

Blue Castaway

By Rod Mertes

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2006

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of locales is completely coincidental. They were all born in the mind of the author.

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

CHAPTER ONE

THE RENDEZVOUS

Paul Porter's sweaty, naked body pulled against the white bed linen as he sat slowly. He reached for a pack of cigarettes on a bedside table, put two between his lips and lit them. He passed one of them to Shannon, the red-headed woman to his left, smiled and said, "Whew!! You sure as hell didn't learn that on the Internet!"

Shannon replied with a mischievous smile and inhaled deeply on her cigarette. The two sat quietly, each surveying the room décor and enjoying the afterglow of their encounter. The sounds of passing vehicles on the adjacent highway were barely filtered by the thin walls.

The faded, blue window curtains had been joined in the center with a safety pin and were missing several hooks along the curtain track. A narrow beam of sunlight shot through a gap just above the pin, proving to be the only bright spot on the shabby, white wall to Paul's right.

There was a solitary painting glued to the wall above a small, four-drawer dresser. The scene depicted a small pond, littered with dead trees and numerous branches. The glass covering the scene was cracked in one corner and was coated with a thick, yellow film of nicotine.

The only other adornment was a dead air conditioner, mounted in the wall beneath the curtains. There was a rusty stain in the beige carpet below, indicating that it worked at some time.

Paul finished his cigarette, and casually crushed the remains in the ashtray. He gave Shannon a light kiss on the lips, turned and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He sighed and said reluctantly, "I have to get going."

"What's the rush, there's still an hour before checkout," said Shannon in a voice as soft as cotton. She put her cigarette out in the ashtray on her side of the bed and peeled the sweaty sheet back. She slid toward Paul, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her breasts into his back. She massaged his chest, while she slid her lips across his shoulders.

"I've gotta be somewhere in an hour and I still have a stop to make," he answered as he wiped some sweat from his brow and headed for the shower.

Shannon looked to the bathroom, smiled and said, "I'd join you but you'd never make your appointment!"

Paul lathered his head and body with the tiny, complimentary bar of soap provided by the motel and rinsed as well as he could under the trickling warm water. He leaned against the mildewed, white tiles and held his head under the water. He tried to place the bar back into the soap dish, but was off the mark. When he turned to rinse his back, his left foot located the missing soap and he came crashing down. His right elbow smashed against the spout and ripped open a sizeable scab. He grimaced, clasped the wound with his left hand and rose slowly. As he watched the blood flow from his arm to the drain, his mind drifted to another time...another place.

He began thinking of his fishing trip to Florida and blood, lots and lots of blood, being washed from a boat deck.

He and his two best friends, Kevin Jennings and LJ Lancaster, were at Paul's apartment drinking beer and watching a basketball game on Paul's wide screen television. After the game, they channel surfed and settled on a movie about some guys hunting sharks in the ocean waters off the coast of Florida. None of their previous fishing expeditions had taken them beyond lakes or ponds. When they saw the ocean fishermen baiting a hook with a fish that was larger than any they had ever landed, they decided it was time to turn in their oars and go after a real fish.

They coordinated their vacations, headed to Florida and chartered a private fishing boat to go after sharks. They loaded more beer aboard the boat than fishing gear and headed out for open water. They threw chum out in several different areas recommended by the boat's captain and drank beer as they waited for the gray monsters to appear. Sun blistering hours passed with no success. Then they stopped near Montclair Reef and lethargically repeated the chum process. Their efforts were finally rewarded and a huge shark locked onto one of the hooks. Paul and Kevin worked in tandem to maneuver the creature close to the boat. Then Kevin broke away and left Paul to struggle with the heavy, saltwater fishing rod. The steel hook held firmly in the shark's mouth and brought it close enough to the boat for Kevin to lash at the thrashing beast with a rusty harpoon. LJ rushed forward, produced a .357 magnum handgun and fired wildly into the shark's mid-section until he was out of ammunition.

The water surrounding the shark quickly shifted from a slightly choppy blue to a foamy red. Once aboard the boat, the mutilated shark whipped its tail from side to side and made a last, feeble attempt to bite something...anything. Kevin jabbed at it savagely with his harpoon, while Paul grabbed a steel club and battered the shark's head. The shark's gills went still and its lifeless body lay motionless on the deck. Paul didn't like the way one of the eyes was looking at him, so he used his club to beat the eye and surrounding area until it was totally indistinguishable. The three friends smiled, stood side by side, each with one foot on the shark's body and posed proudly as the captain took several pictures.

Kevin and LJ went to the cooler for a beer, while Paul used the steel club to bang one of the shark's teeth out as a souvenir. His first attempts resulted in mere fragments, so he used his hunting knife to dig one out. The captain had a beer and a few laughs with the triumphant warriors before they pushed the shark back into the sea. Afterwards, he washed the bloody deck and plotted the return course. Paul's blood streamed down the drain much the same way the shark's blood flowed over the side of the boat. The bathtub blood was significantly different in only one important way...it was Paul's blood.

He was jerked back to reality when the warm water dwindled away and was replaced with a shocking cold spray. He chuckled as he got out of the shower and muttered to himself about that being the first time he was ever in a hotel or motel that ran out of hot water. He dried off, wrapped several layers of toilet paper around his elbow and dressed quickly. Shannon stared amorously as he looked around the room to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything.

She stood and moved to the end of the bed, mere inches from Paul. Her exquisite form was tantalizing and inviting. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his clothes on and his hands at a safe distance.

She began to caress his face lightly with her soft, slender fingers and looked longingly into his eyes. The single ray of sunlight that had slipped through the window curtains made her eyes sparkle like diamonds. "You're truly a handsome man, Mr. Porter. You have a powerful jaw and very kissable lips."

Shannon glided forward and pressed her lips tenderly against his. She smiled seduc-tively, and her eyes narrowed. Every part of Paul's body was aroused and ready for renewed action. He thought about throwing her back on the bed and sexually ravishing her body once more. He was tempted alright...so tempted. He returned the smile and realized that he had to go at that moment, or he'd never be able to leave.

He ran his hands midway down her arms and gently eased her away from him. Then he walked rapidly to the nightstand and snatched up his wristwatch. "I really have to go. When will you be back to Tupelo?" he asked as he fastened the leather watchband.

Shannon lit a cigarette, exhaled forcefully and replied, "I'll be covering my St. Louis territory for at least the next three weeks. It'll be close to a month before I hit Mississippi again. When I return, I'll only be here for two or three days and then I'll be flying to Louisiana for a week."

Paul looked at her thoughtfully, headed for the door and said, "Actually, that'll work well for me. I have several commitments coming up that will keep me busy for about the same amount of time." He put his hand on the doorknob and continued, "Gotta go. Stay sexy!"

Shannon followed him to the door, kissed him affectionately and said, "I'll call you when I get back into town."

Paul smiled as he opened the door and walked outside. The stifling heat and humidity of the July morning were almost suffocating, like a mythical creature pouncing on its prey and sucking the breath from its lungs. By the time he made it to the air conditioning of his black pickup truck, he was already dripping in sweat.

Shannon watched through the curtains until he started the engine and drove away. She finished her cigarette, sat on the edge of the bed and dialed a long distance telephone number. The phone rang several times before a panting male voice responded with a dry, "Hello."

"Hi, Sweetheart. Are you okay? It sounds like you need oxygen!"

"Hey, baby. It's great to hear your voice. I was outside mowing and came in to get a drink of ice tea. I had no sooner gone back out and closed the door when I heard the phone ring." Todd, her husband, paused to catch his breath and then continued, "So, how did the final meeting go yesterday?"

"Same old boring shit. That's why I didn't bother calling," she replied flatly. "My flight should be landing there at four o'clock this afternoon. Would you like me to catch a cab?"

Todd glanced at the flight number written on a slip of paper taped to a kitchen cabinet and said, "No need, sweetie. I'll be able to pick you up."

"Okay, then. I'll see you there. Love you."

"Love you, too," he replied as they hung up. He poured another glass of cold tea, gulped it and went back outside to finish mowing. He looked across his lawn and saw his neighbor watering rows of assorted flowers she had planted underneath her bedroom windows. She saw Todd looking her way and turned the water off. She dropped the hose and walked over to greet Todd.

"Hey, Yolanda. Your flowers are looking great." He looked back at his sparsely populated flower bed and smiled. "You certainly have the magic touch. We need you to come over here and work your charms."

"Thanks, Todd. Your flowers would be doing much better if you and Shannon had more time to devote to them. They don't need any charms, just a little fertilizer and some daily watering."

Yolanda adjusted her sun hat and asked, "When is Shannon due back?"

"She'll be home in a couple of hours. I'm going to finish the lawn, run a few errands and then swing by the airport to pick her up."

"This was one of her quickest trips in months. She wasn't gone nearly as long as she usually is," said Yolanda.

"You're right. It was a very short junket this go-around."

"It's fortunate you guys don't have any children. It would be so much more difficult and harder on everyone," offered Yolanda.

Todd nodded, bent over and removed the air filter on his lawn mower.

"When does Shannon have to leave again? It would be nice if she could stay home and get some rest. Those business trips must take a lot out of her."

"You're right about the trips. They do take a lot out of her. She never seems to be able to get a good night's sleep in hotel beds and always comes home exhausted. Thankfully, she won't have to leave for some time. All of her appointments for the next three weeks or so are going to be within the St. Louis area. She should be home every night."

Todd examined the air filter and tapped it on his concrete driveway. He looked at the residue and then put the filter back in the mower.

"Tell Shannon to stop by after she gets settled."

"I'll do that, Yolanda," he said as he donned his work gloves.

Yolanda dragged the hose over to a seedling and began spraying a fine mist around the base of the trunk. Todd waved goodbye, yanked on the starter cord and fired up his mower.

Back at the hotel, Shannon settled the bill and drove her rental car to a nearby diner. She ordered a salad and diet drink from a server that was in such a good mood, that it was almost scary. She was seated in a booth facing the door and waiting for her order to arrive, when a strikingly handsome man of medium build entered. His brown hair was cut in a military style and his short-sleeved shirt exposed well-developed biceps and forearms. His jeans were a snug fit and clearly defined every inch from the waist down. Shannon stared at the man's statuesque physique and initially thought that it was Paul. If that's not Paul, it sure as hell could be his twin, she thought as she started feeling aroused.

The man stood by the entrance and faced the parking lot. He was apparently waiting for someone else to arrive. He turned his head in Shannon's direction and smiled at her. When she saw his face, she decided that the man's features weren't close enough to be Paul's twin. He could, however, easily pass as Paul's brother.

Shannon returned the smile and fidgeted slightly. She wanted a reflective surface to check her appearance, but couldn't find any close by. When she glanced back at the stranger, he had turned his attention to another man walking across the parking lot.

"What a hunk! I wonder if you're like Paul in every respect," she said in a whisper as she drooled over the man at the door. The thought of a romantic interlude with the stranger excited and intrigued her. Shannon loved men. She wasn't sure why she had a hard time limiting herself to just one. Maybe it was the excitement of new sex partners. Maybe it was the attention and gifts. It may have been all those things combined and more. She wasn't really sure and spent little time thinking or worrying about it.

She looked around the diner and tried to think of a good introduction line. Striking up a conversation with Paul on their first encounter was easy. She met him in a Tupelo sports bar that was televising a professional baseball game on a wide-screen set. She had a working knowledge of the sport and chided in with others as they critiqued a bad call by an umpire.

Paul lived in Walls, Mississippi and had driven to Tupelo to help his brother repair the wooden fence running along his property line. Several sections had succumbed to nature's persuasive forces and collapsed. Afterward, both men were dehydrated and physically drained from their exposure to a grueling ninety-six degree day. They went to the sports bar to relax and recover.

Shannon was a slender, sexy woman with an attractive face and had little problem holding any man's interest. Conversation of any substance was rarely an essential ingredient. Such was the case with Paul.

The waiting man left the diner and met the approaching man just in front of a metal newspaper rack. They hugged briefly and kissed each other cordially on the lips. Shannon witnessed the affectionate encounter and immediately scrapped any further efforts to develop conversation topics.

She raised her eyebrows and looked at the approaching waitress. "Hmmm...he's not exactly like Paul. I can't speak for his brother though," she said softly.

"Excuse me?" said the waitress.

Shannon smiled and said, "It's nothing. I was just muttering to myself."

CHAPTER TWO

MADAME NAVOISE

Paul eyed the digital clock on his dashboard and exclaimed, "Shit! I'll never make it on time."

He finally saw the exit sign he had been looking for and sped off the main highway. Unfortunately, a Mississippi state trooper was waiting patiently with an active radar gun.

The trooper pulled him over, walked up to Paul's window and said, "Hey, Paul. How've you been?"

"Fair. And you?" replied Paul as he removed his driver's license and proof of insurance from his wallet.

"I'm doing well, thanks. I see you still favor the far right pedal," stated the trooper as he received the documents.

Paul looked out the passenger window and offered no reply as the officer began writing.

The officer looked at the empty gun rack behind Paul's head and said, "Done any huntin' lately?"

"Not much. Been too busy working."

The trooper finished writing the ticket, handed the book to Paul for his signature and said, "Still working at that auto body shop?"

Paul signed the ticket, handed the book back to the officer and said, "Nah. I took a warehouse job in Memphis. Better pay and chances for advancement there."

"You still live here though?"

"Yeah, it's a drive for sure. I don't mind it as long as traffic keeps moving. It only gets frustrating when some idiot screws up the works with an accident."

The officer gave Paul his copy of the ticket and said, "Slow down or you'll be walking to that warehouse!" He tipped his hat and returned to his police car.

Paul drove off slowly and maintained a "safe driving posture" until he reached the side road he had been searching for. Taking that particular dirt road had the potential of being hazardous. He liked to use it because it cut a critical twenty minutes off of his driving time to his apartment. He had used the five-mile, rural stretch of unpaved road on several occasions. He didn't like to use it on a regular basis because it was liberally peppered with deep and unforgiving ruts. The holes in the road often doubled as small ponds after heavy rains. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the area had experienced a torrential downpour the preceding day and the road was reduced to a slippery, red clay mess. Negotiating the road would be more like venturing on an amusement park slide than driving.

Paul cut to the right to avoid a large pool of water and directed his truck to a much smaller one. He immediately validated the expression, "big things come in little packages", when he drove into the monster rut just beneath the water surface. The recoil slammed his head into the roof of the truck cab and sprayed red mud onto the surrounding kudzu.

"Damn!!" he exclaimed as he rubbed his head. "There goes my freakin' alignment!"

Paul looked a few hundred feet ahead and spotted someone walking in the center of the road. The individual appeared to be walking directly toward him. He hammered his palm on the horn and shouted, "Move the hell over you dumb bastard!! You blind or what?"

As he closed in on the person, he slowed down somewhat and saw what could have been a woman. She was wearing a long, dark dress that covered both ankles and arms. Her black, stringy and knotted hair ran limply to her waist. The two black dots on either side of her nose looked more like high gloss marbles than human eyes.

He expected her to move to the shoulder of the road and yield to his truck. She didn't oblige and continued walking leisurely toward his truck, like she had just stepped out the front door to fetch the newspaper. He swerved to his right at the last minute, narrowly missing her. In the process, he nailed another rut and sent a massive wall of red muck sailing directly at the woman. He watched the rising wall of sludge in his rearview mirror as he turned and followed the bend in the road. Once around the bend, he looked in his mirror again. The woman was no longer in view. Paul knew that there was no time for the woman to avoid the watery onslaught and it brought a mean smile to his face. He laughed heartily and shouted, "Shower time, bitch!!"

What he didn't see...what he couldn't see, was what happened next. The lethargic looking woman spun around like a tightly wound spring that had just snapped and in a deep, nearly masculine voice, yelled, "RAD NEFI SABRAM!!" Every drop of water and every ounce of mud shifted course and landed many feet from the woman. She didn't bother to watch where it landed. She turned and resumed her journey, like she had just swatted a fly from her shoulder and nothing more.

Paul's thoughts shifted to the woman's garb. He was confused by her choice of wardrobe. No one in their right mind would or at least should, be wearing clothes like that in the crippling heat and humidity they were experiencing. Anyone dressed like that would surely feel like a steamed hotdog at the least. She didn't seem to be sweating and certainly didn't have the flushed, red face of someone about to collapse from heat exhaustion. It puzzled him why she was dressed the way she was and it puzzled him why she was even on that road. In all the years he'd driven that road, he'd only seen one person in the area and that was a hunter off in a field. There weren't any houses on that road, save the old abandoned farmhouse. It had been empty for so long, locals weren't even sure who owned it. Area teens had occasionally used it for beer parties and sexual explorations. They moved on to new, more inviting locations, leaving an array of empty beer cans, bottles and used condoms. Over time it became a condo for raccoons and field mice. If you were just driving by, you could barely tell there was a house there at all.

He was surprised when he drove by the old house to see the windows and front door restored. The rest of the house was still blanketed in the lush, thriving kudzu and gave the appearance of a green cave with windows. A narrow path, not more than a foot wide, led to the front door. He was driving by too fast to discern any other details.

The muddy road served its purpose and brought Paul to within a few miles of his apartment. He doubled the speed limit for the remaining distance and entered his parking lot like a professional race car driver coming in for a pit stop. He parked his truck and cringed with frustration and anger when he saw the muddy, red streaks adorning his beautiful new vehicle.

He ran to his ground floor apartment, unlocked the door and saw Kevin pacing wall to wall. He appeared to be engaged in a frantic conversation with someone on the other end of his cell phone.

"Hey, Kev, what's up?" asked Paul in a somewhat winded voice.

Kevin made some comment to the person on the other end and slapped the phone shut. "Man, where the hell have you been?"

"After the party last night, I was too messed-up to drive, so I got a motel room and crashed there. I didn't leave a wake-up call and overslept. Then I got caught in traffic on the way home. Chill, man, we've still got thirty minutes," replied Paul.

"I hope you realize it's going to take fifteen minutes to get to the church and you've still got to get changed. Patricia's pissed as hell and wants a major chunk of both our asses."

"She'll get over it," claimed Paul.

Paul removed his outer clothing hastily, donned a white dress shirt, snap-on bow tie, tuxedo and high gloss, black, dress shoes.

"Let's go, asshole," said Kevin as he tugged on Paul's arm. "I'm driving."

"Have you seen LJ yet?" asked Paul.

"He was here for about an hour. We called every place we could think of trying to find you. He finally went over to the church just before you got home," replied Kevin as the two got into his vintage, Mustang convertible and drove off.

Both were silent until they reached the church. They scrambled around to the rear entrance, where they were met by Paul's other good buddy, LJ, and a nervous pastor.

LJ was sitting on an iron stair railing, casually puffing away on a cigarette. He smiled when he saw his friends running from the car to the steps. He looked down at the concrete, saw a carpenter ant dashing to the other side and stomped it with his foot. He spit into the dehydrated, yellowing grass and waited for his friends to join him.

The pastor stood at the top of the stairs, looked at Paul and asked, "Do you remember what you're supposed to do and when you're supposed to enter?"

"Sorry I'm running so late, Pastor Sayers. I remember what to do."

"We've only got seven minutes left. I'll let everyone inside know that we're ready to proceed."

LJ jumped off of the railing, gave Paul a manly embrace and said, "You just cost me twenty bucks!" He looked at Kevin and said, "I'll settle on payday."

"You bet against me?" said Paul as he backed away from LJ.

"No man. I bet that you'd come to your senses and wait a few more years. You've still got a lot of party left in you. Now, Kev and I have to find a replacement!"

"A replacement for what? Nothing's going to change between us. I plan on having the best of both worlds. You'll see," stated Paul.

"Okay, buddy. Let's get inside. They're about to pronounce sentence on your future and handcuff you with a single band of gold!" laughed LJ as he put his arm around Paul's shoulder and ushered him into the pastor's rectory.

Once inside, Paul waited for his cue. The organist played the pre-selected song and Paul, Kevin and LJ took their positions at the alter. The old church's outdated air conditioning units valiantly battled the overbearing heat. The numerous, body length windows magnified the sun and thwarted their best efforts. The church interior felt like an oven set on preheat. Massive beads of sweat formed on the men's foreheads and streamed down their faces. Paul looked at the organist with pleading eyes, urging her to play the wedding march so they could get the ceremony underway. She had a small fan blowing a steady breeze on her and wasn't about to deviate from her mission.

When the wedding march was finally begun, Paul's shirt was totally soaked in sweat. Water from his upper body was making its way to his waist, saturating his belt and venturing into his briefs.

It was an old church that was built back in the days before roads were paved and there was only one telephone in the entire town. Radio was coming into its own and served as the main source of entertainment. Television hadn't been heard of yet. The congregation never grew beyond the limited population in the surrounding rural community. Their pockets weren't very deep and it was nearly always a challenge just to meet normal operating expenses.

The church had been standing for five years before it had its first coat of exterior paint and another ten years went by before they decided to add a steeple. The wooden steps leading to the entrance were eventually replaced with concrete and the women's guild gradually converted a few of the windows to stained glass works of art.

When air conditioning eventually came around, there was never quite enough in the church building fund to provide for that kind of luxury addition. The only time people thought of fundraisers to bring in more money to support the cooling modification was during the summer months. Each Sunday they would swelter in the pews, wipe copious amounts of sweat from their foreheads and go home with sweat drenched clothing. A few, temporary, window units were installed to ease the discomfort. When Monday mornings rolled around, the fundraising ideas for more sophisticated air conditioning were replaced with the higher priorities of everyday living.

Patricia heard the music and began her slow march down the aisle. She looked fresh and radiant in her wedding gown. As Paul was watching her, a beautiful woman in the last pew caught his eye. She had blond hair and the face of a supermodel. Paul couldn't recall ever seeing her before. Even though he was about to be married, he knew he wanted to see her again. He was hoping she would come to the reception and he made a mental note to search her out. Before he knew it, Patricia was standing next to him. He looked into her eyes and smiled widely as she took his arm and they walked to the banister to meet the waiting pastor.

Paul was surprised at how different she looked. She had somehow transformed her face into a work of pure beauty. He had always seen her as an attractive woman with a sexy body, but when she turned her head to face him, he saw perfection. Her hair had never looked so good. He was aroused by her appearance and wanted to throw her down on the floor and ravage her body. He restrained himself and reluctantly turned to the pastor.

Paul's decision to marry was more a family ritual than an individual desire. He was raised in a traditional household where life followed a specific sequence. You grew up, got married and had kids. You worked your ass off Monday through Friday, played or were involved in family activities on Saturday and went to church every Sunday. And just like his father before him, Paul liked the ladies but the ladies didn't provide a home with knickknacks on the shelves and warm, home cooked meals waiting on the kitchen table when the man came home. They didn't stick around to clean the house, or make sure there were fresh underwear and socks in the dresser drawers.

Paul was still a juvenile in many ways and needed someone to organize his life. He and Patricia could have just lived together, but she was looking for a secure port to set anchor in. By getting married, he was buying a physical and emotional insurance policy. He had a immediate source for sexual gratification, extra income from Patricia's paycheck and someone to see to his every need. All things considered, he was making the best choice for Paul; not Paul and Patricia.

They went through the wedding ritual, exchanged vows and sped off to the reception at the local VFW hall. When they got there, Kevin offered a brief and totally forgettable

toast to the couple and shouted, "Let the games begin!!"

The live band, a local garage group that played in surrounding taverns, did their best to play songs Paul and Patricia had selected. The newlyweds went to the dance floor and the festivities began. Paul got so caught up in the drinking and dancing that he forgot the blond from the church.

Kevin and LJ took turns dancing with the bride and then made their way to Paul. He was chatting with the pastor at the head table. It was an involuntary conversation that Paul had been avoiding.

"Now that you're a married man, Paul, are we going to see more of you at church on Sundays?" asked pastor Sayers sincerely.

Paul looked away, took a deep breath and looked back at the pastor. "I'll do the best I can." Paul knew he wouldn't make any effort at all to go to church, unless of course, they added a giant screen television. Appeasing the pastor seemed like the politically correct thing to say. Paul reserved Sunday's for sleeping and televised sports. The only sermon he ever wanted to listen to was one delivered by a sportscaster.

"Hey, pastor Sayers," said LJ as he joined Paul at the table.

"Great ceremony pastor," said Kevin seconds later as he sat next to LJ.

"Thanks, boys. I think I'll mingle with the guests and give you boys some space!" said pastor Sayers with a smile as he rose and patted Paul on the shoulders.

"Man, I just can't believe you got married!" exclaimed Kevin as he swallowed a big gulp of beer from his green bottle.

"Being married doesn't change anything. There's still plenty of babes out there just waitin!" stated LJ. "Your word is still good, isn't man? I mean, you're still plannin' on meetin' us at Grumpy's every Friday night aren't you, Paul? You weren't just bullshitting us were you?"

"Bet your sweet ass I am. I'd never turn my back on my 'buds'. Matter-of-fact, the first Friday I'm back from my honeymoon, I'll even let you guys buy my drinks!"

"Really? You'd actually let us do that for you?" said Kevin sarcastically.

They all had a good laugh, raised their beer bottles and made a silent toast to their friendship. Kevin was the only one to view Patricia's bouquet toss.

An exhausted-looking Patricia made her way to the three men and said, "We should be going, Paul. Remember, we have to be up early to catch our eight a.m. flight out of Memphis."

Paul wiped his mouth with his hand and said, "Okay, baby."

LJ jabbed Paul in the ribs and said, "It's started already! Did the pastor give Pat a leash with the marriage certificate?"

Kevin looked at Patricia and said, "Hey, Pat, when you threw the bouquet, did you and Jenna have it already worked out so that she'd catch it?"

Jenna was Patricia's best friend and had been engaged to her boyfriend for more than two years. Both of them always thought Jenna would be the first one to get married. The two had thought about and planned their weddings since they became friends in their early teens. They'd spend hours looking through bridal magazines and fantasizing about their elaborate wedding ceremonies. Each time they'd discuss their weddings, the scope and expense would grow. Patricia's final wedding cost was thousands less than anything ever discussed or planned between the two of them.

Patricia raised an eyebrow and smiled. She moved closer to Paul, put her arm around his shoulder and said, "We need to get going, sweetheart."

Kevin gave Paul and Patricia a hug and wished them good luck. LJ stood off to the side and hugged a beer. Then they said their goodbyes to the remaining guests and dashed out the front door of the hall. Kevin brought the rental car with big, white letters saying "Just Married" on every window, except the windshield, to the entrance and tossed the keys to Paul.

"Make sure you turn that in at the airport before you guys leave, or you'll spend the next ten years trying to pay off the rental bill!" laughed Kevin as Paul climbed into the car.

Paul looked back at Kevin, smiled mischievously and said, "Me? The car's on your credit card, not mine!"

Kevin's mouth opened momentarily, like a hanger door for mosquitoes, as he remembered the terms of the rental agreement. Then he returned the smile and said, "You almost got me!"

As Paul sped off he turned to Patricia and said, "Do you want to go back to the apartment and get our luggage together before we check into the hotel, or do you want to check in first, eat and then come back for our stuff?"

"Let's check into the hotel first and change. I can't wait to get out of these shoes," said Patricia.

"Did you remember to put our street clothes in the trunk?"

"My sister, Angie, did," Pat replied.

"Good. I could really use a shower. I was sweating my ass off in the church. I hope you gave Angie more than just a change of clothing!"

Pat looked at Paul, smiled warmly and said, "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. Maybe something black and sexy."

"Like a whip?" laughed Pat.

"That's not what I had in mind, although it doesn't sound all that bad!"

"You're terrible, Mr. Porter."

"So are you, Mrs. Porter."

"Maybe I should prime the pump!" said Pat as she ran her hand up Paul's leg.

"Keep that up and we won't make the hotel. I have to remember to get you liquored up more often. I like you this way!"

Pat plopped back in her seat, rolled her window down and let the breeze hit her face. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed as she rolled the window up. "I forgot how hot it was out there."

Paul laughed and said, "You were making it pretty hot inside too!"

They finally reached the hotel a few hours past sunset, checked in and made love until they were both exhausted. Paul propped the pillow against the headboard, lit a cigarette and enjoyed his nicotine fix. Pat rested in bed for a few minutes and then decided to take a hot, relaxing shower. She came out of the bathroom with nothing more than a white towel wrapped around her head.

Paul stared at her exquisite body and said, "You need to either put some clothes on, or jump back into bed!!"

She smiled and replied, "I'll get dressed. I'm starved...for food!"

Paul sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed and put his cigarette out. "I could go for a bite to eat myself."

"Do you have a taste for anything in particular?" asked Pat.

"Not really, so long as it tastes good."

"How about that catfish restaurant on highway 61?" she suggested.

"Yeah, that sounds real good! I want to shower first."

"Afterward, we'll swing by the apartment, get our stuff and make an early night of it. We have to be at the airport by 6:30. It takes an hour to get there, so we'll have to be out of here by 5:30."

"All right," said Paul as he channeled surfed. "I want to make sure we're back in time to catch the basketball game on Pay Per View."

Patricia sighed and said, "Don't worry. We'll be back in plenty of time."

They drove to the restaurant and waited forever to be served. They were sipping warm water and nibbling on stale crackers for twenty minutes before a server finally meandered to their table. He took their order and disappeared into a sea of customers.

"I sure hope that bastard wasn't expecting a tip," said Paul angrily.

"They look pretty busy and I haven't seen many servers walking around. They're probably short-handed," offered Patricia.

"Then they should have planned better. They should know their busy times and when they're going to need the most help. At this rate, I'll miss my game."

"They're just having a bad night, Paul. They wouldn't have been in business this many years if it was always this bad. Everyone, including you, can have a bad night."

"Maybe, but I'm not running an establishment that caters to people expecting good food in a timely manner."

Patricia realized she was trying to get ink from a brick so she went through a mental checklist of things they'd need for their honeymoon. She had already prepared a written list, which she read several times. She was thorough and didn't want to leave anything to chance. It was a big trip and it had to be just right. Their honeymoon would be her first excursion outside of the United States and she didn't want one minute of it spoiled because she forgot an imperative item.

In fact, Patricia had only been to eight states outside of Mississippi and was full of childlike excitement thinking about her first time on a commercial jet and their five-day cruise. They had to catch a flight from Memphis to Miami and hook up with their cruise ship, which boasted seven restaurants, a swimming pool, a ballroom dance floor and live entertainment every night. The cruise also included a two-day stop at Nassau, one of the Bahama Islands.

While Pat was thinking about their honeymoon, Paul was checking out the babes seated at the surrounding tables. The scant clothing worn by women during the Mississippi summer made it his favorite season. Looking at the women helped take the edge off of the boredom of just sitting at a table. He liked to imagine how their breasts looked without their bras. He would also look at their lips and wonder if they enjoyed performing oral sex. He never once looked at them and wondered what they did for a living or what they liked to do for fun. He never saw them playing with dolls as a child or as being someone's daughter, sister or wife. He basically saw them as sex machines, devoid of emotion and existing only to serve as possible pleasure centers, or as household servants.

The server finally arrived with fresh drinks and their dinner after a forty-five minute wait. Paul looked up at the young man and said, "I hope we didn't disturb your sleep!"

The man sighed, looked at Patricia and said, "Is there anything else I can get you, Ma'am?"

Pat smiled, looked at her dinner and then at the server and said, "No, thanks, I'm fine."

The younger server shifted his glance reluctantly and asked the same thing of Paul.

"How about a flare gun so I can get your attention when we really do need something?"

The young man looked back at Pat and said, "You folks enjoy your dinner."

Paul tore into his dinner like he hadn't eaten in two days. He watched Pat leisurely picking at her meal and said, "Did you forget about the game?"

"I haven't forgotten, we still have plenty of time."

Paul finished his meal and looked around for their server. "That bastard hasn't returned once to see if we needed anything."

"I know the service could be better. Your mouth sure didn't help much," snapped Pat.

Just then, their server came from across the room and said, "Can I get you anything else?"

"How about your resignation?" muttered Paul with a mean smile.

Patricia looked at Paul angrily and said, "We're kind of in a hurry so I guess we'll skip dessert. Would you just bring us the check?"

The server produced an order receipt from his apron, laid it on the edge of the table and removed their dirty dinnerware as he left.

Paul snapped up the receipt, glared at Patricia and said, "Are you finally ready?"

Pat rolled her eyes and replied sharply, "Yes, your majesty."

They walked briskly to the cash register and handed a man wearing a red apron their dinner check. He smiled cordially and asked, "How was everything tonight?"

"The food was good, when we finally got it. The service in this place sucks though!" barked Paul.

The man's smile disappeared as he glanced down at the dinner ticket. "I'm sorry you had an unpleasant experience. One of our cooks is sick and two of our servers didn't come in."

"Yah, yah. If you don't mind we're in a hurry," said Paul as he threw some cash on the counter.

The man at the register counted the money and entered the dinner total into the register. He handed Paul his change without looking at him and said, "You caught us on a rare bad night. I'd like to give you this coupon for a free appetizer on your next visit."

Paul pocketed his change, put his hand on the Pat's shoulder and said, "Give it to some other sucker. We won't be back!"

Paul ushered Patricia out the door and walked quickly to their car. He glanced at his watch and said, "We're going to barely make it."

Patricia nearly ran to the car, and jumped in, narrowly missing her head on the door frame. She buckled her seatbelt and crossed her arms angrily. She looked at Paul scornfully and chided, "I sure as hell hope you're not going to be like this on the cruise."

"Like what?" he replied in a shocked tone of voice.

Patricia turned her head and stared out the passenger window.

"Like what?" Paul repeated.

Patricia held firmly to her silence, looking blanking at the scenery that sped past them. Their first night as husband and wife wasn't even close to what she used to dream about. Somehow, life was supposed to magically change once you were married. Somehow, things that were seen as weaknesses in a partner were supposed to disappear once wedding vows had been exchanged. Patricia knew how harsh reality can be. Despite the facts of life, she still held on to hope and wanted the fantasy to come true. She held onto hope and kept her dreams inflated just in case doing so might help them to become reality.

Paul shook his head and pressed firmly down on the gas pedal. He knew he was flirting with another lawful encounter and couldn't care less. Patricia was proving that she was just another unreasonable, irritating woman. She was confirming Paul's generalization about women. He used to laughingly tell all of his friends in high school that women were only good for two things. After he graduated from high school and was working in a warehouse, he would walk up to male co-workers and ask, "You know the one good thing about women other than sex?" Most of them didn't attempt an honest answer and would reply, "No, what?" Paul would laugh, pat them on the back and say, "I don't either!! I was hoping you would know!!"

While Pat was glaring out her window, she glimpsed a familiar red and white octagonal blur. She turned toward Paul, who sensed her observation and sighed deeply.

"Don't worry, it was just a stop sign and there weren't any cars coming. I know what I'm doing." He removed a cigarette from his pack, lit it and said, "I'll get the next one!"

The two made it home without incident and actually had fifteen minutes to spare. Paul headed straight for the television, found the right channel and settled back onto the couch. "Hey, baby, grab me a beer, would ya," said Paul without breaking visual contact with the screen.

She went to the refrigerator, opened it and replied, "There aren't any left. Kevin must have had the last one."

"Damn! Didn't you do the shopping?"

"I figured I'd wait to do a regular shop until after we got back from the cruise," stated Pat.

Paul stuck his hand in his pants pocket, produced a crumpled, twenty dollar bill and said, "Run down to the corner and get some."

Patricia walked into the living room and stood between Paul and the television. She looked at the cash and then at Paul. "Get it yourself. I already have a million things to do before we leave."

"Shit!" he exclaimed angrily. "What a way to start a honeymoon." He jammed the money back into his pocket headed for the door and shouted, "Would you at least put a blank tape in the damn VCR and turn it on?" Without waiting for a reply, he stormed out of the apartment. He emphasized his frustration by slamming the door behind him as he left.

Living with Paul over the past year, she discovered he could be a real pain in the ass at times. She also experienced moments she considered wonderful, compared to the three months she lived with LJ. They shared an abusive relationship that was lopsided from the get-go. She wanted a husband, a house and four children while she was young enough to enjoy them. She felt like the stopwatch was running and LJ would be the one to stop it before time ran out.

Unfortunately, LJ only wanted a sex machine. His attitude toward women was much more hardcore than Paul's. At least Paul had some compassion and emotion when he needed to. LJ had a heart of stone and didn't give a damn about any woman's feelings. He didn't even buy his mother a birthday or Christmas card because he felt it was unmanly to yield to the commercial blackmail established by American businesses. He considered women to be unemotional, inanimate possessions that should be seen and screwed whenever he desired. He didn't care one bit about their desires or needs. He instructed Paul several times on the proper care and treatment of women. He warned Paul to be careful and to ignore their "whining crap". LJ cautioned him to never spoil women by treating them like they're men, or they'd walk all over him and leave him like a glass of flat beer. "Always remember, Paul, if they get out of line, a good slap across the face or push into a wall tows them right back in. Never apologize for anything you say or do, 'cause they probably had it comin' for something or another; whether you knew about it or not. Women are lying, sneaky bitches who will spread their legs for any man with enough money. I was screwing this one bitch and she told me she was pregnant. Hell, Paul, you know damn well I had that taken care of and you know damn well I can't make any kids. I told that lying piece of shit to get out of my life or I'd bury her. They all lie. They all think the hole between their legs is some holy sanctuary. Be careful."

One night, Kevin, Paul, Patricia and LJ were at Kevin's house shooting pool. LJ was pretty drunk and playing a crappy game of pool. Patricia walked behind him and bumped into his cue stick as he was about to shoot. It caused the cue ball to go wide of its mark and miss every ball on the table. He spun around angrily, grabbed her wrist and jerked her arm back and forth.

Pat grimaced in pain and fell backward over a small table when she tried to break free.

The two got into a yelling match which infuriated LJ even more. His woman had no right talking back to him. He raised his cue stick in a drunken rage and was about to split her head in half when Paul stepped in and grabbed the stick. Paul was several inches taller then LJ and definitely had the upper hand in body weight and muscle mass. He forcefully walked LJ back against the pool table and kept him there until he regained his composure. "That's enough, man!" Paul said calmly as he looked into LJ's eyes.

"Would you take me home, Paul," asked a tearful Pat.

LJ looked at Pat, shook his head and then said, "Take her home, Paul...and keep her. She's no good to me now. I'll just go to the pound and get me another stray!" He wasn't trying to be cool, he was just being LJ and he had no emotional attachment to Patricia whatsoever.

Not much was known about the true inner workings of LJ. The only thing known for sure was that he witnessed his mother's pimp stab a man to death when he was twelve. The only reason that was common knowledge was because it was in the newspaper.

The trio lived within four blocks of each other growing up and had been friends since elementary school. Kevin was the average, middle-class guy who did okay in school and served as the stabilizing link that joined the three together. He was the only "normal" one of the bunch. The most emotionally traumatic times he experienced while reaching manhood were diarrhea and constipation.

Kevin pretty much went along with everything LJ and Paul cooked up. He was with Paul and LJ when they removed the powder from several hundred firecrackers, rigged it with some gasoline and a few other ingredients and blew a hole two-feet deep in the woods. The force of the blast blew debris everywhere and started a small forest fire. They reported it immediately to the fire department, saying they saw two, unknown strangers running from the scene and were heralded as young heroes.

There was only one occasion when he went against the grain and acted alone. They all went to a summer barbeque at Adrienne Sommers' house to celebrate her fifteenth birthday. Adrienne shared several classes with Kevin and liked him as a person; nothing more. He was too "goofy" in her mind and spent too much time with the "wrong" kind of people.

The party was well underway when he had to go inside and use the bathroom. He stopped to examine an antique dagger Adrienne's father had mounted on the wall. He removed it from the wall and was holding it in his hand when her father entered the room.

"You know, that dagger is more than three hundred years old. One of my ancestors used it in battle somewhere in France I believe and it's been handed down from generation to generation ever since," said Mr. Sommers.

"It's pretty cool all right," remarked Kevin as Mr. Sommers took it from his hand and returned it to its spot on the wall.

"Next time you're in someone else's house, it's best to ask before handling their personal property. Understand me, boy?" said Mr. Sommers as he crossed his arms and gave Kevin a stern look.

"Yes, sir," said Kevin. "Sorry."

Kevin left, went to the bathroom and later rejoined the festivities in the backyard. Later that night, he was watching television with his parents when the police knocked at his door. Calvin Sommers had filed a stolen property report with the police and named Kevin as the probable thief. Someone at the party decided to take a souvenir and left with the dagger Kevin had been holding.

The police took a statement from Kevin and let him go. There wasn't sufficient cause to take him in for booking. Thanks to Mr. Sommers, word spread swiftly around the small town that Kevin was a thief and liar. Calvin could be heard laughing with local merchants about the spineless turd too chicken to fess up to his crime and face the music like a man.

One night, Kevin had a few beers that fueled the fires of vengeance within. He took his .22 caliber rifle and hid among some trees on highway 365. He was going to shoot one of the tires out on Mr. Sommers' car as he drove home from his butcher shop and scare the hell out of him. However, when he shot the tire, Mr. Sommers overreacted, lost control of the car and ended up dead in a ditch. Kevin never shared that experience with anyone and never felt bad about the consequences of his actions. In fact, there were moments he thought about the incident and smiled. It wasn't a deed he felt proud of. To him, it was like flushing a toilet with shit floating in the bowl. The justice Kevin rendered was harsh and decidedly final. At least there was justice and that made him feel good.

Years later, it was discovered that Calvin had hidden the dagger in his attic and collected an undisclosed amount of insurance money after the "theft".

Paul raced to the convenience store, yanked a six-pack from the refrigerated section and marched quickly to the cash register. There was a person in front of him searching through their pockets, struggling to produce enough coinage to pay for some candy bars on the counter. Paul was rapidly overwhelmed by a horrible stench emanating from that person. He wasn't certain if the smell was more like a steaming trash bin on a sweltering day or a dead carcass rotting in a field. It actually smelled like it could have been a combination of both.

He stepped to the left of the person and said, "I really have to be somewhere in a hurry. Do you mind if I go ahead and pay for this?"

The person turned slowly and stared into Paul's eyes. It was then that he realized he had encountered the same woman from the muddy road earlier in the day. Her pitch-black eyes made him feel uneasy and he wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He wanted to drop some money on the counter and leave but he couldn't lift his arms. He wanted to say something but his mouth wouldn't move and his vocal cords wouldn't respond. He could feel some drool running out of the corner of his mouth and he was helpless to do anything to stop it or wipe it away. The situation scared him and the fear caused his stomach to cramp and forced his heart to pound as fast as a road runner on speed.

The woman continued to stare at him without blinking once. Her eyes were a flat black, void of any moisture. She finally resumed her search for change and said, "You will wait your turn, as I would've waited my turn had you been here before me."

The woman produced a handful of coins and positioned them in a cluster for the clerk to count.

"Thank you," said the clerk as he finalized the sale and put the money in the register.

The woman left the store without looking back or uttering another word. Paul wasn't able to move again until she passed through the illumination from the streetlight and entered the night darkness.

"Man!!" exclaimed Paul. "That was freaky!!"

"Whatever," said the disinterested clerk. He looked at the six-pack, pointed at it and said, "Anything else?"

"Nah, just this." Paul gave the man a twenty and said, "Man, that woman is spooky as hell. When she stared at me, I literally couldn't move. Have you seen her before?"

The clerk dumped Paul's change in his sweaty, outstretched hand without counting it back to him and said, "Yeah."

"She lives around here?" queried Paul.

The clerk shrugged and said, "I 'spose."

"Shit! I wonder why I've never seen her before. Do you know anything about her?"

"Look, man, all I know is her name is Malvada. That's all I know. The only reason I know that is because one night I referred to her as lady. She told me her name wasn't lady, it was Malvada."

Paul looked at the clock hanging behind the clerk and said, "Hey, thanks." He bolted out of the store entrance and raced home. He returned to his apartment just as the visiting team players were being introduced. He opened a beer and set the remaining beers on the floor by the couch.

"Pat!"

"I'm in the bathroom. What do you want?"

"When you get out, put the beer in the 'frig so they stay cold."

Pat sighed and debated whether she would comply or not. They were married now so maybe it wouldn't be so hard to slowly modify the rules of the house. She turned her head toward the open bathroom door and replied, "I might!"

"Women!" muttered Paul as shifted his focus to the game and shoved his encounter with Malvada to the back of his mind.

CHAPTER THREE

THE HONEYMOON

When Pat and Paul boarded the cruise ship, they went through the required orientation and abandon ship procedures. They were instructed on how to maneuver around the different decks of the ship and steps to take when they found themselves completely lost or disoriented. Paul didn't pay much attention to the instructions because he knew they were safe and wouldn't have to actually employ any of the safety procedures. Besides, if there was an emergency, he'd just follow all of the other people who had paid attention. He was more interested in checking out the other female passengers. One brunette returned his glance and smiled seductively. He lingered after orientation and searched for the woman. The brunette had disappeared and left Paul with a witty introduction line stuck in his throat.

Paul reluctantly joined Patricia for a dance on the first night. He stumbled around on the dance floor and later suggested they split up during the second day so they could enjoy the "whole" experience of the cruise. They could rendezvous at the room at night and share dinner and the ship's planned, evening festivities.

Paul found a casino area that offered a scaled-down version of the casinos he frequented in Tunica, Mississippi. He dumped a few dollars in the slot machines and after having no good luck, he wandered to an empty blackjack table.

He sat down, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips and ordered a beer from a smiling, scantly-clad waitress. Her outfit was incredibly tight and looked as though it had been painted on her body. The design of the outfit provided for maximum cleavage exposure and it certainly drew Paul's attention.

He lit a cigarette and fantasized about being alone with the waitress in his cabin, while the dealer shuffled the cards.

"Sure is nice to look at," said a short man as he pulled out a stool next to Paul.

"Hell yeah!" replied Paul with a huge smile.

"They count on you looking at their servers so you won't be able to focus on the game and lose more money," offered the stranger.

"It's working with me! I'll bet they get hit on a lot," suggested Paul.

"I'm sure they do. The casinos have strict policies about that. There are several good reasons why they're not allowed to date the guests. I imagine they 'bump' into a few of the high rollers after hours though," said the stranger as he lifted a glass and sipped the contents slowly.

"I used to watch some of the high rollers back home and they would lay some healthy tips on those serving trays," stated Paul.

"Some of those servers make more in tips in a month than many people do in a year."

"I believe it. I wonder how many of them screw the gamblers for extra cash," said Paul as he inhaled on his cigarette.

"I suppose there are a few that do that sort of thing. I doubt you have enough money to draw that kind of attention though," said the stranger.

Paul chuckled and replied, "I know that's right! I sure wish I did. I'd like to sit at table and play with $100 and $500 chips. I'd like to have money to burn and come here alone. I'd write my room number on some $500 chips, drop them on the server's tray and spend each night in bed with a different woman. Boy, wouldn't that be the life?!"

The stranger smiled and said, "It would be nice, that's for sure."

The dealer finished the shuffling and dealt the cards. Paul looked at his cards and seeing that he had fifteen points, decided not to take any hits. He waved his hand over his cards to indicate he didn't want anymore. The dealer looked at the stranger Paul had been conversing with and waited for a response. He too decided to stick with what he had. They both ultimately won the hand. As a matter-of-fact, they both won the next six hands in a row.

"Seems to be our lucky day," chimed the stranger.

"It sure feels good," Paul remarked as he fiddled with his growing stack of chips.

"Luck is a mysterious thing that few ordinary people understand. Savor your victories today, for good luck is a fleeting event!" said the stranger. The man angled himself sideways, extended his hand to shake Paul's and said, "By the way, my name is Floyd. It's a pleasure to meet you, Paul."

Paul sat back in his chair. His eyelids closed slightly as he examined the stranger's face. He angled his head and stared questioningly at Floyd. He ignored Floyd's hand and said, "How did you know my name?"

Floyd withdrew his handshake offer and said, "You know, Patricia is really quite a wonderful woman. She's sensitive and has a tremendous capacity to love. You would do well to consider those attributes."

The man sitting to Paul's right nudged his arm and pointed to the waiting dealer. Paul looked at his cards and said, "I'll hold."

"I'm guessing I've met you somewhere before and can't remember for some reason. Help me out here. How do you know me and my wife?" said Paul as he lit a cigarette and took a short drag.

Floyd gazed at his chips and pushed them across the green felt to Paul. He finished his drink and said, "Quite simply, because I do!"

"That makes no sense," snapped Paul as Floyd turned and shuffled away.

Paul watched Floyd until he went around the corner of a bank of slot machines and vanished into a crowd of gamblers.

Paul fondled his additional wealth and looked at the dealer. "Man, I've lived twenty-four years and thought I'd met some weird people. I've got to tell you though, nothing tops the weirdos I've run into in the last two days. It's unbelievable!"

The dealer smiled obligingly and said, "Would you like a hit?"

"I'll hold," replied Paul as he glanced in the general direction of Floyd's path.

Patricia found Paul at the blackjack table, put her hand on his shoulder and said, "How much did you start with?"

He jumped slightly and said, "You startled me."

"Sorry."

"I sat down with 100 bucks and now I have nearly five." Paul lit another cigarette and said, "Do you know a guy named Floyd?"

Patricia thought for a moment and tried to remember the names of all the men she had encountered over the years. "I can't recall ever meeting anyone with that name," she answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Half of my winnings came from some guy named Floyd. He was gambling and decided he had enough and left. When he got up from the table, he gave me all of his chips. He seems to know a lot about you."

Patricia shook her head. "Never met any Floyds that I know of. Since you're so far ahead, give me a 100 so I can try my luck."

Paul counted out 150 dollars worth of chips and handed them to Pat. "Here. Take Floyd's chips. I'm sure he won't mind."

"I told you, I don't know any Floyds! I'll take the chips though!"

Patricia clasped her hand around the small bankroll and kissed Paul on the cheek. "Good luck, honey," she said as she headed for the cashier cage.

They each gambled for a few hours, explored the ship and met back at the cabin so they could go to dinner together.

"So, how much did you walk away with?" asked Patricia.

"I didn't win another hand after you left. I kept doubling my bets trying to get even and lost my ass. How did you do?"

"About the same. I hit a few times and made enough to keep me going. Then the house finally caught up with me and left me broke. Which restaurant do you want to go to tonight?"

"Let's go to the Fairview Restaurant, I have a taste for fish," said Paul.

"Okay."

They enjoyed a meal like none before. The service was impeccable; the food was fresh and delicious. For the brief time they were seated, they felt as if they were royalty, or at least people of great wealth and prominent social stature. Paul enjoyed the special attention and just wished the ship provided free brothels to complete the experience.

After dinner, they went to the Florentine Room and took in a magic show. The magician was aided by two gorgeous women, one of whom was later made to levitate and float freely around the stage.

He tapped Patricia on the shoulder and said, "See the way he's moving the hoop? He's doing it to make it look as though it's solid. If you get right up there, you'll see that there's actually a small gap in it so that it passes the wires that are suspending her."

Patricia smiled vacantly and nodded, however, she didn't take her eyes off of the performers.

Then the magician produced a length of rope and cut it in half with a pair of scissors. He waved his hand across the rope and magically restored it to its original form.

"Where did they get this guy? That trick is lame! He's using a specially prepared rope and joining it together by rubbing the ends together with his fingertips," laughed Paul.

A man seated at a table to his left heard the bits of insight and frowned. He cleared his throat loudly to gain Paul's attention and looked at him scornfully. He was annoyed by Paul's constant verbal interjections and hoped his expression of disdain would send a clear message to cease and desist. Paul was proud of his insightful observations and had commented on each trick throughout the act. He enlightened Patricia and anyone within earshot on how each trick was performed. Paul glanced over at the man once again and said, "These tricks are all outdated. I saw all of this stuff explained on a television special. This guy is just average at best."

"I have no doubt you are an expert in the field. My wife and I, however, are not and we'd like to enjoy the entertainment. Should we require explanation, you will be our primary source of clarification!" said the man.

Paul rolled his eyes and replied, "No problem, pal!" He leaned over to Patricia and said, "What a jackass!"

Patricia rested her hand on Paul's forearm and whispered, "Relax. He didn't mean anything by it."

When the magician produced a live dove from a handkerchief, Paul wanted to blurt out why all magicians use doves. Patricia squeezed his arm, peeked at him from the corner of her eye and turned her attention back to the stage.

The magician concluded his act and thanked the audience for their applause. His assistants shared the accolades and then handed the magician a microphone. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You're the best audience I've ever had!"

"Give me a break!" exclaimed Paul.

"And now it is my distinct pleasure to introduce our final performance for the evening. She has been acclaimed throughout the world as one of the premier visionaries of our time. Please put your hands together and prepare to challenge the psychic powers of Madame Navoise."

The magician raised his cape over his head, wrapped it around his body and temporarily disappeared into a huge cloud of white smoke. When the smoked cleared, the cape dropped to the stage and the magician had been replaced by Madame Navoise.

Paul raised his eyebrows and muttered, "Has to be a trap door somewhere."

"Shhhhh," uttered Patricia.

The woman walked to the edge of the stage and queried, "There is a man in the audience who is worried that his income tax audit will result in a penalty which he will not be able to pay. His name is Dur...Durman. Wait a minute, that's not quite right. It's getting clearer. It's Durwyn. Are you here tonight, Durwyn?"

Members of the audience searched the room for the man referenced. A man with balding, gray hair and caffeine-stained teeth raised his hand cautiously.

Madame Navoise smiled and said, "Shame on you, Durwyn. You're not going to be penalized on the IRS tax audit. Rest easy. The fact that you cheated on your business expense account will go unnoticed. Your secret is safe with me!"

Durwyn's face turned bright red and he smiled as he squirmed in his seat.

Paul shook his head and looked at Patricia. "They planted him in the audience. She's no better than the magician."

Madame Navoise closed her eyes and said, "Oh my! Daneisha, you'd better take another pregnancy test. The first stick you used gave you a negative result because it was defective!"

The audience chuckled and once again searched the room for the psychic sender. Several minutes went by, yet no one claimed the name.

Madame Navoise suddenly stopped smiling and closed her eyes. "I feel a tremendously strong force in the room. It is unlike any I've ever felt before."

She began to stagger aimlessly and clasped her head in both hands. A member of the stage crew ran a chair out to her and steadied it as Madame Navoise plopped on it like a wet dishrag.

The stage lights flickered and a hot, dead stillness fell over the room like someone had just covered everyone with a woolen blanket and turned the furnace to full blast. Candles on the tables flickered and some went out completely. Audience members were tugging at clothing close to their necks and wiping beads of sweat from their brows. All the while, Madame Navoise sat lifelessly on her chair.

Kudzu-like vines sprouted from the stage and totally enveloped the curtains serving as a backdrop behind Madame Navoise. Additional sprouts emerged and proceeded to carpet the stage, lifting and running under anything in its way.

Then all was still and completely silent. Members in the audience were becoming apprehensive. They remained in their seats and fixed their eyes on the stage as if in a hypnotic trance. Some were unsure how much was theatrical and how much was real.

Madame Navoise finally stood and faced the audience. All of the lights were back to full intensity and it became obvious that the psychic had altered her appearance. Her faced had become incredibly withdrawn and pale. Her eyes had turned as black as coal and her styled hair had gone limp and resembled darkened strands of wet sewing thread.

"I have a crystal clear vision," she said flatly as she turned toward Paul's table. "Good evening, Patricia Porter. I'll bet you looked magnificent in your wedding gown."

The statement jolted Patricia and she turned sharply to Paul. She smiled, grabbed his arm and said excitedly, "What do you think now?"

"Anyone could have gotten that information from the ship's registration log. If you'll recall, you signed us in as newlyweds," came Paul's reply.

Madame Navoise moved to the very edge of the stage and stared directly at Paul.

She didn't moved a muscle for a good five minutes. Audience members were beginning to grow impatient and started to chatter amongst themselves.

"Perhaps your spouse will find a better mate, if and when she decides to get remarried. Malvada has seen your resume and will soon be sending you on an extended assignment," stated Madame Navoise ominously.

Patricia was puzzled. The psychic's announcement made no sense to her. "Who's Malvada? Did you apply for another job?" she asked as she pulled back from Paul.

Paul's jaw dropped and he immediately got a sick feeling in his stomach. There was no way anyone aboard the ship could have known about the freaky, old woman in the woods. Even if the psychic did internet checks on them, that kind of information simply isn't available.

The man to Paul's left that had engaged him in conversation sometime earlier, seized the opportunity to retaliate with his own critique of Madame Navoise. He leaned forward, tapped Paul on the shoulder and said, "You've just been busted, dude! Sounds like someone found out about a girlfriend of yours. I can only imagine what the assignment is!! So, tell us, how they did they do this trick, buddy?" The man sat back in his chair, looked at his wife and some other people and laughed.

Paul recovered from his initial shock, bit his lower lip and said, "I never heard of anyone named Malvada and I haven't applied for a new job anywhere. This is all bullshit. I've said it before and I'll say it forever...all of this crap is fixed."

The stage lights dimmed and there was a familiar huge puff of white smoke. When it cleared, the vines had disappeared and Madame Navoise returned to her original stage appearance.

Paul was about to explain how the psychic slipped on a wig while the lights flickered, when a clump of hard, red clay slammed in the middle of their table. It was about the size of a business card and had some strange markings on it.

Paul's eyes widened and his stomach cramped. He threw the chunk of dirt to the floor and crushed it with one of his heels.

Madame Navoise thanked the audience for their participation and agreed that they were the best audience ever. She left the stage and the house lights came on. The air conditioning had resumed and the room was considerably cooler.

"Paul, are you sure you don't know any women named Malvada? If it's one of your old girlfriends, you can tell me. As long as it's over between you two, I could care less," reassured Pat.

"I'm telling you, I've never met anyone, male or female, by the name of Malvada."

Paul was actually telling the "literal" truth. After all, he hadn't really "met" Malvada. Unfortunately, for Paul, the psychic was right on the money.

Pat suspected that Paul was lying to her. She also realized that no matter how hard she dragged a dead horse, it would never rise to a gallop so she dropped the subject. "I'm pretty tired right now. I think I'll go back to the cabin, order a movie and crawl under the covers. Are you coming?"

Paul eyeballed the stage and then said, "Nah. I think I'll walk around on deck for awhile. My dinner's still waiting for a hall pass." Pat kissed him on the lips and headed back to their cabin.

Paul took a zigzag course throughout the ship and made his way to the fantail. He stood in awe as he watched the huge propeller wake being highlighted by the full moon. He had never seen anything like it before. He'd never been on a passenger ship either. He'd been on several small fishing boats in ponds, lakes and rivers when he went fishing. They paled in comparison to the magnitude of what he was experiencing on the passenger liner.

Distant lightning bolts created gashes in the fabric of the night sky and reminded him of another fishing trip he went on with LJ and Kevin. The three boys took their fishing gear to Dead Man's Pond, (so named one summer many years earlier when a drifter's corpse was found decomposing just off the bank), and boarded a small, fourteen-foot boat they kept tied up there. It was an old, weather-beaten, wooden boat given to them by Paul's uncle when he bought a new aluminum one.

Kevin had just turned fifteen and received a new shotgun from his father as a present. He brought the shotgun along so they could test it out in the woods before they went fishing. He also brought it along to shoot snakes. Snakes scared the crap out of Kevin and he went out of his way to kill them.

It was breeding time for the copperheads and not uncommon to see three or four racing from shore to shore. Occasionally, they'd confront boaters and people fishing along the bank. Some said it was simply out of curiosity, while others feared a full scale invasion and vicious attack. Kevin knew from experience that they were protecting their breeding ground and would die trying to defend it from any intruders, no matter how big they were.

He wasn't about to take any chances. If they got too close to the boat and decided to drop in, the shotgun would serve as the ultimate stop sign. You had to be a relatively good shot, like Paul, with a regular rifle or pistol to hit a copperhead. With Kevin's new shotgun, he would only have to be close.

The boys had been fishing for about an hour and were happy that the morning, summer sun was still cloaked in ominous dark clouds. LJ was sitting in the middle of the boat when he spotted a water moccasin slithering across the surface of the water. He nudged Kevin, who was on the aft end of the boat, and said nonchalantly, "Snake."

Kevin whipped his head in LJ's direction and shouted, "Where?"

LJ pointed and said, "There."

"Shit!!" he exclaimed as he dropped his fishing pole and jerked his shotgun to the ready. "Move over, LJ. I need a better angle." Kevin was stepping over the wooden seat in the middle of the boat when a lightning bolt struck a tree in the woods about 50 yards to their right. The sound of the thunder and near strike startled Kevin and in his confused fright, he squeezed the trigger of his shotgun. A shell discharged, blowing an impressive hole in the bottom of the boat and narrowly missing Paul's foot.

"Son of a bitch!" screamed Paul. "Damn, man, what the hell are you doing?"

Their boat filled with water in a matter of minutes and the last thing Kevin saw as he stood in water chest deep, was the water moccasin changing course and heading straight toward his face. He panicked and flailed his arms as he struggled to get to the safety of shore. In the process, he hit a floating stick. Thinking it to be the slithering evildoer, he let out a fear-choked scream and altered his course, taking a longer route to shore.

He scrambled up the bank and collapsed onto his back like a load of wet rags. He expended every last of bit of energy and lay with his eyes closed, gasping for air. He could hear LJ and Paul laughing as they approached. He sat slowly and turned to face his friends.

"It's not funny, assholes!" said Kevin angrily.

LJ stood next to him, dropped Kevin's shotgun in the weeds by his side and said, "It was funny as hell to the snake!"

Paul turned his back to the ship's wake and chuckled as he remembered the incident. His thoughts quickly changed to the words of the psychic. No amount of trickery, slight of hand or mirrors could have been used to know what she knew. That meant she had to be the real thing and that was just plain bad on so many levels. He didn't even know Malvada and he was already angry at her.

Paul stood at the fantail for nearly an hour and watched as the storm skirted miles to the west. The midnight sky was once again dark and silent. He yawned and decided to work his way back to the cabin. When he got back, the cabin television was showing some romantic comedy and Patricia was sound asleep. He turned the television off and was asleep before the set could cool down.

The remainder of the cruise was relatively uneventful. They did the "tourist thing" in the Bahamas and took scores of digital photos of themselves smiling in front of various sites and objects. They gambled a little more on the return trip and repeated their losing performance of previous venture. Paul looked occasionally for the mysterious Floyd. He wanted to know about him and how he knew so much about him and Pat. Instead, he saw scores of beautiful women and lusted for each one of them. Each time he thought he was onto a promising lead, the woman would be joined by some other man or she would simply walk away. He was disappointed by his losing efforts in the casino, and frustrated by his lack of success with the ladies.

The two flew back to Memphis on a Saturday night and resumed their daily routine in Mississippi on the following Monday morning. When Paul showed up for work at the warehouse, he was informed that there were staff reductions to increase profitability and he was among the workers being released. He was enraged by management's decision because there were dozens of other employees who didn't work five of their eight-hour shift and they were being retained. His supervisor handed him a white envelope containing his severance check and wished him well. Paul squeezed the envelope in the middle and shouted, "I can't freakin' believe you're letting me go and keeping that worthless slug over there that spends four hours a day in the bathroom!"

The supervisor remained stoic and replied, "We have our reasons for making the decisions we made. They're not subject to debate. I suggest you leave now, before you bite off more than you can chew."

Paul could feel a surge of hostile blood rush to his face. He wanted to smash his boss' face in and get revenge, however, he allowed his subconscious reason to prevail. He stormed out to the parking lot, got in his truck and sped off, leaving black rubber marks from his tires as he did. He drove off in a blind rage and wasn't even aware of his surroundings until he was a good five miles down the highway. His experience summoned forth the same emotions he experienced when he was seventeen. He was working part-time at a pet warehouse as the housekeeping manager. The warehouse supplied pet stores throughout the southeast with live fish of all kinds, monkeys, parrots, etc. His title was deceiving because he really wasn't a manager in the strictest sense of the word. He did no hiring or firing and had no employees to supervise. His main responsibility was to keep huge concrete fish containers, animal cages and warehouse floors clean.

The concrete fish containers were six-feet long, three-feet wide and two-feet deep. He put on wading boots and walked around inside them, scrubbing algae from the sides with a toilet brush. The containers were used to store large quantities of common household fish. There were several other teenage boys employed there and it was common practice to grab some goldfish from a holding tank and either throw them in with the baby alligators or piranhas. Paul refrained from joining in on the practice and was merely an amused spectator, until one Wednesday night when temptation got the better of him. He scooped up a small net full of goldfish and dangled them over the alligator tank. He dropped them one by one, laughing as the baby alligators clambered over each other to get a fish. Unfortunately, the owner of the pet warehouse was standing right behind him as he did. The one time he went against the grain, he was caught and his punishment was unemployment. He was angry as hell because the other boys always fed the alligators and never got caught. The other boys were frequently tardy and goofed off once they got there. Paul was always on time and always performed his assigned tasks in a timely manner. Yet, he was the one being punished.

When Paul got home, he threw his crumpled paycheck on the kitchen table, opened a beer and turned on the television. He couldn't focus on any specific programming. All he could do was pace to and fro in his living room. He had no means of venting his frustration and couldn't let go of the injustice thrust upon him. He should have tried to focus on events less irritating. Instead, he began thinking about the warehouse manager and the corporate assholes the warehouse manager sucked up to. He determined that it would take the manager and three corporate officials combined, to equal the work he preformed and dedication he possessed. Yet, he was the one being put out the door.

He grabbed his rifle from the closet and drove to the woods near the abandoned farmhouse. He figured that a brisk walk in the woods and some target practice would help vent his angry steam. He walked through an area of dense underbrush and noticed several large crows circling over a group of pine trees near the farmhouse. He didn't much care for crows or any bird for that matter and decided to rid the world of a few. Maybe he couldn't kill his boss or his co-workers but at least he could kill something.

He led the first crow and took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger slowly and timed the shot perfectly. There was a small puff of black feathers quickly followed by a black mass spiraling to the ground. Instead of flying away in a frenzied panic, the remaining crows flew to a tree behind the farmhouse and seemingly stared in Paul's direction. Moments later, the woman in black, whom he now knew as Malvada, emerged from the heretofore abandoned, kudzu-enveloped farmhouse. Her appearance surprised him.

She glared at Paul with her beady black eyes and then shuffled to the fallen bird. She bent down, lifted it from the ground and slid it into pocket on the side of her dress.

That looks like the same dress she was wearing before I left on my honeymoon, he thought as he watched her go back into the farmhouse. You filthy slob, someone ought throw you into a lake and scrub you down.

"You eatin' those damn birds?" he yelled. "Hang loose, bitch, second course comin' up!" Paul raised his rifle, slid the stock to his shoulder and took aim. The next round discharged and another crow dropped like a rock.

Malvada came out once again. This time she was carrying something under her arm. She walked deliberately to Paul, never breaking her stare. Thistles firmly hooked the fabric of her dress as she walked, yet they didn't impede her progress. She stopped within two feet of Paul and jammed a white sign with bold, red letters directly in front of him. The hand painted sign read,

" **Private Property**

\- No Trespassing -

Violators Will Be Dealt With My Way!".

The unmistakable stench of rotting flesh and tissue nearly took his breath away. Paul was familiar with the odor of death. He had smelled it many times before. He also knew that flies savored the ghastly aroma. Of all the things he could have been thinking about, the foremost thought was flies. It came to mind that they were missing. There were no flies anywhere near Malvada. The thought bothered him as he backed away. He tried to maneuver in such a way as to avoid being in the path of the breeze blowing in his direction.

"Hi. I don't mean to trespass. I didn't realize anyone owned this place. When did you buy it?" asked Paul as he lowered his rifle. The bitch can't afford this property. She's probably just a damn squatter.

"You're becoming a real nuisance. Now leave!" replied Malvada as she turned her back to Paul and walked to the fallen crow. She retrieved the corpse and slid it into the same pocket as the previous bird. She went back inside the farmhouse without casting another look in his direction.

"This is not my freakin' day!!" he exclaimed. He fired several more shots randomly into the air, then turned his rifle to Malvada's sign and ventilated it with three final rounds. He returned to his truck and angrily jammed his rifle in the gun rack. Paul got behind the wheel and gripped the wheel so tightly, his knuckles turned white. He turned the ignition key so hard, it bent slightly. Then he gunned the engine with his right foot, pushed on the brakes with his left and dropped the truck into gear. He looked in his rearview mirror and held the gas pedal to the floor. A stream of pebbles and red dirt flew from the shoulder of the road in Malvada's direction. Paul laughed as he sped off. Although he wasn't sure where he was going. he knew he was certainly going to get there in a hurry!

He thought about going to see LJ and having a calming beer or two. A quick check of the time revealed that LJ wouldn't be at the bar for at least another hour. Even though LJ was a bartender at Ray's Sports Bar, the three friends always drank and socialized at Grumpy's. It had been their hangout years before LJ started at Ray's and there wasn't a good enough reason to break camp and change their favorite watering hole.

LJ was on his way to Ray's when he stopped to get some lunch at a fast-food restaurant. He ordered a burger, some fries and a soft drink. The cashier told him his total and LJ handed the guy a twenty-dollar bill.

"Here's your change, sir," said the cashier.

"It's almost my change. Unfortunately, you're ten dollars short," stated LJ.

"You gave me a ten and I gave you the correct change."

"Here's the deal, pal. I saw you shortchange both people in front of me. I don't know why they didn't notice and I really don't care. Now you're doing the same thing to me. The difference between them and me as that I'm not going to stand for it."

The cashier called his manager over and said, "This guy is calling me a liar and a thief. He says he gave me a twenty. I guarantee that when you look in my drawer, you won't see a single twenty."

The manager looked at LJ and said, "Let me check the drawer and we'll straighten this all out." Sure enough, both the woman's twenty who was first in line and LJ's twenty were missing.

"It would seem you are in error, sir. You can plainly see there are no twenties in this drawer. We all make mistakes."

LJ nodded and said, "I understand." He raised his eyebrows and continued, "A mistake was definitely made."

The manager smiled and said, "Enjoy your lunch and have a good day!"

LJ returned the smile and said nothing.

The cashier brought LJ's order to the counter and said, "The manager super-sized your order at no additional expense to you. Enjoy your meal."

LJ took his lunch to a table and watched the cashier the entire time he ate. When he finished, he walked behind the counter and headed straight for the manager. He read the name badge the manager had pinned to his chest and said, "Steve, I want you to know that I have absolutely no problems with the food. I certainly have no reason to complain about the taste or temperature of the meat. However, we need to have a heart-to-heart chat here about that asshole you have standing at the register." LJ put his arm around the manager's shoulders and walked him to the cashier.

"You were absolutely correct, Steve. A mistake was made...by this asshole," said LJ as he removed his arm from the manager's shoulder and jabbed his finger in the chest of the cashier that took his order. The cashier stumbled backward from the impact and looked fearfully at LJ.

"This freakin' jackass is ripping people off. He has a pocket full of tens that he palms and switches with the twenties that customers give him."

The cashier looked at the manager, regained his composure and said confidently, "The man's on drugs or something, Mr. Wilkins. Do you want me to call the police?"

LJ reached across, grabbed the cashier's shirt near the collar with his left hand and smashed the guy's nose all over his face with his right fist. He stood the barely conscious cashier against the counter and said, "One and only one last chance. I'm not much on long conversations. Am I right or am I right? You only have until I count to three!"

The cashier didn't wait for LJ to count. "You're right, "he mumbled weakly, spraying tiny streams of blood that had gushed from his nose as he did.

"I don't give a shit about the other people he ripped off. That's their problem," said LJ as he stuck his hand in the guy's pockets and turned them inside out. He scooped up all the tens and twenties from the cashier's pockets and said, "Let's consider this an out-of-court settlement. Agreed?"

The cashier brought LJ into focus and said, "Okay."

LJ looked the manager in the eyes and said, "Whatcha' say Steve? Is it over or is this just round one? If it goes to round two, it'll get a whole lot uglier!"

The manager looked at the cashier and then back at LJ. He thought about his impending promotion and transfer to a new state. He didn't want any legal hassles or possible physical disabilities to hinder his progress. "Case closed, as far as I'm concerned." He looked at the cashier and said, "Don't even consider filling out an accident report. Just clock out and go home. You're fired!"

LJ took the money he was holding, stuck it in his pocket and left. On the way out the door, he tucked his shirt back in and covered the pistol stuck between his belt and his back.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEW JOB

By the time Patricia got home that night, Paul had overcome most of his anger. He knew he was young and could find another job with little effort. Being fired for no reason and without warning, however, hit him like a tractor trailer doing ninety. He explained the job loss to a sympathetic Patricia. He complained about the rampant incompetence displayed on a daily basis at the warehouse and the reluctance of management to take any corrective action. Alcohol had sanded the rough edges of his anger and he was much calmer as he continued to groan about the injustice he was forced to endure.

"They'll never find anyone that can do as good a job as me. They'll never find someone as dedicated as me. What's even worse, is that they don't even care if they do or not. Nowadays, no one much cares about anyone. All management can see is the bottom line and how much bonus they'll get. They say they care about their employees and then they cut their benefits. Why? Why cut benefits and fire people? So they can hire replacements for less money and get bigger bonuses! That's why."

Patricia sat behind Paul on the couch and rubbed his neck and shoulders while he slowly nursed the last of his fifth beer. "Want me to call Pam tomorrow?" she asked as she smiled warmly.

Paul hesitated, exhaled deeply and then said, "I guess it wouldn't hurt."

"When I saw her at mom's last week, she was saying that Casey was having a hard time finding people that wanted to work."

"Yeah, well in this damn heat, any outside job, especially construction work where you're lifting heavy shit or whatever, is going to be grueling. It's certainly not my first choice. Maybe it won't be so bad for a while. I eventually need to find something else though."

"Didn't you work there before I met you?"

"I had a summer job with them when I was a junior at Wilson High. Your sister wasn't working there yet. She took over as the receptionist/secretary just after I graduated. I left Casey Construction and went to work as a grease monkey at O'Dell's. Then I left O'Dell's and went to work at that warehouse job in Memphis. I really thought it was my ticket to bigger and better things. It's times like now that I wish I had paid more attention in school so I could have gotten better grades and gone to college."

"You could take night classes."

"Yeah, I suppose," said Paul insincerely.

"When Pam married Jeff, he was working for Casey as a general laborer. Now he's a carpenter and making real good money. Pam said he was going to be building custom cabinets for that new housing development in Germantown. They almost have enough money saved to buy the land they were looking at in Oxford."

"Are they still planning on building their own house there?" he asked.

"They're going to do everything except for the plumbing and electrical. He has a friend that will do the plumbing if Jeff helps him build his house. Same with the wiring. The electrician is going to trade his labor for their labor. It's a great deal for all concerned. I know Jeff wanted to bring you in to help. Have you thought anymore about getting in with them?" asked Pat.

"I've thought about it several times. You know as well as I do that we're not even close to having enough money to do something like that," lamented Paul as he lit a cigarette.

"I thought you said you were going quit smoking as soon as we got back from our honeymoon."

"Why do you have to start on me now? Don't you think my day has gone bad enough?" replied Paul angrily.

Pat wiggled her way out from behind Paul and said, "I'm going to take a shower." She stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Paul shook his head and yelled, "Make it a cold one!" He opened the last beer of the six-pack and shouted, "Hey! What about my dinner?"

Patricia walked to the linen closet and yanked out a clean towel. "What were you yelling about?"

"I said, where is my dinner?"

Pat stopped at the bathroom door and yelled back, "Somewhere in the kitchen. Find it yourself!"

Paul walked to the hallway, heard the shower water running and mumbled, "Bitch!" He returned to the living room, thought for a minute and said aloud, "I'll make dinner the old-fashioned way...I'll order it." With that, he called the pizza shop and ordered a large pizza with everything on it. They confirmed the order with him and as he was about to hang up, he blurted, "Wait a minute!! Make that a small pizza. I'll be eating alone."

The following morning, Patricia called Pam and made arrangements for Paul to stop in and talk to Casey. "Pam said there wasn't any particular time you need to be there. She said Casey would be in the office all morning to sign some paperwork and review blueprints. Just make sure you're there before lunch because he's going out to a project site." She kissed him goodbye and left for work.

Paul showered, dressed and drove to his favorite diner for breakfast. He always flirted with the waitress and she reciprocated by smiling at him the entire time he was there, knowing it would enhance her tip.

He finished his coffee, paid his tab, (tipping heavily as usual), and headed off to Casey Construction for his interview. He took a back road to cut through the maze of typical asphalt insanity occupied by cell phone junkies and saw a familiar figure dressed in black. This time Malvada was simply standing on the shoulder of the road. She was looking in Paul's direction and watched him drive past her. He felt apprehensive and didn't know why. His hands began to get cold and clammy and his vision blurred. When he looked for her in his rearview mirror, he saw a brown spider with the body that could easily cover a quarter, dangling from a thin fiber attached to the glass. Then the air conditioning in his truck shut off and several dark brown wasps shot from the vents. The temperature inside the truck escalated and he was finding it difficult to breathe. His heart raced and sweat oozed from every pore like someone had turned an internal sprinkler system to full blast. He looked down and saw a cockroach about the size of his thumb. It hopped to his leg and began running up the outside of his pant leg toward his belt. He swatted in the area he last saw it and then wiped a growing pool of sweat from his brow. Several salty drops had already trickled into his eyes. Suddenly, there was a loud popping sound and then a thump, thump, thump. He had blown a tire.

He pulled off the road, and as he was changing the tire, a crow flying overhead dumped a load on his windshield. When he walked back to his cab, he noticed the mess on the window and started his engine. He turned on the windshield wipers and although he had recently filled the water reservoir for the wipers, none materialized. Instead, he produced a milky-gray film that smeared the glass in front of the steering wheel. He pounded the steering wheel, shut the engine off angrily and jumped from the cab. He then proceeded to throw the tire and tools in the bed of the truck. A powerful gust of wind came from nowhere and blew a cloud of dust at him. When the sweat from his completely soaked body came in contact with the roadside dust, it converted it to a red mud. He was filthy and his clothes stuck to his body like someone had just sprayed him with a hose. He returned very slowly to the cab of his truck. The way he felt, he didn't care what would be waiting for him. To his surprise, the interior was free of bugs. When he started the truck, even the air conditioning was working again. "What a freakin' way to start a day," he muttered as he drove away.

He used to keep a small hand towel in the truck to wash fresh, bug guts from his windshield. In keeping with the prevailing weird luck he was experiencing, Patricia had taken it out to wash it and never replaced it. He had nothing to effect any kind of personal clean up, so when he arrived at Casey's, he was still sweaty and grubby-looking.

Pam looked at him and laughed. "Damn, Paul, you're a mess!! What happened?"

"Long story, Pam. I'm sure Casey will understand."

Pam went to a white, wooden cabinet and opened a small door beneath the office coffee maker. She produced a multi-colored dish towel and threw it to Paul. "Run into the bathroom and freshen as best as you can."

Paul took the towel in hand and as he rose, he said, "Thanks, Pam." A few minutes later he returned and handed the towel to Pam.

She grimaced slightly and said, "I don't want that!! Put it in the basket by the cabinet." When Paul had completed his assigned task, she shook her head, pointed to a chair and said, "Have a seat, Paul. Casey's on a conference call with one of his crews."

Paul sat down and when his sweaty back came in contact with the cold chair back, he lunged forward.

Paul was about to light a cigarette when Pam said, "Sorry, Paul. You know Casey wouldn't mind at all. His wife has banned it and we can't let anyone smoke in here anymore."

Paul sighed and said, "I'll be right back."

He stepped out into the blazing sun, lit his cigarette and looked at his truck. Paul saw that another tire had gone flat. "Shit!" he exclaimed. After only a few drags, he slammed his cigarette to the ground and walked to the airless tire. He examined it briefly, trying to determine the cause. He kicked it, as if to punish it for being bad, and went back inside to wait for Casey.

"Do you mind if I use your phone, Pam? I forgot my cell at home."

She pushed the telephone toward Paul and said, "Dial nine first."

He dialed a number and said, "Hey, Bosco, it's Paul. I had two freakin' flats today and I'm short a tire. Would you mind running one over to Casey's as soon as possible?"

"No problema, amigo. I probably won't be able to break free until around one or so. You need the whole nine yards I take it."

"Yeah. I had a blowout this morning and when I got to Casey's, my right rear was flat as can be," stated Paul.

"Gotcha' covered, man. Later."

"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it." Paul hung the phone up and saw Casey smiling in the doorway.

Casey walked to Paul, shook his hand and said, "Finally saw the error of your ways and returned to a real man's job, heh?"

"Something like that," replied Paul.

"Come on in and grab a seat." Casey turned his attention to Pam and said, "Let me know if the bank calls about the loan, otherwise hold all my calls."

"Even your wife's?" said Pam with a smile.

"If you have to ask, maybe I need someone new at that desk!"

Pam smiled and started filing some folders in a huge, black filing cabinet. She originally wanted to become a nurse and specialize in infant care. Unfortunately, tuition costs became overwhelming and forced her to take a break. She was six years older than Patricia and regularly took care of her while their mother worked. Her responsibilities with Patricia spawned her interest in childcare and it never waned. She and her husband both wanted children of their own. They discussed it several times and ultimately decided to wait until she finished college and got settled in a good hospital.

Casey closed the door as Paul sat and then took a seat facing Paul behind his steel office desk. He overheard the conversation about the tire shortage and figured that's why Paul looked as disheveled as he did. He didn't see any need to confirm his suspicions. Casey lit a cigarette and said, "I hear you just married Pam's sister. How could you do something like that to a woman?"

"Like what?" asked Paul in a puzzled voice.

"Like marrying one. You've always had a problem keeping your damn zipper shut. You telling me that's changed?" laughed Casey.

Paul looked at Casey, smiled, looked at the floor and back at Casey. "I hear you're hiring."

"Sure am. You looking for full-time?" asked Casey.

Paul nodded.

"Pam told me you lost your job at a warehouse in Memphis. What happened?"

"Political shit. They had cuts to make and I didn't kiss enough ass. I gotta tell ya, Casey, things really haven't been going my way lately. I feel like I've been cursed or something."

"I know the feeling, pal. Are you familiar with that old abandoned farmhouse off of old highway 347?"

"Yeah. We used to do some hunting over there," offered Paul.

"We tried to buy the property and build some houses on it. We found out some old lady had already bought it and was living there. The place is disgusting. I know I'd never live there. She's disgusting too. She was dressed entirely in black and smelled like a restaurant dumpster on a hot, August afternoon. Anyway, I went over there and made her a reasonable offer, probably twice what the land is worth."

That's the story Casey was sharing with everyone and it was partially true. He did make her a reasonable offer, however, it was no where near twice what the land was worth. What he didn't share was part two of the story. The part where he tried to bully Malvada and threatened to use his connections to have her property condemned and eventually, one way or another, take ownership of it. Casey didn't give a damn what people really thought, so long as it didn't affect his cash flow. He would say anything he thought he needed to say to close the deal and get what he wanted.

"She got angry with me and threw me off of her land. She told me to leave her alone and warned me to never return. Weird shit has been happening to me ever since."

"Like what?" inquired Paul.

"We had finished most of this two-story house we were building for a bank president in Tunica and had called in two concrete trucks to pour the driveway, the front sidewalk and back patio. The first truck poured the back patio and concrete walkway leading from the front door to the garage. Then the second truck pulled up and started pouring the driveway itself. The concrete flowed smoothly and evenly just like it's supposed to. When the driver received the signal to shut it off, nothing happened. Hell, concrete kept coming and coming. We tried everything we possibly could to shut it off. We knew if we let it run in the same spot that we would have a huge mound of solid concrete that would be impossible to move. So, we kept moving the truck and dumping concrete in little piles until the truck ran out. It was a helluva' mess that took us three days to clean up."

Paul smiled and said, "Three days?"

Casey nodded. "Well, not three complete days. Then after we got all that concrete cleaned up, a nail gun malfunctioned. It was sitting on a pile of lumber and the damn thing started shooting nails everywhere. It flattened six tires, got one guy in the leg and broke several windows in our trucks. That shit just doesn't happen in everyday life!"

Paul thought for minute and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The wrapper was still slightly wet from sweat. He looked at Casey and said, "You mind?"

"Hell, no!" replied Casey.

Paul knew all about weird and didn't question Casey's story one bit. He decided against adding his own freaky experiences. Maybe talking about Malvada could make it worse. He didn't know if that were possible and had no intentions of taking any chances.

Casey crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and said, "I have an opening with Kyle Webster's crew. They need a nailer and a rock man. You've hung sheetrock before, right?"

Paul smiled and said, "Hell, that's how I cut my teeth with you. Remember, you made me carry all that damn sheetrock up two flights of stairs at that housing development south of Davis Point."

Casey laughed and said, "I remember that now. I thought you were going to keel over and die after your first day! You up to that shit?"

"I can handle anything, Casey. I'm not saying it's something I'd like to do the rest of my life so if a better job opens, throw me in it."

"How much you looking to make?" asked Casey with a shrewd grin.

"Hell, I know you're a cheap bastard and I don't expect more than scale. Just keep in mind, if you want to keep me, you have to make it worth my while."

"Tell you what I'll do. I'll start you off at seven bills a week. I'll watch you for a couple of weeks and if things work out and business stays good, I'll bump it up some," said Casey as he leaned back in his chair.

Paul agreed without thought or hesitation. He hated being in the heat and busting his ass. He also knew that he needed to learn a marketable trade. He needed a skill that he could build upon and use to make some extra cash on the side. He of knew a guy named Justin that had became a master carpenter and did home repairs and home remodels. He was always boasting to everyone at Grumpy's on the number of bored housewives he scored with while doing the repairs. That was an enticing fringe benefit that sounded very appealing and motivating to Paul.

Casey extended his hand to Paul and said, "All right, then. Think you'll be ready to start tomorrow?"

Paul shook Casey's hand and replied, "Mmm-uh. What time?"

"I want you to meet Webster here at 6:00 a.m. sharp. If you snooze, you lose."

"I hear ya'," affirmed Paul.

"So you've been married about a week now. How do you like it so far?"

Paul smiled and answered convincingly, although insincerely, "Best thing that ever happened to me." What he really meant was that from a tax standpoint, it was the best thing that ever happened to him. It was the only significant thing that changed in his mind. The little gold band on his finger comes off as easily as it went on. He wouldn't allow it to form a kink in his armor.

"I wish I had the time to sit here and shoot the shit with you some more. Maybe some night we'll get together and down a few brews. Right now I've got to hit the road and catch up to my partner. We're looking at buying a new twin-engine airplane."

"You finally got your pilot license?" asked Paul in disbelief.

"Yeah. I've been flying for about a year now. My partner knows some guy that works for a branch of the government that deals with goods seized in drug raids. They hold auctions from time to time and sell the stuff that was seized to private citizens. Anyway, this guy left the airplane off the master auction list so my partner and I will be the only ones bidding on it."

"Pretty sweet deal. I'm guessing the government guy did it for you guys out of the kindness of his heart!!" chuckled Paul.

"Something like that."

"What are you going to use the plane for?"

"We developed some property that we bought in Florida and put a small runway there. We're using an old single-engine Cessna to fly down there when it's slow and take the boat out to do some fishing. The Cessna has reached its limit with us. It's really too small and getting on in years. It's starting to need too much maintenance."

"Must be nice!" said Paul in an envious tone. "How many houses did you guys put in there?"

"We built eight homes with a runway stretching from one end of our property to the other. Instead of a street running in front of each house, we have the runway. The only way in or out is by airplane. It keeps it very private."

"I'll bet it makes shopping a bitch!" chuckled Paul.

"We just finished building a warehouse that holds enough nonperishable food items to supply 40 people for six months. Fresh produce still has to be flown in weekly."

"When are you going to let me use your place?"

Casey laughed and replied, "That would be never. It's an exclusive deal made with all the homeowners. Members only. No outsiders...no exceptions!"

"Man, that sucks!" said Paul as he put his cigarette out.

"We wanted that smelly bitch's property I was telling you about to build some homes and put in a small runway there. We have to drive nearly forty-five minutes to the municipal airport now and pay outrageous hangar fees."

"And I thought I had it bad! How do you deal with the stress?" said Paul with a sarcastic smile.

Casey frowned slightly, rolled his eyes and said, "Gotta go, Paul. Don't forget...Webster will leave with you or without you. If he leaves without you, don't come back here!"

"Understood."

The two shook hands and Paul left. He smiled at Pam on his way out and said, "See you tomorrow."

"You'll see me tonight. Pat's having us over for dinner."

"Tonight?" he moaned. Paul was supposed to meet Kevin and LJ at Grumpy's later that night. "What time?"

"Pat said she wanted us there by seven."

Paul feigned a smile and said, "Guess I'll see you later then. Did Pat say what she had planned for dinner?"

"I asked her if she wanted me to bring anything and she said no. She said she was making her strip steak special, with the works."

"Now, that's going to be something to look forward to!" He waved and went outside. Bosco still hadn't shown up with the tire so he went back into the air conditioning to wait.

Paul dozed on a small couch across from Pam's desk and was completely dry by the time Bosco arrived. He opened the door slowly and looked around the room. He smiled and said, "Hey, Pam." Bosco had a crush on Pam and tried to date her several times. Pam had no interest in him and made it a point to steer clear of any encouraging conversation. He wasn't a bad-looking man and seemed genuinely nice. He was always polite, kind and respectful no matter how he felt. He also had a big plug of chewing tobacco sloshing around in his mouth every time she saw him and it was revolting to her.

"Hey, Bosco," she replied with a smile. She pointed her finger in Paul's direction and said, "He's catching up on his beauty sleep."

Bosco turned toward Paul, took a couple of steps and kicked Paul's sneakers. "Wake up, turd breath!" laughed Bosco.

Paul's eyelids fluttered open as he righted himself. He wiped the drool from his mouth and saw a tall man wearing blue overalls, a sleeveless t-shirt with dark, oil stains and a blue baseball cap with a capital V in the center.

Paul stretched and said, "Hey, Bosco. Been busy today?"

"Yeah. I had a couple of oil changes and a lube job to do before I could break away. I still have to put on some new brake shoes and grind some valves before I can go home tonight. I'd appreciate it if we could get goin'."

Paul stood and walked outside with Bosco close behind. They fixed the flat and Bosco took both tires back to his shop to repair them. He was a trusting man that never had much in the way of material wealth. He told Paul to stop by and pay for the repairs when he had the money. If you waited too long to square away your bill, Bosco had a way to remind you that demanded your immediate attention. One guy owed him $450 for nearly a year and consistently skirted Bosco's efforts to collect. One Friday night, Bosco and a few of his buddies drove to the man's house in the middle of the night and totally dismantled the man's car. They used all of the pieces to spell "Pay Up", on the guy's front lawn. When the guy woke on Saturday morning and looked in his driveway for the morning paper, he almost had a heart attack. All that remained of his car was the frame, resting on eight cinder blocks. When the police arrived in response to his call, all they could do was laugh. The message provided them with an excellent idea who did it. The responding officers weren't entirely sure a real crime had been committed. The car hadn't been stolen, nor had any part of it been destroyed. In the end, no charges against anyone were ever filed and the man found a way to pay his debt to Bosco the following day.

Paul drove home, showered again and had a couple of beers. He called LJ and indicated that he may not make it to Grumpy's. He knew his absence wouldn't affect LJ's decision to go or not. He still felt an obligation to call. He turned on Court TV after the call and dozed again in his well-worn recliner. He stared at the backs of his eyelids for a couple of hours and awoke to a stomach that was vigorously demanding attention. He walked into the kitchen and said, "Damn, I never ate lunch!" A quick check of the time indicated that Pat would be home soon and would more than likely start on dinner shortly after she arrived. Not wanting to spoil his appetite for corn on the cob, strip steak, coleslaw and potato salad, (his absolute favorites), he decided to munch on some pretzels and beer.

That night, Pam and her husband arrived exactly at seven. They swapped small talk for a few minutes and then gathered in the kitchen. Paul snapped up a plate and eagerly formed mounds of potato salad and coleslaw. He was stabbing at a corncob floating in a pan of hot water on the stove, when Pat looked at Paul scornfully and said, "Where are your manners? Company should go first."

Paul glared at Pat and snarled, "My manners? Shit, I have no idea where they went. Why don't you look for 'em and get back to me in about a hundred years!"

Pat reeled back and looked to Pam for sympathy. Pam looked away and refrained from any involvement. Pat pulled tight on the reins of her emotions and stared a hole through an oblivious Paul. She wanted to run and cry. She wanted to slap Paul so hard it would knock his brain loose. She understood Pam's position and realized she was in this alone. If that's the way it had to be, then that's the way it had to be.

Paul finished filling his plate and sat at the table. The rest of the group soon joined him. Pam and her husband, Jeff, looked at each other blankly. They both avoided eye contact with Paul and Pat. Paul and Pat were still on the verge of nuclear confrontation so they opted to maintain their focus on their food and various pieces of bric-a-brac scattered within eyesight.

Paul spotted a cobweb dangling from the ceiling and thought, lazy bitch! Pat replayed Paul's reaction over the manners issue and thought, insensitive bastard! That's the way their meal progressed until Paul lunged backward in his chair, sending it crashing backward to the white, vinyl floor and yelled explosively, "Holy shit!!"

The outburst startled everyone and was probably heard by neighbors two doors away. Forks dropped, chewing stopped and all eyes were turned to Paul. He sprang from his seat, scrambled to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. He cupped handfuls of water into his mouth and spit repeatedly after each irrigation. He gagged and nearly vomited several times, his eyes watering with each gut wrenching gag. Finally, he turned away from the sink and wiped his face with a nearby dish towel.

"What was that all about?" queried Pat suspiciously, assuming Paul was simply enjoying a bit of melodrama.

Paul walked to his plate, pointed at the potato salad and said, "Freakin' maggots!" Hundreds of little white worms were wiggling through the potatoes and eggs. One emerged from the middle of a Spanish olive and fell to a flower within the floral pattern on the edge of Paul's plate.

Everyone's eyes dilated as their attention immediately redirected to their own servings. They were equally infested. Pam clasped her hand over her mouth and sprinted to the bathroom. The unmistakable sound of someone puking echoed back into the kitchen. Jeff breathed deeply and said, "Thank God I haven't eaten any yet!!"

Pat joined her sister in the bathroom and they soon treated the men to the less than pleasing stereophonic sounds of vomiting. Jeff glanced at Paul and said, "You've got a couple crawling down your shirt!"

"Shit!" exclaimed Paul as he literally ripped his shirt off. "Do you see any more?"

Jeff stood and scrutinized Paul's body and replied, "Nah. You got the last of them."

Paul yanked the cabinet door under the sink open, got a black trash bag and gathered the plates from the table and threw them into the bag.

"You're not throwing the plates away too, are you?" asked a puzzled Jeff.

"Hell, yeah!" he said as he tied the bag off and walked out his apartment door. He looked back at Jeff as he left and said, "This shit is going straight to the damn dumpster." He lifted the lid of the dumpster and tossed the bag in. When he dropped the lid and turned around, he saw a figure walking leisurely across the parking lot. It stopped and faced him long enough for him to determine that it was Malvada.

"Get the hell out of my life, bitch!" said Paul as he gritted his teeth and charged toward her like an angry bull.

Malvada smiled ominously at him, turned and disappeared slowly into the darkness.

Paul put his hands on his hips and looked carefully in all directions. He saw nothing more of her. He suddenly had the feeling he wasn't alone. He spun around in the darkness and although he didn't see anything, he had an unnerving sensation that someone or something was closing in on him. The humid air seemed thicker and surrounded his body like an invisible wet blanket. Bugs circling the street lights vanished. He felt a subtle vibration of some sort rattling his body and heard a high pitch sound. "Okay, Paul Porter. Time to get your ass back inside. You're starting to spook yourself like a little kid that gets freaked when you ask him to look under his bed in the dark." With that, Paul went back inside. The rest hadn't noticed his absence. They were all too concerned with their own recovery.

When Paul opened the door to his apartment he saw Pat spraying the living room and bathroom with air freshener. Pam and Jeff were cleaning up in the kitchen.

"What about dinner?" asked Paul.

Pam looked at him in disbelief. "You're still hungry after what happened?"

"Hell, yes! Potato salad is definitely out though!"

"I could actually stand to eat something too," added Jeff.

"I'll try to make something in a little bit. My stomach is still a bit queasy. Could you eat something, Pam?"

"Not right now. The thought of those maggots still sickens me. If the guys are still hungry, I suggest they go out and grab some fast food somewhere."

"Doesn't bother me," stated Paul.

"I think your cell phone is ringing, Pam," said Jeff.

Pam picked up her purse, shuffled some stuff around and removed the phone. She recognized the number and was confused why Casey's wife, Sharon, would be calling her. She had never called Pam's cell phone before.

"Hello," said Pam.

"Hi, Pam. It's Sharon. I've got some terrible news." Sharon hesitated before continuing. Pam could hear sniffling in the background. "It's Casey, Pam. He passed away about five hours ago." The phone fell mute.

Pam gasped and sat down like someone had switched her to slow motion. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and began to roll freely down her cheeks. The news took her breath away. She admired Casey and had grown close to him and Sharon over the years. She was impressed with his strength of character and no-nonsense approach to life. Others who knew him only saw the way he lied, cheated, swindled and manipulated people. To those people, he was a selfish, greedy, and cold-hearted bastard.

Pam wiped the tears from her eyes, inhaled deeply and said, "I'm so sorry, Sharon. I'm so, so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Thanks, Pam. I appreciate your sympathy and offer. My sister is coming over for a few days and my brother is flying in from Atlanta tomorrow. I'll be all right. It's just going to take time."

"I'm just so sorry. How did it happen?" asked Pam sympathetically.

"Casey went to look at the airplane going up for auction and asked if he could test fly it before he made a bid. They said okay, so he and his partner took it up and circled the airport a couple of times. Apparently, Casey flew into a flock of crows that clogged the engines. From what they can determine, the engines must have lost power and the plane went into a dive. It crashed into some high-voltage lines and they were electrocuted. I'm not opening the office until after the funeral. I'll keep the company running as long as I can and I'll probably bring Webster from the field to the office as the new manager. Don't worry about your check, Pam. I'll make sure you get paid while we're closed."

"Do what you have to do, Sharon. Don't worry about me. You have enough to worry about now. I'll support and help you in any way I can. I think Webster will make a fine manager."

"I know I can count on you, Pam. My sister is making all the necessary funeral arrangements and will be calling everyone with the details."

"Call me if you need anything at all and I do mean anything," offered Pam sincerely.

"Stay well, Pam. I'll call if I need anything. Goodbye."

"My prayers are with you, Sharon. Goodbye."

Pam relayed the story to the others and looked to Jeff when she said, "Let's go home, honey. I've had all I can handle for one night. We can stop some place on the way home and grab some food."

Pat walked them to their car, hugged Pam and went back inside. "It's horrible about Casey," she said to Paul.

"Hell, he's just a man. An ordinary man who got up every morning, put his clothes on and did ordinary things. He wasn't a saint by any means. So he died, we all die. It's the final sale. Is there any beer left?"

"You're something else. I'm sure there is. Go look for yourself." She kissed Paul on the cheek and said, "I'm going to bed...alone."

Paul wasn't close to Casey or saddened one bit by his death. The news of Casey's departure was as acceptable to Paul as the shooting of a deer during hunting season. "Hell, it's too damn early for bed. I'm going to Grumpy's."

"Do what you want," said Pat as she slammed the bedroom door shut.

Paul changed his clothes and drove to Grumpy's. LJ was already there, sitting tacitly on a barstool and massaging a glass of beer.

Paul walked to LJ , delivered a powerful slap to his back and said, "Hey, buddy."

"I didn't think you were coming," replied LJ as he steadied his drink.

"Yeah, well, things kinda' turned to shit tonight. My new boss turned himself into a crispy critter so I won't be starting my new job tomorrow," said Paul as he ordered a beer in a glass. "It's good in a way because I wanted a few more days off to rest. I wonder how long they'll be closed."

LJ could care less about what happened to Paul's boss. He was more interested in a brunette sitting at a table with a guy wearing a tie. Paul nudged LJ with his elbow and said, "You'll never get her. She obviously has taste!"

The bartender eased the cool drink in front of Paul and made change for the ten he had dropped on the counter. Paul left the change where it was, lifted his glass to his lips and heard another familiar, masculine voice. "Hey, man. LJ told me you wouldn't be here tonight." Paul turned his head slightly and recognized Kevin standing to his left.

"Things change," said Paul.

"What about the new job? I thought you had to be up before God tomorrow," laughed Kevin.

"Things change. The job has been put on hold."

"Gotcha'. In another words, someone told them what a lazy bastard you really are," said Kevin in an attempt to be funny. "I hear the paper is looking for delivery boys."

"Very funny. It's nothing like that. My boss just croaked. Got himself fried in a plane crash this afternoon."

"That sucks, man. Got anything else lined up?"

"I'll still be doing the construction thing. His wife is going to keep the business going. They're just taking some crying time for a week. I'm just not sure how long it will all last. Sharon is a tough broad with nerves of steel and an iron fist. She'll need more than that to keep the business going though. Casey was the one who had all of the connections."

LJ glanced in Kevin's direction and nodded. Kevin nodded in return and followed LJ's eyes back to the brunette. He smiled and said, "Hey, LJ. Had any good bites yet?"

"Not yet. I have a 20 that says I get laid before you!"

"No bet here. Keep your 20 where it is. That's a sucker bet!" said Kevin with a routine, obligatory smile.

Paul lit a cigarette, inhaled and as he blew the smoke out, reflected on the events of previous days. Unusual things kept happening. Bad things. Things that all seemed to be linked to the woman in black. He looked to Kevin and said, "You know anything about that old bitch living in the farmhouse off of 347?"

"I didn't know anyone was living there," he replied.

LJ turned and said, "I've seen some old bitch hanging around the place. She's probably some old homeless lady. Why?"

Paul took another slow drag on his cigarette and said, "I was just thinking. Seems like every time I see her, something bad happens to me."

Kevin ordered a round of drinks for the three of them and said, "She's living in the old farmhouse? They don't even have power lines running to that place anymore. How long has she been there?"

"No freakin' clue. I'm telling you guys that there is something real wrong about that woman. When I say wrong, I mean evil. She's always wearing a long, black dress whenever I see her and smells like a dumpster on wheels. If you get close enough to see her eyes, they send chills up your spine," stated Paul.

"I'd definitely remember seeing someone like that!" laughed Kevin.

"This bitch is spooky, man. She's got stone-cold, pitch-black eyes. At least I think they're eyes."

"Maybe she's on drugs," offered Kevin.

"I think it's more than that. She's always got a bunch of crows flying around the place. My boss, or least former boss, Casey, pissed her off when he tried to buy her land. Next thing you know, he crashed and died because crows flew into his engines and the plane lost power."

"Weird shit, man," said Kevin as he swallowed some beer.

"I'm not sure how she does it. She definitely has evil as a bed partner," said Paul.

LJ finished his fourth drink and said, "Let's go see the bitch and deliver some payback!"

"Maybe we should," agreed Paul.

"Maybe we'd be doing everyone a favor," chimed Kevin. He smiled and said, "This is going to be a fun night after all."

The thought of revenge tickled Paul's imagination. He smiled and said, "The bitch needs a lesson all right!"

CHAPTER FIVE

MALVADA

The evening moon summoned forth a batch of wandering clouds from the darkness of forever. They huddled together in front of the moon like soldiers forming around their commander. The clouds remained motionless, as if waiting for some secret orders for the night.

Like good soldiers, once adequately briefed, they were off to carry out their assigned mission. On that particular night, the mission was to spread moonlight madness on the unsuspecting world below. They made their descent, moving at a snail's pace. Once earthbound, they made their way stealthily through the suburban streets.

Malvada stood thoughtfully at her living room window, paying slight attention to the unusual summer fog. Her beady eyes shifted upward. She admired several waves of clouds as they presented a slide show of shapes in front of the moon. Her focus shifted once again to the upper right corner of the window. There she saw a small, brown house spider diligently working its web. It would attach a strand to the highest point of the web, then drop to the lowest; trailing a moist, new thread as it glided down. Working from an innate blueprint, it positioned each sticky strand as perfectly as the one before. Malvada marveled at the precision and graceful motions of her tiny artisan.

"You have enviable talents and qualities, you little bastard," she mumbled.

As she watched it work, she wiped her hand against her soiled, black dress and raised it deliberately toward the web. She waited until the spider reversed course and traversed down again. When it reached the bottom, she broke through the delicate spider work with her hand and maneuvered the spider onto her less than steady palm. She eagerly grasped the spider between the wrinkled index finger and knobby thumb of her other hand and crushed it savagely.

Malvada smiled decisively, displaying her rotten, black teeth and an equally black tongue. She scrutinized the splattered spider guts on her fingers and then brought them to her eager mouth. She slid her tongue across the fingertips and licked them clean; leaving a solitary spider leg sticking to her lower lip.

She stared into the moonlight and said, "What do you have for me tonight, old friend?" The clouds glided past the moon, allowing her an unobstructed view.

She listened intently and smiled once again. "You bring the news I've been waiting and longing for. Like the spider, my life too shall soon be forfeit. I see a three-headed creature, consumed with drunken rage. It will come screaming and meet me in the darkness. It will divide itself and spit red-hot fireballs at me." Malvada looked around her living room and then at the floor. She rubbed her chin and looked back at the moon. "Those fireballs will suck the life from this tired, old body...a body way too tired to fight any new battles. I am glad of it. It shall finally be my turn. I'm ready to feed the flesh of my body to the creature and let it have its pleasure. I'll permit it to savor the victorious juices of its insane rampage, but once again, I will not allow it to vanquish my soul."

Malvada crossed the room and eased her thin frame into her favorite, black rattan chair. She raised a filthy glass from the floor and eyed its contents. It was filled with a grimy elixir that looked like it had been scooped from a septic tank. As she swallowed the last drop, she wiped her lips with the back of her wrinkled, old hand. She let the glass fall to the floor and uttered, "Alas, time to prepare." She patted the armchair and continued, "Don't worry, my dear, old friend. I'll make sure you're well taken care of. We will have to alter your diet somewhat. I hope you don't mind." She rose slowly and adjusted an entangled, pewter pendant hanging around her neck.

The charm, attached to a very worn, black strip of leather, was her most prized possession. It was given to her by her mother many years prior and never left Malvada's body. It had been her intention to give the ancient pentagram to her daughter or someone equally worthy. Much to her dismay, she was denied both.

She smoothed the folds in her dress and gradually made her way to the center of her living room. She stopped at the edge of her Persian rug, its glamour now just something to reminisce about, and gave a sharp snap of her fingers. As she did, the rug rolled itself up and exposed rotten, barely stable, floorboards. Then Malvada walked to a dusty, wooden bookcase and removed three Mason jars filled with powdery substances. She shuffled back to the newly exposed section of floor and twisted open the lid of the first jar. With a grand, sweeping motion, she scattered a black powder with tiny green specks. When the last of the powder settled to the floor, Malvada spoke the beginning words of what would be her final chant.

"Chimey yok, chimey yok...weotic!"

Then she opened the second jar and sprinkled a bright yellow powder on top of the black. Again she chanted, "Rebada jokay, rebada jokay...weotic!"

Malvada popped the lid to the final jar and poured a blue and white powder over the others. She turned her head sharply toward the bookcase, thrust out her arm and chanted, "Selonic eback, selonic eback...weotic!" As she chanted, a book flew across the room at lightning speed and slammed into the palm of her hand. She brought it before her face, kissed it as gently as though it were a newborn baby and tossed it to the ceiling. When it crashed into a rafter, the book burst into blue and white flames. Within seconds, the book was reduced to multicolored ashes that floated down and settled into the powdery recipe forming on the floor.

Malvada removed a small vial from her dress pocket, unscrewed the lid and let a slow glob of spit run into the opening. Then she shattered the contents in the center of the powdery mess. She stomped her right foot violently on the floor and closed her incredibly baggy eyes. When she raised her eyelids, her eyeballs were as fluid and as black as raw crude oil. She raised the index finger from each hand and simultaneously scratched a few drops of the fluid from each eye. She touched the border of the granular circle with her fingertips while they were still wet. Then she stood back and watched as the assorted powders started shifting and swirling. The floor vibrated, causing everything in the room to shake slightly. After a few minutes, the shifting powders produced a crude looking image of the United States.

Malvada moved to a cluttered corner of the living room, removed a long, black pole and returned to the swirling mass. Atop the pole was a shiny black, glass ball, being somewhat larger than a tennis ball.

"Well, good friend, you and I have shared a lot and have fought our share of battles. We have won most and faired well in all. We have tasted the life fluid of our enemies and they ours. We've been admired, feared and hated. As such, our existence demands constant vigilance and frequent violent encounters. Their pursuit is relentless. Our peace is not of this world. I am tired and want to battle no more. Our romance has reached its peak and now we are looking at the last chapter." Malvada kissed the glass ball and said, "It's your last performance so make it your absolute best."

Malvada grabbed the pole with both hands and clenched it tightly. "Do it. Do it now!" Seconds later, the glass ball began to spin at a furious rate. As it did, blue arcs of electrical energy danced wildly from its core and ran the length of the pole.

Malvada lifted the pole over her head and touched the bottom of it to her table radio. The radio vibrated, gave off a high-frequency sound and disintegrated into a fine white powder. The powder was then sucked into the pole like a vacuum cleaner.

She spun around and stabbed the bottom of the pole into the swirling map. More blue arcs raced down the pole, met the map and created spectacular red sparks. The radio, turned white powder, was released from inside the pole and sucked into the map where the red sparks were. The illuminated area of the country looked very similar to the state of California.

Malvada laughed hideously, raised the pole over her head and tapped a jigsaw puzzle encased in a baby blue box. Like the radio, it turned into a powder and was also sucked into the pole. Again, she drove the pole into the map. This time the pole made its mark on the state of Illinois. As before, there were brilliant red sparks and the puzzle was sucked into the map.

She quickened the pace and her laughter grew deeper and louder. The stench of vomit emanated from her mouth as she laughed, filling the entire house with the nauseating smell.

Malvada repeated the process time and time again with all of her personal belongings until most everything she owned was gone. The only items remaining were a few lit candles, a couple of red flower vases and some empty, green wine bottles sitting on termite-infested window bases.

Suddenly, the few remaining glass windowpanes began shattering around her. It came as no surprise to her. She was ready. The creature she awaited had arrived with the drifting fog. She glanced out the window and looked skyward. The moon had slipped behind the passing clouds so it would be spared the ordeal of watching its friend leave in so violent a fashion.

She raised her black pole over her head and as she did, she felt a sharp, burning pain in her chest. She screamed loudly. It wasn't a scream of physical pain though. She had finished her business and the scream sealed the curse. The wheels were turning and nothing could stop the pain that would follow. Nothing could prevent her final act of revenge.

Malvada cupped her hand and put it to the open wound in her chest, allowing it to fill with a dark red blood of sorts. She dropped to her knees, let the blood flow through her fingers and drip onto the map below. As she did, she said, "And this shall become the new sustenance that you will require to nourish your souls." Then she peeled a small chunk of flesh from her wound and threw it into the center of the map. "And this shall become your new food...your reason for being!"

Malvada rose to her feet, kissed the pole like a departing lover and broke it in half over one of her knees. She held the two pieces tenderly for a moment or two, then tossed them gently into the center of the churning map. As the pieces landed, there were more blue electrical sparks and the pole was gone. The map stopped swirling and the myriad of powders became completely motionless. The room became dead silent. Another fireball shattered the silence and lodged in the mortar between the fireplace bricks.

Malvada raised her right arm over the still powders and began turning it in large clockwise circles. Her arm rotated faster and faster. The room began to vibrate once again, its intensity increasing as her arm moved faster. Then she stopped and pointed to a broken windowpane. Her eyebrows were arched so high they nearly touched her scalp. The powders on the floor continued to vibrate and delivered a variety of high-frequency sounds.

" **WEOTIC - NOW!!!!"** she commanded in an eerie scream. The final spell had been cast...the final curse put into action.

The vibrating powders flew out the broken window at blinding speed. They climbed aboard prevailing winds and were spread throughout the United States.

She surveyed the area and noting that the last speck of powder was gone, turned to the window and said in a deep, low voice, "May greed be your keeper and ignorance be your lover!"

Malvada moved with anticipation to the front door and prepared to meet the creature. It would not only end her existence, it would also bear the responsibility for the end of many others as well. In Malvada's heartless eyes, there were no living, innocent human beings on earth. Not anywhere. Not at any time.

It would take several years and travel thousands of miles before Malvada's final curse would work its evil on scores of lives. There were no boundaries, absolutely no restrictions. It would work on any living creature, (with emphasis being on human beings), who dared to get too close or wanted something for nothing. The curse would work its evil on all. All except one that is.

The execution of her curse on a victim could be quick and over in a matter of seconds, or it could linger and savor a victim's prolonged pain and anguish. It would prove to be most devastating to a young man from Mississippi, named Paul Porter, and a young Midwestern girl, named Helen Wagner. Malvada's curse would spin their world completely upside down and inside out. It would turn day into nightmare.

CHAPTER SIX

HELEN

The pungent odor and soft-looking puffs of white smoke from burning autumn leaves were permanent members on Helen Wagner's secret list of favorite things in life. She would sit quietly on the gray concrete steps leading to the front door of their two-story house and patiently watch her father as he raked the lawn. Each blister-enhancing stroke would herd the multicolored pages of summer's end into an ever-growing pile.

Helen loved the diverse colors of fall and wished tree leaves and all plant leaves for that matter, remained the same varied array of colors throughout the entire year.

When the pile met the worn spot on the knees of her father's faded jeans, he'd scoop the leaves up in his hands and fill a large, silver trash can. Then he'd drag the can to the edge of the chipped, concrete curb and dump the leaves onto the street.

As her father worked, Helen would bounce a green tennis ball casually on the walk below the bottom step. She feigned indifference about the ongoing landscape activities. She took special care to project a bored appearance and only offered a weak smile each time her father glanced in her direction. However, a wild excitement and impatience grew within her, like a developing volcano about to erupt, when she watched the colossal mountain of leaves forming on the aging street.

When he completed the tedious task, Joe Wagner would always caution her to stay out of the pile,"...because cars don't know the difference between little girls and dirty, old leaves." When you're seven years old and you only have a couple of hours before the leaves become ashes, a problem develops. Most parents define the condition as selective hearing. Children think of it as nonessential babbling.

As soon as the forbidding eyes and restraining voice of her father were no longer a barrier, Helen would slash her mental restraints and swing into devious action. She would tour her house and make sure her father was sufficiently engrossed in "father stuff", like making or fixing things. Another acceptable father task was being a couch anchor. That's how Joe defined his Saturday afternoon naps.

Once the coast was clear, Helen would leap into action. Off came her plastic frame glasses and any shoes that she might still be wearing. Then she'd bolt across the well-kept suburban lawn and belly flop into the peak of the pile. She'd worm her way to the core like a giant night crawler avoiding the light and fantasized that she was an explorer in a safe, yet still virgin territory.

After a few minutes of robust wiggling, she would surface like a swimmer coming up for air. She'd stand hastily and immediately scan the area to ensure her father hadn't returned. Once she realized she had successfully avoided detection, she repeated the adventure and continued to do so until a deep voice yanked her back to reality.

"HELEN!!" her father would yell. "What the hell did I tell you?"

"Sorry, Daddy," she'd reply as she swatted away incriminating debris from her collar and knotted, auburn hair.

"Since you can't do what you're told, then you can't stay out here any longer. Get in the house right now, or I'll swat the dust out of your britches!"

As she would run back to the house pretending to be afraid, she'd glance back just in time to catch her father in a private smile. A loving, warm smile. A private smile that neither ever acknowledged to the other.

Unfortunately, all of that ended nine years ago. Those past years were ones in which the Wagners were a real family that popped popcorn and made lemonade to take with them to the drive-in theatres. Years before solitude became Joe's constant companion and sole recipient of his conversation. Years before his wife, Audrey, died a long and painfully slow death from cancer.

Jean Wagner, Helen's older sister by two years, could never see the thrill in throwing her body into a bunch of dead leaves. She considered herself much too sophisticated to engage in such an unclean or silly activity. Eventually, the activities she did enjoy, such as putting on lipsticks and blush, lost their punch when their mother died. Jean didn't want any special attention or sympathetic understanding from well-meaning friends and relatives. She just wanted to be left alone.

A counselor at her school noticed her withdrawal and invited Jean to her office for a "talk". Jean showed up for the appointment with preconceived thoughts on the counselor's dialogue. She had grown weary of "do-gooders" and waited for her counselor to make an anticipated statement, like a mountain lion waiting for its prey to make a mistake. Sure enough, the first words out of the counselor's mouth were, "Jean, I just want you to know that I understand how you feel."

Jean snarled and like the mountain lion, pounced on her prey. "How could you possibly understand? Are you God? Do you know my every thought? You really don't know me at all. You have no idea what makes me laugh or cry. You don't have a clue about what I dream at night or what I think of our baseball team. You don't know how I feel about you and you certainly don't know what I felt for my mother. So how in the world can you sit there, smile like an idiot and say you understand? JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! Peddle your crap to some kindergartner."

Jean didn't say another word to the counselor for the remainder of the session and only occasionally looked her in the eyes. The rest of the time her mind was elsewhere.

Jean mimicked many of Joe's mannerisms. Like Joe, she maintained a firm grip on her emotions and for the most part, held everything in. She locked her feelings in a special little room in the recesses of her mind. It was a dark, lonely and cluttered room. Her feelings were tucked away so well that she formed a chilly exterior. Most people that came in contact with her were more than happy to oblige her and do exactly as she asked. They left her alone.

Helen was the most resilient of the bunch. She was devastated by the loss of her mother and sobbed for days after the funeral. She felt the gut cramping pain, loneliness and emptiness that you would expect, but she was also able to hold on to hope, something that eluded her father and sister. Deep inside, fantasy and sensitivity were still thriving, right next to romance and future elusive searches for a Mr. Right.

Her mother always told her and Jean, "Someday, when you're older, a man will come into your lives who is very kind, loving and special. Don't be impatient or confused. Wait until he is the right one in all the important aspects. Make sure he is an equal partner who is willing to share his life with you and trusts you without question. Make sure you both feel safe enough to share any thoughts, dreams or fears without ridicule or judgment. Never settle for anything less. In other words, make sure he is the right man for the right job! I did and I could never have been happier."

Helen made a daily effort to be strong and supportive of her father. She could almost see his shoulders drooping from the emotional load he was carrying. She had no real concept of what it was like to lose a partner that had shared twenty years of his life.

For the most part, Helen overlooked her father's solitude and other negative methods of coping. She threw as much as possible into cheering him up and making his load lighter. Occasionally, she would get a weak smile and gentle pat on the back, never any major breakthroughs.

Life for the surviving Wagners continued much in the same manner from day to day. Things didn't change much for Helen until shortly after her sixteenth birthday. It was a gradual shift that had been developing and finally matured. She had grown tired of being the unappreciated clown and decided to spend more time with her diary and vivid imagination. They were always far more cooperative and understanding than people.

As Helen scratched at small ice crystals on the window of her second-floor bedroom, she saw different colors being refracted by the sunlight. She smiled and felt inspired to write. She removed a chain holding a tiny key from around her neck and unlocked her thick, white diary. She put her ballpoint pen in her mouth, removed the cap with her teeth and wrote, "Nature has officially announced the arrival of winter. For some strange reason, I've spent most of the day reviewing everything that has changed since mom died. Then I looked out my window and many things were answered for me. We are as snowflakes. We drift among other snowflakes, not really knowing where we'll land. Sometimes during the long journey, we collide and join together or we collide and become separated again. If the light hits them just right, they glisten and everyone takes notice. Once they're splashed with mud and lose their initial attraction, people look away. Some flakes are praised for their beauty, while others are condemned for the death and destruction they cause. Snow is different individually yet sticks together at the end of its journey. It's cold enough now. Perhaps today it will snow. If only I were a snowflake."

As she ended the entry, she saw her father and Jean walking up their sidewalk and approaching the front door. She turned her head to the Big Ben alarm clock on her scantly adorned dresser and realized she would soon be called upon to make her nightly appearance in the kitchen.

Helen looked back at her father once again and said with a wishful sigh, "Oh, daddy...I wish there was something I could do to make you glisten again."

Helen fastened and locked the tarnishing gold clasp to the diary and put it gently into her mother's cedar chest. She dreaded opening the chest because the cedar smell had long since vanished and had been replaced with an odor very similar to vomit. There were several times when she thought the smell was too overwhelming and would make her vomit. Fortunately, she never did.

She always sandwiched the diary between the afghan her mother made and a timeworn, baby blue, jigsaw puzzle box. The only written word visible on the box was the word Castaway. Every time Helen touched the puzzle box, she'd get the shakes.

Audrey Wagner began working on the puzzle about a week before she died. It had been given to her by her father just prior to his death. When Joe and the girls packed Audrey's personal belongings, Joe became a little choked up and reflective as he held a handful of puzzle pieces. He took on a distant look and spoke slowly. "Your mother was so close to finishing this damn thing."

The three of them stood looking at the tattered puzzle pieces joined together on a beige folding table and equally shared the disappointment. Audrey had finished enough of the puzzle for them to see what appeared to be a tropical island. They could see an old man standing on a white beach with his arm around the waist of an old woman.

There were beautiful palm trees laden with coconuts and an unusual looking tropical bird coasting overhead. A cocker spaniel was nearby, digging vigorously at something buried in the white sand.

Several yards offshore was a small, blue rowboat, drifting along the tranquil, blue ocean and seemingly headed toward land. They could see a young man wearing a white, athletic shirt, sitting squarely in the middle of the boat. He had one hand on an oar and was waving to the elderly couple on the beach with the other. When she put her face close to the puzzle and squinted, she could barely read the tiny, white letters on the bow. They were faded and were made to look as if they had experienced extensive saltwater exposure. After some effort, she was able to discern the word, "Castaway".

After Joe dropped the pieces of the puzzle into its box, Helen was alarmed and said, "Look at your hands, daddy!! They have small cuts on the palms just like mommy's hands did!"

They both looked at his bloody palms and then at the bloodless pieces of puzzle. It bothered Joe that there wasn't a solitary drop of blood anywhere to be seen, on any of the pieces he was holding. He began to feel dizzy and nauseated. He was feeling too bad to deal with the blood issue anymore and was content to leave it a mystery.

"How come your hands got cut, Dad? Do we need to take you to a doctor?" asked a worried Helen.

Joe wiped forming sweat beads from his forehead with one hand and clenched his stomach with the other. He sighed softly and replied, "They probably got cut on the piece edges."

"Where did the blood go that was on the pieces?" asked Helen.

"The puzzle is probably very old and it's likely that the cardboard is very porous. I suppose it sucked the blood in like a new sponge. I've gotten worse scratches from our rose bushes, honey. My hands will be just fine." Joe rose above his discomfort and scrutinized the puzzle suspiciously, perhaps even fearfully. He turned to Helen and said, "Promise me that you'll never touch that puzzle again, okay, sweetheart?"

"Why?" asked Helen.

"Well, because I asked you not to. Sometimes dads get a little squirrelly about things that they just have a weird feeling about. This is one of those things. Look me in the eyes and promise you'll never take it out of the box again. Do it as a special favor for your old dad. Okay?"

"Don't you remember? It was the last thing mom was doing before she died. Shouldn't we finish it for her?" suggested Helen.

"It wasn't that important to her. Now promise me," demanded Joe in a deeper, more serious tone.

Helen yielded and said, "I promise not to touch it if you say so."

Joe cocked his head, raised his eyebrows and looked at Helen with some doubt about her sincerity. She had been known to say one thing to appease her parents and do another when she felt she was right.

"I said I promise not to touch it, Dad," repeated Helen as she crossed her fingers behind her back. It was a perplexing situation to her because she had also made a secret promise to her mother. After her mother died, Helen walked to the puzzle and promised her mother's soul that she would finish the puzzle for her. You can never renege on a promise to a dead person's soul...especially if the dead person's soul belongs to your mother! Surely it was an unwritten law somewhere!

When Helen heard the front door slam shut, she snapped back and carefully closed the lid to the cedar chest. She rose slowly and walked at a normal pace to her bedroom door. As she did, the first snowflakes of winter peeked through her bedroom window.

"Helen! Time for dinner. Let's get it in gear, sweetheart," yelled Joe in a straightforward, monotone voice.

"On my way, Dad," she replied obediently.

Helen stood in her bedroom doorway, glanced back at the cedar chest and remembered the old promise to her mother's soul those many years past. "I really haven't forgotten. I promised I'd finish the puzzle and I will. So many things get in the way of remembering. A promise is a promise and no matter how long it may take, I'll keep my promise," stated Helen as she closed her door and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she turned her head to her bedroom and then back to the landing. She thought for a moment and said, "I'll just do it. Sorry, Dad. My promise to mom was first and it's first come first serve. I think that law is actually written somewhere. Besides, I can't explain why I didn't keep my promise to Mom, because she's dead. You're still alive and I know once all is said and done, you'll understand why I couldn't keep my promise to you."

There were hundreds of places Helen didn't like to go. Without any question, the kitchen ranked in the top five. The kitchen meant food. Someone had to prepare and cook the food. Not someone like Jean, who always botched the works and made green mashed potatoes. It had to be someone like Helen, who always tried to do her best, no matter what she was tasked with doing.

Cooked food meant dirty dishes and the requirement to have them cleaned. For some strange reason, every time Jean did the dishes, she was never able to get all of the grime off of them. When it came to drying them, she was never able to get all of the water off and put them away while still relatively wet. Their dishes and plastic cups would end up sticking together in the cabinets as they dried. They all had to be cleaned and dried so Helen was always the natural choice.

"Think you can manage some greaseless, baked chicken tonight, sweetheart?" asked Joe.

When Audrey was alive, Joe was never demanding about anything. He was always very easy-going. Audrey would occasionally ask what he wanted for dinner and he would always reply, "I have no preferences, honey. Whatever's easiest for you."

"Greaseless chicken? Hmmm, there's only one drumstick left. How about pork chops?" replied Helen.

"Just so long as you keep the grease to a minimum. I've got a little bit of an upset stomach tonight. I'm not sure if it can tolerate the added aggravation."

Helen opened a cabinet door underneath the kitchen sink and saw something dark running sideways across the back panel. Reflexively, she grabbed a can of cleanser and fired it in the direction of the invader. Her aim was slightly off and she missed what she determined to be a cockroach. It scurried through a crack in the wall, narrowly avoiding its demise. It had become Helen's kitchen and she prided herself on its organization and cleanliness. Insects were unacceptable and she was infuriated by the intrusion. She pictured the cockroach standing on the other side of the wall laughing at her. The cockroach was probably thinking the same thing about Helen.

She stewed momentarily over the missed kill and was annoyed that the disgusting bug was still lurking somewhere, just waiting for the second wave of attack. It was a fleeting thought and she recovered quickly. She moved on to the business at hand and hauled out a five-pound bag of potatoes. She grunted slightly as she hefted it to the counter and dumped eight small potatoes into one of the basin compartments of the double-basin, kitchen sink. She put the bag away and opened a drawer, looking for a potato peeler.

"Mind if I jump in here for a minute,?" came her father's voice over her left shoulder.

"Jeesusss.......!!" blurted Helen.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you!" said Joe, with an innocent laugh.

Helen had indeed been startled. She was secretly satisfied to see her father smile, even if it was her expense. He rarely did that anymore. He rarely did much of anything anymore, except work.

"That's all right, Dad. I have plenty of other clean underwear to change into!"

"I won't be long. There wasn't any hand soap in the bathroom so I came in here to wash my hands. Don't let me forget to get some more when we go shopping," said Joe.

"I'll put it on the list."

"Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate it."

Helen backed away obligingly and sat at their white, kitchen table while her dad pushed the spout over the unoccupied basin and turned on the hot water. She leaned back in the uncomfortable kitchen chair and watched as her dad lathered his hands with a pink hand soap.

Helen always admired those hands. When she was much younger, she felt secure in their sturdy grasp. She knew in her heart that nothing short of an atomic blast could break his mighty grip and allow her to fall to any harm.

The warm water splashing around the back of Joe's hands made his thick, black hairs spin wildly in a clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise fashion. Helen saw her father's hands, the master electrician's hands, as two huge, prehistoric spiders fighting it out in a jungle waterfall. After the grueling confrontation, one would emerge victoriously and search out another opponent. Helen saw a straw sitting next to the sink and thought, perhaps the next challenger would be mighty python. Although the python had more strength, it would be a daunting task to avoid the poisonous bite of the spider. Whatever the outcome and whomever the victor, they would dare not challenge her father. He was a big man that looked down on mature elm trees. A man who could uproot the elm and use its roots to pick his teeth if he so desired. A man who plucked rain clouds from the sky and used them as sponges to wash his body.

Joe turned the water off, grabbed a cotton towel hanging from a metal rack attached to a wall and said, "All yours."

Helen shelved her fascination, tiptoed back to reality and produced a huge smile. She wasn't exactly sure why she felt like smiling. For some unknown reason, a happy feeling crept up on her and she felt good inside.

Joe finished drying his hands and glanced into the sink as he headed for the hallway leading to the living room. He stopped at the corner, turned to Helen and said, "Would you do me one more favor, sweetheart?"

"What's that?" she inquired, still maintaining a smile.

He eyeballed the potatoes and said, "What did you have in mind for the potatoes?"

"I was going to mash them. Why?"

"That's what I thought. Do you think you could try doing something different with them this time so we didn't need spoons to eat them? You know what I mean. So they're more solid and not like soup."

Even Joe's comment about the potatoes didn't tarnish her smile. "I'll give it my best shot!"

"Thanks, sweetheart," said Joe as he resumed his journey to the living room. There was a time he would maybe kiss her on the cheek or provide a reassuring pat to the back or arm. Those gestures of affection had faded like a red drape in direct sunlight. Helen understood their absence and longed for their resurrection.

She peeled the potatoes, put them in a pot of heating water and opened the refrigerator. She took six pork chops wrapped in butcher paper from the crisper and enough salad fixings to make a robust garden salad for all of them. All she needed to complete the meal plan was a can of sweet corn. She opened the cabinet door and read the labels on the assorted cans. She read the corn label and thought, why in the world do they label it "sweet corn". I have never in my life seen or eaten or even heard of "sour" corn.

Jean tarried in her usual hideaway until she was relatively certain that the burdensome kitchen torture was either completed or so close to completion that she wouldn't be recruited to help. At just the right moment she popped her head around the corner and exclaimed insidiously, "Gee, Helen. Everything's done. Why didn't you call me for help? There's nothing left for me to do."

"There never is, you lazy, selfish bitch!" replied Helen angrily.

"My, we have matured, haven't we? Does it make you feel grown-up to use curse words? Does it make you feel better? I wish Dad could have heard you just now. His sweet, innocent, little girl with the foul mouth!"

Helen responded with a disgruntled look and shouted, "DINNER'S READY!"

Jean employed an exaggerated leap backward as if sincerely startled and said, "Why are you yelling?" She saw her father coming down the hallway from the living room and put her face about one inch from Helen's ear. She smiled and whispered, "...daddy's little, kiss-ass bitch!"

Helen ignored her evaluation and proceeded to act in her usual obsequious style, always making sure everyone had what they needed and wanted before she joined them.

All throughout dinner, Helen noticed her father staring at her with unusually compassionate eyes. Finally, after swallowing a mouthful of lumpy mashed potatoes, she said, "Is there something on your mind, Dad?"

Joe rested his fork on his plate and while looking down at it replied, "I was just thinking that you're really maturing. You're looking more and more like a woman with each passing day. I found some pictures and was flipping through the photo album trying to find the best place to stick them." Joe raised his eyes, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs. He looked at Helen and got a little misty-eyed. "I saw a picture of your mother when she was close to your age. You look so much like her. You have her soft, compassionate eyes and full lips. You even have the same curl in your hair just above your right eye. She was a very beautiful and caring woman. Just as you are a beautiful and caring woman."

Helen converted a blank expression into a slightly red-faced half-smile. She restrained herself in front of Jean and was careful not to reveal the true joy she felt. She held the compliment close to her heart and savored the moment like a fine wine. "Thanks, Dad," she said as she met his eyes.

"I'm somewhat surprised that boys aren't hovering around you like bees on a hive. You're witty, intelligent, sensitive and just as pretty as your sister. God knows, she always has some lumphead on the telephone."

"Helen's too weird for most boys, Dad. She's pretty much too weird for anyone at school. Boys at school used to flirt with her all the time and ask her for her telephone number. She'd freeze, stand there like a mute and just stare at them. They think she's stuck-up or something," stated Jean dispassionately. "When I try to give her pointers, she just sighs, looks away and ignores me. I think she's afraid of sex so when a boy starts talking to her, she does a cut and run. She thinks the only reason boys want a girlfriend is for one thing and one thing only. I gotta tell ya, Dad, she's actually an embarrassment to me. This one guy, Quinton, tried to kiss her at the movies when we doubled that time and she slapped him. Then she walked out of the movie and sat outside until it was over. Can you believe it? I mean, she could have handled it a hundred different ways. After all, it was just a harmless kiss. Now it's all over school and kids are laughing at her behind her back."

Helen glared at her sister. Jean had promised not to mention the incident to her father.

Joe felt the tension mounting between his girls and didn't consider Helen's reaction to be so inappropriate. He realized what Jean was doing and although he didn't approve of her tactics, he felt she deserved to be heard.

"I don't know that it sounds all that horrible, Jean. I would have been more disappointed if the boys at school thought of her as being 'easy'." Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin, put his plate in the sink and said, "I know I haven't been the greatest father over the past few years. It's partially because I really don't always know the best way to deal with female issues. Hell, I haven't even been able to deal with my own situations very well. Sometimes it is a real challenge to cope with my emotions." He slid his chair close to Helen and sat down. "I'm probably the last one to give advice but I'll always listen and try to help both of you in anyway I can. I'll never give up on either of you and hope you never give up on me. I hope you girls understand that you are the most important thing in the world to me. If either of you ever need to talk about anything, I promise I'll stop whatever I'm doing and listen," said Joe in a kind voice.

Helen smiled and said, "I know you love us, Dad, and I appreciate the offer with all of my heart. I'm not having any problems right now, okay? I just don't want anything to do with a boy that has a burning blaze in his eyes. I'm looking for someone with smoldering embers who will last and build up a friendship."

"See what I mean, Dad? She's too weird. She sounds likes she's reading some meaningless poetry junk from a book. Nobody and I mean nobody talks like that in school!" said Jean vacantly.

Joe rested his palm on the back of Helen's hand and said, "You're not weird, sweetheart. You're sensitive, have a big heart and lots of wonderful dreams."

Jean rolled her eyes and finished the remaining tidbits of her dinner.

Helen was taken aback by her father's sudden openness. It took her a few minutes to digest the entire conversation. She rose from her chair, put her arms around her father's waist and gave him a firm hug. She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Thanks, Dad. I love you!"

He returned the hug and smiled. Joe pushed his chair back in and said, "I'm going to watch television. Jean, make sure you help your sister with the cleanup...and don't give her any of your shit!"

He left the kitchen to the sound of Jean's silverware crashing against her plate. "Make sure you help your sister," mocked Jean. "Poor, little miss kiss-ass. Wah, wah, wah,"

Joe was only halfway down the hallway and heard her comment. He turned and marching sharply back into the kitchen, pointed his finger at Jean and said, "Knock it off. There's no need for that and I won't tolerate it. We have enough problems already. Let's pull together. Enough said?"

Jean looked at him sheepishly and replied, "Yes, Dad."

Joe turned to Helen and she also replied affirmatively. He walked back down the hall, turned on the television and sat back in his favorite recliner.

Even though he was already out of the kitchen, the mental image of her father's finger pointing at Jean impressed her. She almost expected powerful lightning bolts to come crackling forward. She loved those powerful hands. Those safe and gentle hands.

Jean found several reasons to excuse herself from the kitchen while Helen put everything away and washed the dishes. Helen completed the nightly kitchen routine by herself, as usual, while her father dozed in his recliner. Helen never told on Jean and Jean counted on it.

The following morning, before leaving for school, the girls were met by Joe at the front door. They knew immediately that something was up because he never waited for them in the past.

"I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you about a phone call I got from your Aunt Caroline. She told me she would be arriving at O'Hare airport tonight. We're going to pick her up at around eight. We'll catch a bite to eat while we're out so there's no need for any dinner plans. The house could use a little straightening here and there, so make that your number one priority as soon as you get home from school. Better put some fresh linens on the guest bed while you're at it. Understood?" said Joe firmly.

"What in the world did we do to deserve a visit from Aunt Caroline?" asked Jean.

"Yeah. Why's she coming now, Dad?" joined Helen.

"Partly to discuss your boarding arrangements when you go to live with her this summer, Jean. She's really looking forward to it."

Jean rolled her eyes and turned her head toward the wall. Going to live with Aunt Caroline was like signing up for a course in masochism. She turned slowly back to face Joe and said, "Dad, I really think I can make it without her."

"We've discussed this beyond the point of exhaustion, Jean. There's no way we can afford room and board at Western Illinois and we agreed long ago that it would be better to get settled before the first semester started. That will give you plenty of time to get to know the area and track down a part-time job. Caroline only lives twenty minutes from the university and I think she's being damn generous about the whole thing," said Joe with a deepening, more serious tone of voice.

"I understand what you're saying and I..." started Jean.

Joe interrupted, "Jean, we've discussed this a thousand times. That's nine hundred, ninety-nine times too many. I don't want to listen to anymore of your bullshit. Enough already. Okay?"

Helen looked away from the two of them and snickered privately. She turned to Jean, offered a huge Cheshire cat smile and said, "Aunt Caroline is very sweet and thoughtful, Sis. You know in your heart that you'll love it there!"

Joe gave Helen a disapproving look and said, "She also wants to bring us some jewelry that belonged to your mother. She feels that you girls have reached an age where you can care for it properly. A couple of pieces have been in your mother's family for several generations."

"What kind of jewelry?" queried Helen.

"There's an old cameo brooch that belonged to your grandmother. I believe it was given to her when her mother died. They say some member of English royalty gave it to your great-great-great-grandmother. I don't know how true that is because nothing was ever written down. All we have are stories that have been passed on over time. Who knows how many times the story has been modified over the years. There's also a gold stickpin with a small diamond at the top. It was your Grandpa Kline's. His father was a jeweler and made it for his own wedding and then gave it to your grandpa when he got married. There's also a few odds and ends, unfortunately, I'm not certain what they are."

"If it was Mom's jewelry, what's Aunt Caroline doing with it?" asked Jean.

"Your mother never actually had the jewelry in her possession. Grandma and Grandpa had the jewelry in their safety deposit box with some other stuff. When they passed away, some things were willed to your mother and others were willed to Aunt Caroline. Your mother told Caroline to hang on to it for her until she asked for it. Audrey trusted Caroline and knew she'd keep it safe and out of harm's away until she wanted it."

Joe hesitated, looked to Helen and said, "Aunt Caroline also had a very odd question. She asked if we still had that old jigsaw puzzle. She was real excited when I told her we had it tucked away safely in your cedar chest."

"What's so special about a beat-up old puzzle? We don't have to give it to her, do we, Dad?" said Helen anxiously as she remembered her secret promise to Audrey's soul.

"Nah. I won't let her take it if it means something to you, sweetheart," said Joe as he glanced down at his watch. "I've got to get going or I'll be late for work. Save any other questions until I get home."

Joe kissed each of the girls goodbye and drove to the Canfield Construction site near downtown Chicago. The very lucrative contract his company had landed would guarantee Joe plenty of industrial wiring for some time to come. It wasn't always that way in the past. Months would go by when layoffs were the norm and work the exception. There were days that Joe didn't have enough money to put gas in his car and the family had to eat breakfast cereal for dinner. Fortunately, the family was strong enough to weather those storms and pull through.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FEEDINGS

Joe was driving in the middle lane of the expressway on his way to work, when a car in the left lane cut in front of him and sped all the way over to the right lane. "Freakin' moron!" he shouted. "There are days I wish I were a cop so I could bust idiots like that!"

The car that passed him slowed down until they were driving parallel to one another. Joe pursed his lips, gritted his teeth and turned to the other driver. The speed demon behind the wheel of the other car was smiling from ear to ear and waving at Joe.

"Scott Majczyk, you stupid bastard! I'm going to kick your ass!" Scott kept smiling and waving, then floored it. Minutes later he was out of sight. When Joe arrived at work, Scott was leaning against a bulldozer and drinking coffee from a white, Styrofoam cup.

"Good morning, Joe! It's about time you finally dragged your butt in here. Where ya been?"

"You know, I really ought to kick the shit out of you! That was a damn crazy stunt you pulled on the expressway. I don't think you could have slipped a piece of paper between our two cars. You were too damn close. You could have killed both of us, jackass!"

"Nonsense! I'm always in control. There was at least five inches of space to spare when I passed you. All you need is five inches, at least that's what women say anyway!!" smiled Scott.

Joe sighed, glanced at Scott's coffee and asked, "Where's mine?"

Scott rubbed his stomach and laughed, "Right here, buddy!" He brought his finger to his mouth as if to gag himself and said, "Want some?"

Joe sighed again, shook his head and gazed at the maturing skyscraper. "Tony, in payroll said we're supposed to be getting a new supervisor today. What happened to 'Big Lou'?"

"I'm not really sure. Word has it that he got drunk and picked a fight with his wife in their garage. She supposedly broke his arm with a tire iron so he broke her nose and her arm with a shovel. I think she's still in the hospital and Lou might be in jail or vice versa. In any case, he's gone."

"Do you have any idea who is taking his place?" asked Joe.

"Yeah. His name is Barry Stone. He's from the north side. I've worked for him before. He's been an electrician for over forty years and really knows his shit. I think you guys will hit it off just fine."

Joe looked perplexed when he saw a group of electricians standing idly by a stack of steel beams. He turned to Scott and asked, "Why is everyone just standing there?"

"Same reason we're still standing here. There's some kind of union issue so nothing happens until it's resolved."

"Any idea of when we'll be going in?" asked Joe as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Nah. The union guys don't think it will be until later this afternoon." Scott threw his empty coffee cup into a nearby steel, trash drum and adjusted his belt. He walked the few steps to his car and belched loudly. "Damn good coffee!" He laughed, leaned through the driver's window of his car, snatched something from the passenger seat and turned to Joe.

"Ever read any of this stuff?" he asked as he produced a notorious supermarket tabloid.

"Not unless taken prisoner and forced to read it under threat of death," he laughed.

Scott opened the newspaper and said, "I want you to check this one out. I love it! This babe says she was in the kitchen preparing dinner, when she was nearly overcome by an incredibly foul smell. Maybe she caught a whiff of herself!" laughed Scott. He peered to his right and waved to a woman standing to the side of an open catering truck. She returned the gesture and held up one finger. Scott glanced at Joe and asked, "Still want some coffee?"

"Are you buying?"

"Yeah, why not," answered Scott casually.

"All right, get me one then."

Scott looked back at the woman and raised two fingers. She nodded, confirming his order and began pouring two coffees. He rolled the newspaper and stuck it under his right arm. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and produced a five. As the woman delivered the coffees, he handed he handed her the money and said, "Keep it."

"Thanks, Scottie," she said with a smile. She slid the cash in her apron and headed back to the truck.

"Damn, I'll get your coffee next time!" chuckled Joe.

Scott acknowledged the comment with a grin. He took a sip of the hot coffee and put the cup on the hood of his car. He rolled the paper and continued with his synopsis of the story. "This chick was in her kitchen and had decided to use some kitchen utensils she bought at a yard sale. She picked up a pair of poultry shears and experienced a tingling or vibrating type of sensation when she did. Then she started cutting some chicken parts. Now get this--when she cut the parts, they disappeared."

"She needs to find a better drug dealer," snickered Joe.

Scott nodded and read further. "She says the shears began to take on a life of their own. Once it consumed the entire plate of chicken parts, it turned on her and started cutting off the fingers of her other hand. She had no control over what the hand holding the shears was doing. It sucked the squirting blood from the table and from her gushing stubs. Her husband heard her screaming and rushed into the kitchen just as the shears were lunging for another attack. He jerked the shears from her hand and threw them as hard as he could out the kitchen window. Their neighbor said she saw a man pull into the driveway, retrieve the shears from the lawn and drive away. Pretty freakin' strange, don't you think?"

Joe shook his head and said, "How do those editors come up with that stuff?"

Scott folded the paper and turned it toward Joe. He displayed a photo of a middle-aged woman holding up her left hand. Her thumb was gone and three of her fingers were missing from just below the knuckle. There were stitches in her little finger where the shears had started munching on and never had the chance to finish.

"I'll bet her husband actually cut them off," suggested Joe.

"I'm not convinced she made up this shit. This isn't the first time I've heard about this kind of thing happening."

"What else have you heard?"

Scott took another sip of coffee and said, "This is like the third or fourth article I've read like this and they're not all published in the same tabloid. I read about one woman who said that the pulse buttons on her kitchen blender pricked her fingertips each time she touched them. She bled a little each time she was cut and when they looked at the blender afterwards, there was never any blood on the buttons. It disappeared and she swore the thing sucked down each and every drop."

"And you believe that crap?" questioned Joe.

"I don't know. There was a man who found a coffee cup in his cabinet that he had never seen before. He didn't give it much thought and used it like any other. He claimed that the cup gashed his lower lip and started sucking blood from it. Each article I've read has something to do with a person who claimed an inanimate something or other was after their flesh and blood."

"Well, the staff writers probably published the first article and saw how successful it was and opted to run another like it. They're just using what works. After all, people like you continue to buy their papers and follow-up on similar stories, right?" Joe offered.

Scott felt Joe's skepticism and rather than be confrontational and argumentative, he yielded. It wasn't that important and Joe could even be correct.

"Nonetheless, it's entertaining to me. However, I sometimes wonder how much truth is actually salted in with the bull. How could you ever know for sure? I mean, someone could be telling the truth about some bizarre crap and we'd never know because everyone laughs at that kind of stuff."

"They laugh for good reason. Are you sure you haven't touched too many live wires? I think parts of your brain have been fried!"

Scott laughed and said, "You could be right!" He took another sip of coffee and said, "What do you want to do while we're waiting?"

"Beats me. Just hang loose, I guess."

"Shit, I almost forgot. Heather's still trying to hook you up with someone. After we put the kids to bed last night, she told me that she knows a lonely, attractive widow. She thinks you'll really like her. I'm supposed to ask you over for dinner so you can meet her."

"Your wife never gives up, does she? Tell her I appreciate the thought and concern. I'm still not interested in developing another romantic relationship with anyone. Besides, my sister-in-law is flying in tonight," said Joe.

"It doesn't have to be tonight. It can be any night," countered Scott.

Joe cocked his head and looked at Scott over the top of his eyebrows. "Work with me, Scott."

"Okay, buddy. I'll tell her again that you're not ready. Understand that we like you and care about you and the girls. Heather worries that you're spending too much time alone."

Joe smiled thoughtfully and said, "I know and I guarantee that she'll be the first one on my list to call when I need a date. I have no idea when that will be so tell her not to hold her breath.

Scott nodded, took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the hood of his car. He became unusually quiet and focused on the skyscraper.

Joe fixed his attention on passing motorists. He could hear frustrated people honking their car horns because someone was too slow at the light. They reminded him of bored children stuck inside on a rainy day. He received intermittent whiffs of beef being grilled at the restaurant around the corner. All the while, Scott stared at the building and rhythmically stroked his short, red beard.

Joe sighed and said, "What's the problem, Scott?"

Scott remained mute and continued stroking his beard as if he were soothing some sort of pet attached to his chin.

"We've been friends long enough for me to know when something is eating at you, Scott. I also know that if I keep asking you what's wrong, you'll eventually tell me. Why don't we skip the bullshit this time and just tell me what the hell is bothering you?"

Scott opened his mouth as if to speak; then closed it abruptly. He leaned his head back and faced the clear sky above. He followed the path of a pigeon flying overhead until the bright sunlight became overwhelming. He squinted, looked at the ground and blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. After a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, removed his battered, yellow, hard hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"It's pretty cold for you to be standing still and sweating. Whatever it is that's bothering you, it must be something big," guessed Joe.

Scott broke the silence, looked up at the skyscraper and said, "What would it take for you to push me off the 20th floor?"

"Damn, Scott! Why in the world would I want to push you off the 20th floor?"

"I'm just asking, what would I have to do to make you mad enough to push me off the 20th floor?"

"Hell, I don't know. Why?"

"Joe, please don't hate me. I'll understand anything you do to me," said Scott as he took a deep, anxious breath. He cast a vacant glance toward the street and continued. "I kind of had an affair. Not a real affair in the strictest sense, at least I don't think so. I really can't remember everything that happened. When I think back, the details just aren't there. All things considered though, I'm pretty sure I did something."

Joe looked at Scott with concern and confusion. "What do you mean, you're not sure? Start at the beginning and tell me what happened."

"You know I don't drink on a regular basis. I maybe go through a six-pack in a year, if that. You remember last Friday when Gordy had the bachelor party?"

"Yeah, I remember. It was a ball-buster week for me and I was way too tired to go," replied Joe.

"We took Gordy to the Jupiter Saloon, had some beers and shot a few games of pool. He was crazy about this particular recording artist so we found her song on the jukebox and played it over and over and over again. This chick came up to us and started bitching at us about the number of times we played the song. She wanted us to give it a break. We all laughed and ignored her so she went to the bartender, got a couple of bucks in quarters and tied the jukebox up with her own selections. When her shit started playing, she and some other chick with her, began to dance. The more I looked at her, the better she looked. I finished a beer and decided to cut in and dance with her."

Scott kicked a small pile of dirt by his feet, took the final sip from his cup and threw the empty in the trash drum. "We danced for awhile and I bought her and her friend several drinks. We were laughing and having a good time. When we started dancing again, she told me she liked me and that she had always liked me. I swear to God, Joe, I thought it was just some bullshit line she was handing me. I mean, how could she have always liked me? I'd never seen her before. She had a familiarity, like many women you meet for the first time...if you know what I mean. We were both drunk or at least near drunk and the place was incredibly hot. We looked for her friend and both laughed when we saw her slumped over at the table. I'm guessing she had passed out. We decided to go outside to get some fresh air and cool off. Eventually, we ended up in my car." Scott paused and looked into his empty back seat. Joe's eyes followed Scott's.

Scott's relationship with Heather had always been a sound one. She was a loving, devoted and caring wife and mother. Their relationship was everything a picture book relationship should be. There were family outings with Scott manning the camcorder and Heather coordinating the activities of their three children. There was always time for bedtime stories and always time to respond to the "look at me, Daddy", cries from his kids. Scott was willingly involved in all areas of his children's lives and was sincerely attentive to his wife's needs and desires. He was a devoted family man in every aspect.

The idea of Scott having an affair with another woman caught Joe off-balance and left him perplexed.

Scott wiped his mouth and avoided looking Joe in the eyes. "We each took a beer with us and after we finished them, we started kissing. I remember getting dizzy and feeling like nothing was real. That's the last thing I remember for sure. Somewhere along the line, we both must have dozed off because an hour or so later, I woke up and saw her sleeping next to me in the back seat."

"What makes you think something happened? Was she still dressed?" queried Joe.

"Yeah, we both were. Our clothes were considerably disheveled and my belt was loose. My zipper was down and as far as I could tell, there wasn't anything in my underwear. She was still sleeping so I peeked in her purse out of curiosity. She had very little stuff in it, which I thought unusual for a woman. You'd have to form an expedition that could devote several days to searching, in order to find something in Heather's purse. Anyway, I found a few bucks in cash, some car keys and a driver's license. When I saw the name on the license, I didn't know if I should shit or go blind!" exclaimed Scott with a hint of panic in his voice.

Scott removed his battered hard hat, wiped copious amounts of sweat from his forehead and looked at Joe with watery eyes. "Joe, the name on the license was Jean Wagner. I swear, as God is my witness, I never had any idea she was your daughter." Scott took a deep breath, closed his eyes and offered his chin to Joe's fist. "Do it, Joe. I'm ready!"

Joe stepped back, looked at the ground and then at Scott. "My daughter?" shouted Joe in amazement and anger.

"If you beat the shit out of me or push me off the 20th floor, I'll understand. I won't like it much, but I'll understand. You have to believe that I didn't know who she was, Joe. In my heart, I can't believe it went any further than kissing. I know that's bad enough in your mind. I know how I would feel if she were my daughter."

"My daughter?" repeated Joe as he stared at Scott in disbelief. He felt like he'd stood too quickly and had gotten a head rush.

"Honest to God, Joe, I didn't recognize her. She was wearing a ton of makeup and a blond wig. I've always seen her without makeup and brown hair. I've never seen her in pantyhose and a mini-skirt. I swear, Joe, you wouldn't have even recognized her."

A massive knot was forming in Joe's stomach. His emotions shifted to overdrive and demanded broken bones. They demanded a crushed face to the point it that was totally unrecognizable to even the best medical examiner in the world. Hacking Scott's body to pieces and feeding them to the fish in Lake Michigan was too lenient a punishment. It would be too quick, too painless and too merciful. Joe looked at Scott as a loathsome, child-molesting pervert that should be staked to the ground in the path of marauding army ants.

Scott looked at Joe and said, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, buddy."

Even though Jean was eighteen, and had already been on a few dates with single boys from high school, she was still Joe's little girl. She was still the innocent child that smiled widely with sincere joy as she rode a bicycle to the corner store for candy and soft drinks on hot summer days. She was still the loving little girl that gave her daddy warm kisses on the cheek every night as he tucked her into bed. Scott wasn't getting kisses on the cheek; his were on the lips and hopefully nowhere else.

Joe silently reviewed and digested all that had just exploded in his face. He pushed his anger to a back burner and looked at what had become his former friend. Scott had his head bowed and was nervously turning the gold wedding band on his ring finger.

"I'm not going to do anything to you, Scott. I wouldn't accomplish anything by going to jail because you're an asshole. I want to be around for my daughters so when they have to deal with jerks like you, I'll be there to listen and help. I don't want to talk to you anymore, Scott. It's best we end it right here and right now."

"I swear, Joe, I'm as sorry as I can possibly be. I told you everything because I wanted you to hear it from me first and not Jean. I felt I owed you that much. I was a little surprised that you didn't already know."

Joe was surprised too. Jean never kept secrets from Joe in the past. His little girl was growing up. She was maturing and becoming a woman that didn't need Daddy as much, or in the same way, as before. That pained Joe more than anything. He was going to have to let go and he wasn't sure how to do it or for that matter, if he ever could.

"Leave me alone, Scott," said Joe as he felt a tidal wave of pain.

"If I'd known she was your daughter..." started Scott.

Joe interrupted, "Don't go there, man. If she wasn't my daughter, you asshole, she'd still be someone's daughter and you're a married man with a wonderful, trusting wife and three children at home. There weren't any feelings of love or warmth between you two. There was no bond over time. It was just your lust and her introduction into the adult arena."

"How would you feel if I asked you not to mention any of this to Heather? I know it's asking a lot in view of everything," pleaded Scott.

Joe shook his head in disbelief and said, "You're freakin' unbelievable!" He turned and walked toward the street. He was upset and confused. He was force-fed a giant helping of reality without any kind of chaser to help wash it down. The biggest pain was the thought of Jean leaving his protective shield. It had to happen someday. She was getting ready to leave for college and would undoubtedly have many more adult experiences. He knew it would happen, it had to happen. It's the story of life he explained to his daughters so many times. Now he was telling the story to himself and had a hard time accepting it. Joe sighed deeply and sadly. He couldn't avoid it anymore. His daughter was becoming an independent woman. A second woman that he loved deeply would soon be leaving. His world was shrinking. His emotions began to shrink with that world.

Joe turned around and walked toward the skyscraper. Scott remained behind Joe, following him like a dog that had been scolded for crapping on the floor.

Not long after Scott's confession, the union cleared up their disputes with management and the electricians went back to work. The two avoided each other for the remainder of the day.

Joe used what was left of his work day to evaluate his feelings and reconcile his conflicting thoughts. His daughter was growing up and would more than likely move out permanently. What if she moved out of state? What if she meets and marries some guy that Joe hates? What if he hates Joe too and they avoid each because of the friction? All those thoughts were pressing so hard that it made his head feel like it was in a vice.

By the time Joe made it home that night, the day's drama had drained him and he was considerably calmer. All of his concern and worry kept him on the fringes of his comfort zone and he would be there for some time to come. He was able to achieve some acceptance of the whole situation though, which at least allowed him to progress beyond his anger and shock.

Jean was sitting on the couch next to the telephone, with a fixed gaze on the television screen. Joe leaned against the doorframe and held her view quietly. Jean felt his attentive scrutiny and asked questioningly, "Why are you staring at me, Daddy? What did I do this time?"

"Nothing, Honey. It's getting late. Are you ready to go?"

"All I have to do is throw on my shoes, grab a coat and I'll be ready."

"Where's Helen?"

"Your other daughter is scribbling something in her diary," Jean replied as she slipped on a pair of tied sneakers.

Joe walked to the stairs and shouted, "Helen, we're leaving now. Aunt Caroline's plane will be landing soon and we still have to stop somewhere and get something to eat."

"Coming!" Helen tucked her diary away in the chest and flew down the stairs like a fireman responding to a call.

As they left the house, Joe grabbed Jean's arm tenderly, allowing Helen to advance to the car before them.

A light dusting of snow covered the lawn and glistened under the yellow streetlights. Helen put on a pair of red, fluffy mittens and drew a heart in the snow with her hand, while Joe looked into Jean's eyes compassionately and calmly. "If there was something on your mind or something that you didn't feel right with, you'd still share it with me, wouldn't you? What I mean is, you haven't lost your trust in me, have you?"

Jean hesitated for a second and said reassuringly, "I will always trust you, Daddy. If I ever have a situation that I need help with, I promise that you'll be the first person I turn to." She was suspicious of her father's statements; however, he didn't mention anything specific and she felt no need to blurt anything out. Jean loved her father dearly and had no desire to hide anything from him. She also had no desire to mention anything that could be taken the wrong way and cause him pain. As cold as she presented herself to others, she could still feel his pain and didn't want to be an added burden.

"You can tell me anything, you know, anything at all and I'll always listen with an open mind. I love you with all my heart, honey, and I never want us to drift apart for any reason."

"And I love you, Dad. Don't worry, I'm okay!" she said with a warm smile.

Joe matched her smile, took her arm and the two walked lively to the car. When they were all inside, Joe started the engine and said, "Burgers, dogs or pizza?"

"I was actually thinking tacos, Dad," said Helen as she drew a smiley face on the steamed car window.

"Fried chicken would set well with me," offered Jean.

Joe backed out into the street and made the final decision. "Burgers it is. Great choice, ladies!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

AUNT CAROLINE

People who knew Aunt Caroline considered her to be a motor mouth who babbled endlessly. When she was on a roll, she was as unstoppable as a wildfire in a forest of dead trees on a windy summer day. The average person had a mere thirty seconds to dart into the conversation, which was about the length of time it took her to light another link in her chain smoking. Once you paused, you forfeited your turn and Caroline would take the reins again, generally ignoring anything you brought to the conversation. When she wasn't with anyone, she'd watch television and absorb as much trivia as possible to use as fodder for her next conversational encounter. Caroline could be talking about fish sterilization in the Buffalo River in one breath and switch to the sex life of the Japanese beetle in the next.

When they finally got home from the airport, the Wagner's bailed from the car like paratroopers jumping from a burning transport. Listening to Aunt Caroline rattle on should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment and banned in all fifty states.

After Jean undressed in her bedroom, she took her blouse to Helen's room and said, "I wish Dad wouldn't let Aunt Caroline smoke in the car. Smell my blouse. Who knows how many times I'll have to wash it to get the cigarette smoke out of it. I never want to be in the car with her again. And the way that woman can talk!! It wouldn't be so bad if she shared information that people actually wanted to hear. I don't understand how her husband can tolerate her. I can't stand that woman and the thought of living with her while I go to school makes me want to skip college and just find a job."

Helen chuckled and said, "Well, Aunt Caroline has always spoken highly of you!"

Jean rolled her eyes, glanced up at the ceiling and sighed as she returned to her own bedroom. "A compliment coming from Aunt Caroline means about as much as a piece of dried bread," she muttered as she strolled from the room.

Helen listened for Jean's door to close and then removed her diary from the chest. She jumped into bed and scooted up until her back rested against the headboard. She unlocked it and prepared to make her daily entries. She made notations regarding Jean's dismal evaluation of Aunt Caroline and her statement about getting a job. Given Jean's attitude regarding work, her statement about getting a job instead of going to school was a rather drastic one. Helen also made a note regarding her hope that Jean's absence would make Helen's heart grow fonder of her. It certainly couldn't hurt their relationship.

She finished her entries, returned the diary to the chest and crawled under her blankets. She tried to plan a dream for the night. She wanted to think about a time and place when she was older. Perhaps living in a tropical paradise, or some place where there wasn't any snow, with millions of dollars and no cares or worries. She wanted to plan her dream in an attempt to thwart a recurring dream that she began seeing about a week ago. No matter what she did, it got longer and more detailed with each night. She hated the dream because it was dark and foreboding. It always began with a silhouetted figure, standing in a gentle sprinkling of black raindrops. It was pointing a long, knobby finger at her and appeared to be floating several inches from the ground. It was like reading a distressing story that revealed new information with each chapter. It was an ominous and private story that she opted not to share with anyone. Unfortunately, the dream refused any substitutes and returned nightly like an unwanted rash. The images would make her feel uncomfortable and scared. The emotional effects rarely kept her awake for any real length of time though. The last image she saw each night before she eventually dozed off, was that of the figure with the knobby finger.

Aunt Caroline was an excellent cook who was a devoted fan of TV cooking shows and who owned no less than twelve different cookbooks. The following morning, she treated the Wagners to a splendid breakfast.

Helen entered the kitchen and was pleasantly surprised by the spread of food and temporary reprieve from her typical culinary obligations. Aunt Caroline turned from the stove and asked, "How would you like your eggs?"

Helen smiled and said, "Scrambled, thank you."

"How many eggs do you normally scramble for yourself?"

"I can only eat three. Sometimes I add milk to stretch the eggs out a little. They taste just as good and we don't have to buy them as frequently."

Caroline nodded and said, "I've got sliced fruit, freshly cooked bacon and blueberry muffins on the counter here. Would you like some toast with your eggs?"

"No, thank you, Aunt Caroline. You've really been busy this morning. Would you like some help with the cooking or clean up?"

"I'm just about done here and I have all day to worry about taking care of the mess I've made. It was sweet of you to offer."

Aunt Caroline handed Helen a plate of scrambled eggs and said, "Don't forget the stuff on the counter. Your dad and Jean have already eaten so don't hold back."

Helen piled four pieces of bacon on the edge of her plate and returned to the table. Caroline was waiting for her to sit down and as she did, she poured Helen a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Aunt Caroline set the pitcher on the table and sat in the chair adjacent to Helen's. She smiled and said, "How are the bacon and eggs?"

"Wonderful. You're a remarkable cook."

"Joe told me that you prepare most of the meals around here. I'll bet it feels good to get a little break."

"It sure does, Aunt Caroline. Thanks."

Caroline rose, got her cigarette from the ashtray on the counter and took a drag. She walked back to the kitchen table and remained standing. She took another drag and said, "When you get home from school today, I'd like to have a private talk with you about an issue that's somewhat serious and important to me."

While Helen was listening, she noticed the gray ashes from her aunt's cigarette had grown to over an inch in length.

"Your ashes are about to fall in the butter you know!" said Helen as she waited for them to succumb to the natural forces of gravity. "Serious and important? How serious?"

"I think it would be better to wait until you get home tonight. It's a long story," responded Caroline, cupping her hand at the last second and catching the ashes.

"One of these days I'm going to quit smoking for good. Sometimes I think the expense of buying them is worse than the health hazards! I truly have tried to quit several times over the years." Caroline paused reflectively, looked at the floor, then back at Helen. "Your Uncle Harold stopped trying to talk me into it. He has never had the curiosity or desire to try smoking a cigarette. He continues to bring home pamphlets from the American Cancer Society and anyone else who produces literature on the dangers of smoking. Truthfully, I rarely read them. I pretend to just to make Harold happy. I really appreciate what he's trying to do for me. It's difficult for me because I get a certain satisfaction from smoking, despite the dangers. Everyone thinks all you have to do is decide to quit and just like that, you're smoke-free. In reality, for a smoker who has smoked as many years as I have, quitting is like trying to hold your breath for five minutes. I was watching television the other night and heard that they found nicotine in the tissue of Egyptian mummies. How they got nicotine is beyond anyone's understanding, since tobacco plants were thousands of miles away and international trade hadn't been established yet. Nonetheless, it was even found in mummies. I wonder if they were smoking it or chewing it. I don't remember who discovered the nicotine but..."

"Excuse me," blurted Helen. "I have to get going or I'll be late for school."

"Of course, Helen," replied Aunt Caroline as she ran the remains of her third cigarette of the morning under tap water. She pulled another cigarette butt from her coffee cup, tossed into the trash and then gathered the remaining dirty breakfast dishes from the kitchen table.

"Have a great day at school, dear." Caroline gave Helen a hug goodbye and filled the sink with hot water.

Helen saw the rising soap suds and said, "It sure is nice to have someone other than myself doing the dishes."

"I hope you enjoy the break. I have always found washing the dishes to be soothing to my nerves. Maybe some day your dad will have the dishwasher fixed."

Helen nodded as she kissed her aunt goodbye and left for school. She thought about her aunt most of the day. She assumed that her aunt wanted to share her version of "the birds and the bees", since it was to be a private talk. It made perfectly good sense. Maybe her dad's discussion about not knowing much about girl's needs was simply a prelude for just a talk from Aunt Caroline.

She was amused by her dad's sneaky efforts, if in fact he was behind it. Then it hit her. It was like walking into the path of a speeding car. It wasn't going to be about sex at all. Her trip had nothing to do with sex or Jean's relocation. The true motivation prompting her aunt's journey was something altogether different. She could usually see through any thin veil of secrecy her father erected and it occurred to her that there were no veils this time. The thing that hit her was Aunt Caroline's comment about the jigsaw puzzle. Aunt Caroline was only bringing the jewelry as an excuse to come. She probably planned to use it to barter for something the Wagners had. Something like her mother's jigsaw puzzle. After all, the only thing she asked about was the puzzle. That had to be it. The big question would be why? The jewelry had far more monetary value than miscellaneous pieces of worn, colored cardboard. Nobody in their right mind would make such a foolish trade, unless the puzzle had a hidden value of some kind. Or, maybe Aunt Caroline wasn't in her right mind anymore. It was a pretty bizarre thought, jewelry for cardboard. If not the puzzle, then what in the world would Aunt Caroline possibly want to talk about? Why go all these years without a conversation of substance? Why now?

Helen found her mind drifting back and forth throughout the day and paid scant attention to academic presentations in her classrooms. Once she thought she had everything figured out and then a new revelation would spring forward. Trading jewelry for cardboard was an absurd notion. She concluded that it had to be about sex or dating. Her father probably realized he couldn't handle it and asked her aunt to come. In any event, Helen prepared herself mentally to do battle with her aunt and had every intention of being victorious. However, she would have to wait until she got home to resolve the issue and the wait was driving her crazy.

While the family was away for the day, Aunt Caroline straightened up the house. Even though the girls had done a relatively thorough job the preceding night, she discovered many avenues for improvement. Shortness of breath and the fact that she wasn't the woman she used to be, caused her to take several breaks throughout the day.

Caroline managed to add five pounds of body weight each year since her 40th birthday. The added weight, the premature gray hair and too many days cooking her body in the blistering sun, made her look far older than her fifty-five years. She was a good woman though, with a caring and loving heart. She was always ready and willing to help anyone, anytime, anywhere.

She was using a kitchen chair to dust the living room cornice when she felt a sharp pain in her wrist. She stepped down slowly and retreated to the couch. She removed a prescription bottle from her dress pocket, pulled out a pill and swallowed it without water. "I hope it works," she cried. "Please, oh please God, let it work." Caroline was not talking about the pill. There was something else on her mind.

By the time everyone got home for the day, the house was clean, her body aches and pains had subsided and she had prepared a tasty dinner. Aunt Caroline was quiet and only picked at the food on her plate. Her silence was confusing to the Wagners because Aunt Caroline having nothing to say was like a hurricane with no wind or rain.

Aunt Caroline only ate some of her dinner. She put her plate in the sink and went outside to have a cigarette while she waited for the rest to complete their feasting. She lingered in the kitchen until they were finished and then gathered up the dirty dishes. When they were all washed and dried, she turned to Helen and said dryly, "Do you mind if we go to your bedroom and talk now?"

"I'm ready." Helen's reply was an understatement. Saying she was ready was like saying water is wet.

Aunt Caroline didn't say anything else until they reached Helen's room. Her aunt's demeanor was unnerving, even scary to Helen.

Helen sat upright on the edge of her twin bed and after Caroline closed the bedroom door, she sat next to Helen. She was uneasy about the whole situation and decided to ask her aunt something before she began a potential talk marathon. There was no telling how long this rare opportunity of being able to say something to her aunt would last. "How much do you know about dreams?"

"Dreams? I've read some books on them. Have you been having strange dreams?"

"Yah. I told a friend at school about them and she said I need a psychiatrist. I don't want to tell my dad, because he has enough to worry about. If I told Jean, she'd laugh until she was sick, call me weirdo and then tease me about them for the rest of my life."

"Why don't you tell me about them? I don't know how much help I'll be," replied her aunt as she lit another cigarette.

"Well, it's really the same dream over and over. It always starts in an open area with a woman standing in a black rain."

"The raindrops are black?" asked Caroline.

Helen frowned and said, "There's a light of some kind behind her and I can clearly see the raindrops and the black dress she's wearing. She raises her arm deliberately and points to me with long, knobby fingers. They almost look like skeleton fingers. The dream starts that way every night and the only thing that changes, is that she gets closer each night. She's close enough for me to see a really scary-looking smile. The last three nights I've also seen Grandma Kline. She's standing somewhat behind the woman and she's also getting closer. Last night, Grandma called the woman's name in a normal voice. The woman didn't turn around or answer her. She just kept staring at me"

"What name did my mother use?" asked Caroline.

"The only thing I can remember is Grandma saying, 'Malvada.'"

"Malvada? That's an unusual name. Did your grandmother mention a last name?" asked Caroline as her eyes wandered aimlessly around Helen's room.

"If a last name was mentioned, I didn't hear it. It's really a scary dream, Aunt Caroline and I can't stop dreaming it, no matter what or how hard I try."

Aunt Caroline appeared to be growing impatient with the dream discussion. She hadn't looked at Helen the entire time Helen was talking. "Malvada was probably just a friend of your Grandma's. I know Grandma had neighbor named Martha Anderson that she was close to. Maybe you saw a picture of them together, while they were at a family picnic or something and wish they were still alive. The human mind is a mysterious thing. You could have easily combined the names in your dream to come up with Malvada."

"I guess it's possible. I've never seen anyone who looks like her though. The woman in my dreams is extremely ugly. When she stares at me, it's a cold, mean stare. The first time I saw her face in my dreams, it scared me so badly I woke up immediately. She always starts by pointing that stinking, knobby finger at me. Then she opens her palm and extends her open hand to mine, like she's calling me to come to her or go somewhere with her. Well, a strange thing happened last night. I wasn't nearly as scared as I usually am. Even with the mean stare, I felt a little closer to her. I could see Grandma better and remembered her smiling. I could see Malvada's face and twisted body more clearly and felt myself wanting to take her hand. She was horrible looking and had eyes like I've never seen before, yet I felt drawn to her. Just as I was about to put my hand in hers, something woke me up."

"It is a strange sequence of dreams all right. Do you eat or drink anything in particular that might cause the dreams?" asked Caroline.

Helen shook her head no. "I haven't changed a thing in my diet. Want to hear the freakiest part?"

"Of course," replied Aunt Caroline slowly. She was mentally drifting away and barely caught the question.

"I told you that something woke me up just as I was about to take her hand last night. It was a cramp in my right arm. I never get cramps in my arm...ever! She was waiting to take my hand with her right hand and she patted me on the right arm with her left hand just before I got the cramp."

"So, you think this Malvada person gave you the cramp?"

Helen shrugged her shoulders and looked at her aunt quizzically.

"The cramp could have been from anything. Your brain simply worked the cramp into the dream somehow to explain it. Remember, the brain is a mysterious and wonderful thing. My guess is that all this Malvada stuff is a result of bad diet. I'm concerned that your dad doesn't pay much attention to the food you girls eat. Women are more attentive and responsible when it comes to matters like that. I certainly wouldn't pay much attention to the dreams. They could mean hundreds of things. Some of the dreams I've heard over the years would put permanent curls in your hair!! Would you mind getting me an ashtray, dear?"

Helen rose slowly and moved pensively away from her aunt. "You're no help either," she muttered quietly.

Aunt Caroline stood the old cigarette butt on the nightstand next to Helen's bed and lit another. After exhaling the initial drag, she stared at the shag carpet fibers and remembered the first cigarette she ever smoked. Her Uncle Roger had come over to help install a ceiling fan in their living room. He was talking to her dad in their kitchen and lit a cigarette. He threw the pack on the kitchen table and the two men went into the living room. She slid one out of the unguarded pack and ran outside. Caroline, her sister Audrey and a neighbor girl had just finished celebrating Caroline's twelfth birthday and were in a great mood. They ran behind the Wagner garage and lit the cigarette with some matches provided by the neighbor girl. Caroline was the leader of the pack and the one who lit it. They all took turns trying to smoke it. Once the burning eyes, coughing and gagging had ceased, they threw it to the ground and resolved to never try it again. Audrey and the neighbor girl lived up to their vow. Caroline wasn't as strong or opposed to the experience and was drawn back several more times. Within five years she had become an inveterate smoker.

She sensed that the red flag had gone up, indicating that her conversation time had expired. Caroline could hold back no more.

"Helen, there are only two other people who know what I'm about to share with you. One is my doctor and the other is my husband, Harold. What I'm about to tell you must remain strictly confidential. I don't even want your father or Jean to know. Can I count on you to keep this between us women?"

Helen responded without hesitation. "I'm real good at keeping secrets...and promises." I just wish you were as good listening as you are talking, she thought.

Helen shelved her thoughts. It was Aunt Caroline's turn so Helen took her spot beside Caroline on the bed and prepared for the verbal onslaught.

Caroline flicked her ashes into the shag fibers and rubbed them in with one of her black, leather pumps. She set the smoldering butt upright, next to the other one on Helen's nightstand.

"I got your ashtray, Aunt Caroline!!" said Helen as she leaped up. She gave her aunt a scolding look, removed the butts gingerly, as if they were radioactive and dropped them into the receptacle.

"About three months ago, my doctor told me I had some problems with my heart. He explained that surgery would be ineffective and could even cause more harm. He said he could prescribe several medications to help me manage any pain or discomfort. Then he quite candidly gave it to me point blank and told me I could only hope to live another six months to a year."

Helen's jaw dropped wide-open as she looked at her aunt in disbelief. "Oh, my God!" she said sadly. "That's horrible!" Painful memories of her mother's losing battle with illness and subsequent death came rushing back like a tidal wave.

"I'm sharing this information with you because you're the only one in the world...this world anyway, who has the ability to help me."

"Me? What makes you think I'm capable of doing something that experienced medical doctors can't? Even my strongest, most sincere prayers couldn't help my mother."

"Your mother was a loving woman that didn't believe in the unbelievable until it was too late. She procrastinated when it came to doing anything about her illness. When she did try, she was too weak. She ran out of time before she could finish."

"How can you say that she waited too long? She did everything her doctors told her to do. My dad told me that the experts had done everything humanly possible to save her and failed. They all said there wasn't any hope of recovery."

"Audrey hesitated too long before starting the puzzle. Maybe, if she had started sooner...well, who knows what the outcome might have been."

"What puzzle?" asked Helen. She asked her aunt the obligatory question even though she knew exactly what puzzle. What she didn't know was how or why.

"Her jigsaw puzzle. It was her only hope...her last chance."

"You mean the one in the blue box?"

"Yes, that's the one. Our father used to call it Blue Castaway because there was a blue boat with the name Castaway painted on the bow. When our dad passed away, Audrey was charged with caring for it. Please tell me you haven't lost any of the pieces," said Caroline almost pleadingly.

"No, I haven't. I kept the box and all the pieces in my cedar chest since Mom died. I had planned to finish it for her one of these days. Don't think for a minute that just because you're her sister and an adult that you can walk in here and take it from me. I won't let you take it. Besides, my dad said I didn't have to give you anything I didn't want to." It's not precisely what her dad had said, nonetheless, it would work for argument's sake.

Aunt Caroline frowned slightly and said, "It's a damn good thing you haven't tried to put the puzzle together yet." She shifted her head to bring her eyes into alignment with Helen's. "Trust me. It's no ordinary jigsaw puzzle. Your grandfather said it had rare, magical properties and served as the doorway to eternity. Put the last piece in its proper setting to complete the puzzle and the door will open. Once the puzzle is completely assembled, anyone who touches it will be whisked away to a land that is more grand and fantastic than Utopia. No more hunger. No more diseases. No more despair or cramping pain that blinds you from seeing or feeling anything else."

Helen looked at Caroline skeptically and displayed a huge grin. "You really don't expect me to believe that story, do you? If it were really true, why did my mother wait so long to use it? Why didn't she use it sooner and take you and all of us with her? Since you guys knew about this magic doorway, why wait so long? How could you possibly pass up such a wonderful fantasy land?"

"It is only used as a last resort because once you go through the door, you can never return. What if you and your family went through and when you got there, you realized you had forgotten something? Even the smallest things can have huge meanings. Your fantasy land would become a sad and possibly lonely place then."

"You've had years to think about everything you need and want. Surely you could have made a thorough list by now and checked it hundreds of times to make sure you didn't forget anything or anyone."

"That's true and there have been times I've actually written lists, only to throw them away. Your mother did too. Audrey was an selfless woman, right until the end. The puzzle scared her and she avoided it until she had no more options. She knew what she had in this world and didn't want to chance losing it. Another thing we weren't sure of is how many times the puzzle can be used. What if your mother and father went through and the door closed, preventing you and Jean from getting through? What if they sent the two of you through first and one or both of them couldn't follow? The combinations are many and the risks great. Your mother didn't want to chance being without her family."

Helen's skepticism was wavering. She remembered her mother trying to work the jigsaw puzzle at the last minute and thought it was just a way for her to get her mind off the pain. Aunt Caroline was speaking with such conviction. Maybe it was possible. It would certainly be awful if her parents were able to go through the door and not bring Jean or Helen. Having just her sister for companionship would either be very lonely or very troubling. Doubt could give way to acceptance with a little substantial proof.

"Let's say everything you've told me so far is true. Why aren't you taking Uncle Harold with you? Don't you love him anymore?"

"I love him very much. I've loved him since the day I opened my dormitory door at college and saw him standing there with a pink rose between his teeth. It was so funny because he picked it impulsively from someone's yard on his way to see me. In his haste to impress me, he didn't take any time to remove any of the thorns. When he yanked it from his mouth, a small thorn caught the inside of his nostril. It made a slight gash and caused a tiny stream of blood to flow to his lip. He was so embarrassed that the color of his face quickly blended in with the blood. His thoughtfulness impressed me then and has continued to impress me throughout the years. Yes, Helen, I love him and will love him forever. He chooses not to believe in the puzzle either. He thinks I'll be home in a week. I insisted that I wouldn't because I know for a fact that the puzzle works. He said that if you call him and tell him that the puzzle works, he'll come right away and join me."

"You've seen the puzzle work? When?"

"Yes, I've seen the puzzle. My mother, father and their black Labrador, Rusty, all went through to the other side."

"You actually saw them go into the puzzle?" asked Helen in amazement. How could her aunt keep something like that a secret for so long?

"We only saw our dad go through. He told us that your grandmother and Rusty had already made the trip. He saw them in the puzzle and could sense their overwhelming feeling of peace and happiness."

"My mom said that Grandpa Kline gave her the puzzle just before he died. Why did she lie to me? Why didn't she tell me the truth?"

"Think about what you just said. There are several obvious reasons I don't even need to cover. How could she explain something so complex and mysterious to a little girl?"

"She could have told me before she died, while she was working the puzzle. I would have been able to help her and we could have gone through together," said Helen resentfully.

"There's another reason why Audrey didn't tell you anything about it. She thought the puzzle was controlled by evil forces of some kind. When death becomes a house guest that won't leave, your attitude changes. Some people want to live on forever, regardless of the cost. They disregard traditional safety precautions and do what they need to do in order to survive."

"What made her think it was evil?"

"After Grandpa Kline went into the puzzle, a very repugnant, vomit-like odor permeated the room. Your mom's nostrils burned whenever she took a breath. She tried to block the odor by pulling a pillowcase from my parent's bed and holding it over her nose and mouth. It was contrary to everything our religion taught us about good and how good would manifest itself."

"Didn't the smell bother you?" asked Helen as she recalled how bad it smelled when she had a stomach virus and threw up on everything. Just smelling it made her want to heave again.

"Of course it did. I was so enthralled by what I saw, I couldn't move and simply overlooked the nasty aroma. It was miraculous to me, not evil," said Aunt Caroline with a bounce in her voice. She paused to fire up another cigarette. Helen inched away from her aunt to put some distance between her and the smoke.

"Your mom also said that after our dad went through, the light in our living room grew very dim. I didn't notice any change in the lighting. I must have been too absorbed in other things. Besides, if it did grow dim, it could have just been a bunch of clouds passing in front of the sun at the same time. The darkness didn't bother her nearly as much as the painting of Christ on our dining room wall. There was a thin, clear layer of sticky junk all over it. Right after the smell disappeared, she noticed the ooze dripping off in fine droplets. It scared the shit out of your mother...pardon my language. I told her it was nothing more than sap being secreted from the pine frame. It was like a blast furnace in our house that day so it was a logical enough explanation for me. Not for Audrey though. Especially when she examined other paintings in the house and couldn't find the nefarious goo on any other frames."

Caroline took a deep drag on her cigarette, producing a bright glow at the lit end. "Come to think of it, your mom told me she used to have bad dreams before she started working on the puzzle. I don't think she ever told what they were about. If she did, I don't remember. I just assumed the dreams were associated with her illness."

Helen looked at the floor and thought, She probably told you, Aunt Caroline. You were probably too busy thinking of what you were going to say next to hear anything. Then she looked at the cedar chest and a mental image of the painting of Christ hanging in her grandparents' house popped into view. It was an unsettling scene. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe the puzzle was evil after all. Aunt Caroline has never been running on all cylinders at the same time. She's a nice person who she sees what she wants to see, just like most everyone else in the world.

Helen turned back to her aunt and asked, "Where did Grandpa get the puzzle?"

"Did you know that he was a real-estate agent? He was a damn good one too. He was in real estate for a little over four years and was made a member of the Millionaire Club. As sweet as it sounds, it doesn't mean that you've earned a million dollars. It simply means that you have sold a million dollars worth of real estate. I'm pretty sure you have to do it for a consecutive number of years, I just can't recall how many. He never made a million dollars in commissions and some years when the market was lean, he hardly made any money. He did earn a good bit overall though," stated Aunt Caroline proudly.

As Caroline paused to yield to a tear-provoking cough, Helen edged in and said, "Mom did tell me he sold houses and was a kind man. Dad said he made some really bad investments with his money and lost it as soon as he earned it. He said all those bad investments stressed him to the max and clouded his judgment even more." Helen hoped that her aunt was able to hear what she said amidst the loud hacking.

Caroline's lung spasms finally subsided and as she wiped the tears from her eyes she asked, "Did my mascara run very much, dear?"

Helen shook her head. "It doesn't look like it ran at all."

"Your grandpa was a brilliant, kind, sensitive and trusting man. Many times he was too trusting. Despite his age and experience, he could be naïve about some matters. As you get older, you'll discover, as I did, that although there are many good people, there are also those that don't give a damn about you. All they care about is what you can do for them or how much money they can get from you. My dad ran into some very smooth- talking swindlers that said all the right things and soaked him good. He was oblivious to their greed and saw a way to provide a sound financial future for his family. When he learned that they owned a non-existent business and fled town with all of our money, he was totally devastated. To make matters worse, no one was buying real estate so we had no money coming in. My mother had limited job skills, so she took a job as a cashier at a local grocery store. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough money to pay all of our bills and the house payment. We had to move to a smaller house and watch every penny. One night after we moved, I got up to get some water and heard a noise in the kitchen. When I went to investigate, I found my dad sitting at the kitchen table. His body was highlighted by the moonlight streaming through the window. He was hunched over and had his face buried in his hands. I listened for a minute and heard a muffled weeping. It didn't really sound like ordinary crying. It sounded more painful than that. He never saw me and I never mentioned it to him. I don't think he ever recovered from that loss financially or mentally."

"I wish I would have known him better and longer. I wish he was here," said Helen as she vaguely recalled his image.

Caroline smiled, "I wish he was too. He was so giving and thoughtful. I can remember the day one of our neighbors, Henry Gunderson, almost cut off his right foot. Audrey and I were playing in the yard when we heard Mrs. Gunderson screaming her lungs out. My goodness, Helen, we lived three houses away and I swear, it sounded like Mrs. Gunderson was right behind us. Talk about lungs! Anyway, we ran to see what the fuss was about and saw Mr. Gunderson sitting on the ground in his backyard. Mr. Gunderson was trying to split some firewood to help heat his house that winter. The axe blade glanced off the edge of a log and slammed into his ankle. He was clamping down on his ankle to stop the bleeding. He shouted that he was getting a cramp in his hand and couldn't hold it anymore. He let go and a small fountain of dark, red blood spurted out like a garden hose with no pressure. Audrey ran home, got our dad and he rushed Mr. Gunderson to the hospital. There sure was a lot of blood in our back seat. Every time I got in the car after that, I could see the memory of the blood, even though my dad spent hours cleaning it all up.

Mr. Gunderson didn't have any insurance and couldn't work because of the injury so Dad loaned him money to help him out. I think the only way Mr. Gunderson repaid him was with friendship and to my dad, that was enough."

"Was it a lot of money?" asked Helen.

"It doesn't matter. The sad thing was that my dad was like that for many people during his life and when he was down on his luck, no one was around with a giving hand or helpful word.

A thin cloud of white smoke, formed as a result of Caroline's constant puffing, was hovering above them. Helen's eyes were burning slightly and the smoky air was discomforting. She opened her window and allowed entry to a frigid, hungry wind that had been biting at the glass.

Caroline continued as the cloud rapidly dispersed. "One day my dad was contacted by someone who represented a company in Florida. He was asked to sell a piece of property that had a lien against it. Apparently, some guy owed someone a lot of money and stopped making payments so the company he owed the money to went to court and was granted permission to take the house as payment. They, in turn, contacted my dad's real-estate company and asked him to sell it and send them the proceeds from the sale. My dad drove to an undeveloped part of Elmhurst to look at the house and all he found was a vacant lot. He went to the tax assessor's office and all records indicated that there was supposed to be a small, two-bedroom house sitting there. I know this sounds complicated. Are you following all of this?"

The cold air did its job and quickly diluted the smoke screen. Helen shivered a little and closed the window as Caroline lit another cigarette. She rubbed her arms with her hands to warm the chill that had rested on them and replied, "I'm still with you. I'm guessing you'll eventually tell me how Grandpa went into the puzzle."

Caroline straightened as if to relieve a strain on her back. "I'm getting there, dear. My dad went back out to the property site and tried to determine exactly where the house should have been. All he had to go by were concrete lot markers in the ground. He had a heck of a time trying to find it. The whole area was wooded and overrun with weeds that tickled his waist. He unfolded the surveyor's blueprint made for the prior owner and tried to determine where the house should have been standing."

"That's weird. It must have burned down," offered Helen.

"It was very weird. With blueprint in hand, my dad walked off the measurements with his feet and used broken sticks to mark where the house should have been standing. When he was done, he stood back and studied the crude outline. There were no burnt or rotting timbers. No piles of crumbled brick or small pieces of broken window glass. There weren't any walkways or any concrete for that matter. The inhabitants that could have been living there were creatures of the woods. There were absolutely no signs any person had ever been there before. No signs except one. There was a jigsaw puzzle resting on the ground next to a wild raspberry bramble. It had been there long enough for weeds to grow tall around it. It was amazing that it wasn't affected by the weather it must have endured. The box was in much same condition that it's probably in now."

Caroline fumbled with her near-empty cigarette pack and withdrew the next to last one. A sharp, stabbing pain pulsated through her chest, causing her to grimace and sit rigidly, like she had been turned to stone.

"Are you okay, Aunt Caroline?" shrieked Helen.

Caroline clamped onto Helen's wrist with one hand and braced herself on the bed with the other. She squeezed her eyes shut and angled her head toward the floor.

Helen was rapidly closing in on panic. "Should I get someone?"

Aunt Caroline shook her head and relaxed her grip. The pain had subsided and Caroline's body was returning to normal status. Normal as it could be for Caroline, that is.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" There was a decided difference in Helen's tone. She could feel her throat opening and she was able to breath much easier.

"No, thanks, dear. I'll be all right," reassured Caroline in a calming voice. She sat erect again, returning to the near-perfect posture she was so proud of. Her unlit cigarette had fallen to floor and naturally, she had to pick it up and light it before she could continue. She exhaled and said, "Now, where was I?"

"Why not rest for a couple of minutes. We can always finish the conversation tomorrow," urged Helen.

Caroline smiled sincerely and said, "No, sweetie. These pains come and go. Each time they get sharper and last longer. Rest never affects them. It's all part of my illness." She rolled her neck until she heard some grinding sounds and said, "I remember. We were discussing how Grandpa Kline found the puzzle. Very bizarre circumstances indeed. Like I said, the box was in great shape. Then Grandpa saw something even more startling. Sitting a foot or so away from the box, was the jigsaw puzzle itself. It was only missing a single piece from being completely assembled. He flicked the pieces apart with his fingers and was amazed by how fresh and clean they felt. He told me that he felt an unusual attraction to the puzzle and decided to keep it. When he arrived home that night, his fingers had small, shallow cuts in them. He assumed he had cut them on the raspberries without realizing it. Anyway, that's the story of the puzzle and how it came into our possession. Sadly, your dad was right in one respect. My dad spent most of his money unwisely."

"That doesn't change how I feel about Grandpa. What I remember is good stuff and that's what I'll always remember."

"That's the way it should be." Caroline extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray this time and immediately lit the last one in the pack.

"I understand how Grandpa discovered the puzzle. I'm not clear on how he knew the puzzle was the gateway to eternity if he found it in a field of weeds."

"He brought the puzzle home with him that evening and showed it to my mother. She loved doing puzzles and was fascinated by it. It sat on our dining room table for a couple of weeks until she finally had the time and desire to start it. Once she began, she became nearly obsessed with it. The more she worked on it, the more she had to work on it, if you know what I mean."

Helen slid off of the bed and returned to the window for more fresh air. The outside temperature was dropping steadily and so was the amount of smoke-free air in the room.

Caroline stared at a memory and continued, "One night, my mom and dad were relaxing in our living room. My dad was sitting in his reading chair, flipping through a magazine and smoking a horrible-smelling Cuban cigar. Audrey and I were playing a board game on the living room carpet. My mother was at the dining room table, frantically sorting and snapping puzzle pieces together. As she put the last piece of the puzzle in, Rusty jumped up and put his paws on the edge of the table. He was excited about something and I thought he just wanted to go to the bathroom. My mother didn't want to be bothered so she pushed Rusty to the floor and kicked at him with her foot. I'd never seen my mother react to Rusty like that before. Normally, she treated that dog better than most people get treated. She raised her hand as if to hit him and I saw scores of small, red lines on her palms. I walked over to her and saw that they were short, thin, razor-like cuts. I asked her what happened and she told me to get away from her. Around the same time, Audrey called to me, telling me to come back to the game because it was my turn. Your grandma hurt my feelings so I gladly returned to the game."

Helen's eyes widened, her pupils dilated and her mouth dropped open slightly.

"Anyway, Rusty must have been about ready to bust a gut because he ignored my mother's angry foot and jumped back up like he was spring-loaded. I went to the foyer, got his leash and turned to call him. Just that quick, he and my mother both were nowhere to be seen. Then I saw my dad fly out of his chair and run to the puzzle. The way he bolted to the puzzle scared me so I ran to see what alarmed him. When I got to the table and looked down, I saw my mom and Rusty standing on a beach in the puzzle picture my mom had just finished. My dad was frightened and didn't know what to do. He lifted the end of the table and slid the puzzle to the floor, breaking the puzzle assembly and sending pieces everywhere. He carefully retrieved all of the pieces and put them back into the box. Those pieces stayed in the box for nearly four years. That's when he decided that Audrey and I were old enough to manage our own affairs. He was desperately lonely, nearly broke and aging before his time. He decided to join our mother and his dog. He called Audrey and me into his bedroom one night and announced his incredible plan. That's the night your mom and I watched as he was sucked into the puzzle."

Helen stared at her aunt with raised eyebrows and her mouth was as wide as it could possibly be. "Didn't anyone ever ask where your mother was? It wouldn't have been too hard to explain away a missing dog. All you have to say is that it ran away or died. I would think that coming up with a story about your parents would have been much more difficult. What in the world did you say to people about Grandma and Grandpa?"

"My dad told everyone his wife died and her body was shipped to Pittsburgh, where she was born. He bought a family plot in a small cemetery and had a marker with her name and birth and death year laid into the ground. Prior to his own departure, he tied up all loose ends and gave me and Audrey detailed instructions on how to handle things after he was gone. He told everyone he was moving to Arizona for his health. It's amazing how few people miss you when you're broke and have nothing more than a handshake and a hug to offer."

Helen looked at the massive heap of cigarette butts growing in the ashtray and said despondently, "I wish you weren't sick. I wish people didn't have to die."

Aunt Caroline smiled, gave Helen a gentle hug and said, "I agree with the first part, dear, however, don't you think it would be an awfully crowded world if people lived forever?"

Helen thought a minute and said, "Then I guess it's better for you to go into the puzzle than stay here and suffer needlessly." She looked at the cedar chest and back at her aunt. "It would be wonderful if the puzzle is what you say it is. Maybe I could go with you!" said Helen with a newfound feeling of excitement.

"Absolutely not!! You've still got a lot of life and wonderful experiences ahead of you in this world." Caroline brought Helen close and hugged her again. While holding her, she spoke softly into her ear. "Sweetie, give life a chance. I'm sure you have your problems, like all other girls your age. With a little effort, you can usually get yourself out of most jams you get yourself into. Once you enter that puzzle, I know of no way to return. As far as I know, it's a one-way ticket." Caroline let go of Helen, sat back and emphatically looked her in the eyes. "The puzzle should be saved as an option of last resort. Do you understand me?"

Helen frowned slightly and nodded. "It's just that I get so lonely and feel so out of place everywhere I go and with everyone I meet. I have no close friends and spend most of my time alone."

"Feeling out of place is natural, dear. Most people experience that dilemma at one time or another in their life. A lot of people you meet are only pretending to be the person you see so that more people will like them. Try concentrating on feeling better about the person you are. If you keep changing to please others, somewhere along the line, the real Helen will get lost. Then you'll have major problems to deal with. Don't give up. It gets better, I promise."

"I'm not so sure!' said a doubtful Helen.

Caroline smiled, rubbed Helen's back affectionately and said, "Give it time."

"I'll try. When are you going to start working on the puzzle?"

"I'm anxious to get started on it right away. I don't want to repeat Audrey's mistake and wait until I'm too sick to finish it. I'm going through as soon as I've completed it. I'll leave a note to your dad, explaining that I had to leave early and caught a cab to the airport. Although your Uncle Harold has his doubts about the puzzle's power, he knows my intentions and will take care of all necessary details. He's going to tell my friends and neighbors that I came here for medical tests. If the puzzle works for me, Harold will explain that I had an attack while I was here and passed away. He already has a cremation urn that will supposedly contain my remains. I've also made new arrangements for Jean's boarding this fall. She'll be staying at my best friend's house. I don't think I've overlooked anything. If I have, it's very minor and should be easy to deal with." Caroline patted Helen's leg softly. "I'm going to get another pack of cigarettes and I'll be ready."

"Okay," replied Helen as Caroline left the room. She heard the words as clearly as she had ever heard anything before. Words like passing away and cremation were not everyday words in Helen's vocabulary. She wondered why people referred to death as passing away. Death seems so harsh and cold. Too harsh to use such a soft description as passing away. Why not say that someone has been deleted or purged from the records. Why does coffin sound so scary? Why hide the truth at all? Death is death. If someone asked where Aunt Caroline went, the conversation could go something like this:

"Where's your Aunt Caroline?"

"We put her in the recycle bin."

"Sorry to hear that. When was she deleted?"

"Has she been purged yet?"

"No, the service will be on Friday."

It was a creepy thought knowing that Aunt Caroline would be spending her last hours with Helen and there was nothing Helen could do about it. If she hid the puzzle so Caroline couldn't work it and it somehow really worked, then she would be sentencing her aunt to more months of pain and suffering.

Tears were streaming over her Helen's lips and dripping from her chin by the time Caroline returned. She ran to her aunt as she entered the room and embraced her with a powerful bear hug. "I'm going to miss you so much! It's so hard to say goodbye." It was a moment reminiscent of her last moments with her mother and it compounded Helen's grief.

"Shhhh," whispered Caroline. "It'll be all right. Trust me, it's for the best."

The two held each other tightly for a few minutes and mutually backed away.

"Let's get started," said Caroline with a compassionate, understanding smile.

Helen withdrew her arms, sniffled and wiped her tears away. "What do you need me to do?"

"Well, first I'll need the puzzle, obviously, and then a table to assemble it on. If you'll take care of those things for me, I'll run downstairs and start a pot of coffee. Do you like coffee, Helen?"

"No, it's way too bitter for me. It also gives me heartburn. I would appreciate a cup of hot tea if you don't mind."

"Let me think..." said Caroline. "I remember. Two sugars and no cream!"

Helen nodded and ran to the basement. She returned with the same folding table her mother used when she started the puzzle. She went to the cedar chest and lifted the blue puzzle box as though it contained a dozen loosely packed, raw eggs. She was putting the box on the table when Caroline returned with Helen's hot water and soaking tea bag.

"Here you go, dear. I've already added the sugar. It'll take a little longer for the coffee to brew. I saw the instant packs down there but I'm like your dad and prefer the freshly brewed stuff."

Caroline took the hot cup gingerly and set it on her dresser. "Thanks, Aunt Caroline."

They opened the box, exchanged glances with one another and started picking pieces from the odorous container.

"Oh my! I hate the smell of this thing!"

Helen blinked her eyes several times and said, "Whew!! It's nasty all right. It smells just as strong today as it did when my mother opened it. It kinda' smells like someone puked on it!"

Caroline chuckled. "Maybe so, and probably more than once!!"

"Shouldn't we wait until my dad and Jean are asleep?"

"No, dear. There's no time to waste. I want to start right now."

The two worked relentlessly, stopping only for trips to the bathroom and caffeine refills. By 2 a.m., Helen's burning desire to help her aunt and wild curiosity about the puzzle, had shifted radically and settled on frizzled indifference and eyelid eclipses.

Helen stood slowly, stretched and expelled a long, eye-watering yawn. "Sorry, Aunt Caroline. I don't think I'm going to make it. I'm having a hard time focusing and I have to go to school in a few hours."

Her aunt said nothing. Her head was bent over the puzzle. Her eyes were rapidly scanning the assorted shapes and colors of the mysterious cardboard.

"You can keep my bedroom light on if you need to. I'm so tired right now, not even an earthquake could keep me awake," said Helen as she looked through blurry eyes at the tiny cuts on her fingers.

Aunt Caroline was firmly in the clutches of the enchanted puzzle and once again failed to respond.

Her aunt's silence was just fine with Helen because she really didn't feel like engaging in conversation anyway. She went to the bathroom, changed into her white, flannel pajamas, brushed her teeth and after putting a salve on her finger cuts, returned to her bedroom.

She put her arms around Caroline's shoulders and tried to give her a goodnight hug. Caroline resisted and twisted free, not wanting to be disturbed. Helen was taken aback by the rude response. Be that way, see if I care, she thought. Just as she was about to crawl into bed, a horrifying image flashed in her mind. The image heretofore restricted to the darkness of her dreams, appeared vividly in her conscious mind.

She felt like she was on an amusement park ride that was moving from side to side and became remarkably unsteady. She quickly grasped the edge of the bed in an effort to stop the sensation of motion. The imaginary movement stirred the contents of her stomach, giving birth to a commanding feeling of nausea. Helen could taste portions of her dinner and she thought she would vomit for a second review of the meal at any moment.

Helen could no longer maintain her balance and dropped to the floor with a thud. The loud report of her ass kissing the hardwood floor didn't even produce a blink from her aunt. While sitting on the floor, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly and counted to three. She opened them slowly and to her dismay, nothing had changed. She could now clearly see Malvada's ugly face, as though she were mere feet away.

Helen heard a woman's screams echoing in her mind. She had a terrible feeling that they were somehow emanating from Malavada's image, even though the woman had her mouth closed and remained stationary.

Indiscernible faces darted in haphazard patterns throughout her mind. Some had vacant eyes without souls and others had no eyes at all. Black raindrops fell amidst spurts of bright, giant flames of fire. There were long spears suspended from something overhead that had copious amounts of red blood dripping from the blade edges. Malvada stood squarely in the center of it, pointing a shaky, knobby index finger at Helen.

Helen put her hands to her head and squeezed tightly like a vice, hoping that the pressure would force the thoughts from her brain. She tried to think of other things. Good, or pleasant things that would yank her out of the spiraling horror. Things like the first real snow of winter or how much fun she had at the carnival last spring. She envisioned a carnival barker's broad smile and call to wager a quarter and win a toy. Only this time when she went to his booth, she saw his head ripped from his body and sucked into a kitchen blender. She was firmly in the grasp of a hideous, unforgiving darkness, steeped with vile images and disgusting acts.

She shook her head and said, "I won't think of this crap. I won't think of this crap...". She tried to remember the joy her family shared the last Christmas her mother was alive. They made strands of popcorn and wrapped them around the pine branches, only to remove them days later because all they could smell throughout the house was popcorn. She could see the ornaments and colorful lights and the stack of presents with pretty bows and ribbons, tucked neatly beneath the lowest branches. Then there was a poof and the tree burst into flames. Christmas lights began to pop and presents exploded. She found herself standing in a cold and barren, stone passageway. Helen felt herself being pushed unwillingly through the passageway and struggled to turn back. Everything was so real. She could feel cold, whitish mildew clinging to the damp stone. She continued to be pushed forward despite all of her efforts to stop. She experienced a sharp pain in her foot and when she looked down, she saw a rat, the size of a full-grown alley cat, chewing off her right toe. She screamed but no sound came out. She cried but no tears fell. Dark images were racing faster and faster toward her, swerving at the last minute to avoid colliding with her body. She had never been so terrified. She screamed again and again, although no sound left her body.

"Think of something else, Helen!!" she shouted. Once again she tried to shift her thoughts to a more pleasant place and time. She tried to remember how much fun they had when Joe brought home a new wading pool. Helen was six or seven and couldn't wait for her dad to fill it with water so she could splash him. She could see the pool and then it changed from the warm and fuzzy memory as suddenly as everything else. The pool became a bathtub and the grass became cold, damp bathroom floor tiles. The only source of light in the image was a night-light plugged into a socket above the medicine cabinet. She tried to scream again as she saw thousands of whirligig beetles racing on a watery surface. Two snakes emerged from the water, each one slithering out and immobilizing her by curling around her ankles. The attack knocked her to the tile floor and as she lay helplessly, she saw two more snakes slither out and curl around her wrists. Thousands of bugs of all sizes crawled from everywhere in the room and enveloped her struggling body. Cockroaches struggled to get into her mouth, while ants bit at her ears. She thrashed, kicked and yanked, trying to free herself, all to no avail. She felt thousands of painful little bites, as the bugs began eating at her flesh. She tried to scream again and as she did, a waiting cockroach scurried down her throat. She gagged and spit as she felt it make its way down her throat.

She felt another body-wrenching pain in her right shoulder. She turned her head reflexively in the direction of the pain and saw a giant lobster clipping her arm and pulling it off like she were in his place on a dinner plate. It dropped her arm and raised a claw over her head. With a swift swipe from his claw, she lost her left eye. She looked with the remaining eye to see the crab admiring it like a trophy and then swallowing it.

As the creatures feasted on her, she became aware of a new entry into the room. It was a woman dressed in black from head to toe. It was Malvada. There was a foul odor about her. One that Helen had never smelled before. A red and green fluid dripped from her lips as she spoke to Helen for the first time. "Coming to my beach party, dear?"

Then, as suddenly as it all hit, it stopped. She closed her eyes and opened them one at a time to make sure she still had both of them. She rubbed her sore stomach as she stood and looked around her bedroom. Her Aunt Caroline was still working on the jigsaw puzzle, oblivious to all around her. Her favorite white, teddy bear was sitting obediently on the wooden rocker in the corner. Everything was as it should be. Everything except sweat-soaked pajamas.

Helen got another pair from her dresser drawer and trudged her way into the bathroom to change. The dry flannel cloth, with small bluebird print, comforted her and made her feel secure once again. The experiences had worn her out like never before. She felt chewed up, spit out, washed with too much bleach and then dried by an old-fashioned, hand-driven clothes ringer.

She returned to her bedroom and said, "Aunt Caroline, I just went through the worst experience of my life. I've never done any drugs, yet I was having horrible hallucinations. I was scared like I've never been scared before. It all seemed so real and I was helpless to stop any of it. It's bad enough to have terrifying images like I experienced when I was sleeping. Having those same dreams when I'm awake can't be good! It's got to mean something's wrong with my brain. Maybe Jean was right. Maybe I am too weird. Do you think I need some kind of professional medical help or therapy?"

Aunt Caroline once again responded with silence. She offered no acknowledgement of any kind. Her attention remained steadfastly fixed on the jigsaw puzzle before her.

Helen remained statue like as she waited for some kind of reaction from her aunt. Sensing that her aunt was going to remain unresponsive, she raised her voice a few notches and asked, "Aunt Caroline, did you hear anything I just said to you?"

Caroline tried fitting a piece of the puzzle. She put it back and tried another, treating Helen as if she weren't there.

"Aunt Caroline...I'm talking to you!!!" shouted Helen in a never before utilized tone of voice. Once again, her pleading fell on deaf ears. Helen was both astonished and angered by her aunt's indifference. It became obvious that her aunt's fountain of knowledge would not spew forth any magical solutions for Helen's ordeal that night. Her day had taken her well beyond her normal limits and she was at wit's end.

Helen sighed deeply, looked at the floor meekly and tearfully said, "Well, I guess the nightmares will stop or they won't." She looked around her room and then said, "Does it even matter to anyone if I'm starting to lose my mind? Probably not. Why should anyone care?"

Her eyes burned from fatigue and smoke. She cracked her bedroom window slightly and crawled into bed. "Goodnight, Aunt Caroline, although I know you're not listening to a word I say."

She set her alarm clock and said, "If I'm lucky, I'll get four hours of sleep. School ought to be a real joy...if I can manage to stay awake that is."

Helen sluggishly maneuvered her body under her thick comforter, using her last bit of energy to adjust her feather pillows. She was initially afraid to close her eyes and tried a couple of dry runs first. She'd close them for a couple of seconds and quickly open them. She repeated the tests until she felt comfortable that there'd be no recurrence of the awful images she had experienced earlier. She felt secure once again. Much to her relief, the pawl holding her wheel of sanity in place was functioning again. Moments later, she drifted off to sleep. Fortunately, it was a peaceful sleep. Instead of dreaming of an old, ugly woman forcing live worms up her nose and gagging as they slid down her throat, she dreamed of riding a horse. She dreamed she had mounted the back of Red Thunder, a beautiful hackney she met on a farm near her Uncle Harold's house. She was spending a couple of summer weeks with her aunt and uncle and quickly developed a friendship with the kids living on the farm. Before long, going to visit with the kids was just an excuse to spend time with the horse.

Red Thunder had a great life and did little more than graze on wild grasses. Helen was the only one who wanted to saddle him. The farm children had dismissed him as being too ancient and too languid for their good. It was undeniable that he had surpassed the point where he could be used for any strenuous labor. He still held his head high though, and walked with a lively, confident gait.

Helen would spoil him with timothy hay, mixed with just enough clover or alfalfa as a bonus. And what would a great meal be without an apple or sugar cube for dessert?

Thunder, as she called him, was an intelligent, sensitive and loving horse. Helen felt a mutual bond of warmth each time she put her hand on his noseband. He would turn his head carefully and nudge her shoulder as a sign of acknowledgement and affection. He knew he would receive a good brushing and gentle handling. And although he had seen as many years as Helen, he would reward her love by carrying her for as long as she desired, at a pace they could both handle. He was her friend. He was her best friend.

The following morning, Aunt Caroline was still working the puzzle, with a mere handful of fragments remaining. She had deep black rings under her eyes and her hands shook terribly, hindering her ability to link the final pieces together.

Helen showered and dressed for school, expecting her aunt to be busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Caroline had no interest in moving and probably wasn't even cognizant of the time. Helen wondered if her aunt had bothered to go to the bathroom. She smiled when she thought about her aunt's bladder being the size of a ripe watermelon.

She surveyed her bedroom, noting that the four packs of cigarettes her aunt had piled on the table had dwindled to one. The ashtray was overflowing. Some of the butts hadn't had more than a couple of drags taken before they were brutally crushed and discarded. Helen's tea cup and Caroline's coffee cup were bone dry. Her aunt would expel a fluid cough periodically, but was otherwise isolated from the world outside of the puzzle.

Helen sensed the futility in any communication efforts. "What's the point," she muttered as she kissed her aunt on the head and left the room.

She went downstairs and offered a cover story that Aunt Caroline had a bad night's sleep and wanted to sleep in. Helen stretched, rubbed her eyes and yawned. "If anyone wants breakfast, you're on your own because I'm not in the mood to do anything." After her tired proclamation she consumed a meager meal of buttered toast and a glass of milk. When she finished, she felt obligated to make a final attempt to say goodbye to her aunt.

She stood in her bedroom doorway and looked at the puzzle. When they dumped the pieces out the preceding night, the colors were faded and lackluster. She was somewhat startled to see how vibrant and shiny they had become. "Just in case you're listening, Aunt Caroline, I wanted you to know that I made it the rest of the night without any more bad dreams or visions."

As anticipated, the puzzle remained the nucleus of Caroline's life and she remained mute.

Helen shrugged her shoulders and realized that if the puzzle indeed worked, her aunt would be gone within a matter of minutes. She accepted the idea and seized the opportunity to render a final expression of goodbye. She smiled, approached her aunt and wrapped her arms around Caroline's shoulders tenderly. "I love you very much and I'll miss you with all my heart. I hope sincerely that the puzzle works like you expect it to. I hope you'll be able to find the good health and happiness you deserve."

Helen putting her arms around her aunt's shoulders was like setting off a land mine. Caroline finally broke her concentration in an explosive manner. She whipped her head up sharply, glared at Helen with curled lips, exposing her brown-stained teeth and shouted, "GET YOUR DAMN ARMS OFF OF ME OR SO HELP ME I'LL..."

Helen released her arms and reeled back in astonishment .

Caroline's verbal outburst was as powerful as a physical assault. She calmed down enough to speak in a controlled voice and continued. "Your annoying interference might cause me to lose a puzzle piece. You've finally been successful in destroying my concentration. All you do is whine and rant about stupid bullshit. You're not appreciative of what you do have. Feeling sorry for yourself has become a way of life for you. It's exhausting trying to cheer you up with positive bullshit. You're such a pain in the ass. I hope you get a spine some day and grow up."

Helen was further hurt by the second unexpected blast. She put her hand on the door frame and looked wide-eyed at her aunt. She had never anticipated such a cruel outburst from Caroline and had never once heard her raise her voice.

Caroline lit yet another cigarette and turned in Helen's direction. "Why are you still here? Did someone pack shit in your ears during the night or are you just mentally impaired today?" She took another drag from her cigarette, put a puzzle piece into place and seeing Helen still standing in the doorway, shouted, " **LEAVE!!** What does it take to get through to you? Is deafness a trait of stupid, over-sensitive bitches or are you an exception to the rule? Go out and get laid or do something bratty, little, asshole girls your age enjoy doing. JUST GET YOUR TIGHT LITTLE ASS OUT OF HERE AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE, YOU DUMB SHIT...NOW!!!" screamed Caroline at the top of her lungs.

Helen turned and did just that. Tears flowed like a ruptured dam all the way to school. Thoughts of her aunt's attitude and total commitment to the mysterious puzzle consumed her consciousness throughout the entire day. Her thoughts were divided. One part of her told her that it couldn't be possible, while an inner gut feeling that it was. If it wasn't true, however, what kind of mood would her aunt be in when she got home from school that night? And if it was true, where would her aunt really go? How could it all be possible? Where was the place in the puzzle? It certainly couldn't be in Helen's dimension. Was the puzzle truly evil like her mother said? Aunt Caroline was certainly adding credence to that statement.

Helen fought an overbearing fatigue and desire to sleep in her classes. School clocks slowed to an unbearable pace. Seconds ticked by like minutes and minutes like hours. In one of her classes, she actually dozed and didn't awaken until the class bell rang. She used the point from a lapel pin in subsequent classes to poke different parts of her body and to prevent herself from falling asleep again.

Her hands throbbed and swelled slightly from the cuts. Her head was pounding from the extreme fatigue and stress. Sandwiched amidst the physical ailments were thousands of conflicting thoughts, questions and fears. One of Audrey's favorite expressions, "All that glitters is not gold," kept coming back, over and other.

The final bell of the day rang, releasing Helen and allowing her to finally seek fulfillment of fantasies she was having about her soft pillows and warm comforter. The driving force in her life had become the pursuit of her deprived sleep. The cold, fresh air was invigorating and helped restore her to a better functioning level. About halfway to her house, her mother's words returned and forced all else from her mind. "All that glitters is not gold. All that glitters is not gold. All..." The words replayed as though they were on an endless loop tape recording.

Helen was always the first one home. Jean was involved in numerous school activities and budgeted very little time for studying. To the surprise of most who knew her, she was able to maintain a C average in every subject. Her algebra teacher suspected her of cheating somehow, but he was never able to substantiate his suspicions.

Jean's best subject was boys. She'd be talking to Randy on the telephone, while writing some bullshit note to Eric. Meanwhile, Tony would be impatiently ringing the front doorbell.

With Joe's schedule and long commute, he'd be home when he got home. Regardless of his arrival time, Helen would ensure that he had a good meal waiting. If she didn't prepare something for him, he just wouldn't eat. It wasn't because he was lazy or lacked an appetite, he was simply too exhausted to fix anything. He never asked his daughters to do anything special for him because he didn't want to burden them or make them feel like his personal servants.

When Helen arrived home, she lifted a silver tray on the corner cupboard where they always put the day's mail. She picked up a plain, white envelope addressed to all three Wagners. She dashed up the stairs like she'd received a shot of adrenalin. She stood breathlessly at her bedroom doorway and saw the shiny, completed jigsaw puzzle sitting squarely on the folding table. To her right, she saw another envelope resting on her dresser. Both notes were written and put into place by her aunt prior to starting work on the puzzle. Her aunt told her to expect a couple of notes. She was vague about the importance and nature of them.

Helen tore the first envelope open and unfolded the paper inside. It was succinct and rather to the point. It simply read, "Thanks for your kindness. Had to leave early. Goodbye. Love, Aunt Caroline."

As she opened the second envelope, she became acutely cognizant of a peculiar odor. The initial whiff caused her to gag slightly and made her feel a little nauseated. She opened her window, took a deep breath and read the second note. "Make sure you use something like a broom to jar the table legs and hit them hard enough to knock the puzzle to the floor. **UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO TOUCH THE PUZZLE WHILE IT IS STILL INTACT**. Once you're sure the completed puzzle has separated into individual pieces again, it should be safe enough for you to pick them up and put them back into the box. Hide the puzzle and **NEVER, EVER** tell anyone else about it. Remember, very little is known about this puzzle. **ALWAYS EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION."**

There was no salutation, farewell, or signature. Just instructions like you'd find while assembling a new toy, except these instructions were only in English.

Helen wadded the dramatic note into a small paper ball and eyed her white, plastic trash can across the room like a marksman zeroing in on a target. As she cocked her arm to throw, she gave the jigsaw puzzle a quick glance. "If Aunt Caroline is truly in that thing and not on a flight home, then anything should be able to go into it."

She inched her way cautiously to the edge of the table, extended her arm over the puzzle and dropped the paper ball into the center. When the paper hit the puzzle pieces, there was a weird sucking sound and it was gone. The sound reminded Helen of a time she was cleaning the house and accidentally sucked a stray pair of Jean's nylons into the vacuum cleaner hose.

Helen looked around her room for other items to experiment with. The next thing to go was the overflowing green ashtray, ashes, butts and all. Fruuump. Just like that, it too was gone without leaving a single ash. There was no indication of where it hit the puzzle either. She was looking for any sign of entry when she saw another woman in the picture. She hadn't seen the woman in the picture depicted on the cover of the box. Of course, she had also never seen the completed puzzle before, so it didn't necessarily mean anything.

She received another strong blast of the same sickening odor that first greeted her when she entered her bedroom. It certainly was a foul smell, only this time it didn't have as much impact on her senses as before. She turned her head away, blinked her eyes a few times and tried to think of something else to pitch in..

The next thing to go was an extremely ragged pair of sneakers. The long forgotten kind of sneakers. The kind found entombed under a heap of old stuffed animals, outdated clothing and other miscellaneous crap jammed in the corner of the closet. Sneakers that cockroaches have condemned, hung danger signs on and refuse to enter.

She yanked them out of the closet, dangled them over the puzzle and let them drop. Fruuump. Gone, and another powerful gust of colorless, puzzle exhaust shot into Helen's waiting face.

Helen was about to throw in an empty soda can, when a green object in the puzzle caught her eye. She stopped abruptly, moved her face closer and squinted. Then she dropped the can and ran to Jean's room to get her magnifying glass. She held the glass about two inches from the surface of the puzzle and moved up and down until the green object was in focus. Resting in the sand, about three feet from a dog that she presumed was Rusty, was a green ashtray. It was the same one abused by her aunt that Helen had pitched in moments earlier. The new woman in the puzzle was headed in the direction of a gathering of tropical trees. She was wearing an outfit identical to the one her aunt was wearing while she worked on the puzzle. Even the hair color, style and body shape were the same as her aunt's. If it looks like duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's probably a duck! She stood back, smiled widely and said, "You did it! You really did it!"

She picked up the soda can and dropped it in. Fruuump. She couldn't see where it landed and didn't really care. She got what she wanted... another burst of puzzle gas. Helen was leaning over, looking for the can and sensed a suction from the puzzle. It was pulling at her mildly, like a boa coiling itself around the neck of its intended victim. She put her palms against the edge of the folding table and pushed herself backward to the end of her bed. She sat motionlessly for a few minutes, rubbed her eyes and then blinked them rapidly a few times. She was trying to clear her mind of a trancelike feeling she was experiencing. Instead of feeling better, she began to feel worse. An internal vibration rattled her bones. The room started spinning and severe stomach cramps doubled her over. Like some of her dreams, everything started fast, hit hard and then left quickly. The difference with this episode was that her lips and mouth were dehydrated as if patted dry with sterile gauze pads.

Driven by a demanding thirst, she left her room and traipsed downstairs for something to drink. She was unconcerned about the puzzle and put the dismantling project on hold.

Helen yanked the refrigerator door open, grabbed a soda can and slammed the door shut. The recoil from the door knocked a standing flashlight from the top of the refrigerator to the floor, causing it to explode into several parts. She ignored the flashlight and walked at a leisurely pace to their living room. She turned on the television and sat in the wooden rocker her mother used to favor. Her attention shifted to the stairs leading to her bedroom. She stared at them in a trance like state. Her mind drifted to the puzzle and any thoughts of taking it apart faded away like new camera film exposed to light. It was an unusual concept for Helen because she was never one to procrastinate about anything. Even though she was a dreamer upon occasion, she was always punctual, neat, energetic and maintained focus on her priorities. The memory of her aunt's instructions to take the puzzle apart was fading away like a small white cloud on a windy, summer day.

The television had no audience, despite the fact that one of her favorite shows was being aired. She began rocking the chair back and forth in a smooth, almost hypnotic way. As she rocked, all curiosity about her aunt's whereabouts, the puzzle and her dreams slipped away to some hidden storage chamber in her brain. All she could focus on was the puzzle and the newfound joy of puzzle gas. She stopped rocking, rose like a newly activated robot and shuffled back to her room. She stood directly in front of the puzzle, tossed the soda can into the center of it and said devilishly, "Here ya go!" Fruuump. More puzzle gas. The obnoxious odor was more foul than ever, only now it was no longer offensive to Helen; it was actually quite addictive. A gaseous odor that smelled like fresh vomit from a malnourished drunk, mixed with rotting fish, and a generous dose of rotten eggs and meat, was becoming as pleasurable as smelling a new rose. Anyone else would get ill just hearing the description. Not Helen. She grinned thinking about it and wanted more.

There were other changes in Helen as well. Physically, her soft-looking face with a ready smile was tightening and showing a thin crop of wrinkles. Her wide eyes narrowed to slits with small bags underneath. Her right index finger doubled up and her knuckles took on a knobby appearance.

Her personality started to strip a few gears, dragging her down a dangerous slope. Instead of picking up a sweater that had fallen to the floor, she kicked it violently into a corner. She walked into Jean's room, jumped on her bed and urinated on her pillow, laughing hysterically the whole time. When she looked out Jean's window, she saw a bird singing on a tree branch. She imagined how fun it would be to take some pliers and squeeze its beak shut. When she was done in Jean's room, she felt a grumbling in her stomach and went to the kitchen to look for something to snack on. As she opened a cabinet, the pothos plant hanging nearby caught her eye. Helen felt the soil to test for moisture and realized the dirt had become hard as rock.

"Feels like you could use a drink. Well, you're just screwed! No water for you today, asshole!" she remarked as she pursed her lips and yanked a few leaves off.

Helen used to take great care in tending to her plants. She had a Chinese evergreen in the kitchen, (next to the pothos), an asparagus fern in the living room and several other varieties of plants scattered throughout the house. All of them were accustomed to a daily dose of pampering and careful attention. Those days were over. Helen unhooked the pothos and held it up in the dwindling kitchen sunlight. She raised her left eyebrow, displayed an evil grin and said, "How about if I put you out of your misery? You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Then with a sadistic joy, she pulled the leaves from the plant stem and tossed them indiscriminately into the air. She yanked the roots out watched gleefully as they flew through the air and crashed on top of the canary yellow, gas range. She pitched the empty, red, clay pot over her like a basketball player making a hook shot and was oblivious to the crash. She opened the refrigerator door and said, "Shit, I'm thirsty! Oops, pardon my language," she said as she kicked and dented the refrigerator door.

With a soda can in hand, she returned to the living room, turned off the television and walked to the pine book stand her father had handcrafted. She ripped out all of the books and sent them flying everywhere. One book, written by Stephen King, went sailing through the dining room, crashed through a window pane and landed in a bush outside.

Once the books were gone, she felt bored. She poured the remainder of her soft drink onto the carpet, randomly tossed the can and went out the front door. She was walking down the steps leading to the sidewalk when a car pulled up to the curb in front of her house. She stopped and waited for the driver to get out.

Scott Majczyk opened his car door, waved and said, "Hey, Helen. How've you been?"

Helen cocked her head to her right and stared, while Scott opened his trunk and produced a power saw. He closed the trunk and looked at Helen.

As Scott's eyes met Helen's, he interpreted her silent glare as a sign that she had been informed of his encounter with Jean.

"I haven't seen you in some time." He noticed some of the unsightly changes and said nervously, "Are you feeling okay?"

"What's it to you? Are you a doctor now or something?" she replied as she spit past him.

Scott cringed and asked, "Is your dad home from work yet? I wanted to return the power saw I borrowed a couple of weeks ago." Bringing the saw back was an excuse to once again try to patch things up between the two of them. As far as Scott could tell, Joe hadn't mentioned anything to Heather yet and he'd really like to keep it that way. Gluing the friendship back together was essential.

Helen looked at the saw in Scott's hand, smiled and said, "Finally bringing my dad's saw back? It's about time."

"It took longer than expected to finish the garage shelving. So, is your dad home or not?" asked Scott again as he shifted the saw to his other hand.

"Yeah, he's home. He's up in my room doing something with the wall outlet next to my bed. I'll take you up there," said Helen with an ominous grin.

The two walked the flight of stairs to Helen's bedroom and when they got there, Helen flung the door open, sending the doorknob into the plasterboard wall. The smell blasted Scott in the face like an atomic explosion. He raised his free hand, pinched his nose shut and uttered, "Jeeesssus! What in God's name is that smell?"

She faced the table, cocked her head in Scott's direction and pointed to the jigsaw puzzle. "What do you think of my work? It took me all night to finish. I'm so proud of my accomplishment!"

Scott was suspicious of her sinister smile. He didn't want to unnecessarily antagonize any more members of the Wagner family, so he stretched his neck and said, "Is that a boat on a lake?"

"Hardly! It's a boat on the ocean." Helen pointed to the sandy area and said, "It's coming to shore. Those are different people on the beach. There's even a dog chasing something."

Scott swiveled his head in different directions trying to discern the objects she was referencing.

Helen motioned to Scott and said, "Come closer so you can get a better look. I even painted some of the pieces to restore them to their original colors."

Scott looked in vain for Joe. He was no where to be seen. Nervous feet and a reluctant brain brought him closer. All he needed was for Helen to close the door and tell her dad that something happened that didn't happen and Scott would be in deeper shit with Joe.

"Feel how smooth the pieces are, asshole!" suggested Helen with a mean grin.

Her language startled Scott. He played it down, chuckled and said, "I can't believe you just called me an asshole. I gotta be hearing things!" Scott was certain Joe had discussed his encounter with Jean. It was the only explanation for her attitude. He thought a little more and changed his mind. Joe hadn't mentioned a word to his sweet, little daughter. It was Jean. It had to be Jean. She probably confided in Helen all the time. It was only natural for siblings to share secrets. It was also natural for them to be defensive when one is hurt or attacked. Helen was exacting her verbal retribution.

Scott needed to know for sure. He didn't want to play games. He put the saw on the floor and said, "Tell me why you called me an asshole."

"Damn, Scott, get over it and come closer. After I restored the pieces I covered them with a sealing agent to make them shine forever."

Scott inched closer and said, "I don't know what Jean told you, Helen. I promise you that it's not like you think. Nothing happened between us. We just had a couple of drinks together. I know I was wrong. I can't change the past, no matter how hard I try and I don't think I should have to pay for one mistake for the rest of my life."

"Jean didn't say shit to me! Let go of your nose, you look like a jackass. Now come look at my puzzle!" said Helen in a strained, almost shouting voice.

Scott relented and moved in closer to the edge of the table. He released his nose for a minute, allowing puzzle gas into his nasal passageways. The smell caused him to cough slightly and burned his nose as he inhaled. He quickly pinched his nose shut again and put his free palm on the edge of the table.

"See what I mean? Isn't it beautiful? Look at the detail in the picture. See how realistic the images are?" stated Helen as she raised a lamp pole over her head.

"You have a real fine piece of work here for sure," said Scott as he looked at each image.

Helen hauled back on the pole like a batter coming to the plate with the bases loaded. She followed through with the swing and landed the heavy metal base in the middle of his back. He reflexively thrust his hands forward to break the fall and planted them firmly on the border of the puzzle as he did. Fruuump. Scott was gone, leaving a super burst of sublime puzzle gas in his wake.

Helen sucked in the puzzle gas and became a little dizzy. She had grown to love and almost need the smell. She looked and then bent down to get the saw. She smiled as she threw it into the puzzle and said, "How about some dessert, baby?" Fruuump. The meager deposit yielded a small burst of gas. At least she received another whiff of that wonderful fragrance.

"Flesh! You prefer blood and meat, don't you?" Helen turned and went outside in search of more gratifying puzzle treats. As she meandered around the front yard, Sneezer, the neighbor's black dachshund, came dashing over to greet her. His tail was wagging as fast as a metronome out of control.

Helen squatted down to receive Sneezer's loving attention. His tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth as he jumped up and rested his front paws on her knees. Helen displayed a menacing smile and proceeded to vigorously scratch his back. The more she scratched, the more pressure she applied, driving her fingernails deeper and deeper into his skin. Sneezer whimpered and attempted to wiggle his body from her clutches. The downward pressure of her scratching held him in place and his whimpering intensified. He tried pushing away as hard as he could with his back paws. Sadly, his little body was no match for her strength and body weight. He curled his lips and tried his best to rip her hands to shreds with his little teeth. The angle was such that he only managed to pierce thin air. The dog was betrayed and defenseless against someone he loved and trusted. His efforts were exhausting and he surrendered to her will. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and panic paralyzed any further attempts.

Helen laughed hideously and finally let him go. Sneezer sped off like a lit bottle rocket and didn't stop until he had completely expended the air in his lungs. He was confused by the breach of trust and didn't know what to do. His ears hung low and his tail was tucked deeply between his legs. He looked to Helen for a reason...an explanation.

Helen apathetically scrutinized the dog's blood underneath her dirty fingernails and displaying the same devious grin, called Sneezer back to her. "Come here, Sneezer, I didn't mean to hurt you," she uttered in a soft, apologetic and luring voice.

The dog took a few steps forward and stopped. He looked away, ears still hanging low, then back at Helen. He was unsure if she was to be trusted again. He inched forward with a cautious hesitation in each step.

Helen smiled as she saw him returning. Her heartbeat skyrocketed and her breathing kept pace. "Come on, Sneezer. Gooood boy! I won't hurt you anymore!" she said with clenched teeth. "I love you, sweetheart! Come on...where's my baby?"

Sneezer stopped a couple of feet short of Helen and surveyed her eyes. When he saw her bend and extend her hand in friendship, he felt more secure. Maybe it was just a huge misunderstanding. Maybe Helen wasn't aware of how hard she was scratching. She had never hurt him before. Sneezer continued to close the gap between the two.

He had settled mere inches from Helen and looked meekly at her. His tail began to sway in an intermittent kind of uncertain, cautious wag. A wag normally reserved for strangers or new dogs in the area.

Without warning, Helen shot her hand forward and caught Sneezer's tongue between her index finger and thumb. She squeezed as hard as she could, driving her fingernail in the tongue and pulling at the same time. She leaned backward to gain more leverage and pulled as though she was trying to yank it out. She giggled at his useless attempts to break her hold with his tiny front paws.

Helen stood slowly, lifting Sneezer by the tongue as she rose. The dog was in terrible pain and had no avenue of escape. She started to swing the dog from side to side, hoping his tongue would give way to the stress. Sneezer's little body wiggled like a freshly caught fish dangling on the end of a fishing line. A stream of blood began to flow from the sides of his mouth The more blood she saw, the harder she laughed.

A car pulled to the curb of the Wagner house and stopped abruptly. Julie Fisher was behind the wheel of her new car and drove it everywhere, regardless of the distance. She often volunteered to give classmates rides home just so she could drive some more. Jean was sitting in the passenger seat, laughing about an amusing event that occurred at school, when she witnessed Helen's torturous treatment of the dog. "HOLY SHIT!!" exclaimed Jean as scrambled to get out of the car. Jean flung the door open, leaped out and shouted, "HELEN WAGNER!! You let go of that dog this very instant!"

Helen scoffed at her sister's demand and raised the dog even higher.

Jean dropped her school books, ran to Helen with both arms fully extended, palms out, and slammed into Helen's back like an old battering ram. The impact released her grip on Sneezer's tongue and drove Helen to the ground. Sneezer tucked his tail between his legs and bolted from the scene. He was lucky for a second time and had learned his lesson. He would never return to give Helen a third opportunity.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Helen? Sneezer is a poor, defenseless animal who has always been kind to you and trusted you. How could he possibly deserve that kind of torture? How would you like me to do that to you?" scolded Jean.

Helen watched Sneezer disappear around the corner of his house and then spit to Jean's right. Jean eyed the expelled fluid from Helen and said, "You're so gross. I want an answer from you. Why were you being so mean to that poor dog?"

"Go to hell, bitch. I don't have to answer to you now or ever." She laid facedown on the ground and dug her fingernails deep into the dirt. She clenched her teeth so tightly that one of them cracked under the pressure. She moved her fingernails back and forth in a raking motion then smiled widely. She spotted a few drops of Sneezer's blood and edged forward to lick the cooling droplets with her tongue.

Jean had never seen her sister or anyone for that matter, behave in such a bizarre manner. "You better talk to me, you crazy bitch! What's going on with you? Did someone give you some drugs at school today?" asked a very confused and frustrated Jean. The way Helen was acting, only two things could have happened. Either she had totally lost her mind or someone had given her some drugs to sample.

Helen rose in a leisurely manner, her teeth still tightly clenched. She looked Jean in the eyes with an evil glare. Then she spat on Jean's shoes and walked toward their front door.

"You asshole!! I'm definitely telling Dad about this. Don't think I won't! Wait until he finds out his precious little baby is really a megabitch!!" shouted Jean.

Helen maintained her shroud of silence. She opened the front door, flipped her sister off and went inside.

Julie Fisher handed Jean the discarded books and said, "What's gotten into her? I've never seen her act like that before. She looks horrible too. You can tell me if she's on drugs. You know I won't tell anyone."

"Give me a break, Julie! Little Miss Wonderful doesn't even like to take aspirin. You're right though, we have a real bad situation here. You and I both know that she's weird. I think she's finally snapped and lost her mind. Maybe there's been too much shit going on with her lately and she can't handle it."

Julie looked to the house in the general direction of Helen's room and said, "She's been too good for too long. The pressure probably turned her brain to pudding. If she were my sister and acted the way she acted around you, I'd march right up to her room and kick the living shit out of her. That would shake the pudding up and get her mind right!"

"Damn! Look what she made me do!" exclaimed Jean. "Helen made me break a fingernail when I knocked her down. Look at the size of the piece just hanging there!"

"Want me to come inside with you and hold her down while you beat her ass?" asked Julie.

"Nah. I haven't decided what I'm going to do to her yet. I need time to come up with a punishment to fit the crime. Whatever I settle on, I'll do in private. I sure as hell don't want any witnesses!" said Jean with a mischievous smile.

"All right. Remember, I offered. I'm going to head home. Give me a call later and let me know what you decided to do. We also have to talk about the decorations for Sarah's party next weekend. Her mom is going to make sure Sarah's not home so we can sneak in and set everything up. She'll freak when she comes home and sees what we've all done."

Jean adjusted her books and said, "I'll give you a call around nine or so."

"Okay. Catch ya later," said Julie as she selected the ignition key on her key chain and got in her car.

Jean waved goodbye as Julie drove off and then went inside. She was agitated and surprised when she saw the scattered books and soda spill on the carpet. Helen was standing near the stairs, watching Jean carefully, like a cat studying its prey.

"I know you caused this mess and I also know that you better than to just leave it that way. You'd better clean this shit up before Dad gets home. He'll be pissed as hell."

Jean looked at Helen's eyes suspiciously and said, "Have you been screwing around with my mascara again? I swear, you'll regret the day you were born if you did."

"I didn't touch your freakin' mascara! By the way, you might look for another pillow before you go to bed," suggested Helen with an sinister smile.

Jean shook her head and sighed. It was a useless venture to try and communicate with Helen. "By the way, where's Aunt Caroline? I can't believe she'd put up with your crap. We're supposed to talk about boarding arrangements for college this fall. I absolutely hate talking to that woman and dread the day I'll be under the same roof with her. I might as well get it over with."

Helen brought her hands in front of her face and rotated them slowly to examine them. She saw the knobby knuckles and wrinkles that had formed. The startling transformation was inconsequential to her. She let them fall to her sides and said, "Aunt Caroline is upstairs. She's in my bedroom waiting to talk to you about school."

When Jean grabbed the worn, wooden handrail to the staircase, she groaned and fanned the air in front of her face. "What is that awful smell? Did you puke in your room or something?"

"I don't smell anything. Our magnificent guest of honor, Aunt Caroline, doesn't like to be kept waiting by any child," said Helen as she gave Jean a firm nudge in the middle of her back.

Jean whipped around and said, "Quit pushing me! I'm perfectly capable of moving on my own and I'll go when I'm damn good and ready."

Jean purposefully hesitated a few minutes to validate her statement. The horrible odor meandering down the steps hastened her decision.

When they entered Helen's room, Jean covered her mouth and nose in an attempt to mask the fumes. Her eyes drifted to the floor and she saw her magnifying glass leaning on an angle against a folding table leg. When she picked it up and saw a wide crack running through the lens, it fired up her boilers of wrath. "You careless bitch! You have no right to go through my things when I'm not around. I never touch any of your crap. And you can bet your sweet ass that the first thing on your agenda this weekend, will be to buy me a new magnifying lens. I've never been as pissed at you as I am today. I've thought you were weird for some time now. So, is it your life's ambition to set the new world record for weirdness? I really don't know what to say to you or what to do about your behavior. Just wait until Dad gets home. You're going to catch some heavy-duty shit. I can't stand the smell any longer. We need to open all the windows in the house and air this place out."

Helen grabbed the broken glass from Jean's hand and lobbed it into the jigsaw puzzle. Fruuump. More puzzle gas. The more puzzle gas Helen inhaled, the more she liked it and perhaps even needed it. Each dose of gas produced more changes in her physical appearance and demeanor.

Jean's jaw dropped open in amazement. "What in the world was that? Did my magnifying glass really get sucked into that puzzle? How did you do it?" Jean stepped back, bent and looked underneath the table. She smiled and said skeptically, "Come on, I know there's a trick to this. I get it. Everything that's going on today is all part of some elaborate act you're preparing. Did you cook this scheme up with some of your twisted little friends?"

"Come closer to the puzzle and I'll show you how it's done. It's a pretty slick trick all right. Aunt Caroline spent a great deal of time teaching it to me," said Helen with a cold, calculating smile.

Jean was less than eager to get closer to the smelly puzzle. She wanted to leave the room but her curiosity assumed control. She moved closer and said, "How can you stand the stink? I'll bet it's part of the trick. You get people to focus on the odor so they can't see how the trick is done. So tell me, how do you get it to smell so foul? Is there a canister or spray can hidden somewhere under the table or nearby?"

Helen yawned and replied, "The smell comes directly from the puzzle. What do you think of the scene? It's a secluded tropical paradise. If you bend down and look very closely, you'll see two people that resemble Grandma and Grandpa Kline." Helen maneuvered inconspicuously behind Jean and smiled.

"I guess they kind of look like Grandma and Grandpa. It's a beautiful and peaceful scene. The colors are so vibrant and alive. I'd love to live in a beautiful place like that and lie on the beach all day. Can you imagine what a great tan I'd have? All my friends at school would die with envy! I'm damn sure I couldn't live with this awful smell though." Jean squinted and looked even closer. "There's another guy near Grandpa Kline that looks vaguely familiar. There's a kind of mist over the puzzle that makes it hard to see. He almost looks like one of Dad's friends. I wish I could see his face better."

Helen planted her feet directly behind Jean, smiled and raised her hands to the battering ram position that Jean had used on her earlier. "Your wish is my command. Remember though, Sis, all that glitters is not gold!"

Jean started to turn around to face Helen and said as she turned, "What the hell are you talking about now?"

An instant later, Helen slammed both of her palms into Jean's body with a force previously unknown to Helen. Jean gave vent to a loud, "Ughhh!" and was immediately vacuumed into the puzzle. Fruuump. Another tremendous burst of puzzle gas permeated the area.

Helen inhaled deeply and filled her lungs to capacity with the puzzle delight. The quantity and intensity of the puzzle gas grew with each feeding. Flesh and bone seemed to provide the best results.

"Now you know how it feels to have your back hammered in, don't you, Jean?" laughed Helen as she inhaled deeply once again to capture any lingering wisps of gas.

Helen was amused by her act of vengeance and smirked as she passed her image in the mirror. Her skin color had changed to a light shade of gray. The black rings under her eyes were spreading and getting darker. Small, red blotches were developing all over her arms and legs, producing a body rash like no other body rash. The image she projected was changing rapidly and dramatically. She nonchalantly dismissed the changes because she had things to do. Important and imperative things for her new friend.

As she was leaving her bedroom, a last bit of rational emotion slipped back into her consciousness. She felt a tremendous jolt of terror. She felt so disoriented and dizzy that she could barely stand. She clutched the doorjamb so tightly, that her graying knuckles turned white. Helen felt a rapidly submerging part of her being gasping for recognition. The last of what was good in her wanted to scream until she exhausted all of her air and wore her vocal cords out. It demanded that she cry until every ounce of water in her body had been drained. It begged for some hero to materialize, come running to her aid and slay the griffins flying around inside of her brain.

Most of all, it wanted her to run to her mother's open arms and rest her face against the warmth of her mother's chest. Helen's essence ached to have her mother's arms wrapped securely around her body and listen to soothing whispers of endearment. It wanted her mother to return with a saving light and end the darkness. There was another part of her rational mind, lingering somewhere on the edge of sanity, that knew it wouldn't happen. It wanted her life to return to the way it was before the puzzle gas but it couldn't see that happening either. Once again she wanted to cry and once again, the well was dry. The old Helen seemed to be pretty much forfeited to the puzzle.

Helen grabbed her stomach and felt extremely nauseated. She was losing self-control and knew she wouldn't be able to hold the contents in. She ran to the bathroom, flipped up the white toilet seat cover, dropped to her knees and puked her guts out. She gagged so hard that she thought she would puke her all of her intestines out at any moment.

When she was through, she leaned back against the yellow wallpaper and wiped her mouth with a matching yellow hand towel. She rubbed her forehead and weary eyes, then leaned forward to survey the contents prior to flushing. As she put her hand on the silver, trip handle, she saw seven or eight tiny, black, crow-like creatures splashing around in the rancid toilet water. There were several dozen worms as well. Small red worms, like the ones her father used when he fished for bluegill and crappie. Worms just like the ones the horrible woman in her dreams kept shoving up her nose while she slept.

Ordinarily, such a sight would have sent Helen screaming wildly out of the house. That period in her life was gone. Her emotions had been relocated and the worm mess had absolutely no effect on her.

Helen spat a remaining chunk of mangled worm into the toilet bowl and returned to her room without flushing. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the puzzle. She could feel the floor beneath her feet delivering soothing vibrations. She felt like the puzzle was communicating something to her. Perhaps even beckoning to her. The puzzle and the woman in her dreams had a nebulous mission for her. She didn't care what it was or where it would lead her. All she wanted was more puzzle gas.

Helen bent over, picked a towel from the floor and tossed it into the puzzle. Fruuump. A small shot of puzzle gas shot out and once again, Helen was feeling better. The puzzle gas was becoming more than a pleasure. It was transitioning to a necessity.

Helen heard a dog bark outside and cast her eyes out her bedroom window. She saw Sneezer in his back yard, facing her room. When their eyes met, Sneezer ran under his porch and peeked his head out. Helen looked at the puzzle, than back at Sneezer. She smirked and said, "Third time's a charm!!"

CHAPTER NINE

THE CURSE

In a small suburb of St. Louis, approximately 300 miles south of the Wagner's suburban home, a haggardly-looking man in his late twenties listened intently as a "car specialist" told him how much it would cost for a new head gasket on his Econoline van.

"Figure three days minimum and around $750, pal," stated the master mechanic as he put his ballpoint pen back in his blue, shirt pocket.

Paul looked at the white oval on the man's shirt and read the name Ray. There was a grayish stain over most of the red embroidery, otherwise it appeared to be clean. The mechanic refrained from eye contact and shuffled papers on a clipboard while he awaited Paul's reply. "Are you serious?" exclaimed Paul with a shocked smile.

"Serious as cat shit on your favorite chair!" replied the mechanic as he clasped his hands, set them on the clipboard and looked at Paul.

Paul's eyes bounced around the garage, while his mind considered alternative options, which of course didn't exist. Paul was between a rock and a hard place. He wasn't a member of any automotive club so his van was towed to the garage he was standing in by luck of the draw and not by his choice. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life towing a dead van, (at $85 a tow), from garage to garage to hear different price quotes. He remembered a sign taped to a wall at a diner he stopped at in Florida which read:

"Shingo's quote

of the day,

It's just a pothole!"

Paul had just landed in a $750 pothole! He sighed, looked at the mechanic's blank expression and said, "Fix the son of a bitch. Is there a reasonably priced hotel or motel nearby?"

"Yeah, there's one about ten miles from here. I'll get a cab for you as soon as we're done. We need to get some paperwork out of the way before we do anything." The mechanic pulled a form with at least six carbons from a small desk drawer and asked, "Name?"

"Paul O. Porter," came the response.

The mechanic printed the name in the appropriate box and seemed to be studying the form. "Anyone ever call you Pop, Mr. Porter? I don't meet many people with initials that spell another name. Not many people would even notice that sort of oddity. It's kind of a hobby I started a few years back. Mainly out of boredom I guess."

"A young drunk in a bar called me Pop once and it had nothing to do with my name. You're only the second man to honor me with that distinction," replied Paul.

"Know what else is peculiar about your name?" asked the mechanic as he tapped the paper with the top of his pen.

"No, but I'm as excited as a rooster in a hen house waiting for you to tell me!" said Paul sarcastically.

"Not only do your initials spell out a name but it's a palindrome to boot! That's pretty rare too!" exclaimed the mechanic with a small degree of pride.

"Guess I'm just chocked-full of surprises. It'd be an even bigger thrill to me if I knew what you were talking about!"

"A palindrome is a word that spells the same thing forwards and backwards, like pop, mom or dad. Get it?" asked the mechanic with a smile.

"Got it. Is the tutoring extra or is that included in the $750?"

The mechanic chuckled, picked up his pen and said, "Sorry, old habits die hard. I was an English and automotive mechanics teacher at Dundee High for ten years before I started here."

"Really? Downsized, huh?" speculated Paul.

"Yeah. We were overhauling the engine on an '83 olds when one of my seniors came to class and started throwing tools at me and some of the students. He was high on something and determined to cause pain. I tried to calm him down while another student called police. The guy that was high picked up a hammer and threatened me so I downsized him with a crowbar."

Paul shook his head and smiled. He removed his driver's license from his wallet and handed it to the mechanic. "Here. This should help you fill in the rest of the blanks."

The mechanic held it up and said, "A Mississippi man. Are you here on business or pleasure?"

"Business. Are you about finished?" asked Paul when he noticed the mechanic had stopped writing.

"I need to make a copy of this license, have you sign by the X and I'll get one my men started on your van as soon as possible." The mechanic made the copy, had Paul sign the paperwork authorizing the repairs and said, "I'll get that cab for you now. When you get settled, give us a call with your phone number so we can let you know when the van is ready."

"Thanks, Ray, I'll do that."

"If I'm not here, ask for Vernon."

Paul took his copy of the paperwork, put his license back in his wallet and nodded to Ray. After a 45-minute wait for the cab and 25-minute ride that should have only been ten, he arrived at a mediocre hotel. After catching a quick meal at a nearby fast food restaurant, he went back to his room and tried to get some sleep. Deplorable memories of yesterdays, scrambled liberally with baneful thoughts of tomorrows, blurred his reality and constantly badgered his mind.

Paul opened a suitcase and produced a photo of a gorgeous, redheaded woman in a red turtleneck sweater. He had just retrieved it yesterday and it was all that was left of what could have been a great set up for him. He could have had his cake and eaten it too. She had the master key to many men's universe. Shannon was beautiful, sexy and great in bed. She didn't want a long-term relationship, just someone outside of her marriage to jump her bones and keep her life exciting, just like Paul. Unfortunately, Shannon was no more. She was out of Paul's and everyone else's life forever. Although he didn't do her in, he was responsible for her demise.

He rubbed his eyes, leaned back and stretched out on the bed. When he tried closing his eyes, all he could see was Shannon. He could smell her perfume and taste her lips. He could feel the soft strands of her hair gliding between his fingers. He could still feel the warmth or her body against his after they made love. They would never meet again. Shannon would forever be just a memory, like so many other memories.

Sleep didn't come easy to Paul and that night was no exception. Normal sleep was more a treat than a routine. One remedy for his insomnia that occasionally worked was a trip to the lounge. He had been in hundreds of hotels and as many lounges.

He sat at a small round table and ordered two Johnny Red's on the rocks to start the evening. He always wanted the first two on the rocks. After that, he didn't care how they came. He only cared when they came.

Many of the hotels featured live bands in their lounges. The more Paul drank, the better those groups performed. There was one band in Texas called the Queen Red Oranges that started out so bad, that Paul preferred the sound of a chorus of barking dogs to their playing and singing. As the night wore on though their practice must have paid off because they didn't sound that bad to Paul anymore.

Paul was sliding his finger through the water rings where his glass had been, when he spotted two women sitting at a table in front of him. The brunette kept staring at him, while the blond sized up the man at the table to Paul's left. The guy at the other table was wearing a moderately priced suit and loosened tie. He was nursing some sort of mixed drink, which meant he was probably staying at the hotel and had nothing else to do. When he saw the blond taking an interest in him, Paul saw the guy discreetly remove his wedding band and slide it into a pants pocket.

Paul nonchalantly walked to the women's table and after exchanging introductions, invited the brunette to have a drink with him. The brunette accepted and accompanied Paul back to his table.

He gestured for the waitress and asked his date, Marie, what she was drinking.

"Why don't we start with a Manhattan?" she said with a seductive smile.

The server acknowledged Paul with a slight nod of her head. She stopped at another table before making it to Paul and seemed oblivious to the customer's hand on her butt as he ordered another drink. After she took his order, she gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, winked at him and then put his considerable tip in her tip glass. She made her way to Paul, smiled softly and said, "Another round?"

Paul couldn't remember his server's name so he looked again at the name tag pinned above the left breast of her plain white, cotton blouse. He paused for a few seconds to admire the cleavage and said, "Yes, Tanya, I'd appreciate that. My friend here would like a Manhattan."

Tanya made a couple of scribble marks on an order pad and went to the next table. Paul savored her shapely legs as she glided past and wanted to liberate them from their black pantyhose. He also liked the way she wore her hair. Shannon used to tie her hair in a French braid almost exactly like Tanya's. His wife, Pat, rarely did because it was too much of a bother. He wondered from time to time how his wife was doing. He hadn't spoken to her in several years. He assumed she had divorced him in absentia and had probably hooked up with another man. What he didn't know was that she had been dating his old friend, Bosco. One of the conditions of their dating was to ditch the tobacco plugs. They were as revolting to Pat as they were to her sister, Pam.

He was good for Pat and vice versa. The Bosco that Paul knew was solid as a rock, faithful, steady and as loyal as they come. He had no idea if Bosco was a good lover and actually never gave it much thought. Bosco was just one of those guys that was always there when you needed him. He was a very simple man, with simple needs and had no sense of adventure. Most of the guys he grew up with avoided him, because they he wasn't really a guy you wanted around when you were in the mood for "fun".

Paul thought of his wife often and wallpapered many empty hotel and motel rooms with memories of her. He hungered to trace her slender shape with his hands and share her sweat in the throes of passion. He recalled the nights of her tender caresses, passionate kisses and selfless devotion. He needed to hear her laughter and the way it lifted heavy thoughts from his mind. He missed teasing her and the fun they had together. He knew he had a good woman, that's why he married her. He had changed in many significant ways. Unfortunately, Paul screwed up in a major, unfixable way. It was all long gone and like Humpty Dumpty, they would never be back together again.

Marie interrupted Paul's wandering thoughts and said, "Are you in town on business, Paul?"

Popular question in this town, thought Paul. "Not really. I just wrapped up the business I needed to take care of. I've been sidelined for a couple of days because of mechanical problems with my van."

Marie glanced back, smiled at her friend and while still smiling, looked back at Paul and asked, "What kind of business are you in?"

Paul sighed slightly and looked down at the table top. Everything was always the same. He knew the routine like lines in a play that had been memorized. He knew what questions would be asked and what questions to ask. He knew what to answer and what she would answer. What should he tell Marie? Should he say that he takes part-time jobs in each town to make ends meet or tell her he's a traveling salesman? Maybe he should tell her that he's a pharmaceutical representative, like Shannon used to be when she was alive. He was dressed well enough to say he was a high-priced corporate lawyer. What did it matter that it was his only suit? Maybe he should go back to the room, change into his one pair of jeans and then the conversation would be over and he wouldn't have to select any lines at all.

It didn't matter what story he decided to tell or what character he decided to play. It always ended the same way. Different stories simply made the ordeal more tolerable and less depressing.

Paul raised his head and said, "Would you like to hear the truth for a change...or does it matter?"

Marie smiled seductively and said, "I'm a pretty good judge of character, Paul, and I doubt you would tell me anything less than the truth!"

Paul chuckled and said, "Okay. I'm a hunter of sorts. I'm also a caretaker and a collector. I guess I wear several hats, so to speak."

Marie finished the last sips of the drink she had brought with her from the other table and said, "Hmmm. A hunter. Interesting. I haven't met one of those yet." Marie wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked at Paul. "So, do you hunt people or animals?"

Paul feigned a half-smile and said, "Neither. I hunt things. Deadly things. Things that will pull your plug and plunge you into eternal darkness just for being alive." Paul gazed passively into his empty glass and said somberly, "Things that will pluck your eyeballs out while you're asleep or suck you down a drain while you're taking a relaxing, hot bath."

He paused momentarily to look into Marie's eyes and measure her response. She had a blank stare and didn't know if it was because she was in shock or simply because she thought he was bullshitting her to be different.

He took a shallow breath and continued with his job description. "I'm a caretaker of things that enjoy the taste of fresh blood and fatty bone marrow. It doesn't matter if it's animal or human, just so long as it's fresh and tasty."

Paul leaned his body imperceptibly forward, looked Marie straight in the eyes and said, "Or things that will burn you to a cinder and drag your soul through the halls of eternal damnation."

Marie evaluated Paul's narration and found it lacking in credibility. It all sounded more absurd than any other story she had ever heard. She passed Paul's comments off with little interest and mentally catalogued them in her special file devoted to lonely guys on the road. Each guy tried to be unique and special. They all wanted to be more interesting than their normal life permitted. She too knew the routine. The routine she was familiar with differed only slightly from Paul's. She knew all of the questions, mannerisms and answers. Once she made it successfully past the facade, she discovered most of the men were married and watched exciting movies starring actors like Charles Bronson or Clint Eastwood. They fantasized that they were just as tough, just before helping with the dinner dishes. Most were ordinary guys who played with their kids, hugged their wives and dealt with ordinary responsibilities. Guys who paid their bills on time and followed a daily, boring routine. When they were on the road, the actor inside would burst out and the fantasy would begin. She deemed Paul to be no different than the rest. His story was the most unique she had ever heard and if awards could be presented, he'd surely take the grand prize.

"Am I supposed to be impressed, scared out of my wits or just incredibly disgusted?" she asked blandly.

"It's your choice," he replied almost immediately after she finished speaking. He knew what her response would be and gave his answer with very little thought. It would have been more stimulating to him if she'd said anything else. It would have impressed him. It might have even saved her life. She was no different than anyone else had been. They always had doubt.

"Why don't you tell me exactly what you hunt and why?" she queried with a smile. She wanted to see how creative Paul could be with his tale of terror.

Paul was temporarily distracted by the group performing on stage. He grimaced as they offered a weak rendition of a popular Beatles tune. It was one of those songs you hear and hum the same line over and over because you either can't remember the rest of the lyrics or you can't understand them. In any event, the band on stage was beating the song to death.

Paul drifted back to Marie and said, "Judging by your tone and reaction, I'd have to say that you don't believe much of what I've told so far. It's understandable. No one does until I show them my collection. The nature of my journeys demands that I show my collection to the vast majority of the people I meet. It's all part of this wretched curse that's been placed upon me. I have a few items in my collection that require feedings with some degree of regularity. In that sense, I'm also a caretaker. The things always get what they want...I rarely do. I am, however, allowed this one treat!" said Paul as he downed the new drink that had just arrived.

Tanya was about to walk off, when Paul grabbed her wrist. He held it until the last of the liquid coursed quickly down his throat. He set the glass down carefully, looked at the Tanya and said, "Hit me again."

Tanya always smiled when a customer said "hit me..." . There were many nights that she would like to take them literally and knock them to the floor. Of course, she never did, even though there were several bastards who deserved to have the crap kicked out of them. She turned to Marie and said, "Would you like another?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine for now," she replied.

Marie didn't usually call a man's bluff. She'd go along with the story, enjoy the man's company and have a pleasant night of entertainment. She didn't always care what they had to say because she hadn't reached the point where she was interested in a long-term relationship. After the festivities of the night were over, she generally didn't want to see her date again. Few men ever had a second chance with Marie. Although she was a hard nut to crack, there was something appealing about Paul. Something that made her want to know more. She couldn't put her finger on it exactly. Maybe it was an inner sadness or need for comforting that he was projecting. She made an exception to her first rule of caution and invited further discussion about Paul's "things".

She waited for Tanya to leave, then smiled and said, "Where do you keep your collection?"

"It goes everywhere I go. I'd love to leave it someplace, believe me! Like I said, some have special needs. It's all part of the curse."

"You've mentioned a curse several times. What kind of curse are you under?" asked Marie as she sipped her drink.

Paul looked at Marie like he looked at so many people before her. He knew it would end the same way as all the rest and didn't want it to. Just as he got to know someone and really enjoy their company, he found himself saying goodbye. He'd also met some people whom he couldn't say goodbye to quickly enough. Oh well, he had to do what he had to do and he had to do it that night.

Paul sighed and said, "I'll tell you all about the collection and the curse soon enough. When I tell you, you'll regret it and wish I hadn't."

"It's that awful, is it?" asked Marie in a patronizing voice.

"Marie, it's worse than awful. Without a doubt, the curse goes well above and beyond the call of horrible!" stated Paul.

Paul had told the same story for so long that any sincere fears were disguised by repetition. Marie wasn't able to perceive any indications in Paul's tone of voice so she doubted the seriousness of the tale.

Tanya returned with Paul's drink and set it on the table. "Another?" she asked with a flirtatious smile.

"No, thanks," he replied. He downed the new drink in the same manner as all the others and looked at Marie. "Do you have a car tonight?"

"What do we need a car for?" she asked as Tanya left.

"My van isn't feeling well. I had to put it in the shop for some minor surgery. I thought you wanted to see my collection."

Marie chuckled slightly. "Of course, I'd love to see this famous 'collection'. I really thought you'd tell me it was in your hotel room. I suppose you're going to tell me it's down an old country road with no street lights. We'll get down the road and find out that we're hopelessly lost or it'll be a dirt road with some muddy patches deep enough to get a car stuck in for a few hours!" said Marie with a gentle, knowing smile.

"Not at all. It's in a very public place with plenty of surrounding street lights. It's not far at all," he stated.

Marie studied Paul's face again and decided to play along. He looked safe enough and she wanted to see Paul squirm when she called his hand. Remaining in the empty lounge would be unproductive and incredibly boring.

"My friend and I take turns driving when we go out. It was her turn to drive tonight. If she doesn't have any plans, I doubt she'll mind me borrowing the car. She's borrowed mine on different occasions. You're sure I'll be safe with you? Do I need you to leave your driver's license with her?" asked Marie with a mischievous grin.

"You tell me," he replied with an equally mischievous grin.

Marie looked at the few drops left in her glass and spun them in a circular motion as she thought. She looked back at her friend, then at the glass and finally back at Paul. "Okay. I'll tell Susan we're leaving and get the car keys. How long will we be gone so I can give Sue some idea of when to expect us back?"

"It depends on you. Will Susan have a problem getting home if she wants to leave?" asked Paul.

Marie laughed softly and said, "Are you kidding? Sue will be just fine. Take my word for it! I'll be right back."

Paul watched as Marie whispered something to her friend. Susan kept staring at Paul as the two exchanged conversation. Shortly thereafter, Susan removed a set of keys from her purse and handed them to Marie. She strolled back to Paul and said, "Ready when you are!"

"Your friend doesn't look too happy. What did you tell her?" asked Paul calmly.

"I told her that we were going to look at your 'collection' and I wasn't sure how long we'd be gone. She looked at you and told me not to trust you. She thinks your collection is housed between your legs!"

"Why don't you tell her to come along and she can see for herself?"

"I asked her if she wanted to come along and she told me that she has other plans," said Marie with a smile. "She knows I can protect myself if I need to. If she's not here when we get back, she wants me to call her."

Paul finished his drink and said, "I'm ready." He looked at the server, threw some cash on the table and walked outside with Marie.

Marie adjusted her coat and shivered from the cold. She handed Paul the keys and said, "Do you feel comfortable enough with the area to drive?"

Paul shrugged and said, "Sure."

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

"I've got a general idea. I noticed some familiar landmarks. This isn't my first trip to your lovely city. I was here less than a year ago, only I never made it to this part of town. I sure as hell won't take the same route my cab driver took!"

Their warm breath fogged the windshield almost immediately, so they sat in the car and waited for the engine to warm up. Paul cupped his hands and blew in them intermittently while Marie donned her gloves. Their silence made Marie feel a little uncomfortable. As long as someone was talking, she could constantly gauge her situation. She knew that any situation could change very quickly and without notice.

Once Paul put the car in gear and started toward the shop housing his van, she removed her right glove and slipped her hand into her brown, leather, shoulder bag. Once she felt the cold, silver-plated, .25 caliber pistol, she felt more confident about the outcome of their unusual journey.

"Out of curiosity, where are we going?"

"Believe it or not, I have a superior sense of direction. It's a side effect of the curse. It should be a block or so up this street and somewhere on the right side of the road," said Paul as he kept looking to his right.

"A superior sense of direction? Are you sure this is your first visit to this neck of the woods? You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" asked Marie suspiciously. She was doubtful of the "sense of direction" part. She really thought he knew the area too well. She was thinking he had a wife tucked into bed somewhere nearby and made frequent outings like this one.

"Driving through this part of town is like driving through any other part of any other town. All the streets follow the same planned layout and they all lead back to my van," stated Paul dryly.

"Thanks for not trying to impress me with a heavy foot on the gas. I really appreciate that. You wouldn't believe how many men let their testosterone take the wheel and try to convince me of their masculinity. Fast driving scares the hell out of me. There was a time however, when I loved it and never objected when my high school boyfriend drove too fast. Then one night we were coming home from a party at a friend's house and we had too much to drink." Marie laughed and looked out her passenger window. "We were all too young to drink legally so any alcohol at that time was too much! My boyfriend only had a learner's permit and was supposed to have a licensed driver with him whenever he was driving. His mother had plans and his father was watching a football game on TV and didn't want to be bothered. Besides, he didn't give a damn about the rules anyway, so he gave my boyfriend the car keys." Marie turned, looked at the floorboard and said, "I looked at the speedometer and the needle was moving past 90 when he lost control of the car. When I woke up in the hospital two days later, I learned that I had a skull fracture, a broken arm, a broken leg and several broken ribs. My boyfriend and two kids in the back seat all died."

"An experience like that would leave an understandable lifetime impression." Paul raised his finger and pointed. "There it is." He didn't give a shit about her stupid little sob story. He had lived though several situations, far more severe and tragic than a simple car wreck. All of his attention was focused on where he was going. He had a job to do.

After the car rolled to a gentle stop, the two sat quietly and stared at the garage where Paul's van was. Paul looked to Marie and said, "Last chance to change your mind."

Marie opened the car door and stepped out. Paul followed suit and the two approached the building. Paul looked through the dirty glass of the automatic garage door and stared at his weather beaten van. "Sure isn't much to look at is it? At least it's paid for and gets me where I need to go...most of the time!"

Marie stood to Paul's right and looked. "Jesus Christ! You want to get it on with me in that freezing cold van? I suppose we'd just have to wait for the mechanics to come to work in the morning to free our bodies from the metal, once they stuck to it from all the sweat!"

Paul smiled. "Now that would be an interesting thought!"

"I like you, Paul, even though you're a bit stranger than most men I date. I've got a feeling you might have a sweet spot or two and I think one of them is right there," she said as she touched his lips with her index finger. "Am I right? Are your lips as sweet as candy?" She turned his body to face hers, ran her hands up his arms and leaned into him. "Let's just see how they taste." She pressed her lips against his and ran her fingers through his hair as she kissed him. She backed away slowly, smiled and said, "What'd you think of the coming attractions?"

Paul glanced through the garage door window and then at Marie. "It was wonderful. I haven't been kissed like that in quite some time."

"I want you to understand that I'm not an easy catch. I don't make it a practice to sleep around, although I certainly wouldn't mind making love to you. Not here though. The atmosphere is all wrong and it's too damn cold! Let's go back to your room or my apartment and you can show me your collection there. At least it'll be warmer and more comfortable," said Marie in a gentle and caring voice as she rubbed his forearm.

"I hadn't planned on doing 'it' here or anywhere. I knew you wouldn't understand, Marie. You couldn't possibly understand. It's yet another part of that wretched curse. I can't ever have sex until the curse has been completely lifted," said Paul in a frustrated voice.

Marie felt uneasy with Paul's response. Maybe he didn't have a few sweet spots after all. Maybe he was some perverted serial murderer that delighted in ritual mutilations? Maybe he wasn't anything bad, just mentally impaired or prone to hallucinations. She thought of the gun in her purse and tried to think of the best spot on his body to aim for if she had to shoot.

Marie decided that the best course of action was to go along with the situation until she could safely react. "Okay. Let's say you're right and you're under some evil spell. When or how does the spell get broken? Do you have to kiss a frog or something?"

"I was tasked with gathering a considerable list of things. When I find the last one, I'll be set free."

"You really have a collection in that van?" She was shocked. Maybe he really believed in the curse idea and had a bunch of junk in the van. Poor guy, she thought. Maybe he was just suffering from delusions and was driving all over creation with someone's trash in the back of his van. She smiled, looked at Paul and said, "Well, Don Quixote, if I'm to be your Dulcinea, perhaps we should make sure you're prepared for battle!"

Paul hesitated. He almost didn't want to show Marie the van. He was growing fond of her. I have to do what I have to do. I have no choice, thought Paul, as he turned away from Marie and walked briskly to a side door of the shop.

Marie stood her ground and moments later, heard the sound of breaking glass coming from Paul's general direction. She waited for screaming alarms to shatter the brittle night air, summoning sufficient authorities for a rousing game of poker. Oddly enough, there was no response. All remained peaceful and calm. Only time would tell if there was a silent alarm.

A frightening thought struck her as hard as being hit in the chest by a baseball bat. There was a remote, almost impossibly remote, possibility that Paul might be telling the truth. If that were so, the outcome could be very scary. She inhaled a generous helping of the frigid, dry air and mated her finger with the trigger of the pistol in her purse, just in case she wasn't his Dulcinea. Her heart started pounding so hard, she thought she could hear it. It was an identical feeling to the one she had while she was waiting for the judge to sentence her on the misdemeanor possession charge.

When Marie was a young teenager, she endured a myriad of personal problems that pushed her out of her high school, her family home, and into the real world. She got involved with a group of rebellious, thrill-seeking kids that lived vicariously, with one foot over the edge.

An undercover cop made a drug buy and later raided the house she was staying at with a bunch other kids. She was booked for simple possession and later received 12 months probation as a sentence. She was lucky, not all of the others were. Two of them were selling hard narcotics and were given sentences of five to ten years.

If what Paul was telling her was based on fact, then she needed to plan an avenue of escape. If he was just handing her a line to get into her pants, she didn't want to overreact and look like an idiot. She wasn't sure what direction to pursue. The only thing she knew with any certainty was that she had no desire to become a maggot brunch.

Her head swiveled from left to right. Her best and quickest way out would be the car. Did Paul leave the keys in the ignition or were they in his pants pocket?

Marie jumped slightly as the garage door jerked without warning. She nearly squeezed a round off in her leg. She began to think that the time to bolt like a motivated rabbit had arrived. Her heart shifted gears and picked up the beat as the garage door wheels made their way noisily up the aging track. She fondled her pistol and decided to play one more hand with Paul. She was nervous, yet curious, and had to see where it was all leading. She mustered up the last of her courage and remained motionless as she awaited Paul's next move. Gambling and taking chances had always been her downfall. Too bad she never learned that you can't beat the house and Paul was the house.

The door was open far enough for Marie to enter without ducking so Paul released the green button he was pressing and moved confidently to the ominous object that was more his home than his vehicle.

Marie took a few cautious steps forward, stopping far short of the van. She looked it over several times and searched for any hints of danger.

Paul opened the two rear doors of the van dispassionately and said, "Marie, I'd like to introduce you to my collection. Collection, this is my beautiful date for the night. Her name is Marie...hmmm, I don't know her last name."

"It's Harrison," she said reflexively. She shook her head and chastised herself for volunteering more information than Paul needed to know at that point.

Paul nodded. "Thank you, Marie. Collection, this is Marie Harrison. Sorry, Marie, my collection only has one name."

Marie's grip on her weapon remained true, although she was beginning to believe he was more crazy than dangerous. She moved closer to get a better look at the contents of the van. She made a quick study of a pile of assorted junk and said, "This is your collection?" she held back a nervous laugh and said, "Please don't take offense, Paul. Your collection looks more like a flea market on wheels to me!"

Paul smiled, wiped the corners of his mouth and said, "It looks that way to any rational person that views it. In fact, it's the story of my new life and a reminder of the old one I'll never return to. I'm living out a nightmare that's worse than anything written in science fiction novels. It's a terrible curse brought on by years of selfishness, arrogance, over-indulgence, short-sidedness and seasoned liberally with stupidity."

Marie moved boldly to the rear bumper and sniffed the air flowing from the van's interior. She looked at Paul and said indignantly, "Oh my God! Do you process raw sewage in the back as well?"

Paul smiled and said, "It does smell that way at first. After you get used to it, it's actually not so bad. Believe it or not, there are times I enjoy the fragrance."

"I don't think fragrance is an appropriate word for what I was just exposed to," said Marie as she moved away from the path of the air flow.

Paul put his hand on one of the rear doors, lit a cigarette and looked in Marie's direction. He was looking more through her than at her. "A number of years ago, a very bizarre woman moved south from a northeastern state. I think it was Massachusetts. It doesn't really matter where she came from or why. The only important issue is that she moved to my state, to my town." He dropped his hand, leaned against the door and cleared his throat. "Whenever my friends, LJ and Kevin, and I wanted to blow off some steam or just have a good time together, we'd go out drinking and raise some righteous hell. Most nights it was time away from the world. We'd have some harmless fun and do the male bonding type of crap. Then she moved in. The crazy bitch called herself Malvada. She used to tell local merchants that she was the 'Prince's Mistress'. I'm asking you, Marie, why would the 'Prince's Mistress' want to settle in a condemned dump in the middle of nowhere? Maybe she wanted to get away from it all and retire in obscurity, I'll never know. Unfortunately, she picked my town. You'd think a witch of her stature would find more business in some larger city. We never believed in real witches until we met her. You're not supposed to be able to find witches just wandering around the countryside, are you?"

Marie looked at Paul in disbelief. "Come on, a witch? Broomstick and all?"

"Yes, a real witch. She had a broom all right but it was an ordinary broom that she probably used to clean the house with. I never saw her riding it in the sky. I know witches are just supposed to be a bunch of bullshit to scare the hell out of little kids at Halloween. Malvada was real. Too real. It seemed like I kept having coincidental encounters with her and each time they were negative. She was getting under my skin and I was growing more angry with her by the day. I told my buddies, LJ and Kevin, about her and they partnered with my anger. If I was angry, then they were angry."

"That doesn't sound healthy. I guess it is typical of men though," smirked Marie.

"Kevin decided to see if he could find out more about her so he went snooping around her house. He was going to tell her that he was there to read the gas meter if she caught him. I doubt if the damn house ever had one. It was a Saturday afternoon around mid-August. Temperatures were hovering close to 100 degrees and you couldn't buy a breeze. He saw that she had all of her windows open so he sneaked up to the edge of one and peeked in. There was an awful odor coming from the window, much the same as the one you smell here. He had been looking for a few minutes and started to gag from the fumes. He held his nose and was about to leave when he saw her coming in view from one of the back rooms. She was stark-naked. That's not unusual in that kind of heat. A lot of people I know walk around naked in their house during the summer. What startled him was what he noticed next. He looked at her chest and saw three nipples. He remembered reading a book in school discussing myths about witches and one of the myths described witches as having three nipples. The third nipple is the mark of Satan. That would explain why she called herself the 'Prince's Mistress'."

Paul heard a sound coming from the van and glanced in. "Shhh," he whispered.

Marie shuffled her feet and said, "You guys must have really believed in the whole witchcraft thing to so readily accuse her of being a witch. The third nipple could have just been a birth defect. That's probably how the stupid story originated. Some poor, victimized woman was most likely accused of being a witch. When she passed an insane test thought up by a moron proving her to be a witch, they discovered the third nipple and burned her at the stake. Urban legends start like that today with far less fact to go on, yet people by the thousands believe them."

"I suppose it could have been an abnormality. We didn't look at it that way. We were convinced, so we went to the library and did more research on witches and witchcraft. She fit every criteria established, without exception. We were at a loss as to what to do next. We tried going to the police, but we could tell that they didn't believe a word we said. We told some of our friends and they thought we'd been drinking too much. Others thought we were bullshitting them to have a little fun at their expense. We decided that if anything was going to be done about her, we'd have to be the ones to do it."

"Did you ever take the time to approach her and express your thoughts, your fears?" asked Marie.

"No, we never did. We discussed the situation amongst ourselves and each time we talked about it, our anger churned and intensified our resolve to take action. We'd go to Grumpy's, that was our favorite watering hole, get juiced up and drive by Malvada's place to harass her. We'd do crazy stuff, like crapping on her front porch and throwing firecrackers in her front yard while we assumed she'd be sleeping. We went through town, gathered up about 15 for sale signs from people's lawns and stuck them all in Malvada's yard. One night, we were driving around in LJ's truck, it was a big old, black, Chevy pick-up, nearly exactly like mine, and we decided to turn Malvada's property into a landfill. It was trash night in town, so we went through several neighborhoods and filled the bed of LJ's truck with as much trash as it would hold. Then we'd drive back to her house and dump it. We made five or six trips like that and laughed our asses off each time. We'd been drinking that night as well and decided to urinate on her front porch to cap the night off."

"How manly! If I would have been in her shoes, I would have called the police and had you locked for as long as possible. You guys should have left that kind of behavior in the school yard when you graduated. It's not at all funny. It's just plain stupid," said Marie quite angrily.

Paul and Marie looked to the street as a set of headlights passed. The air was so still and the area so quiet, they could hear the idle of the car engine at the traffic light. The vehicle gunned its engine and roared away. Paul flicked his cigarette to the ground and looked back at Marie. "One night we went too far. We all met at Grumpy's, as usual, and drank pretty heavily until it closed. Then we all jumped in LJ's truck and drove to Malvada's. LJ had a case of beer in the bed so we sat in front of her house, drank the beer and threw the empties toward her porch. We hammered on LJ's truck horn and laughed at stupid jokes that didn't make any sense. Then LJ stopped laughing and started getting angry. He had some memory spring up that pissed him off. I think Kevin said something that provoked the reaction. LJ was never the type to tell you what bothered him so without knowing the cause, there's never been any way to help him."

"The man has some serious issues. That could be real dangerous for him down the road," offered Marie.

"He shifted his anger to Malvada and the hotter he became, the hotter all of us became. It was like there wasn't three individuals anymore. It was more like we had become a single creature, an ugly creature, with three violent, snapping and irrational heads." Paul lit another cigarette, blinked his eyes several times from the irritating smoke and looked out the garage door windows. "Anyway, I guess I was just too caught up in the thing. The next thing I knew I jumped from the cab of LJ's truck, yanked his deer rifle from his gun rack and drove a round into the chamber. I yelled for the guys to watch as I took aim on some empty, green wine bottles in a living room window. Round after round followed the first. There was bottle and window glass flying wildly into her living room. LJ and Kevin were howling and cheering me on in a very sick way. The moment escalated and they joined in the assault by throwing rocks, empty beer bottles and anything else they thought would shatter any glass that was still intact. It was insane and we all laughed the whole time we were doing it. It's so weird because none of us had acted that crazy before."

Marie listened intently to Paul's narration. She felt as though he had told the story before or at least rehearsed it. Even though the whole story could have been a bunch of bullshit, Marie sensed a disguised pain in his voice. She saw a vacant look in his eyes and determined that a deep loneliness had smothered his smile. She was sympathetic to the suffering he must have endured in his life, although she doubted that it was attributable to a witch.

Paul stopped abruptly and looked coldly into a glowing streetlight across from the garage. His bloodshot eyes mirrored the doubtful stare of Marie. He sighed deeply and continued. "I've seen that look before. You're wondering how much this bag of bullshit will weigh by the time I'm done."

Marie smiled and asked, "What happened next?"

"After I popped off the last round, we heard a high-pitch scream coming from inside the house. It was a long, loud, horrifying scream. A scream like someone enduring an unbearable pain. I can hear it echoing in my mind as if it just happened five minutes ago. I hear it all day, every day. I don't think I'll ever hear anything like that again."

"It sounds like the last shot fired missed the original target and hit Malvada instead," said Marie in an obliging voice.

Paul nodded and said, "Yeah, sure did. I never figured her to be in the line of fire. We all thought she'd run out the back and hide until it was over. No one in their right mind would have faced that kind of harassment. I was careless and an awful accident happened that shouldn't have. Every bit of that night was preventable. I couldn't change what I had already done."

"How badly was she wounded?" asked Marie.

Paul finished his cigarette, dropped it to the floor and crushed it underneath his shoe. He shoved his hands into his pockets, wiggled his shoulders a bit as if to ward off a chill, and said, "Malvada came staggering to the front door, flung it open and pointed her knobby finger directly at Kevin. Seconds later, his entire body was engulfed in ghastly, almost life-like, green flames. One of the flames wrapped around his mouth and prevented him from uttering a sound or taking a breath. His body jumped and danced around, trying to escape the ordeal. He couldn't move though. It was like someone had put a transparent fence around him."

"Then she pointed at LJ. For a couple of minutes, the two looked at each and smiled. LJ flipped her off with both hands and stood solid as a rock, while a green bolt shot from her fingertip. It ignited LJ the same way Kevin had been lit up. LJ smiled as the flames engulfed his body. I was scared shitless and wanted to run like hell. I threw LJ's rifle at her and tried to run away. I couldn't move an inch. It was like an invisible lasso had been thrown around me and the noose was tightening at my waist. I had no choice, I had to stay. I've never been much on prayer or religion and never went to church on Sunday. When all the crap started with Malvada, I paged God and began to pray! I was panicking and willing to try anything in the few minutes I had been given."

"Well, at that point, I would have tried anything myself. It doesn't seem to matter who you are, whenever someone gets backed into a corner, they pray," noted Marie.

"I suppose so," replied Paul. "The green flames burned brighter and brighter, until both Kevin and LJ were nothing more than two piles of gray-white ash. I looked at Malvada and awaited my turn. Her face had become a strange, crumpled mass of green and black. It looked more like a kid mixed some paint with modeling clay, squeezed it through his fingers and slapped it on her skull. The pewter pentacle around her neck glowed to a bright white, then disappeared, leather strap and all. A red fluid oozed from her entire body and dripped to a spreading puddle at her feet. I hesitate to say that it was blood because nothing else about her was normal."

"Sounds like a pretty disgusting scene!" remarked Marie.

"She extended her arm and fingers toward me and all I could do was watch helplessly as her fingers grew longer and longer. They grew from the porch she was standing on, to where I was paralyzed on the street. I'm talking about a distance of at least fifty feet! Her frigidly cold fingertips wrapped around my neck and squeezed tightly, like someone closing a handcuff. The next thing I knew, the fingers were contracting and pulling my body with them. Her grip was so tight, I could barely breathe. I still had no voluntary control over my body and could do nothing to try to break her grip." Paul lit another cigarette and looked disinterestedly around the back of the garage. Marie maintained an interest in the story and like being caught up in a good novel, she wanted to hear the ending.

"Mind if I bum one of those?" she asked.

"Not at all. I didn't realize you smoked."

"I do occasionally. I used to smoke two packs a day and went on the patch to help me cut back."

"Worried about your health?" asked Paul.

"Not really. The cost bothered me more than anything."

Paul offered a cigarette from the pack and lit it when she put the filter to her lips. She had very kissable lips all right. He wanted more of those full, sexy lips. He wanted more of Marie. He desperately wanted to feel her sweating flesh against his. He knew it could never happen, so he flushed the idea from his mind and pressed on with the story. He had business to take care of.

"As I was being dragged back to Malvada, her fingers shifted from frigid cold, to warm and then to hot. The closer I got to her, the hotter the fingers became. I began to feel and smell my own flesh burning. Screaming was out of the question. It was all I could do to just breathe. Finally, we were nose to nose, or at least what should have been her nose anyway. Her breath smelled like day-old vomit. Her eyes had solidified and looked like two shiny, black marbles with a small, red dot in the center. She spat in my face and I could feel hot streams of fluid running over my eyes and down my cheeks. Then she spoke in a deep, raspy voice and said, 'I've sent my belongings to here and to there. You alone, you piece of human dung, will be the only one to know where. You won't know where until they deliver their blow and kiss their victims with my deadly lips. You are tasked with finding my things amidst the screams and return them all to me. Once you find me, your journey will be over. Until you find me, my things will need care and the proper attention they will have grown accustomed to. You will be required to feed them on a regular basis. Their diet will be readily learned. Since you have taken my life, the life of a woman, so shall I take all women from your life. You will be able to look, not touch. You'll be allowed to savor and crave their wonderful essence, but will be forbidden to taste it. You'll be able to talk and lust for them and that's all. I've taken the necessary steps to make sure you'll be able to follow through on my commands without hindrance.' After she said that, I felt an excruciating pain in my groin and was left with a penis the size of a multivitamin. A small multivitamin at that!"

Marie snickered and said, "I've never seen one that small! That would certainly be worth looking at!"

"Go ahead and laugh. I suppose I would in the same situation. Then she said, 'Each time you find one of my things, you'll feel the pain I feel now and the last time we met. It will be your personal pain because you will witness the destruction that your acts of stupidity and insanity have caused. Even worse, there will come a time you'll feel no emotion at all. Feed my things well; they'll demand it. That is your curse, you useless piece of human dung. Wear it all until we meet again and I remove it. NOW BURY ME!!' She pointed to a spot near an old elm tree and I watched as a shovel flew through the air and landed at my feet."

Paul put a cupped hand to his mouth, coughed slightly and wiped his lips with his fingers. He looked in at the contents of the van and then at the concrete floor.

"I'm guessing that you buried her as directed and began the quest she established for you. Is there any more to the story?"

"There's a lot more," he replied as he pulled a black, wicker chair from the van. "Sit back and relax while I finish. You might as well be comfortable."

Marie had grown tired of her stationary position and welcomed a chance to rest her shapely legs. She shifted around in the chair until she felt comfortable and looked Paul over. "If her fingers were hot enough for you to smell your flesh burning, then shouldn't you have some scars around your neck?"

Paul smiled and said, "Good point. Yes, I do have them and I'll be glad to show them to you right now." As he opened his coat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, four wicker strands popped free from the chair and slapped around each limb of Marie's body. Two from the bottom of the chair started curling around her ankles and worked their way quickly up her legs. Two from the top part of the chair curled around her wrists and ran up to her shoulders. They squeezed tightly around her arms and legs, pulling her snug against the body of the chair and totally immobilizing her. Marie's eyes opened widely and her head darted from side to side, examining the involuntary bondage. She pulled hard against her wrists, trying desperately to get to the purse and gun in her lap.

"Marie, I'm so sorry. It's nothing personal, believe me. As I told you, they require periodic nourishment. Well, it's dinner time for the chair and I'm sad to say that you're the main entrée! There have been many before you. Believe me when I say it's not something I enjoy doing. It's something I have to do. You don't know how times I've had second thoughts or how many times I've said I refuse to do this anymore. The problem is, if I don't feed them, then they disappear and end up in someone's house or apartment and I have to track them down all over again. That gives all of them more time to feed, more people to suffer. Surely, you can see the awkward position I'm in."

Marie looked at Paul in absolute horror. Her eyes couldn't have been stretched any wider. When she opened her mouth to scream, a wicker strand shot from the chair and pierced her larynx. Although Marie fell immediately silent, she was still cognizant of her fatal plight. The fear in her eyes and her struggling body were a familiar sight to Paul.

Moments later, another strand popped free and lapped up the blood spurting from her throat. As her struggling decreased, more and more strands freed themselves from the chair and weaved their way through her warm body.

Paul looked on as he loosened more buttons on his white dress shirt. Wicker strands were dancing wildly and had gone into a feeding frenzy. They were darting in and out of Marie's body like sewing needles, taking as much of her blood and flesh as they could along the way.

Marie was an attractive woman with a reasonably good personality. She was more the exception to the rule for his dinner selections. He preferred seeking out the terminally ill and would frequent hospital wards where victims were surprisingly easy to come by. In some towns, he would even take part-time positions at hospitals as a member of the housekeeping staff. It would provide him with a temporary income to obtain food and gas for the van. It also provided him with a ready supply of food for his "things". Even spilled blood on emergency room floors was mopped up and put in the dinner bowl.

When night fell, he would enter a patient's room on the ruse of delivering a gift. Hospital nursing staff would see him enter a room with a table radio or portable television set and think nothing of it. When he left the room, he would simply tell them the patient didn't want it. Naturally, they only saw him leave with the gift and were never able to put two and two together. What sane person would?

On one particular night, he was mopping a hallway floor and heard the moans of a an elderly man. He entered the man's room cautiously and the two engaged in idle conversation that lasted for a couple of hours. The man told Paul that he was a retired banker with a considerable nest egg set aside and that his wife had passed away many years before him. The man was angry because his daughter was trying to have him declared mentally incompetent and seize control of his assets. She claimed the heavy medications altered his state of mind and caused him to make irrational decisions regarding disbursement of his funds. He knew he wouldn't live to spend the $1.8 million he had amassed so he made a master list of charitable foundations he wanted the money to go to and his daughter wasn't on the list. The man and his daughter were about as close as Earth and Neptune.

Paul sat at the man's bedside and said, "There's absolutely no hope for a cure?"

"None. Never has been, never will be."

"How intense is the pain?" asked Paul as he began to think of his hungry "things".

"It's constant and severe. They've medicated me as much as possible without actually killing me. I keep insisting on a larger dose so I can die and be free of this pain. They ignore my pleas and always refuse," the man stated angrily. "It's my body and my life. Nobody tried to stop me from dying when I went to war. They encouraged me to put on a uniform and deliberately go into harm's way for them. Now that I want to do it for myself, they turn a deaf ear or highlight the value of human life. Where was the value of human life when they planned an attack on a fortified location and calculated acceptable losses? Quite a contradiction, don't you think?"

"You've got a point!" replied Paul.

"And now my daughter, Sam, who rightfully hated me for twenty years, has come back into my life for the pie. Not just a piece of the pie, she wants the whole damn thing. I admit that I was a pretty crappy father, but she was a pretty crappy daughter! The bitch was always after me for something and never got enough. Whenever I gave her something, she squandered it foolishly or gave it away. I wanted my checkbook so I could spend my money before she gets her hands on it. If she has me declared mentally incompetent before I die and takes control of my estate, there won't be any money left to go to the charities I designated in my will."

Paul looked at the man and said, "What if I could help you end your pain, see to it your charities are paid and pull a great gag on everyone in the process?"

The man looked up at Paul and studied his face. It was a confusing profile. There was a cold look in his eyes and the old man was unsure what to make of it.

"Let me hear your idea," said the old man skeptically.

"I will bring an official from your bank or financial institution with the necessary paperwork for you to disburse your money. Once that's all done, I'll end your pain."

"How much do you want for your part??" asked the old man.

"I hadn't actually thought about a figure and don't really want one, however, since you suggested it, a couple of grand would be nice."

The man winced in pain, looked at Paul and said, "How do you propose to do me in?"

"It will be quick. Very quick. You will feel no more pain than you already do and it will be over in minutes."

The man considered Paul's words and asked, "What would the great gag be?"

"Think about how pissed your daughter will be when she finds out how you've sidestepped her. What's even better is that you'll disappear and they won't be able to declare you dead without a body. No body, no death. No death, no burial and no final liquidation of any remaining assets that she might be entitled to!"

"I want to know exactly how you will accomplish what you suggest. I understand the banking aspect, it's the other details I'm a little fuzzy on."

Paul spent the next hour explaining the curse and how he intended on pulling off the disappearing act.

The old man spent a lifetime judging people by the look in their eyes and the tone of their voice. He looked for deceitful "tells", like a gambler sizing up another gambler before wagering a large sum of money. He delivered a weak smile and said, "Let's make it happen! Be here tomorrow morning at nine sharp. I can't move my arms or legs very well anymore, so I'll need you to dial some phone numbers for me. I'll need to save what strength I have left in my arms to sign checks."

The following morning, Paul arrived at exactly nine, dialed several numbers for the old man and held the phone to the man's head while he barked orders to several people in a foreign language that sounded like Italian or Spanish. Paul was not familiar with any language other than high school English, so he wasn't quite sure what language the man was speaking. When he got tired of holding the telephone, he propped the receiver between the man's bald head and pillow and looked out the window. The old man chatted at great length, while Paul sat on a chair next to the bed and dialed. When he was finally through, the man directed Paul to leave and return by 4:00 p.m. later that day. The man's brown, cataract-clouded eyes looked to Paul and stated, "Make sure you'll be ready to finalize the deal when you return."

"I'll be here. Make sure you don't go anywhere," Paul said facetiously.

Paul spent the afternoon milling about town and watched a couple of movies. When he returned the old man turned his head slowly and said, "Are you ready?"

Paul held up a small, portable television set with a handle on top and said, "Yes."

"Is it a color set or black and white?"

Paul was taken aback by the man's question. "I really have no idea. I've never had it on. I don't even know if it works. Does it matter?"

"Not especially. I was just curious. There is an envelope on the table over there. Do you see it?"

Paul looked in the direction the man's eyes were gazing, saw a sealed business envelope sitting on his bedside table and replied, "Yes."

"When I'm gone, that's yours. It's a little something for your help."

The old man cleared his throat and said, "My business in this world is finished. Let's make this thing happen!"

Paul selected the portable television because it was one of the quickest acting "things" that Malvada had. He placed the set next to the man's head and within seconds, there was a fruuump and the man was gone. An invisible cloud of puzzle gas shot forward and filled half of the room. Paul scooped up the envelope, shoved it in his back pocket, grabbed the television and left the room. As he was walking down the hall, he noticed a professionally dressed man and woman standing at the nurse's station and who watched him as he left the old man's room. When he walked the few feet to the nursing station, the woman turned to him and said flatly, "Excuse me." She reached into her black, overcoat pocket and produced a black identification holder with an official-looking badge and photo. "My name is Special Agent Mills. The gentleman to my left is Special Agent Vittari. We're with a special investigation department within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I have your name please?"

"It's Paul O. Porter," he replied as the male agent wrote.

"What was your business with Mr. Tragasse?"

Paul set the television on the counter at the nurse's station, making sure to face it away from any people and replied, "Are you referring to the man in room 643?"

"Yes," replied Agent Mills.

"I never knew the man's full name, that's why I asked. I work with the housekeeping department here and yesterday, when I was passing his room, I thought I heard him call for help. He didn't want any help, he was just complaining. I came back today to bring him this television set because he said he couldn't see the one mounted to the wall very well. He said he asked his daughter for one several times in the past. I guess they don't get along very well and she never found the time to get him one. Anyway, when I went into his room, he wasn't there. I plugged it in and tried to tune a station. All I was able to get on any channel was static. The reception up here sucks. I didn't want to just leave the television so I unplugged it and left. Now I'm here and I am talking to you guys."

The special agent looked at the charge nurse and said, "Did you note what time Mr. Porter entered Mr. Tragasse's room?"

"I couldn't tell you the exact time, however, I know it wasn't more than twenty minutes ago," the nurse responded. "He stopped at the station here, showed me the television and told me it was a special request from Mr. Tragasse. The man is terminally ill and there are no regulations against the television, so I let Mr. Porter proceed."

"Was Mr. Porter alone?" inquired Agent Vittari.

"Yes," the nurse replied.

"Was Mr. Tragasse scheduled for any special treatment that would necessitate his being removed from the room?"

The nurse located his patient chart, glanced at it and said, "No. He should still be in his room."

The two special agents walked briskly to the old man's room and discovered that Paul was correct. Mr. Tragasse was gone. Agent Vittari remained in the room and started making phone calls, while Agent Mills returned to Paul.

"What did you and Mr. Tragasse talk about yesterday?"

"Not much really. He just said he was lonely and wished his daughter and he got along better. I was only with him for a few minutes yesterday as well." Paul neglected to tell her about his second visit with him earlier in the day. The charge nurse didn't come on duty until 3:00 p.m. so she wasn't there to see him.

"Did he mention his daughter's name?" asked the agent.

Paul thought for a minute and replied, "I think he called her Sam. I'm guessing it's short for Samantha or something like that."

"Mr. Tragasse had no surviving children, Mr. Porter. He did have two sons though. One died as a result of wounds sustained in the Vietnam conflict. The other son was murdered by another inmate while serving a prison sentence for extortion. Sam was the nickname he used for the federal government, as in Uncle Sam."

Paul looked at the agent with raised eyebrows and said, "Go figure. That nice old guy lied to me. What is he being investigated for?"

The agent produced a business card and said, "That'll be all we need from you for now, Mr. Porter. If you remember anything else that may be of interest to us, give me a call at any of the numbers on my card."

Paul stuck the card in his back pocket, picked up the television set and walked to the elevator. After the elevator doors closed he punched the button for the hospital parking garage and smiled widely. The elevator doors opened and he went directly to the driver's door on his van. He unlocked the door, tossed the television into the back and started the engine. He retrieved the white envelope from his back pocket, tore it and revealed the contents. It was the money Mr. Tragasse promised. Paul counted the crisp 100-dollar bills and when he was done counting, he had ten thousand dollars. He put the money back in the envelope and saw a scrap of paper with some writing that he had missed when he took the money out. It was written by a shaky hand and read, "Never let Sam know you have this. She'll want all of it."

Paul chuckled slightly and drove out of town smiling. He still had miles to go and "things" to feed.

He also liked to snag the people hopelessly addicted to drugs and living in squalor underneath bridges, etc. Heroin and cocaine addicts didn't settle well with Malvada's "things" so he would periodically treat them to normal, healthy people like Marie. When they fed on people like her, they were satisfied longer and didn't require as many feedings.

He put his hands in his pockets and stared at Marie as her body was being devoured. "I don't want you to die thinking this was a personal thing. Actually, I wish it wasn't you. Unfortunately, Malvada's curse had an added feature. Her belongings are much like an owner and pet relationship. In the beginning, the owner dictates when the pet will be fed. It doesn't take long for the pet to figure out what buttons to push, making the owner feed it when the pet wants to be fed. My existence is solely for the benefit of her 'things'. My sense of morality and reason have ceased to function. I've even offered myself as a midnight snack to be rid of this obligation. Sadly, my body and my blood are taboo. My only function, my damnation, is to gather them together, feed them and witness the pain expressed by people forced to be a party to this curse. Although, I will admit, that I feel more apathetic and hopeless with each feeding."

Even though her strength and will were slipping away, Marie continued her struggle to free herself from the constricting bands of wicker. Her eyes were consumed with desperate fright as she tried to rock the chair from side to side. More wicker strands popped free and eagerly worked their way through her body, much the same way a seamstress with a quota would stitch a garmet.

Paul watched unemotionally as the strands did their dirty work. It was like watching hundreds of large, black maggots making short-order of rotted meat.

The fright in Marie's eyes disappeared when two strands shot up from her intestines and pierced them. The same two strands then exited from her ears, just as dry as when they entered the eyes.

Paul walked to a grimy, gray, water fountain attached to a wall, bent over and swallowed a few gulps of cold water. He stood upright, leaned against the fountain and said, "It's a shame you didn't have the opportunity to see all of the junk I've accumulated so far, Marie. I've got a couple of wooden chairs, a three antique lamps, a table radio, an old, black, wall phone, a typewriter and you already heard about the small, portable television set. It's truly an incredible amount of junk. I have the feeling that I'm nearing the end though. I keep getting this strong feeling that it's almost over."

Paul looked at Marie indifferently as he noticed that her left arm and the left side of her face were gone. Not a single drop of blood, piece of flesh or clothing had hit the floor; although there were some loose strips of flesh hanging from the right side of her face.

"I found some of this junk in antique shops, after they had dined on their owners and had been sold by surviving relatives. Other items were found in churches and schools. I think the most humorous one I came across was the table radio. Some guy burgled a private residence and stuffed it in a duffle bag with the rest of his booty. I guess the radio had dined well because I was getting massive vibrations and a thundering, high-frequency sound. I got there just after the burglar left. The house was unoccupied when he entered so he had real easy pickings. I followed the vibrations and high-frequency sound to the burglar's apartment. I entered through an open window just in time to hear him pleading for help and recanting his life of crime. It's funny that a burglar would leave his own window open, don't you think? Anyway, he had the contents of his booty bag dumped on the floor and was clawing at the carpet, trying in vain to stop from being pulled into the radio. I was amazed to see his rather large frame being sucked ever so slowly into two, tiny speakers that were no bigger than your palm. The radio was as efficient as all of the rest of her 'things' and didn't allow a single drop of blood to escape."

As Paul finished his account of the radio episode, a scraggly-looking strand raced up Marie's chest and devoured a faux pearl necklace. Then it raced down what was left of her right leg and sucked up a gold, herringbone, ankle bracelet as dessert. He was amused by that particular strand's diet preference. Although Malvada's 'things' preferred organic tissue, they would and frequently did, eat anything Paul would throw their way.

"I hope I'm right about all of this being over soon," said Paul as he surveyed Marie's limp and lifeless remains. "It was very difficult going to Shannon's house. She and I were lovers. We enjoyed some wild sex together before I got married and probably would have continued as long as we could after I tied the knot. She was married to man in another state and traveled a lot. She told me that she could never get enough sex. It would have worked out perfectly. She lived far enough away so that no one would get too suspicious and the absence would make our reunion that much more enjoyable. I followed a vibration and sound trail that lead me to her house in St. Louis. I didn't realize it was her house until I saw her picture in a silver frame on the fireplace mantel. There was one of her by herself, one of her husband and one of them together on their wedding day. She had a beautiful, well-decorated home. She had excellent taste in furniture...and men as well, I might add! I traced the smell and vibrations from the feeding, back to a set of square cushions on her couch. They still had yard sale, price stickers on them and went very well with the couch. I decided to take one of her photos from the mantel as a remembrance. It was the only time I ever took anything other than what I needed to take for Malvada."

"Like I said, from the feelings I've been receiving, one of her creations is feeding like none other. I'm sure it will dine many times while I'm waiting for this stinking van to be repaired," he lamented.

The wicker chair had consumed most of Marie's body. Strands were feeding vigorously on the remaining bits and pieces. Her purse finally dropped through an opening in the wicker and landed on the concrete floor with a sound thud.

"Did I explain the tracking method I use, Marie? I can't remember. I'll tell you again and if you heard it already, feel free to stop me. Each of Malvada's 'things' sends out a pulsing vibration and high-frequency sound, like a radio station sending out radio waves. The closer I get to an item, the more intense the signals become. Just like a radio station comes in clearer the closer you get to the transmitter. When one of her items is feeding, the vibrations shake my insides from head to toe. It took me awhile to figure it all out and know how to follow the trail so in the beginning, there were many more victims than now. The vibrations I'm feeling now, are exactly the same as the ones I felt several years ago. I was extremely delayed then, as well. I was drinking too heavily in a bar in Florida, got a little carried away and was jailed for public drunkenness. I was broke at the time and couldn't make bail. By the time I was released and able to follow the path, I was too late. I was in a Chicago suburb, standing on a vacant lot with weeds higher than my knees and had nothing to show for my efforts. There was still a lingering odor swirling around the empty lot. I could see a bare, rectangular outline that was big enough to be a house and a path where someone had trampled patches of weeds before me. Other than that, there was nothing suspicious. Her 'thing' probably consumed the entire house and its contents before something stopped it, because I'm sure a house used to stand there."

Paul lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. He watched quietly as the last morsels of Marie were consumed. At one point, the chair was wildly intertwined with Marie's body, its shape as a chair was indiscernible. As the pace slowed and Marie's body parts dwindled, strands returned to supportive positions and the chair began to return to its original shape.

He took another drag on his cigarette and said, "You have no idea how badly I want this all to stop. Sometimes, it gets so boring, doing the same thing over and over again."

One night after Malvada's typewriter claimed the life of a young college student, Paul attempted to take his own life. His life was so barren, lonely and painful when he first started his journey that he couldn't take it anymore. He arrived just in time, (he always seemed to arrive just in time. He thought it was Malvada's sick humor), to see the young man's fingers being sucked into the keyboard. With a sudden and profound jerk, it yanked the boy's arms in, slamming his head into the carriage. Paul ran to the boy, locked his arms around the boy's waist and yelled, "Not this time, Malvada. Not this time, you warped, evil bitch! You can't have him! I won't let him go!" As it turned out, his words were nothing more than words. Paul was no match for the power of the typewriter. Minutes later, his grip had been broken and the only remaining evidence of the young man was a pair of brown slippers that had fallen from his feet. They still held the warmth of his feet. Paul wanted to shout at the top of his lungs but the sound was lodged deep within and never cleared his lips. He pounded the typewriter with the fury of a wild jackhammer. Nothing did any good. It never did.

He stowed the typewriter in his van, returned to his hotel room and ingested a wild assortment of pills. By his estimation, he took enough drugs to kill five healthy Green Beret soldiers, two cows and a full-grown, gray elephant. He woke the following morning feeling incredibly rested and very much alive. Since the pills had no effect, he opted for a much more drastic course of action. He bought a .357 pistol and box of bullets at a pawn shop that cared more about money than background checks. He drove to a deserted field and test fired six shots into a large, maple tree. When he saw what the hot lead had done to the tree, he smiled widely and said, "Start the coffee, God. I'm on my way!" He reloaded the gun, put it to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. He heard the clicking sounding of the hammer against the metal of the gun and nothing else. Once again, he failed to end his life. He pointed at the tree and successfully fired six more rounds into the trunk. He repeated the suicide attempt and test process several more times As you might guess, the gun would never send a round into his body. Further attempts utilizing different methods to commit suicide were just as fruitless. He was here for the duration of the curse and that was that.

A wicker strand from the chair ventured out and pursued a stray shoe, while several others slithered over to chow down on Marie's purse. At one point, he thought he actually heard the chair belch. He passed it off as an over-active imagination.

"Well, Marie, I know I told you a little bit about my lover, Shannon. Did I mention my wife at all? She wasn't so bad either. I really had a good thing going and I lost her to another man. The other man is the man I used to be. It doesn't seem right that you have to pay years for something that only took a few seconds," said Paul in a maudlin voice.

Marie was well beyond any point of listening. About all that remained were her hips and a few scraps of her dress. Inorganic matter was always the last thing to go.

"I wish I could start over with my wife. When I was married, I only wanted sex, never romance. Foreplay was just a word that made me think of four guys playing two-on-two basketball. I always thought it was sissy-like for a man to be tender and sensitive. I never saw my mom and dad hugging or kissing. I learned to say what women wanted to hear just so I could get laid. That's another weird thing. Have you ever noticed how you can remember that an orgasm felt great but you can't feel it again without experiencing it in real time? Does that make sense to you? It's the same thing with pain. You can remember that hitting your thumb with a hammer hurts, however, you can't actually have the same sensation without hitting your thumb again. No matter how hard you try, the only way to relive any physical sensation is by doing it again."

"I've changed dramatically since I was married. At least I think I have. What does it matter now? It's like the old man in the hospital with all the money he could ever want. He was dying and had no way to spend it. I'm a new man and it doesn't mean a damn thing."

Paul watched several smaller strands fighting over threads from Marie's dress like they were noodles and Marie was the casserole. He lit another cigarette and removed his brown, tri-fold wallet from his back pocket. He flipped the plastic, photo windows to a faded photo of a woman and said, "This is my wife. You'll have to admit, she's a pretty sexy lady." He admired the picture for a minute and returned the wallet to his pocket. "My wallet is my time machine. Problem is, it only allows me to travel back in time. I wish I travel forward once so I knew when this crap would be over with. Oh well. I suppose I should clean up here and get some sleep. It's been a long drawn-out day. I know it's been especially rough on you, Marie!"

Obviously, Marie didn't hear a word and hadn't for some time. Marie was gone. The last of the black strands slid back into their proper position and it looked like an ordinary wicker chair once again. A vomit-like odor lingered around the van. It was a smell that Paul had grown accustomed to and found pleasing. It had become an anticipated treat he looked forward to after each feeding.

Paul walked casually to a dirty mirror mounted above the water fountain and stared for a moment. He ran his fingers gently over the white ridges of burn scars on the side of his neck and said, "There they are, Marie. Plain as day." His eyes wandered to the lower left corner of the mirror and met up with a crack in the glass. "We're all flawed in one way or the other. I wonder why?"

He licked his lips, took a deep breath and sighed quietly. He buttoned his shirt and returned to the van. He threw the chair back into the van and closed the doors. As he was preparing to leave, he spotted a brown cockroach scurrying across the dirty floor. Paul laughed and said, "You're late. Dinner's over." Paul ran after it and smashed it with his shoe. The legs of the cockroach served as carrying handles for Paul as he bent to pick it up. He carried it over to the van, opened the doors and said, "Who wants it?" The van shook mildly. There wasn't enough left of the bug to generate too much excitement. He flung it in and closed the doors. A thought occurred to him as the doors slammed shut. He pulled his keys out and decided to lock the van up. It would suck if the mechanic saw the crap in the back and got curious. If the mechanic disappeared, Paul could be in that town for a long time.

He looked at the van and said, "Now you guys behave. Leave everyone in here alone." He pushed the red button to close the garage door and gave the area a last look. The 'things' had never left anything behind before, and Paul wanted to make sure there wasn't a first time. As the door worked its way down, he took one last deep breath to fill his lungs to capacity with the putrid odor. After the door completed the journey, he left through the side entrance that he had entered. He turned around to face the door and smiled. It was a gray steel door with a single window pane. The window was about the size of an average kitchen floor tile and certainly not big enough for anyone to fit through. Some people called it a security window so you could safely see who was on the other side of the door. It was the same window pane he had broken to gain entrance. He stuck his hand in his right, front pocket and removed Malvada's pentagram. He touched it to a remaining shard of glass firmly embedded in the door and commanded, "RETURN!!" . Within seconds, the scattered broken glass returned to its original form and the window pane was as intact as he found it. Then he raised the pentagram over his head and located the alarm box at the top of the building. He looked through the center of the pentagram until he had the box in alignment. "ENABLE!", he ordered, and the building alarm was reset.

Learning how to use the pentagram was a trial and error adventure. The morning after he buried Malvada, he discovered it in his pants pocket. He was new to the curse and there were no indoctrination courses to assist him so the pentagram remained isolated there for nearly a year. The only time it left a pocket was for a change in clothing.

One day Paul was barreling down an interstate when his right, rear tire went flat. He pulled off the highway and reached for the tire iron underneath the front seat. He jumped out of the van and slammed the door shut. After changing the flat, he walked back to the driver's door, only to find that he had reflexively locked it when he got out. He searched his pockets for the keys. All he produced was a red and white mint that was hopelessly mated to its cellophane wrapper and the benign-looking pentagram. Still holding the pentagram, he peered into the driver's window and immediately realized what he had done. "Shit!" he exclaimed as he shoved the pentagram into a back pocket. He stepped back and tried to determine the best way to proceed. Within seconds, Paul felt a series of severe, abdominal cramps that led to an uncontrollable urge to have a bowel movement. He looked to a clump of trees about 100 feet in from the road, grabbed his stomach and turned to run toward them. Unfortunately, he was only able to advance two steps before his pants had filled with crap. Furious, he picked up the tire iron, smashed the driver's window and got his keys. Paul walked to the side van doors to get a change of clothing from his suitcase and discovered that they and the front passenger door, were unlocked. He threw his keys down into the roadside gravel, hammered the door with his closed hand and once again exclaimed, "Shit!" Within seconds, he had more cramps and ultimately the same end results. He got a freshly laundered pair of jeans and underwear from his suitcase, went to the woods and changed. The smell and clean up was a bit messy so he discarded the soiled clothing and returned to the van. Walking back, he thought about what had just transpired and it seemed odd that the pentagram, although in the direct line of fire, remained unscathed. Over the following weeks, he was able to determine some of the powers the charm held. He learned that he could only use single-word commands and the object it was focused on had to be capable of carrying out the command. Had he put the pentagram in his front pocket, his underwear wouldn't have been soiled. He wasn't sure what other tasks, if any, the charm was able to perform. He didn't even know how to explore for them.

Paul drove Susan's car back to his hotel and decided it would safer if he checked out and relocated to another hotel under an assumed name. Once he got settled into the new room, he ventured out again to dispose of the car. He drove up and down streets looking for just the right area. There was an area with several vacant industrial buildings that had what appeared to be gang markings on the brick walls. He haphazardly parked the car, left the keys dangling in the ignition and left the driver's door slightly ajar. Since he knew he wasn't allowed to die, the only thing he feared or dreaded was the long, cold walk back to his hotel. By the time he returned to his new room, he was numb with cold and totally exhausted. He left an early wake-up call so he could call the mechanic and make new notification arrangements with him. He clearly had no desire to attempt an explanation as to why he changed names and hotels.

He threw his clothes over the back of a chair and crawled under the comforter. The pillows were soft and the mattress was very firm. The combination was exactly the way he liked it. The last waking thought he had was of a 'thing' calling to him. The vibrations were steadily becoming more intense. He felt it was the same area as before. "I can't miss it this time," he murmured as he drifted off. This one was going to be the most powerful one yet. It was going to be big. Very big. Hopefully, it was it big enough to be Malvada.

CHAPTER TEN

THE COMPETITION

Paul's van was repaired and he was on the road headed north, while Marie's friend, Susan, was giving a statement to local police officials. She provided an excellent description and the police were able to get his name from the hotel register. That information was about as useful as a bowling ball in a golf tournament.

Paul felt a constant vibration as he drove, much the same way a hungry shark feels fish vibrations from miles away. He smiled like never before. A vibration that strong had to be the last one. When he surveyed the contents of the van, he couldn't imagine Malvada having that many more 'things' to retrieve.

He was getting hungry and decided to take the next exit and stop for a bite to eat. About a mile before the exit, he saw a man who was walking along the side of the road and Paul thought he was in need of a ride. The man was of average build, neatly groomed and appeared to be in his early thirties. In many ways he fit the description of Paul himself. He pulled off the road and waited for the man to catch up to Paul's van. The man was in no hurry and walked leisurely in Paul's direction.

Paul used his side mirror to monitor the man's forward progress. Suddenly, the man stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face the highway. Then Paul saw a car drifting dangerously toward the shoulder of the road. It became clear that if the car continued on its current path, it would hit the hitchhiker and smash directly into the rear of Paul's van.

Paul shot his hand forward and turned the ignition key to start the van. There was a grinding sound and Paul quickly realized that in his haste to evacuate, he had tried to start an engine that was already running. He slapped the transmission into gear and just as he was about to floor it, he glanced in his side mirror. The hitchhiker still had his body facing the highway, although he had turned his head toward the approaching vehicle. The man stepped back a step or two and as the car passed in front of him, he thrust his leg forward and kicked the wayward car back onto the highway. The subsequent jolt and thud from the impact awakened the sleeping driver. Paul was able to see the startled driver's face as he passed Paul. Paul returned the transmission to park and awaited a rendezvous with the man. He walked up to Paul's window and said, "That wasn't as close as it looked. I could've waited longer. There was plenty of time. I'm just not as melodramatic as some."

Paul didn't know what to say. He'd never seen anything like that before. The force of the man's kick alone, pushed the driver out of danger and clearly saved his life.

The man looked down the highway at the fading car and driver he had just saved and said, "That man's been driving for ten hours and awake for 20. He left a business meeting and dinner last night and decided to drive home without sleep so he wouldn't miss his daughter's eighth birthday party. He's got a present for her hidden in his trunk. It was his lucky day!"

Paul nodded and replied, "Sounds that way."

The man looked ahead at the icons on the exit sign and then at Paul. "There appears to be places to eat up ahead and I'm starved. If it's not out of your way, would you mind dropping me off at one of them? I've got quite a few miles under my aching feet already and could use a break."

"Don't mind at all. I was planning on stopping to get a bite to eat myself. Hop in," said Paul as he reached over and unlocked the passenger door.

"Thanks," said the stranger

A stunned and speechless Paul had temporarily forgotten about his lethal cargo. He put the van in gear, merged briefly with oncoming traffic and then exited where he had planned prior to seeing the stranger.

Paul spotted a small diner and said, "How's that place look?"

The man glanced in the direction of the diner, smiled and said, "Looks like it has great ambiance. It'll do fine. By the way, my name is Adrian Stackhouse"

Paul kept his right hand on the steering wheel and offered his left to shake the man's hand. "Paul Porter."

They entered the parking lot of the diner, parked and walked in together. They were seated almost immediately in a booth with no surrounding patrons. It wasn't until after Paul reviewed the menu and made a selection that he realized that Malvada's 'things' had absolutely no reaction to Adrian. The last time he gave someone a ride, the 'things' in the back went crazy and the van rocked in anticipation of a fresh meal. Not this time. This time the 'things' had absolutely no response. It was odd. The stranger kicking the car was odd too. Paul pushed the menu to the edge of the table, clasped his hands and stared questioningly at him.

Neither spoke while they waited for their food to arrive. The server brought Paul a cup of coffee and the stranger got a glass of milk. The stranger swallowed some milk and gazed at the guests sitting at nearby tables, while Paul studied different painting reproductions adorning the walls.

When the server finally brought their meals, Paul was first to speak. "I've got several ideas on how you were able to alter the course of that car. I suppose I could continue to speculate for the rest of my life. It would be so much simpler if you would just tell me."

The stranger looked at Paul, swallowed a bite of food and said, "Yes, of course it would." He took another bite of food, chewed and looked away at a couple that had just entered the diner. He swallowed again and said, "I try to provide an edge against people that serve as representatives of evil. I am as mortal as you are, however, I do have some extra-mortal advantages. Unlike you, I chose the position I have." The man took another bite and continued to watch the couple while he chewed.

"What do you think you know about me?" asked Paul.

Adrian wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a drink of milk and wiped again. He looked at Paul and said, "It's funny how people like to play cagey games with words. Always saying just enough to answer a question. I'm not much into word games so let's put all the cards on the table and see what we have." Adrian sat back and dropped his fork on his plate. "I know that you're on a mission of sorts as a result of a confrontation with evil. I'm also on a mission of sorts as well. However, mine is as a result of a confrontation of a different nature. I'm powerless to do anything about you and you are powerless do anything about me. That is why your cargo had no interest in me."

"How is it that you know so much about me and I know nothing of you, if we're so similar?" asked Paul.

"It's the necessary edge to keep things in my favor. If we hadn't had this chance encounter, you'd never have known about me." Adrian looked at the couple again. "See that couple over there?"

Paul looked and nodded.

"It's a bit of a story, somewhat complicated so bear with me. When the man entered the diner, he had a taste for steak. When he saw fish on the menu, he changed his mind and ordered that. The morning cook overslept, got to the diner late and didn't read the menu for the day. As a result, he didn't take any fish out of the freezer to thaw. In just a few minutes, there will be a subdued bang coming from the kitchen. That will be the sound of an electrical short coming from a light fixture over the stove where the cook was standing. If he hadn't gone to the freezer to check on the fish, he'd have been standing directly under the short and subsequent fire. The incident would have certainly startled him and caused him to lose control of a hot pan of grease. Which in turn would have spilled all over the assistant cook to his left."

There was indeed a small bang and several guests at the diner stopped eating and turned in the direction of the sound. The fire was quickly extinguished and the manager of the diner reassured everyone that everything was under control. The guests slowly returned to their meals and idle chatter.

"How did you know all of that?" asked an amazed Paul.

"It's part of the job. Unlike you, I've had many more years to master the tricks of my position. For lack of a better description, an evil counterpart of mine, planned and made possible the electrical short. I simply influenced the man to order fish, knowing there wasn't any thawed."

"You're like a guardian angel then," suggested Paul.

Adrian chuckled and replied, "Not really an angel. My being here was mere chance. People like me don't select the how, why, when and where issues of mortal life. We travel around and do whatever we can, wherever we can. If we were to devote our existence to one individual, there would be many thousands of people left defenseless. People would begin to rely on our influence rather than their own inner abilities. Like I said, we roam the world and try our best to keep things in balance."

"Got it. Now I understand luck better. When someone says it's your lucky day, it's probably because one of you guys happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Precisely. It's all random. Lifestyle has nothing to do with it. Take for example the guy who decides to work late on a project that could actually wait until the following day. Because he stayed an extra 30 minutes at his desk, he missed a catastrophic vehicle pile-up on the highway. He probably had one of us nearby to lend a hand. He was in the right place at the right time," stated Adrian.

"Wish someone like you had been around when I had my run in with Malvada. To this day I don't know why we did what we did."

"Tremendous evil forces like her draw lesser evil forces. They hover in the area and persuade rational people to do irrational things. It's the combined influence of their powers that sway thought."

"Have you met many people as screwed as me?" asked Paul with a half-smile.

Adrian chuckled again and replied, "I've heard of people that have been tasked with a mission similar to yours. You're the first one I've dealt with face to face. I run into other people like me from time to time and we share experiences. That's how I heard about your situation"

"How did you happen to get your job? Did you die and receive an assignment from up above?" asked Paul as he looked upward.

"Believe it or not, I had a position similar to yours. I was single and had a job unloading trucks for a chemical manufacturer. The warehouse wasn't climate-controlled and we always felt the outside temperatures, no matter what extreme they were. It wasn't my life's ambition and I only wanted to work there long enough to earn enough extra money to back to school. One night I was driving home after covering the graveyard shift for a friend, when a drunk driver went left of center and plowed head-on into me. I remembered seeing his headlights coming straight at me and then the next thing I knew, I was in the trauma room of a hospital. I was strapped down to an ambulance stretcher and could feel a cold intravenous fluid coursing through my veins. There were nurses and doctors hovering over me, speaking in foreign medical terms. Suddenly, all of the activity stopped. I opened my eyes and saw a solitary woman standing to my left. She was wearing green, medical garb with a white mask and clear, plastic face shield. I'm not sure if she was a doctor, nurse or what. She told me I could let go and pass on, or I could come work with her and explore some wondrous possibilities among the living. I hadn't thought of my own death before that night and was decidedly opposed to the idea of leaving earth so soon. I told her I'd love to be on her team. You might say it was a forced opportunity. I closed my eyes for a second and when I opened them again, she was gone. A hospital orderly passed by me at the same time, saw my eyes open and screamed for a doctor to return. Once again, there was a swarm of medical personnel hovering over me, jabbing me with needles and barking orders. I went into a deep sleep and woke three days later in a recovery room. They had a needle stuck in the back of my left hand, an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and a bunch of monitoring devices standing around my bed. The same woman that asked me to be on her team in the trauma room was sitting by my bed, staring at me. She covered indoctrination material with me and explained I would learn more as I recovered."

Adrian finished the last of his milk and scraped the few remaining bites from his plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, looked at Paul and said, "You've got to quit thinking of things in a three dimensional-frame of mind. There are tremendous things going on all around you, all of the time. You're not aware of them because there are too many other things going on to capture your attention or you rationalize them with three dimensional-thought. People always think they need an immediate answer to every question that exists. If there isn't a ready solution, they make one up so it's nice and organized. It's like driving by an office building. You assume there are hundreds of people inside working. You might visualize people typing on a keyboard or see others that are reading or talking on the telephone. That's organized, rational thinking. It's something you do everyday. You can't possibly know exactly what all of the people are doing and you have no idea how many are men, women, etc. You can't know about the guy who has just been fired and is worried about his mortgage payment on the way down the elevator. It's the same way about other dimensions, Paul. You think in terms of there only being a heaven and a hell. I guarantee that it's more complicated than that. I know that it sounds like an introduction to some sort of metaphysics course and you're somewhat baffled. There will come a day when it's very clear to you. I can't say exactly when. All I can tell you is that it will be soon. Very soon."

"Is there any way you can help me?" asked Paul desperately.

"Wish I could. When I look at you, only one thought comes to mind and it's about the pentagram. All I know is that you need to leave it behind. Who knows, we may even run into each other again and I'll have more thoughts that may help."

"You really think so?" asked Paul hopefully.

Adrian smiled and said, "Nah! I'd say the chances of our paths crossing again are slim to none!" He stood, removed some money from his pocket and said, "I'll cover this one. Sometimes I don't eat for days so it won't affect my budget in the least. I keep thinking of a guy named Winston Cross. I don't know exactly where he is or what I'm supposed to do once I locate him. All I'm certain of is that he's northwest of me."

"Thanks for the meal. Can I give you a lift back to the highway?"

Adrian started walking toward the entrance and without looking back said, "No, thanks. Stick to your path. It'll all be over soon. When the time comes, make sure you leave the pentagram behind."

"I'll do that." Paul's mind rapidly skimmed over all that he had heard in the preceding conversation with Adrian. There was a lot to digest and the thoughts would provide ample company for miles of highway to come. It was encouraging to Paul to hear that his journey was coming to an end, regardless of what kind of end it would be.

Paul finished his coffee, left the diner and looked around for Adrian. He was nowhere to be seen. When he got back into his van, he felt more aware of his physical surroundings. He felt things he had never stopped to think about or experience before. For some reason, he could feel his socks pressing against the inside of his shoes. He felt his belt pulling his waist in and could hear his cotton shirt rustling against the back of the driver's seat. He looked out the windshield and admired a small bird darting after airborne insects. Adrian was right, there's always something going on and most of it has nothing to with Paul or anyone else for that matter.

Paul felt invigorated and wished he could share his startling discoveries with the world. Even if he did, who would listen? They'd probably try to lock him in an asylum and that would only further delay his mission.

Paul started the van and headed back to the interstate. As he was backing out of his parking space, he saw the couple that had been the focus of Adrian's discussion, leaving the diner. He watched them walking hand in hand until they got into their car. Then he smiled, put the van in gear and drove off.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE BEACH

"Come here, Sneezer," said Helen to the justifiably suspicious and reluctant dog. "I've got a treat for you!" she said in a hideous voice.

Helen held up a chunk of cooked ham that was about the size of an egg and approached the dog. He could smell his favorite treat and he could also smell something distinctly bad around Helen. It was a dilemma for Sneezer. He was a forgiving animal that was a slave to ham treats. He was fearful of Helen because her scent had been dramatically altered. Her physical appearance wasn't even close to the Helen he was accustomed to. Even if Sneezer could get past those alarming warnings and it was indeed Helen, how could she possibly be trusted after the way she mistreated him during their last encounter?

Sneezer approached cautiously. The temptation he was presented with fell directly into the irresistible category. It was a situation that required some thought before leaping into. He took a couple more steps toward Helen, stopped and delivered a short series of yelps, intended to let her know he was no fool and ready to tear her up if necessary. Then he sniffed the air and picked up the ham smell and the new Helen scent. He sneezed from the scent and stepped back to reevaluate the situation. Maybe it was just a new neighbor. After all, she did smell and look different. Perhaps it's just a new, stinky neighbor with soap allergies, offering a ham treat as a form of introduction. Surely, one little piece of ham couldn't be that dangerous. He had the sharp, dog teeth and cunning for escape if need be. Of course, that wasn't very effective when he had the painful confrontation with Helen earlier. It's funny how selective memories can be when it comes to vices.

When Helen dropped the ham to the ground, Sneezer looked at it and then at Helen. He wagged his tail and inched closer. He sniffed the fresh ham and his self-control weakened. He looked at the ham, then at Helen and back at the ham again.

"Go ahead, Sneezer. It's just for you!" said Helen in a softer voice.

His tailed wagged faster and he took a few more steps forward. He was within inches of his beloved ham. The thought of that delicious morsel of meat sliding down his throat was more than he could bear.

Helen stepped back to appear less intimidating. That was all it took for Sneezer. Days on end of dry dog food, with a bowl of water made him exercise a moment of bad judgment. He lunged forward recklessly and snatched the ham with his teeth.

Helen was on top of Sneezer quicker than a wet tongue sticks to a freezing cold, metal, swing set pole. She squeezed his body tightly against her chest, stood and carried him quickly to the Wagner kitchen. She soothed his captive anxieties with two butter cookies and while still holding him, maneuvered to her side and opened a kitchen drawer. She removed a carving fork from the drawer and whisked Sneezer up the stairs to her bedroom. She gave Sneezer two more butter cookies and watched coldly as he nearly swallowed them whole. The old Helen used to be amused by his cookie and ham cravings. It used to warm her heart and make her smile when she viewed his silly antics for bonus treats. One day, she gave Sneezer so many treats, it gave him diarrhea and left no room or appetite for his regular dog food. His owner thought the dog was sick and considered taking him to the veterinarian. The following day, Sneezer's owner saw him playing as usual and was overjoyed that the cherished pet had overcome his "virus".

There were a lot of things about Sneezer that Helen used to enjoy. Those joyous and carefree days were over. The silly antics had become an annoying obstacle.

Sneezer's head bobbed around in jerky motions and his body wiggled about as he sniffed for more butter cookies or ham. His fun and enjoyment would soon be over. It was Helen's turn for fun.

She grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with her left hand, dangled his squirming body over the puzzle and prepared to thrust the carving fork into his chest with her right hand. This was the very same Helen that couldn't do a bug collection for her science class because she couldn't stand the thought of sticking a pin through a beautiful, harmless butterfly. The Helen that was about to thrust a carving fork into the dog's chest was the same Helen that was grossed out by blood running from raw, thawing meats on the cutting board. Now she craved things like that. She had developed an appetite and thirst for meanness that was never quenched.

Helen offered a wan smile and while looking at the puzzle said, "Snack time, you greedy bastard!"

The extra time Helen spent talking to the puzzle was all Sneezer required because as she raised her hand to stab him, he jerked free from her knobby fingers and fell unharmed into the puzzle.

"Shit!" she shouted as the carving fork made a nice gash in the thin, cold air. Fruuump. Helen's disappointment quickly passed when she smelled how pleased the puzzle was. It just wasn't nearly as much fun as she anticipated.

The shot of gas made Helen feel as dizzy as the time she and Jean stole some of their dad's beer and drank far more than they could handle.

She was becoming reliant on the gas as much as the puzzle was reliant on the food being tossed in. She barely noticed that the puzzle was becoming stronger. She paid no heed to the window curtains lifting in response to the air being sucked into the puzzle. It never occurred to her that the puzzle might become strong enough to feed itself and no longer require her services. She neither thought about nor cared about the future. All she wanted was more ugly fun and puzzle gas.

Helen searched her room eagerly for other things to throw in. She walked to her bookcase and caught another glimpse of herself on the way. The image in her mirror would have been ghastly to the old Helen. It would have been ghastly to any person for that matter. Her skin had turned as yellow as the Manila folder on her desk. A bad sore was forming slightly below her right ear. It was an oozing, reddish-brown, circular sore, approximately the size of a standard dime. Black bugs, about the size of a pin head, were diving on it and drinking the fluid. She didn't care, her only focus was on the next puzzle meal.

She scooped up several books, threw them in and closed her eyes in preparation of the next gas blast. Fruuump. Instant delight. She laughed and said, "A little something for you to read while you're getting your tan, Jean!" She spun around, snatched a saucer from her dresser that held cookies a few days ago and tossed it like a Frisbee into the puzzle. "And another ashtray for you, Aunt Caroline...you mouthy bitch!" Helen thought for second and burst out laughing. "Hell, you probably can't find any cigarettes there anyway!" Fruuump. More puzzle gas. She was disappointed because the dosage wasn't nearly what she desired.

The growing puzzle was like a newborn baby that required constant nourishment to maintain its strength. Like any good mother, she wanted the best for her baby and would do anything to give it what it needs. Although the puzzle enjoyed its tasty, inorganic tidbits, she knew it craved flesh and blood. What she didn't realize was that the more flesh and blood she gave it, the more she changed. The more she changed, the more she began to look and smell like Malvada.

No one was left inside so she ventured out to locate more food. She tried killing a bird resting on a telephone wire with a rock and missed badly. She watched the rock plummet into Sneezer's backyard and thought for a minute. A cat would be a much easier victim to catch and there was a young calico stray that loved to torment Sneezer. He was more cunning than Sneezer and delighted in teasing and then outrunning him. Yes indeed, a cat would be easier because the cat also had a weakness. It was a stray that subsisted on random and infrequent meals. A fresh can of tuna would work nicely. She had fed the stray before so it wouldn't suspect a thing. She ran to the kitchen, opened a can packed in pure spring water and ran back outside. She walked around her yard at a brisk pace, waving the open can to spread the odor. Then she put the can on the ground and ran inside to get a butcher knife. She waited and waited and waited. She waited for more than 30 minutes and could wait no longer. She decided that the cat wasn't going to make an appearance so she considered an alternative meal for the puzzle. She ran back into the kitchen, got a roast from the freezer and stuck in the microwave to thaw it out some. She wanted some blood.

As soon as the back door to Helen's house closed, the stray came stealthily from the shrubbery that separated Helen's and her neighbor's house and proceeded to devour the tuna. He kept a watchful eye on the back door and was ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He licked the can clean and disappeared back into the shrubbery. There would be no cat snack that day.

Helen went through the kitchen and carted anything up to the puzzle she thought it might enjoy. There were sporadic blasts of puzzle gas to pacify her and hold her over until the next burst. She longed for the big ones that filled the room and her body as well.

When Joe arrived home, he was shocked and amazed by the slovenly appearance of the living room. He knew that Helen was too organized and responsible to leave the house in such disarray. And what about Aunt Caroline? She was damn near a perfectionist. Joe immediately thought the worst. Surely, some emergency must have arisen, leaving no time for such mundane household tasks.

Joe first called for the girls, then Aunt Caroline. His only response was a feint swooshing sound coming from the staircase leading to the girls' rooms. He walked hastily through the kitchen, checked the bulletin board and found no notes. He looked through every room downstairs, including the basement and all the closets. He called their names and listened for a reply, hearing nothing more than the same swooshing sound. His concern intensified.

He bolted upstairs, looked around and called the girls' names once again. He became aware of vomit-like fumes immediately. He initially thought that someone had been sick, so he checked the toilet bowl in the bathroom between the girls' rooms. He was examining the bathroom and received a powerful, inbound whiff. It didn't take long for him to realize the true source. He entered Helen's room and was overwhelmed by an odor of the foulest nature. It was worse than vomit. It was worse than anything he'd ever smelled before. He retreated to the bathroom, grabbed a clean washcloth from underneath the sink and ran it under cold water. He squeezed the excess water from it, covered his nose and mouth and returned to Helen's room. He looked, saw the jigsaw puzzle on the table and knew that it wasn't there last night. He walked to the edge to take a closer look. The first thing he noticed was a small, black dog, very similar to Sneezer, barking at another nearby dog. He saw several people standing on a beach, all looking seaward. There was another woman, who was strikingly comparable in appearance to Aunt Caroline, exiting a clump of palm trees in the background.

As he studied the characters portrayed in the brilliantly colored puzzle scene, he felt a steady current of air rushing past his ears and directly into the puzzle.

"DADDY!!" screamed Helen in an angry voice. "Be very careful around my puzzle. You could accidentally knock it to the floor and that would ruin everything!"

Joe was so startled by Helen's unexpected arrival and outburst, that he nearly lost his balance and fell against the table. He steadied himself, whipped his head around and saw a revolting figure that sort of resembled a human being. It reminded him of his biology class, when they dissected a cocoon to see a caterpillar during its metamorphosis. The figure had enough form left to still be recognizable as what used to be his sweet, little girl. Her repulsive body made him gag slightly and brought tears to his normally expressionless eyes. "Good, God!! What's happened to you, sweetheart?"

Helen marched forward and produced a pillowcase with something frantically trying to escape. "Out of the way, old man," she ordered as she inverted the pillowcase and dumped the contents into the puzzle. Fruuump. Helen leaned into the puzzle to maximize her exposure to the puzzle gas.

Joe saw a cat fall from the pillowcase and disappear as soon as it hit the puzzle surface. It looked like the cat was diving into a pool of water, yet the surface of the puzzle seemed solid.

"Was that Mrs. Helstrom's cat?" asked Joe in disbelief. Joe dropped the washcloth, grabbed Helen's shoulders with his burly hands; the same hands she used to admire, and said, "Helen, what the hell is going on?" Her shoulders were soaking wet. He thought he felt a slimy mass moving under his palms and quickly jerked them back. "I don't know what's happening to you, sweetheart, but I'm getting you to a doctor right away."

Helen surprised Joe with a mighty burst of strength and broke free from his powerful grasp. She shoved him backward, gritted her now rotting teeth and shouted angrily, "NO! You're not taking me anywhere!"

Joe's bewilderment and concern for his daughter's health and well-being shifted directly to anger. His daughter was out of control. He knew that the source of Helen's behavior was beyond his understanding and he knew he had to do something immediately. He recalled her sniffing at the puzzle after it emitted that horrible stench and said, "I'm not certain what's happening here, although I'm betting that it has something to do with that damn puzzle. First, I've got to do something with that damn puzzle and then I'm driving you to the emergency room!"

The puzzle reacted to Joe's statements as if it understood his intentions. Little puffs of puzzle gas shot out as the table shook violently.

Joe turned his back to Helen and prepared to grab the table legs. He was going to turn the puzzle into 1500 pieces of flying, harmless cardboard. Even though he wasn't sure if that would be of any help to his little girl, he had to start somewhere.

He hesitated for a few seconds while he determined the safest way to approach the table. His slight hesitation was all that Helen and the puzzle needed.

"It's hungry again, you fool! The more I feed it, the more I have to feed it. The puzzle gets stronger with each feeding. It's strong enough now to smell you and it's excited. You're just another human burger with ketchup. It's growing independent and in no time at all, I won't have to feed it. The puzzle will be strong enough to feed itself."

Joe felt a growing suction against his body. An overbearing feeling of anxiety put the brakes on rational thinking as he felt himself being drawn closer and closer to the beach scene.

Joe's body was moving involuntarily toward the core of the puzzle. With each progressive inch, the suction grew stronger and stronger. He looked to Helen with pleading and confused eyes. Helen stood solidly and watched uncaringly as he tried to push away from the table with his powerful, yet failing hands.

The battle continued, with the puzzle gaining ground. Instead of lifting the table, he had to exert force downward to keep from being sucked in. The table rocked from Joe's useless efforts to escape and it looked as though one of the edge pieces of the puzzle was coming loose. If only luck would have been on Joe's side and a piece had been knocked free. He couldn't risk letting go. He began to feel like he was trying to do a pushup with two bags of dry concrete mix on his back.

Helen smiled as she watched her father inch closer to a sandy reunion with other family members. Her excitement grew even stronger when she saw Joe's arms quivering and his chest dropping.

Joe turned his head to his little girl and with sorrowful eyes said, "Honey, do something. Don't let this happen to me!"

"Okay, you old fool. Enough is enough. I'll do something!" She moved behind her father, raised her right leg and kicked him as hard as she could in the butt. Fruuump. The struggle had ceased and Joe was gone. The puzzle discharged the greatest mega burst of gas yet. It was obviously very pleased with its recent meal.

Helen savored the gas until it dissipated, then ventured outside in search of yet more food. Once outside she saw her neighbor, Mrs. Helstrom, limping around her yard. "Looking for Sneezer or Mr. Crackers, Mrs. Helstrom?"

Mrs. Helstrom was well into her eighties and even with her incredibly thick eyeglasses, couldn't see anything more than a few feet in front of her. Her dog, Sneezer, had been a family pet for years and was a loyal friend and companion. Her cat, Mr. Crackers, had been with the Helstroms for nearly nine years. Mr. Crackers had been declawed as long as it had been in their household and was a remarkably friendly cat. His inability to defend himself and friendly persuasion also made him an easy victim for Helen.

Helen and her neighbor used to be the best of friends. Mrs. Helstrom's bad hips and arthritis made even the easiest of household chores impossible, so Helen would help out whenever she could. She also ran many errands for them. It was commonplace for Helen to run to the local grocery store for a loaf a bread or jar of jelly. The larger grocery orders were always delivered and quite frequently, the deliveries were wrong. Invariably, an item was left off the list, shipped in the wrong quantity or arrived broken. She was always offered a little extra cash for her efforts but never accepted. She did those things because she liked Mrs. Helstrom and loved the melodic sound of Mr. Helstrom's voice. It didn't matter what he said. She could listen to him read the ingredients from a can label and be enthralled.

Mrs. Helstrom looked quizzically in Helen's direction and thought she had recognized Helen's voice, although it sounded much deeper than usual. "Is that you, Helen?"

"Yes, Mrs. Helstrom. Have you lost your dog?"

"I think 'Sneezy' has run off. I've been calling for him and he hasn't come to me yet. It's very odd. He's never done that in all the years we've had him. I'm worried that something has happened to him. Have you seen him today?"

"Hell, yes, I've seen your stinking dog. I've got your filthy mutt up in my room as we speak. I'm going to give him a desperately needed bath."

"Gracious, me! Did you say he's in your bedroom?"

"There's nothing wrong with my speech. Are you going deaf as well as blind? Yes, your dog is in my room."

"What's he doing there?"

"He's waiting for you to get your fat, wrinkled butt up there and get him, old woman!"

"Why, Helen! You should be ashamed. That's no way for a young lady to speak. Have you picked up bad habits from your little friends?"

"Screw you, you old fart. I'll talk the way I please. If you don't like it, why don't you prance over here and try to do something about it!"

"It's so disappointing to hear you speak in that manner. I'd be doing you an injustice by not speaking with your father. Such disrespect in a child needs to be addressed with firm resolve. I'm afraid it will be very upsetting to him."

"Do what you have to do, you crippled, old turd. My dad's up in my room and he's having a grand time with your precious Sneezer. You wouldn't believe where my dad is touching your dog. Let's just say he's putting a smile on your dog's face and let it go at that! Why don't you just wiggle your fat ass upstairs and see for yourself. You and Joe can chat while he does things for you that you haven't experienced in 40 years!"

"HELEN WAGNER!!! Stop talking like that this instant! You're bringing tears to my eyes and torturing my heart with your attitude. If I was younger and didn't have hip problems, I'd march over there immediately and take this matter into my own hands. Instead, I'll wait for Mr. Helstrom to return from his chess game with neighbor Garvey and let him handle it. I'll recommend that he call the police if need be and I'll have no pity for what happens to you as a result! If you were my child, I'd make you eat a bar of soap and wash the foulness right out!"

"Yeah, yeah. You keep chattering like that and your false teeth will fall out, you old fart!" Helen blinked her eyes a few times and rubbed her finger on a section of teeth in her mouth. When she removed her finger and examined it, she observed a dark, blood residue on her finger. She inserted her thumb and index finger, grabbed the second molar from her mandible and removed it with ease. It was like removing a kernel of corn from a stick of soft butter. She slipped the bloody tooth into her pocket so she'd have a bit of puzzle "candy" as a treat for it later. Helen spit some blood from her mouth and said, "If your damn dog is so freakin' important to you, why wait for that other old fart to come home? Come get it yourself. I'll be glad to help you over!"

"Oh my word! I pray that your dear, departed mother's soul is being spared your insolence and rudeness. It would crush her to hear her sweet, little girl talking like you're talking." Mrs. Helstrom paused and drew from a deep well of experience. Her anger was not letting her think clearly. She knew that Helen couldn't possibly make such a drastic transition because of a simple encounter with other children, unless the encounter was traumatic in some way or another. It also occurred to her that there may be a serious situation in the Wagner household. She adjusted her glasses and summoned forth her last few ounces of kindness and understanding. She cleared her throat and said, "I'm sorry if I snapped at you, Helen. That was wrong of me. Even though I'm hindered by my age and physical limitations, I promised your mother that I'd help you in any way I could. I know that you wouldn't be acting the way you are unless there was a crisis of some sort going on in your life. Share your problem with me and I'll do anything I can to get you the help you need."

"My only problem right now is you, old lady!! Why don't you just hobble home, turn the gas on and stick your head in the oven or something. You'd solve all kinds of problems that way!"

Mrs. Helstrom was visibly upset. Her years of dealing with people had conditioned her and taught her how to properly construct protective barriers. Effective barriers that shielded her emotions from insensitive jerks. Barriers that prevented debilitating pain caused by betrayal upon betrayal by those she trusted. Those same barriers also had access doors. Helen was one of the precious few who had been given a key. Helen's betrayal was especially hard for Mrs. Helstrom to bear. She had done all she could do. Helen was in a place too far away for her to travel. "I'm washing my hands of this matter. Mr. Helstrom will have to settle this situation. You won't find it as easy to break his heart."

"Now I'm scared! Damn, where in the world could I possibly hide to escape his terrible wrath? Hmmm. How about if I hide right the hell where I am?"

Mrs. Helstrom would hear no more. She limped away, favoring her left side and went directly into her house without looking back once. She spied through her window curtains at a blur she assumed was Helen. She muttered a few indiscernible words to herself and hobbled to her rocking chair. She clamped her hands onto the arms and kicked the rocker into high gear. She looked to her door and said, "You just wait, young lady. You just wait until Mr. Helstrom comes home, that's all I've got to say!"

In his younger days, Jens Helstrom was considered to be an attractive and brawny man. He spent most of his adult life working on Philadelphia piers as a longshoreman and was known to drink and fight with the best of them. He was never a man of unprovoked violence, yet he never backed down from any confrontation, no matter the odds. He made rules for his children as they grew and rarely allowed deviation from those rules. He wasn't mean, just determined to provide the best possible path to their future. He will be the one to set things right, thought Mrs. Helstrom.

Helen looked around for another source of puzzle food, like an addict in withdrawal looking for a drug dealer. The immediate supply of flesh and blood was slim to none. She wasn't strong enough to drag Mrs. Helstrom from her house and another attempt at killing a bird was as fruitless as the first. She went back inside and rushed to the kitchen. The last of their meat, some raw hamburger, had finally thawed enough to produce a bit of bloody juice. "Damn! It will just have to do."

As she passed through her living room, an eight by ten color photo of the Wagner family temporarily caught her eye. The photo of Audrey, Joe, Jean and Helen had been taken just prior to Helen's ninth Christmas. It was the Christmas that she got a new, white party dress, two new outfits for school and a pair of roller blades...something she had wanted for many months.

It was also the Christmas she nearly got her first kiss from a boy and wasn't even aware of it. Calvin Reid waited for Helen after school each day so he could carry her books home and catch up on small talk. He tried flirting but at age ten, he was still learning the ropes and most things that came out of his mouth bordered on the ridiculous. Each day he saw her, he mentally rehearsed his speech expressing how much he liked her. And each time he tried to verbalize those thoughts, his insecurities anchored the words in his brain.

After walking her home on the last day of school before Christmas break, the two stood at the beginning of the concrete walk to her house and smiled warmly at each other. He maneuvered close to her and wished her a Merry Christmas. Then he closed his eyes, and slightly puckered his lips. He held his breath and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. Having felt nothing, he opened his eyes in time to see Helen halfway up the walk He looked around and saw two younger boys, about four houses down, laughing hysterically. Calvin never walked Helen home again.

While she was still standing in front of the photographic memory, a loose piece of flesh on her arm caught her attention. It was about as long and as wide as a standard candy bar you'd buy while waiting in a checkout line at the grocery store. She lifted the flap of flesh from the oozing sore, tore the skin off and let it fall to the floor. She rubbed some of the bloody tissue from the exposed area and revealed a different layer of skin underneath. It was smooth and grayish, almost like an elephant's hide. She was examining her body for more wounds to explore, when she heard something outside. A few steps later, she was at the living room window to investigate. She observed a man walking from a black van parked in front of her house. The sound she heard was the driver's door being slammed shut. The man appeared average looking in every aspect and was headed for her front door.

Helen jumped back from the window and said, "Ask and ye shall receive!"

The man stood outside and surveyed the house. He took a deep breath, exhaled forcefully and said, "Finally!"

Helen ran to the front door and as she put her hand on the doorknob, she peered up the stairs coldly and in a monotone voice said, "Take your time with this one, you hungry bastard. Real food is getting hard to come by!"

Helen answered the doorbell immediately after it had been pressed. She stood at the entrance and waited for the stranger to speak. To a normal human being, an initial encounter with Helen in her present physical state would be overwhelming and unbelievable. Her clothes smelled like a combination of vomit and a summer trash can after it has been sitting in the sun for a week. She had a wide variety of oozing sores on her hands, arms and face. Some of the sores had flaps of loose flesh dangling from them. Her hair had the luster of soot and her index finger had taken on a twisted, knobby appearance. For all intents and purposes, Helen was gone. What stood at the door could only be described as an unknown.

It wasn't the first time Paul had seen someone react like Helen. It was, however, the first time he had seen it progress to her level of deterioration. Judging by Helen's condition, Paul surmised that the puzzle had been receiving generous amounts of organic material.

"Looks like I got here just in time!" said Paul as he removed his hands from his coat pockets.

"Is that a fact?" she replied.

"Yes. My name is Paul Porter. I realize my name means nothing to you at the moment. In fact, your name means nothing to me either. I'm only here because you have something I want and need very badly."

"Yeah, right! I'll bet any young girl or boy has something you want, asshole!"

Paul chuckled and said, "You? Not hardly! You're not my type. No child is, has or ever will be my type. Even if you were, I wouldn't be interested in you. Have you checked yourself out in a mirror lately? You're enough to gag a maggot!"

"Come inside before you let all our heat out," said Helen as she backed away from the front door.

Paul entered, closed the door behind him and said, "Let's cut the bullshit and get down to business. I know you're trying to think of a way to feed me to whatever it is that you're feeding. Well, that's not going to happen. You need me all right but not as a food source. You need me so I can do a job, get out of here and return you to a more normal life."

Paul had no idea of what had already transpired at the Wagner house and he really didn't care. He had no idea that if she was ever returned to a normal state of being that she wouldn't have much of a life to go back to. Her family was gone and she was responsible. If she was able to remember that little tidbit, how would she be able to cope? She wouldn't be able to stay in their house by herself. Where would she go...what would she do?

"Come on now, Kid. I'm here on an important mission. I need to act as quickly as possible for all concerned. I can either do it with your help, or without. Either way, I guarantee you that I'll complete it."

"Mission my ass. What are you selling?" laughed Helen.

"I'm finished with the conversation part of my visit," said Paul as he vigorously sniffed around, searching for an airborne trail.

Helen looked vacantly past Paul. She was beginning to have short lapses in her concentration abilities. She blinked slowly and then said, "Hey, you! It's upstairs. It can smell you and it's waiting for you. Follow me." She whirled around without hesitation and sauntered up the stairs.

Paul stepped in close behind. When he reached the last step, he closed his eyes, inhaled and sucked in a very familiar odor. When he opened his eyes, he zeroed in on the source of the vibrations and went directly into Helen's room. He stood quietly in her doorway, admired the puzzle as if he were seeing a long-lost friend and said, "Ahhh. We finally meet. You were very fortunate and escaped the last time I came for you. It probably wasn't time. No matter. I'm glad to say that it's over now."

The suction into the puzzle had matured from a breeze to a powerful wind. Paul's hair was being tossed about from that wind when he said, "It's time to go meet the rest of your family in my van."

The table began to vibrate violently and the wind whizzing past him grew in magnitude. The puzzle was trying to gather strength to resist Paul and started sucking in small items from different locations in Helen's room. A crystal pyramid, a plastic hairbrush with long, brown hairs tangled in the bristles and a bottle of inexpensive perfume shot into the puzzle like bullets. Strangely, there were no bursts of gas.

"Damn! I've never seen one this powerful before. How long has it been that strong?" he asked.

Helen answered only with a devilish grin.

"I asked you a question, Kid."

"Relax, asshole. It just started to feed itself. Each time I feed it flesh and blood, its strength doubles. Ordinary household shit gives it little power boosts but even they seem to be having more influence."

The more the puzzle fed, the stronger it got and the faster it fed. Larger items like her chair, her white, plastic trash can, her cedar chest and her small wooden bookcase filled with heavy books, scooted toward the table.

Paul was perplexed. It was all so different from the rest. The cardboard menace was acting independently of any human.

Paul advanced toward the puzzle. It felt like someone had turned on a gigantic vacuum cleaner and pointed the intake hose in his direction. He viewed the puzzle scene and saw several people scattered about on a beach. "Were all those people part of the original puzzle picture or did you have something to do with them being there?"

"What does it matter, asshole?"

"I'm curious. I've never dealt with a 'thing' that behaves in such a manner." Paul glanced at a rocking photo on Helen's desk. He had a couple of minutes to study it before it went whizzing by him and into the puzzle. It was a color photo of two young girls, standing side by side. From what he could see, one of the girls in the photo resembled someone on the beach. " If the people that go in aren't destroyed, it would make a significant difference. I don't understand why the puzzle didn't crush the life out of them." Paul ducked sharply as a desk lamp narrowly missed his head.

"I don't give a shit why they are the way they are," said Helen as she moved slowly and cautiously into a position directly behind Paul.

Paul had made it a point to keep a constant awareness of her position and noticed her movement immediately. He spun around, saw her arms in the air with her hands clenched into tight fists and witnessed a hideous grin like he'd never seen before. As he drew back his right fist, he said, "Not this time, Kid. I'm about to do you a huge favor." With that, he delivered a solid blow to Helen's jaw, knocking her backward to her bed. He looked at his aching knuckles and saw dark blood residue collected from her sores. He wiped them off on her sheet and then picked the unconscious Helen up in his arms like she was a bag of trash to be thrown out. He carried her to the edge of the puzzle and said, "Let's see what this does!" He let her go and was amazed how quickly she disappeared. Fruuump. A terrific shot of puzzle gas.

The intensity of the vibrations doubled, the suction grew stronger and Paul heard a high-frequency sound like none before. He studied the puzzle scene and dodged other objects as they were sucked in. He observed swaying palm trees and a beautiful ocean front with crystal clear saltwater. Whenever he looked at the scene, he could perceive no movement of any kind, yet when he looked away and back again, the scene had changed. People were in different spots on the sand. The one little, black dog that was barking at something, had begun digging a deep trench. The figures in the puzzle picture seemed truly animated and they seemed to be enjoying what they were doing.

Whether it was the last of Malvada's 'things' or not, it was certainly the most powerful. He needed to collect it and hopefully end the curse. He took one last look at the people on the beach and moved his hand to the puzzle edge to begin the dismantling process. He pulled his hand back when he spotted a young girl waving upward. He quickly realized that she wasn't just waving to the sky; she was waving to him! He got as close to the surface of the puzzle as he could and took a closer look. He recognized the clothes that the girl was wearing but not the face. The girl was wearing the same clothes as the girl who was just trying to feed him to the puzzle. The smiling face, however, was that of a young, vibrant, healthy and robust teenager.

Paul had another shock in store. Surprisingly, he started to feel the suction from the puzzle pulling at him. He found it difficult to push himself away. For the first time ever, he was actually being affected by one of Malvada's 'things'. He smiled like he hadn't smiled in years. He felt as excited as when he was seven on Christmas morning. "It's going to be a great day after all! This has got to be the last item on the list!"

The power of the puzzle seemed to be doubling by the minute. It had grown sufficiently in strength to suck in the prized cedar chest. Shortly thereafter, the turbulence snatched the puzzle box in with a myriad of other debris. The suction drew Jean's pillows, her wardrobe and everything else from her room that wasn't fastened down securely. The picture frame that Helen stopped to look at in the living room was yanked from the wall and glanced off of Paul's head on its way to the puzzle.

Paul heard a police siren wailing from somewhere outside. He ran to Helen's window and narrowly avoided the glass being sucked from the panes. It sounded like it was coming his way. He panicked when it occurred to him that some authority may have spotted his van and called for help. "Not now!! Not today!!" he yelled in frustration. He began to breath easier when the siren faded in the distance, like a slow summer sunset. He fought the suction and leaned against Helen's wall. The siren, crying as if in pain from the pressure of the driver's foot, caused him to think of the damage and horrific pain Malvada's 'things' had brought to so many. Although it was Malvada's curse, Paul was the reason they suffered. He recalled the farmer in Montana who bought Malvada's vacuum cleaner at an auction and how it sucked the life out of him and his horse. He remembered the business executive who bought her stained glass lamp at an antique shop in North Carolina. On that particular occasion, Paul arrived in time to see the light socket sucking in the last of the guy's skull. An eyeball had popped out in the process and was eagerly absorbed by the attached electrical cord.

Then he thought about Marie. Beautiful, vivacious Marie. He thought about the scores of missing persons reports that had been filed by grieving relatives over the years and wondered how many had been victims of Malvada's 'things' and how many were missing for other more understandable reasons. And what about Shannon? What did her poor husband think about his wife's disappearance? His wife vanished without a trace and he would never know why. Paul knew why though. He was a murderer by proxy.

Paul then shifted his thoughts to the swaying palm trees and inviting ocean waters in the puzzle. He was so tired of it all. Tired of the mental dirt cluttering his mind and fostering the growth of toxic weeds.

He remembered the first time he took his wife into his arms and made passionate love to her. Her soft, warm body against his drove him into a sexual frenzy. After they made love, they listened as the summer locusts and crickets serenaded them. Then they made love again. Even though he didn't have much of a career or much money, he finally realized that he truly had it made in those days.

The pleated curtains being ripped from the traverse rod, snapped Paul back into reality. Items of furniture were clanging and banging against the stairway walls on their way to the puzzle.

He spotted a loose piece of the puzzle jutting up ever so slightly. It was the same piece of puzzle Joe had upset in his struggle to free himself of the puzzle's grasp. The puzzle drew Paul closer and closer. He found it increasingly difficult to resist the suction.

It was clear that the puzzle wanted him but he wasn't sure how to proceed. What if the puzzle simply wanted to feed on him?

He stood against the edge of the table, took hold of the loose piece and glanced at the puzzle scene one last time. He was startled to see Helen pointing to some writing in the sand. The message was neatly written in gigantic letters and read: **MALVADA SAYS IT'S OVER. MISSION COMPLETED!!** " He stood erect, not believing what he had just read. He looked back and the message was gone. He saw Helen on her knees, with her right hand entrenched in the sand. He looked away to give her time to complete what she was writing. He glanced back every couple of minutes to check on the progress. Each time he did, all movement on the beach ceased.

He was nervously awaiting the new message like a job applicant waiting to be interviewed. He reached into his pocket for his lighter but the wind was too strong for him to light a cigarette.

He turned again and this time Helen was standing and pointing to the new message. It read, **"JUMP! I PROMISE IT'S OKAY!!"**

"Hot damn!!" shouted Paul. He got a wild look of excitement in his eyes and dashed to Helen's door. He had the look of a young child allowed to run free in a toy store with no time or spending limits. It was a look that had been nearly forgotten.

He paused for a second as suspicion crept in and tarnished the shine on his joy. "This may be too good to be true. I'd better be sure." He removed his coat, wadded it into a ball and threw it into the wind tunnel. Fruuump. A minor burst of puzzle gas shot into Paul's face and caused his eyes to water. "Maybe it didn't have my full scent," he said nervously. He took his shirt off and lobbed it at the puzzle like he was trying to make a basket with a deflated basketball. Fruuump. The puzzle was happy for the treat and continued to demand more.

" **YES!!!** " he cried. "Okay, calm down a minute, Paul. You don't want to screw this up. If I jump into the puzzle, how much longer will it continue to suck things in? What about Malvada's 'things' in my van? What if they continue to feed after I'm gone? However, if I jump in, won't the curse be over and then shouldn't the 'things' stop feeding? Too many questions and not enough answers. Holy shit, I'm so damn excited and there's so much happening, that I can't think straight. I need to calm down and take no chances. If Malvada is somewhere in that puzzle and I don't return her 'things', I may have to go through all this crap again, only in another dimension."

Paul flew down the stairs, out the door and in his haste, nearly collided with his van. Mrs. Helstrom had moved from her rocker to a chair by the window and watched Paul's blurry image dashing from the Wagner house. All she could make out was a figure scurrying back and forth from the road to the house. "I can't tell if someone is moving in or moving out. Wait until Mr. Helstrom gets home. He'll be firm with the Wagners. He'll take care of all of this nonsense!" said Mrs. Helstrom with a sense of pride.

Paul had emptied the contents of the van into the puzzle and found himself standing in the living room, looking frantically in every direction. He wasn't sure what he was searching for. All he knew was he needed something to break the puzzle apart after he was in, but what?

The living room couch and heavy recliner were sliding across the floor and moving toward the stairs. Both items tumbled end over end up the stairs and into the puzzle. The puzzle was gaining strength by leaps and bounds. There couldn't be much time left. How much could the puzzle suck in before it stopped? Would it ever stop? What if he jumped in, was able to stop the puzzle and because he didn't bring it with him, he'd be put under a new curse? More questions, less time. He had to hurry.

Nothing in the living room held the key so he ran down the hallway to the kitchen and yanked open the first door he came to. All he saw was toilet paper and bath towels. Seconds later they were dashing down the hall and up the stairs like a swarm of bees. Then he went to the next door and discovered that it led to the basement. He flew down the stairs and made a hasty scan of the area. The first thing he saw was five cases of soft drinks stacked neatly in a corner by the steps. They too were released from their dungeon and became one with the puzzle. "It's got to be here, I just can't see it! Come on, Paul. Think!!" he exclaimed in near panic.

His eyes bounced around the basement and finally landed on the potential solution. He saw two fishing rods and a green tackle box standing against the wall, next to an aging hot water heater.

Paul gazed at the basement ceiling, looked in the direction of the puzzle upstairs and said, "If what I saw in the puzzle isn't some bastard trick of yours, Malvada, and this is truly the end of my nightmare, then I thank you for allowing it to end. If it turns out to be some sick joke, then I guess we'll be sharing a hot rock in the stands of hell together. I guess it really doesn't matter, does it, Malvada? I don't have a choice. I have to try."

Paul scrambled to the fishing rods and could hear the water heater pulling against the water pipes it was attached to. He felt the concrete floor vibrating violently beneath his feet. The last of the tools sitting on and around the workbench were banging their way up the stairs. A silver-toothed chisel slammed into a stair support beam, took a chip off of the side and then it rapidly joined the other tools in their upward migration.

Paul lunged onto the fishing rods and tackle box as they scooted from the wall. He held on tightly as the suction grabbed hold of him and expedited his return trip to Helen's room. He felt like a pinball in an arcade machine, as he bounced through the house and up the stairs. When he stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs by a sudden drop in suction, he panicked, thinking the puzzle had quit feeding. He quickly discovered that the Wagner's refrigerator was temporarily blocking the entrance to Helen's room and disrupting the airflow. He was relieved to know the game was still on, and used the bonus time to prepare for his exit.

In the meantime, Mr. Helstrom came home and was debriefed by an overwrought wife. She retained her composure as she explained how their cat and dog had mysteriously vanished. Then she went into great detail about her encounter with Helen. Although she was mostly truthful situation, she decided to add some adjectives to build her case against the child.

Mr. Helstrom took his wife into his arms, rubbed her back and said soothingly, "Well, Mother, I'll take care of those Wagners for you."

He tucked in his shirt, adjusted his pants and opened their front door. As he stepped outside, he looked toward the street, stopped and came back inside his house. "That van is illegally parked in front of their house. I have to take care of that issue before I do anything else. It's blocking the fire hydrant. What if there was a fire? It deserves to be towed away at the owner's expense. It will sure teach the driver a good lesson. The disrespect people have for rules and laws designed for the benefit of all is downright disgusting to me!"

Paul opened his belt, stood a fishing rod on each side of his body and closed his leather belt tightly. He pulled the rods upward until the reels were snugly against the leather. He wanted to make sure they were secure because if they left his grip and didn't make the trip with him, his plan would most likely fail. Then he opened the tackle box and searched until he found two steel hooks. He cut the existing hooks off with a knife from the box and attached the two new hooks. He released the locks on the reels, pulled a few feet of line out and held a hook firmly in each hand. He was as ready as he would ever be.

The wood trim on the door frame gave way and the refrigerator was sucked into the puzzle. Paul was close behind. He was banged around and knocked his head on a wall as he bounced up the stairs.

Just before he was sucked into the puzzle, he slammed both hooks firmly into the puzzle pieces. The loose fishing line he had fed out before he jumped was whipping in the wind and at one point almost caught under his elbow. As he was falling into the puzzle, he looked up and saw the bottom of the puzzle. There was a clear circular center, surrounded by the twisting and turning cut marks in a gray cardboard. Then he looked down and saw people actually moving on the beach. They were all smiling and a couple were even applauding. Paul began to feel an inner warmth that had eluded him for years. He looked forward to his landing and meeting with his welcoming committee.

Paul reached down and engaged the locks on the fishing reels. He experienced a sharp jolt as he continued to descend.

When he hit the beach, he was surprised how soft it was. It was more like landing on a huge pillow than course sand. He surveyed the area and watched as scores of people came from the wooded area. He felt the comforting ocean breeze and closed his eyes as he breathed in the refreshing salt air.

Helen approached Paul and said, "Welcome, Mr. Porter. We meet again!"

Paul opened his eyes and saw a circle of people forming around him. He looked at the smiles on their faces, exhaled and relaxed. It was finally over.

"There are some people I'd like you to meet," said Helen as she ushered forth an elderly man and woman. "This is my Grandma and Grandpa Kline." The two stepped forward, shook Paul's hand and welcomed him.

Paul grinned and said, "It's a pleasure to meet the two of you."

Helen pointed to another man and said, "That's my father, Joe. The girl standing to his right is my sister, Jean."

They exchanged greetings and Paul was feeling better and better inside. His emotions were returning and he started to feel a warmth heating the shield of stone around his heart. The loose fishing line finally caught up with him and fell limply to the beach. There were no hooks and there was no more debris entering the puzzle. He looked upward at the bottom of the puzzle again and could only see swirling cut lines. The clear center had vanished. He was glad that his idea apparently worked but was disappointed in the view. He was hoping to see blue skies, salted with puffy, white clouds.

"By the way, I guess I should introduce myself as well. My name is Helen Wagner," she said with a smile.

"This place is beyond understanding," said Paul.

"I agree. I only just got here myself so I won't be much help in the answer department. Grandma and Grandpa Kline will be the ones to turn to for that. They've only been here for a few years. I think those people over there have been here much longer than that," speculated Helen as she pointed to some men and women in the distance.

"It's so peaceful here and the air is sweet-smelling. I think I could learn to like this place a lot!" Paul exclaimed.

"Except for my Aunt Caroline and one of my dad's friends, you'll find that you know most of the people in the welcoming committee. I'm not sure where those two ran off to. I'm guessing they'll be by shortly. Well, I've got to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Porter," said Helen in a final sort of voice.

Paul removed his belt and let the fishing rods fall to the beach. He was glad to see the tackle box sitting in the sand a few feet in front of him. The idea of spending the rest of his existence fishing was appealing. He regretted not being able to bring a rifle as well. He fastened his belt and looked more closely at the people moving in to greet him. He saw the smiling face of the college student who had been sucked in by the portable typewriter. He saw the beautiful fashion model, standing in her long red dress, that had been sucked into Malvada's armoire. She smiled and waved, then strutted away like she was walking down a fashion runway.

He saw Shannon sitting on a rather large boulder with another man. The man had his left arm draped over Shannon's shoulders and was holding a beverage in his right hand. He lifted the drink as if to toast Paul, while Shannon smiled and waved.

Then he recognized a shape he had fantasized about. It was Marie. Tender, soft, trusting and loving Marie. Their eyes met and she walked forward. "Hello, Paul. I'm happy to see you finally joined the rest of us."

Paul's mind raced with wild excitement and thoughts of the future. "Marie, I did what I did to you because I..."

"There's no need to apologize or explain anything, Paul. We all understand that you were doing what you had to do. Most of us who became one of your victims suffered a great deal of anguish due to your betrayal. You selected us at random and subjected us to the horror because of the curse. We know it wasn't anything personal directed toward us and fortunately for you, anger isn't permitted here," stated Marie.

Paul was speechless. He looked at Marie with puppy-dog eyes that pleaded for forgiveness and understanding.

Marie reached for Paul's hand and said, "Let's walk along the beach and talk for awhile."

A balloon of hope and dreams rose in Paul's mind. His body was steeped with an overwhelming joy he had never before experienced. He grinned from ear to ear and felt like dancing and he never felt like dancing before! He imagined a small cottage in the wooded area, with a comfortable hammock made for two and Marie by his side. What a wonderful day it had turned out to be. He knew it would be different than all the rest and he was right.

"I'm so glad I've been given a second chance with you, Marie. I never wanted you to sit in that wicker chair," said Paul sadly.

Marie looked into Paul's eyes and replied, "I know, Paul. It could have been anyone. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. When that chair started wrapping those strands around me, I was terrified. Unfortunately, I was alive while most of them pierced my body. I suffered through excruciating pain during the process."

"I'm soooo sorry, Marie."

She looked away from Paul and said, "I understand, Paul. It was nothing personal."

"This almost seems too good to be true. You know, Marie, I felt a chemistry between us the night we met and hoped for a day just like this. A day we could walk together, hand in hand on the beach. It's such a wonderful feeling! You're so wonderful to forgive me!"

Marie pulled her hand from Paul's, walked a few feet in front of him and then turned to face him. "Forgive you? I never said I would forgive you."

"But you said you didn't take my actions personally. You said anger wasn't permitted here!" protested Paul in a confused voice.

"None of us are angry with you, Paul. We just want to even the score. You can certainly understand that we all want our revenge," said Marie as a large group of Paul's victims came rushing up from behind. The group threw a heavy, commercial fishing net over Paul, knocking him on his back. He kicked and thrashed like the fresh catch of the day.

The group dragged him along the shore to a short pier jutting out into the water. They used a hoist to lift the net with his body and dangle it a few feet above the surface of the ocean.

Marie looked to Paul and saw the shear terror in his eyes. It reminded her of when she sat in the wicker chair and felt the first strands squeezing the air from her lungs. "None of us want you to take this personally, Paul. Some of the people here actually like you. Maybe, under different circumstances, we could have been great friends. Perhaps lovers. We'll never know!"

Paul watched everyone's eyes shift to the water. He could hear a churning sound in the water below. He maneuvered his body to see what the object of their focus was and when he did, his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Circling directly beneath him was a gigantic shark and as near as he could estimate, it was at least twenty-feet in length. Its mouth was wide-open, exposing hundreds of razor-sharp teeth just waiting to shred him to pieces. He realized the jaws were wide enough to accommodate at least two people the size of Paul.

He felt a frigid chill run through his body and screamed when he saw what was around the shark's neck. The shark was wearing a pewter pentacle, attached to a worn strip of leather...Malvada's most prized possession. Then he remembered Adrian's advice to make sure he left it behind when the time came. In his haste and excitement, it was the one little detail he forgot.

Then the shark swam to a point directly underneath the net. Paul saw the shark's deep, liquid black eyes. He screamed so loud and hard, that he thought he would expel his intestines. His scream did no good and shortly thereafter, Paul was gone.

The crowd that had gathered left in smaller groups of two and three and conversed among themselves as they left. A few were laughing but it more than likely had nothing to do with Paul.

Helen's room had become quiet and completely still. The only things left in her room were a folding table and a jigsaw puzzle resting on its surface. The puzzle was completed, except for a lone piece left loose in the middle. The piece was sitting on its side, propped up by a steel fish hook that had been driven into its cardboard body.

A short, thin, balding man walked slowly up the stairs. When he got to Helen's room, he stared at the puzzle and smiled. "Hi. It's me, Floyd. You certainly have been busy, haven't you?" He glanced around the empty room and continued. "I see that you've lost your box. I guess I'll have to make you another. I have someone else I'd like you to meet. Your job will be somewhat different but it's nothing you can't handle."

He removed a plastic bag from his pocket and proceeded to sweep the puzzle pieces from the table into the bag. "I think we'll go to Atlanta, Georgia. You'll like it there. It's beautiful this time of year."

Floyd shoved the bag of pieces into his pocket carefully, gave the room one last look and left.

Outside the Wagner house, all was calm. As Floyd walked down the sidewalk leading away from the Wagner house, a police tow truck arrived and backed up to Paul's van. Floyd listened to the clanking chains as he watched the driver climb under the vehicle and attach them.

He glanced at the Helstrom house as he removed a blue, garrison cap from his gray overcoat and placed it snugly on his head.

The driver hoisted the van and stared at Floyd as the winch pulled the chains taught. Floyd smiled, returned the greeting and watched the driver jump into his cab. When the tow truck drove off, it began to snow.

Floyd looked back at the departing tow truck and adjusted the collar of his overcoat. He smiled and began walking in a southerly direction. As he walked, the snow continued to fall and each snowflake was different from the rest.

THE END

Thank you for reading my book. It is the second book of a three book series centering around jigsaw puzzles with exceptional properties. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?

Thanks!

Rod Merttes

Discover other titles by Rod Mertes:

White Crest

Lightning in the Western Sky

