Mueang International Airport. We were well out of the country by the time they burst into the room Russ had taken the girl to and found it empty, save for the five million baht Russ had left behind."

Sigler began to think he had underestimated Russ's abilities. "No time to worry about that now. It's time to see this through."

#  36

Joe couldn't get over what a champ Marie had been for the last week. Baby Russ was sure putting her through her paces. He hadn't slowed down a bit since that one strange morning, the morning Joe had been certain Marie had cracked.

"She called Russ, Joseph. And she was yelling at the chair," he thought, trying to make sense of the previous night's events.

But now, now she seemed so together, so strong, so...perfect. Somehow Marie managed to get through the daytime with Russ on her own, the hours of crying and screaming from their baby, yet still greet him at the door with a kiss. Russ in one hand and a beer in the other, along with the aroma of that night's dinner.

For sure she was plenty eager to let daddy have his time with the infant, but many times Joe would have to point out it was his shift. Russ would scream in her ear as she was doing this or that, Marie would just talk to him in that sing-songy voice so many mothers take on. Sometimes it damn near sounded as if she was holding a conversation with him. Joe was simply amazed.

Over dinner each night Marie would ask about Joe's day, how he was feeling, was he getting enough sleep at night. "I'll be glad to take a little bit longer shifts at night if you need more rest, sweetheart."

While Joe was certain he could use a little more sleep, things were getting more and more hectic at the shop and he was still having a hell of a time finding new mechanics, he'd picked up on Marie's eagerness to get down to the 'hideaway' room in the basement. Surely her days were longer than his, if anything he should be the one taking longer shifts.

But each night, though Joe found it progressively harder to get moving after his ninety minutes of sleep, Marie would seem completely refreshed by her time. As if each time she found inspiration while sleeping.

"Boy, to have her dreams," he thought.

TGIS, Thank God It's Sunday, was Joe's motto of late. Sunday was the only day he closed up the shop. Even as busy as they were, fixing the community's vehicles, no one said boo about acknowledging the sabbath. Half the town claimed Joe performed miracles on their cars, he deserved his seventh day of rest.

Rest from the shop at least. There was no rest at home. There were always chores and tasks to get done that had built up during the week, Marie was keeping a good house, but she couldn't do everything. Winter wasn't far off and it was time to put the storm windows in before the frigid cold and snow came calling.

Joe was in luck; this particular Sunday was beautiful. The sun was shining brightly, no wind to speak of and with a high of fifty degrees forecasted Joe opted to work outdoors in his shirtsleeves. As he'd climb up his ladder to measure each window, "Why don't I just label these damn things when I take them out," Marie would match his movement around the house with Russ. Playing peek-a-boo with Russ and Joe from the inside. Russ of course, took no notice.

Two more to go, thank God. Joe muttering to himself, admonishing "yesterday Joseph" for the days and days of packing away doughnuts and coffee cake down at the shop. He swore the windows were getting higher and higher as he nearly finished circling the house. One more and he'd be done.

At least the last one is always a one tripper. No need to measure with only one pane left. He grabbed the last piece of framed glass and headed up the ladder. While fully expecting this trip to be like all the rest, he still held onto a dad's hope that Russ would be smiling this time when he popped into view.

No smile given, but Joe did chuckle out loud when he peeked through the window and was greeted by Russ filling out the view. Marie slunk down below the window frame and hoisting Russ up. "There's my boy," Joe using his own sing-songy voice.

For a second, Joe thought that Russ recognized him, or maybe just was aware of his shadow moving in front of him. Russ stopped, mid-cry and seemed to lock eyes with Joe. Fatherly pride rose up in his chest, Joe felt tears welling up, tears of happiness. Russ opened his mouth slightly in that baby smile way, part smile part mouth breathing.

"My boy, I see you," Joe declared with a smile.

Russ responded by vomiting bile and pinkish breast milk all over the window. Joe watched as the blood-stained mixture shot into the inside glass and splashed back onto Russ's chest and likely Marie's hidden face below. Completely unprepared for such a sight, Joe jumped back slightly, his feet losing grip five rungs below. He reactively dropped the window pane from his right hand to grab onto the ladder with both hands. In a stroke of luck, his feet came down squarely on the next rung, instantly giving him support and balance. He closed his eyes tightly and said a little thank-you prayer as he heard the glass crash to the paved walkway below.

The sound jolted him back to the here and now. He stepped up a few rungs to get a good look inside the window. There was Marie, wiping her forehead clean with the bottom of her shirt, laughing. Russ in her left arm having returned to his state of crying, her right hand cleaning up the vomit she'd received. He could see relatively clearly through the thin fabric of her blouse that she was laughing, like she'd seen the funniest thing ever. She pulled her shirt down and the two looked each other in the eyes. Joe's eyes pleading, trying to understand what was going on. Marie stopped laughing and put on her best serious face. That only lasted a second as she snorted out a stifled laugh, then burst out in what was surely a stitch causing belly laugh.

***

After climbing down and inspecting the damaged glass that seemed to have spread across half the yard upon impact, Joe went inside to check on Giggles. Marie assured Joe she was laughing at the incident, not at him. "He sure got you good," she said then gave him a quick peck on the lips. Joe could smell the remaining vomit residue her shirt hadn't fully cleaned up.

"Well, I guess he did. But now I need to get a new storm for that window. The only place open on Sunday would be Everett Glass over in Randolph. I'll have to go on my lunch break this week." Joe clearly frustrated by the unfinished job.

"Oh, don't be like that, Joe. It's a gorgeous day, why don't you take a ride over there now and get what you need," Marie said cheerfully.

"No no, it can wait. You're not going to be left alone with Mr. Fussbuckets seven days straight." Joe cracking a slight grin.

"You saw the weather report this morning. There calling for snow and wind later in the week. Today's the best chance, don't you think."

"I really don't want to put solo Russ duty on you today, sweetheart," the guilt clear in his voice.

"You know what? Me and Mr., what did you say Fussbuckets will be fine. Besides you can pick up some more diapers and Tide at the Stop N Shop on your way back. I'm going to need to wash this shirt."

"Are you sure, Marie? You've taken on so much lately."

"Go. Now. I mean it. Be the good daddy and make sure we're warm this winter. Tell him, Russ. Tell daddy you want to be warm, yes you do. Yes you do do."

"OK ok, but when I get back, you're getting some free time. Deal?"

"Only if you can catch me," she said with a wink.

***

The trip ended up taking longer than Joe would have liked. He'd been paired up with a new fella at the glass shop and he'd used up four pieces of glass before he got the cuts right. The Stop N Shop was overrun by shoppers stocking up for the storm later in the week. Diapers, Tide and window in hand he arrived at home around two in the afternoon.

Not wanting to leave Russ's sight once he got in, Joe went around to the ladder and went up to put it in place. He'd half hoped to get a secret spy look at Marie and Russ, but they weren't in the family room that he could see. He climbed back down, put the ladder away and picked up as much of the glass as he could, placing the pieces in the plastic bucket he used when he washed the cars.

Grabbing the paper shopping bag as he went up the front steps, he gave the doorbell a triple ring and opened the door. "Daddy's home!" His voice echoing through the house. "I've got poop catchers and kisses. Who wants which?"

If Marie had called back, he didn't hear it. In fact, he didn't hear anything. No crying, no screaming, nothing.

"Marie? Where are you two at?" Flashbacks of nearly two years ago raising the stress level in his voice. "I've got the Tide you wanted, sweetheart."

Nothing.

He dropped the bag in the doorway and ran up the stairs, two by two. Room to room he went, calling for Marie. He got the same response in each. Nothing.

Joe opened the door to the basement and called out to Marie, again. His calls were only met by the sound of the washing machine switching from wash to spin. "Oh, there doing laundry," he said to himself.

Joe had read about parents who would take their infant out driving in the car to get them to settle down, maybe Marie found the rhythmic noise of the washer calmed Russ. He went down to see.

It was dark at the bottom of the stairs, but he could see light coming from the washing area. As he turned past the partition wall that he'd moved the washer and dryer to weeks ago he said, "There you two are." But there the two weren't. Instead of his wife and son all Joe saw were the two laundry appliances and at least half a dozen boxes of diapers and four bottles of Tide on the shelves above.

"What the...why did...we don't need..."

Panic was setting in now. It seemed obvious Marie had sent him out on an unneeded errand. But why? He turned to head back to the stairs and his eye caught a thin line of light coming from under the hideaway door. There they are. Joe felt a wave of relief and embarrassment wash over him.

He walked over to the closed door. He knocked softly twice and opened the door. "I've been looking for you two." Once again, he found an empty room. Neither his wife or Russ to be seen. Rather all he saw was an assortment of items strewn across the tiny bed.

A journal Joe had never seen before, on the front neatly printed it said Joseph and Russell two identical lives.

He thumbed through it. The first entry was just under two weeks ago. The nearly one-hundred-page book was full, front to back, each page containing hundreds of tiny, neatly printed words.

"He is just like his brother"

"It's a sign from God"

"A mother's job is to stop the pain of her child"

"He was displeased with the Joseph solution"

There was a series of hand drawn sketches in red and brown. Some depicting the same crying baby. Another the baby at peace with its mother crying. One that was clearly the classic nativity scene, but instead of a baby Jesus resting on hay, it was an adult Jesus nailed to the cross. And several others of a baby sitting upright in a recliner with infants and adults kneeling before it.

What do these mean? Why would Marie do this? Hours and hours of work would have been needed to draw these and write so many words. When did she find the time? Was this how she spent her sleeping time? Were these things the reason for her renewed spirit lately?

Joe's eyes scanned the rest of the bed. Half a dozen partial sketches, mostly unfinished babies, littered the remaining space. Joe fell to the bed in exhaustion. His foot swung under the edge of the bed as he bounced on the mattress, his heel hitting something firm, his shoe sinking into it slightly.

"What the hell?" That felt like a...no couldn't be.

Joe got down on his knees to see what he'd kicked. He couldn't believe what he found. Stuffed under the bed he'd been sleeping on were bags filled with hundreds of used, soiled diapers. Marie had kept them all. Some containing dark brown feces, all containing red blood.

Joe turned back and away from the ghastly discovery. He leaned against the side of the bed, spread eagled, his hands lying limply between his legs. What had happened? What IS happening? Marie? Russ? Where are you?

Then, to his left, Joe saw a book half peeking out from under the side table. A book with a library due date card sticking out, used as a bookmark. He reached over and pulled the book to him, thinking this must be what Marie was looking for that day, weeks ago. He turned the book over to read its cover. "Greater Boston Parks & Rec" 1971 edition.

"No, no no no no. Please fucking God, no."

Russ flipped to the bookmark and opened the book. The page fell open to the D.W. Fields Park entry. Staring up at him was the same lake where Joseph had died. Where Marie had taken him. In the same part of the lake, there was a dark red, finger painted X. Above it, also written in red and underlined in brown, "Brothers united in peace. Mommy loves you both."

#  37

"There is no way, Russ. Impossible!" Agent Novella's voice boomed inside Russ's rental car. Evan's team briefing meeting had run well into the evening once director Sigler took over and browbeat his directions into his hand picked -Evan thought ragtag- group of agents. The Director had spent the better part of an hour going over the remaining two suspect's upbringing.

"You'll need to know their history if you're going to know how they'll act," Sigler had repeated throughout the childhood timelines of the suspected assassins.

"We already know where and when the attempt is going to occur, Russ," Evan said firmly. "I'm flying down with the team tomorrow, first thing, and we'll be in place by noon. Sigler is investing heavy into this. All the top agents will be in Richmond. I'm not sure we have posts for so many people, but he wants them there."

Indeed, Sigler had given direction to all the senior agents to be in Richmond no later than ten a.m. the following morning, a good twenty-eight hours before the President was to begin her campaign speech.

"Jesus, is anyone going to be left in Philly?" Russ asked. He'd already known the answer, of course. There would be an administrative skeleton crew in the FBI field office and some virtual continuing education programs available on campus for all agents with fewer than two years of service.

"All eyes are going to be on Virginia, buddy. POTUS has her speech at the UN tomorrow and she's scheduled to begin her speech Friday in Richmond. Sigler wants us in place early, long before we think our suspects will be setting up themselves."

"Does anyone even know where the two remaining suspects are? Maybe they're dead by now, like the other two. How do you know you're not going to touchdown in Richmond and get a phone call saying the suspects have fallen overboard while on a three-hour cruise?"

"OK, Russ. Do you have any substantiated reasoning for asking me to meet you tonight? Sigler will put my ass through the ringer if he finds out I'm talking to you. All Richmond all the time, that was his message to me. "

"You're wasting time in Richmond, Evan. Sigler has everyone leaving town. He doesn't want anyone here when it goes down."

"Goes down? Russ what the hell are you talking about? The UN, then Richmond. There is no Philly in this story."

"Sure there is. Thursday. The President is visiting Bartram's Garden, right over there." Russ pointing down the road. "The Bartram's Ixia is blooming now. The flower is only open for fewer than two hours each morning. President Adler wants to see it when it does."

"Well whoop dee doo, Russ," Evan's words were full of sarcasm. "So, your theory is that the President is going to get gang banged while stopping to smell the roses? How do you even know this is on the itinerary? I don't even know they are making such a stop, and I've seen all the intel Sigler has."

"You've seen all the intel Sigler has given you. What makes you so sure you've seen everything he has," Russ asked.

"Whoa, stop right there buddy. Are you accusing the director of the fucking bureau of investigation of impeding an active investigation, which would amount to a charge of treason in this case?" Evan demanded. "Sigler was right. After he kicked you out yesterday he cautioned me to be skeptical of anything you've said since the accident. The doctors told him you really mixed up your melon there."

"When you're skeptical, Agent Novella, you ask more questions, you strive to find answers for that which you are skeptical of. You don't dismiss outright because someone told you to," Russ responded. "I'm telling you, Sigler isn't giving you the whole story. I don't know why, but he isn't"

"Just like those suspect files disappeared, itineraries have been removed from your view as well as communications to and from the President, the First Gentleman, Sigler and more. You're not seeing the whole picture, Evan. You're just not."

Agent Novella scoffed at the idea that he was turning a blind eye to evidence. "Screw you Russ! I promise you Sigler and I are in complete agreement here." Evan slammed his fists into the dash.

"I'm not saying you're a bad detective, Evan. You're one of the best. But when you don't have access to all the information you simply can't see what you can't see."

"Listen, Russ. I've got my marching orders. Richmond is our target. I know you feel strongly about your alternative theory, but there simply isn't any evidence to support it. I went over your timeclock of data in the conference room. I didn't see any of the things you're talking about. Go home, get some rest. Tell that pretty wife of yours that when she's ready to come slumming, I'll be ready."

"I don't feel anything, Evan. I know this is going to happen. And no one will be in town. It's going to be big, that's why Sigler has the whole team going down to Virginia. Do you have eyes on your suspects? Where are they? Are they even near Richmond?"

"Goodbye Russ. I've got to get moving," Evan ignored Russ's questions as he opened the passenger door and got out. "Go home," he said as he slammed the door shut.

#  38

Joe raced up the stairs from the basement. Fear, guilt and horror gripping his chest, making it hard to breathe. How could he have missed all of this? His own wife, the mother of his child hoarding soiled diapers for weeks. Making gruesome sketches with blood and feces from those diapers. Secretly planning for...

For what?

Where were Marie and Russ?

Why had Marie allowed him to find what she had hidden so well, today?

That thought snapped Joe back to the present.

"Get in the car, Joe! Now!" His mind screaming, urging his legs to move.

His body moved on instinct alone. His legs carrying him to the front drive, his hand reaching for and opening the driver's side door, then sliding the key into the ignition. Joe's mind was too busy replaying the scene from two years ago to focus on the now.

Finding Marie naked in the lake, their son possibly fighting for one more breath as he spoke to her. Unaware that Joseph was under the water, held between Marie's legs.

He didn't see the road as he pulled out onto Central, his mind filled with the ghastly memory of faking the bathtub drowning. Cleaning the lake water off his son's lifeless body.

He waved Mr. Hammer across the street before turning onto Butler Ave. He hadn't seen him until it was almost too late to stop.

The months of repeating the made up accidental drowning story. First to the police, then to friends and family and finally to seemingly every member of community who had wanted to comfort the grieving parents.

Joe pulled up next to Marie's beater of a car. The driver's door was open. He walked around and peeked in before he closed it. He hadn't realized the motor was still running until he heard the steady chime indicating the keys were still in the ignition. Joe reached in and turned off the car. There was a soiled diaper on the passenger side floor and a puddle of feces, blood and urine pooled in the seat.

"Marie! Where are you?" Russ yelled in the direction of the lake, not expecting a reply.

He started down the leaf filled path towards the lake. The fall breeze coming out of the west bit hard against Joe's face, making him aware that he hadn't stopped crying since leaving the house.

The path opened to a small clearing, trees lining three sides the fourth with lighter foliage butting up to the lake edge. Once in the clearing, Joe's attention turned to the sound of Russ's crying. At the northwest edge of the clearing he saw Marie. She was facing into the woods, stripped down to her panties and socks.

He could see Russ, his little face showing above Marie's right shoulder, as though she was burping him. His little face bright red, undoubtedly from the combination of the crying and the sharp cold wind.

"Marie? It's me, Joe. Sweetheart? Let's get you out of this cold. What do you say?" Joe yelled into the frigid air.

She didn't move.

Joe slowly walked through the two-inch-thick carpet of orange and red leaves, wishing there was a quieter path across the clearing.

As he moved closer he continued speaking to Marie. "How's it going sweetheart? You must be freezing." Joe picked up Marie's discarded coat about fifteen feet from where she stood. "I've got your jacket, Marie. Let's get you back in it."

At five feet from Marie, Joe gave a wide berth to her left and swung around to stand in front of her. Her face came into view, her whole body was statuesque. Not a shiver. Her face displaying the same disarming smile that she'd shown the past few weeks. Russ was also naked. His entire body turned to a bright red from the cold.

"Marie. Sweetheart." Joe positioned himself in line with the gaze of her eyes, hoping to draw her attention back to the moment. Russ continued his wailing in Marie's arms, Joe was not surprised how Marie seemed oblivious to it. The same ability he'd marveled at the past weeks now seemed positively Stephen King-ish.

"Marie! Snap out of it!" Joe yelled into the wind.

She blinked twice and Joe saw her eyes focus in on him. Her smile broke, her shoulders drooped. "Joe, you're here. I wasn't sure you'd find us. Did you find my note?"

"I found the diapers, the sketches and your book. I didn't see a note," he replied.

"Yes, well, you're here now. I'm taking Russ to meet his brother, Joseph." Marie's eyes dropped to.

"Russ isn't ready for that, Marie. He's cold, listen to him. We should get him home and in some warm clothes."

"He's ready, Joe. I'm ready to bring them together. They can play and make each other happy. You believe they will like each other, don't you Joe?" Marie asked.

"Yes, I do believe they would have loved each other Marie. But Joseph is dead, sweetheart. Russ can't play with him. It's time to go back home."

"I'm bringing Russ to meet him, Joe. You can't take him away from me. I need to do this," Marie's voice rising against a gust of wind.

"I don't want to take anyone away from anyone, Marie."

"Then why do you have your gun, Joe?"

Joe looked down into his right hand. His fingers were wrapped around the gun he'd kept in his glove compartment.

"What the hell? When did I pick this up?" Joe's mind scrambling for answers.

"Oh no, Marie. I...I didn't know if I'd find you in trouble when I got here. This isn't for you."

Marie's body started to shake. Tremors running from her shoulders down through her body and into her thighs. "You don't think I'm a good mother. You think it's all my fault. I can see it. He was right. He told me you hated me." Marie's lower lip began to tremble, tears started streaming down her face.

"I think you're an excellent mother, Marie. The best. Who told you that? Did Russ tell you that?"

"Russ isn't old enough to talk, Joe. But Joseph can, he's two now. We sit and talk in the living room. He really likes sitting in your recliner. We talk all the time," Marie said between sobs.

"Marie, Joseph is dead. You killed him. Right here, in this lake. Don't you remember?"

Marie lifted her head to look in Joe's eyes. For the first time since Russ was born, he thought he saw the glimmer of recognition in her eyes. Her eyebrows rose slightly in an 'ah ha' moment of thought.

"I'm so sorry, Joe." Marie's body convulsed in a new wave of tears. Russ began to slip out of her arms. Joe saw his son break loose from Marie's hold. Letting the revolver fall to the leaf covered ground, he stooped down and forward to one knee and reached to the screaming baby.

Exhausted, he wasn't sure he'd be able to catch his son and hold him from the cold ground, but when Russ hit his hands he realized just how light the emaciated infant was.

"I've got you, son. Daddy's got you."

Joe started to stand up and stumbled to his right. Regaining his footing he turned away from Marie, providing cover for Russ from the gusting wind. He opened up his coat and cuddled Russ against his warm chest. Cocooning him in by pulling the oversized coat around the infant.

"Forgive me Joe. I never wanted to hurt you," Marie said from behind him. He heard the hammer cock back on the thirty-eight.

Joe braced himself against the impact the bullet would have on his back. His head? He tipped his face down to his son and whispered, "I'm sorry, son. I should have protected you better."

The shot rang out across the clearing and echoed across the lake. Joe heard a thud behind him. He spun around to see Marie, lying on the ground, leaves swirling around her body. Blood pour out from a hole in her right temple. That calm smile back on her face.

#  39

Russ sat in his car after Agent Novella had left. He needed to think. He needed to get all the pieces to fit. It was all there, in his head, it just needed to be threaded together.

I know every engineer on every train

All of their children, and all of their names

And every handout in every town

And every lock that ain't locked, when no one's around.

Russ called up the itinerary he'd seen a few days ago. The President was due to be at the park tomorrow morning at nine for a nine thirty viewing of the flower. And then? Then she was going to give an 'impromptu' press conference to speak about her renewed commitment to fighting global climate change. Any appearance by the POTUS was sure to be a media frenzy. President Adler had become the queen of the officially unscheduled press conference. A way to show she always seemed to have prominent issues on her mind.

The viewing of the flower, a moment of personal enjoyment, made for a great opportunity to riff on her future environmental plans, should she be re-elected.

Russ glanced across the street, hoping to glean some inspiration from looking at the park itself. A freight train was making its way slowly along the tracks which ran adjacent to the park. No inspiration there.

I got a crazy teacher, he wears dark glasses

Things are going great, and they're only getting better

I'm doing all right, getting good grades

The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades

Russ began working his way around the data clock of evidence he'd set up back at the FBI field office. Communications, five thirty. The White House Press Secretary had successfully arranged for all the national news, both print and television, to be at the park. He'd even credentialed a select few social media reporters to be present. He'd wanted to get some instant social coverage from China, but with Twitter blocked by the communist regime, he'd settled for Twitter India.

The Secret Service would have the usual security around Adler during that time. With the stop being officially off the books, there was no need for additional manpower. In reality, the standard security for the President was strong enough to protect the POTUS from just about anything. Save for a nuclear attack.

Could that be? How could that be? The destruction that would be caused in the city. So many would die. The entire area would be shut down. The heads that would roll for not seeing a nuclear attack coming on American soil. The fallout for the CIA, NSA...the FBI. Except the FBI has put all its resources into Richmond. Into the fake assassination attempt. So much energy put into that project, doing all they can.

But they're wrong. Evan is wrong. Sigler is wrong.

No, Sigler isn't wrong. He's the only one completely aware of what's going on. What's Sigler's connection to this?

Sigler is the darling of the President. His record has been impeccable since uncovering the plot against her in India. The two were more friends than colleagues. Sigler's wife was known to visit with the First Family when he was travelling overseas.

Russ called up the travel itineraries for Sigler the past four years. Nine international trips accounted for. Three to Europe with his family, one each to South America and Australia and four trips to southern Asia, two in the last six months. Each of the trips to Asia included two nights in New Delhi, regardless of any other stops, he always went to New Delhi. There was very little evidence of Sigler being in communication with anyone or any agency in New Delhi. However, two years ago the CIA began surveilling government employee personal phones. Sigler's call log had numerous calls and texts going to a number listed in the Western end of Rajpath in New Delhi, where the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Presidential residence, is located.

GPS data extracted from his phone also showed several visits to Lahore Pakistan during those visits. No one trip over the border amounted to any length. Essentially hours of driving for a fifteen to twenty-minute stop. Lahore was one of nine locations Dawood Ibrahim, leader of D-Company is suspected of having a home. D-Company is one of the largest crime syndicates in India, with many ties within the United States.

It was all coming together now. Russ could see the connections. India is a fast-growing nation, climbing out of third world status years ago, the second most populous country in the world, it was looking to boost its fossil fuel use while increasing its energy infrastructure to provide electricity to all its one and a quarter billion citizens. Ironically, India is seen as the nation that would be hardest hit by global sea level rise, but it would seem that is not an issue in view of the current Indian president.

D-Company's reach into the United States was thought to be significant. Ibrahim's shipping business allowed for smuggling into any and all nations around the globe. With his expertise and means, getting a quarter megaton nuclear device into the country was feasible. The W8US missile designed to carry such a warhead weighs only about five-hundred pounds and is measured in inches. Such a device would create a half kilometer fireball radius and a seven-kilometer third degree burn radius. Combined deaths and injuries were sure to exceed five hundred thousand.

Russ knew he had to find the delivery method and disable it. But where would it come from? What could he do?

An air strike would undoubtedly be shot down long before it was close enough to attack. While relatively small, the warhead was far too big to be precisely propelled into the area by a handheld launcher. And much too heavy to be carried into the area.

The train!

#  40

Joe stood staring at Marie's body. The blood had stopped flowing from the gunshot to her head five minutes ago. He'd been in shock since he heard the gun go off. Now he stood motionless, emotionless, holding his son looking down at what had been Russ's mother. Thinking back on the past weeks, she'd been more of a detached caretaker, a martyr lying in wait.

There was nothing left to do here, in the woods by the lake. Marie had come here with death on her mind, and death she got. No one was around on this cold windy day. The lone gunshot was lost to the icy breeze. He needed to report the suicide, but not now. Now he had to get his son home and into some warm clothes.

Russ was unaware of the death of his mother, but that was of no solace as the small infant continued his screams and tears while clinging to Joe's chest on the drive home. The shock of Marie's suicide began to wane, but as the numbness of the earlier events began to thaw the understanding grew that it was now just him to care for Russ. His ears alone to hear the infant's cries. His heart alone to share in whatever it was that so pained Russ constantly. Despair took the place of numbness.

Joe found himself unable to return home. His mind unwilling to formulate the series of steps that he would need to take upon arrival. His thoughts worked in opaque vagaries.

Get Russ inside. Diapers. Food. Marie's body. The shop. Sleep?

He could visualize he and Russ inside the front door. But not on the outside stairs. How did Russ end up inside the house? Did he carry the infant in?

Do I take off my shoes first? Do I find a diaper? Turn the heat up?

Joe was aware that he wasn't able to piece together even the most basic plan. The only thing he felt confident in doing was breathing and driving. Maintain the status quo. He wondered if there was a specific planning section of the brain, the part that strings together the series of events of daily action. A subconscious taskmaster that coordinated all the major and minor actions that make up a single task.

Changing a diaper. Seems easy enough. But broken down into all the little actions, decisions and movement, it's an impossible task. Coordinating probably hundreds of muscles to move to the changing table. To pick up the new diaper and make sure it's going on the correct way. A spiff of baby powder, not too much, but enough. Making sure Russ doesn't roll away during the whole process. Fastening the diaper, not too tight, but tight enough. Once the diaper is changed, then what?

This and every other task, small to big, seemed exhausting to Joe. No, it was easier to keep on driving and keep on breathing. He wondered if the way he felt was similar in some way to how depressed people feel. He'd heard stories about the very depressed not getting out of bed for days. That the world seems insurmountable to them. Even showering seems too big a task. Maybe.

After nearly an hour of driving around and through the neighboring towns, Russ decided to make the decision for his father. The crying stopped long enough for the infant to tense his entire body and then defecate mucus and blood into Joe's coat. At first Joe thought he would keep on keepin on. He could manage the sticky warmth of Russ's gift. But then the smell hit his nose. Oh God the smell.

They pulled into the driveway just before sundown. Joe's mind strung together five steps to solving the current problem. Get inside, get Russ cleaned up, get Russ in a diaper, change his own clothes and burn them in the fireplace. If it had been a pentathlon, Joe would have taken home the gold.

An hour later, with Russ's screaming as intense as ever, Joe called the sheriff's office to report Marie missing. She'd gone out to get some diapers and hadn't returned.

"I'm worried because she's been under so much stress caring for our son...Yes, I suppose she could be taking an unscheduled break from the crying...No she's never been much a drinker...Yes, I'd thought of that, but I figured once the Sun went down she'd come home."

The five minutes of conversation to report Marie missing was exhausting, but it paled in comparison to the talking he'd do reporting her suicide. As it was, Joe wasn't sure how he would make it through the night with Russ, much less weeks, months...years.

# 41

Joseph L Williams had been in the hospital for five months. He'd made it through another New England winter warm and dry in his hospital room. Two of those five were spent unconscious, in a pair of successive comas. The man's son, Russell had been in three times in those months. He'd been unable to speak to his father even once.

Shortly after Joe was admitted to the hospital he fell into his first coma. The list of confirmed and possible diagnoses required a second clipboard at the foot of his bed. Before the coma, Joe had been adamant that Russ not be contacted. "He's an important man. When I get out of here, I'll tell him all about it."

The minute the coma was confirmed, the hospital reached out to Russ. His wife said he was in Moscow, but she would get the information to him. Russ arrived at his father's bedside in seventeen hours.

Russ spent an hour reading through Joe's medical report. Until then, he had never had access to his father's medical history. Joe had forbidden it for years and then once the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996, HIPAA was enacted the government kept him away from the records. But now, with Joe in a coma, Russ took over as his medical proxy.

In truth, there wasn't much as far as history. Joe had rarely sought medical treatment over the years. There were a few severe bronchitis visits to the ER and the lung operation, the report had a line item about Joe's heart stopping for three minutes during the procedure. Then nothing. Nothing until last week.

None of the diagnoses made sense. So many symptoms that suggested a specific pathology, but none of the expected damage that would normally accompany said diseases.

Russ stayed by his father's bedside for six days, hoping for him to regain consciousness. He left, saying business called. Before he departed, Russ set up weekly payments to the hospital and told the doctors that money was no object when it came to treatment plans and they would not need to authorize any cost.

A week later Joe came out of his coma as mysteriously as he'd entered it. He simply woke up, as if after a nap, and asked for a cup of water. His spirits returned to their normal high level and, though still bedridden, he interacted with anyone who would stop by and listen. How staff and patients alike loved listening to the withered old man talk about his son. The common belief was that Joe was in late stages of dementia: How could anyone be as fantastical as the man's son?

Several weeks after his return to consciousness the pain began. Joe was awakened early one morning by leg cramps. At five a.m. he rang for the nurse to give him something for the pain. By noon he rated his pain as a ten out of ten. A phone call was placed to Russ; again, he was at the hospital within twenty-four hours.

He went into his father's room to try to speak with him, to attempt to get a read on what was going on. Joe was delirious from the pain and lack of sleep it brought.

"Don't listen to the baby in the recliner, Marie."

"Please, God, stop the pain."

"Stay away from the lake, don't go in the lake."

Russ signed the papers giving the hospital permission to place Joe in a chemically induced coma for two weeks. The hope being when he was brought out of the coma, the pain will have subsided. Russ was uncomfortable with hope. He preferred knowledge and facts.

He returned to the hospital two weeks later to be present at Pops awakening. Before the doctor pushed the plunger, forcing the chemical cocktail to restore consciousness, into Joe's IV, he warned Russ that there was no medical reason to assume his father would wake up pain free. Russ nodded his understanding and reached down to hold Joe's hand.

Nothing happened. The cocktail entered into his bloodstream and should have reached full effectiveness within three minutes. All of Joe's vitals remained steady, he just didn't wake up. The doctor surmised that while no longer chemically induced, his patient was still in a comatose state.

"His body just isn't strong enough," he said to Russ.

Again, Russ remained by his father's side for a week. He conferred with the chief resident about Joe's state. There were no indications that Joe was in pain. The staff had been and would continue physical therapy on his body, maintaining flexibility through manually moving Joe's limbs and fighting atrophy with daily electrical muscle stimulations. They'd continue to monitor his vitals and perform twice a week FMRI scans to monitor brain activity.

There was simply nothing more Russ could do. He saw no reason to remain at the hospital. If Pops woke up, Russ would receive a phone call. If not, he'd be back in ninety days to discuss other, more permanent options.

#  42

Just after two on the afternoon before President Adler was due to visit the park Russ walked into the nearly deserted FBI field office in Philadelphia. He stopped at the security desk and said he was there to see agent Jackson. The rookie agent manning the desk gave him a visitor badge and let him in.

Russ walked into Jackson's office, smiled at him and said, "Are you ready for a promotion?"

It only took Russ half an hour to explain to the green agent the evidence he had and convince him of the assassination plot. Sigler's overseas visits, the undocumented cargo ship that had left the Port of Philadelphia twenty-four hours ago, the Press Secretary's insistence on including Twitter India as credentialed press thereby giving the social media outlet advanced notice of the unscheduled Presidential stop. Global climate change, mafia, governmental corruption and more, the kind of case every FBI agent dreams of cracking.

The last piece of information Russ had acquired was from the park's board president. He had arranged for the train which ran on the tracks adjacent to the park during the timeframe of the President's visit to be at a full stop as the President gave her speech. This act served to reduce traffic noise from Lindbergh Boulevard, eliminate the noise from the moving train and also give a static backdrop as the media filmed the event.

The engineer was to stop the train precisely as it reached the Schuylkill River. The train routinely pulled one hundred and thirty-five cars carrying a variety of cargo. The train that was stopping in the early morning tomorrow would have one hundred and thirty-six cars, the additional car, the thirty fourth in line from the front, being picked up hours before from the Port of Philadelphia. That additional car was the one that would hold a 250-300 kiloton nuclear warhead. A warhead set to detonate at 9:30 a.m. just as Adler began her speech.

All the young agent would need to do was to secure that thirty fourth car and defuse the warhead.

"This is all wonderful, Mr. Williams, and let's assume the warhead is where you say it will be. What hard evidence do you have to substantiate this conspiracy you've uncovered?" Jackson asked.

"Son, the warhead will trace easily back to India and the Indian government will state that Ibrahim's syndicate stole the bomb, I'm sure they will have impeccable records corroborating that. Sigler's involvement with India's President is easily verifiable from his travel records. His cell phone's GPS will help you find whatever top-secret drone photos your bigger and better funded cousins have taken while surveilling Ibrahim. The Press Secretary's involvement can be traced through intraoffice emails, personal emails and I'm sure the NSA has some recordings from the wiretaps they have all over the country. Oh and if you head up to conference room one and pick up that pen you lent to me, as well as the tablet and cell phone issued to me that are tucked behind the ficus tree at the north end of the room, you'll find evidence that Sigler was manipulating and destroying evidence specific to this case."

"You've uncovered all of this since Monday?"

"All the intel was right there, agent Jackson. It just needed to be stitched together."

"I...the director...who do I go to with this? Who can I trust?" Jackson mumbled to himself.

"Give Director Larson over at the CIA a call," Russ said, writing a phone number down on a scrap of paper. "He'll be in his office poring over the details of the operation in Richmond. Tell him Russ Williams gave you his personal cell number. Ask him to call me if he has any questions. He'll give you all the help you need."

"Nut you need to get started now!"

#  43

"Slow down agent," Director Larson said, wishing he'd taken that ibuprofen when his headache started an hour ago. "It sounds like you're saying the director of the FBI, the White House Press Secretary and India are planning to blow up POTUS."

"That's exactly what I AM saying, sir," Agent Jackson responded nearly before Larson had a chance to take a breath. "I've got all the details, I just need some help pulling them together, you know, proving them all."

"Proving them?" Larson shouted back through the phone. "You mean you've got this cockamamie, half-assed theory which you can't prove? And you say we've only until morning to stop this? Jesus Christ, stop wasting my goddamned time. Where the hell did you get this number anyway?"

"Oh, right. I forgot about that. Russ Williams gave it to me. He said you had the means to help me stop this from happening."

"Russ? Russell F Williams gave you my cell phone number? He's backing you on this?"

"Yes, um yes sir. It's his theory," the nervous agent replied. "He's been working with Agent Evan Novella on this case. But Novella is currently down in Richmond with the rest of the FBI. Sigler has everyone down there. Well most everyone."

"Agent, if Russ sent you to me, you'd better tell me what you've got one more time. I'm scheduling a chopper to bring me to you as we speak. I'll be there within the hour. And Agent Jackson, next time, if you've got Russ Williams backing you, you damn well better lead with that information."

***

Before Larson made it to the waiting chopper he confirmed the missing Indian warhead. Just as Russ had suggested to Jackson, the government claimed that although the military put up a massive counterattack, Ibrahim's syndicate had won the fight and taken the nuclear weapon. They weren't sure where it might be, only that it wasn't within the borders of their country.

By three a.m. a Black Ops team boarded the thirty-fourth car on the train headed to Philadelphia. Part of that team was an elite military trained Explosive Ordnance Disposal, or EOD, technician. It would surprise any civilian to learn it took the tech all of ten minutes to identify and defuse the warhead.

Once the threat of accidental detonation was removed the black ops team had the warhead off the moving train and on its way to the Philadelphia Navy Yard in another ten minutes. The train's engineer never knew what his cargo held or that the military team had been on board.

At five a.m. a team of Navy Seals crashed through the door of Director Sigler's hotel room and arrested him with the single charge of treason. No other charges were necessary. Sigler was taken into custody without a fight.

At seven a.m. Agent Jackson called Russ to let him know the events of the night before.

"You were absolutely right, Mr. Williams. Everything was just as you said it would be."

"Glad to hear, agent. And the recordings from the conference room? Did they reveal anything I'd missed?"

There was a long pause before the agent spoke," I...I completely forgot about the conference room. I'm headed there now to retrieve your evidence."

"Jesus, Jackson. Where the hell is your head at? That evidence will be key in making this an ironclad case against Sigler."

"Yes sir, like I said, I'm headed there now."

#  44

"Are you nervous Russ?" Brit asked her husband as she straightened his tie. "I mean, whatever nervous is for you. It's not every day a guy gets to have a private dinner with the President of the United States."

"Well, I'd rather be spending my time somewhere tropical with you. Sipping fruity cocktails out of a coconut."

"Yes, well, so would I hunny, so would I." The sentence punctuated with a kiss on the lips. "At least we were invited to this dinner together. Think we can bring in our own coconuts?"

Russ chuckled as he turned to face the mirror, one last check to make sure every hair was in place. "Are you almost ready, hunny? The car is scheduled to be here in seven and a half minutes."

"Just checking my lipstick, Russ. I'm good to go," Brit replied.

Russ's cell phone started playing "King of the Road" indicating an incoming phone call. A Boston phone number display on the caller ID.

"Not tonight, Russ. Let it go to voicemail and listen to it in the morning."

"It's the hospital Brit. It must be news on Pops." Russ slid his finger across the phone screen to answer the call.

"Russell Williams," he opened the call.

"What? When?"

"And he's not in pain?"

Russ checked his watch. "I'll be there in six hours." He pressed 'end call' on the phone.

"What is it Russ? What happened? Is Pops OK?"

"He's out of his coma. A half hour ago. The doctor said he immediately went into respiratory failure and they placed him on a ventilator. He's not predicting Pops will get off the ventilator. So many hard years with just the one lung, he said."

"He's dying?" Brit sniffing back a tear.

"Not just yet," Russ replied. "They're giving him a week at most."

"And you're leaving now? Ditching the President?"

"It's Pops, Brit. I haven't spent any meaningful time with him in six months. If we've only got a week left, I don't want to miss any of it. Have an extra coconut drink for me, huh?"

Russ grabbed his always ready travel bag and gave his wife a kiss before turning for the hotel room door. "Tell Adler she has my vote come November. I didn't save her ass to vote for someone else."

#  45

Joe found out that first night alone with Russ that sleep was nearly impossible. Russ just didn't settle down, save for a few minutes here and there from midnight until the first sign of daybreak. At least that's what Joe thought happened. Occasionally during the night, while he and Russ were rocking in the recliner together, he would be jarred awake by a renewed scream from his infant son. While not entirely sure he had fallen asleep, Joe could not figure what else would account for him checking out momentarily.

Around four a.m. he experimented with putting Russ into his crib and trying to grab some sleep in the basement. After listening to Russ's cries as he left the room and walked down the stairs he realized the basement room was still filled with soiled diapers and sketches from his now dead, wife. It took him another ten minutes to remove all the gruesome items out and into the basement proper. All the while he could hear Russ wailing just one floor up.

Finally, he was able to lay down on the single mattress. He repeated to himself over and over that Russ would be just fine on his own for a little while. He was safe in the crib. It's not as if he was gaining any comfort by being held all the time. It'll just be for an hour or two. Maybe Russ will tire himself out and sleep some too.

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, Joe gave up on finding a way to block out his son's misery.

"Maybe I'll get some ear plugs tomorrow. But how? I can't take Russ to the store. There is no one to watch him while I go," he thought to himself.

Joe threw the sheet off himself and headed back upstairs.

"Hey little buddy. Guess we're sitting up the rest of the night together. How about you help me make some coffee?" The minutes ticked by until dawn.
***

It was another day before Marie's body was found. The sheriff came knocking on Joe's door to inform him in person. He met the officer with Russ in hand and heavy bags under his eyes. Before the sheriff could say anything, Joe waved him in then turned and walked away, silently.

Joe handed Sheriff Cote a mug of hot coffee and motioned for him to sit on the couch, he and Russ taking the recliner. They each took a few sips of coffee in silence, neither making eye contact with the other.

"Joe, I'd like to talk to you about Marie," the sheriff shouted over Russ's crying. "Uh, I'm sorry, but does he always cry like that? Maybe I should come back in a little bit, after he's settled down. He looks hungry, did you feed him?"

Joe stood and walked past the Sheriff down the hall. He lay Russ down in his crib and shut the door behind him.

"A bit of the colic, the doc says. He'll cry himself to sleep in a little bit. Best I can do for the moment, sheriff. This OK enough for you?"

"Umm, sure, Joe." The officer turned and glanced down the hall towards the sound of Russ's wails. He cleared his throat as he turned back to Joe. "Right, well uh, we found Marie, Joe. It's bad. One of the boys found her over at Dee Dubbya early this morning. We've been searching day and night, I promise you that."

"She's dead, isn't she," Joe asked emotionlessly. "That's what you came here to tell me. That my son's mother is dead."

"Well, uh, yes. Yes, that's right, Joe. It seems she shot herself with a gun, uh Joe. A thirty-eight handgun to be exact. Any idea where she got ahold of a gun, Joe?" The sheriff glanced back down the hall as Russ seemed to kick it up a notch.

"I've always kept a gun in the glovebox of my car. Something I picked up from my dad. In fact, it's his gun that's in there. It might be a thirty-eight. Hell, I've never used it or bought ammunition for it. Dad gave it to me loaded. Marie knew it was in there."

The two men sat silently for another minute. The sheriff sipping some coffee, Joe seeming to nod off. His head dipping down slowly then snapping back up as his brain interpreted the dipping as falling.

Sheriff Cote took another look down the hall before speaking. "Listen, uh, Joe. Russ, does he always, uh, cry like that? Do you think Marie might have gone a bit coo-coo with all that crying?"

"I don't know, maybe. She was taking on most of the childcare, with me being down at the shop and all. I don't know. Do you think she suffered? With the gunshot, I mean."

"We don't know that, Joe. The coroner was just getting out to the scene, uh field, where she was found. His first guess was that it was instant. At the worst, her blood pressure would have dropped so rapidly she would have been unconscious until she, uh, until she expired."

"So she could have been alive for a while after the shot? Just lying there, like sleeping?" Joe's voice cracking slightly.

"Maybe so, Joe. But that, uh, that doesn't matter now. I'm sorry, Joe, Marie is dead."

"I appreciate you coming to tell me face to face, sheriff. I truly do." Joe wiped back a tear.

"Not at all Joe, the least I could do," the sheriff smiled weakly. "Listen, uh, Joe. About Russ. Do you need some help with him? This is already a stressful time for you. You look like you could use a day or two of sleep."

"We'll be fine, sheriff. I appreciate the offer," Joe said.

"Well, OK then. I'll, uh, well I'll leave you to it for now. I'll probably come by again in the next couple of days once we have the case closed. And, uh, me and the missus we'll say some extra prayers for you and your boy," the sheriff said with a wink and a nod.

"Do you think that helps? The prayers?"

"Well, I can't say for sure. But what I do know is that it sure doesn't hurt," the sheriff replied, glancing up to the ceiling. "We'll make a few prayers to see if we can't get rid of the boy's pain too."

Joe sat staring down the hall. A tear ran down his cheek.

"Alright, uh, Joe. I'll be on my way. Sorry again for having to bring you this news. Let me know if you need anything."

"Just a good prayer, Eric. Just the perfect prayer," Joe said, still staring down the hall.

#  46

Traffic on I95 was a little lighter than usual, but far from ideal. Russ steadied himself for a long four-hundred-mile drive. He thought about how fortunate he was to have Brit in his life. Seemingly every day she came up with a new way to be amazing. They both knew he could be difficult at times, novelly difficult at that. He was different, and she supported him. Yes, one fortunate man. Maybe it was time to start a family. Take a step back from all the cloak and dagger crap. Buy a minivan.

Twenty minutes into the drive Russ's phone rang. He clicked on the car's Bluetooth receiver and answered.

"This is Russ."

"Hey, it's Evan. I'm calling to congratulate you on the case. You really had Sigler pegged on this one. I'm sorry I doubted you."

"I have to admit, Evan, you surprised me with how dismissive you were to my theory. Usually you trust me to come to good conclusions."

"You did some good detective work, Russ. You had just about everything right. You got a couple things wrong, though."

"What are you talking about," Russ replied. "I had Sigler every step of the way."

"Yes, you had Sigler, that's for sure."

"OK Evan, whatever you say. Listen Pops is not doing well, I'm on my way to him now. Can we talk later on?"

Over the phone Russ heard yelling in the background as Evan was agreeing to meet with him.

"...rest...open...door"

"Evan are you out on assignment?"

"I almost bea..." There was a resounding crash through the car's speakers.

"Evan, are you OK?"

"I almost beat you."

"GET DOWN, NOW. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"

"Buddy?"

Russ's call waiting beeped through the call. Russ checked the number. It was the Philly FBI field office.

"Evan, what's going on."

"Agent Novella, put your hands on top of your head," Russ heard through the phone.

"I almost outsmarted you, Russ."

"What are you ta..."

"Agent place your hands on your head or we will fire."

"...ing about? Who is there with you?"

"Tell me Russ, how did you know I was working with Sigler? How did you find out?"

"This is your last warning agent, place your hands on your head and drop what you're holding, or we will fire."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Evan. Just do what they say and we'll clear this up tomorrow. Tonight, I have to get to Pops."

"There is no tomorrow, Russ."

The phone clicked off as Russ heard gunshots from the other end of the line.
***

Call waiting beeped again through the car's speakers.

What the hell just happened?

Russ clicked over to the other line.

"Mr. Williams, this is Agent Jackson. I have some news to tell you."

"After you pulled the recordings from the conference room you discovered both Sigler and Agent Novella were in the room together. The two were conspiring to assassinate President Adler."

"Yes, exactly. We're picking up Novella as we speak."

"Evan won't go quietly, he didn't go quietly."

"Hmm, what's that Mr. Williams? I'm getting reports of shots fired at Novella's home. Two dead, one injured. Oh my god, Agent Novella is dead. He was on the phone when our agents entered his home. All eyes were on the hand they could see. No one saw the Sig Sauer in his other hand."

"Well, you still brought justice to the case. Maybe not the way you wanted, but it's over now."

"I know you and he were friends, are you OK?"

"I'll be fine. Glad I could be of help, but I have other things to attend to now."

Russ clicked off the phone and returned his focus to driving to see Pops.

***

About forty-five minutes outside of New York the traffic began to bunch up again. Russ debated hopping off and hitting the back roads, but calculated he was on the quickest path already. He cleared his mind and started analyzing the cars around and ahead of him.

The Mazda is hugging the right shoulder. That big Cadillac couldn't seem to find a steady speed. The semi four car lengths up was ready to change lanes.

Slowly the world outside the freeway faded. Russ's only focus was on the traffic patterns. The oncoming lights from the cars headed south dimmed to nearly imperceivable levels. The road before him lit up, colored lines formed before him, weaving around the other vehicles on the road. Red, green and yellow lines, indicating to him the path he should take through the traffic. Green lines were ideal paths but involved some risk. Yellow lines were the safe path. Red, well red was either the slowest path or indicated dangerous driving.

Russ began to follow the green lines. His mind continuing to analyze the driving patterns of the cars around him, understanding their current movements and predicting their future moves. He changed lanes to accelerate past a vehicle, moving into a seemingly trapped position between cars. Then, suddenly, someone else changed lanes or took the next exit and the green line extended.

After a few minutes of this, numbers began appearing next to the colored lines. Speeds. The speed he should be traveling on that segment to be ready for the next move. Russ found himself passing cars at an accelerated rate. He was far exceeding the posted speed limit and at times was fifteen to thirty miles per hour faster than the traffic around him. But he never felt unsafe. No, he was in perfect control of himself and, seemingly, the vehicles around him.

Russ pulled into Massachusetts General a full forty-five minutes earlier than he initially expected.

#  47

"Dear God...gods, devils, demons, angels, witches and wizards. It's Joe, Joe Williams. I don't know which one of you is real, if you're real, or who can help me. It's true I haven't been a good Chris...well I haven't been a good believer. And I think, what I think is happening is that you are getting back at me through my sons. First Joseph jr and now Russell. Maybe even you took Marie from me. My boys, my boys have suffered awfully. More so in their short lives than any person ought to for a full life.

Now I guess I can understand why you'd want to take it out on me or teach me a lesson or whatever it is you see the need to do. You sure as hell must be smarter than me. You see, I'm just a regular guy. A simple man. A fella that just wants to make his way through life without causing much of a ruckus along the way. Well, you've shown me that it isn't going to be that easy. That as long as I'm here, my son is going to pay one hell of a price for what it is you've seen that I've done.

I won't ask for forgiveness, from you. I don't live my life that way. A man should pay back his debts. He should pay them back in his lifetime. Not his sons or daughters. A man pays what he owes, and I'm a man goddamnit. It's time you started letting me be one and let me make amendments for what I owe. Not my boy. Fuck you, not my boy.

So, here's what I'm asking. And maybe it's one of you other folks who is at odds with whoever is doing this to my son who can grant me this. I've already lost one boy to this messed up game of yours, I don't intend to lose another. What I want to do, what I'm asking you to arrange, is that you take whatever it is that is paining my son, making him cry so much, not eat, not sleep all the pain, please, give it to me. Let me take on the penalties for what I've done. Not him. No more. I demand my boy be left alone. Give me all his pain."

"Amen. Tathaastu. Shalom. Whatever you like to hear."

Joe closed his eyes with Russ crying in his lap and rocked in the recliner. Slowly gliding back and forth.

"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

And down will come baby, cradle and all"

#  48

Russ arrived outside Pops's room as a pair of nurses were exiting with their heads hanging low. Molly and Jacquelyn were Pops's favorites, as much as he was theirs, too. Generally, patients were prone to losing weight when in the hospital as long as Pops had been, but extra portions of all the snacks, snuck in to him by Molly, kept Pops at his admittance weight.

When Molly saw Russ standing on the far side of the hall she walked over and gave him a warm smile.

"Russell, it's so good to see you," she said.

"How's Pops doing?" he asked.

"He's in and out of consciousness now that he's off the ventilator and the last of his medication is leaving his body," she replied. "Whenever he's alert enough to speak, he always asks if you're here yet. He doesn't have long now, Russell."

"Are you sure it's time?" Russ asked. "Maybe if you let me look at his charts I might be able to find something?"

Molly broke into tears and put her arms around Russ, in a big, motherly embrace.

"He's ready to see you," she said softly. "This is it for him. He knows it. You should be prepared for that. She held him tighter and whispered in his ear, "He's such a good, good man Russell. He surely is."

"Thank you, Molly," Russ said breaking the embrace. "And thank you Jackie. You two have been so very amazing. I doubt I could ever thank you enough."

"Oh Mr. Williams," Jackie said, "believe it when we say the time we spent with your father is all the thanks we'll ever need. It's no surprise to anyone here what a wonderful son he raised."

With that, she gave Russ a hug of her own.

Sniffling back her tears, she pulled away and covered her mouth with her right hand. "He's holding on to say goodbye to you, Russell. Get yourself in there and share these last remaining moments with him"

Russ thanked them each again and turned to go see Pops, for the last time.
***

"Now listen son," Pops began, holding Russ's hands in his. "Things are going to be different when I'm gone."

"I know Pops, I know. You've always been here for me, for whatever I needed. You always knew, you always seemed to know."

"It won't be the same anymore, Russ. You won't be the same anymore."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" Russ asked.

"You and I have always had a special connection, son."

"I know that d..."

"Now I'm not talking about that father to son bull crap. Lord knows we share that bond and love for each other. I'm talking about something deeper. Something even you, as smart as you are, don't know about."

"Pops, it's time to relax, now. You're talking in circles. Let's just enjoy this time. Peaceful."

"What do you think I've been doing all these years, Russ. I have been enjoying myself. Watching you grow into the man you are. Seeing you marry that Valade girl was the happiest day a man could ask for."

"Now they tell me I don't have hardly any time left so let me speak my peace and we'll get on with it," Pops said, tears filling his eyes.

Russ fully understood his father was suffering from delirium associated with multiple system failures, but decided to let Pops have it his way, this one last time. "I would like that, very much. Please go on."

"Thank you, son, now you listen closely to me. There's one story I've never told, all these years. It's probably our biggest one, too."

"After your mother died and it was just you and me things didn't look too good for us. You were sick, Russ, sicker than anyone knew how to help. Oh how you would scream to no end. Scream and cry, all day every day. Oh I can hear your pains still to this day."

Pops closed his eyes as if to travel back to those days gone by, reliving those days of torment. His eyes tightened, and his nose wrinkled.

"OK, Pops. No need to bring any of that up again. I haven't cried in who knows how long. I'm not even..."

Russ was cut short by the rhythmic sound of the EKG machine changing to a single steady monotone. Pops's heart had stopped. His last words were lost. Russ felt for a pulse. None. He reached over, turned off the monitor and the room fell silent.

Russ sat for a moment, reflecting on his life with Pops. He remembered all the times Pops should have punished him for this or that, but he never did. Pops had a way of turning the bad into a good learning experience.

"Don't let any experience go to waste son," he would say to Russ.

Russ slowly became aware of an intense pressure behind his right eye. He reached up and rubbed his temple. In the blink of an eye that pressure grew into an incredible sensation, the likes of he'd never felt. The pupil of his right eye shrank down to a pinhole as the room grew dim to that side. His body began to feel warm, his skin burning from within. He recognized the symptoms as a characteristic cluster headache.

The sensation behind his eye dominated his thoughts as he tried to call up the memory of his eighth birthday, when Pops had dressed as a clown. He felt his face grow hotter as he tried to push the feeling aside. It was an undesirable feeling, one he wished would go away. But it kept growing until he found himself cradling his head in his hands.

This is what pain feels like?

He continued to rub his right temple with his thumb as he held his head in his hands. Suddenly the base of his thumb erupted in pain. Basal joint arthritis joined his headache in a duet of misery.

He lifted his head up to relieve the weight on his thumbs. As he straightened his back, vertebrate L1 and Th12 scraped together from the lack of cartilage. His body grew hotter as his whole back seemed to cry out in pain.

A new sensation followed. He was...

Angry?

"How could this have happened?" he thought. "Maybe if god dammed Molly and Jackie had spent more time nursing Pops to good health instead of sneaking him cookies and milk..."

Russ didn't understand what was happening. The staff here had done so much to try to heal his father, and now he was mad at them because Pops was gone.

Next came the sinking feeling in his chest. A feeling he'd never encountered, grief. Pops was dead. There would be no more conversations with his father. The one person who knew Russ in and out, the man he'd known his entire life could only live on in his memory, no new memories to be made.

That sinking feeling was replaced by more pain, this time surrounding his heart.

Heartbreak

His eyes began to burn, as they had one time so many years ago. His nose scrunched up and began to run. Tears started streaming down his face. His mouth hung open as he tried to catch his breath.

"I miss you already," he said, as a new wave of tears came.

#  49

Joe lay in his bed, half awake. That foggy time when your body is telling you to get up, but your mind isn't quite ready for the day. "I'll keep my eyes closed just yet," he thought to himself. Besides, it seemed it was still dark in the bedroom, no need to get up right now.

His feet were screaming at him, his arms felt like lead sinkers and his body felt flush. Cold season wasn't knocking on the door, it was flinging it open and coming right in. Maybe his body wasn't ready to start the day after all.

He cleared his throat and nestled deeper into his pillow. "I'm gonna lose my high notes for sure." Joe never thought of a sinus infection as giving him a hoarse, raspy voice, rather it took away his ability to sing the high notes to his favorite songs.

"Damnit, I must have been out in the cold too long," he thought as he nestled deeper. "When was I out in the cold?"

Memories of the day before started flowing back in. The room in the basement with the feces and blood drawings, the map of the park, the park. Oh the park. Marie standing naked in the field. The gunshot the blood, Marie lying in a growing puddle of her own blood. Russ, naked in his arms, wailing away.

"Russ!" Joe shot to a sitting position, his eyes wide open.

Where's Russ? Joe couldn't hear his son crying.

He always cries.

The room was indeed still pitch black. Joe felt for the nightstand lamp and clicked it on. The rest of the bed was empty. He got up and ran to the other side of the bed hoping to see Russ sleeping on the floor, having rolled off in the middle of the night.

"How did I get in the bedroom?" Joe began to think. "Where did Russ go?"

His memory of the night before was of sitting in his recliner trying to comfort Russ physically while mentally he tried to think of how the two would make it. "Did I say a prayer to Satan?"

Satan? No Marie...she didn't really die. She's taken Russ again, to finish her work. But how? There was so much blood.

"Snap out of it, Joe," he berated himself.

Joe remembered being so tired while sitting with Russ the previous night, probably the beginnings of this cold. An illness that seemed to worsen by the minute. He felt his head start to swim so he sat on the edge of the bed to regain himself.

"Just a second and I'll go to the living room, I'm sure Russ will be there," he said to himself while placing the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling his rising temperature.

"OK, here we go Joe. Time to be a solo father."

Joe rose to get up off the bed. His back cried out in pain as he tried standing tall. From head to tail his spine sent shots of pain throughout his torso. He couldn't remember a single time his back had given trouble.

"Maybe I've got that flu that's going around," he wondered. "That'll give you the aches and pains.

As he made his way down the hall Joe became aware at just how quiet the house was. He had forgotten about the creaking floorboards beneath the hallway. Without the wailing of Russ, he could hear the difference in each loose board, even through the ringing in his ears he could now hear from the silence. He noticed a quiet roar under the high-pitched ring.

Joe limped his way around the recliner, expecting to see Russ laying in the chair. As a new pain shot through his knee he became aware that he both hoped for and feared that he would find his son lying dead.

He loved Russ with all his God given soul, and there had already been too much death in this family, if Russ was gone, how long until Joe himself took his turn.

Joe began to wonder if Russ's passing could be a blessing of sorts. The boy had suffered so much in his young life. And, besides, how long would the two of them survive going on next to no sleep a night. Maybe it would be a blessing from sweet Jesus himself to call Russ home and give him peace.

He shook those ideas away. "I'm sounding like Marie," he said out loud. "I can't go down that same road, can I?"

Joe believed he got a partial answer to that question when he found himself relieved to not see Russ lying dead in the living room.

Not like Marie.

Maybe he and Russ were going to make it.

Joe heard a noise from down the hall, coming from the nursery.

Of course, I put must have put him down in his crib so I could get some sleep.

The growing pain in his knee forced Joe to limp down the length of the dark hallway. The labored walking made it necessary to stop twice to catch his breath as he slowly approached Russ's door.

He finally got to the nursery door and pushed it open. Moonlight shone through the open window and he could see Russ sitting upright in the crib. Propped up, really.

The only sound in the room was a cricket chirping away from outside the unscreened window. He heard the sound again. It came from the crib, baby babble, Joe was sure of it. But he would have sworn it sounded like a toddler saying "Hello"

Herro, herro, herro

Joe made his way to the side of the crib where he could see his son in full view. Russ looked up at Joe and unmistakably smiled at him.

Herro, da, herro.

29 Moves began as a NaNoWriMo project that took a life of its own. The author, Jp, wants to thank Janet, Dave and, as always, Nora.

Questions and comments can be sent to 29moves@gmail.com
