 
##### by Frank Kale

##### Smashwords Edition | Copyright 2013 Frank Kale

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

### Chapter One

Cambridge, MA: As Zachary considered hiring a packing service to empty his office, there was a knock on his already-open door. Looking up from a pile of papers, he saw Professor Byrne from the economics department.

"This is a sad day. Economists everywhere are indebted to your early research," said Professor Byrne, in what seemed a prepared remark, sounding much like the blurb on the back of a book.

Zachary smiled and tried to overlook that Joseph had praised his early, not recent, research.

"Joseph we have had some good times here, and we will always have those memories. Thank You."

It was a complete lie. But Zachary knew that Professor Byrne would search for such memories of shared good times, and having found none, he would feel just awkward enough to leave, something he did after a slight bow. It was actually the third person Zachary had used the line on today, and again he wondered if he should simply call a packing service to empty his office.

Another knock: this time a student.

"May I come in?" she asked.

Zachary nodded with a slight grimace.

"You don't remember me do you?" she asked.

"I'm sorry."

"You wrote me a letter of recommendation," said the student.

"Was it good?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, quite flattering," said the student.

"Good," said Zachary throwing his hands in the air. "What can I do for you? As you can see I am packing right now."

"I don't mean to intrude. I was in your Cognitive Science Class 2 years ago. You really liked my papers, and that it why I asked you for a recommendation to write for Harvard Magazine," she said.

"Did you make the cut?"

"I have been writing there for two years now. I'd hoped that you had noticed," said the student.

"Remind me of your name," said Zachary.

"Jenny Chomar," said the student.

"Jenny, Yes. I remember now. Well, what can I do for you? Do you need another letter of recommendation?" said Zachary jokingly, having guessed the turn that the conversation was about to take.

"No, it isn't that," said Jenny. "I was wondering..."

"If you could interview me for the magazine," said Zachary with a nod.

"Yes, it would be an honor to be able to..."

"Let me stop you right there Jenny. You are an insightful student, so I'm sure you understand that I am reluctant to put myself in a situation that could contribute more sensationalism to the situation," said Zachary, while wondering why he had agreed to an interview with Jasmine Jackson from City Times Radio 1040. Perhaps it was because he religiously listened to her show and there was a fight in her voice that periodically gave him the chills.

"Well then can I just ask you a couple of questions?" said Jenny. "I'll be writing an article in any case."

"I may not answer them, but you can ask," said Zachary.

Would I have yielded had it been a pimply male undergraduate at my door?

She opened her notebook.

Probably searching for her juiciest questions...

"Oh no, I left my questions in my car," said Jenny.

"Well, you will just have to do it on the fly," said Zachary.

"They might not be worded the way I would have worded them," said Jenny.

"Give it a shot."

"Okay here goes," she said, drawing in a deep breath as if she were about to dive for a pearl. "Your research on decision making was a landmark development for general psychology and has been applied to many disciplines such as economics and computer science. However, you drew criticism when you used the results of your research in a practical experiment during your application for professorship here, and which you yourself admitted in a public letter to Dean Smith that caused you to rethink whether you had breached an ethical line, given that you used your research to sway the decision making of the Harvard Professorship committee. Considering your current resignation from Harvard University, has the current ethical situation caused you to rethink what occurred ten years ago during your application process for professorship, and if so were your conclusions different than they were ten years ago? In short, do you still think it was ethical that you used, in the words of a psychology department colleague 'A sort of Jedi Mind Control that influenced an unknowing and unsuspecting committee to vote in favor of professorship approval?'"

"Wow. Only a Harvard kid could have done that without a note pad. I see why I wrote you a letter of recommendation. I liked your ironic use of 'In short' too," said Zachary rolling up his sleeves and puckering his lips, taking what would be one of his last glances out his window at the Harvard Green. In a flash of remembrance, he saw the moment to which she was referring. In the peer reviewed psychology world Zachary Dunbar had become a rock star at the age of 27 with the publication of an 18 page paper with the unassuming title, "Decision Making."

The crux of the paper was the hypothesis that a small group of individuals given likely and unlikely decisions and needing unanimity would choose the most unlikely decision more often than they would choose a less unlikely or a likely decision. It was a theory that defied every known law of probability and yet through a double blind study in which small groups were induced to make likely or unlikely decisions, nearly 65% of the time, it was the most unlikely decision that prevailed.

In a clever twist, Zachary had used the clinical implications of his research during the Harvard professorship interview process by concluding that, given his youth and the controversial nature of his still very much recent research, he was the most unlikely candidate, and then using his unlikely status to present himself to the interviewers as even more unlikely, which, as he projected, propelled him into the top position. It was when he wrote a short paper about his strategy that the ethical questions, some from the defeated professorship applicants, began to appear. Ultimately the school decided that there had been no ethical violation and Zachary reached the same conclusion.

Zachary continued, "My conclusion today is the same as it was ten years ago. I know this is disappointing for you. It would be more interesting if my view had changed. Honestly, I thought then, as I think know, that my interviewers should have been familiar enough with my research, given that they might be hiring me for a position, to have discovered what it was that I was attempting. Therefore, I don't think it was a "Jedi Mind Trick" at all. The fact that it worked – well that just gave increased informal credibility to my research, and was another reason to hire me."

"Thank you," said Jenny, who then glanced down at her digital recorder to ensure it had been recording. "Secondly, given that you believe that you have currently breached an ethical violation of the Harvard Research community through your use of human subjects for a matter, namely Trait Theory, which you have now deemed sufficient reason for your resignation, how do you reconcile --."

I can't do this right now...

"Sorry but I'm leaving," interrupted Zachary.

"But my second question?" said Jenny.

"Send me an email," said Zachary, suddenly leaving his office with only a single plant in his hands. Taking out his cell phone, he called Cambridge Cleaners. They agreed to pack and empty his office for $150.

Life would be different. There would be no more mentioning at cocktails parties that yes he was a Harvard professor, and no it wasn't the Harvard extension school, and yes tenure was a possibility, and no it was not a snobby institution, and yes...and so on and so forth, questions which he pretended were an annoyance, but which his heart of hearts knew as flattery. There would be no more waking up in the morning, putting shaving cream on his face, and before moving the razor down his cheek saying to himself: Yes it is early in the morning but you are a Harvard Professor my friend. There would be no more going to family parties and being identified to distant relatives as: the Harvard Professor. There would be no more hearing a recent girlfriend whisper on the phone to her mother: yes he is a professor, guess, no, no, yes at Harvard.

He still had his business: Dunbar and Associates – though now it might be a curse that his name was the company name. Would the fallout from his current disgrace cause the company to go under? The accountant thought it doubtful, though only time would tell. His partners, Omar and Samantha Smith, had been mainly supportive, though he could sense the tension rising.

On a whim, he placed his plant on a bench and entered the COOP bookstore, the place where, prior to the internet, most Harvard students bought textbooks. His seminal work, "On Decisions," had been due in paperback for months. Perhaps today would be the day his publisher would ship paperback copies of his book all over the country, so that in a few years they could be remanded, as the bookstores did not actually buy them, and for that matter neither did the public. It perplexed him that the publisher had decided to issue a paperback edition at all because sales for the hardcover had been laughably small. But who was he to argue with free promotion? Somewhat timidly, Zachary approached a clerk stocking the non-fiction shelves.

"I have a couple of books on your shelves and one of them is due in paperback. I was wondering if it has arrived?" asked Zachary.

They walked to the psychology section. The clerk looked but he could not find the paperback edition. "I'll check the computer."

"That isn't necessary. I was just wondering..."

Glancing over the current psychology titles, Zachary noticed his business partner's book: All is Fair. For months, Zachary had promised Samantha that he would read it. Could this finally be the time? After locating a cozy corner, he opened the book (his signed copy sat on the dresser by his bed) and the dedication read:

For:

Zachary Dunbar

Friend and Colleague

Without Whose Guidance This Labor of Love Never Would Have Been Finished

He felt a cold sweat growing about his temples. No one had informed him of the dedication. Now he was sure that she was sure that his signed copy hadn't even been opened, otherwise he would have thanked her. A groaning in his mind grew louder until he released an actual groan.

Samantha was a woman he admired very much. She had a sharp mind and on many occasions forced him to question his own assumptions. Her primary area of research was love – an emotion that she had charted to be so nebulous she had renamed it "The murky noise" in some of her writings. Mostly, he found her research fascinating, especially her undergraduate research concerning inherent acoustic beauty predications patterns, such as pretty women having pretty voices. But he often did not agree with the implications of her conclusions. Research is concerned with conclusions, and book writing is concerned with the implications of conclusions. If she over-reached he would mentally criticize her at every turn and he did not want to mentally criticize his friend and business partner. Worse, he had no poker face and she was readily adept at reading micro-expressions. The truth would not remain hidden from her once he read the book and she asked him his opinion.

Therefore, the logical solution was to not read the book. But it was only a temporary solution. However, delaying is making a decision not to make a decision, which is a paradox, and paradoxes may have been elegant solutions for ancient eastern thinkers but they don't fly as excuses for 21st century women, Zachary noted, before skipping the guilt inducing dedication and reading her first line, "Lovers learn loving through the act of loving, much as infants learn walking through the act of walking."

One line and already he had a problem. Some people read and accept. But for Zachary every statement was a challenge, a duel. Devil's advocate was a position he slipped into as easily as socks. His mind continually rotated, revolved and pulsed in an unceasing intellectual inquisition that could not help but consider the alternatives of any thought said, written, or whispered. At that point in time in the book store he was questioning why he was questioning. Was it an essential part of his identity? Was he the quintessential contrarian? In any case, he couldn't help but deconstruct that first line. The essence of the line was the opposite of his theory, Trait Theory. He shut the book, thinking about Trait theory and how it had caused his resignation to come about:

A sophomore slump occurred after Zachary accepted his Harvard Professorship in 1998. His Unlikely Decision Making Theory had gained more ground as other practitioners duplicated and confirmed his research, and although Harvard offered to generously fund a new research topic, Zachary had no idea what line of research to pursue. He read voraciously in hopes of a Eureka moment, but inspiration did not strike.

After reaching the conclusion that his approach at unearthing a research topic was too timid (reading stuff), he took a sabbatical in order to accompany an MIT research team to Southern Thailand. They were pursuing a question about muscle memory through the study of Mui Thai boxing, a sport similar to American Kickboxing.

The head of the research team, Timothy Moore, was an old friend of Zachary's. They had been undergraduates together and during that time Zachary had noted that Timothy never missed an opportunity to impress a girl. But that had been many years prior and since that time surely Timothy had matured, Zachary predicted.

However, after a few hours on the island, Zachary noted that Timothy reverted to his undergraduate showmanship-self whenever any female, but especially whenever a pretty brown haired undergraduate intern named Sally, was within ten paces.

As soon as they had docked their boats Timothy ripped off his shirt, practically Hulk Hogan style, revealing a badly done spray on tan. The sucking in of his gut occurred with such fervor that his face was perpetually pinched in a look of sub-glottal pain. Although they had nothing to do for the first day except unpack, Timothy demanded that the entire research team accompany him on a tour of the island, conducted by him, by memory, due to his studying of maps on the plane. They were lost within minutes and had to return to their bungalows by backtracking through a swamp.

Day two Timothy instigated a blow-out argument with his American subject who was supposed to have all sorts of electrodes and monitors attached to him while he engaged in Mui Thai fighting against the locales. After the offended case study subject took an early flight home, there was no one to analyze during Mui Thai fights. Never one to miss an opportunity, Timothy attached the electrodes to himself and entered the ring. It could have been bad luck, the pre-match taunting, or a combination of both, but within 30 seconds Timothy's nose was broken and his left knee was shattered – and 30 seconds did not give the team enough data to write a research article.

After Timothy was airlifted off the island, the research continued at a less intense pace. Somehow, the pretty intern coaxed Zachary into entering the ring. Zachary found an interpreter and paid him 200 Baht to inform the fighter he would be facing, "Please do not hurt me. I have no clue what I am doing. This is somehow for research." And considering the turn of events that was better than taunting.

Zachary had no punching or kicking training. Yet through agile movements and pleading looks, he remained in the ring long enough, over four sessions, for sufficient data to be gathered. Unfortunately, the research question did not interest him. It was more technical than psychological. What had interested him about the trip was the chance to clear his mind and to hopefully look at the world from a perspective that would yield a research question, and if not, what the hell, he'd have had a nice vacation in Thailand.

After his second session in the ring, an older Thai fighter who spoke English told Zachary that he thought he had "good chin." This was a term that Zachary was familiar with, as it originated in the States. It meant a fighter who did not give up easily. There is no way for a fighter to know if he has "good chin", or if he can take a lot of punches and kicks, until he puts his body to the test in an actual fight.

This got Zachary thinking. Why was it that some fighters had "good chin" and some did not? All fighters had expertly trained bodies. All fighters attempted to eat the right foods. Was "good chin" an inherited trait? Could it be traced back to a fighter's parents?

With the help of the old fighter, Zachary divided the fighters at the gym into different levels of "chin." Then he paid a guide to locate the fighter's parents and brought an interpreter along with him. The results were astounding, and he kept the data and his question a secret from the rest of the research group, not because feared someone in the group would steal his nascent question, but because he wanted to fully analyze his preliminary interview data and decide his next course of action before revealing what he had stumbled upon.

What his interview data suggested was threefold: (1) parents pass traits to children that have been forged during times of high-stress (2) parents do not pass traits to children that are forged during low-stress, or that emerge in high-stress situations after the female is impregnated, and (3) the children may never display the traits – similar high stress situations seem needed to tease them out. In other words, fighters who had parents who were fighters in their youth had better "chin" than those who did not.

It was an instinctual statement – yet something that had never been put to the test, and Zachary considered calling it the like-father-like-son theory, but decided against that name because of the nuances in the theory that pointed to many situations where a father and son could be quite dissimilar, and eventually decided upon the term Trait Theory.

Upon returning to Cambridge, Zachary immediately contacted Samantha and suggested that they collaborate. She agreed to meet him for coffee, but to his dismay all she really wanted to talk about were the rumors about Timothy, who she had also known, and even (Zachary hated to admit) dated for a period of time during their undergraduate years.

The rumors of his buffoonery were confirmed by Zachary, who didn't find them nearly as humorous as Samantha and he wondered why she was so pleased by his misery – a shattered knee is no laughing matter. However, he avoided the subject of that old romance as it would lead to a subject even farther from Trait Theory, so he tried his best to explain his theory and his reasons for believing she would make a skillful collaborator. After his fervent pitch, she humbly declined, explaining that although Trait Theory sounded intriguing, she needed to focus her attention on her own research.

What followed for Zachary were seven solitary years working with mice in the laboratory. From time to time other members of the faculty would stop in to check on his progress – but he was on his own – he couldn't even inspire the service of an undergraduate research assistant for more than one week at a time: they always seemed to quit. That progress was slow was an understatement. However, progress was being made. It wasn't the sort of progress that would win the attention of a blonde at a bar, Zachary noted, but it was progress nevertheless.

The key to gathering evidence for his theory had been the observations of two sets of mice children. The first set of mice children served as the control. They were born before a stressful event was introduced to produce a trait in the parent. The incidence of the trait in these mice children should be no higher than in the general population of mice. The second group of mice, the variable group, was born after the stressful event was introduced to produce a trait in the parent, and this group of mice, according to trait theory, should have carried the trait with an incidence that was higher than in the general population.

Hundreds of experiments were performed, such as experiment 17: A male mouse is placed at one end of a long corridor. Mouse feed is placed at the other end of the corridor. He has not had any food to eat for one day. Inevitably, the mouse sniffs his way to the opposite end of the corridor and eats the feed. This goes on for weeks until the mouse is well trained to the fact that all he has to do is make his way down a corridor and he is able to eat a hearty meal every other day. Furthermore, he is provided water every day, not just the days he is placed in the corridor. No stress has been introduced into this mouse's life. He is a relaxed and contented mouse. At this point in time he is mated with a relaxed and contented female mouse, one who has been receiving her food the same way as the male mouse, every other day by making her way down a corridor. The children that the female births are group A, the control group.

After it has been determined that the male mouse has successfully impregnated the female mouse, he is placed back into the corridor, but now the stressful event is introduced. Previously, the mouse had been able to lollygag down the corridor and receive his feed -- no more. Now ten seconds after the mouse is place at his end of the corridor an impassible steel wall is swiftly raised at the half way point of the corridor. If the mouse does not sprint he will remain stuck on the side where there is no feed, and will not get a chance to eat -- by sprinting past the timed wall -- for another two days. This goes on for weeks until the mouse becomes trained to the fact that in order to eat, he must sprint down the corridor. The wall is timed just right, so that some days, if he slips, or just isn't sprinting at his maximum potential, he slams into the wall and does not make it past. He no longer eats every other day. At some points he must wait 4 or 6 days to eat his mouse feed. This mouse is now a stressed mouse. However, through the introduction of this stressful event he has also developed a trait: he has become an able sprinter. At this point he is mated with a female mouse, one who is also stressed and has also become an able sprinter through the same exercise. The children that the female births are group B, the variable group.

Next, the children, group A and group B, are tested. One by one they are placed in the corridor. The same exercise is performed. At first they are able to eat by just lollygagging down the corridor and later they must sprint. However, a twist is introduced: the timed wall now rises after only 8 seconds instead of 10. For the parents of group A and group B, a wall which shut after 10 seconds had produced intermittent results – some days they made it past and some days they did not. According to trait theory group B should have had better results sprinting past the 8 second wall than group A, because in essence group B had inherited a sprinting trait from their parents, while group A had not inherited a sprinting trait from their parents.

And the data supported this prediction: Group A made it past the 8 second wall 55% of the time, while group B made it past the 8 second wall 90% of the time. Group B had become better sprinters merely because their parents, before they birthed them, had become better sprinters.

These results were not an aberration, through hundreds of experiments Zachary tested every trait that he could think of to test, and they were all supported by Trait Theory. At the end of year seven Zachary, now aged 34, finally had enough data to publish a research article about Trait Theory, and for the second time in his young career shook the foundations of the research community: this time both psychology and genetics. Genetics theorized that the last adaptations to human evolution were 40,000 and 20,000 years prior, which were, respectively, lactose tolerance in some Europeans, and higher levels of oxygen efficiency in some Tibetans.

Trait theory stated that evolution was efficient enough for parents to pass certain adaptations, which Zachary termed stress-induced inherited traits, immediately onto their children. Zachary's Thailand data was much too informal to be used in the article – though it was the seed that had paved the way for seven years of painstaking mice research, and so had served a crucial purpose. The data from his Trait Theory mice research was nothing short of breath-taking. In now what seemed like seven short years, he had created whole mice communities from which to derive the pure truth of Trait Theory.

Accolades and speeches came swiftly. He was the toast of the town. And it was during this time that Zachary incorporated Dunbar and Associates, the idea taking shape after Samantha made the comment, "Well, my friend, I didn't expect it. But you have bottled lightning on two occasions. I turned down your offer, and as I look at your face on the cover of the Improper Bostonian with the caption, 'Is this man the only sexy scientist on Earth?' I can't help but think I made a mistake. I want to be a sexy scientist too."

"Yeah, I really don't get that cover. I am not sexy and nothing about my science is sexy. I think the publisher was thinking exactly that – so he decided, 'This is all so unsexy that no one will pick up this magazine. I have an idea! Let's just say he is a sexy scientist – better yet – let's say he is the only sexy scientist – I don't know any sexy scientists do you? There we have it!" said Zachary, still on a high from his recent tour of the town, and able to ramble on about anything.

"Zachary, I'm serious. We should start a company," said Samantha. "Omar wants to too. He's game. I'm game. Are you game?"

"I'm game," said Zachary, and soon after Dunbar and Associates was born.

Gallivanting about town, teaching undergraduates, and starting his own company kept Zachary busy, but his mind kept pulsing one single thought no matter what situation he was in: test humans now. Humans, the gold standard of research...Sure mice followed Trait Theory, and it was reasonable to surmise that the same might be true of humans, but reasonableness and cold hard data are two universes apart for a scientist. The problem was that he was having difficulty designing a human experiment that would be ethical. He couldn't exactly plop humans in a corridor and slam a wall in their faces.

Furthermore, it would be difficult to study a phenomenon that occurred between parents and their children. When most scientists studied generational developments they used fruit flies because their life cycle is a mere seven days. Zachary's solution: find humans to whom traumatic events had occurred, ask them how the traumatic event had shaped them (this would be nearly impossible to measure), and then take a look at their children born before the traumatic event, and compare them to their children born after the traumatic event (two sets of children would have to fall serendipitously into place) – and answer the question: does the second set of children share the trait that the parent believed the traumatic event caused in them, while the first set does not?

There were problems with this approach. For one thing it would have to be assumed that the parent was a reliable source about his or her own history. Had the traumatic event really caused the trait that they believed it had caused? For example, if a man were mugged and beaten near to death, and then he stated to Zachary that this had caused him to become shy around strangers, how did Zachary know that the man hadn't actually been shy around strangers before this incident?

Still, this strategy was the best that he could think of and he decided to move forward. It seemed logical to start with the most traumatic event that he could think of: murder. A sane person commits an unplanned murder because a high degree of stress has been entered into their life – the murder is the culmination of that stress – the murder is like the mouse trying to beat the rising wall. The mouse sprints to obtain food. Man murders to obtain...? Well, the motives differ. The most common motive, Zachary learned through researching the subject, was jealously and domestic murder. Husband kills wife. He decided to stick with this subject because by studying the most common motive participants would be more readily available.

Eventually Zachary landed a case study subject: Tony Capobianco. Tony Capobianco married Jessica Smith in 1977. During their first year of marriage, Jessica became pregnant and birthed her first and only child, Joseph. Tony used their combined savings to buy a pizza shop. However, neither his crust nor the taste of his sauce was popular and Tony's Pies struggled. Although he moonlighted as a plumber in an attempt to keep the pizza shop afloat, he refused to change his crust or the taste of his sauce and after two years Tony's Pies was bankrupt.

The atmosphere in the Capobianco household, heavily in debt, became strained. Citing family honor, Tony refused to declare bankruptcy. "My Momma and my Poppa, they roll over in their grave if I don't pay a bill. A Capobianco make a bill. A Capobianco pay a bill." He'd raise his hands higher in the air, gesticulating more wildly and keep repeating what had become a mantra for Tony, "A Capobianco make a bill. A Capobianco pay a bill."

The decision to pay all his creditors caused Tony to work even more hours than he had previously, and plumbing pipes from 6 am to 11pm each day became the norm. And as he unclogged poop clogs and ran his heavy hands over greasy pipes, a thought slowly took hold of him – Jessica was not being faithful.

Jessica Capobianco had been brought up a Catholic and took the rules of the church seriously. She did not curse, went to confession once per week, had stood at the altar a virgin, and fully intended Tony to be, until the Lord took her back, the one and only man in her life. Yet Tony himself was the biggest obstacle to that resolution because every night when he came home, usually after having finished a 12 or 24 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, he'd lay his heavy hands on her, and slap her – one, two, three – in the face, until he was sure that she hadn't even looked at another man. Then still slimy and smelling of poop and pipes, he would initiate a sweaty sex that she found anything but enjoyable.

Her Catholicism could only keep her chained for so long, especially after an old crush, Mike, started delivering the milk. As Tony was bulky, bruising, and harsh, Mike was slender, smiling, and nice. After a month of delivering the milk, Mike began leaving a single rose with it. For Jessica the start of an affair was the first step in leaving an unhappy marriage.

When Tony left work early one sunny Tuesday to retrieve a forgotten wrench, he found the two of them naked in bed, spooning. What he told the police later is that what surprised him most was not that he recognized the milkman but that his naked skin was white as the milk he delivered and seemed to be shimmering in the sunlight – he looked almost like a girl. Fate had placed a murder weapon, the wrench, firmly in his hand, and he bludgeoned both their skulls. Then he sat down on a bloodless part of his bed and dialed the cops. The police report recorded his first statement as, "My name is Tony Capobianco. I've killed my wife and her lover. I'm ready for jail." Their son Joseph was at school that day and from that point on he lived with his grandparents in Cape Cod. After a speedy trial, Tony received a life sentence without the possibility of parole.

For Zachary this was the point of the introduction of a key character: Shelly Disano, full blooded Italian hairdresser and jailhouse fetishist. From the time she was eighteen she'd dated men in the slammer. Now at twenty-nine there had been a long list of car-jackers, assaulters, thieves, and even murderers whose hearts she could claim to have broken – she collected crocodile tears with the skill of a demon. But it was with Tony Capobianco that she fell in love. Although she knew he was guilty – he'd told her so – he seemed to be the one innocent man in prison, innocent in the sense that he was completely devoid of street-smarts. From behind bars he was still paying child support though he made less that a laborer in China.

A Capobianco make a bill. A Capobianco pay a bill.

They made passionate love on every possible occasion – and after a month she stopped taking birth control and nine months later, although they weren't married, she named her baby boy Michael Capobianco anyway. Two weeks later Tony was shanked in the shower, bled to death, and Michael and Joseph were left without a father.

That a brother was born before and after the murder was what counted for Zachary. Joseph would be the control and Michael would be the variable. They both agreed to the study, as each needed the cash. From the moment they walked into the Harvard University laboratory, Zachary began gathering data.

Thirty males with girlfriends and with a father who had not killed their mother, and who were also similar in age to Michael, 24, and Joseph, 31, were additionally recruited to serve as comparisons. Each participant was instructed to bring a sensual picture of their girlfriend. To confirm that the photo was actually their girlfriend and not, for example, a model pulled from a magazine, they were required to bring a photo album or provide access to a Facebook account with photos of them together. Once in the laboratory, each subject was given a complex puzzle and their solving time was recorded.

Next the subject was shown a picture of their girlfriend juxtaposed with a picture of a hunky shirtless male. Later a groaning noise suggestive of copulation was introduced into the subject's headphones. Then each subject was presented with a similar, but different series, of complex puzzles. The question: would a lingering sense of jealousy cause the subject to become more easily frustrated and to take longer, or even to completely give up, solving the puzzles? The results were striking. Joseph, the Capobianco child born before the murder and hypothesized to not be susceptible to the Murderous Jealousy Trait (MJT), had a baseline puzzle solving time of 7 minutes. His post stimulus time was also 7 minutes. There was no statistical variation between the two times. It seemed the not-so-subtle suggestion that a model-like male was bedding his girlfriend did not, at least after the fact, fluster him. For the thirty other males tested only two had statistical variations, and they were small variations, just eight percent.

With Michael, the Capobianco who had been born after the murder had occurred and who was hypothesized to be susceptible to the Murderous-Jealousy Trait, it was another matter entirely. In the picture he had brought of his girlfriend -- which he refused to give Zachary until he was told that it was absolutely necessary -- she was kneeling on a rug, wearing black lingerie, staring with a pout, and sporting thick red lipstick.

Instantly, Michael's blood pressure spiked when this picture entered the split-screen and was paired with the shirtless male. Five seconds after the groaning noise was introduced he tore off the headset, thrust it on the desk and shouted profanities. When given the post-test puzzle, which consisted of wooden circles, triangles, squares, and diamonds to be combined to form a moon shape, he attempted the puzzle for 15.3 seconds before he flipped the table, released a primal scream, and exited the testing room.

Once in the hall, he grabbed the nearest object, a trashcan, and hurled it down the hall. Then he shattered the glass of a framed picture of Charles Darwin by punching a hole in it. At this point the testing staff attempted to calm him. But he shouted at them with such vehemence that they backed away. Outside in the parking lot he climbed on top of his car, shadow boxed, gave his middle finger to a passing plane, got down off his car, lay on his back on the pavement, and after a few minutes of hyperventilating, finally calmed.

It was at this point that Zachary approached him with a counselor. Although the ferocity of Michael's reaction was concerning, the results were quantitatively and qualitatively better than expected. The next step would be the recruitment of more children with fathers who were domestic murderers. Still, Zachary had a pressing matter, his present subject on the pavement, and he was sympathetic that he may have awoken a monster. Therefore, he tried to assume a non-judgmental tone and said in a calm voice, "You broke a lot of things. That is okay. I know you are in pain. Come back inside and let's talk."

"I don't want to go back into that room with those fucking noises, and those fucking pictures of that fucking man and my fucking girlfriend," said Michael from the pavement, his eyes closed. This was the first time that Zachary had taken a really good look at Michael. Although he wore a loose fitting track suit, Zachary could observe that his limbs were pure brawn, and there was intensity in the sharp lines of his face even when it contained no expression, and he had the same thick heavy hands that he'd seen in photographs of Tony Capobianco.

With a foreboding shiver, Zachary thought to himself: this man could kill. Eventually they returned back inside. Zachary offered Michael a glass of water and he accepted. The counselor at this point hadn't uttered a word and Zachary wondered what he was being paid for. Then out of the blue Michael said, "This was all about jealousy and that jealousy can make you really fucking pissed off, wasn't it?"

It would have been unethical for Zachary to withhold this information. Human participation means certain guidelines must be followed, such as informed consent. Michael had been informed that he had been chosen for the study because his father had been a murderer. But he had not been told that they were specifically studying a potential Murderous Jealousy Trait – disclosing every detail of a study is not necessary and may affect the results. But because the study had already concluded, Zachary nodded his head, adding, "But it is complicated. We are trying to figure out if certain traits can be passed from parents to their children. For example, your father was a jealous man – we were wondering if he might have passed that on to you."

"You could have just fucking asked me," said Michael, placing a cold stare onto Zachary.

"Well what would you have said, had I asked you that prior to the study?" Zachary asked in as neutral a tone as possible while activating the audio-recorder in his pocket with a tap.

"Melanie – that bitch – she drives me crazy. I know my Dad – I know he killed a woman but she weren't my Mom, and maybe that bitch had it coming. Melanie – she stays out late when she works late – and sometimes I see in my mind – I see..."

"Yes, what do you see?" the counselor asked, finally saying something.

"Who the fuck are you?" Michael asked.

"I'm a social worker," said the counselor.

"Do I look like I need charity?" said Michael.

"No, not that kind. I'm just here to help," said the counselor.

"Well, I don't like you, and the way that you have been staring at me all this time without saying diddly squat," said Michael.

"Do you want me to leave?" asked the counselor.

"I wouldn't cry about it," said Michael with an eerie grin.

"Should I leave?" the counselor asked Zachary.

"Yeah I suppose you should," said Zachary, frowning.

After the counselor gathered his belongings and left the room, Zachary said to Michael, "So Melanie, she makes you feel jealous?"

"I don't want to talk about it no more. So even though I broke all that stuff I'm still gonna get paid right?" Michael asked.

Zachary nodded. "Michael you should know that my research has indicated that there may be a chance that you are susceptible to an over-powering form of jealousy. So you should know that so you can plan what you will do if that happens."

Michael remained silent.

"Michael I'd like to provide you with counseling, for as long as you need it, free of charge, here at the university," said Zachary, not sure exactly how he would set this up, but knowing that it needed to be done.

"Will the counselor be studying me too?" Michael asked with a smirk.

"I'm serious Michael. I think this could help you. This is cutting-edge science, so we can't say exactly what is going on. But given your reaction to some pictures and noises today, wouldn't you say that it makes at least a little bit of sense that you need some help?" Zachary asked.

"The only thing that makes sense is that I need to get paid. Where do I pick up the money doc?" Michael asked.

"It will be mailed to you," said Zachary.

"Then I'm done here."

One week later Michael made news headlines when he strangled and killed his girlfriend Melanie. They had been at a Boston nightclub and when a man started dancing with Melanie, Michael sucker punched the man and then smashed his face into his knee, popping out three of his front teeth. The man tried to scramble away, but Michael held him tight, and Mike Tyson style, bit off a small chunk of his ear. Screaming and bleeding profusely, the man managed to wriggle free after a bouncer descended on Michael. In the ensuing tussle the bouncer's nose was broken, and Michael fled the club.

In the street Michael found Melanie trying to hail a cab. Witnesses reported that Michael shouted, "Get over here bitch!" And he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her into an ally. No one came to her aid. Three minutes later she was dead. Michael, like his father, waited for police at the murder scene.

The incident caused mixed emotions for Zachary. On one hand, he felt partly responsible, as it seemed that his test may have infected Michael with the "jealousy bug." On the other hand, Michael himself admitted in the post test interview that he was already a very jealous person, and the timing of the test may have been a coincidence. Moreover, if Zachary's theory was correct and had been widely accepted by society, then maybe senseless murders, such as the murder of Melanie, could be prevented in the future.

However, he could not dismiss the possibility that he had been partly to blame for the death of an innocent woman. Concurrently, a member of the testing staff had leaked the details of their study to the press, and it caused a firestorm for Zachary and the University. Allegations of mad-science were made, and Zachary was looked at by the university's internal review board.

Although they had approved his study, they wanted a second look at the manner in which it had been conducted. Eventually Zachary was cleared by the board. A threatened civil suit by Melanie's family never materialized. However, due to the scope of the tragedy, Zachary considered resignation. After a lengthy discussion with a dean of the college, he decided it was the honorable course to take. They also agreed that in the near future he should set up a scholarship fund in Melanie's name to support victims of domestic violence.

All and all, he thought as he put Samantha's book back on the shelf, not reading is the least of my problems.

### Chapter Two

Dorchester, MA: Zachary Dunbar looked curiously at the young woman, Jasmine Jackson, who was soon to informally put his life on trial, on the radio, on the internet, and on her blog. He had no delusions about that. Yet what could he do? Modern society demanded that every failed act be followed by an act of apology. The media had turned men into apologists. "I take full responsibility," had became the main refrain of every failed politician, CEO, and screw-up of the world – and it was a refrain that was, of course, meaningless – just as saying "I'm sorry," after you do some harm is meaningless – it doesn't revert the harm – it only makes the offender feel better about the harm they have committed – or is that true? Zachary wondered, and was lost in this thought when Jasmine turned to him with her angelic smile.

"We will be on air in a few minutes," she said.

"I had thought you would be older," said Zachary.

"Life is full of failed expectations," said Jasmine. "Or should I say altered expectations?"

"Yes, yes, altered is much better," said Zachary. "There is nothing failed here. Well, of course the subject we will soon be discussing, which is my research."

"Zachary I'm not here to grill you. Relax. This is only my second interview. My other one was a Celtics player," said Jasmine.

"Exactly, you interviewed the point guard for the Celtics after he was arrested on gun charges," said Zachary.

"Frequent listener?" Jasmine asked.

"Every night," Zachary admitted. "I love your show. If I get put through the ringer I want it to be here."

Water glasses were placed on small tables beside Jasmine and Zachary. Various reminders were made and Zachary reviewed the protocol. The different format of the show was explained, Zachary was introduced, and then Jasmine said, "So Zachary it really is an honor to have you here on Blinded Justice."

"Thank you, I'm happy to be here," said Zachary.

"So I would like to explain to my listeners who are not used to me doing interviews that it was actually Zachary who contacted me," said Jasmine, adding, "Because he likes the show."

"Yes, I am a big fan. I think that your stories are amazing, and they always keep me at the edge of my seat, and yet you are fair to all people involved. So I thought if I have to talk about this tragic situation I would at least like to go somewhere where I like to listen," said Zachary.

"So you felt obligated to talk about what happened with your research?" said Jasmine.

"I couldn't for many months, due to ongoing legal issues. The legal issues have ceased. However, what haven't disappeared are the human issues, and those are the real issues. And I believe that I owe it to everyone who was involved in my research and the public at large to explain my thinking on the situation."

"You've just resigned from Harvard University," said Jasmine.

"Correct," said Zachary.

"That couldn't have been easy," said Jasmine.

"It was a joy and a privilege every day that I worked there, but I felt that it was the right thing to do," said Zachary.

"Because of what happened with one of the subjects in one of your research studies," said Jasmine.

"Correct," said Zachary.

"And what did happen?" Jasmine asked.

"That is what I would like to know. That is what the victim's family would like to know. Unfortunately, human decision making is never certain, and there are not always cause and effect explanations," said Zachary.

"What do you think happened?" said Jasmine. "Let me rephrase that: Michael Capobianco killed his girlfriend, Melanie, shortly after participating in your research study. That study was trying to answer the question: Do parents pass traits on to their children that are acquired by the parents during times of high stress? Michael Capobianco's father killed his wife. Do you think you were playing with fire when you attempted to figure out if Michael Capobianco was capable of killing, just as his father was capable of killing?"

"No, if anything, such studies could help prevent domestic violence," said Zachary.

"How do you draw the line between jealousy and murderous jealousy?" Jasmine asked.

"That is a very big jump – from jealousy to murder," said Zachary.

"So what did you find in Michael's case?" Jasmine asked.

"We found, we believe, if we have interpreted the data correctly, though it seemed pretty clear cut, that yes, Michael has the Murderous Jealousy Trait," said Zachary.

"How much more jealous than the average male is Michael?" said Jasmine.

"The research is so new that quantifying jealousy is not possible at this point – but when compared to others, he was much more jealous, yes," said Zachary.

"In what way?" asked Jasmine.

"He could not finish the study because he became very jealous at the thought of another man involved with his girlfriend," said Zachary.

"I talked with someone who had been part of the study. He wanted to stay anonymous. But he said that Michael actually punched a hole through a wall and became verbally abusive towards staff," said Jasmine.

"Yes, that did happen," said Zachary.

"And do you feel at all guilty about what happened after?" said Jasmine.

"Of course I do. But it isn't what you think. It isn't because I think my test caused him to kill his girlfriend. Causality is notoriously difficult to prove in the real world. In the laboratory we set up all sorts of controls and a very limited environment in as attempt to prove causality and still it is the most difficult task that you can imagine – there are all sorts of external variables, internal variables, and biases that can enter the picture. But in the real world, when one person kills another, a statement of causality is near impossible. Only God knows why Michael did what he did – even Michael may not know it. It was a tragedy and I feel responsible in that I did not prevent it," said Zachary.

"So then you think that you could have prevented the murder of Melanie, his girlfriend?" Jasmine asked.

"I think that if Trait Theory was a better developed theory, and if later research confirms earlier research, then it could help to prevent senseless murders," said Zachary.

"Please elaborate," said Jasmine.

"This may sound ridiculous and I do somewhat feel that I am leaping into a utopian future, so I don't mean to say that this sort of thing is in any way around the corner, or that it may ever happen. As scientists we are taught to avoid instincts and gut feelings and always examine the data, and believe me the data here is impressive. But Trait Theory has given me an instinctual feeling that it can do good for the world – but this a complete leap, the sort of extrapolation from the data that I would not normally make – and yet because of this leap I do feel somewhat responsible. Let me more fully explain: If we know there is a good chance that a father or mother has passed a trait of jealousy, maybe even murderous jealousy, onto a child, then we can warn that child about the difficulties he or she may face in life. We can teach them how to prepare for it. But if it catches them unaware, then the result may more likely be senseless murder. I don't know if what I said a moment ago is that I believe that we can stop senseless murder, but if I did, I did not mean to say that we can stop senseless murder, but only that we can lessen its occurrence," said Zachary.

"Okay I think I see what you are getting at here. Let's talk more about Trait Theory and get back to the situation with Michael later," said Jasmine.

"Okay, what would you like to know?" said Zachary.

"I feel like we've been nibbling around the edges and talking about bits and pieces of Trait Theory. Why don't you give us the whole picture? And start with, just what is a trait – I'm confused," said Jasmine.

"The whole picture would be a 300 page research summary. But I will do my best, and I will start with my definition of a trait as I have used it in my research: As people we are defined by our traits. We have thousands and thousands of traits. Anything we do in a consistent manner, within a certain range, is a trait. I know this is a much broader definition of the term trait than scientists have previously used, but for our purpose it works. Look at it this way – you are trying to design a human robot – what will make the robot human? What will the robot be like? Will it stand straight? Will it slouch? Will it make annoying small talk on Monday mornings at work? Will it eat its food with a slurp? Will it betray a friend to gain a small advantage? Will it betray a friend to gain a large advantage? The list of traits goes on and on. You may have observed that some of the traits I listed appeared less important such as a slurping trait, and some appear more consequential, such as a betrayal trait. This is true. As researchers, my team, albeit a small one, focused on what we believed to be the more consequential traits. We attempted to order traits on a scale of magnitude. The rub, however, is that any trait can be consequential in the right context, and the context of humans and the world is always changing. We change contexts ourselves as we move from point A to point B, and the context changes itself as time passes," said Zachary, suddenly realizing that he may have been talking in a monologue longer than advisable for the listening lay person.

"Yes, my trait of tardiness, usually by five minutes no matter where I am going, may not seem consequential. Unless, there is a traffic accident five minutes ahead of me," offered Jasmine.

"Well that would be a random event, but yes, fitting traits into contexts is what evolution and adaptation is all about. I studied mice for seven years and performed hundreds of experiments. From this research I formed the main thrust of Trait Theory -- defined quite correctly by you, Jasmine, at the start of the show – the theory that parents pass traits onto their children that have been acquired in high stress situations. They pass these traits on, something like 90% of the time – so it is quite a bit. But you can already see from the math that it wouldn't have been impossible for Michael to not have the jealousy trait, which is another reason testing is important. He deserves to know just what traits he is susceptible for and which ones he has acquired. We do it now for sports players: do you have a heart condition? If so it may be too risky for you to play this sport. Prevention is our best form of defense. Once something has happened it is more difficult to deal with the consequences. The problem in society is that prevention gets no glory. No one wants to hear on the news about the murder that was prevented because a murderer was rehabilitated, they would just think, 'Well, how do I know he would have murdered anyway?'" said Zachary, pausing and hoping that Jasmine would insert a comment, concerned that he was speaking too much again.

However, she looked at him to continue.

Maybe this is interesting to people besides me.

"But I digress. We also learned that traits greatly diminish from the second to the third generation, unless the second generation also uses the trait in high stress situations. We think this may be an evolutionary feature of trait theory. Evolution, if I can characterize it as a thinking organism for a moment, may have figured out that to increase the chances of survival for a species we need both long term adaptations, such as an opposable thumb that will be for all intents and purposes, permanent, and short term adaptations, such as traits. If the trait helped the parents then there is a good chance it will help the children. The world doesn't change that fast, but it does change. So evolution has decided that traits will be short term. Furthermore, evolution doesn't separate good and bad traits, only traits that are advantageous in an environment and traits that are not. But the only way evolution can know if these traits are advantageous is if they are again used in high stress situations. Therefore, only if the children use these traits in high stress situations will they again be passed on. It is an ingenious way for evolution to hedge its bets. And one more thing just to add a little uncertainty into all this: in rare occurrences traits which have disappeared will reappear and with a roaring intensity – we call this the Trait Theory Theory of exceptions."

"How often does that occur?" Jasmine asked.

"1/1000 times – very rare and usually at least 5 generations after a trait has not appeared. The odd thing is that this exception then becomes the rule because every trait can theoretically be traced back to some ancestor say 1000 generations ago..."

Jasmine replied, "So from what you are saying if Michael were to have a child at this point, assuming that he is guilty, then there is a 90% that his child would have the jealousy trait, and that it will be advantageous for the child to have the jealousy trait."

"Not quite I've simplified things for the sake of your listeners," said Zachary, with a nervous laugh.

"You know we have very smart listeners, you are one yourself, explain," said Jasmine.

"Okay, let me explain more comprehensively: for one thing, in our studies we always made sure the parent mice shared the same trait we were looking at in the children. In that situation the chances of the children inheriting the trait are somewhere between 90% and 97%. However, when only one parent has the trait the chances of passing it on lower to about 45%. Secondly, as I said, evolution is not a moralist; it does not differentiate between morally good and morally bad traits. For us, as humans, jealousy that leads to murder is something we let our legal system handle because we have labeled it as morally bad. But one can imagine that at certain points during human evolution jealousy could be advantageous – it might even still be – one can imagine situations where it makes the individual more competitive and it causes one to produce more for society. However, it obviously is not advantageous when it leads to murder, as that breaks up the social fabric. That is why the trait is diminished from the second to the third generation, unless it has been used in the second. If it has been used in the second generation then evolution has reasoned that there must have been a good purpose for it to have been used, and it will again be passed onto the third generation. If the third generation does not use it then it will not be passed onto the fourth generation – and there it dies, unless the Trait Theory Theory of Exceptions kicks in," Zachary explained.

"If that is the case, why did you set up a high stress situation for Michael? It seems that a high-stress situation might draw out a trait that otherwise would have lain dormant," said Jasmine.

"A very good question, Jasmine, and one that we struggled with as we were designing the study: we wanted to make sure that we did not design a high-stress situation. Our test was just a small event..." said Michael, who then explained the set-up of the picture-to-groaning test that they had used, continuing, "As you can see, it merely hinted at infidelity. We wanted to find out if Michael was susceptible to the trait, but in the case that Trait Theory was correct, we certainly did not want to draw out his jealousy trait."

"That sounds like a difficult distinction to make," said Jasmine.

"Yes, but look at it this way. Have you ever had a jealous boyfriend Jasmine?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, I think so," said Jasmine.

"In what way?" Zachary asked, wondering how old his interviewer could be, maybe 25?

"Oh, you are really going to take me back there," said Jasmine with a sigh.

"I'm sorry if you will indulge you for a moment it will be helpful to our discussion," Zachary qualified.

"Well, if it is for science, ok," said Jasmine, flashing a sensual yet professional smile, "In what way wasn't he jealous, really? I think that is the mark of a jealous man. His over-riding jealousy causes you to change your behavior because you know that he is going to be jealous about everything, and rather than deal with the arguing, you adapt, you change, and basically you fall off the face of the earth for your friends because he makes sure that you are never available to see any of them."

"Okay, right. The point being that a jealous person is always jealous. We wanted to get in there and sample it – it was already always occurring – even Michael admitted that, but we did not want to create some new high stress situation, and I don't think we did," said Zachary.

"Zachary, Trait Theory seems like an important theory. Why resign now? You could have kept doing research? Did they just give you the chance to resign to save face? Were they going to let you go anyway?" Jasmine asked.

"No, they weren't going to let me go, at least not at this point, though I'm not a tenured professor so it would have been easy for them to do. But, I just felt like it was the right thing to do. Melanie was murdered, and maybe I didn't do enough after I had labeled Michael as having the trait he had. I think it is time to take a breather, and say, okay, we are on to something really big here, but what is the best way to proceed? How do we harness this behemoth of a theory so that it can be as beneficial as possible for society – while in no way infringing upon individual rights," said Zachary.

"So what is next for you, and what is next for Trait Theory?" asked Jasmine.

"Well, I'll be working at my company more hours per week, Dunbar and Associates. As far as Trait Theory, I think I might just have to step back and let other scientists step in and pick up where I left off," said Zachary.

"At this point are other scientists testing your conclusions?" said Jasmine.

"Not that I know of, but I'm sure there will be. There has to be. Refute and prove, prove and refute – that it the way it goes," said Zachary.

"Why not just test what you consider to be the inconsequential traits in humans? That way it would be difficult to get caught up in a tragedy such as this one?" said Jasmine.

"Inconsequential traits, such as slouching, were easy to induce in mice, but in humans they probably weren't brought about by high-stress situations, so they would not fall under the domain of trait theory. Those would actually just be traits peculiar to the individual," Zachary explained.

"We have a caller on the line from Dorchester," said Jasmine. "Bill you are on the air."

"Hello Jasmine, I'm a big fan," said Bill.

"Go ahead," said Jasmine.

"I just wanted to say that I don't believe this stuff is true. My father was a very good golfer. I stink. Could you have your guest talk about that? My handicap is like 17..."

Zachary explained that, according to the still nascent and not proven Trait Theory, there could be various reasons for a son not playing golf as well as his father, such as the father not developing the skill under high stress, or there not being a sufficiently stressful environment to activate the trait in the son.

"You spoke a moment ago about Trait Theory not infringing upon individual rights. What did you mean by that?" Jasmine asked.

"Well, I can imagine a future where if Trait Theory proves to be very accurate, the State could, to just make one example, desire to test the children of violent offenders, and if they test positive for a certain trait the State may want to lock them up, or keep them under tight surveillance, or something like that. Now our civil liberties are too strong in the country, I think, for anything like that to ever happen, but it is something that we want to keep on the radar screen from the get-go," said Zachary.

"Interesting, and I see how people could argue that point both ways," said Jasmine. "Here on Blinded Justice we talk primarily about the criminal justice system – knowing who is most likely to commit a crime seems like it could be a useful way to prevent crime, but given our history of justice abuses in this country, it also seems like it could be a way to unfairly profile a group, such as inner city African American youth."

"Yes, this is a debate that could be another hour-long show. But now you see just how many tentacles Trait Theory could possibly have. That is why I thought the best thing for me to do was to resign, take a breather, and figure out the best way to precede," said Zachary.

After a few more callers Jasmine informed her audience that they only had time for one more question, adding, "And it's my own: Zachary I have one final question for you."

"Okay," said Zachary.

"What if someone knowing the risks involved in being a human subject for Trait Theory were to volunteer?" Jasmine asked.

"Research is always a possibility for me," said Zachary.

"Well, I would like to volunteer," said Jasmine.

"Oh, do you have a peculiar trait that you would like to admit to your listeners?" Zachary asked.

"I probably do, but I don't like observing myself. No, the reason I ask is that it is family lore in my family that my great-great grandmother was a runaway slave and I'd like to know if I have any of her traits," said Jasmine.

"Well, that is a very interesting question, though according to Trait Theory unlikely, because at this point you are many generations removed. But it's still an interesting question," said Zachary.

"Doctor I am at your disposal," said Jasmine.

"Yes, maybe we could set something up sometime," said Zachary, hoping the blush that he felt on his face did not show in the dim lights.

"Is that the scientist talking or the man that the Improper Bostonian called, 'The only sexy scientist?'" asked Jasmine.

"After the introductions were over I thought I'd gotten away with that not being brought up," said Zachary, suddenly noticing the complete and utter sexiness of his interviewer. Was she asking him out on a date by hinting that he was asking her out on a date? It was a clever technique, he noted, and one that put the onus on him. And in his experience, it wasn't often that girls came knocking on his door when he was down and out, so it had caught him by surprise. However, he knew he had to recover, and recover with some charm, so he added, "Seriously, let's talk about this important subject soon, maybe over coffee, and as coffee hints at both social relations and increased mental effort it will leave open the ambiguous nature of our meeting."

"Wow," said Jasmine, "So that is what it is like to be asked out by a PHD, which is to say, rather awkwardly..."

After the show ended, and he had traded cell numbers with Jasmine, he left the studio in a daze. Had he really just asked her out on air? Samantha would never let him live this down... 

### Chapter Three

Somerville, MA: Dunbar and Associates had virtually no overhead because they used a coffee shop as their office and needed no supplies to conduct business. Their biggest ongoing expenses were the maintenance of a sleek website and modest Google advertising. However, using a coffee shop as an office presented unique challenges, such as the temptation to eavesdrop, and Zachary tried to ignore a conversation from the next table and focus on his work -- designing corporate personality assessments -- or rather to focus on strategies for drumming up work, as he currently had none and badly needed the money.

Samantha and Omar had yet to arrive. They were always late. For one thing they still took too long deciding what to order. How was this possible? Zachary had memorized the colorful chalk-drawn menu months ago. Craning his neck past the side of the booth, Zachary checked to see if they were in line. He did not see them. He sighed. Normally, he would have kept himself busy while waiting by grading papers, or planning a lesson, but that was obviously no longer a possibility.

A painting hanging to his right side and selling for five hundred dollars offered a brief diversion. A man with a cheetah face and wearing underwear jumped over a skyscraper, while a cartoon bubble from his mouth exclaimed, "I am the evolution of man." Zachary wasn't sure if it was intended to be deep or ridiculous, or if anyone would ever plop down five hundred dollars to claim the oddity. In his current situation that would be akin to financial suicide. As he began to consider the next painting, Samantha sat down in the booth across from him, apologized for being late, and informed him that Omar would not be making the meeting due to prior obligations.

How is that possible? We are the prior obligation.

Samantha looked stunning in a white blouse and pink skirt, and there was no reason to complain about being left alone with her. Yet as he considered her peculiar brand of beauty for the millionth time, beauty highlighted by a long nose that when smiling transformed her into what Zachary considered a huntress, he could see from the heaviness of her features that something was not quite right. Suspecting that she was unhappy about his interview with Jasmine and the way it had ended with an offer for a date, he rejected the thought of explaining himself to her; she was married after all.

Samantha also said nothing about the interview, turning to business matters, "We have had no offers for a while..." For few minutes they spoke of the continued implications of Zachary's resignation on their business prospects. However, they came to the same conclusion that they had previously reached: in the end their work spoke for itself and business would rebound.

"Has the resignation sunk in or are you still in a state of shock?" Samantha asked politely, too politely Zachary thought.

She doesn't really care; she wants to talk to me about something else...

Nevertheless he answered her question, noting that "of course people never know they are in a state of shock until the shock has subsided..."

As Samantha agreed with him, and spoke of the theoretical implication of shock and grief, Zachary absent-mindedly glanced at the table booth behind Samantha. They were a man and woman, both in their late to early twenties, Zachary guessed, one white and one black.

Were they dating or just friends?

As Zachary wondered about their relationship status he also wondered about his chances for happiness with Jasmine, they as a bi-racial couple, and she mixed-race herself. He knew it shouldn't matter. That he should be colorblind, so to speak. But he also knew he wasn't. Yet he was putting the cart way before the horse. He hadn't even yet called the number that she had scrawled on a scrap of paper, possibly savoring the mere-possibility of a contented relationship...

"I think we should try our best to rush publication of the article. I know it usually takes a while, but we both have editor friends. Perhaps we could explain our current situation, and that we are hoping this article will cause various institutions to take interest in our company."

For months Samantha, Zachary, and Omar had been hard at work on a questionnaire research study concerning effective job interviewing practices. The crux of the paper concerned the major disconnect between a successful interviewee and a successful employee. All too often prospects who interviewed strongly and showed an interesting personality were the same people who transitioned into the company as lackluster employees. The article suggested alternative interviewing strategies meant to tease out a more reliable screening of a prospect's durable personality, not the disposable personality put on display for the sake of an interview.

The research idea had been Zachary's and yet it was the type of idea that quite literally put him to sleep, as every time he thought of working on the article he became sleepy and considered a power nap. Suffice to say, business psychology was not Zachary's motivational sphere, but an outside consultant had suggested that Dunbar and Associates write a series of business psychology research articles in order to gain publicity, and Zachary had agreed to give it a shot.

"That is something that I have been meaning to talk to you about Samantha," said Zachary, looking down at his tea cup. "I want to bow out of the article. I think that publication will be easier if I am not involved."

"The whole article was your idea, it was your creative spark, and you have written most of it. It would be completely unethical to publish without your name, and realistically your name should come first on the article," said Samantha.

"Thank you for supporting me and wishing to include me, but let's be serious here. It is one thing to say that our business will rebound. Corporations may not care as much about some research that went haywire. But at this point in time, fair or unfair, my label is something of a disgraced researcher –."

"No, Zachary--."

"Let me finish, and it does not bear the semblance of reality to imply that publishers will be bending over backwards to publish my work, at this point in time, and you said yourself that for the sake of our business, we need to try our utmost to rush publication, no small feat and more like a near impossibility in the peer-reviewed research world, you know that Samantha. The only logical course is to move forward with publication without--."

"You don't have to castigate me," said Samantha, drawing a breath of air through her nose, her mouth closed in a frown.

"I'm not. I am merely pointing out that we need business and this is the best course of action. What does Omar think?" asked Zachary, trying to shift the subject from her obvious discontent because he knew from experience that focusing on the discontent was like poking a bee's nest with a stick.

"Let me call him in my mental brain cell phone here," said Samantha, pointing her index finger to her temple. "Why would I have talked to him about it? This is the first that I have heard of it. Do you think this was an expected course of events? That out of the blue you were just going to pull out and go your merry way?"

"I don't see the cause for your alarm," said Zachary.

Samantha said nothing and sipped her coffee. Suddenly Zachary wished that Omar were at the table, believing his presence would diffuse the tension.

"Why couldn't Omar make it?" Zachary asked nonchalantly.

"Fuck you."

"What?" asked Zachary, pressing his back against the booth, his pulse quick.

"You know. Jasmine Jackson and I don't care. But can we remove the elephant in the room? You are free to see whoever you want, whenever you want, but can we remove the elephant? You don't even say anything to me about it? What you thought I didn't know?" said Samantha.

"We have been here for like two seconds, and besides, this is ridiculous. You are married. Is that why Omar isn't here?" Zachary asked, lowering his voice, and glancing around to determine if any acquaintances were in the vicinity. He had expected her to be annoyed with the on-air date request, but he had not expected this level of belligerence.

What is it about Jasmine Jackson that has her so ruffled?

"I'm about two seconds away from leaving," said Samantha.

"Calm down. What is going on here?" asked Zachary.

"You know I am an expert on the correlation between the human voice and perceptions of beauty – that I wrote a 60 page thesis paper on the subject as an undergraduate," said Samantha.

"I remember, very convincing work. Professor House said you were a prodigy in acoustic perception theory," said Zachary, suddenly realizing where this was all heading.

"So what does she look like? Because from my calculations there is an 80% chance she is a perfect 10," said Samantha.

"Your work was very thorough, and I never did quite understand how you could predict beauty so accurately from a person's voice," said Zachary, resignedly.

"So you are saying..."

"Yes, she is quite beautiful. I don't understand the sudden jealousy. You are married and this is nothing that we haven't been through before," said Zachary, again lowering his voice.

"I'm not jealous of Jasmine. That being said I want to fuck you. Excuse me. I used that term because it is visceral. But that term more than anything right now describes my current reality so the use of it as a descriptor is quite accurate...Right now I want to--."

"Ok, Ok, Jesus this isn't exactly private here," said Zachary.

They took separate cars to their usual hotel. The sex was exceptional: sweaty, heavy, and purely selfish sex that worked out, in the end, for both of them. It had been two months. That she could proceed to sleep like an angel had always perplexed him. Zachary's mind churned with the implications of adultery each time they committed the act. Although Zachary knew it was racist, he sometimes wondered if Omar would shoot him gangster style with his arm cocked sideways and a handkerchief around his head were he to discover the affair.

That's what black people do: they have guns and they use them...

It was a ridiculous thought he knew; Omar was a highly-cultured and educated black man and Zachary had no knowledge that he owned a gun, but still the fear remained, like a reflex. Even more troubling, he considered Omar a friend, and Omar had been very supportive with Zachary's difficulties with his Trait Theory research. Never before had Zachary cheated on his own girlfriend, or with a friend's girlfriend, never mind a friend's wife: the whole affair was completely out of character.

It had been Samantha's intellectual theorizing that had conned him into it, he sometimes told himself, though only half-believed. The real reason, he knew, was that from the moment they had met he'd been in love, and he'd since decided to accept her love on whatever terms she offered. That those terms included adultery and betrayal of a friend was an unfortunate reality that caused insomnia when he got around to thinking about it. Although just as easily his mind would wander back to her virtues and how lucky he felt to be included in her life, even if his inclusion was arguably sleazy.

From the moment they'd met he believed that he had a good read on her, and he implemented a strategy aimed to obtain her fancy, a strategy based on his observation that she seemed to be taken with conflict rather than calm, and so when he learned in one undergraduate class that she was a huge Red Sox fan, he, even though a Sox fan himself, wore a Yankees cap to the next class and sat by her side. Argument was immediate and the relationship began in that rather ridiculous fashion. After he later admitted that he was a Sox fan too and that he'd worn the hat to gain her attention, it cemented her opinion of him as an interesting persona, and they became even more entrenched, the main difficulty now being that there were many interesting personas for Samantha at that point in time and he was but one.

That she slept around gave him headaches, but the pain she caused was mitigated by the thought that life would be that much more boring and less vibrant without her – so he lowered his standards for what a relationship should be, partly influenced by her incessant love theorizing, and tried his best to be happy. But as an undergraduate and one of her close "friends" he never would have guessed at their future adultery, though when he thought about it now it didn't seem surprising.

Displacement Theory, Samantha's newest theory, had been the impetus for their latest round of love-making. The theory hypothesized that in a monogamous relationship people never consciously choose as lovers the person they most want to love. Instead they substitute the person who they most desire with another, a runner-up of sorts. Two years ago she had a dinner with Zachary and explained the theory and presented him with her preliminary data.

After analyzing the data, Zachary exclaimed, "This is remarkable! What is especially remarkable about your study is that some people consciously knew they picked a substitute while some did not. But in all cases your research has indicated that substitutes, whether consciously or unconsciously chosen, were chosen."

"People rarely love who it is that we really want to love. We are a tragic species. I think it is biology tricking us into mating with who it believes will produce the most productive off-spring. But the individual is lost in the biological shuffle," said Samantha, her eyes glowing with the victory of accomplishment.

"It would also seem to explain celebrity worship," said Zachary.

"Celebrities make great ideal mates. When women say what I wouldn't give for one night with Brad Pitt, they aren't kidding – they really think their life would be perfect were that the case," said Samantha.

"But if they got with Brad Pitt \--."

"They would dream of George Clooney," said Samantha.

"Unbelievable Samantha this is a major breakthrough," said Zachary.

"Zachary I have to be straight-forward. This is also a breakthrough on a personal level," said Samantha.

"Oh, how is that?" Zachary asked.

At that point it had been three years since Zachary and Samantha had had an intimate relationship, the reason being that Samantha had been married for three years. But as she proceeded to explain to Zachary that Omar was the substitute and he was the desired partner he felt his civilized morals toward infidelity eroding. However from his understanding of her research he pointed out that "You really don't want me either, because if you had me you would just want someone else."

"Exactly, don't you see? Yes, I am with Omar. But I also know that I want you most of all. But I also know that if I had you then I would want someone else. So the only way to have you and to really keep you as the most special person in my life is to stay with Omar. If I were ever to leave Omar for you, then I would either replace you with someone else, or I would want to. In either case we would not be as happy as if I stay with Omar. You are the one for me Zachary, and you have always been the one for me. I love you. I love you so much," she said, intellectualized tears running down her cheeks.

It had been a beautiful moment for Zachary, as he instantly grasped her twisted logic, though almost as instantly he was suspicious that displacement theory had been some harebrained deception she had concocted to seduce him, and even to this day he wasn't sure. But it had worked and that night they had begun sleeping together again.

Displacement theory may have allayed Samantha's guilt and allowed her to sleep peacefully after rowdy sex, but for Zachary the whole affair still seemed sleazy and wrong, and so while she snoozed like an angel, he paced and pondered.

For one thing he felt that it was important to continue his professional studies with Trait Theory. Although Trait Theory had gotten him into this whole mess, he also believed it could improve the world. However, he had no funding to conduct research. Then again he also had to focus on Dunbar and Associates now that he was no longer a professor. He had bought a three thousand square foot home in Arlington for approximately half-a-million in 2007, and he would not be able to make his mortgage payments unless business at Dunbar and Associates increased substantially. He did have some savings, but without an increase in income, the bank account would quickly be emptied.

The hotel room felt cramped. After booting up his laptop, he attempted to clear his mind by surfing around the internet and eventually landed on Jasmine's blog. Her latest blog was titled: Trait Theory – Modern Day Eugenics? He swallowed hard. The interview had been a breeze – but had she decided to filet him on her blog?

Children of the blogosphere, for those of you who have had your head in the sand, or have better things to do than follow the news, Zachary Dunbar recently resigned from his professorship due to a botched research study in which one of the participants murdered his girlfriend.

For the record, the murder took place weeks after the study, and Zachary was exonerated of all wrong-doing.

But Zachary, being the good guy he is (or the University deciding to make it look like he is a good guy) accepted his resignation without a fuss.

So what was all this about?

Well, you can guess right away what it wasn't about.

Yes, the murder did not happen to a black girl because if it had there would have been no outrage.

The outrage occurred because a white girl died.

So what happened?

To quote Zachary Dunbar, "We were studying a jealousy trait. We don't think anything we did caused Mr. Capobianco to become more jealous."

Studying a jealousy trait? What exactly is a jealousy trait?

Again to quote Mr. Dunbar, "A jealousy trait is a trait that causes a person to become excessively jealous."

Okay, so that sounds simple enough.

But if there can be a trait for jealousy, what else can there be a trait for?

Zachary explains, "Pretty much everything..."

His explanation goes into some heavy science and statistical analysis, but his basic premise is that human behavior can be explained by traits which are both (1) not inherited and (2) inherited. His research has garnered national attention and important people (policy makers) are playing close attention to Trait Theory.

Here is my problem with it. It smacks of eugenics packaged in a different form.

And can anyone remember what eugenics was used for?

Yes, you in the back of the room...yes, it was used as an excuse for policy makers to implement racist policies – it was embraced by the Nazis even!

Eugenics, the idea that heredity decides what our traits will be, has already been shown to be scientifically unsound. Eugenics would say that a violent black child in the ghetto is not violent because he is a product of that ghetto environment, but rather because he has some defective genes inherited from his parents!

And as recently as the 90's white researchers have looked for a violence gene in children and used mostly black children from poor neighborhoods as their research subjects.

Okay, sure, so Trait Theory throws in some nuances that eugenics didn't have, for instance the trait has to be created in a time of high stress, but like I said Trait Theory is eugenics in different packaging.

Watch out, because if they start making policy based on Trait Theory it will be those poor and vulnerable folk who, like always, have the most to lose – regardless of What Bob Dylan said – because when you have nothing you do have something to lose...

Was this because she sent me some text I didn't reply to?

He checked his phone: nothing. Sighing, Zachary scanned the comments after the blog. There were 57 in total and a brief sampling convinced Zachary that they were not the friendly sort. One response read, "Zachary Dunbar = Dr. Mengele."

Although he felt his mental energy to be lagging, he knew had to respond. Therefore, he created a profile and logged into the site, creating his user name as Zachary Dunbar, writing:

"This is Zachary Dunbar. Jasmine you should have asked me about the eugenics comparison during the interview. I would have been glad to talk about it. This question is something that I often discuss with my colleagues. I will admit that at first glance that Trait Theory does bear a striking resemblance to eugenics. And I agree with you that eugenics is based on unsound science and has been completely discredited. What you are missing is that eugenics is all about heredity. A mother or father passes a trait onto their child. In this way if a parent makes a mistake a child could be stigmatized for life. And yes, eugenics can be used to implement racist policies. However, Trait Theory is not based on heredity. Yes, a parent passes on the trait – but not all traits, only traits caused by high stress situations – and what causes the high stress? The environment...so Trait Theory, to use your example, would say that if a child born in the ghetto had inherited traits from their parents they would have inherited those traits, not because of a defective heredity, but because of a defective environment...Trait Theory would place the blame primarily on the ghetto and not the child or parents. I hope this clears things up – but if not, that just gives us one more reason to meet for coffee..." 

### Chapter Four

Newton, MA: Ralph Thurmond played three sports -- fencing, water-polo, and golf -- and was captain of the debate team. He pomaded his hair with hair wax ordered online and imported from England at $100 a tube. As a sophomore at Newton High, he was one of only three students with dress shoes that crossed the thousand dollar threshold. His tweed debate suits had been imported from Italy, designed by a sixth generation tailor and fit the contours of his body with such precision that based on the manner in which the fabric rubbed against his shoulders he could judge if he had eaten a large or medium sized lunch. His father had bought him a Benz upon graduation from prep school, a Benz that he'd had to wait two years to drive and during which he had often peered at longingly in the family's six car garage. His parents mansion, tucked away with other mansions on an otherwise unassuming Newton Street, contained a three room suite which he had outfitted with various bachelor-themed amenities, such as a billiards-table, sea-water fish tanks, and plush seating. Family vacations were based on ski-lodgings and spanned the world. His passport looked like a stamp collection.

His life would be perfect, Ralph had decided, if only his jewel of a girlfriend, Tiffany, would start sleeping with him. Ralph was still a virgin. He'd tried to get her drunk on numerous occasions and take advantage of her drunken state, but she seemed to have some built in defensive mechanism no matter how drunk she became. On the verge of puking her brains out, she still managed to fend off his advances. Sometimes he wondered, "Just how drunk do I have to get Tiffany in order to fuck her?" Eventually he wondered this out loud to his friend Mark, another debate team member, who laughed at the irreverence of his friend and then stated, "You are going about this all wrong my good fellow. Cocaine is the answer."

"Are you kidding me? Tiffany would never put something up her nose. She is a health freak," said Ralph, glancing around the school library to make sure no gossips were listening. The statuesque tone of Tiffany's slim body had been accomplished through thousands of hours of yoga and Pilates, and her teeth were so white that their glare could be blinding.

"You have to use psychology. This is what you do my good-boy. I remember you telling me that she likes movies. Well girls love Johnny Depp. That is a fact. Watch that Johnny Depp movie 'Blow' and then at the end, say something like 'Well my dear I thought as a lark we would do some blow ourselves.' Her mind will be primed on the idea that doing blow is cool, because she just saw Mr. Depp do it. Then you two do it together and she will be all horny, cocaine is an aphrodisiac, problem solved," said Mark, then looking back down at his trigonometry book.

"Can you get me some?" Ralph asked, wondering if his friend was joking or serious about the whole affair.

"I know someone who can, yes," said Mark. "Give me about an hour."

"Why not ecstasy?" Ralph asked.

"Try that if the cocaine doesn't work," said Mark.

"Can you get me some of that too?" Ralph asked.

"Sure, just don't get her too fucked up. Sex with a passed-out girl is pretty pointless.

"Cocaine, ecstasy: seems, like a lot of drugs just to try to get laid," said Ralph.

"Humans adapt, that is what we do. It is an elementary rule of life," said Mark.

Arlington, MA: Ambition had drained from Zachary like color from an old egg fresco painting. It had been three days since he had shaved. His pajamas smelled like pre-made foods. It seemed a momentous event when he managed to get off the couch and do something, like clean a glass so he could pour a drink. The machinations of his mind had ground to a halt. He quite sincerely feared that he had nothing left to offer the world except failure. The thought of checking his email seemed as welcome as a visit to the dentist. At first he found himself reading books that he had long wanted to read, but as the absurdity of their thesis arguments became apparent he found himself hurling the books across the room. Television did not offer a respite. So-called adult educational programming seemed aimed at first graders; the rest was trash. He found himself staring at a blank television screen, a screen where he could barely make out his own grim reflection. It was as immobile as he had ever felt. He thought of the law of inertia: an object at rest will stay at rest until acted upon by an outside force. He needed some outside force to act on him, to motivate him, to give him a kick in the butt. And then as if Sir Isaac Newton himself were calling the phone rang. It was Samantha. They had finally had a job offer.

"What corporation?" Zachary asked.

"He wouldn't say. He was rather secretive about everything in fact. He seemed miffed that he hadn't been able to contact you via email and that when he called the company number he had to talk to me. He asked me for your phone number, but I told him that was unnecessary as I handled booking the initial appointment," said Samantha.

"Well, thank you. I've been a bit under the weather, and I haven't been checking my emails. But I'll read it later. What is his name? Is he human resources or what?" Zachary asked, sitting up on the couch that he had been sprawled out on for the last two hours.

"His name is Windsor Thurmond, and I don't know his department. He didn't say," said Samantha. "Oh, one more thing – he doesn't have an office \--."

"No office? What kind of business is this?" Zachary interrupted.

"Virtual maybe? So anyway I didn't think it would be a good idea to tell him that we don't have an office either. But since he said he could meet us I gave him the address for the café, but I didn't tell him it was a café," said Samantha, who of the three partners had been the most adamant about renting office space.

"I don't know if that was a good idea. I imagine he will be confused when he reaches a coffee shop," said Zachary.

"Well, I thought it best," said Samantha.

"We will work it out when he gets there. Or we could change the meeting to my house?" Zachary said.

"It has already been set. I see no reason to change it now," said Samantha, off-handedly adding that the meeting would take place in two hours. At first Zachary considered suggesting that they change the appointment to sometime tomorrow, but then he realized that even if he had been unable to shave and dress for the last few days, two hours was more than enough time for him to accomplish those rituals of normal living.

In fact, it took all of fifteen minutes. That left about one hour to check his email and research Windsor Thurmond. After weeding through his spam and other emails he found two from Windsor, the first read:

CC: Windsor5872@hotmail.com

To: ZacharyD@Harvard.edu

Dear Zachary Dunbar,

My name is Windsor Thurmond. I have lately been following your work with great interest. I currently find myself to be in what I choose to refer to as a peculiar dilemma, and I think that you may be able to help me find a solution. I am the chairperson of a very large family trust, a blind trust. I donate a considerable amount of the family fortune to various charities. There is a financial matter that I am currently entangled within which I believe could be resolved with the assistance of your company Dunbar and Associates. Unfortunately, due to the confidential nature of this work I cannot expound upon the matter here. If we could meet at your earliest convenience it would greatly put my mind at ease. I live in Boston, on Commonwealth Street, and we could meet there if appropriate and if not at your offices. I eagerly await your reply.

Sincerely,

Windsor Thurmond.

That email had arrived two days ago. The second he had received earlier in the day, probably around the time he was consuming a gallon of ice cream while transfixed by a squirrel trying to penetrate the defenses of a bird-feeder. It read:

CC: Windsor5872@hotmail.com

To: ZacharyD@Harvard.edu

Dear Zachary Dunbar,

I could not but help note that your reply has not been forthcoming. I can only assume that you must be very busy indeed, given the high caliber of research that you produce. You may have judged that the job for which I am attempting to procure your services is not befitting the work that you normally conduct. Such an assumption would be just that, an assumption, as I have not had a chance to present the job. Furthermore, I plan to pay you and your company handsomely for your services, as I consider this to be a quite important matter, and time is of the essence. Please do not hesitate to write with any questions, but I must repeat that I can only talk about the matter in the privacy of my home, or the privacy of your offices, as it is, I repeat again, quite confidential. Your discretion and efficiency in responding to this matter will be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

Windsor Thurmond.

The emails left Zachary wondering whether Windsor was familiar with the nature of Dunbar and Associates: the creation and implementation of highly specialized corporate personality assessments. However, Windsor had also mentioned Zachary's research. Therefore, he was at least familiar with Zachary's psychological research background. Zachary couldn't imagine why corporate hiring policy would be confidential, or why he would have mentioned that he made large donations to charities. Could the financial dilemma be concerned with choosing the most efficient charities? Zachary had heard a statistic that some charities kept up to 90% of donations for administrative costs. Also, there was the question of the effectiveness of the money that was used to do "good."

Perhaps Windsor wanted Zachary to use his experience in designing personality assessments to do something of the same nature for certain charities that he was involved with: that would not be impossible. Still, it would be outside the scope of his expertise. On the other hand, he needed the money and had time to perhaps become an expert on charitable giving if the assignment was lucrative enough.

He decided to google Windsor Thurmond: there were five hundred results, many of them duplicates. Most seemed related to charitable giving. From what Zachary could glean Windsor was a major player in the philanthropic world, giving tens of millions to various charities over the last thirty years: education, poverty, civil rights, and world hunger were the major themes. It seemed that Windsor had never actually held a job in a company other than his position as a chairperson of the blind trust, if that could be considered a job at all. Three other family members, Donald, Philip, and Charles, were also listed in the top "Thurmond" search results. Unlike Windsor, each had listed business ties.

After choosing an appropriate outfit, Zachary drove to the Alewife train station in Arlington and took the Redline. While sitting on the T and playing Sudoku on his phone he noticed a new text in his inbox. It was from Jasmine. She had made the first contact! It read: That was fun having you at the show...what about coffee...J.

He fumbled with his mini-keyboard as he wrote his reply: Yes, that was fun...You are very competent...Coffee would be swell. But then instead of sending the message, he saved it in his drafts folder, thinking the message too stuffy and decided that he would write a better, more hip, message later. Zachary exited at the Davis Square T stop and walked to the coffee shop, wondering: would I attempt to write a hip text if the recipient were a white potential date?

Ridiculously, Samantha and Omar stood outside under umbrellas waiting in the rain, and Zachary could read from the expression on Samantha's face that she regretted scheduling the meeting at a coffee shop.

"Omar, hello, it has been a while," said Zachary, shaking Omar's hand.

"Hello, my good friend," said Omar, offering Zachary part of his umbrella. "Do you have any idea what Windsor looks like?"

Before Zachary had a chance to answer Samantha said, "Okay so this was not well planned. I don't know what I was thinking. We always meet them, so -- I don't know -- this threw me off. The fact that he was coming to meet us threw me off. I made a mistake."

"Don't worry. I just looked at some pictures of him on the internet. I know what he looks like. He will stick out here. There aren't many people 70 plus at the coffee shop, right? In fact, I think he will be the only customer who is 70 plus. Actually, if you two want to go inside where it is dry I'll wait out here," said Zachary.

"I'm sorry, Zachary, this whole thing was a mess up. I don't even have his cell phone number to call him either," said Samantha, while Omar waved his head and laughed.

Zachary replied, "Don't worry about it, seriously. Oh, and by the way, I looked over the emails that you told me that he sent me. Apparently he really wants to work with us. He didn't say why exactly, or what exactly he needed us to do, but whatever it was he was confident that we could accomplish it."

"That is the gist of what he told me on the phone as well," said Samantha. "Ok, well we will take your offer to go sit inside. I am starting to soak. Again, sorry..."

Zachary laughed and began hopping up and down to stay warm. A smoker offered him a cigarette – why else would he be standing outside in the rain? Eventually Zachary spotted a taxicab dropping off an old man.

That looks like the guy...

Zachary approached and extended his hand, "Windsor?"

"Yes, Zachary?"

"Yes, hello, it is a pleasure to meet you," said Zachary.

"You as well, I have been looking forward to this meeting with no small amount of excitement and trepidation. Are your offices here above the coffee shop?" Windsor asked.

"Actually, Windsor, we don't have an office. The nature of our work really doesn't require it. When we, the partners, meet as a group we meet at this coffee shop, and when you told my partner that you don't have an office she thought that she would invite you to meet here too," said Zachary.

"Oh, I see. You young folk are very creative in your business dealings. However, this coffee shop will not work. The information I need to impart is highly confidential. Furthermore, my first order of business was to explain that before I can tell you anything that I need you to sign a non-disclosure form. I had been planning to inform you that I could send a lawyer to your office, or that we could take a trip to my lawyer's office. I wanted to tell you about the non-disclosure in person, before trying to shuttle you off to sign it," said Windsor.

"It is too rainy out here. Let me get my partners Samantha and Omar. They drove here and we can all take a ride to your lawyer's office," said Zachary.

"I would very much appreciate that Zachary, and that would be a good step in the right direction," said Windsor.

"Any step out of this rain is a step in the right direction," joked Zachary.

Windsor laughed.

A minute later Omar, Samantha, Zachary, and Windsor walked toward Samantha's car, which was parked only fifty feet away. Zachary explained to Omar and Samantha that they all had to sign non-disclosure forms. During the ride into the city Windsor regaled them with stories about growing up in Boston. He talked about the charities that not many people realized were housed in Boston, charities with a global reach. He also asked about their passions in life, and asked each of them what they would do with a million dollars to use in the betterment of someone else's life. Omar, Samantha, and Zachary, each tried to think of the noblest cause they could imagine, as their host was a philanthropic big-wig and they didn't want to disappoint.

After they had finished, Windsor said, "It is interesting that when I ask that hypothetical people never mention themselves. You all are a cause too. If there is one thing that I have learned over my years it is that you cannot help others until you have helped yourself. I don't mean being greedy, or surrounding yourself with material objects, but rather, having an understanding and a love for your own position in the world. It is from the perspective of love and caring that one can truly help others. So from this perspective perhaps you might need to use some of those hypothetical million dollars to get in touch with your own soul – to travel the world – to meet new people, and then you will be an even better philanthropist."

"Well, you would know," said Zachary. "You have spent a life time doing it. Have you ever thought of writing a book?"

"I have briefly. But certain circumstances prevent it, circumstances we will delve into once the forms have been signed," said Windsor, becoming quiet.

Samantha parked in a private parking spot that Windsor owned in Beacon Hill, and they walked one block to the lawyer's office: McGrubb and Partners. Windsor informed them that McGrubb had long since passed away, but that no one had changed the name, for fear, the joke ran, "That he would sue them from the grave," which apparently was a quite applicable joke if you'd ever had a run-in with McGrubb. The offices were housed in a three story brownstone. There were 20 associates and 5 partners.

They met with a partner, Louis Hoyt, on the third floor. He had wiry hair and beady eyes. Zachary watched him consume two cups of coffee during their brief meeting. He spoke so clearly that Zachary could imagine him working as a play by play sports announcer.

"...obviously Windsor and I have attorney client confidentiality. But that doesn't mean the old bugger wants to tell me everything about his life. I wouldn't want to tell an attorney everything about my life either. So I am not privy to the information that will be discussed in this conversation. What Windsor did do was to outline what he would be discussing in this sealed envelope. If what is discussed today is ever, at any point in time, mentioned to the press or anyone else for that matter, this envelope will be opened, and you, all three, will be sued to high-heaven. Understood?"

Zachary, Omar, and Samantha nodded their heads in the affirmative. They were told to carefully read the fine print before signing, which they all did. After the non-disclosure forms were signed, copied, and filed, Windsor asked to speak with Zachary "alone for a brief moment," and Omar, Samantha, and Louis all left the room.

"Yes?" Zachary asked.

"This window has a beautiful view of the city. I have many lawyers and I have found many beautiful views from their windows," said Windsor.

"It is a breath-taking view," said Zachary, standing by the window with Windsor.

"I must ask you to overlook and not judge too harshly what you may find to be the peculiarity of the conversation we will soon have," said Windsor.

"I will do my best, but judgments of peculiarity are not something usually under conscious control," Zachary noted.

"Omar, that is not a Caucasian sounding name," said Windsor.

"No, it is not," agreed Zachary.

"I have a, let us say condition, where it is difficult for me to tell the difference between races – is he—."

"African American?" Zachary said.

"Yes," said Windsor.

"Yes, he is," said Zachary.

"I suspected as much, and from more than just his name – it was his voice that gave him away, more resonant and deeper than is typical of a white, and also his scent, muskier, though I apologize I know it isn't proper for me to speak that way. I'm just rather nervous about the discussion we will soon have," said Windsor.

"I see," said Zachary, his analytical facilities on high-alert, though able to make no sense of this man as of yet.

"It would calm my nerves if it were only you and Samantha who were to come. The less people who hear of my situation the better," said Windsor.

"It is a small company, 3 partners only. He will have to hear what you are going to say. We work as a group," said Zachary.

"I have not been forthcoming. He has signed the confidentiality agreement, and later you can tell him everything I have said if you see fit, that is if you accept the assignment and you think he can add to it. However, it will be impossible to have him at the meeting, and it isn't for the reason that you might think. It isn't that I want to discriminate. It is that it will already be difficult enough to tell you what I have to without him there never mind with him there...This will all make sense after I tell you my story. If you could trust me and take my word up to that point I would very much appreciate it," said Windsor.

"This is a most unusual conversation we are having," said Zachary.

"I know Zachary, but honestly, this whole situation is most unusual. I'm the only person in the world I know who is like myself, and I can say the world is a better place for that, but please..."

"I will have to talk this over with my partners. We work as a team, and though I don't understand the nature of your reason for not including my black partner it does not sound good," said Zachary.

"I can assure you that it is not good, and for that I can apologize for I am truly sorry, but you will not understand until you hear my story. Please hear me out and give me a chance. You don't have to take the job, but give me a chance," said Windsor.

"I will talk it over with my associates immediately. Give me a minute," said Zachary.

"Thank you," said Windsor. "Oh, one more thing: I don't mean to pry. But Samantha and Omar seemed very close, are they a...?"

"A?" Zachary asked.

"A, you know..." said Windsor, starting to breath heavy.

"A couple? Yes, they are husband and wife," said Zachary, again attempting to analyze the situation. "Is something wrong?"

Windsor lurched forward and grasped onto to the edge of the oak table in the center of the room, looking as if he might empty the contents of his stomach onto the table. Moreover his entire body shook violently, as if he had just jumped into a pool of ice water. After a few moments his body steadied and the color returned to his face. Slowly, he stood back up and brushed at the edges of his mouth to remove any gathered spittle. Zachary at this point was holding onto his Windsor's shoulders, not sure if he should call for help, but as Windsor appeared to have recovered he decided to do nothing.

What was that about?

After taking a deep breath Windsor said, "I must apologize for the behavior of my body. Were this any other day I would not have asked you that question. However, given the nature of the information I am about to reveal I needed to ask it. Normally, I would ignore the subtle glances that I saw passing between Omar and Samantha. I would ignore the way I saw her tenderly grasp at his hand when we were walking on the sidewalk. I would ignore that they stood a little too close for the allocation of personal space in the elevator. I would ignore all that because I would not want to awaken from my dream."

"Windsor, I have no idea what you are talking about. Are you okay? Should I get help?" said Zachary.

"I've needed help my whole life. But no one can help me in the way I need to be helped. Yet, you can help me in another way. That is what we will soon talk about. However, it will be impossible to have Samantha here. She will take what I have to say too personally. She will have to leave with Omar," said Windsor, moving away from the window and sitting at the opposite end of the table in a black leather seat.

Zachary continued to stand, unsure how to proceed. On one hand, he needed more information from Windsor before he could talk to his associates; on the other, he did not wish to continue asking Windsor questions, as his answers were becoming increasingly veiled. Perhaps the best course of action would be to tell his associates that Windsor only wanted to talk to him, that he would fill them in later on the contents of the work, and then listen to what this strange old man had to say.

Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that Windsor wished to exclude Omar because he was an African-American and that he wished to exclude Samantha because she was married to an African- American. That was behavior, that as an enlightened member of society, he could not condone. That was bigotry, pure and simple.

But Windsor was a philanthropist. One, he suddenly remembered, who had given substantial sums of money to civil rights causes. No, there must be another explanation for all the mystery and Zachary told Windsor to give him a moment, that he would tell his associates to meet him later at the coffee shop or his house, and that he would return to listen to what he had to say.

"Your house would be better – as it is private," said Windsor.

Zachary nodded as a shiver ran down his spine. He wondered if that shiver were a manifestation of cognitive dissonance, believing himself not to be racist but fearing that he was about to commit a rationalized racist act by asking his associates to leave. However, in the hall, when he informed them that Windsor had developed "cold feet" and only wanted to speak to him for now, they professed to understand.

"And you will fill us in later?" Samantha asked as she and Omar entered the elevator.

"Of course, I will call you on my cell as soon as this is all over – perhaps in twenty minutes or so, I don't imagine we will be in there longer than that," said Zachary.

"Should we wait for you at the car?" Samantha asked.

"No, I'll find my own way home, and I don't want you to wait just in case it should be longer," said Zachary.

Omar and Samantha waved goodbye, and Zachary tried his best to make natural eye contact with Omar, though he often questioned his ability to feign expressions, suddenly needing to feign that he was neither a potential racist nor an adulterer, and then turned and made his way back into the meeting room.

"I hope you had a good reason for that," said Zachary, sitting in a black leather chair three spaces removed from Windsor. But Windsor did not answer, staring blankly and seeming lost in thought. Suddenly, a knock on the door broke Windsor from his reverie, and Louis entered and inquired if there was anything that Windsor needed. Windsor told him that there was nothing and asked not to be disturbed again until they had finished their meeting.

"I will place a sign on the outside of the door, telling no one to enter," said Louis.

"That would be fine," said Windsor. "Thank you and that will be all."

A large bird, perhaps a crane, flew parallel to the expanse of windows on the side of the room, a rare sighting of a large bird in the city, and Windsor wondered if it were some sort of omen, though he knew nothing about augury and laughed inwardly at his sudden irrational bout of superstition.

"In actuality you were the only one I really wanted to talk to, because it is Trait Theory that has caught my fascination. I've been following your research intently," said Windsor.

"Oh?" said Zachary.

"Yes, but I was unable to contact you through Harvard, as you have resigned. So I thought I would attempt to hire your services through your company, Dunbar and Associates," Windsor continued.

"Oh, is it as simple as that? That you asked my associates to leave because you wished to speak to me alone about Trait Theory?" Zachary asked.

"I'm afraid it isn't quite that simple," Windsor admitted, pointing at the tray in the center of the table. "Would you like a cup of coffee before I begin?"

Zachary shook his head no. "If you have been following my research, then you know why I resigned and what happened with Mr. Capobianco."

"An unfortunate incident on the path to progress," said Windsor.

"That is one way to put it," said Zachary. "My critics would put it other ways."

"No matter what we do in life we have critics. Do you know I have been criticized to high-heaven for the charities that I haven't chosen to give money to – what I call: failure by omission?" Windsor asked.

"No, I did not. But I suspected that you might want to use my psychological research to more effectively choose charities," said Zachary.

"An interesting idea, and I am sure that you are filled with interesting ideas, my young man, but that is not why I have asked to talk to you," said Windsor.

"Well, then what is it: speak," said Zachary. "My associates are awaiting the phone call for what this is all about."

"This cannot be rushed, I must ease my way into the speaking, as I have previously hinted, for the telling will be difficult," said Windsor.

"Should we get a masseuse in here to loosen you up? What can I do for you Windsor? It is just us. I have signed the form," said Zachary.

"I'm sorry, I have that feeling that I am sure we have both shared as young boys, standing on a diving board, about to be the first to jump into a pool and not sure how cold the water will be. I hear my friends behind me and they are saying 'Jump. Jump. Jump.' But the more they tell me to jump the more my body freezes and I do not move," said Windsor, not looking at Zachary and staring out the window.

"Is there some way for me to jump in first, and to lie to you about the temperature of the water, and to tell you how nice and warm it is here?" said Zachary with a smile, trying to establish a welcoming atmosphere.

"Very good, that was very good," said Windsor, becoming silent for approximately a minute, during which Zachary was not sure if he should attempt to break the silence.

However, Windsor turned away from the window and looked upon Zachary with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry but I am not going to be able to talk about this today. I hope I can in the future. Honesty, I still feel sick from shock, and I feel myself too weakened to embark upon my story. I hope you can forgive me. I'm sure I will regret this later, but physically I find myself unable to speak about difficult matters at this point in time."

"Omar and Samantha?" Zachary asked.

"Please let us speak of everything later. I feel ill," said Windsor.

"Should I get help?" said Zachary, standing and moving toward the old man.

"No, I will be fine in time. Leave me here please. An associate will bring me home. If you could leave your cell-phone number with the secretary that would be good, and on a future date if I get the courage I will call you," said Windsor, speaking softly.

The next day Windsor called, saying, "I must apologize for my peculiar behavior. However, if you can drive over at this moment, right now, I believe that I am in the right frame of mind to get this all off my chest."

Zachary had a planned lunch with an old friend, but he badly needed work. Before he had a chance to answer Windsor added, "And I don't mean to inconvenience you but if you can arrive in say the next half hour I think you will find me still in this frame of mind, which will allow our business to commence --."

Zachary interrupted and told Windsor that he would depart straightaway.

But if this odd duck cancels again I'm billing him for something...

Newton, MA: Perhaps Mark had been right. Tiffany sat spellbound by Johnny Depp as a charismatic drug-dealer. She held Mark tighter as the plot thickened and the cocaine empire began to collapse. He'd have to be as nonchalant as possible when he reached into his backpack and took out the baggy with the white powder, and ready to employ any debate techniques he could muster.

This is a very social and a harmless thing in small amounts, besides we just watched the movie...we have to...I went out on a limb for this stuff...Don't be a worry wart...

Or maybe he wouldn't have to say anything and she would just snort it without argument. That didn't seem likely though; she had even brought a snack of organic oranges and organic almonds up to his bedroom to keep her metabolism running at what her nutritionist had recommended as optimal efficiency, having bluntly explained earlier in the week, "It isn't what you think. People get fat from not eating because not eating causes your metabolism to slow down – snack, snack, snack..."

Supermodels do cocaine...

Boston, Commonwealth Street, Windsor Residence: Before Zachary had a chance to use the lion-shaped knocker, the door was opened. A servant introduced herself, told Zachary that she had been waiting by the window, and brought him up to the fourth story by means of a small elevator. Antique furniture and antique decorations filled the residence, though the fixtures were modern. On the fourth floor, the servant led Zachary to a large door at the end of a hall. Inside Windsor sat waiting, reading a book. Immediately upon Zachary's entrance, he put down the book and shook Zachary's hand. For a few minutes they exchanged pleasantries and then Zachary said, "Well, what's this all about?"

"Yes, let us waste no time," said Windsor, his face then growing serious.

Zachary took a good look at the room in which he was seated. There were books on shelves and boxes of books piled all around, a library with books coming and going.

"You are a scientist Zachary and I would like to do a little experiment with you. But first so as to completely lighten the mood I would like to offer you some of my finest wine," said Windsor.

Zachary accepted the glass.

"Before we start this experiment," said Zachary, "whatever it is, I meant to ask, you said you have a condition where you see black people as white people. This aroused my interest to say the least, and I followed up on it. From a psychological perspective I could find no instance of another case of this occurring. The closest psychological correlate that I could find is that people with Borderline Personality Disorder will engage in black and white thinking, which assumes that everything is one way or another, that there are no gray areas so to speak. But this theory does not refer to actual visual perception; it refers to the perception of ideas. So then I wondered if it might be a visual problem that you suffer from. Therefore, I spoke to an ophthalmologist friend of mine. He told me that the only visual problem he could think of was a disorder called Snowy Vision. This is where white specs are introduced to a black background, and black specs are introduced to a white background. He said this could cause you, in certain visual circumstances, to see black people as more white and white people as more black."

"Interesting, however, I see black people as completely white and white people as completely white. It was something, that through rigorous conditioning, I believe, that I may have been taught to do as a child," said Windsor.

"Really? This is quite fascinating, in what way?" Zachary asked.

"It is extremely difficult for me to think of, never mind relate. Therefore, I cannot and will not speak of it, now, or perhaps ever," said Windsor, drinking heavily from his glass.

An awkward conversational silence descended over the room.

"Well, what was the experiment then?" Zachary said, in what he hoped was a cheery voice.

Suddenly Windsor looked up, seeming surprised that he was not alone.

"Ah, yes. We were about to conduct an experiment. Zachary, I believe you can help me."

"Yes, you have told me that before," said Zachary.

"Come over here and sit by my side," said Windsor.

Zachary sat in a large leather seat to Windsor's left.

"Here take this stop-watch and take my pulse," said Windsor. "You can take it at my neck or wrist, either place, I don't mind."

Zachary placed two fingers upon Windsor's neck – cold \-- and counted.

"65, which if I remember is quite average for a sitting pulse rate," said Zachary.

"Zachary, my house is four stories. It is nine thousand square feet of living space. I have nine bedrooms and five bathrooms. There is a four car garage in the basement. There is a roof garden and a green house on the roof. I apologize that I did not give you a house tour but I thought it unnecessary. In any case, as you can see my living arrangements are spacious and therefore I have three housekeepers who help to assist me," said Windsor.

"You seem to be in quite good health but I am sure you can use the help," said Zachary.

"Here is the point Zachary: when first hired, I knew that all my housekeepers were not white, although they all appeared that way. You see my mind forms a construct for my black housekeeper Alexus, a construct so that I can cope with the very existence --."

"What do you mean cope with her very existence?" Zachary interrupted.

"I'll get around to that my good boy. But back to what I was just saying, occasionally there are blips in my system, and I have to turn away from her face, much in the way that we all must avoid staring at the sun. The difference is that staring at the sun causes blindness and for me knowingly staring at an actual black person causes a peculiar sickness, something akin to road rage or alcoholic fervor. "

"Okay, supposing this is all true, which I must admit I still have a hard time believing," said Zachary. "What was the point of taking your pulse just now?"

"It was this, good fellow. If I strain my mind, I mean really strain it, the way that you would probably have to strain your mind, to say, do a difficult math problem, I can perceive the blackness of the blacks. This became a necessary exercise as exemplified by the following episode: when I first started dating my wife, God rest her soul, I became paranoid that she might be a black. So when she lay asleep in bed, I would turn on the light, loom over her face and concentrate deeply on the whiteness I perceived. I asked myself was this woman really and truly a 100% white woman, or were there traces of blackness in her, or even was she completely black, I truly had no idea, so effective my mind is in turning black people to white people. One night, as I rubbed my fingers against my temples, and really tried to deconstruct any fabrications I may have created; she opened her eyes, and said, 'Windsor, why are you peering down at me? This is a most strange behavior from you who I love so deeply.' I immediately apologized and told her that I was considering buying her a hat and was trying to measure the size of her head. It was the only excuse I could think of on such short notice. But she, lovely dove she was, believed me completely, and swiftly fell back to her peaceful slumber," Windsor explained.

"Understood," said Zachary, qualifying, "I mean somewhat."

"Anyway, I realized that although perceiving blackness as whiteness allowed me to effectively function in the world --."

"What do you mean by that: effectively function?" Zachary again interrupted.

"Just that, function, like a normal human, but allow me to continue: I also needed to occasionally turn off my ability to see black people as white people, or to change from an auto-pilot to a manual mode if I may be allowed to make such a bumbling comparison, so as to make important life decisions, such as the selection of a mate. Therefore, I took it upon myself to develop such a skill. In the newspaper, I placed an advertisement for a dishwasher, and on the application I asked the applicant to declare their race. This was a stroke of brilliance, I must admit, as it was a direct way of identifying the race of all those who applied for the job. Eventually a black person applied, it was a black woman, and I hired her. Then I divulged to her the actual job responsibilities: that I wished her to sit in a chair, a comfortable one of course, so I could stare at her face for hours on end. She told me that she was not a prostitute. I assured her that there was nothing untoward about the proposal. I merely wished to stare at her face and never needed to touch her. She became quite surprised when she learned that it was to be a full-time job. And indeed most days I did stare for approximately eight hours. It was through this rigorous training of my mind, that I was able to break through the fabrication, and to see her blackness, at times that I chose. However, my reaction was always the same, as soon as I perceived her blackness I felt a combination of nausea and rage as if I simultaneously wanted to pummel her and throw up. Yet, now I had a skill I could use. When I turned this skill upon my fiancé, I learned that she was indeed white, and later we were happily married."

"Windsor, I have so many questions I don't even know where to start," said Zachary.

"Yes, I understand, but I believe this experiment will answer many of them. You have just taken my pulse and so we have a baseline measurement of 65. I will now ask my housekeeper Alexus to enter the room and sit for a moment. I will engage in small talk with her. But while I engage in small talk, I will use my skill to perceive her blackness. As we speak I wish you to measure my pulse, when I perceive her blackness, my pulse should spike dramatically," said Windsor, who then requested through a rotary styled phone that Alexus be sent to the library.

"Windsor this really isn't necessary," said Zachary.

"Is that so? Can you say that you believe all I have said?" said Windsor.

"It is difficult to believe I must admit," said Zachary.

"And so you think I am a loon. And that is how you are evaluating me. You are asking yourself what nut-house I should be sent to," said Windsor.

"No, that is not true," Zachary said feebly.

"That is okay. By this experiment I mean to show by demonstration what your mind so obviously has difficulty accepting," said Windsor.

Moments later there was a knock. Alexus entered and Zachary saw a pretty and petite black woman. He wondered what Windsor saw.

A pink elephant maybe?

Windsor instructed Alexus to sit and told her that they had been discussing the presidential race and were curious for her opinion. As she spoke about the virtues of Obama as compared to Hillary Clinton, Zachary held Windsor's wrist and measured his pulse. At first it remained steady, approximately 65 beats per minute. But two minutes into the conversation it began to rapidly increase, and Zachary began to fear for Windsor's safety, observing that Windsor's heart was beating much too rapidly for proper health.

Therefore, he released Windsor's hand and said, "From what this young lady has already said I think she has proved your point that Obama is the better choice. Thank You."

Gathering that she was no longer needed for the discussion, Alexus rose and excused herself from the room.

As soon as she exited, Zachary exclaimed, "That was remarkable! I can't believe what I just witnessed, though I have no way of definitively knowing that the cause was as you have described, your pulse increased substantially while you were speaking to your housekeeper."

"What you could not observe was the dark side to all of this. Yes, when I perceive blackness as blackness my heart beats faster, but as I have mentioned I also enter a sort of nauseous rage state. Those two conflicting characteristics are important, nausea and rage, because on the one hand I wanted to do my housekeeper harm, but on the other hand I wanted to leave the room and throw up," said Windsor.

"So that is it then, you are a racist?" asked Zachary.

"Yes, but there is much more to it than that," said Windsor.

"Continue," said Zachary, still trying to gauge what this could all mean.

"It is hard to explain, but when I realize that someone is black and not white, which is not often, though as I have mentioned blips do occur, I want to do them harm. My mind tells me not to, so of course I do not, but the overpowering urge is still there. I think it is part of the reason that I haven't had children. I wondered: would my children be like me? My wife, God rest her soul, would never have believed me had I told her. She never understood why I would never have children, poor woman. I wanted to adopt and she wouldn't stand for it. So we remained childless...On the surface, I am a philanthropist. I give millions to charity every year. But in my sleep I see visions of blacks dead and black blood, and when I awake those visions are still there, and I want to taste what I have dreamt. I want to taste the blood. I want to taste the death. Do you know what it is to want to taste a black man's death? I mean taste it. Really taste it?" Windsor asked.

Zachary shook his head no.

"It is with great effort that I have remained a moral man. I continually lie to everyone, myself included, saying that my life has been easy, but it hasn't. There is a bloodlust in my bones that I just can't shake. I've contained it for 77 years, and I have no doubt I will contain it until I die. But it hasn't been easy, not one bit. Every day that I don't act on my desire is a day that I suffer," said Windsor.

Zachary wasn't sure what to say and remained silent.

Windsor continued, "Often I dream that I am a plantation owner with a farm full of strong-bodied African slaves. They are fresh off the boat and confused. They wonder: what will I do here? What is my purpose? I talk to them with a translator. I tell them, 'I am your God and you will die by my whip.' And then I whip them to death and then I lap up their blood. I lap it up with my dogs. I lap it up until I can lap no more. And then I awake. And then I am refreshed and alive with the taste of their black blood on my lips..."

Newton, MA: Ralph sat alone, sighing and stunned by his failure to persuade Tiffany to engage in a bout of drug induced depravation. Not only that, she had become furious when he had suggested it. She had flown from the room in a fit and demanded that they end their three month relationship. The whole plan had backfired terribly. He stared at the two lines of cocaine that he had carefully measured out, as instructed on the internet. He stared at the two pills of ecstasy that he had taken from his pocket and placed on his coffee table. Completely on impulse, he snorted the coke and swallowed an ecstasy pill.

She won't stop me from having a good time...

Boston, Commonwealth Street, Windsor Residence: It had been shocking for Zachary to hear that Windsor was physically unable to see black people, but now, as he admitted that he wanted to lap their blood, it all became too much. Zachary started to think of his own safety. What if Windsor mistakenly perceived him as a black man? He glanced around the room for exits. He started to think of excuses so that he could leave...

"I hope what I have been saying hasn't been troubling you," said Windsor.

"I must admit that these are troubling words," said Zachary.

"Although now I am sure you understand why I did not want your associate Omar to hear what I had to say," said Windsor. "It would have been difficult for him to remain unbiased in his view of me, given his state as a black person."

"That is an understatement. I am sure," said Zachary.

"Can I continue?" said Windsor.

"Yes, but I must admit that I am curious as to where this is all going, as I have just remembered that I have a dinner engagement with a partner and will soon have to leave," said Zachary, trying to sound convincing.

"Subterfuge is not necessary. I can see I have made you uncomfortable. But all I can do is speak the truth. All I can do is to be honest," said Windsor.

After a short pause in which Zachary considered his options, he instructed Windsor to continue.

"My story takes a dark turn at this point I must warn you, and I also must remind you of the confidentiality agreement," said Windsor.

"I remember it, and I am a man of my word," said Zachary.

"I know you are. From your research I can see that you are a man of high-principles," said Windsor. Zachary thought it odd to hear himself praised from a man who had only moments before admitted a wish to lap up the spilled blood of a black man. Still he nodded and tried to look thankful for the praise.

Windsor, perhaps becoming aware of the incongruity between his praise and the nature of his story, looked momentarily embarrassed, and said, "I am sorry. I have spoken to you from behind the cloak that I so often slip on to deal with matters of the world. Allow me to continue."

Zachary nodded again.

Windsor drew a deep breath and gulped his wine. "My newfound skill at discerning blackness allowed me to more completely function in the world and, as mentioned before, allowed the completion of important life decisions. However, there was also a drawback. The fact that I could peer through the constructed white and see the real black, meant that my desires were heavily aroused and were only contained with great effort. Now I will admit to you a strange fact. I spoke to you of my dreams of black people, how in those dreams I essentially ate them. It is strange that when I picture a black person in my head, I do not experience the rage or the nausea, it is only a desire, a sweet longing, to tear into their flesh as if I were a cannibal. I also imagine myself salting their flesh, peppering their flesh, and cooking their flesh with other foods. In any case, it is when I am presented with an actual black person that I get sick and I get mad. However, if I remain in the presence of that black person, and I continue to perceive them as black, the rage and nausea subsides, and it is replaced by that same longing that I experience in dreams. In short, I am calm. And the thought of digesting their flesh is a thought that brings me much pleasure and contentment --."

"This isn't the point that you are going to tell me that you have eaten black people, or that there are black people all around this room chopped up in boxes or anything like that is it?" Zachary asked, realizing that he was the one for whom the pulse rate had now increased.

"Zachary, I swear to you on my wife's grave, God rest her soul, that I have never harmed one hair on any black person's head. In fact, I have donated millions to civil rights causes," said Windsor.

"Then what is this all about? What do you want me to do for you?" Zachary asked, growing restless.

"It will all be clear in a moment my good fellow," said Windsor, and glancing at Zachary's empty glass, added, "Would you like more?"

Reluctantly, Zachary nodded his head in the affirmative, and hoped that the wine hadn't been spiked with anything meant to knock him out or kill him: dreams of violence, but nothing he has stated causes me to think that he will act on those thoughts...still, I must be careful...

"So now I am left with this ability to better function in the world, but simultaneously my desire to do harm has increased exponentially. I'm a newly married man. I am a philanthropist. On the surface, my world is perfect. I'm written about in the society pages of whatever city I travel to. My wife is photogenic and we make a dashing couple. With her I make new friends. We travel the world. We are great conversationalists. But always, always, no matter what is currently happening, whether it be a conversation, a bull fight, a great feast, a movie, a sailing adventure, a game of cribbage, sex, anything, there is always a second strand of thought running through my head, and this second strand of thinking says one thing over and over again: Windsor, you must capture a black and you must eat that black's flesh. I can't express to you the insanity that this caused me to feel \--."

"Why didn't you go for help?" Zachary asked.

"I did and still do. Psychoanalysists, psychiatrists, psychologists, I am quite familiar with the kind. They, as you have, signed confidentiality agreements, even though they are already bound by ethics to stay confidential unless I planned at that moment to murder someone, which I always tell them to not be the case, but at times it has been a fine line, a fine fine line my boy. But through great restraint I have kept my hands clean. However, there was one occasion when I did go beyond a line of sorts --."

"I don't know if I want to hear this," said Zachary, crossing his arms tightly.

"This affair has since been rectified. But the facts are this, and I merely tell you them so as to better illuminate my current situation: Not eating the flesh of a black became a burden too great to bear. My wife noticed that I had began to consume an all meat diet. I feasted on bacon, pork, beef -- any red meat. But their substance was like water to an alcoholic. The meat ran thin through my veins. I needed to consummate my desires or I felt that I would internally combust. And so I made a decision. I would construct a small room in which to imprison a black. Then I would eat that black person from head to toe. To think of it brings me pleasure still, I am sad to say \--."

"Windsor I must warn you that if you tell me you have murdered someone I will be bound to report you, and the confidentiality agreement will be of no use to you," said Zachary, worried that if Windsor admitted too much, he might try to kill him there where he sat.

He could have a gun stashed about this place anywhere...

Zachary knew of a condition, Projection Syndrome, whereby psychotics confessed their faults and then projected those faults onto the person that they had, only moments before, provided a confession. In which case, if Windsor were to admit that he were a murderer and then project that admission onto Zachary, he might imagine himself a hero for killing Zachary.

Yet strangely he does not seem insane...sociopath? It is all up in the air...

"My good fellow I must insist that nothing of the kind has happened. I did no violence. However, I did build a new home for the sole purpose of including a hidden room in which to imprison a black. After this home was built, I spent many weeks perfecting that room. Mostly, I just painted it over and over, until I got the color just right. I wanted it to be the color of hope and yet the color of death, and that color was not apparent until I had tried many different shades. Speaking of it now, I clearly see those actions as not belonging to those of a sane man. But I was caught up in a lust for blood of proportions that had been hitherto unknown to me, and so the desire to get the color just right before the capture, seemed natural. It also has occurred to me that part of my brain may have been procrastinating – that is the part of my brain, albeit a small part, that did not want to commit the act. In any case, a black was procured. I will not tell you the means. I will not tell you the method. But a black was procured \--."

"Windsor, this is quite illegal!"

"The matter has been rectified, I swear to you! Allow me to continue, and you will understand all," said Windsor, in a brisk tone. It was the first time Zachary had observed even a hint of violence and he noted it carefully.

"She was a girl. Later, I will furnish you her name if you so desire, because making contact with her is completely appropriate for you to do. You may wish to verify that my story is true, or you may wish to hear her side of the story. That is fine by me, so long as you stick to our aforementioned confidentiality agreement – but I have already mentioned that as a man of great character and honor you should find no difficulty in doing so," said Windsor, and then waited for Zachary to reply.

Zachary merely nodded his head in affirmation, and so Windsor continued, "And there she was on one side of the bars. And there I was on the other. To stand there and imagine myself devouring each inch of her body brought me indescribable pleasure. To imagine it now, still brings a tingle of pleasure all about my skin. But I continued with my affairs of the world. And yet, for the first time in my life I was truly a happy and contented man. The desire to eat a black had always kept me in a perpetual state of frustration. But now with one so close at hand I could imagine the act and my desire seemed fulfilled. Her terror was substantial. I considered the act as good as done. How could there be any possibility of releasing her?"

Zachary nodded.

I hope he didn't just think I agreed that he should not release her?

Then why did you nod?

Because this man frightens you...

"Predictably, she begged for release at all moments. I goaded her on. I loved to hear that desire to be free for it only increased the imagined pleasure of what I believed would be my future feast. However, all the days she was so imprisoned I fed her well, and I never touched her. I provided her with reading materials, and there was a television for her to watch. I imagined a shot to the head to be the most humane way to end her life," said Windsor, ceasing his story to sip at his red wine. Zachary saw that sip as comparable to a sip of blood, and a cold breeze ran upon his body.

"Yet, something changed inside me. A quiet voice, the voice of my mother in fact, told me that this act could not occur. I became violently ill. I had a fever over 100 for two weeks. Obviously, I couldn't send anyone down to feed her. It had to be me. Sickly, and almost dying, I fed her daily. She saw my pain. She sensed my conflict. When I recovered I no longer wished to eat this girl. That is a lie. I still very much wished to eat her, but not nearly as much. Or rather, the small part of me that did not want to eat her had grown large enough to whisper in my brain, to say, don't do this. But I saw no way out of the matter now. I would go to jail. My life would be over."

"So what did you do?" Zachary asked, suddenly curious about Windsor's solution, considering he had sworn to have never committed a murder.

"Quite plainly I spoke to her about it. Her name, which I will reveal now, is --."

"I don't know if I want to hear this," said Zachary.

"It is okay. She lives in the area. She is a happy woman with a family. Dare I say it: we are even friends," said Windsor.

"Okay, tell me," said Zachary, though as doubtful about this situation as Windsor's claimed colorblindness.

"Her name is Shanice Cook. She lives in Quincy. She is a grandmother now," said Windsor.

"How long was she imprisoned?" Zachary asked.

"Six months," said Windsor. "And I can say with complete candor those were the six best months of my life. But I knew it couldn't last."

"So what happened? Why aren't you in jail?" Zachary asked.

"The details are of no consequence. You can talk to her about it if you would like. I can furnish you with her address and phone number. I could even call her and tell her that you are planning on stopping by. The point is that I came very close to acting on my ultimate desire. It was only by a combination of luck and my strong will that I was stopped. I came within a breath of committing a horrific act," said Windsor, and then added. "And one that would have pleased me immeasurably."

"It sounds like you regret your decision to let her go," said Zachary.

"No, it was the best decision of my life. It allowed my life to continue. It is true that in my mind I fantasize constantly about eating black flesh, but through years of therapy, I've come to the conclusion that the actual act would not be pleasurable. It is the dream of the consumption of black flesh that brings me pleasure, not the reality."

"You just said that eating her would have brought you immeasurable pleasure," said Zachary.

"I apologize, that was me dreaming in the present tense. You see I never can escape it," said Windsor, with a slight grin.

"So you don't believe you are a danger to society?" Zachary asked.

"For most of my life yes, I was a horrible danger. If I had been an impartial observer of a person exactly like me I would have recommended that they be locked up forever. But now, after decades of therapy, I have learned to come to terms with desires that cannot be condoned in a civilized world. I have learned to dream and not to act. Believe me Zachary, I realize how lucky I am, and the potential victims too. Apparently I should have been a serial killer. But I had access to the best health care that money can buy. All my therapists had Ivy League educations. And if the urge to eat a particular person ever became too strong I could just take a vacation. Your average serial killer doesn't get that opportunity, the opportunity to slip away from their prey and take a breather by sipping on martinis in the Bahamas or parasailing in the Mediterranean. Also, I could sublimate my desires through all my community appearances and social events. If my life had been dreary, if I had been, say, a factory worker, I am sure that I would have killed with impunity," said Windsor.

"Okay, so somehow your story had a happy ending. You freed the girl and miraculously did not go to jail. You have never acted on your desires to kill multiple people and eat their flesh. I can't believe I am going to say this, but I am already sitting here and I've listened to all this, so I guess I must ask, as absurd as it sounds to me: How does this relate to your job offer for Dunbar and Associates?" Zachary said, the start of a headache descending over the lower part of his skull.

Samantha is going to think I am the crazy one...Why the hell didn't I record this?

Newton, MA: Ralph's thoughts were racing and the steering wheel felt like silk. The stars in the sky seemed to be communicating and moved like flocking birds. The music from his radio had never sounded so clear, and though he knew that driving while intoxicated was a risk, he believed himself in better control of his car than on a normal day, when his senses were not heightened, and when his peripheral vision was not so magnificently increased. It felt good to touch his body. It felt good to touch anything. He needed a girl with whom to share the experience. Tiffany had hung up on him four times and now her phone was turned off. There were no other prospects at school.

Calling for an escort had obviously been the logical thing to do. Right now all his decisions made perfect sense and were 100% correct; he knew that for certain. Asking for a petite blonde had also been the right choice. His GPS informed him in a robotic voice that had never sounded so sensual that he only had 3 miles until his destination, the blonde.

Why can't life always be like this?

Everything was enjoyable, such as licking his lips, rubbing his toes together, smelling the scent of his car, or looking at the pretty red and blue lights trailing him.

That's a cop...fuck...

Boston, Commonwealth Street, Windsor Residence: Windsor shuffled through papers on his desk. Finding what he had been searching for, he handed a pile of magazines to Zachary.

"Do you recognize them?" Windsor asked.

"Of course, this is every magazine in which I have ever published research," said Zachary, handing the stack back.

"I am not a scientist, but science does interest me. And nothing has caught my attention so much as Trait Theory research," said Windsor.

"Yes, I remember you mentioned that you were interested in Trait Theory at the lawyer's office. How can I help you?" Zachary asked, though thinking that he probably would not, in actuality, help this man, in any manner.

"My interest in Trait Theory is this: For reasons of sanity, it is impossible for me to think of my childhood. Fortunately, I am able to naturally block it out, much like I naturally block out a black man or a black woman's face. However, unlike black people, where I have through intensive practice taught myself to willfully see through my fabrications; I have never tried to do this with my childhood. It was, in fact, the last piece of advice my mother gave me. With her dying breath she literally whispered into my ear, 'Do not look back.' Therefore, I choose to remain ignorant about the particulars of my formative years \--."

"So you are saying that you don't remember any of your childhood till when, 3 years of age?" Zachary asked.

"Until age 5," said Windsor.

"Impossible," said Zachary, finally ready to call Windsor's bluff on something.

"Then you aren't up to date on your psychological research. I can cite you at least five references for such occurrences," said Windsor.

Zachary considered the claim. He did think he remembered reading studies mentioning something of the sort. "Well, if such memory repression has occurred, I imagine it would have been through the imposition of considerably traumatic events."

"So, as I said, my childhood does not exist, which is to my advantage – the absence of this memory allows me to function in the world, much like turning black faces to white faces allows me to function, and so I attend my charities, and so I give my speeches on the possible eradication of polio from the globe and so on and so forth. There are no family albums at which I can gaze. My mother burned them all. Yet I have this one picture," said Windsor, handing Zachary a framed photograph. A broad-shouldered man and a beautiful woman stood in front of five children, all boys, and all wearing suits; in the background, a fire place, one with a gargantuan hearth, perhaps at a skiing resort, and no one was smiling.

"Where are you?" Zachary asked.

"Second from the left," said Windsor. "The others are my brothers, Donald, Phillip, Henry, and Charles."

"Where was this taken?" Zachary asked.

"In the alpines I believe. That is my first memory," said Windsor.

"This picture?" said Zachary.

"Yes, I remember the flash of the camera bulb quite clearly, as if I were a newborn staring up at hospital lights. This picture is also the last time I saw my brothers, though not the last time I saw my father or mother," said Zachary.

"Why didn't you see your brothers again?"

"When my mother and my father divorced, she got me, and he got my brothers," said Windsor.

"That does not seem very equitable," said Zachary. "But why wouldn't you have seen your brothers?"

"My mother wouldn't allow it. It was part of the divorce condition. I don't want to get into the details. But you will have to take my word that I never saw my brothers again," said Windsor.

"Have they tried to contact you?" asked Zachary.

"Yes, many times," said Windsor.

"And?" Zachary asked.

"And I have followed my mother's advice always: I do not look back," said Windsor, placing the photograph back on his desk.

"And your father? The picture was not the last time you saw him?" Zachary asked.

"That is more complicated. I don't wish to delve into the details. He also, per the divorce agreement, should not have contacted me. However, my mother allowed it from age 5 to 7. Suffice to say, my father was the holder of a knowledge that did me considerable good. Without his help I would have quite likely died," said Windsor.

"Can you elaborate?" Zachary asked.

Windsor sighed and drank more of his wine.

"I cannot," said Windsor. "And please, do not ask me again."

A creaking, perhaps floorboards, sounded from beyond the door.

"Did you hear that?" Windsor asked.

"Hear what?"

Windsor rose from his chair more swiftly than Zachary would have guessed the old man capable, and opened the door. No one was in the hall.

"I think someone has been listening. It is of no matter. But let us retire deeper into my chambers," said Windsor.

The proposal sent a shiver down Zachary's spine, who felt content where he was, sitting beside an exit.

Windsor made his way through the room. Zachary remained sitting. At the far end of the room Windsor fiddled with a grandfather clock. It swung from the wall, hinged, and revealed a hidden room.

"This will offer more privacy," said Windsor.

Zachary considered making a witty quip about cannibalism. However, he did not wish to introduce humor to the situation, fearing it would make him an easier target.

"I'm fine where I am," said Zachary.

"Would I have told you any of those things if I planned to do you harm?" Windsor asked.

"Perhaps, reverse psychology," said Zachary.

"Please, all that remains is for me to detail the job offer. It will take but a minute. Please," said Windsor, laying open the palm of his hand and gesturing toward the room. Zachary thought of a biblical phrase learned as a child.

And he was led as a lamb to the slaughter. And as a sheep is silent before the shearers, he did not open his mouth.

Zachary believed it unlikely that Windsor would invite him into his home, introduce him to his house-servant, and then do him harm. But what was that Poe story, The Cask of Amontillado? Hadn't Fortunato been lured ever deeper by appealing to his ego, his knowledge of wine? Then he was buried alive, behind a brick wall.

Has Windsor been appealing to my ego with Trait Theory?

However, up to this point Windsor had done nothing to intimate a violent proclivity towards Zachary. Furthermore, he genuinely seemed to want Zachary's help.

Although Montresor had genuinely seemed to want Fortunato's help too.

In any case, Zachary dispensed with the Poe analogies, and entered the room.

Although the door had been disguised as a grandfather clock, the room itself was not hidden, as the far wall contained many windows, windows which offered a view of the lighted Boston skyline. In the center of the room two white sofas faced each other and between them ran a bear rug, complete with a head and snarling teeth. Upon the rug was a black coffee table and upon the table more bottles of wine.

Follow me, Fortunato...

Zachary and Windsor sat on opposite couches, and Windsor immediately uncorked a previously opened bottle.

I'll wait for him to drink first.

Windsor poured generously and immediately gulped half his glass. Zachary followed, though drinking less.

"What do you know about my brothers?" Windsor asked, red wine about his lips like a trail of blood.

"Only what I could learn on the internet, that they hold prestigious jobs. I forget their names and exactly what it is that they do. Although I do remember that two of them were involved in finance, which I found interesting because at Dunbar and Associates, we do consulting. That is our bread and butter, so to speak," said Zachary.

"I'm going to repeat my question: what do you know about my brothers?" said Windsor, with an eerie grin.

"I don't follow you," said Zachary.

"Trait Theory my good fellow," said Windsor, staring expectantly.

"I still don't follow," said Zachary.

"Do I have to spell out your theory for you? Very well --."

"Okay, I see where you are going with this. You are saying that because I know something about you now, and your traits, then it could logically follow that I know something about your brother's traits as well, given that you have the same mother and father, and given that you very likely inherited some common traits," said Zachary.

"Precisely! Bravo!" said Windsor, with a clap. "So then what might you know about my brothers, brothers who I do not know at all?"

"Well according to Trait Theory, which I must remind you has not been proven definitively and is still in the initial research phase, if your parents, or even either parent was racist, and that racist trait was brought about for them by a stressful event, then it could be that they passed that trait, racism, onto all four brothers with a probability of between 45 and 95 percent, depending if one or two parents were so afflicted," said Zachary.

"That's it? Just racism?" Windsor asked.

Zachary could sense that Windsor would not be offended by strong words, and so he added, "Well, not to mince words, cannibalistic-murderous-racism."

"To put it another way, my brothers could be a pretty sorry lot. I don't doubt it Zachary. Let me ask you this: you know that I become enraged when I see a black person and that later when the rage subsides I want to eat them. You know that I have never eaten a black person. You know that I cannot remember my childhood until age five. What does all this information, according to Trait Theory, tell you about me?"

This was a question that Zachary had been considering during the entirety of their meeting, and so he had an answer somewhat prepared, saying, "It is unlikely for a trait as strong as cannibalistic-murderous-racism to spontaneously occur in a person. Furthermore, what has become a stressful event for you -- viewing black flesh – should not in actuality be a stressful event at all. Yet this event, this stimulus, causes the desire to do harm. I believe considerably traumatic events must have occurred to you during your formative years to such a degree that even just viewing black flesh has become stressful. These events were also probably events that occurred to your parents in a similar way, thus perpetuating the trait: cannibalistic-murderous-racism. But there is a caveat: the reliability of the information I have received, or rather, have you told me any lies?"

"I would readily submit myself to a polygraph. But I know that you know that a polygraph is not reliable and that they can be beat. All I can do is to provide you with information, such as the phone number of Shanice Cook, so that you can check up on what I have said," said Windsor.

"But what then is the job?" Zachary asked.

"My position in the world, as chairperson of a blind trust, a trust instructed to donate generously to charities allows me to do much good. Although I have followed my mother's advice, or rather her survival strategy for me, and have never contacted my family, I still have often thought of them in the present and future tense. The problem with meeting them is that it would invariably lead me to the past, and that is something I must avoid at all costs. Still sometimes I wondered about my brothers and wondered how happy they were in their jobs, or in their marriages, or anything. But then I started to read your research, and I grew concerned, because of details I did not wish to discuss, that my brothers could be just like me. However, through your research it also seemed possible to me that some of my relatives have not inherited the trait you have so accurately labeled cannibalistic-murderous-racism. The stressful stimulus would not be there for them all \--."

"Black flesh is everywhere," interrupted Zachary.

"That is not the stimulus I speak of," said Windsor.

"What then?"

"I do not wish to speak of it," said Windsor.

"I cannot help you if you are not frank with me," said Zachary. "You keep withholding information."

"I withhold information for the sake of my own sanity!" Windsor exclaimed, suddenly rising from the sofa and seeming to grow in size, as if his tweed suit jacket had been shielding from view a massive chest and hulking shoulders.

This man is a beast...

With closed eyes Windsor held his wine glass in front of him, snapping it into shards by the strength of one hand alone. Holding out his hand, he examined it, finding it to be covered in wine but free of blood. There were no cuts. Windsor then walked toward the windows, and used a box of tissues which lay on the window sill to clean his reddened hand.

Zachary remained seated, not sure what to say. With his back to Zachary, and while still looking out the window, Windsor said in an unsteady voice, "I understand that you are a psychologist, so it feels natural for you to want to know all you can about me. That is what you have been trained to do. But I have already told you that I have an army of therapists who help me to get through the days. Normally, it is in my therapist's presence that I am able to throw my temper tantrums, or cry, or release emotions in whatever way benefits me. But this is not therapy, and I am not interested in your prowess as a therapist, I am interested in your ability as a researcher, specifically, Trait Theory. Therefore, I must insist that you stop prodding me for details that I would never even divulge to a therapist. There are some things that should remain covered in the mind, for the sake of sanity; I am sure you can understand, seeing that you are a professional."

Zachary had to admit the truth of Windsor's words: Zachary was not Windsor's therapist, and if events had been so traumatic in Windsor's youth that their mere suggestion could instigate an emotional outburst such as the one-handed shattering of a wine glass, talking about those events now, without a plan for how to deal with those memories could be dangerous for Windsor's mental health, and it could also be an ethical breach on Zachary's part.

"I understand. But you have obviously been giving me all this information so that I can connect it to Trait Theory in some way, so what is the connection that you wish to find?" Zachary asked.

Windsor smiled, his rage seeming to have subsided as rapidly as it had appeared, and he sat in a leather chair by the window, again facing Zachary.

"It is this: I am an old man who will in all probability soon die. I have expressed that it is not possible for me to contact my family. However, I still feel very much connected to them. I have no children of my own. Each of my three brothers has children and grandchildren. I would like to find a single heir upon whom to bestow my considerable fortune. And I want that heir-apparent to be nothinglike me."

"You want to find someone to whom the family traits have not been passed along?" Zachary asked.

"Particularly that trait we have been speaking about. It is also important to me that the donation follow the normal customs of an inheritance. There are three branches, and from those three branches or rather the three brothers, there are three generations of my family to choose from. I want you to find from among them those who lack this trait, so that I can order them by generation and current age. In that manner I can make a proper bestowal, a bestowal that is fair," said Windsor.

"And how would I go about doing this?" Zachary asked.

"Through research my good fellow," said Windsor. "I know that you have resigned from your post at Harvard, so you have time on your hands. Also, I will provide you with all the funds you need."

"I've put Trait Theory research on the shelf for the moment," said Zachary.

"Think about it: I am giving you a chance to investigate a once in a lifetime trait. This could get you your reputation back within the academic circles and I will pay you handsomely," said Windsor.

Zachary could care less about the academic circles, but the continuation of Trait Theory research could be useful for the betterment of humankind. Then, somewhat less magnanimously, Zachary thought about the still-unopened mortgage bill on this counter: a three grand bill, the monthly payment for his half-million-dollar home in Arlington. Thus far he'd paid 1/3 of the total principle of the mortgage. If he were to go under now, it would be a devastating loss. The home was for sale, but as of yet the Realtor hadn't been able to drum up any interest.

"What terms are you offering?" Zachary asked.

"I'll pay you $6000 per week directly, and your firm $3000 per week, plus all incidental expenses, research expenditures, travel, food, lodging and so on and so forth. You will receive this money for as long as the work continues. But I want this to be your only work. You must work on it full-time," said Windsor.

"That is very generous," said Zachary.

"My means are nearly limitless, and no work is more important to me than the completion of this project. I must find an appropriate heir-apparent so that my good works can continue," said Windsor.

"How would I go about conducting this research if you don't contact the family?" Zachary asked.

"As I said, they often attempt to contact me. Usually I don't open their mail. But sometimes curiosity gets the better of me. Most of the time it is a Christmas card or a birthday card for me, or something of the sort. However, about a year ago I received an envelope that will be of great use to this project – it is back in the other room on my desk – a family tree," said Windsor.

Zachary nodded.

"My idea is to draw up a letter to my family. In the letter I will explain that I am searching for an heir-apparent. I will state that I am looking for a single heir who is endowed with certain qualities that only scientific research can prove, and that those who wish to be considered for the inheritance must submit to this testing, and that the testing will be related to racism. And, I hope the majority will agree. As I am worth about 3.5 billion I would think that the chance would be worth it."

"So they would come here to me and I would test them?" Zachary asked.

"No, you will go to their homes. You will be taking a traveling companion with you, a photographer. As I have shown you the one and only photograph of my family, I would, before I die, like to at least amass some current photos of their homesteads and their families, but without the burden of contact," said Windsor.

"And what sort of testing would I conduct?" Zachary asked.

"Whatever testing you thought to be appropriate," said Windsor.

Zachary realized that weighing the pros and cons of the proposal (cons such as Windsor's possible insanity) would be more than a gut decision. He needed time to think it over.

"So what do you think? Is this job for you?" Windsor asked.

"I will have to contact my associates first," said Zachary.

"I have no doubt they will be discreet. However, time is of the essence. If you cannot take the job I need to know right away."

"Then I will talk to my associates immediately..."

Phone call, Zachary to Samantha, 9PM: "I don't trust him, but for Trait Theory this could be ground breaking. Do racists pass racist traits onto their children?" said Zachary, having just told Samantha the crux of the meeting.

"Trait Theory, all you care about is fucking Trait Theory. That man is a monster, and you want to make him a customer? You want to serve him?"

"It could be through no fault of his own that that man is a racist! That is something that Trait Theory can help to figure out. And if we can prove it we can fight it and if we can fight it we can stop it!" exclaimed Zachary.

"Oh, get off your high-horse Zachary. The man is a racist plain and simple. Do what you want," said Samantha.

"You are just angry because..." Zachary trailed off.

"Because what?"

Zachary did not answer.

"What were you going to say?" Samantha asked.

"Nothing," said Zachary.

"Because my husband is African-American? Because my children will be African American?" Samantha asked.

"Will they be Jasmine?" Zachary taunted.

"Oh, fuck you," said Samantha.

"Do you even love him? How can you sleep with me and say you love him?" said Zachary.

"You don't know anything about love," said Samantha.

"Oh what, and you do because you study it?" Zachary asked.

"We're done after work, and we're done at work, everything is done, done, done," shouted Samantha.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

### Chapter Five

Somerville, Davis Square: Zachary and Jasmine had decided to forego the coffee and get drinks instead. Intellectually, Zachary knew the term two-beer-queer was disparaging, as it equated an inability to be manly when drinking (and not be drunk after only two beers) to the gay lifestyle, thereby associating gays with a lack of manliness, but he also knew that it fit him quite accurately and so he tried to drink no more than two beers as he waited for Jasmine to arrive.

A few minutes later, Jasmine approached the table with a friendly wave. They shook hands and sat at opposite sides of the booth.

"I was going to order you a drink, but then I realized that I don't know what you drink," said Zachary.

"Oh, that is okay. You wouldn't have been able to guess," said Jasmine.

"That sounds like a challenge," said Zachary.

"Perhaps, but guess wisely, for in trying to judge what I drink by judging me – I may then become offended by how you have judged me, and because this is just the start of our date, you might, in your effort to bedazzle me by promenading your highly developed psychological abilities, end our date quite quickly," said Jasmine, turning up her nose in a playful show of snobbery.

"Huh, I didn't view it like that at all. But I'm thinking that it is safer if I just let you go ahead and order," said Zachary, while observing that Jasmine's joking threat was quite similar to the sort of statement that Samantha might have made during their first date a decade earlier.

Why is it that every time I fall for a woman she seems to be the sort who becomes almost insufferably contented when showboating a superior knowledge of all matters relating to romance?

Or is that my Samantha baggage speaking?

"It is not going to be that easy Mr. PHD, because now if you do not guess I will think that you are not a risk taker, and though studies have shown that woman prefer men who are not risk takers, or at least excessive risk takers as a relationship advances, during the initial dating stage women, on average, prefer risk takers because they are looking for a little adventure," said Jasmine, smiling.

Definitely reminiscent of Samantha...

Although the date was only a minute or two old, Zachary sensed that he was already expected to perform.

Actually a few beers might have loosened me up a bit. But I really had no idea she was going to come out firing...

"What studies have you been reading?" Zachary asked.

"Changing the subject is not going to work," said Jasmine.

"Drinks?" said the waitress, who had just arrived, and now stood waiting while batting her eyelashes.

"You order for me darling," said Jasmine, leaning back.

"Yes, certainly: my friend here has challenged me to order for her," said Zachary, motioning to Jasmine. The waitress laughed. Zachary continued, "But I sense a trap. I'm not going to order her a beer because that is boring and she told me she was looking for an adventurous night. I'm not going to order her wine because we don't know each other that well yet and I don't want to be implying anything. Therefore I'm going to order her a mixed drink. However, I'm not going to try to guess what she likes because everyone has a favorite mixed drink and there are too many to even bother guessing. So what I am going to do is to order her my favorite mixed drink and see if she likes it."

"Which is?" the waitress asked, her eager expression implying a sincere interest in the first-date game playing out before her. Zachary whispered into the waitress's ear. She laughed, checked Jasmine's ID, and strutted away.

"I'll just get a soda anyway," said Jasmine.

"Very funny, so I know that you work in radio, but what was all that talk about the studies?" said Zachary.

"I read a lot. I minored in African American studies and majored in Broadcast Journalism. And I spend a lot of my time studying social issues, mostly the criminal justice industrial complex, and I got the chance to have my own radio show, so I took it, and turned it into a blog too. But sometimes the social issues I study are the fun ones, like dating," said Jasmine.

Is this Samantha all over again?

"So your blog..." said Zachary.

"Ah, yes. I figured that would come up. I read your response by the way. It makes sense. And you are right I should have asked you about the connection to eugenics during the show. Honestly, that column wasn't even my idea. A friend made the connection and I did some research and it seemed to make sense. At the least I should have called you first. But I get 30,000 unique visitors to my blog a day. It is more than paying for my rent. So sometimes I try to entertain as much as I try to inform. But like I said, I should have called you and gotten a quote," said Jasmine.

"It is okay. So what is new with you since I saw you last?" Zachary asked, as the waitress returned, placing down two fruity drinks.

"Second place, Northeast Orienteering Meet," said Jasmine.

"You are an orienteer?" said Zachary, laughing.

"Hey, don't knock orienteering until you have tried it," said Jasmine.

"I'm not even exactly sure what orienteering is. You just don't look like the sort. Isn't that where you go into the woods with a map and a compass and try and find stuff?" said Zachary.

"There is a little more to it than that, but basically, yeah," said Jasmine, handing Zachary a piece of paper, her orienteering award.

"So you are pretty good at it?" said Zachary.

"It's one of my talents," said Jasmine.

"What are your other talents," said Zachary.

I hope that didn't sound creepily sexual.

"I don't know if I want to tell you. You already laughed at the fact that I am an orienteer," said Jasmine.

"I promise I won't laugh," said Zachary.

"That is an impossibility, laughing is something that just happens," said Jasmine.

"Then I will suppress it," said Zachary.

"Then you will just be suppressing your laughter," said Jasmine.

"I promise that I will take your talents seriously," said Zachary.

"Six years ago, when I was still competing, I just missed a slot on the Archery Olympic team," said Jasmine.

"Really?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, but I'm sorry I didn't bring any of my trophies with me – just my orienteering certificate," said Jasmine.

"Now why would I laugh at that, that is pretty amazing," said Zachary.

"So that means orienteering isn't?" Jasmine asked.

"I'm sorry there is just something reflexively funny about you and orienteering and I don't even know why. But you'll have to tell me more about orienteering some day. So those are your talents? Well, besides your career of course, archery and orienteering? That is pretty cool," said Zachary.

"Well, there is one more, though I guess this one isn't so much a talent as just an interest. I am a long range hiker. Every year I do a little bit of the Appalachian Trail. I am ¾ of the way finished," said Jasmine.

"Okay."

"Yup, so you know all about my talents and interests now. Well, some of them: what about you?" Jasmine asked.

Time to perform again...

"You probably aren't going to like my answer, but I'm not nearly as well-rounded. I am sort of all-in on the psychology thing. It really doesn't give me time to have other pursuits," said Zachary.

"That's boring," said Jasmine.

"Yes, but admittedly, my life pretty much is – nothing too interesting ever happens to me," said Zachary.

"Well, you were just a major news story," Jasmine noted.

"That was an unfortunate aberration," said Zachary.

"So how is that all going for you?" Jasmine asked.

"I've just gotten a private job, an odd one, but it seems that it will pay well," said Zachary.

"Why is it odd?" Jasmine asked.

"Sorry, it is confidential," said Zachary.

"That is a coincidence," said Jasmine.

"What?" Zachary asked.

"I have a confidential matter that I wanted to speak to you about to," said Jasmine.

"I have become a keeper of secrets," said Zachary, ceremoniously.

"So you are going to keep it confidential?" said Jasmine.

"What is it relating too?" Zachary asked.

I hope she is not going to tell me that she wants to eat people too...

"Trait Theory," said Jasmine.

Oh, here we go...

"So, you think you might have acquired some traits from your parents?" Zachary asked.

"No, I became intrigued when you started to explain the exception to traits dying out – that traits can skip many generations and then reappear with a roaring intensity," said Jasmine.

"So, then you have historical knowledge of an ancestor? Perhaps lore passed down through the generations and you think that you are similar to that ancestor?" Zachary guessed.

"I have better than that. It's what I told you about at the end of your interview. I have a narrative that my ancestor wrote about herself," said Jasmine.

"Really? How long past are we talking?" Zachary asked.

"This narrative, a slave narrative, was written over one hundred and fifty years ago," said Jasmine.

"Very interesting, and what trait is in the narrative that you think that you might have?" Zachary asked.

"I think it would be better if you just read it," said Jasmine.

"Do you have the document?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, though there are actually two. But one is a list and therefore pointless to read. The narrative probably won't take you too long to read if you would like to read it now," said Jasmine.

"It might be easier if I just take it with me and read it later," said Zachary.

"That's the thing. I can't let this out of my hands," said Jasmine.

"Why not?" Zachary asked.

"It has never been published and it says some, I don't know, rather inflammatory things. You'll understand why my family has never published it once you read it," said Jasmine.

"Okay, I'll take a look at it now," said Zachary, having become curious.

Jasmine handed Zachary a manila folder and he removed the document:

A Humble Narrative of a Slave Named Pennyworth Stillwater

Told completely and fully in her own words by the author herself, Pennyworth Stillwater

Intended and purposed to be read only by the progeny of Pennyworth Stillwater

Dedicated to the most loving and beloved Lord Jesus Christ and all free Christian Nations

Written this autumn 1855:

Oh, to be born into the cruel cold bosom of slavery is surely the worst fate that can befall man or woman! Yet, my first seven years passed in relative harmony and bliss for I remained ignorant of my position as human chattel. During those years I played with Mr. Reed's children in the same manner that white children play together, though I am a mulatto. But childhood is a dream that must be woken from for both black and white. My childhood came to an end when I was first put to work gathering fallen wood for the fire. Later, I would learn that Mr. Reed owned a great many slaves, 300 on his five farms in the state of Mississippi.

From the first, my mother told me of our African matriarchal nation and the women warriors who protected our borders. For as far as the eye could see from horizon to horizon we were the only matriarchal nation known within those lush African lands. My mother professed that she had been one of the greatest warriors. In secret and as soon as my mind was able, she taught me the throw of the spear, the thrust of the dagger, and the ways of the warrior. My mind was lit aflame before I slunk to sleep by tales of her ancestors. But with the morning bell came the ominous rise to work for all those within the slave's quarters and I left my dreams of glory and commenced my daily drudgery.

Though drudgery it was it was not drudgery loathed because my mother was a favorite of Mr. Reed. In short, we had it easy on the manor farm, the central farm of Mr. Reed's estate. True, from that central location he commenced all punishment for major offences, usually by means of the whipping post, and a state of perpetual unease existed among the manner-house slaves, though a state of unease is as natural as breathing for most slaves and so we did not think it unnatural to our position, a position much abhorred. Mr. Reed was a man to be feared. No slave dared look him in the eye. Worse, he was a drunkard and had been dissipating for years, and when he was rum drunk the snap of the cowhide was often heard against some poor folk's back. Mr. Reed even occasionally whipped his white workers. None were safe from his wrath, none but my mother. Although, he often bared the shoulders and the backs of the females on the plantation and gave them lashes for the slightest offence, this barbarity had never fallen upon my mother. True, her beauty was greatest of any colored woman, or white woman for that matter, that I have ever seen. Did he love her? Can a spider love a fly? Can a wolf love a sheep? No, dear progeny, it was only cold lust that ran through Mr. Reed's veins for my mother's body and soul.

By the time I was ten, I heard hinted that Mr. Reed was my father and that he was the father of a great many more on his five farms. His bastards abounded in a half-naked, half starved state to be put to work as any common slave, less loved by him than his cruel bloodhounds. His bastards were a truth that could not be spoken of without receiving the severest punishment. Once a hard working, peaceable slave named Mark Thompson had taken a wife from among the slaves. Their first child had a shiny white-brown complexion and he spoke of the matter one day under his breath. Alas, the breath was heard and Mr. Reed had him stripped naked and tied to the whipping post where he received 500 lashes, bleeding till he died.

However, the cruelty of Mr. Reed and his gang of overseers was a sunny day in comparison to the malevolence and cunning of Mrs. Reed. She carried always five lashes and two clubs, and for sport blindfolded, whipped, and beat unfortunate slaves till they could accurately identify each instrument. Her belief was that slaves should be beaten for all future offences, offences that had not yet occurred so as to keep them in line. Yet Mr. Reed let it be known to Mrs. Reed that she was never to perform her nefarious duties upon my mother. Mrs. Reed's wrinkled face held two blue eyes like the blue fires of hell, and she seemed in a constant state of motion, moving about to order slaves to perform this or that duty and then beating them at random. When she roamed the paths of the plantation slaves jumped into painful briars to hide from her purposeless tribulations. Yet of all slaves, those she targeted most perniciously were the poor bastard children of that old lecher Mr. Reed. She looked at them as a personal affront, a constant reminder of her husband's infidelity. How dare they breathe air? How dare they run around the farm in their shoeless state, like animals of nature? Worse, how dare they laugh? How dare they smile? How dare they not continually beg forgiveness for being born in such a godless manner? For these poor bastard children, she implemented, for no reason at all, special cruelties, such as thumb-screws, iron-jaws, and small coffins. Mothers cried for mercy, never able to use the name of Mr. Reed as bartering material, for if they hinted at the paternity surely they would be beaten till they died. And Mr. Reed overlooked these savageries as if they were not imposed upon his own kin, as if he were no more related to his bastard children than the steak he had just consumed for dinner. All the bastard children were beaten and brutalized in a most terrifying manner, a manner only befitting the circles of hell, all except me, for I was the daughter of the favorite. And as Mrs. Reed plucked away the bastards to my left and my right, she placed her evil stare straight into my eyes, though did me no violence.

There were times when I believed that Mr. Reed turned a kind look to me, though I may be mistaken, and I did not pine for it, for I considered him no more father than he considered me daughter. As an adult I learned the way of Christ and I know that God is my father and Mr. Reed is no more my kin than Lucifer himself. Oh, harsh words for harsh times! Slavery is an evil that turns man against man, woman against woman, man against woman, and woman against man. Dear progeny, please do not judge too harshly what I will soon expound in this tale of blood and wrath, for I am a baptized Christian now and I know my heart to be pure before the face of God, as I hope your heart to be pure before the face of God as well. Yet there are things you must know about your past if you are to live with righteousness and glory in your present and that is my reasoning for imparting the tragic words contained within my narrative.

My years advanced and my dear mother taught me all she knew of her warrior ways. In scraps with the boys I easily pinned them, and lived without fear until my teenage years. For like my mother I too was blessed and cursed with the glowing rapture of feminine beauty. For the free white women beauty is as sacrosanct as their painted masterpieces hung in the museums of New York City. For the enslaved, beauty is a scourge. The overseers daily pursued me and whispered uncivilized entreaties into my ears. They told me I would be well taken care of if I obeyed them in all matters. They hinted I would be beaten if I did not follow their wishes. I believe it was only the cruel Mr. Reed who saved my purity. He would not allow them to whisk me off, as they had whisked off many other young slaves for their ill-purposes. Yet my position was not certain. Mrs. Reed also took a special dislike to slaves endowed with beauty; those slaves her husband bedded most often. She seemed to believe, as her icy eyes told the story, that it did not matter I was his daughter. That he planned to bed me too! I did not believe this possible. However, as I grew to resemble my mother more in body, my mother grew alarmed by the same belief. I saw cold words pass between Mr. Reed and my mother. Then one day, near my 15th birthday, a boundary was crossed when Mr. Reed whispered in my ear in the same manner as the overseers. Right away I told my mother the incident's details. I do not mean to dramatize this narrative by quoting words, but these words of my mother were forever seared upon my heart and must be quoted here, "Daughter I have killed many men, but always for purpose. When warriors kill we kill with calm. Calmness loosens the body and allows it to fight with elasticity. The fear and rigidity of our opponents is our greatest asset. Daughter I will die today, but you will not. I have no more to teach you, except by your memory of me. Do not take up the spear or the axe in my defense today. My cause is you. I die so you will live. Daughter some day you too, warrior you are, will die for a cause. You must choose that cause carefully, as I have carefully chosen mine today. When I have passed shed no tears. I die with the glory of blood. Be always fearful of the guiles of the white man, but fear no white man, for their blood is spilled just as easily as the Africans'. Today, I will kill Mr. Reed. Then, immediately after, I will kill Mrs. Reed. They both must die for certain. Then I will kill as many of the overseers as possible. There are too many overseers, so I will not succeed in killing them all. I can seek no compatriots among the slaves because then I may be betrayed, and all will be lost if Mr. Reed and Mrs. Reed do not die. Therefore, I choose to die in the blood of battle, for the noblest of all causes, the future of my daughter. I choose your future so that you can choose a future for another. Be brave and remember always my teachings..."

I implored my mother to choose another path. I begged and I cried, but it was to no avail. I asked her why we could not run away like so many others had done. She explained to me, as she had explained to me many times before, that there are paths worse than death, and though she did not fault slaves for running to the North that was not her chosen path. Her path was the path of blood.

From the shed she took a hatchet, from the barn, an ax, and from the woods she turned large branches into spears. Ashes adorned her face in a most fearsome manner, and she stripped almost naked, as warriors from our tribe are apt to do. As the sun began to set, she would not allow me to leave the shack until all had ended, telling me that I would likely take up arms and die myself were I to watch her fight. So I obeyed her wishes, though with a heavy heart, fearing that my mother was lost forever. Her prophecy came true and she did die that day at the hands of an overseer, death by a single bullet to the head, which, considering the suffering of many slaves who died by the whip, the club, or the stake, was a peaceful death indeed, and I praised the Lord that she was not taken alive and subjected to such torture. Days later, when all had calmed, and we slaves were reunited and put up for auction, I would hear from a friend the details of her rampage.

First she entered the manor home where Mr. and Mrs. Reed were feasting. The servant slaves screamed at her sight, thinking her a ghost, and ran from the house. Mr. Reed stood and attempted to flee, but my mother ran a spear through his neck, at the killing spot she had shown me many times, the spot where blood bursts forth like a fountain from even a small incision and he expired swiftly. Then Mrs. Reed started screaming and my mother jumped on the table and decapitated her with one swift chop of the ax, her head landing near the turkey and ham on the long oak table. The screaming of the servants had alerted the overseers to the turmoil and two of them galloped on horseback towards the manor house. Theirs was to be an ill fate indeed. Surprised at the sight of a half-naked woman charging, they began to slow from a gallop to a trot. My mother held a spear in each hand, one tipped with the fresh blood of Mr. Reed. The overseers held long whips in their hands, instruments that had always been sufficient to oppress the plantation's slaves. As she neared, they raised their whips, but before the whips had fallen, my mother simultaneously threw both spears and pierced their chests, taking them off their horses. The horses fled, and the overseers lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Before the first had a chance to stand he was beheaded by ax. His friend screamed at the sight and begged for mercy, as he had no weapon with which to resist. His head came off a second later.

By this time word of an insurrection had spread, and the overseers armed themselves more heavily. Two more emerged, and not knowing who the enemy might be, began firing at all slaves outdoors. Three slaves were killed before they had a chance to find cover. Sensing the disorder, my mother climbed a tree, and when an overseer passed under, she sprang from the branches, threw him from his horse, and ended his life on the ground by use of the hatchet. Thereupon she took his rifle. Quickly she fiddled with the instrument of death, but could not conjure its magic, and when a fourth overseer approached on his horse she hid behind a barn. When he found her and aimed his rifle at her head, she too aimed her rifle at him. But not knowing how to work the flint, his gun was the only one that fired, and a bullet passed through her head, which as I mentioned was a fortunate end for my most glorious mother and your highly accomplished ancestor.

Later that week I was sent to Georgia to be sold, and as I stood on the auction block with horses and mules, little did I know the horrors, the agony, and the terrible circumstances in which fate would soon place me. My new master, Mr. Williston, lived on an island off the coast of Georgia, called Dear Island. His family owned one quarter of the large island where they had razed most of the forests and created a massive plantation with 500 slaves. There were four quadrants on the island. Mr. Williston lived on the East quadrant where the soil was most fertile and eight other families lived on the other three quadrants. There was much trade between the families and I grew to know them all, the Halls, Hoopers, Smiths, Shaws, Wards, Greens, Kings, and the Wrights. Before I fled the island each of these families had been slaughtered by my hand.

Cotton was the major crop, but again I was placed in the manor home, given my previous work, sewing, cooking, and nursing. I was placed at the disposal of Mrs. Williston to care for her new born daughter, Lily. This fortuitous placement, as opposed to the backbreaking work in the fields, had most likely occurred because the slave traders, not wanting to risk devaluation, had offered no information to Mr. Williston about the details of my mother's fate, and so he suspected that I was docile and fit for domestic work in the manor home.

The Willistons were no less brutal than the Reeds and here I had no mother to protect me. Soon my back learned the sting of the lash. One day I was handling a pretty supper plate before placing it upon the table and it slipped from my hands and smashed upon the floor. I ran to the mistress, fearing she would beat me, but remembering my mother's words to have no fear, I told the mistress what had occurred. She screamed that I had broken the plate to arouse her anger, and that she would break me and teach me my place in the household. She commanded that I strip naked. It is true that at that moment I could have killed her quite easily. The broken shards of the plate still lay scattered on the floor, and had I wished it I could have grabbed the largest among them and plunged it into her belly, in the killing spot there, or countless other killing spots that my mother had shown me. But this was not the cause for which I was willing to die. Thereupon, I presented her with my naked and as yet unblemished skin. She tied my hands above the door, so that I was quite helpless, and so that my feet could only just touch the ground. There she left me for hour upon hour. I had fixed myself with the idea of giving her no satisfaction of begging to be released. But soon the ropes tore at my wrists with such ferocity that it seemed my arms would be ripped asunder from my shoulders, and I screamed from the unbearable pain. At this moment she tore into the room and began to whip my body, head to toe, in a most savage manner. Up to this point I had wished no death upon anyone in the Williston home, but after my brutalization I swore that if I were to engage in a bloody rampage as my mother had done, she would be the first to die.

The years passed and the horrors mounted. There would be no enlightenment for you, dear progeny, in my recounting them all here. You would only grow more horrified and pity me for my wretched state. Yet that is the last thing that I would wish! For each injustice only increased my inner fortifications for the inevitable wrath I would one day unleash. Even the beatings became part of my plan as I learned to use my mother's teachings for lessening the impact of a blow. As the slave owners' insane delusions grew, I became stronger and more cunning. Each year I seemed more docile than the last, so that the year before my rampage I was speaking in a whisper and walking like a ghost.

However, a cause had not yet presented itself. True, I suffered and the slaves around me suffered. Yet suffering, no matter how ubiquitous, I did not think sufficient cause to risk ending my days. And so I was patient. I became the ideal slave. Household slaves were placed under my management. Mrs. Williston even charged me with beating them, which I found most unpleasant when the occasion occurred. Yet I fulfilled my duties because I knew those duties would eventually lead me to a final remedy. Furthermore, I became entrusted with delivering packages and parcels throughout the island. From these deliveries I met the heads and overseers of each household. Many times these other families offered to buy me from Mr. Williston, offering lavish prices. It was obvious that they would have used me for their own ill intents. Therefore, I was much relieved when Mr. Williston refused to sell my person, stating that I was too important to the organization of his household.

By conversing with slaves from the eight plantations, I learned which masters were cruel and which were kind. For Mr. Green gave me food and drink each time I arrived at his porch with a parcel and I thought him a fine man indeed. His slaves seconded this opinion and informed me that they were never beaten. For Mr. Hooper once gave me new shoes when he saw that mine were with holes, something that I had never thought possible until that day, a gift from a white master to a slave. And his slaves informed me that he had built them a small chapel where they could worship the Lord during their own time. For Mr. King had driven me to my plantation on the top of his carriage once when I had to walk a long distance. His slaves told me that he fed them well, and that they were given a small stipend of alcohol on Mondays. For Mr. Shaw read me scriptures, something I hardly ever had the chance to hear, and showed me his statues of Jesus. His slaves informed me that he taught them to read, so that they could all benefit from the word of the Lord. The other masters, Mr. Smith, Mr. Hall, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Wright, were a miserable lot, no better than Mr. Reed or Mr. Williston and about these other masters I heard many outrages, outrages which I committed to memory in case the presentation of a cause should lead me to a final reckoning. Yet, as I have mentioned, fate would order all their deaths.

And now I shall recount the first set of events that led to the extermination of the slave owners on Dear Island: it came to pass that each Sunday the masters of the island gathered in the tea room of the Williston's grand house. This meeting place was chosen because Mr. Williston's tea room had a table large enough to seat the 9 masters of the island. By this time I was managing most of the household slaves and I chose who would remain in the room during the meetings. Eventually, I realized that these conversations concerned matters of importance, such as slave management, and chose to position myself inside the tea room. The gathered slave owners had named their Sunday group, The Jeffersonian Elites, after Thomas Jefferson their declared hero. From this group I learned that Thomas Jefferson had been a president in America; that he had owned over 500 slaves; that he had freed only 5 in his will and 2 during his life – actions of which the Jeffersonian Elites approved. It was also widely rumored that Jefferson had a very many sexual relations with his slaves, and fathered many children with them – which meant that he had enslaved his children -- further actions of which The Jeffersonian Elites approved. I will now recount the events that sealed the doom of The Jeffersonian Elites:

Mr. Smith said, "The slaves should be ordered to leave. That which will be discussed should be discussed in private."

Mr. Williston said, "Look at them. What they hear means little to them for they do not understand the meaning of the sounds they hear. For us a comparable action would be listening to the clattering of cooking pans. Yes, they follow instructions; that it true, for they are by nature a subservient species. They desire only sensations. They will soon forget."

Mr. Green said, "Remember that Thomas Jefferson himself said that concerning matters of the mind the Negro has a memory equal to that of the white man. It is in his reasoning that he is deficient, and also in his ability to create art or literature, especially poetry."

Mr. Williston said, "Very well they will remember our words but not understand them. Here, a demonstration to extract the doubt from your worrisome thoughts Mr. Green."

Then Mr. Williston turned to me and said, "What have we been discussing?"

I kept my head bowed. I said shamefaced, "Forgive me master, for I do not understand."

Mr. Williston said, "Affirmed! Let the record show, I propose a vote to continue with the first order of business."

The secretary, Mr. Hooper, said, "It has been recorded."

Mr. Williston said, "A1l in favor of continuation?"

There were nine ayes. The meeting continued, which as I have foreboded was a deadly decision on the part of The Jeffersonian Elites.

Mr. Williston said, "Let the record show, I propose that we produce the miscegenation document."

Mr. Hooper said, "It has been recorded."

There were nine ayes.

Mr. Ward placed a leather satchel on the table. He unfastened the satchel and removed a document, holding it above his head. He said, "Let the record show that this is the miscegenation document of one Thomas Jefferson, third president of our beloved country, author of the Declaration of Independence, and inspiration for our committee, The Jeffersonian Elites."

Mr. Hooper said, "It has been recorded."

Mr. Ward said, "Let the record show that I propose that we vote to affirm the authenticity of said miscegenation document."

Mr. Hooper said, "It has been recorded."

There were nine ayes.

Mr. Williston said, "Let the record show that I propose that we remove from God's lands, and bury into the dirt, the bastard descendents of Thomas Jefferson. It has previously been discussed here in committee that Thomas Jefferson often spoke of the dangers that miscegenation poses for the white race. Unfortunately, he did not have the resolve to extinguish his own bastard kin of the Negro species, but we can fulfill the act, for he was President of our beloved country and the unfortunate event of black Thomas Jeffersons running amok and populating our fertile lands is an event that brings much sully to our beloved country. Therefore, I propose that we remove said bastard descendants identified in the said miscegenation document from God's fertile lands and bury them in the dirt and away from all good Christians and in a deep pit from which they will be heard from no more, and from which they can no longer indemnify our founding father Thomas Jefferson and by extension our good and beloved country."

Mr. Hooper said, "It has been recorded."

On this matter there was much discussion. However, after approximately two fillings of their tea cups, the proposal to kill all black kin of Thomas Jefferson was put to a vote. Nine ayes were spoken.

My deeds were gory deeds and they took place in the dead of the night. I knew how to move about the island. From delivering parcels, I knew where each master's bedroom was within his household. I knew how to keep their bloodhounds quiet with salted meat stolen from Mr. Williston's storeroom. I crept from house to house and killed each master, and I killed each wife. The last wife, the wife of Mr. Hooper I did not kill, for there were no more husbands to kill, and no more reasons to keep the wives quiet, for I was prepared to die and to trade my blood for their blood. However, fortune allowed my escape, and I will now recount the details of how I escaped from Deer Island:

First, I started a most gruesome slave rebellion. Following the example of my mother, I had not attempted to gather allies. With no allies gathered there was no possibility of betrayal. But now that the deeds had been finished I ran through the plantations and cried out for the slaves to rise up and take arms, shouting, "Your master's are dead! Death to all!"

We burned houses. We burned barns. We killed. We rampaged. We plundered and fled the island by boat. Most of us could not swim. There were rifle shots and confusion. There was death on every side. There was much smoke billowing in the air. I made my way back to my master's home and stole the miscegenation document from his desk. Finally, I found a canoe and fled that doomed island.

I will now recount limited details of my life beyond my slave years: I have lived out my years beyond the Canadian borders where I have been married to a Negro tradesman, a bricklayer and plasterer, with the name Thomas. He has treated me well. He has treated me kindly. And there has been no more death by my hand. Saving the family of Jefferson had been my cause.

Descendants, I write to you so that you may know of your warrior ilk and of the warrior blood that runs through your veins. However, I warn you: do not share this story. Those slave owners needed to die it is true, but I fear their descendants would seek revenge, for as our family is noble and true, so were their families loathsome and putrid, and so I foresee that their descendants could very well be loathsome and putrid also...

While Zachary read the narrative he could sense his astonishment growing. "This is unbelievable! And you are related to the author? Where did you discover it?"

"Yes, Pennyworth Stillwater is my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. This document has been kept in a family bank vault and passed down through the generations. Eventually it found its way to me," said Jasmine.

"This is amazing! Is this a hoax or is this real?"

"I wondered the same. So I consulted a professor of black history at Tufts. In his judgment it is real. He based his judgment on historical style, accuracy of events, and other non-technical details. Approximately 100 slave narratives were written before the Civil War and 6000 slave narratives written after the war. This document is dated pre-civil war, and up to the 1950's many slave narrative were brought out of their dusty corners and published. But it is rather obvious why this one never was -- it probably never seemed safe to do so," said Jasmine.

"I must say that this has introduced the element of surprise into our meeting for drinks for sure," said Zachary, who had been taught by Samantha to never refer to a first date as a date.

"Like I said, I like a little adventure. And because of what we spoke about during your interview I figured that you would be able to appreciate it," said Jasmine.

"Why have you blacked out some lines?" asked Zachary.

"I didn't want the names in a copy. I have the original in the safety deposit box," said Jasmine,

"And why did you cross out Sally Hemings's descendants' names?" Zachary asked.

"I didn't. The conspiracy must have done that. I think because they didn't want to make themselves known. So I think it was the conspiracy's plan to leave that line of the tree alone. And, I don't know if it is a coincidence but there are lots of Hemings's who were descended from Jefferson who are still alive today – and conversely that is not the case for the other descendants," said Jasmine.

"This is unbelievable Jasmine! If accurate this could completely rewrite history! What about the part about the Jeffersonian Elites styling themselves after Thomas Jefferson. Was he really a racist? My American history is dusty," said Zachary.

Jasmine replied, "The founding fathers had a difficult relationship with slavery. They would not have been able to unite the union if they had abolished slavery right away. Still, the founding fathers recognized that there was a contradiction between fighting a revolution based on principles of freedom and owning slaves. However, all the founding fathers owned slaves except for John Adams. But Jefferson was the worst. Benjamin Franklin freed all his slaves during his lifetime and later became president of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society. George Washington freed all of his slaves in his will, and he was reluctant to trade his slaves as you would 'cattle at a market' as he put it, because he did not want to break up families. And although Madison took a slave with him to serve him at the White House, he later freed his slaves. But Jefferson had no qualms about breaking up families, and as an over-spender sometimes sold his slaves to help pay for his lavish lifestyle. Notes on the State of Virginia, published after his death, contains very negative and racist views on African Americans, such as that they smell bad, cannot reason, do not have feelings, and experience lust but not love. These published words may actually have been the beginning of scientific racism. Interestingly, recent DNA evidence has determined that Jefferson, in all likelihood, coupled with his slave Sally Hemmings and had at least one child with her. But my narrative obviously suggests that there may have been many more couplings with other slaves, and that his plantation, Monticello, was a harem more than anything else."

"And wasn't it Thomas Jefferson who wrote the Declaration of Independence, saying that all men are created equal?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine replied, " 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness'...Yes he wrote that. It is arguably the most famous line in American history. But he may have meant white men, that all white men are created equal...many of his contemporaries were much more forward thinking on racial issues...Yes, I have studied all this quite a bit."

"So to you Thomas Jefferson must be the evil founding father, the wolf in sheep's clothing," said Zachary.

"I admire some of the other founding fathers such as Benjamin Franklin much more, but I wouldn't go quite as far as what you have just said. No, in actuality, the more I read about Jefferson the more divided my opinions become, meaning that I do not completely condemn the man: while his views and actions concerning African Americans were atrocious, he was a champion of many issues that have a lasting impact on our freedoms today. America was the first ever experiment in self government and Jefferson understood how high the stakes were; he sacrificed a lot personally to see his ideas through. Also, I think had he lived in our time, he would not have been racist. But he was born a gentleman planter, and he was never able to shake off slavery because he needed it to live the way that he wanted to live, which is to say surrounded by beautiful things. That does not make his actions concerning African Americans excusable. And given his position of power, even if his many couplings with his slaves did not occur with overt force, it still wasn't right, and some historians do consider that he raped Sally Hemings whether it was forced or not.."

"So although it does appear that Jefferson was a racist, you think these so-called Jeffersonian Elites took him as their namesake without completely understanding him?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, I think Jefferson would have been horrified if he had been told that after his death a group of people would name themselves after him and engage in the sole object of killing all his mixed-race progeny," said Jasmine.

"This is remarkable Jasmine, and quite controversial. People are not going to take kindly to the idea that Jefferson fathered more children with many of his slaves," said Zachary.

"Well, people aren't going to know," said Jasmine.

"What do you mean? You aren't going to publish?" Zachary asked.

"No, certainly not," said Jasmine.

"Why not? The founding fathers were merely men – men with great ideas, but they had human faults. The world needs to know. And scholars need the opportunity to discover the truth, and to get at whether the documents are genuine," said Zachary.

"No, I'm not worried about sullying the reputation of one of the most revered of the founding fathers. I'm worried about the warnings at the end of the narrative. What if the slave narrative is correct and the descendants of the slaveholding ancestors are as despicable as the original slaveholders? They could seek out my family and do them harm," Jasmine reasoned.

"That's highly unlikely. From what I know about Trait Theory at this point, I would have to posit that after so many generations that it is highly likely that familial traits would have morphed significantly," said Zachary.

"Are you sure about that? What you just said?" Jasmine asked.

"Well according to Trait Theory Theory of Exceptions, if a trait is not continuously passed on then the exception only happens 1/1000 times. Why do you ask?" said Zachary.

"I took miscegenation lists to a hereditary firm in Boston. I wanted to know what happened to Jefferson's African-American progeny. I wanted to know where they were living now and what they were doing," said Jasmine.

"Okay and what happened?" Zachary asked.

"Excepting the Hemings line which I mentioned is quite robust, the others are all dead," said Jasmine.

"Family lines die out all the time. That is a fact of life," said Zachary.

"Yes, but these lines were strange. The causes of death were strange. The ages at which the people died were strange," said Jasmine.

"Why were the ages strange?" Zachary asked.

"They died young – usually around 18 to 20 – just when people would be at their healthiest points," said Jasmine.

"So what are you thinking?" Zachary asked.

"That perhaps the Jeffersonian Elites survived in some form – and that perhaps there were copies of the miscegenation documents and that they carried out their original plans," said Jasmine.

"I think that is another reason to publish. If these Jeffersonian Elites are still around people need to know about it," said Zachary.

"No, don't you see? Even if they did survive and were involved in killing the African American offspring of Jefferson, the killings ended 20 years ago. They have already accomplished their objective. There is no one left for them to kill and therefore there is no one left to protect," said Jasmine.

"Interesting point: so you think that publishing the documents could do harm to your family and you don't want to risk it?" Zachary asked.

"Yes," said Jasmine.

"I can respect that," said Zachary.

"But here is the strange part. I know that logically I should never publish these documents. Yet there is a part of me that does want to publish them. And I think the reason that this part of me wants to publish them is because if any of the members of the group who were the Jeffersonian Elites 20 years ago are still alive, I want to make myself a target. And I want to make myself a target so that they will come after me, and when they do I will capture them and bring them to justice. That is my fantasy anyway," said Jasmine, laughing.

"So this is where Trait Theory comes in," said Zachary.

"Exactly! What if I am one of the exceptions, where the trait skips many generations and comes back with a roaring intensity? What if I want to seek out people who do other people harm and kill them like my ancestors did?" Jasmine asked.

"You mean could the trait – and let's call it the Righteous Murder Trait– Could that trait have skipped generations?" Zachary summarized.

"Preciously," said Jasmine.

"Theoretically it is certainly possible. But the odds are 1/1000 that it would have skipped to you and you would need a very stressful event in order to bring the trait to the surface. So don't worry, I'd say the chances of you walking out this door and then chopping off someone's head are slim to none," said Zachary, laughing.

"Mostly, I brought the documents as a lark and because I thought they would make our date interesting --."

"It has done that for sure," interrupted Zachary, gulping his beer.

She called it a date – good sign...

"But, this is also something that I had considered from time to time before I had even heard of Trait Theory. I really do have frequent fantasies about bringing these people to justice," said Jasmine.

"And I'm sure that is perfectly normal. What likely occurred was a phenomenon that psychologists refer to as Recent Bias. You had recently read an account about an ancestor who did such things and so you identified with the ancestor and felt that you could do the same. But experiencing identification and actually having the trait, a trait which would likely lead to an overpowering urge, are two separate situations Furthermore, like you said, you daydream about bringing them to justice – which is to say having them arrested and having their day in court. I think that it is safe to say from the descriptions that your ancestor has provided that a person with the Righteous Murder Trait would not be satisfied with court justice; instead a person with RMT would not be satisfied unless he or she had personally allocated justice, that is had murdered the perpetrator or perpetrators," said Zachary.

Jasmine squirmed on her seat a little, and then she said, "At the risk of appearing perhaps completely unfeminine and therefore unattractive --."

"That would be impossible," Zachary interrupted.

Jasmine laughed, "Well, when I said brought to justice that was a euphemism. In my fantasies I don't see the police say arresting these Jeffersonian Elites: I see myself killing them. And I think I even enjoy it."

"Again that is part of the narrative so I am sure that it is completely natural for you to envision yourself in your ancestor's shoes. But the odds of actually having the trait: very slim. Is this something you are really concerned with? Or rather: if you could choose would you choose to have the trait??" Zachary asked.

"I would choose not to have it. Even if justified, I don't want to kill people. I like my life the way it is, normal. Killers don't have normal lives. And they can't really have relationships with people. Would you be on a date with me right now if you tested me for RMT and I tested positive?" Jasmine asked.

"Sure, the trait in all likelihood would be dormant and just because you had the trait that wouldn't mean that you would kill anyone," said Zachary.

"Okay sure, but wouldn't it concern you knowing that there is always the risk that if I observed some stressful injustice -- stressful enough that it brought the trait out in me -- that I could fly off the handle and decapitate someone with an ax?" Jasmine asked, laughing (Zachary hoped) at the absurdity of the question.

Zachary thought the image of Jasmine wielding an ax even more humorous than the image of Jasmine as an orienteer and tried to contain his laughter as he replied, "If it was the first time we had ever hung out sure. But if we had a real relationship, a deep relationship, I think I could handle it."

"Really? I don't think I believe you," said Jasmine.

"Why?" Zachary asked, laughing again.

"Because I know what men are like and you run away from commitment and towards the high hills at the first sign of trouble, and a trait like RMT is a big sign of trouble," said Jasmine, now looking serious.

Zachary sensed that although Jasmine had presented this matter as a joke, nevertheless it did somewhat concern her, and he said, "Tell you what: when I get some free time – which I might not have for a little while if end up taking this job, I will design an assessment to determine if you possess a dormant RMT, and you won't have to worry about this anymore. You will be able to put it to rest."

"You would do that for me?" Jasmine asked, perking up.

"Yes, and I promise that if you test positive for RMT that I will still be your friend. For one thing, aside from the killing part it is a pretty nifty trait. Your ancestors cared deeply about justice. And they cared so much that took it into their own hands," said Zachary.

"You know I'm kind of disappointed because you still haven't pointed out the other obvious connection of RMT to my life. And I haven't said anything yet because I expected you to notice it on your own, Mr. PHD," said Jasmine.

Zachary had not been engaging in that line of thinking, except when he had laughed at the image of Jasmine wielding an ax.

"Right! You radio show is called Blinded Justice. And you just told me that a big passion of yours is researching the criminal justice industrial complex. That is all about justice. Interesting, maybe just maybe there is something to your suspicion that you have RMT – but I wouldn't count on it – you are simply too, I don't know, sweet."

"Awww, thank you. But to take this line of reasoning just a little further. My show Blinded Justice and my interest in researching the criminal justice industrial complex all revolves around the fact that African Americans do not get equal access to justice in this country. Don't get me started because I could rant on about this all night but the War on Crime has essentially been a war on African Americans. And we have a multitude of policies in place that on the surface appear to be race neutral but are actually quite racist – and have had the end result of imprisoning an absurd amount of African American males."

"No, I've heard you on your show and your arguments are quite convincing, and eloquently put," said Zachary.

"So couldn't that be another connection? My ancestors fought for the rights of African Americans as well," said Jasmine.

"You do make a good argument that perhaps -- just perhaps so don't get carried away -- that your efforts to fight the injustice still mounted against African Americans in this country is a sublimation of your dormant RMT. However, without testing this is all wild speculation," said Zachary.

"But you are going to test me?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes, but it may be a little while. If I take this job, and I am hoping that my associates agree to it, it will completely consume all my time until it is finished. But perhaps after I could give you an assessment...Actually this is quite interesting and a trait that I've never even thought of. Sometimes it boggles my mind how many human traits there are. Before Trait Theory I was often researching a bunch of subjects at once – but now having stumbled upon Trait Theory I think for the remainder of my days it is going to be my life's work," said Zachary.

"That must be enthralling, to be that passionate about something that you have actually discovered. It must keep you up at night," said Jasmine.

"Yes, certainly: I'm sure it sounds nerdy but once when analyzing my Trait Theory mouse data I was awake for three days straight. But I bet that you are so easily able to empathize with me because you have passions of your own. I think it is quite noble that you have made the whole criminal justice industrial complex your sworn enemy," said Zachary.

"We are two people who have goals and work hard at them it is true. But sometimes I need to take a break from it all. That's why I like orienteering and backpacking. I like to briefly escape from my life goals and just exist on a totally different plane – do you know what I mean?" Jasmine asked.

It had been years since Zachary had taken more than three days off in a row, and though he had resigned from his teaching post, given the Capobianco situation, his time off had felt more stressful than anything else, and he said, "No, not really, but I don't think that is a good thing."

"No it isn't! When is the last time that you have taken a week off and traveled?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't even remember," said Zachary, shocked that he could not bring to mind his last vacation.

"Typical American – we Americans don't take time off and just unwind. But that is so important for your spirit. Given the almost unspeakably sorry state of the justice system in this country I would be insufferably gloomy if I did not take time off to unwind --."

"I've got it!" Zachary exclaimed, finally having remembered his last vacation. "I took a research vacation to Thailand 7 years ago. That is where I developed Trait Theory. So I guess you could say that that vacation did affect my thinking!"

"I'm glad traveling had that result, but I hardly think that a research vacation qualifies. I'm talking about a vacation where you get away from research, not where you engage in it," said Jasmine.

"Wow, I really have no idea," said Zachary.

"Someday we are going to have to change that. Someday I am going to take you with me somewhere and you are going to get that chance to just unwind and escape from your passions and escape from the world," said Jasmine.

"That's probably a good idea," said Zachary, smiling.

"It is a good idea! And I'm going to see to it. What if you told your colleagues at Dunbar and Associates that tomorrow you were taking a vacation for a week and going camping, or something?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary paused as he considered this hypothetical. "Yeah, they would be almost as surprised as I would be – shocked even."

"Why don't you? It is fun to shock the world from time to time. Why don't you call them right now and tell them that you are taking a week off and traveling to -- I don't know -- the Caribbean?" Jasmine asked.

"Are you coming with me?" Zachary asked, wondering if she was serious about all this.

"No, I have to work. But that doesn't mean you couldn't go. I just went to that orienteering competition all alone and I made tons of friends," said Jasmine.

"Well, yes, but look at you, you are young, pretty, and outgoing. I'm getting older; I'm boring; I'm introverted. If I tried to talk to a stranger on a vacation they would probably call the police," said Zachary.

"That is the thinking of a man who is not a risk-taker," said Jasmine.

How is it that women always manage to bring things back to where they started?

Zachary laughed, "I guess so. You have me pegged. But seriously, I know we pretty much just met, but in the name of risk, allow me to say that if you ever decided to go off gallivanting somewhere, keep me updated, it just may do me some good to fly the coop."

"How about when you finish this job? I don't know if I will be able to go with you because honestly we have no idea where this is going – but why don't you plan to take a vacation when you finish this job whether you have someone to travel with or not?" Jasmine asked.

"Where would I go?" Zachary asked, already feeling lost.

"Anywhere! The place is not the point. It is the going," said Jasmine.

"You know I just might do that. Well, I had no idea you were such a good provider of advice," said Zachary.

"That is one of my traits," said Jasmine, laughing.

Phone Conversation: Omar and Zachary: When Omar discovered that Samantha and Zachary had had a falling out, he immediately contacted Zachary by phone.

"What happened?" Omar asked, an open-ended inquiry that got Zachary's blood pumping.

Does he know?

"She's not happy with my choice of current work," said Zachary.

"Yeah she told me all about Windsor. He sounds like he ran away from the loony-bin. But he also sounds like he is going to pay pretty well," said Omar.

"So you wouldn't mind if we worked for a declared racist and wanna-be serial killer?" said Zachary.

"Obviously, I'd rather not. But we don't exactly have people knocking down our door right now to hire us. Besides from what I understand he gets counseling for his racist tendencies and he hasn't killed anyone," said Omar.

"Apparently, but honestly Omar I don't know how reliable this man's information has been. It sounds too far-fetched. Did Samantha tell you about the woman that he claimed to have abducted?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, she did. That part troubled me considerably. Why you don't believe it?" Omar asked.

"I'm going to follow up on it. I'm going to pay her a visit in about an hour. I've set up an interview with her," said Zachary, checking his watch.

"Perhaps I should go as well. I know Samantha isn't keen on this job. But let me gather some information too. Besides, you two have conflicting views as psychologists as to the merits of working this job, so let me throw my hat into the ring," said Omar.

"Sure, that sounds like a good idea. Do you want me to pick you up, or do you want to meet me there?" Zachary asked, hoping he would decide to take his own car.

"If you could pick me up that would be great. My Toyota has just recently started with this weird rattling, which I am hoping is not a death rattle, and I haven't had a chance to take it to the mechanic..."

Car ride: Somerville to Quincy: Zachary noted that Omar seemed like he had something on his mind, and he finally said, "Zachary there has been something that I have wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?" said Zachary, feeling a beat-beat in his chest.

"Zachary I want to be frank with you. When I first moved here I didn't have many friends. The years have passed and I still don't have many friends in the Boston area. I can count them on one hand. Zachary I count you among my friends. You were there for me when..."

As Omar recounted all his fond memories, Zachary thought: this could turn bad...

"...and that is why I think it makes sense for me to turn to you for advice. When I thought of all my friends that I could talk to about this you seemed like the best bet," said Omar.

"What is the issue?" Zachary asked.

"Well, you know how Samantha often puts her work before everything else. Normally it doesn't bother me. But when she tries to impose her work onto our relationship it drives me crazy. I know she is an expert on love, but that doesn't mean she has to ram it down my throat. Here is the issue: Sam has been all about displacement theory lately: the theory that people choose a substitute for whom they really love. She thinks that she can improve our relationship if she persists in calling me by another name...I love her so much, but I said to her, 'No, you cannot call me by another name."

"What name?" Zachary asked, nervous that it would be his own.

"The name is Teddy," said Omar.

"Who is Teddy?" Zachary asked.

"Teddy is the alter-ego that she has created for me. If she has a relationship with Teddy then she will really desire me. But since she is really with me, she will have confounded the reality of displacement theory, or that is how she puts it," said Omar.

"That is ridiculous," said Zachary. "Stick to your guns on this one. We can't always let females have their way."

Omar laughed. "I don't think that is possible. Well, thanks for the advice anyway. Hey, I've got some big news."

Zachary nodded.

"That's a lie..."

What?

"...the truth is that Samantha has some really big news, but she is pissed at you so I'm the go-between," said Omar as Zachary breathed easier. "A producer from PBS called, they are considered doing a documentary on Dunbar and Associates."

"What?"

"Yes, as I said he spoke to Samantha about it, but they are really interested."

"How did this come about?" Zachary asked.

"I have no idea. You'll have to talk to Samantha about that, well when you can. But she was conciliatory enough to give me this," said Omar, holding out a business card. "I guess he wants to talk to you to."

Zachary took one hand off the steering wheel and grabbed the business card:

Tony Blanchette

PBS

978-555-9056

Email: tblanchette@pbs.org

"Can you imagine?" said Zachary.

"It would be huge. We couldn't buy publicity like that."

"What are you talking about Omar? The state this company is in, we can't but a paperclip right now."

Omar laughed. "Don't worry, I'll talk to Samantha and get her on board for this job, even if I have to sleep on the couch for a week to do it..."

Newton, MA: If there was one thing that Ralph could count on, it was that his father was a predictable man. He seemed to do nothing outside his ordinary scheduling of affairs. His demeanor was predictable too. Ralph had never been yelled at by his father. In fact, he had never heard him yell. Once Ralph asked him how he stayed so composed. He said, "There are times when I get frustrated like everyone else. But normally a person is frustrated for one of two reasons (a) you have failed the world or (b) the world has failed you. Therefore, I take a quick inventory and decide where to place the blame. Then I look for a solution. Huffing and puffing helps no one."

Therefore, Ralph knew his punishment would not consist of any harsh words. His father could be firm, but he always managed to stay calm. Ralph imagined that he would probably be grounded for at least a week, though as of yet, he had heard nothing.

Quincy, MA: Zachary wondered why he felt more confident by bringing Omar to this meeting.

Is it because he is black and Shanice is black and I think that they will relate?

Was I worried that she would not trust me, as a white man?

Zachary noted that Shanice looked nervous. She appeared to be in her seventies, which would make her similar in age to Windsor. For a minute the talk was the weather. Everyone agreed that it was a remarkably dreary day.

Suddenly Shanice took the initiative, "I have to ask. Is it all coming to an end?"

"Sorry, what do you mean?" Zachary asked.

"The payments, am I no longer to receive the payments?" Shanice asked, the tea cup rattling in her hand.

"Let's start at the beginning," said Zachary, noting that Windsor obviously had not told her the purpose of the meeting. "I am doing a job for Windsor. In my capacity of doing this job he started to tell me some of the history of his life. I say some of the history because he is a very private man. However, Shanice, he did tell me of his relationship with you. I see you look nervous. I signed a non-disclosure form so this matter will stay between us if you want it to. But that is actually why I am here. Windsor is getting old and I just wanted to check up on the facts of his story before I commit to doing any sort of work for him. Would you mind telling me of the nature of your relationship with Windsor?"

"That is a very difficult question," said Shanice.

"You don't have to answer any questions that you don't want to answer," said Omar, smiling at Shanice. "We are just here to try to learn about a strange old man, and to decide if we want to work for him."

"I don't know how to describe the nature of my relationship with Windsor," said Shanice.

"Okay, let me tell you what he told us and then you can tell us if it is true or not," said Zachary, who then related Windsor's description of her imprisonment.

"That is absurd," said Shanice. "However, that absurdity is also why I have not had to work a day in my life ever since I met Windsor. In fact, no one in my immediate family has."

"Please explain," said Zachary.

"It all started when I answered an advertisement in the paper for a black actress. I wasn't even an actress, but obviously I'm black, so I decided to give it a shot. I went to a casting company and read some lines. Then, to my surprise, I was called about a week later at my home and told I was hired for the job. I was given an address to report to. I was not told what the job would be and in my excitement at being hired as an actress I didn't even bother to ask. It didn't occur to me until I got into a cab that I had no idea what type of job I had been hired for. Was it a play? Was it a movie? Was it a television commercial? I had no idea. I thought myself pretty silly for not having asked --."

"So what happened?" Omar interrupted.

I wanted to interrupt her there too. But I did not. Am I overly sensitive to our white-black dynamic?

"Well, I reported to the address, a marvelous house, and Windsor met me on the porch, introduced himself, and brought me inside to a study. He told me his wife was out shopping but that he wanted to hire me for a private job," said Shanice, sipping her tea.

"So he didn't kidnap you?" Zachary asked.

"Only if answering an advertisement in the paper can be construed as kidnapping."

"So then what?" Omar asked.

"He explained the details of the job offer. He wanted me to pretend that I had been a kidnapping victim by staying in a jail cell that he had built in his cellar. He would pay me quite a hefty daily sum, and I could return home each night. My hours were 7 to 7, which was a long time to spend in a jail cell, but the money was good enough that I decided to commit to it," said Shanice.

"So he let you out every day?" Omar asked. "Was it locked?"

"Yes, it was locked. But he gave me a key and I just let myself out each night, called a cab, and went home," said Shanice.

"So what happened while you were in there?" Zachary asked.

"Not much – he gave me a television and magazines to read. I just had to put them away when he came downstairs. That is when I had to go into acting mode. That is when I had to pretend that I had really been kidnapped and I had to beg him to release me," said Shanice. "But he never wanted to have sex with me or anything like that. He never made any advances."

"Did you ever wonder why he was doing that?" Zachary asked.

"I assumed that he was acting out some sick fantasy. But he had the money to pay for it, and so I played along. The whole thing seemed harmless really," said Shanice.

"What about his wife? What was her role?" Omar asked.

"I never saw her. He would bring me in through the back. We never ran into each other. He obviously wanted to keep the whole thing from his wife," said Shanice.

"So why do you think that he told me that he kidnapped you?" Zachary asked.

"Because I think that he believes that he did. He eventually convinced himself that he had kidnapped me. I say this because half way through the sixth month of the job, he started telling me that he regretted his decision to kidnap me, and that he no longer wanted to follow through on his plans," said Shanice.

"Did you ever feel that you were in any real danger?" Zachary asked.

"No," said Shanice.

"Why not?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know. He just didn't seem like the sort. I thought if anything he might try to have sex with me. But as I said that never happened," said Shanice.

She doesn't realize how lucky she might have been...

"So if he had convinced himself that he really had kidnapped you, then how did he release you without your telling the police?" Zachary asked.

"This is the part that really worked in my favor. He told me that he would pay off everyone in my family to prove to me that he did not intend to do me any harm. He said that once I was released he would pay me too, not much, but enough to get by, so that I wouldn't have to work another day in my life," said Shanice.

"Does he do it?" Zachary asked.

"Wait a minute. I believe I have an unopened check for this week on my counter," said Shanice who then left the room.

Zachary and Omar exchanged looks. Shanice shortly returned and handed Zachary an envelope, saying, "Here it is, postmarked three days ago."

Zachary examined the envelope. It was an ordinary white envelope addressed to Shanice. The return address read:

Hearthstone Corporation.

772 Muddy Drive

Berryheart, Montana

09876

"May I open it?" Zachary asked. Shanice nodded and Zachary opened the envelope. It was a check for $740.

"Do you ever feel like you are taking advantage of him?" Omar asked.

"For a while I did. But I have reconciled myself with that guilt. Paying me allows him to keep the fantasy going. If he did not pay me I think that the fantasy would collapse," said Shanice. "So I am not actually getting paid to do nothing. I get paid each week for having been his victim."

"That is a good analysis," said Zachary. "Have you ever thought about going into psychology?"

"I took two semesters of it at Bunker Hill. At one time I did think about becoming a psychologist. But then this gig came along and I've never had to work again. The checks even increase by 3% each year, to adjust for inflation," said Shanice, sighing lightly. "It was the strangest six months of my life. But it has also led to most of my subsequent good-fortune. I count my lucky stars every day for having landed that job..."

Omar and Zachary discussed Shanice on the ride back home. Zachary told Omar that he had decided to take the job.

"But Windsor was obviously lying to you," said Omar.

"Yes, but this is only one more indication of Windsor's capacity for self-deception. This actually lends more credence to the veracity of his stories..."

Later at home Zachary attempted to further research the Thurmond family on the internet, but his computer would not boot up. Considering his options, he noticed a computer repair flyer on his counter and called the number. A man with a squeaky voice said he could make a house call in twenty minutes.

He showed up in less than that and fixed the computer by practically just glancing at it.

"Was I pressing a wrong button or something?" Zachary asked.

"Computers are like women, they need tender love and affection," said the repairman, who had earlier introduced himself as Conrad. Zachary looked Conrad over and wondered if he had ever experienced tender love and affection: small limbed, pot bellied, buck toothed and with a face that had never really recovered from adolescence, he seemed type cast for the part of an IT man.

But don't they all? It may not be right to stereotype African-Americans but for some reason it just seems right to stereotype IT men.

"Well, thank you," said Zachary, as he handed him a check.

"Next time just don't be so rough with her. I don't want to come here again," said Conrad, straight-faced.

Zachary laughed, thinking that Conrad was joking. Apparently he wasn't and left with a strained nod. Then a moment later he popped back in the door. "Here, take my card. You never know when you'll need it."

Zachary put Conrad's business card in his wallet and as he did so he noticed the business card from the Tony Blanchette, the PBS producer. After eating a snack (potato chips and refried beans) he called.

"Tony Blanchette speaking."

"Tony, this is Zachary Dunbar from Dunbar and Associates."

"Zachary, Zachary, Zachary, you are the man of the hour, and just the man I wanted to talk to."

The flattery felt good and Zachary chuckled. "If you say so Tony, so what's up?"

Tony pitched Zachary with dramatic, long winded statements that could be boiled down to:

The American economy is falling apart! Bankers are being exposed as gambler and crooks! The American people have been swindled of their tax dollars.

Tony continued, "I want to start a show that features each week, a company of principles, a company of the future, and a company that does good things for the economy at large – not these vampire companies that are sucking the blood from America."

"And you think Dunbar and Associates is one such company?" Zachary asked.

"Zachary don't be modest."

If only this probably liberal PBS producer knew that I was about to accept a job from an admitted cannibalistic murderous racist, I wonder how fast this conversation would end?

"So let me ask you this Tony, how are you familiar with my company?"

"Through a friend, I discovered the work that you did for IBM," said Tony.

"That was confidential," said Zachary, sighing.

Why are professional ethics so hard to uphold?

"Yes, I know, and that's why I can't mention his name. But I can say that he was a high-ranking executive, who was very impressed with the way that you vetted the applicants through your individualized personality testing. Zachary I believe that everyone can do a certain job, and I believe that you, through your testing processes can figure that out – matching people to what they are best suited for, that could really turn this economy around," said Tony.

What is this, Soviet Russia? Well he is probably a liberal and most liberals are into communism I suppose...

"That is all well and good Tony, but that is not the purpose of Dunbar and Associates."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying I see the potential."

"And you want to do a documentary?"

"And I want to do a documentary, yes."

"Tony I have to admit that this sounds very appealing. But almost all the work I do is confidential."

"No names, just situations."

"So we can find a way around that?"

"Of course..."

"I'll have to talk to my associates, but if they say yes I'm in," said Zachary.

"Great! When will you know?"

That's a good question...

The next morning Zachary checked his email. Hidden amid the junk mail were emails from Windsor and Omar:

CC: Windsor5872@hotmail.com

To: ZacharyD@Harvard.edu

Dear Zachary Dunbar,

I am happy to announce that your airline tickets have been sent to your fax. And I want to wish you all the best as you begin your trip. If you have any questions about anything don't hesitate to call me, and remember that my resources will always be at your disposal should you need them.

Sincerely,

Windsor Thurmond.

Zachary sighed.

So it begins.

He sent a quick reply and then opened the second email:

CC: omarbuzzword@yahoo.com

To: ZacharyD@Harvard.edu

Zach, all is well. Samantha is onboard for the documentary. She's pissed at you still lol and she wanted me to make that clear – but the documentary is a go...

Thinking it selfish to again make Omar the messenger Zachary replied simply, "That's good news. Thanks." 

### Chapter Six

Flight: Boston to Washington D.C: Reclining in an airplane chair, Zachary checked his pocket for the business card that Windsor had given him for the photographer. He found it, along with a pack of gum:

John Perkins

Family Portrait Photographer

1-978-555-9735

Email:jperkins@gmail.com

He considered calling, but decided to wait until he had landed in D.C. Windsor had insisted that Zachary fly everywhere first class, and Zachary, having only ever flown cattle class, did not argue the point. The woman sitting next to him slept the majority of the flight and he did not have to engage in too much small talk, which Zachary thought fortuitous because the woman mostly wanted to talk about her pugs, animals Zachary loathed, though he told her that her pictures of them were very cute and yes he could imagine that it must be difficult to be separated from them for the duration of her vacation. Research materials were packed on Zachary's carry-on and he considered reviewing them, but decided to order a drink and just relax instead.

Once in D.C. he called the photographer, John, reaching his answering machine. He left a short message, stating that he had arrived as scheduled. While waiting he ordered bar food and a draft beer, paying with a credit card that Windsor had given him for incidentals. He had forgotten to use the card at Logan, which meant he wasted about $20 on a meal, but since he was making $6000 per week he could afford it, and smiled smugly, feeling pleased.

If only I can sell my house my financial situation will have improved substantially...

While fiddling with a mindless app on his phone, he realized that he had two new text messages. He opened the first:

Hey professor, you may not be on vacation but at least you are traveling. Text me when you land. I talk a big game about traveling and adventure, but planes still scare me. Jasmine.

He opened the second:

Zachary I am sorry. Been working on my Displacement Theory research too much lately, and I know I should not have snapped at you like that. Omar agrees with your decision to take job. Let's talk about it. Sam.

Ten minutes later, time enough for Zachary to consume a burger and a draft, John called and apologized, saying that he was running late and would arrive in about 45 minutes. Zachary again decided not to open his research materials. He bought a newspaper. The front page was grim and depressing, so he read the sports section but found it boring. Feeling guilty, he changed his mind and gathered his research materials from his carry-on. Windsor had provided Zachary with the family tree that his brother Philip had mailed him one year prior. Philip had created this family tree and it consisted of limited narrative descriptions. Zachary had also conducted internet research, digging up as much publicly available information on various family members as possible. Windsor had provided Zachary with the 9th through the 12th generations of the family tree, generations which began with Windsor's parents and ended with his great nieces and nephews.

For Windsor it must be an odd document: He only knew his father and brothers briefly. Besides his mother, everyone else in the family tree is a stranger...

He flipped through the narrative family tree which proved useful for placing family members in generations and for providing a general sense of their occupations and interests. However, Zachary had also constructed charts so that familial relationships could be better visualized and he now glanced at these charts while formulating working notes:

Thurmond Family Relationship Charts 9th through 12th Generations

Working notes: Windsor was the first born. Philip had a twin Henry who died in 1946. Three of the four surviving brothers work for the same company. In his narrative family tree Philip hinted that he has not been successful in the family business. However, Charles and Donald were quite successfully as were many of the children. Find out what the family business entails, financial industries is a vague description, and I wonder why more detail has not been provided. Judging by the estimated Zillow price listings of each family members homes (according to the addresses Windsor provided me with) their company is quite lucrative for a small operation, either that or the inherited money has not run dry. Note: If family members are reluctant to talk about family business try to find someone within the oganization who will talk about day to day operations. A general description of the workings of the company could be crucial to identifying possible sublimations that the CMR trait. Question: Will those family members who test positive for the CMR trait correlate to have better or worse business acumen or will their be no correlation? Question: If family members with theCMR trait do correlate with the business success stories will such successes be a possible sublimation of the CMR trait? And how will you possibly measure this? Note: Identifying possible sublimations will make or break your report. Therefore, keep all options open and develop an especially keen eye for any odd behaviors within the family...

Working notes continued: This is the second instance in which male children have died within the Thurmond family. Here Manfred and Aldric died before they reached adulthood, while a generation earlier Charles's brother Henry died as a child. How did these tragedies effect those family members with the CMR trait versus those family members without the CMR trait? Question: Does the CMR trait correlate to feelings of grief that are more or less intense than people lacking the CMR trait, or is there no correlation at all? Note: Get descriptions from family members about the levels of their grief and use a standardized grieving scale. Note: Have Sam send you such a scale via snail mail as you will not have access to materials once you are on the road: The Philadephia Grieving Inventory 3rd Edition may be the most reliable and valid of the various grieiving scales (if memory serves correct, so ask Sam her opinion).

Working notes continued: Edbert and Elvin are the second time that at least 2 male children have died within an immediate family grouping, and the third time that at least 1 male child has died within an immediate family grouping. Kolby is the fourth time that at least 1 male child has died within an immediate family grouping. Statistically this seems like a high child death rate percentage. However, a common statistical error is to derive general conclusions from a small sample size. Within a small sample there can be wild swings in variability. Furthermore, the causes of death are varied. This seems to be a case of bad luck within the Thurmond family. In Philip's narrative description he explains that his wife has titled this bad luck, "Herod's Curse." Ask the family members their opinion about this curse. It is a somewhat fitting name, though in the biblical story infants died, and in the Thurmond family the children who died all almost reached adolescence. Also, in the biblical story the infants were murdered while the children in the Thurmond family have died of natural causes. Note: This streak of bad luck offers you a good opportunity to continue to study the correlation of levels of experienced grief for people with the CMR trait versus levels of experienced grief for people without the CMR trait. From this grieving data you may further be able to extrapolate empathy measures, as grieving and empathy are related emotions. Question: Do people with the CMR trait correlate with lower levels of empathy?

Working notes continued: Again male children have died within the Thurmond family. Continue to follow up on grieving data and administer Philadelphia Grieving Inventory (or some other norm-referenced measure) to both Philip and Laural...

Zachary planned to use his working notes to brainstorm research questions concerning the CMR trait. However, this assumed that other Thurmond family members besides Windsor would test positive, an outcome which was entirely uncertain. Nevertheless, Zachary had prepared CMR contingency testing (such as the planned grief studies mentioned in his working notes). However, his exorbitant salary was being paid to help Windsor choose an heir-apparent through simple CMR trait testing, not CMR contingency testing, and therefore only if time allowed would he engage in both testing formats.

The method that Zachary had decided upon for detecting racism in Windsor's family was a test created by his colleagues at Harvard University: the Implicit Association Test (available at: implicit.harvard.edu). Zachary had decided to use this test (though his own variation) because he did not believe that racism was a topic about which people would be explicitly honest, especially with billions of dollars on the line. Ironically, Windsor had been explicitly honest about his deep-rooted racism, though he needed a confidentiality agreement to accomplish this feat. Importantly, when implicit beliefs are measured they are extremely difficult to hide or change because what is being measured is not conscious but subconscious thought. A person can easily say, "I like to eat sushi," when in fact they do not like to eat sushi. However, if their implicit approval of sushi is measured, then it is much more difficult (some might even say impossible, Zachary noted to Windsor) to fib their answers. The Implicit Association test is a tool that psychologists use to measure implicit thought, and a variety of subjects can be measured, racial prejudice being one of them. The test is based on quick sorting. Words or images are sorted into groups as quickly as possible. For example one group could be (1) black or bad, while the other group is (2) white or good. Then a word appears on the screen such as thief. The test taker needs to sort that word into the black or bad category. Next a word such as George Washington might appear and the test taker needs to sort that word into the white or goodcategory. After a baseline score for these categories is obtained the two groups are switched to (1) black or good and (2) white or bad. Then a word such as charity worker appears on the screen. The test taker needs to sort that in the black or good category. Next a word such as crack addict appears on the screen. The test taker needs to sort that word into the white or bad category. These scores are then compared with the baseline scores. If there is little discrepancy between the scores then no prejudice is indicated for associating white with good and black with bad, or in the rare case, white with bad and black with good. If there is a discrepancy then the magnitude of the prejudice is assigned a value from slight to strong. Zachary liked this test, but he had designed his own version meant to tease out any lingering cannibalistic-murderous-racism that still might exist in the Thurmond family tree, and therefore when compared with the free versions of the test available on the internet, his version was more viscerally graphic and gory.

His cell phone rang, the screen read Samantha, and without hesitation he answered, saying, "Hello, I have just landed." She apologized, told him she had discussed the Windsor-matter with Omar, and would help from a research perspective but that neither she nor Omar could travel due to other work arrangements and therefore could not conduct testing. Eventually, Zachary apologized and Samantha accepted his apology. The conversation ended well and he finished his draft of beer contentedly. He mused over the phone conversation that he had with Windsor before boarding the airplane. Windsor had provided some instruction, saying, "I would like the money to continue on with a male heir."

"Are you sexist too?" Zachary asked.

"Nothing of the sort – however, for personal reasons I would like the money to continue on with a male heir," said Windsor.

"And what reason is that?" Zachary asked.

"Please, respect my privacy," said Windsor testily.

"Okay subject closed...but does that mean I should not test females?" Zachary asked.

"That is up to you. You may want to still gather the data for your Trait Theory research," said Windsor.

"I know that you don't want to talk about your family but can you at least tell me about your mother?" Zachary asked.

"My mother was a very brave woman," said Windsor.

"In what way?" Zachary asked.

"This is not something that I wish to talk about," said Windsor.

"Can you at least tell me if she was a racist so I can start to build my Trait Theory?" Zachary asked.

"This is not up for conversation Zachary. Please respect my wish. However, feel free to talk to my brothers or anyone else who would have known her – they will doubtlessly have an opinion on the matter," said Windsor, who then hung up the phone.

I guess now he has a right to hang up on me, because I am, in a sense, his employee...

However, Zachary wondered if it hadn't merely been his probing that had caused Windsor to end the call prematurely. Earlier in the conversation Zachary had informed Windsor that his home was for sale and that he might have to abandon testing while closing a deal.

Windsor had responded with a suggestion, "I know of a great agent. If your house isn't selling old boy this fine fellow can really get the job done. I've used him for multiple properties and I've never been disappointed, and he is a real whiz-banger when it comes to negotiations, he'll get you a top price."

Although Zachary was now employed by Windsor, he didn't want to accept favors from this cannibalistic-murderous-racist (and possible sexist), and so had declined the offer – which Zachary noted seemed to have peeved Windsor.

What can I say old boy, I just don't feel like being buddy-buddy...

A few minutes later Zachary received a call from Tony Blanchette.

"Zachary I heard the good news."

"Yes, I guess I'm going to be a movie star."

Tony laughed. "Can we get started? Where are you now?"

"Actually Tony I'm in Washington," said Zachary.

"The capital?"

"Yes."

"For work?"

"Yes, for a job. But I have to say Tony, this job is even more confidential than what I normally do. It might be best just to wait until it is over," said Zachary.

"That's how you want to play it?" Tony asked.

"I'm afraid so yes," said Zachary.

"Well, how long will it take?"

"It's hard to say. But I'll let you know when I have a better idea of the time frame."

"Roger that – I would like to get started somehow though. Is it okay if I start installing the cameras in your house?" Tony asked.

"What do you mean?" Zachary asked.

"We didn't talk about that?"

"No..."

Tony cleared his throat. "We want to get a real-life angle of what it is like to be in your shoes. So we want to follow you around everywhere with cameras, but also, have them inside your house."

"That sounds intense."

"Not really Zachary -- it might seem anti-intuitive but you will forget the cameras are there. And it will make for a much better documentary..."

Zachary did not like the idea of cameras inside his house. Yet what did he expect, this was a documentary after all? And furthermore if he ruined this chance at free publicity, he couldn't imagine the reaction from Samantha.

"Tony, I'm all-in on this thing. I'll get you in touch with my real estate agent. She has a key to my house..."

The call having ended, Zachary looked around, wondering if John the photographer was looking around for him. But he saw no one in the vicinity scanning for people (Zachary had informed him via text that he had brown hair and was seated at the Box Bar) and so he decided to call Jasmine to inform her that he had landed safely.

"When will you be back?" she asked.

For Zachary it felt like they had had more than one date, perhaps because the date had lasted into the wee hours of the morning, and he replied, "I don't know. It all depends on how much work we can get done on this trip."

"I'm just asking because I think I left a shirt at your house, not because I necessarily want to hang out again," said Jasmine, laughing.

"Wow, the mind games have already started..."

Ten minutes later, an African-American man sat at Zachary's table and introduced himself as John Perkins, which surprised Zachary because he hadn't expected John to be black. Thinking it rude to display his astonishment he did his best to remain poker faced and asked John if he would like to join him for some pub grub – all the while wondering if John had been informed of Zachary's mission: to weed out cannibalistic-murderous-racists, which that meant John, as a dark skinned black man, would potentially be snapping photos of folks who wanted (even if subconsciously) to eat his flesh.

Something doesn't feel right...

"You finish up Zachary. I have already had lunch. How was the flight?" John asked.

"Fine. So did you meet with Windsor in person, or was it a telephone interview?" Zachary asked, trying to be nonchalant and adding, "I ask because I find Windsor an odd-sort and I am always interested in how people make his acquaintance."

"I met him in person, and yes, he is an odd duck. I kept feeling as if he were trying to stare right through me," said John, shuddering.

"So do you travel a lot as a photographer?" Zachary asked.

"I go where the money recommends me..."

"You must be top-notch in your field," said Zachary.

"I operate within a small circle, no advertising, all word of mouth. And I believe you are a psychologist correct?" said John.

"That is correct," said Zachary, wondering if he should tell him point blank about the nature of his testing.

"Don't worry, I won't get in your way. Windsor told me that your testing is confidential and that I wasn't supposed to ask you about it. I will just be snapping pictures while you do your thing. But don't worry. I won't be nosy," said John, smiling widely.

Zachary decided to call Windsor as soon as he had a moment away from John.

Perhaps there has been a mix up and Windsor doesn't even realize that John is black...

As they drove together to their hotel Zachary noted that John was an able conversationalist and wondered if this skill aided his position as a portrait photographer. After speaking to him for a few minutes -- as they sat in bumper to bumper traffic -- Zachary began to forget that he was black.

Is this what it feels like to be Windsor...

"You should show me some of your work. I'd love to see it," said Zachary.

"I'd love to, but I didn't bring any of my binders with me. But if we pass through my hometown Baltimore, or if we take a break from working, and then meet back up, I will grab some, why? Do you think you might know some people who might need portraits?"

"John, up until very recently I worked at Harvard. Talk about egomaniacs. I bet 90% of the professors there would like to know a good portrait photographer for that prestigious- looking portrait that they can hang of themselves and their family above the hearth," said Zachary.

"I take it you don't have a wife and kids?" John asked.

"Yeah I sounded a little cynical there didn't I? Sorry about that. I'm not opposed to families. I come from one as a matter of a fact. No, I am just opposed to families who do things like take gushy family portraits and then send them out on Christmas greeting cards," said Zachary.

"I'm sure lots of my work has been relegated to the Christmas card arena by families eager to impress their Christmas card list," said John.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything disparaging by that," said Zachary.

"Oh, I don't mind, really. That sort of thing just comes with the territory. We can't all be Irving Penn," said John; Zachary recognized the reference and approved of his artistic taste.

Once at the hotel they unpacked, though minimally, as they would only be staying in D.C. for a few nights. Their agenda was not set in stone. Optimally, there were eleven households and two college students to test: 1) Charles' household 2) Alburt's household 3) Kaci's household 4) Teal's household 5) Donald's household 6) Chase's household 7) Mick's household 8) Yetta's household 9) Fara's household 10) Nikkie's household and 11) Philip's household (he lived with his adult daughter Laural and her household). The two college students were Jonnie and Fayne, but fortunately they were both at Harvard.

However, it was inevitable that someone would decline, even with the possibility of a gargantuan inheritance. Initially Zachary had been skeptical but Windsor explained, "Everyone has things to hide. And some family members are already extraordinarily wealthy. They might not think it worth the bother..."

Because Windsor had only recently sent out the letters, letters that requested consent in an RSVP format, it meant that not everyone had replied. Therefore, an optimal route was impossible to calculate at this point – so the route would have to be calculated on the fly as the RSVP's were received. Luckily the family was overwhelmingly concentrated in Washington D.C., and therefore, Zachary believed it logical to start the testing in D.C. and then move to the fringes (such as Texas and Pennsylvania as the RSVPs continued to arrive), and then loop back to D.C. if necessary. Windsor had provided Zachary with an address list, which Zachary used as a paper method of noting who had replied to the RSVP:

Thurmond Family Address List:

Charles:

2933-2943 Benton Place

Kalorama Neighborhood

Washington, D.C.

20008

Note: RSVP accepted | Alburt:

1714 Massachusetts Ave

Dupont Circle

Washington D.C.

20036 | Kaci:

8542 El Paseo Grande

La Jolla, CA

92037 | Teal:

8802 Memorial Drive

Houston, Texas

77024-5809

---|---|---|---

Donald:

2510 Foxhall Road

Foxhall Neighborhood

Washington, D.C.

20007

Note: RSVP accepted  | Chase:

108 Timberwilde Lane

Houston, Texas

77024-6922

Note: RSVP accepted | Mick:

2520 Foxhall Road

Foxhall Neighborhood

Washington, D.C.

20007

Note: RSVP accepted | Yetta:

3259 R Street

Georgetown

Washington, D.C.

20007

Fara:

4 Thompson Circle

Cleveland Park

Washington, D.C.

20008 | Nikkie:

4847 Rockwood Pkwy

Spring Valley

Washington, D.C.

20016 | Philip:

1410 Monk Road

Gladwyne, PE

19035 | Jonnie and Fayne:

Fayne: 175 Main St. Apartment 3, Cambridge MA

Jonnie: Harvard: Quincy House, Room: 7

Zachary noted that there were six Thurmond households in Washington, D.C., two Thurmond households in Texas, one Thurmond household in Pennsylvania, one Thurmond household in California, and two Thurmond college students currently residing in Cambridge Massachusetts, and of the eleven households that four had accepted the invitation to be tested -- three in Washington D.C. and one in Texas – and that none of households had yet refused. Neither college student had replied to the RSVP.

Windsor had set up a joint G-mail account with Zachary so that in theory they could both monitor who had replied. But as Windsor qualified, "It is only a joint account in the case that by some whim of the muses I decided to log on and check out the progress. I don't think that likely. I've stayed out of my family's business for all these years and I really don't want to start now, even if I am the ring leader of this whole circus..."

Windsor had also hired a computer programmer to supply Zachary with a computer program to keep track of who had accepted or declined the testing invitation, and for those who had already been tested: a display of the results. It was a virtual version of the family tree that Zachary also had in paper form – though without any of the narrative details. Households who had accepted the testing invitation were shown in green font. Households who had declined the testing invitation were shown in red font. Households that had already been tested had their results transferred to a graph, where their degree of implicit cannibalistic-murderous-racism was to be ordered sequentially by magnitude, and also by generation. Zachary thought it a nifty bit of computer programming.

As John began flipping through television channels, Zachary told him he was going to the lobby to search for internet access. He walked down two flights of stairs and stood in the corner of a hall, near an ice-machine. Before he called Windsor, Zachary wanted to plan exactly what he would say about John. He didn't want to sound like a racist himself. However, he also worried that he was pestering Windsor with needless questions.

Every time I question him I drive him crazy...Plus, he bragged to me that he has some amazing ability to discern the blackness of people...Also, this would be an absurd conversation, me informing another human that another human is black...

Considering the matter a few more moments, he decided not to call.

Besides, John won't be in danger because I wouldn't be conducting this testing if the CMR trait wasn't dormant, and if it wasn't dormant these family members wouldn't all be such success stories, as described in Philip's narrative, they'd be in jail and on the news – for eating people...

Zachary returned to the room, reviewing with John the schedule and procedures. Later they found a comedy program they had discussed during the car ride and watched it until they fell asleep.

Newton, MA: On one hand, Ralph thought that he might have avoided punishment. Yet on the other, he knew his father, Mick, to be a calculating man and with trepidation he followed him to the garage. His father did not say a word and held a metal baseball bat. Once inside the garage Mick ordered Ralph to drive his Benz to the back driveway. Ralph parked his car and got out.

"I know everything from the officer so we don't have to talk about it. I don't want to hear denials. I don't want to hear admissions. But if you ever do anything illegal like that again, so as to put our family name up for ridicule --." said Mick, suddenly ceasing with his lecture and smashing the baseball bat through the front windshield.

"Dad, no!" shouted Ralph.

"Oh, this is just the start, son. Here, hold my cell-phone," said Mick, handing his Ralph his cell phone and taking safety glasses from his pocket and putting them on.

Predictable, even this was planned...

He smashed all the windows, bashing the car until it was completely demolished.

"You are holding my phone because that number there is for a scrap metal company. I want you to call them and tell them you have some scrap metal for them to pick up..."

Newton, MA: From inside, Mick watched his son fumbling with the phone and practically in tears while waiting for the scrap metal company to arrive. Previously, he had thought that he could spare Ralph the rigors of his own upbringing, but as time passed that looked less like a reality. Soon a choice had to be made. He would be leaving for the hunting lodge in one week and if he took Ralph on a "hunting trip" then the trajectory of Ralph's life would be changed forever. He'd sworn to himself that he would never again impose that fate upon his children, but Ralph needed toughening up. Taking him to the hunting lodge would fulfill that objective. Still, it was not a decision to be made lightly....

Assessment One: Charles Thurmond

Relation to Windsor: Brother

Address: 2933-2943 Benton Place, Kalorama Neighborhood, Washington, D.C, 20008

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Charles Thurmond...son of Norman and Virginia Thurmond

Profession: Financial Industries

B. 1932. Age: 76

Of everyone in the family, I look up to Charles the most. He has accomplished it all!

Charles like his bother Donald, and like me, also lost his first two boys. But unlike Donald and me, where the deaths came in the same year (for me 1977 and for Donald 1972) Charles had to suffer through two horrendous years: 1978 and 1982. His boys Manfred and Aldric embodied all that was right, innocent, and pure. Having the looks of their mother they were quite handsome and pleasing to the eye. But it was the strength of the love-bond between Charles and Cindy that kept them strong and kept them moving forward for the sake of their other three amazing children: Alburt, Kaci, and Teal. It is no secret that while Charles shaves his head bald each day, in fact he has a full head of hair: a rare feat for a 76 year old man! This bald head makes him look somewhat imposing and menacing, and I once asked him why he didn't grow his hair long, as is the fashion of most men who still retain it. He replied, "I shave my head bald so as to give me an edge in negotiations. Shaving my head makes it clear that I have nothing to hide. My thoughts are just below the level of my skin. Admittedly I would look better, were I to grow my hair and style it with a part, or some such styling. But that is vanity. And vanity does not put food on the table for my family. And everything I do I do for my children– but also my brothers and their children – and even the memory of my parents, and the memory of my dead wife and children, and the memory of your dead children, and the memory of Donald's dead children, for I know they are with us still. What we do now echoes for eternity!" As I said at the start, Charles is the man that I look up to most – man being the operative word – for Charles is not afraid to do his duty, to take his lumps, and to follow through on his commitments in the proud and honorable tradition of the Thurmond family way!

Washington: Normally Zachary didn't wear dress shoes, but as a representative of Dunbar and Associates he thought it professional to wear shoes rather than sneakers. However, as he walked around the hotel room in his new digs he realized that the shoes were awkwardly uncomfortable. Therefore, he decided to buy inserts. The front desk clerk pointed Zachary on his way. Outside he passed a small anti-poverty demonstration but declined to make a donation. At the drug store the cashier cut the inserts to the correct size by using a store razor. Zachary immediately applied the inserts and approved of the result. Walking outside with happier feet he now made a donation.

Maybe the world's problems would be solved if people just wore inserts...

After a complimentary hotel breakfast, Zachary and John left for their first meeting: Charles Thurmond. The narrative family tree described Charles as (1) a skilled negotiator who at 76 still had not retired (2) a husband with a deceased wife named Cindy and (3) a father with two deceased and three living offspring. Phillip Thurmond, who had written the narrative family tree, also described Charles as the family member he "admired most." Zachary planned to gather as much interview case history material from Charles as possible, such as (a) his relationship with his mother (b) his relationship with his father and (c) any information he could provide concerning his parents' viewpoints, especially racial ones.

Furthermore, in the event that Charles tested CMR positive Zachary had prepared CMR contingency testing. Zachary had attempted to set up an appointment with Charles's company, Pinnacle Corp but declined their offered appointment date because the soonest slot they had available was in 30 days and Zachary did not know if he would be in D.C. at that point in time or even if the appointment would be of any use, as it was entirely possible that no Thurmond Family members who worked for Pinnacle (or any in general) would test CMR positive.

The robotic voice of the GPS stated that it was only 2 miles from the Ritz Carlton Georgetown (their current location) to Charles' home. And as John drove, Zachary wondered if he should offer to drive.

I hope that he doesn't think that I expect him to drive because he is black ...maybe I should tell him to pull over and that I will drive...no, that wouldn't sound natural: I'll offer on the way back...

The drive was pleasant, almost exclusively on a greenbelt. Charles lived very close to Embassy row. Each home in the neighborhood was indicative of the top 1% income bracket. Parking was not a problem and Charles met them at the door. The three quickly shook hands, exchanged greetings, and Charles led them inside. Zachary verbally observed the Tuscan feel to both the architecture and the home's decorations.

"Yes, my wife, though not Italian, was impressed by Italy. Fittingly, the Italian Embassy is just around the corner. We have had some Italian diplomats over for coffee or dinner and they..."

As Charles continued with his story, Zachary noted that his physical description did not correspond to that provided in the narrative family tree; he did not in fact, shave his head bald, instead it was covered in thick white hair. Having just finished with his story about the Italian diplomats, Charles pointed to six massive portraits above the hearth and said to John, "You have some competition."

"Although of course I will not be painting, these are your ancestors I take it?" said John.

"Yes," said Charles, and pointing added, "Allow me to introduce my father Norman, his father Roland, his father Norman, his father Nigel, his father Benjamin, and his father Windsor."

Zachary noted that in some of the paintings the subjects looked bored, as if they had been sitting for all eternity.

Which if the paintings hold up, they will be...

In the third painting Zachary noted the peculiar inclusion of a whip. Charles observed Zachary staring at this painting and said, "That is Norman, my father's grandfather."

"It looks like he is holding a whip," said Zachary.

"Yes, that is a whip. Most people don't notice that. I think because the painting is dark and it is coiled on his lap," said Charles.

"Why the whip?" John asked.

"Well, you can probably guess it I'm afraid," said Charles.

"He was a slave-owner," said John.

"Yes, and in fact my families' slave owning past goes back far before that. It was the seed from which the wealth of my father's side was generated. Apparently my great-grandfather believed his position as slave-owner significant enough to his identity to pose for all posterity whip in hand," said Charles.

"Does that bother you?" Zachary asked.

"Do you mean do I find my ancestors' involvement in the 'peculiar institution' morally repugnant? Of course I do. Do I blame them? No. They were products of their time. They honestly thought they were doing the Negros, as they were called then, a service by enslaving them. For example, they believed that Negros had smaller brains, were sexually promiscuous, and were prone to disease. My ancestors believed that they were saving their slaves and giving them a better life. Of course now we know all these theories to be utter nonsense. John here is just as capable as, you or I, Zachary of doing anything as good or better than we can do it; though all humans live somewhere within a bell curve of performance and talent but that bell curve has nothing to do with race. In fact the study of biology gives no credence to the reality of race as a scientific construct; race is a social construct. Under our skin, in a scientific sense, there is no difference between a black and a white. Blacks and whites are completely equal in all senses of the word. Furthermore, I think that racism is on the decline."

"And how did you come to this conclusion?" John asked.

"Well, to make up for past grievances towards African Americans we have programs such as Affirmative Action. Also, Barak Obama has been nominated to be President, and that is another step in the right direction. I guess that if there were still slavery, as strange as that statement sounds, then I would feel more ashamed at what my ancestors had done. But since we as a people, both black and white, have made so much progress I think that things have turned out acceptably well. I'm proud of both my country and my family. My country has made mistakes such as slavery. But it has made up for them through Emancipation, the Reformation, Civil Rights, and Affirmative Action. My family has made mistakes, such as owning slaves. My family has tried to make up for that by becoming active philanthropists and donating heartily to black causes such as civil rights causes," said Charles.

"Yes, I remember reading in the narrative family tree that your father Norman wrote a personal check to MLK for some $50,000, a tidy sum of money in 1962," said Zachary.

"Don't tell me you got your hands on Philip's family tree?" said Charles, smiling.

"Yes. I've actually read it quite thoroughly so as to get an idea of what is what within the family," said Zachary.

"What did he say over and over? 'The great green pasture in the sky!' And he kept talking about the Thurmond family honor," said Charles laughing.

"He also said that you shaved your head bald so that you could better negotiate," Zachary noted.

"I did do that. But only once I think in 1970. To read Philip's rendering of things you would think that I go to sleep at night with a razor in my hand, counting the hours before I can shave my head again," said Charles.

"So why the exaggeration?" Zachary asked.

"Sadly, Philip wrote his family tree about six months ago and had started his decline into dementia about 9 months prior to that. The decline has been swift and so what he has written is peppered with both fact and fiction. Therefore, if you need to know if any particular statement is true I'd ask that person it relates to; don't rely on what Philip has written," said Charles.

Zachary nodded. "I'm sorry about your brother."

"Philip? Yes. Dementia is tragic. But it won't be the first time I've lost a brother," said Charles.

"Henry," said Zachary.

"You have thoroughly read the family tree," said Charles.

"What happened? Pneumonia, right?" said Zachary.

"Yes. I was 14. That is the age at which the reality of such a loss sinks fully into the heart. Had I been but a little younger I believe that I would have been immune to the pain," said Charles.

"You also lost two children," said Zachary, flipping open his notebook. "Manfred and Aldric."

"This family seems quite prone to horrific tragedy," said Charles.

"Yes, it is what Philip wrote that his wife termed 'Herod's curse.' Did she really do that?" said Zachary.

"That is accurate. She did come up with that term," said Charles.

"I'm sorry to interrupt. But is there a bathroom I could use?" John asked.

Charles led him around the corner, returning a moment later.

"And what is your opinion, if I may ask, of Herod's curse?" said Zachary.

"Ah, the family curse -- yes, I believe in it completely. Unfortunately I think that the universe has a way of evening the playing field. Oftentimes in human affairs great victory is followed by great defeat. This family, the Thurmonds, we have been quite successful. I think these personal tragedies are the universe's way of reminding this family that we are mortal. Look at the Kennedy's. The same thing happened to them. Victory after victory in the business and political arenas, followed by a series of heart-wrenching personal tragedies," said Charles.

Zachary nodded.

"Why do you ask? Or rather, will the answers I am giving now also inform your decision as to who to recommend for the inheritance? I knew from Windsor's testing that you had planned on giving racism testing, but I wasn't aware that other factors would also take precedence in a decision," said Charles.

"All aspects of the testing are confidential so I can tell you this now because John is still in the bathroom: it is important for me to gather a good case history on each subject that I test. My assessments are reliable and valid but the more interview information that is gathered the better. It will all be included in the final report. And by the way, I won't be making a recommendation; I'll just be reporting the facts. So I don't know exactly how Windsor will make his choice. For all I know he could be looking for the most racist family member, the least, or the one right in the middle. Who knows?" lied Zachary, hoping this disinformation would filter its way through the family and the possibility of bribes, blackmail, or other stressful situations would be headed off from the get-go.

"Well, I hope to be considered seriously for the inheritance. Not for the personal vanity, but for the good that I could achieve," said Charles.

"Windsor has told me that he would like nothing more than for this money to remain in the family," said Zachary.

John returned from the bathroom, saying, "That was more impressive than our hotel."

"Where are you staying?" Charles asked.

"The Ritz," said John.

"Good to see that Windsor didn't turn into a miser, though I guess this whole exercise in a way proves that he hasn't...So as I understand we have two things to accomplish here. Photographs and testing – which will be first?" Charles asked.

"I will test you first," said Zachary, turning towards John. "And I think John – what did you say to me on the way in – you want to look around and find a place that will make for a good shot?"

"Yes," said John, and after quickly clearing his throat, he added, "If possible Charles, I'd like to wander around your impressive home and use my photographer's eye to find a location that will be flattering to both you and your home."

"That is fine, though I assume that you have of course finished the sexual offender and criminal background checks by this point?" Charles asked.

"I'm sorry I haven't had time to get to that email yet," said John.

"Well, we can work that detail out now then. I'll let you use my personal computer," said Charles.

"Is this really necessary? I have to say that as a photographer I've never had to take a background check. I take pictures – that is all there is to it," said John.

Charles moved closer to John, his expression suddenly sharp and he said, "My family hasn't retained its wealth for generations by taking unnecessary risks, Mr. Perkins. So before you meet up to photograph any of my family members I'd like you to take that sexual offender and criminal background check. This is not personal Mr. Perkins. But the households of this family are replete with unimaginable valuables. If someone is going to be wandering I would like to know that they haven't been convicted of theft. And also you will be working with children in the family and I want to be certain that you don't have an appetite for any perverted indiscretions. One can't be too careful these days... and I see how you are looking at me, and so I say for the record, here and now, and you can add this to your report Zachary, that this has nothing to do with the fact that John is an African American!"

"Doesn't it? You're telling me that you would accuse a white photographer of being a thief and a pedophile," said John, bluntly.

"Watch your tone young man!" said Charles, his face suddenly red.

"Gentlemen, please. John, I completed my background checks 3 days ago. I didn't bring the subject up with you because I figured you had already done it," said Zachary.

"You had to complete sexual offender and criminal background checks?" John asked.

"Yes, I did. It took five minutes, no big deal," said Zachary, after which the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room sounded, to his ears, suddenly noticeable.

"Charles, I'm sorry for the insinuation. Maybe it has just been all this talk of slavery and people with whips, but it has put me on edge. I reacted inappropriately and I apologize for that," said John, holding out his hand.

Charles shook hands with John while saying, "And I apologize as well. Sometimes my temper just flares, a symptom of the financial life."

"You've got a strong grip," said John.

"Yes, I've heard that before," said Charles, releasing John's hand.

"Well, good, then it is settled," said Zachary. "Charles, where is your computer? Let's set up John and then we can go to a quiet room and begin our testing."

"I'll grab my lap top and be right back," said Charles.

"I'm sorry to disappoint but I still don't feel comfortable with the background checks," said John.

"And why is that?" Charles asked.

"I'm a libertarian. Surveillance, no matter what the source, is something that I do not adhere to because it is inimical to my personal philosophy," said John.

"Then this is a working relationship, Mr. Perkins that seems it is not going to work," said Charles.

"Allow me to speak to my associate for a moment in private," said Zachary.

"Of course, I'll be one room over. To your left there is a bell, so when you are ready give it a jingle, but not too hard, as it is an antique," said Charles.

Zachary nodded and waited for Charles to leave the room. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Like I said I'm a libertarian--."

"You also told me that you were excited to get all this work. I had the idea that this job was something of a windfall for you. Why are you trying to mess it up?" Zachary asked.

"I'm not. I still want to do the job. But that doesn't mean that I am going to discount my personal beliefs for the progeny of a slave-holder," said John.

"Is that what this is about?" Zachary asked.

I hope that didn't come out wrong...

"A little bit – this bastard makes no apologies for his barbarian kin, and has the fucking audacity to lecture me on racial progress. You know how many times I've been pulled over in the last year, for doing absolutely nothing?" said John, his previously whispered voice now rising. "And that is just the tip of the iceberg – racial progress my ass... and everything here, that stupid antique bell, these stupid Tuscan decorations were all provided by the broken backs of my ancestors, and he has the fucking audacity to insinuate that I'm the fucking criminal here? Slavery is a state of perpetual submission, and, no, I will not submit to these background checks!"

"John, I like you. I do. I've learned a lot about your family over the last day, and also your passion for your work. But you know that nothing in the world is perfect. Sometimes we have to compromise. So what if you don't want to be this guy's best friend? Honestly, Windsor gives me the creeps. But I have a massive mortgage to pay and I need the work. Compromise a little, take the background checks, and make some money. Your family will be thankful that you did," said Zachary.

"Zachary I appreciate the pep talk. It isn't just the libertarian thing," said John.

"What is it?" Zachary asked.

"There might be something on my record. I don't know. I hadn't really thought this would all be necessary. But if there is something on my record I don't want to ruin my reputation. My business is built on word of mouth. I can't take the background test here. I need to talk to my attorney first," said John.

"Okay, I understand. Ah, what do you think it might be?" Zachary asked.

"Nothing big, something that happened 30 years ago when I was 17, so I don't even know if it will show up. But I will need to talk to my attorney in Baltimore," said John.

"If it is not a big thing it might not matter even if it comes up," said Zachary.

"If I were white, yes --but as an African American male these things become very touchy, very quick," said John.

"Okay let me talk to Charles and we will see where we stand for today's testing and photography," said Zachary.

"Are you really going to ring that bell?" John asked.

"No, I'll just go get him..."

Phone Conversation, 4 PM, Washington to Boston: As soon as Zachary heard the ringing of his cell phone, he expected the call to be from Windsor.

Perhaps John has already called him.

However, the call was Samantha. She wanted an update on testing progress.

"It went well," said Zachary, choosing not to discuss the unresolved John-situation. "I haven't had a chance to analyze the results. It appears that he might have been CMR positive so I implemented the contingency testing. But I will have to analyze the results first. At this point it is still guess-work to be honest."

"You know you should never say 'to be honest' because then people will suspect that everything else you have been saying is a lie," said Samantha.

"Yes, of course I know that. But you are not 'people' and so I know you know what I mean," said Zachary, peeved and hoping that she wasn't about to launch into one of her personal-professional analyses of the romantic psyche.

"Well, the reason that I called is because..."

Please don't be some preposterous new theory...

"...a corporation has finally contacted us again. It seems we might not be pariahs after all," said Samantha.

"That is great news! So what is the job?" said Zachary.

If work keeps up maybe selling my house will no longer be a necessity...

"They want us to consult. They are looking for a program to ferret out which prospects with no sales experience will make the most effective sales people," said Samantha.

"Great! That's our specialty. How did they hear about us?" Zachary asked.

"I'm not sure. Do you want to come to the initial meeting with me, or should just Omar and I go? It is in Texas," said Samantha.

"Texas! Our reputation must be spreading. I'm not sure if I will be able to make it. There are some Thurmonds who live in Texas so it is a possibility. But if not are you and Omar okay going alone – or as our Texas President once said – 'Going it alone'?" Zachary asked.

"Very witty – yes that is fine. But there is something else I wanted to talk to you about but I am a little nervous to do so because Omar is in the next room," said Samantha, her voice lowering to a whisper.

Here we go...

"Well if it is that kind of conversation maybe you should just wait," said Zachary.

"I know," said Samantha, still whispering. "Like I said I shouldn't be saying this because he is in the next room, so I can't talk too loud. But I would just like to say --."

"Please not if he is in the next room," said Zachary.

"That why do things always have to be more passionate when there is a degree of illicitness involved?" whispered Samantha.

"I know. I remember reading your passion study – what was it titled? Doing Wrong Feels So Right," said Zachary.

Samantha hurriedly whispered, "Then you'll understand why I need to say right now that lately when I been making love to Omar I've been seeing your face transposed onto his face, especially at the moment of orgasm, especially right then \--."

Has she been drinking from Windsor's cup?

"Stop Samantha! Omar is a real person with real feelings and I am too. You cannot constantly apply these abstract principles to the people around you that you are supposed to care about and think that there will be no consequences!"

"Zachary, please don't shout. Omar, might hear you --."

"I'm hanging up. Call me tomorrow..."

A few hours later Zachary received a text from Jasmine. It read:

So Professor, have you made any vacation plans yet? I hope you haven't forgotten our discussion. You see I not only hand out free advice I follow up on it. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Jasmine you are going to be disappointed in me. I have made no vacation plans yet. Work has been hectic but I know that is no excuse. I still plan to take your advice. Any suggestions of a good place to go?

Jasmine replied:

I find that it is best to just go on a whim. That makes the plane tickets more expensive but it is also more fun. I advise just opening up some free time in your schedule and then making a last minute split second decision. By the way, I had a lot of fun on our date because it was slightly adventurous and I've been thinking about you. It's been really boring here! Why did you have to go away right after we had that cool date? Now I'm going to build you up in my mind and when I meet you again it is going to be such a major let-down. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Thanks for the continued advice. I seriously never would have thought of doing that. And no, your images of me are not an illusion, I really am as breathtaking as you remember. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Hahaha. And by the way: that was a really cruel trick, ordering me that drink and then never telling me the name. I want another. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

That was all my ploy for getting you out a second time.

Jasmine replied:

Hahaha. Good night.

Washington: At first Zachary delayed calling Windsor because he did not want to endanger John's job. However, the question had to be posed whether, without John, testing should continue.

But I don't want to throw John under the bus...

When Zachary made the call Windsor immediately informed Zachary that John had already called, adding, "So he is slowing things down – what do you think the best course of action would be?"

Is this a test? To see if I am a phony and cannot work with African-Americans? To see if the person he has hired to weed out racist family members is a racist himself?

Of course not, he wants to eat black flesh for Christ's sake...

"I don't want to ruin his job opportunity here. But I would like to move forward with testing, and you are paying Dunbar and Associates a substantial sum of money, so I assume the expectation is not that I will just sit around and twiddle my thumbs," said Zachary.

"Yes, I think that continuing with the testing is a good idea. Don't worry, he won't lose his job. It might take him a little while to get this settled though, so he will loop behind. You will no longer be staying together as he needs to go to Baltimore to get this matter settled," said Windsor.

"Understood..."

Curiously, John had forgotten his camera in the hotel room. Zachary called John but there was no answer. Scrolling through John's pictures, it seemed that he had been snapping away the moment he entered the house. In Zachary's opinion, the pictures were horrendous: blurry, unframed, badly positioned, poorly timed, and dimly lighted.

Does this guy just get work because he is black and people want prove they are not racist by hiring the black photographer?

Stop, why would you think that? You probably just don't understand his work...What would Jasmine think if she knew you were thinking like this?

Assessment Two: Alburt Thurmond's Household

Alburt's Relation to Windsor: Nephew

Address: 1714 Massachusetts Ave, Dupont Circle, Washington D.C., 20036

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Alburt Thurmond...son of Charles and Cindy Thurmond

B. 1972. Age: 36

Profession: Financial Industries.

It can't be easy to be the son of a financial maestro like Charles, but Alburt pulls in off marvelously! I know that his work is second to none. And what is also second to none is his stunning wife Cathy! When she walks into a room heads turn and old men like me pine for earlier days! Alburt has also done well in fathering three fine children, Prestin, Dwade, and Hazel. Oh yeah, and when it comes to collecting sports cars can someone please call the doctor because this man has an addiction!

Prestin Thurmond...son of Alburt Thurmond and Cathy Thurmond

B. 1997 Age: 11

I see in Prestin the good character and proud citizenship of his father Alburt. Prestin is a boy who will never be satisfied with good enough. Prestin has already achieved three merit badges from the Gray Cliff Lodge! Prestin you are a boy who from great things will come!

Dwade Thurmond...son of Alburt Thurmond and Cathy Thurmond

B. 1998 Age: 10

What a fine young boy! He excels at sports, has already achieved his first merit badge from the Gray Cliff Lodge, and his school marks are impeccable! Dwade keep up the good work because you are on the path to great glory and riches!

Hazel Thurmond...daughter of Alburt Thurmond and Cathy Thurmond

B. 2002 Age: 6

In her eyes you see all the purity of the world! This dazzling child dazzles all who come within her sight!

Washington: Alburt Thurmond and his three children, Prestin, Dwade, and Hazel, all tested CMR positive. Alburt's wife, as expected, tested negative. Although the magnitude of their positive results was clearly above the level of trace elements, it would be hours before Zachary had completely analyzed the results and could construct a graph. Oddly, when Zachary stated that both Prestin and Dwade's results indicated racist tendencies, Zachary believed that he detected relief in Alburt's expression. When Zachary told Alburt the positive results of his daughter Hazel, he could see no expression of relief. Was his poker face up at this point?

Zachary asked Alburt about Herod's curse and Alburt waved it off as a silly superstition, saying, "Look at my boys -- healthy as lions."

As Alburt prepared to leave for work, Zachary informed him that the results were non-conclusive because psychologists are still studying the ramifications of implied beliefs.

"So you are saying that your testing may have no value at all?" Alburt asked.

"Basically yes," said Zachary.

"And yet it will be the basis to determine who will inherit 3.5 Billion. The world never ceases to amaze me," said Alburt, with a whimsical smile.

Zachary qualified, "Scientists must heap on the proof before we can declare that a test is valid and reliable. What I am testing for is such a small population that it will be difficult to ever do this in accord with the stringent standards that science requires. Science, in general, tries to avoid placing too much emphasis on expert opinion, because expert opinion is just the opinion of one man or woman. However, in new areas of research, expert opinion is quite important – that is in areas where the research leg of evidence-based-practice has not had sufficient time to develop. This is just such an area, and thus my expert opinion does carry more weight than science would prefer."

"I see. So what would you recommend?"

"You and your children have all tested positive for a strong strain of racism, and I can make therapy recommendations," said Zachary, having decided at the outset not to get into revelations of thecannibalistic-murderous part, thinking that, if anything, it would outrage the Thurmonds and put an early end to his testing circuit.

No matter the facts, people seek, at all costs, to protect their egos...

However, in the interests of ethical disclosure, he did plan to inform them in the final report if they had any tendencies toward covert (i.e. dormant) CMR, and also to provide therapy suggestions for any family members who wished to grapple with the reality that they were carriers of a dormant trait with tremendously negative social implications.

After Alburt left for work Zachary interviewed his wife, Cathy, discovering that she was concerned about the behavior of her children, "I feel like my boys have grown up at such a young age." She stated that Herod's Curse was often discussed at family events, and that yes, she was concerned about this as well.

"What did your husband tell you?" Zachary asked.

"That it was a silly superstition and that it wouldn't happen to our boys," said Cathy.

"And what do you think?" Zachary asked.

"Well, the doctors can find no illnesses, and while I think it is a silly superstition, when a black cat crosses the street in front of me I take note. I wonder: is there some bad luck coming my way?" said Cathy.

"Thank you Mrs. Thurmond. You have been most helpful and you really do have a lovely home here..."

Before Cathy said goodbye she told Zachary that she wanted him to examine her daughter Hazel's bedroom and led him upstairs. There she showed him Hazel's toy box: it was filled with decapitated doll heads.

Having examined the heads, Zachary replied, "Sad to say, children commonly do this. It is often an early manifestation of dealing with body image, though admittedly this theory is up for some debate. It also could be something as simple as a desire to understand human anatomy. The sense of inquiry is the foundation of science and so she may show an aptitude for this discipline."

"Well, there is something else, something I had hoped not to show you – but I think it will shed more light on the doll decapitations," said Cathy.

"Well, what is it?" Zachary asked.

"Better you just see it," said Cathy.

They walked in silence out of the house and into the woods immediately behind the garage. There, a small path took them about 100 feet into a pinewood forest. The ground, covered in pine needles, was soft. There were lush ferns here and there and Zachary thought it must be a wonderful place to play make-believe as a child.

"This is all our property," said Cathy.

"Yes, it is very nice," said Zachary.

"It was one of the main reasons we bought the house. We really liked the grounds...Ah, here we are," said Cathy, stopping.

Zachary froze, shocked. The scene was markedly different from the idyllic pine forest in which it was contained: wooden spears had been stuck into the ground, and at the top, impaled doll heads.

"This was your daughter's work?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, she freely admits it," said Cathy.

"Why don't you take it down?" Zachary asked.

"I have, three times," said Cathy.

"Yes, this is more serious," said Zachary, approaching the heads. He could see that in most cases the eyes had been plucked out. "Is she seeing a therapist?"

"Alburt won't allow it. He said that he was violent as a child too. But that he grew out of it," said Cathy.

"And what do you think?" Zachary asked.

"I think that she should see a therapist. I don't think this is normal," said Cathy.

"I agree. I don't think this falls within the range of normal behavior for a 6 year old, or any age for that matter. If you like I could talk to Alburt about my recommendation that Hazel see a therapist. I could even talk to some colleagues in the area and see who would be best suited for this sort of issue," said Zachary.

"And what exactly is the issue?" Cathy asked.

Either (a) your daughter is sublimating the fact that she wants to eat black flesh through the construction of impaled doll heads, which if true, though shockingly gratuitous, has achieved its aim of preventing an illegal and much more destructive behavior or (b) she has the underpinnings of major negative body issues, ones that will perhaps lead to the development of anorexia or bulimia in the early to late teens...

"It is tough to say, but it could be that your daughter has what could turn into some major negative body issues," said Zachary, having decided to suggest the explanation that would be easiest for Cathy Thurmond to handle.

"Oh, no! Is it my fault?" said Cathy.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. This is not my area of expertise. Furthermore, I still haven't fully analyzed your daughter's data. By the time I have written my final report I will have some better informed conclusions and recommendations," said Zachary.

"I see. Well, if you could make those therapy recommendations in any case that would be great. That way I could get a head start," said Cathy.

"What about the boys? How has their development been?" Zachary asked as they walked back to the house.

"Rocky, they were violent, lots of fights with each other and other boys," said Cathy.

"And how has your husband responded?" Zachary asked.

"He disciplines them when they beat up another boy, or each other, but his basic attitude is, I would say: boys will be boys," said Cathy.

"That must be frustrating," said Zachary.

"It was," said Cathy.

"What do you mean 'was'?" Zachary asked.

"Well, as I said earlier my boys have grown up so fast. They are the pinnacle of mature and good behavior now. And as Alburt predicted they have grown out of their violent tendencies. There have been no incidents since they turned 10. Alburt says the same thing will happen with Hazel," said Cathy.

"Well, maybe he is right," said Zachary.

"Yes, maybe..." 

### Chapter Seven

Phone Conversation, 8PM, Washington to Boston: After analyzing the results of households 1 and 2, Zachary teleconferenced with Samantha and Omar. As the meeting turned towards the results of the data Zachary declared emphatically, "Thus far what has been indicated by the data has been astounding! I wondered whether within the Thurmond family there would be more CMR than found within the general population. More does not express it! And so far all five family members tested positive for the trait!"

"You sound like you are happy about this," Samantha noted.

"Sorry, that is just the scientist in me. Of course it is awful for people to be running around with this horrendous trait dormant in their system and potentially influencing their thinking on a subconscious level, but on the other hand, this could be a major breakthrough for Trait Theory!" said Zachary. "We have quite a unique population here to study."

"Zachary I hate to state the obvious, but you have identified people who have a strong subconscious wish to eat the flesh of black people, and you are excited because this could be important for your little pet project," said Samantha.

"I don't think that is what Zachary is saying at all," Omar interrupted. "I know that Zachary would not be elated to discover that potential white cannibals are running amok within the population, right?"

"Thank you Omar, of course I am not happy that this is reality. But Samantha you know as well as I do that as scientists one of the first steps in the scientific method is to gather data. And we havefound this data. We have not created this data. On a side note, I'm also thinking that I have two avenues of contingency research that seem obvious to me," said Zachary, who then explained his plans for a grief inventory and personal adjustment assessments.

"Zachary, I hate to admit it, but those are two very good ideas. One thing worries me about all this though, you say that you have identified the CMR trait already in five family members and I will need to see that data --."

"I'm sending my charts to your smart-phone right now," Zachary interrupted, emailing the data charts.

"Thank you. But how do we know the CMR trait is dormant, and that these are only subconscious urges? With Windsor the urges are not subconscious at all," said Samantha.

"Because if they weren't subconscious then these people would not be functioning in society \--."

"Serial killers function in society all the time, think of Ted Bundy. He was just the normal plain-spoken guy next door," Samantha interrupted.

"Yes, that is true. But Ted Bundy held a series of minimum wage jobs. The Thurmonds hold high stress jobs. The demands of a high stress job would be too much to juggle with the demands of a serial killer. Besides, there are other reasons for why the Thurmonds are not serial killers. For one thing, serial killers almost always stay within the same race when they kill. Whites kill whites and blacks kill blacks --."

"So you are saying that because this is a desire to kill outside one's race then it does not qualify as the desire to be a serial killer?" Samantha asked.

"What I am saying is that the CMR trait is something more than just merely desiring to be a serial killer --."

"Merely desiring to be a serial killer? Tell all the relatives that Jeffrey Domer ate that it was a mere desire," said Samantha.

"I'm not making myself clear, sorry. But what I am trying to say is that there are a multitude of reasons why this trait must be dormant with the Thurmond family members. For one thing, the CMRtrait is like a super-sized serial killer trait. As Windsor has described, the urges are overpowering and impact all avenues of life. He has only been able to cope because he has been able to engage in a variety of self-chosen diversions. He has not put himself in high-stress situations. The other Thurmond family members have. They are successful because of their high-level financial positions. Financial positions are inherently high stress. Studies have shown that long-term CEO's and executives have on average shorter life spans than people with low stress occupations. If this stress had brought out the trait they would no longer be high level financial players because they would no longer be thinking about creative ways to make money; they would only be thinking about eating black flesh and their businesses would have failed. But their businesses have thrived," said Zachary.

"As you said Windsor does not experience high levels of stress. His job is to float around and give away money, but yet all that racism is bubbling right at the surface," Samantha reasoned.

"Yes, that is true. So I'm thinking that Windsor has a degree of the trait that is stronger. He does function in society, but just barely \--."

"Fine, I follow you. But I also read the narrative family tree, and not everyone is a huge success story. This is not an all or nothing proposition. It is not that all the Thurmond family members need to have an active trait, or none of them do. It could be that some of the Thurmond family members have an active trait, perhaps some of the family members who are not high level executives, but are teachers, or say the bartender. And so far it happens that you have tested two successful financial players and some children. You have not tested any of the quote non-exceptional people within the family, so you really have no basis to be saying what you are saying," said Samantha.

"I still find it highly unlikely \--."

"Why? Are you just saying that to be argumentative because you can't think of a response?" said Samantha.

"You two sound like the married couple here," said Omar, with good humor.

More than you know...

"No, if you will let me finish, I am saying that, first, all the people who are not huge success stories I believe were women and we all know it is extremely rare for women to engage in any type of serial killing activities. Also, from the family tree I gathered that, with the exception of Windsor, the Thurmond family is a very tight knit family. If some family members had an active trait it would be noticed by the others," said Zachary.

"Okay fine. Then what makes Windsor so different? Why is his trait active while all other family members' traits are dormant?" said Samantha.

"You know as well as I that causality is extremely difficult to prove, so that is somewhat of an unfair question. But just because we don't know the root, or rather, the particular etiology of what makes his trait active does not mean that we can't observe the facts," said Zachary.

"I think you are being very pig-headed about this, and it concerns me because it sounds like these are dangerous people, and you are just waltzing into their homes like they are members of the clergy," said Samantha.

"You sound married again! Rebuked, but for your own good. That is the one two punch that I get all the time," said Omar with a chuckle.

"So you really don't have any idea what makes Windsor different?" said Samantha.

"Of course I have a theory. You know me, I always have a theory, and I've already mentioned it by the way, but I don't really think you are listening to what I am saying. You're just focused on saying what you're saying," said Zachary.

"I can suggest a good marriage counselor," said Omar.

Enough with the jokes...I hope this isn't passive aggressive behavior because he suspects something...

"I'm sorry professor\--."

"What I just said was that I believe Windsor has a version of the trait that is stronger. Therefore, it has come to the surface. Also he has implied that there have been some significantly traumatic events in his youth, these events may have brought the trait to the surface," said Zachary.

"Concerning your first theory it would be quite easy to settle if you had tested Windsor," said Samantha.

"Please, enough with the bickering," said Omar.

"I apologize and admit that that was a massive oversight on my part. I should have tested him before I left. We need to compare his results to households 1 and 2 and identify if he does indeed have a stronger manifestation of CMR," said Zachary.

"I could do that," said Omar.

"I don't want you near that man!" said Samantha, almost shouting.

"I'm a big boy Samantha. I can handle myself," said Omar, lowering his voice as if speaking to a distraught child.

"I can't believe we are having this discussion! You want to enter the home of a cannibalistic murderous racist? Sometimes your lack of common sense Omar baffles me," said Samantha.

"Darling I'm not going to lie on his dinner table and hand him a fork. I'll administer whatever test Zachary is administering per his instructions," said Omar.

"No, it is okay Omar, I want to do it," said Zachary, who noted that Samantha had not volunteered.

She still doesn't want to do this job does she? I didn't think she would remain sticking to her 'research only' ultimatum... Or is something else going on here...

Zachary added, "There are some questions that I could ask him that would probably help too. Have you received the charts yet?"

"I'm looking at them now," said Samantha. "Is this data accurate? This is mind-blowing..."

Figure 1: Relative Magnitude of the Covert Cannibalistic Murderous Racism (CMR) trait for households 1 and 2.

For the duration of the study, Zachary would compare Thurmond household members' CMR results with control group CMR results. The control group consisted of 100 randomly selected individuals from diverse demographics, as is the standard in research diversification. One week earlier, when testing for the CMR trait in the general population Zachary had made the prediction to Samantha and Omar that the control group score would be zero, "Let's call a unicorn a unicorn. That Windsor wants to eat black people is not something that he will share with the general population. The real question is whether some of his family members will share this trait." Astoundingly the data confirmed that the general population had trace amounts of CMR, which was a result that no one had anticipated.

The control group's CMR score, .001, was minute. Still, that the general population experienced any amount of CMR at all had flummoxed Dunbar and Associates. Eventually Samantha theorized that "as shocking as it is to discover that quote otherwise normal people desire to eat the flesh of another race, what we have really measured are trace elements. The levels are so low that people do not even realize that they have the smallest iota of such a desire. I think it may be a remnant of our lizard brain. We have evolved but still there remains a part of our lizard brain that desires cannibalism – though cannibalism of someone who looks at little different than we do."

Although Omar handled administrative functions for Dunbar and Associates and did not engage in analyzing psychological data, as an African American he found this data intriguing, saying, "Obviously this is not my area of expertise. But it seems to me that you two, both white I must observe, are trying to discount the fact that white people desire to eat black people. I know our objective is to identify CMR within the Thurmond family. But we have stumbled upon something in the general population as well. And the demographic data speaks for itself; this is a white thing, not a black thing." At that moment Zachary had peered down at the demographic data and instantly noted that Omar was correct:

Percentage of white control group participants containing trace elements of CMR: 94

Percentage of minority control group participants containing trace elements of CMR: 13

Somewhat astounded by this clear division in trace elements of the CMR trait between whites and other races, Zachary later constructed pie charts for future use in his final report:

Although these were interesting academic matters, they did not pertain to the matter at hand, and Zachary was aware that he needed to ethically balance time spent on contingency testing and the task that he had been hired to complete, Thurmond family CMR test preparation, Thurmond family CMR testing, Thurmond family CMR test data analysis, Thurmond family CMR identification, Thurmond family CMR report creation, Thurmond family CMR test result explanations, and Thurmond family therapy recommendations.

Therefore, Zachary reasoned that the approximately twenty minutes he spent constructing two more charts for contingency testing -- the results of the Philadelphia Grief Inventory and the results of the personal adjustment assessments -- was an acceptable diversion of his now-valuable time. However, he did not yet turn Omar and Samantha's attention to those charts.

"These data sets are quite out of the ordinary," said Samantha, still analyzing the CMR magnitude chart and making the napkin calculation that Charles, Alburt, Preston, Dwade, and Hazel had a mean CMR score of 3.62 while the control group had a CMR score of .001, and added, "It appears that households 1 and 2 experienced approximately 3,600 times the Cannibalistic Murderous Racism as the general population. Astounding!"

Who sounds excited now?

But Zachary bit his tongue, knowing that Samantha did not respond well to sarcasm, saying instead, "Yes, you are correct in your math. The so-far tested Thurmond Family members have exactly 3,620 times the amount of CMR as the general population."

"Is that really safe?" Samantha asked.

"Please not this again. Zachary has already explained that these people would not be functioning in society if they were experiencing their CMR," said Omar.

He comes to my defense when he should want to beat me up...

"Exactly – what has to be happening has to be an excessive degree of classical sublimation behavior \--."

"Which is why you are doing the personal adjustment inventory," said Samantha, now following Zachary's line of thinking.

"Yes, exactly again: I want to know how effective the sublimations have been. The personal adjustment inventory will help me glean that data," said Zachary.

"What sublimations do you think the family is making?" Omar asked.

"I think the major sublimation is probably that many Thurmond family members are workaholics – it is hard to dwell on your subconscious desires to engage in CMR when your nose is always on the grindstone," said Zachary.

"But there must be many other sublimations," said Samantha.

"I'm going to keep my eye out for them," said Zachary, "Of course, we all know that sublimations are impossible to prove, but we can at least make a case for their existence--."

"Good. I'm now looking at the Personal Adjustment Inventory. And it isn't quite as you've said. All the family members are not well adjusted," said Samantha.

Zachary turned to the Personal Adjustment Chart, which calculated a score based on an inventory of 10 questions. There was a 10 question inventory for adults and a 10 question inventory for children:

Adult Personal Adjustment Inventory

A) Do you feel like you are not accomplishing what you were set on earth to accomplish? | Often | Sometimes | Seldom

---|---|---|---

B) Do you ever feel episodes of uncontrollable rage? | |

|

C) Do you feel like your significant other does not understand you? (If you do not have a significant other) Do you feel like your friends do not understand you? | |

|

D) Do you ever wish you were a dictator and could make all the rules? | |

|

E) Do you ever wish people would obey your every command, no matter how ludicrous? | |

|

F) Do you ever envision yourself as some kind of monster with superhuman strength? | |

|

G) Do you often think the future will become gloomier and gloomier? | |

|

H) Do you think most people do not understand your deepest inner thoughts? | |

|

I) Do you think that you do not understand your own deepest inner thoughts? | |

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J) Without consulting a weather report, do you think it will rain tomorrow? | |

|

This inventory was followed by a 25 question norm-referenced moral dilemma assessment, containing multiple choice questions such as, "If you were hungry and had no money and no food then you should a) steal money or food from your neighbor or b) rob a bank so that you will have the money to eat for a long time." The child personal adjustment inventory and moral dilemma assessments were similar to the adult versions but with correspondingly age-appropriate questions. Zachary planned to administer these assessments to each family member who tested positive for CMR as a means of identifying how effective their sublimations were in providing socially acceptable behavioral substitutions. And Zachary had already constructed a chart from the Personal Adjustment Inventories and multiple choice assessments collected from Charles, Alburt, Presten, Dwade, and Hazel:

A score range of 3.5 to 6 corresponded with the description (a) adjusted and content with the rules and expectations of society. A score range of 2.5 to 3.49 corresponded with the description (b) somewhat adjusted and content with the rules and expectations of society. A score range of 0 to 2.49 corresponded with the description (c) not adjusted and content with the rules and expectations of society. And as Samantha noted to Zachary during the teleconference, Hazel tested well within the not adjusted range.

Apparently impaling doll heads is just not doing it for her...

"Okay fine so we have one family member out of five who is not adjusted to the rules and expectations of society. She is a 6-year old girl. Statistically that sort of thing is bound to happen," said Zachary.

"Yes, that is true. But it is something to keep an eye on. What was Hazel like anyway?" Samantha asked.

"Well, she did not seem very well adjusted to the rules of society, no. So I would say the tests were valid in what they were testing," said Zachary.

"In what way did she not seem adjusted to the rules of society?" Omar asked.

Zachary paused, trying to form his words carefully. "I don't want you all to over-react. But she has this thing where she takes the heads off her dolls --."

"That is not that unusual," interrupted Samantha.

"And she puts them on pikes," Zachary finished.

"Pikes?" Omar and Samantha said in unison.

"Yes," said Zachary.

"And where does she get them?" Samantha asked.

"Well, she constructs them I assume," said Zachary.

"She is six-years old and she constructs pikes for doll heads?" Samantha asked.

"Yes, but I discussed the situation with her mother and she is well-adjusted in all other respects," said Zachary.

"Except that she puts doll heads on pikes," Samantha summarized.

"Exactly," said Zachary, ignoring her derision.

"Well, like I said, it is something to pay attention to," said Samantha.

"Yes, I agree, and I intend to follow up," said Zachary. "But the interesting thing is that the father and the two boys all had violent tendencies that vanished as they aged. She is only six and it is quite probably that the same will happen to her as she matures..."

Assessment Three: Fara Graham

Relation to Windsor: Niece

Address: 4 Thompson Circle, Cleveland Park, Washington, D.C., 20008

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Fara Graham...daughter of Donald and Lily Thurmond

B. 1968. Age: 40

Profession: Teacher.

Sorry Fara I guess you are the big 40 now! Where does the time go? I remember you climbing that tree in my back yard with your sister, except you didn't go quite so high did you? Okay, so you didn't go past the first branch. Hey, I don't blame you. I wouldn't have either. Come to think of it I didn't even get to the first branch because I never even gave it a try! So you have me beat in the tree climbing department blue eyed Fara. Yes, how can you miss those big blue eyes of Fara? Fara married Josh Graham, a fine man, a lawyer by trade (but don't hold that against him). For years Fara took ballet lessons and she developed a wonderful style that I had the good fortune to observe on more than one occasion. I'm told that Fara is a most creative and interesting elementary school teacher. God bless you Fara, for someone has to keep that herd of youth productive and on point! But Fara's best accomplishment is her handsome son Fayne, a young man now 20 who is sure to grow into a respectable and well-liked member of society.

The next day as Zachary drove to Fara's household, the 3rd Thurmond household, he received another text from Jasmine. It read:

Hey Professor. Yesterday I watched a documentary about Antarctica and about how few people go there, but that the people who do go there have to take some risks. Then I realized that this meant that you would never be one of the few people to go there. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Lol, maybe when I finally take my long due vacation I will go to Antarctica just to spite you. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Sorry Professor, I am going to have to call your bluff there. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Good call, the pot is yours. I am now broke. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Huh? You know how to play poker? I am shocked because poker involves risk.

Zachary replied:

Lol and don't get carried away: I played penny poker as a kid.

Jasmine replied:

Okay, that figures – all is right in the world again.

Fara tested CMR negative and seemed amused by the test.

"What did you keep smiling about?" Zachary asked after the testing had concluded.

"Well, I heard that this was a test about racism, but I didn't realize how gory the actual test would be. I think I'm just smiling because it is a defense mechanism. This is some gross stuff and some of it seems more concerned with eating people or killing people than judging them based on the color of their skin," said Fara, a comment to which Zachary did not respond. Because Fara (and her husband) tested negative that meant that her son Fayne -- currently at Havard -- would test (in all probability) negative too.

Although Fara tested CMR negative she could still provide valuable case history information on the Thurmond family in general, and so Zachary asked, "What do you think of, well, what is known in your family as Herod's curse?"

"For years, and to be somewhat profane, it scared the crap out of me because of Fayne, my son. But once he turned 14 I just sort of forgot about it and considered it a silly superstition," said Fara.

"Why 14?" Zachary asked.

"You haven't noticed? All the boys have died between 10 and 13. So after that, as far as the superstition of the curse goes, your kid, well I should say your boy, is in the clear," said Fara.

Zachary flipped through his notes. "You had two brothers who died, Edbert and Elvin. Okay I see what you were talking about, Edbert was 13 and Elvin was 12. And, yes, I can see that the other boys all died before 14 as well. So if now you think it is just a silly superstition why do you think this pattern might keep happening?"

"I think it is just random chance. That is the only explanation."

"Okay, just a couple more questions and then we'll be done. Tell me about the Yellow Daisy lodge," said Zachary.

"I go every year. But I don't really enjoy it. For some of the girls everything is a competition. I just like to relax when I'm on vacation. But when you hang out with my family sometimes that just isn't possible..."

"What do you do there?" Zachary asked.

"Arts and crafts. Also we shoot arrows at targets. We fish a little. We play board-games. It is all planned in advance and is very structured," said Fara.

"You don't like structure?"

"I like structure – but not that much structure – everything is scheduled from 7am to 10 pm when we go to bed --."

"Wow," Zachary interrupted.

"Yeah, I could go for a little more spontaneity in my vacations. But that isn't the way things are done there. And if anyone ever breaks the schedule – Oh, they hear it from a lot of the other girls. Sometimes I feel like I am at some sort of silly-game boot camp," said Fara.

"That is funny. So what do you know about the Gray Cliff Lodge?" Zachary asked.

"Nothing, well, except what every Thurmond female knows: that the Thurmond men bring home lots of venison. I am constantly getting packages from my father. I do cook it quite frequently. I actually had a venison sandwich for lunch today," said Fara.

"So in all likelihood they just go up there and hunt deer?" Zachary asked.

"Probably, but they surround it with all this secrecy to make it seem more important. You know, just like those silly clubs like the Elks, or the Freemasons. They don't really have any secrets in reality – at least not anymore -- but the perception that they are the keepers of secrets makes them feel more important," said Fara.

"Thank you," said Zachary.

"When will we know who it is who becomes rich? Well, I mean really really rich – we Thurmonds obviously aren't doing too badly," said Fara, playfully motioning to her surroundings.

"I'm not sure. But I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out..."

The remaining D.C. Thurmond households had either: a) not responded to the RSVP or b) not yet completed their consent forms, and so Zachary decided that he should next fly to California, to test Kaci, and then continue to Texas, to test Teal and Chase's households. Later that night Zachary called Windsor who approved the proposed route and within 30 minutes had sent Zachary a first-class ticket, departure time: 7 am. Before noon Zachary had landed in California. While riding in his cab to his hotel, Jasmine sent him a text. It read:

Hey professor. Have you landed in Cali yet? I've heard that people in California are kind of interesting. So don't tell people there how boring you are because they won't like you. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Lol – If you have RMT and it is ever activated I bet you will try to annoy people to death...

Jasmine replied:

Don't joke about that. That isn't funny.

Zachary replied:

Sorry, yeah that was insensitive.

Jasmine replied:

I was just kidding. And I bet you wondered if I was – but you didn't dare to call my bluff – because that would have been a risk.

Zachary replied:

I think you should have the PHD in psychology and not me.

Jasmine replied:

Clearly, well text me later. Bored in Boston again: I still want a repeat of our slightly adventurous night...

Zachary replied:

Roger that.

Assessment Four: Kaci Thurmond

Relation to Windsor: Niece

Address: 8542 El Paseo Grande, La Jolla, CA, 92037

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Kaci Thurmond...daughter of Charles and Cindy Thurmond

B. 1973 Age: 35

Profession: Bartender

Kaci Thurmond is quite happy mixing drinks, thank you very much, and quite good at it incidentally, because I've had some of her concoctions and they are perfect ten! Kaci you do your own thing and follow your own path because there are enough Thurmond go-getters out there for at least a few us not to try to take over the world! Kaci you are a sweetheart!

California: Consistent with the D.C. Thurmonds' respective residences, Kaci lived in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the country: La Jolla, home to movie stars and lesser celebrities. More than once Zachary had to stop -- with considerable effort -- his neck from allowing his head to double-take a gorgeous woman who walked past.

On short notice, Kaci had agreed to a testing session. After settling into his hotel, Hotel Parisi, Zachary took a taxi to Kaci's. Identifying himself through her intercom, she buzzed him inside. Kaci, a very attractive 35 year old, was more out-going and extroverted than the Thurmonds that Zachary had met thus far.

She immediately put him at ease and they engaged in such a comfortable manner of small talk that it surprised Zachary when he noticed that 25 minutes had passed. As they transitioned into the professional phase of the visit, Kaci completed the testing with minimal self consciousness. Result: CMR negative.

As with Fara, Zachary decided to gather assorted case history information for his final report. But before he had a chance to delve into one of his planned questions, Kaci said, "Let me ask you something: you are a psychologist and so maybe you know. I've often heard it said that daughters often look for men who resemble, both in looks and in ways of being, their fathers in relationships. I wish I could do that. My father is such a good hearted man. When I hear about all that he does for various charities I burst into tears. And he's done a lot for me. There are so many success stories in my family. But I'm not one of them. Yet my father has always supported me in my pursuits. Once when I looked around and I thought that my accomplishments weren't up to par, I considered going to medical school. My father actually talked me out of it. He said, 'You do what is right and you follow your heart. Don't think I ever won't love you. My love is unconditional.' So I've bounced around. I've traveled the world. And I've done what I've wanted to do. Why can't I find a man, in the romantic sense, with that kind of unconditional regard for me?"

Zachary supplied a breezy textbook answer that he remembered reading somewhere – though I'm sure Samantha would lambast me had she heard my reply \-- and changed the subject, saying, "You were very young when your brothers died. You were 5 when Manfred died, and you were 8 when Aldric died. What do you remember?"

"Of Manfred I don't remember much. I was too young. I remember playing with him a little bit. Of Aldric one of my most vivid memories was being at the funeral and seeing my mother cry. Why do you ask?" said Kaci.

"I am trying to put together a thorough case history of the family, and they are part of that history. Is there anything that you remember hearing spoken about them?" Zachary asked.

"You know it is strange Mr. Dunbar, as children we take the actions of our parents for granted. We think that is just the way that things are supposed to be done. And when I was growing up my parents said very little about Manfred and Aldric. My mother would mention their names during holidays when she said grace, but that was really it. For example, it was only recently, when I received my family tree created by my uncle Philip, that I learned that Manfred was a fast swimmer, and that Aldric liked to write fairy tales," said Kaci.

"Why do you think that they were not discussed?" Zachary asked.

"I think it was to present a sense of normalcy for the surviving children. They didn't want us to see how heart-broken they truly were. Although I must say that my father hid it better than my mother, because sometimes I would see my mother staring out the window and crying for no reason at all," said Kaci.

"And your father Charles?" Zachary asked.

"He hid it better – though he was often at work – so perhaps he grieved there or during the commute or something like that..."

"Thank you Kaci. This will help me with my report," said Zachary, shaking Kaci's hand.

"Any front runners for the billions?" Kaci asked.

"Not yet," said Zachary with a smile.

"It would be ironic if I won this odd contest, as I have done pretty much nothing with my life," said Kaci.

"You think other relatives are more deserving?" Zachary asked.

"Very much so, though I suppose that no one deserves to inherit billions of dollars..."

Assessment Five: Teal Thurmond

Relation to Windsor: Niece

Address: 8802 Memorial Drive, Houston, Texas, 77024-5809

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Teal Thurmond...daughter of Charles and Cindy Thurmond

B. 1976 Age: 32

Profession: Derivatives Trader

This executive knows how to get the job done, and is a frequent flier between D.C. and Texas because she is constantly meeting with politicians from both places. Teal Thurmond is, in short, another Thurmond Family success story!

The next day Zachary flew to Texas and once he had arrived at the airport he sent Jasmine a text:

Jasmine, I just wanted to let you know that I just landed in Texas. It is hot here. Zachary.

Twenty minutes later Jasmine replied:

Typical guy, you are in some interesting place you have never been and your only observation is the weather. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

And people talk funny... Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

So I was thinking that maybe when we get back maybe we should go somewhere – unless of course that was a one-night stand and you never want to see me again. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Of course that was not a one-night stand. I am not that kind of guy. I still haven't talked to my colleagues about taking time off though. But I will, I promise. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Okay, I breathlessly await your reply. Lol. Jasmine.

As Zachary headed to his Houston hotel, the taxi driver struck up a conversation. They mostly talked baseball and Zachary admitted that he was a big Josh Hamilton fan.

When the driver discovered that Zachary was from Massachusetts he said, "Did you know it almost takes longer to drive across the city of Houston than it does to drive across the entire state of Massachusetts?"

Zachary replied with disbelief, "No."

Before landing in Texas Zachary wondered if all the jokes he had heard about Texas succession would ring true and that Texas would seem like another country. However, after spending a couple days in Houston, Zachary found that he hadn't had the opportunity to encounter any of the Texan stereotypes that he had seen so often in popular culture. No tycoons smoking big cigars, fat men driving ostentatious Cadillacs, or long bearded old men holding rifles and shouting about Yankees. He did, however, see the Lone Star state flag a lot more than he had expected.

I don't even think I know what the Massachusetts' state flag looks like.

But as Zachary read in his tourism brochure, Texas actually was an independent nation in the middle of the 1800's.

As a PhD, even if of psychology, I feel like I should have known that...

After settling into his hotel, Zachary took a rental to Teal's residence. Fortunately his hotel was on the right side of Houston because it took him only an hour to arrive. Her house was massive, over 9000 square feet, the front grounds featuring a stone fountain, coconut trees, and cul-de-sac driveway. Teal met him outside and led him into her kitchen, offering him lunch, adding, "I think we should settle into my Grand Room. It really offers the most comfort," a room which in an ordinary home would be referred to as a living room, but Zachary noted that given the rooms dimensions its title was fitting; the room resembled a chapel and positioned close together in the room's center were two arm chairs and a sofa facing a small leather table. With unused space abounding on the sides and a concentration of furniture in the middle, the room seemed a refuge for important people discussing important things.

I suppose the possibility of a massive inheritance fits that bill perfectly.

Zachary noted that at first Teal seemed cool and distant. However, she soon opened up and they conversed easily for 30 minutes before testing began. Zachary made the mental prediction that she would test CMR negative. However, his prediction proved to be wrong, end result: CMR positive.

Philip's description of Teal had been short, noting that she often flew between Texas and D.C. to meet with politicians. So Zachary was surprised when she stated that she worked in finance. Zachary replied, "I had assumed you had some sort of government job."

Teal said, "No, like most other Thurmonds I work in finance. Why did you think that?"

"Philip stated that you often meet with politicians in his narrative family tree. But I've also heard that he was slipping into dementia when he wrote that document. Was he off the mark?" Zachary asked.

"No, many of my clients are politicians, and I like to meet face to face when I can," said Teal.

Teal had taken the day off from work, something she said, "I almost never do. But I'm a derivatives trader and so I'm obviously good with numbers – and the approximate odds of inheriting 3.5 billion, 1 out of 30, are too good to pass up."

Zachary asked how she enjoyed her work as a derivatives trader.

"Warren Buffet calls derivatives financial instruments of mass destruction, and while I believe that as well, it is important to note that he still trades in them," said Teal.

"Noted," said Zachary with a smile, trying to build rapport.

"What I like about trading is that it is a zero-sum game. There is a winner on one end and a loser on the other. I'm sure you've heard the expression that if you don't know who the Patsy is at the poker table then the Patsy is you – that is what trading is all about," said Teal.

Zachary considered this statement to be representative of a possible sublimation.

The urge to bring ruin to another human...

After quickly noting this possibility, he asked Teal her opinion of Herod's Curse.

Teal, frowning slightly, replied, "It is because of my trade, complex financial derivatives, and because of the ease with which I manipulate numbers that I find the so-called Curse of Herod to be deeply problematic."

"What do you mean?" Zachary asked.

"Well in statistics when one event follows another a correlation has occurred --."

Zachary interrupted Teal, informing her that he had already performed the math and had reached the conclusion that while one might have initially assumed that there would be a strong statistical significance in the correlation between male deaths in the Thurmond family and the age: 10-13, the sample size was too small for the data to hold water.

"Well, I wish it could be explained away by chance as you have concluded, but it is not a single correlation – the correlations are multiple – and though the sample size is too small to hold water as you said, it is the prevalence of correlations in this too small data set that complicates the matter and causes me to believe that this is not just the seemingly skewed fluctuations of random chance that can sometimes occur in a small data set," said Teal.

"I want to understand you, but I don't think I do," said Zachary, somewhat apologetically. "And though I have a minor in statistics – it has been a while."

"You are right when you say that in a small data set, which is specifically any data set smaller than 30, the results don't hold water. Crazy things can happen in small data sets. For example let's take a data set of 2 bald people. Now let's say that both people died in separate car crashes where the car that crashed into them was black. Extrapolating from this data set, it seems to be a 100% certainty that if in the general population you are bald you are going to die in a crash with a black car – or we could say the correlation is 1. Now let's take a data set of 100 bald people. What randomly happened with 2 people, death by black car, will not happen for 100 – never mind the general population," said Teal.

"You've just supported my point that small data sets don't hold water because random chance is much more likely to affect a small data set than a large one. And the Thurmond family is a small data set." said Zachary.

"Yes. But here is what you have missed. When there is more than one correlation the sample size becomes less important – theoretically," said Teal.

"Well, I see one correlation: Dying between 10-13 and being a male Thurmond," said Zachary.

"I see three," said Teal.

Zachary glanced at his family tree, and though numbers were running through his head he could observe no further correlations.

"I give up," said Zachary, though still staring at the family tree.

"Here they are: (1) the correlation we just named (2) Thurmond fathers and death of a son between 10-13 and (3) First or second born Thurmond males and death between the ages of 10-13. Now it could be that all three of these correlations are pure chance, as this is a small data set. But they all have the common component: death between the ages of 10-13. As a statistician, this would seem to point to something more than, potentially, lady luck," said Teal.

Interesting: I hadn't noticed that this only occurred to Thurmond fathers and not Thurmond mothers...

And I hadn't noticed that it was often a first or a second born...

"Herod's curse has never happened when a female Thurmond conceived the child?" Zachary asked.

"Never, all the first or second born male children who died between 10 and 13 were born to Thurmond fathers, and never to any of the bloodline Thurmond mothers. Donald's daughter Yetta, her first born Park has lived past the age of 13. He is 16 now. Donald's daughter Fara, her first born male Fayne is 20, and so has lived past the age of 13. And finally Phillip's daughter Laural's first born male Sawyer is 15 and so has lived past the age of 13 – and her second born male Teddy is 13 and so is at least doing all right so far. Whereas my grandfather was a male Thurmond and his boy Henry died, though admittedly he was not a first born. The brothers Charles, Donald, and Philip are all male Thurmonds and they all had their first two male boys die. And finally Donald's son Mick was a male Thurmond and his son Kolby died," said Teal.

"And so if this isn't the random chance that sometimes happens in small data sets, then what do you think this is?" Zachary asked.

"I've talked to my parents, my aunts, my uncles. No one has any idea. So I wouldn't even know where to start. Besides, I'm not a detective, I'm a derivatives trader," said Teal.

"Yes, but in your own self-interest don't you think it would make sense to hire a P.I. if you think something shady is going on here, and have the P.I. try to figure it out. I mean you could have children someday," said Zachary.

"Mr. Dunbar, we are a very private family. In all honesty the only reason the old men of the family, the old brothers, have allowed this testing and questioning to occur within the family is because you have a very big carrot – 3.5 billion dollars. So if I were to hire a P.I. with no carrot at all: I'm sorry he wouldn't get very far. Doors would be slammed in his face and that is only if they were ever even opened. Besides there are two selfish reasons that cause me not to be concerned," said Teal.

"Oh?"

"The first is that I'm 32, I'm getting on in years, and I still don't have the urge to have children. So as a mathematician I would have to predict that I will never have children," said Teal.

"And what is the second – wait don't tell me," said Zachary, suddenly realizing the answer.

At least she won't get me on this one.

"You are a female Thurmond."

"Congratulations Captain Obvious..."

Assessment Six: Chase Thurmond's Household

Chase's Relation to Windsor: Nephew

Address: 108 Timberwilde Lane, Houston, Texas, 77024-6922

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Chase Thurmond...son of Donald and Lilly Thurmond

B. 1962. Age: 46

Profession: Penal Corporation CEO

Every family needs a Texan to keep things in perspective, or rather to keep things out of perspective. Chase Thurmond has been successfully working in finance for 17 years. Every time I hear his Texan drawl it brings a smile to my lips. But as they say when in Rome... And of course most in Texas would say Texas is Rome! But enough with the Texas jokes. Our family originated in the Southland after all, it wasn't until Norman made the Great migration North that the Thurmond family became Northerners – or Washington D.C people I should say. So in reality Chase is in keeping with the family tradition, while it is the rest of us who are the radicals! Chase has a lovely wife Jessica who makes a marvelous strawberry rhubarb pie (I've only had the occasion to try it once, a situation which will have to be remedied soon –hint-hint-hint!). One of my favorite things about Chase is the peculiar expressions he uses to make his points. We've all heard them before and though sometimes they admittedly draw groans from the peanut gallery, his ostentatious manner of speaking and his ridiculous comparisons make engaging in a conversation with Chase an event to be remembered! But what is best about Chase is not Chase himself but the wonderful family that he has gathered around him, the aforementioned southern bell, Jessica, and his four captivating children, Nolene, Posy, Tori, and Dalton. Also, Chase makes the best ribs on either side of Mississippi and rather frustratingly he won't breathe a word of how he does it (and though it isn't a secret family recipe I wish it were so that he could teach it to me!).

Nolene Thurmond...daughter of Chase Thurmond and Jessica Thurmond

B. 2008. Age: 8

What a sweet ray of sunshine this fine young woman has turned out to be. She enjoys tap-dancing and playing the flute. May you continue to grow and blossom into a flower of a woman!

Posy Thurmond...daughter of Chase Thurmond and Jessica Thurmond

B. 2002. Age: 6

She loves to read. She loves to watch Disney movies. And she loves to eat cake. Oh, the joys of childhood!

Tori Thurmond...daughter of Chase Thurmond and Jessica Thurmond

B. 2003 Age: 5

If innocent and beauty could be embodied by one single child it would be Tori! She loves her dog max. And she loves playing with dolls. In you Tori all good things have been molded!

Dalton Thurmond...son of Chase Thurmond and Jessica Thurmond

B. 2005. Age: 3

Although I know Chase loves his daughters with all his heart, he made no secret that in the birth of youngest child Dalton, he was relieved to have a son who could carry on the proud family tradition – and at the age of 7 – begin to accompany him on the family outings to the Gray Cliff Lodge. But Dalton has a lot to live up to in the Gray Cliff family tradition, because Chase is a competitive family member and has acquired quite an impressive collection of merit badges. Dalton let me say to you at the time when you are old enough to read these words, that if you can shoot near as straight as your daddy then you have done your daddy proud!

Houston, Texas: Chase's household could not meet until the next day, an unfortunate occurrence because Chase lived in the same area of Houston as Teal. Zachary took the night to analyze selected data. Because many Thurmonds shared a highly intense dormant trait, Zachary knew it was important to fully understand their family history. A good family history could indicate how the trait was being most effectively sublimated – information that might then be generalized to other intense dormant traits.

Yet, Zachary was having difficulty making sense of all the facts. Why were children in the Thurmond family dying young? What was Grey Cliff?

These were questions that needed to be answered and if not answered at least probed. And after thoroughly reviewing Teal's Herod's Curse analysis, Zachary reached the same conclusion he had previously reached: wild swings in a small data set. He respected mathematicians but he knew how they had a way of getting overly technical.

However, unlike Herod's curse, Grey Cliff was a subject to which the Thurmonds held the answers, and he wanted to know more about the activities that occurred there.

As Philip describes it anyway it seems to be a crucial part of the Thurmond family psyche.

He decided that he would continue to ask questions about both Grey Cliff and Herod's Curse during Thurmond family interviews.

Taking a break, he checked to see if Jasmine had sent him any new texts. She had not and he composed a text for her. But he did not end up sending it, thinking it too boring.

She already thinks that I don't take risks. I don't want to add boring into the equation as well.

He watched television but finding the shows insufferable he turned to a book, later falling asleep with the book in his hands.

The next morning Zachary reviewed Philip's statements about Chase's household. Chase was said to have an odd speaking style and his wife was said to make a delicious strawberry rhubarb pie. When Zachary met with this household he would have a chance to observe Chase's speaking style, but not, unfortunately, the pie.

After Zachary administered the CMR test to Chase (result: CMR positive), he explained that while the test would be appropriate for his 8 year old, Nolene, it would not be appropriate for the younger children, Posy, Tori and Dalton, as the violence was too gratuitous, adding, "And I apologize. That was an oversight on my part. I'll talk to Windsor and see what he wants me to do. But as I find it improbable that he is going to bestow his inheritance on a family member younger than 8, my prediction is that he may just want to let sleeping dogs lie."

Next Zachary tested Nolene (result: CMR positive). After Jessica, Chase's wife finished testing (result: CMR negative with no trace elements), she told Zachary that she wished to speak to him about a private matter. Zachary nodded and she informed him that Nolene had taken to punching her classmates on play-dates.

"Is she seeing a therapist?" Zachary asked, diligently scribbling the gist of her statements.

"Oh no, Chase won't allow it. He says that it will pass. He says that he was a violent boy, but that it passed for him and that he doesn't expect anything different for her," said Jessica.

"Well, that sounds like a conjugal problem Mrs. Thurmond. I would suggest that you attend therapy as a family. Studies have shown that family therapy, when the entire immediate family is present, can be the most effective form," said Zachary.

"Oh, no, Chase wouldn't allow that: he pretends to let me get my way. But when he puts his foot down, that is that," said Jessica.

Possible Sublimation: The choosing of a submissive wife and then acting the part of a household tyrant...

"That sounds like another conjugal issue Mrs. Thurmond. I would recommend that you continue to talk to him about the possibility of attending family therapy. I can bring it up to him if you would like," said Zachary.

"Oh, no, please don't do that Mr. Dunbar. He wouldn't be happy with me if he knew we were discussing these private matters," said Jessica.

"What do you mean 'wouldn't be happy?' He doesn't get violent does he?" Zachary asked.

"My Chasey Wasey? He is as gentle as a teddy bear. No, he is very direct with me when he is not happy. He simply says with a serious-sad face, 'Darling I'm not happy with you.' And to see him so sad makes me so sad. Therefore, I do everything I can to make him happy – which is why I am talking to you in confidence Mr. Dunbar," said Jessica, while making and then breaking a nervous eye connection with Zachary.

"I understand. I don't know what I can do though. Family therapy really is your best option," said Zachary.

"For Nolene – what should I do about Nolene and the punching? My relationship with Chase is perfect, well, relatively," said Jessica.

"Absent the therapy I don't know – maybe just roll with it – enroll her in some boxing classes. That will allow her to punch as much as she likes and to do it in a venue which is acceptable in society," said Zachary.

"Mr. Dunbar, that is a very clever thought..."

After gathering his materials, Zachary located Chase in the study and told him he would be leaving.

"So soon, my wife will soon be serving hearty portions of her indubitably mouth-watering venison lasagna," said Chase.

"Do the Thurmonds eat anything besides venison?" asked Zachary.

"One of the reasons the extended Thurmond family is so financially secure is that we believe in the virtues of American values, such as self-sufficiency," said Chase.

"Well I actually have to get going, but thank you --."

"Mr. Dunbar, I wanted to talk to you about something confidential. Is that a possibility?" said Chase.

"Your confidentiality is secure with me Mr. Thurmond. What is it that you would like to discuss?" asked Zachary, wondering if this conversation would lead to the same advised solution: boxing classes.

"I love my wife very much Mr. Dunbar," said Chase, waiting for Zachary to reply. He nodded and Chase continued, "But there are certain subjects, male subjects, which are completely nonsensical to discuss with her. I hope you get my drift Mr. Dunbar."

"Call me Zachary, everyone is so formal around here," said Zachary.

"I shoot from the hip Mr. Dunbar. I like to think that if I had been born into the Wild West that I've have been a fast draw with a sure hand," said Chase, pausing to let the image sink in.

For a fast draw you sure do take a long time to get to the gunfight...

Chase continued, "I like your game Zachary. You're fighting the good fight. I bet that if you had been born in the time of WWII and you were in the trenches that you wouldn't have been rattled Zachary. The shells would have been blasting to your left and blasting to your right, but you would have been as relaxed as white trash in a whore house. Am I right or am I right?"

The question was a logical fallacy, and so Zachary did not answer. Instead he smiled and nodded.

Chase continued, "I like that you are not a bashful man Zachary. I'm not a bashful man either. Let me get to the point Zachary. We are men and we have always been men. The moment I was born I was a man. And my boy Dalton he is a man too. He's a young one I'll admit that – a wee 3 years old. But he's a tough little bugger and I know he can handle your test just fine --."

"Is that what this was all about Chase? I'm sorry it is just not possible. He is too young and the images are too disturbing. It just isn't even a possibility. I'm sorry but no," said Zachary.

"I know what you are thinking. You are thinking I want my boy tested cause then my immediate family will have a better chance at that 3.5 billion. But that aint the case. Your test is about racism, pure and simple. Racism – the dirty little secret of the USA. Now I'm wagering that I didn't do all that great – some things are just in your bones – some things are just about the way you been brought up. But I don't want that for my boy – and I want to know how my boy is doing on this important issue of race relations, because if he is behind the bell curve it is time for me to change my parenting style, or it is time for me to change the private tutors, or it is time for me to change the television channel – I don't know. But I want to know. I want to be the best dad I can be so I can teach my boy to not be just like me, so that he can be a person who eats with blacks, and lives with blacks, and does not feel racial slurs running through his head. I want the best for my boy – can you help me with that please sir? I respect your work, and think your work could do my boy some good. I've said my piece now, and I'll let you mull it over. But while you do mull it over think about my little Dalton, and think about his future, and think about the future you could help him have. I aint asking you to move a mountain, flip it upside down, and balance it on your nose. I'm asking for a simple favor, one man to another," said Chase, holding out his hand in preparation for a handshake, one that Zachary could not provide him with.

Although Zachary could see the situation from Chase's perspective and even agreed with some of his points, the administration of the test in its current form was not a possibility. Subjecting a three year old mind to such graphic images could quite possibly do more harm than good.

"I see your point Chase I do – but this test --."

"Ten thousand dollars," said Chase.

"Excuse me?" Zachary asked, wondering in which direction the conversation (if it could be called that) was heading now.

"Ten thousand dollars – you heard correct – that is the number that I am willing to pay if just test my boy," said Chase, again holding out his hand in preparation for a handshake: again it was a handshake that Zachary could not provide.

Zachary had suspected the possibility of a bribe offer before all testing was finished, but he had not suspected that he would be offered a bribe simply for conducting testing, or that the purpose of that testing would be so that a covert racist could find out if his son was a covert racist too.

Something doesn't add up here...

"Chase I can see that you are a very passionate man. However, I can't accept a bribe. But what I potentially can do is modify the test and assess your boy on a future date," said Zachary, still trying to read past this man's words.

"Zachary I am very much obliged, both to you and the creativity in your thinking. Like my daddy used to say: Where there is a will, by golly, there are at least ten thousand ways. And that's a piece of advice that I sometimes forget when I'm thinking pig-headed and I'm thinking inside the box. But you took us outside the box, and after you test my boy – I know you can't accept a bribe – but I'll find a way to make it worth your while," said Chase.

"Actually you can make it worth my while right now," said Zachary.

"Shoot," said Chase.

"If you could answer a couple of questions for me that would be great – In my distress over realizing that I was unorganized and unprepared to test 3 of 4 of your children, I actually forget to gather valuable case history information," said Zachary.

"Fire away," said Chase.

"You had two brothers," said Zachary, then taking out his notebook and quickly finding their names. "Edbert and Elvin."

Chase made the sign of the cross.

"I know this must be difficult for you, but I'd like you to talk about what happened. I mean that is quite a tragedy. They died in the same year," said Zachary.

"1972 will always be known in my lexicon as the most tragic year in the history of mankind. One year I had three brothers and then the next year I only had one. Forgive me if this subject causes me to cry but sometimes when the subject turns to my deceased brethren Edbert and Elvin, I sometimes break down worse than the weakest member of the female species," said Chase.

Possible sublimation: chauvinism...

"Chase I don't judge men who cry. I know life can be hard. So what happened? I read in the family tree compiled by Phillip that there was a car accident?" Zachary asked.

"That's the nuts and bolts of it Zachary. The car hit some ice, went off the road, and they died. And if I could trade my life for theirs I'd trade it faster than I'd trade an old shoe for a Mickey Mantle baseball card," said Chase.

"Whereabouts did it happen?" Zachary asked.

Chase shook his head in the negative.

"Can you tell me anything else about the accident – any of the details?" Zachary asked.

Chase shook his head again. "That's the nuts and bolts of it. Is there anything else because I would like to help."

"All right – can you tell me about the Gray Cliff Lodge? I haven't been able to find out anything about it, and like I said I'm trying to put together a good case history on the family," said Zachary.

"Zachary I'm sorry but now it is my turn to play the part of the stubborn mule. It is the tradition to keep the goings-on at that lodge strictly confidential," said Chase.

"I see and I don't want to ask you to gossip about family matters that shouldn't be gossiped about. So let me ask you if you know of somewhere where I could dig up some information about the lodge, so that I can more effectively put together my final report, which needs to include a thorough case history section about the family and its habits?" Zachary said, wondering if he should now hold out his hand and try to impose a handshake.

Maybe that's how they negotiate in Texas...

"I'm sorry Zachary but that is one subject that I cannot discuss. My family would not be happy campers..."

"All right, I do have a couple more questions," said Zachary.

"Fire away," said Chase.

"You're very concerned with having your boy tested \--."

"That's God's honest truth Zachary," said Chase.

"Okay I understand – but though you pressed very hard to have your boy tested – you didn't mention your girls at all. Why not? They're older," said Zachary.

Without missing a beat Chase replied, "That's a good question Zachary, and that all comes down to my opinion of myself as a traditionalist. I'm fine and well with my boy growing up at a wee young age. I don't think it is ever too early for a boy to stand as a man. I've heard it said many times that many boys died in the Civil War fighting for Dixie. But I say that sentence don't add up to a hill of beans Zachary, cause those weren't boys. Those were men. Once you die for your country, once you shed blood for your flag, you are a man no matter what your age. And that gets me to the subject of my two little angels, my glorious princesses. If I had my way Zachary those little angels would stay little angels till they were 97 years old. A southern father, a traditional southern father, our daughters will always be our little girls – and as a traditionalist I try to protect them."

"You didn't object when I tested your eldest daughter," Zachary noted.

"That's because you are a professional and I took you at your word – that your graphic test is age appropriate for my little angel. Can I answer any more questions for you Zachary? Cause I'm fearing that at this point my answers have been as useful as purple polka dots on a pig," said Chase.

"Did you always have such an interesting way of talking – you didn't grow up in Texas?" Zachary asked.

"No I did not sir. But I consider it my home now and I truly believe myself to be a Texan now through and through. And so yes I suppose I've adopted some of their speaking ways, but some of it is just me too because I don't throw the baby out with the bath water, that's just not something I do," said Chase.

"I have one final question: earlier you said that you guessed that you didn't do well on my test and that some things are just in your bones because of the way that you've been brought up," said Zachary.

Chase nodded.

"Well I wanted to ask you what you meant by that, or rather: do you think there was something unusual about the way you were brought up, concerning the races that is?" Zachary asked.

"Let me tell you about my father Donald. That man is a pillar of all that is right in the world. Now we all have our faults. Men ain't perfect or men would be gods, so he did have his faults just as camels have humps, but racism was not one of those humps," said Chase.

"What were his humps, so to speak?" Zachary asked.

"He was a 100% genuine workaholic. That man loved to get down to business. But that meant that I didn't see my daddy as much as a boy should see his dad..."

"Anything else?" Zachary asked.

"Nothing comes to mind Zachary. Unless we want to talk about his short-comings as a checker player because he's about as good as a midget on a basketball team," said Chase.

"Well if it wasn't parenting, then what do you think it was that caused you to have this racism in your bones?" Zachary asked.

"I believe the culprit to be our society at large," said Chase.

"Society?" Zachary asked.

"Friends, television, you name it. You name it," said Chase.

"And you don't want that to happen to your boy?" Zachary asked.

"No sir – not in the least," said Chase.

"Well I'll see what I can do about modifying that test and we'll be in touch," said Zachary, who, observing Chase taking a business card from his walled added, "That isn't necessary I have your email."

"That's right sometimes I'm forgetful as..."

Here Zachary used one on Windsor's mind tricks and managed to block this final comparison from his mind. As they parted Zachary had the sense that for all Chase's portrayal of Southern hospitality and his overblown speaking style, that there was something else going on beneath the words, and that he had been taken for a ride. The problem was that it was just a sense, and if Zachary couldn't identify the lead then he couldn't follow up on it.

Maybe I'll have figured out what has me unsettled by the time I get around to testing his boy...

Assessment Seven: Jonnie Thurmond and Fayne

Relation to Windsor: Great Niece and Great Nephew

Address: 175 Main St. Apartment 3, Cambridge MA and Harvard University: Quincy House, Room: 7

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Jonnie Thurmond...daughter of Mick Thurmond and Courtney Thurmond

B. 1988. Age: 20

Student: Harvard

A sister's love for a brother is like the moon's love for the sun. Yes, Jonnie I know that Kolby's passing troubles you still, and that in that grand nobility of the Thurmond Family way were you given the opportunity to trade places, to trade your life for his, I know you would do so! But these troubles and difficult times have not prevented you from becoming a fine young woman, a sophomore at Harvard no less, where I am told that you major in philosophy, and so perhaps we can both take comfort in the words of Socrates, for as he said, "The hour of departure has arrived and we go our ways; I to die, and you to live. Which is better? Only God knows." Or in the words of Shakespeare that inimitable poet-philosopher of the ages:

He gave his honors to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Fayne Graham...son of Fara Graham and Josh Graham

B. 1988 Age: 20

Student: Harvard

A splendid specimen of early manhood encapsulated! I've heard it said that Fayne can melt a woman's heart with a glance only! And he's already a fine computer programmer!

Zachary decided to next travel to Cambridge to test Jonnie and Fayne. Windsor agreed, saying, "And before you leave the Cambridge area I want you to pay me a visit. There is something I wish to discuss with you here in my home. It is something that I do not wish to speak about over the phone because I fear that the reverberations of my statements will cause much pain, and so I will need you there with me to bring me through that pain, and then back to my ordinary existence."

What now?

Later he texted Jasmine to let her know that he was making his way back home for half a day, but that he would be happy to be back even for that short amount of time. She replied:

Okay Professor. You should come see me as soon as you get back. We should get lunch! Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

Sorry, I still have to do business while I am there. And then as soon as it all concludes I will be catching a flight. But then after I travel back to D.C. and then to Philadelphia I think I should finally be finished. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Blah blah blah. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

I'm sorry I would meet up if there was time but there just isn't. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

I'm not mad. I was just kidding. But still I breathlessly await your arrival. Lol. Jasmine.

Cambridge: The next day Zachary arrived in Cambridge and tested Jonnie and Fayne, both Harvard students. They met in a Harvard conference room to which Zachary still had access. Their results: both CMR negative with no trace elements. Familiar with Zachary's research they asked informed questions making Zachary feel, momentarily, as if he were again a respected Harvard professor. After thoughtfully answering their questions, Zachary requested Jonnie to remain behind. She obliged.

"You had a brother who died young, Kolby. Do you remember him well?"

"Quite well, I think about him often," said Jonnie.

"What do you remember most about him in the years before he died? Zachary asked.

"The changes," said Jonnie.

"The changes? What do you mean?" Zachary asked.

"He changed a lot in the year before he died. For example, he loved to collect animals – all sorts, and he had this huge pet snake. But in the year before he died he freed it. It probably died in the wild right away. But still he freed it and I don't know why," said Jonnie.

"How did your parents react?"

"They were probably angry – but I don't remember."

"What else did he do that was a change?"

"He wanted to start taking ballet lessons."

"There are lots of male ballet dancers in the world."

"Yes, but it was just so different from the way that his personality had been."

"So what do you think brought the change about?"

"I have no idea."

"Could it have been something that happened at the gray cliff lodge?"

"He'd been going there since he was seven – and the change came around the age of ten. So I don't think so..."

Boston: Zachary traveled to Windsor's residence for their meeting. For a while it seemed that Windsor had nothing especially pressing to discuss. He asked Zachary for details of his trip and his impressions about family members. Realizing that this could be a chance to catch up on missed business, Zachary said, "You know I should have already given you my CMR test. Would it be possible to do that now? It shouldn't take too long."

"Zachary today is not a good day for such a test. For after I tell you what it is that I want to tell you I fear that I will be much weakened. We will have to do that test on another day."

"So what was it that you wished to tell me?" Zachary asked, as he pondered the oddness of his relationship with Windsor that had started to seem more and more normal.

Why doesn't it surprise me that that didn't surprise me?

"First you must follow me upstairs. There I have a room that I use for some of my therapy sessions," said Windsor.

Windsor led Zachary into a room in which there were four black chairs in the corners and a medical table in the center. The medical table was padded and had leather restraints.

"You must restrain me here," said Windsor, pointing to the table.

"Why?"

"I have followed my mother's advice and I do not look back. But occasionally looking back is a necessity. Today is just such an occasion. And when such occasions occur I must strap myself down," said Windsor.

"I don't understand," said Zachary.

"But you will, now please, apply the leather restraints," said Windsor, who had climbed onto the table and lay on his back. Zachary did as he was asked and then moved a chair from the corner closer to the center of the room so that he could sit by Windsor's side.

"Why are there so many chairs in this room?" Zachary asked.

"Because sometimes one therapist is not enough, and I bring in a team of four," said Windsor, as if such a thing were completely normal.

Though when you've got 3.5 billion dollars maybe it is...

"Give me a minute to go back to that place which I both so loath and desire to go," said Windsor, drawing a long deep breath in the manner that Zachary imagined one of his therapists had taught. "Remember the picture I showed you? Where I am standing with my brothers and my parents, my declared first memory?"

"Yes, I remember," said Zachary.

"That is where my childhood starts because it is from that point that I can sequence the events of my life. But there is a single memory I still have that occurred before that picture was taken, an outlier memory. I know it occurred before the picture in the Alpines because in this memory I have a cast on a broken arm, and I don't ever remember breaking my arm after that picture was taken in the Alpines," said Windsor.

"I follow you," said Zachary.

"You've asked me about my father, and I hope that this memory, a memory which sometimes awakes me in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, will help to answer some of your questions," said Windsor.

Zachary opened his notebook and Windsor shut his eyes.

"I am in a room with wood floors and wood walls. I am strapped to a table as I am strapped to a table now. Next to me there is a man strapped to a table, and he is black, and he is big, and he is screaming. We are both naked. There are many people standing around holding guns. I see my father's face and it is friendly, and he places his hand upon my shoulder and tells me to be calm. I don't remember what else he said but I do remember staring into his deep blue eyes, and he returned my stare with a stare of overwhelming kindness and gentleness, and though I was naked, and though there were many men with guns, and though the black man was screaming, I knew I would be safe. And then it happened: I turned my head to the left away from my father's gaze where I saw a man in a white suit and a white apron approach the black man on the table. The man in the apron held a tray with metal knives. Then as the men with the guns watched, my father included, the man in the white apron began to cut the flesh from the black man's body. At this point I could no longer hear the black man's screaming. I had pushed it from my mind because it was too loud and too disconcerting. In this way, I think even at that early age I was able to block things from my mind that might damage me, or rather my soul. Let me leave that place for a moment and come back to this world, though I must admit that in the leaving it is like I am allowing the taste of a previous sip of lemonade to linger on my lips and filter through my body before lifting up the glass and taking another," said Windsor, now opening his eyes.

"That is a horrible story Windsor," said Zachary.

"Yes, yes it is. Can I ask you a personal question Zachary?" Windsor asked.

"Yes you can," said Zachary, thinking that if this man could freely admit his CMR, then he should be able to admit whatever he was asked as well.

"Do you believe in God Mr. Dunbar?" Windsor asked.

"That is a tough question. Some scientists do and some do not. I don't think science will ever answer the question definitively. I think it is a matter of faith. I believe in something, but it is not a religious god, it is just something," said Zachary, answering without thinking because as he answered he wondered: Could that have been the event that brought about his trait?

And what was this event?

And why the men with guns?

And is that an accurate memory?

Or is it a fantasy from a man who wishes to eat black flesh?

"So you think there is something after death?" Windsor asked.

"Yes of that I do – I don't know what – but again: something. And you, do you believe there is something after we draw our final breath?" Zachary asked.

"I do not, and this has caused me a particular slow gnawing type of pain, because if I did believe that there was something else and that in the departing of this world we start anew in another – I would have left this world long ago. But from time to time the urge is still there – for how can I be certain," said Windsor, closing his eyes and again drawing deep long breaths. "I am now a child and I am back in the room. The man in the white apron continues to approach me and I look into his eyes, and I see that like my father's eyes they are kind and gentle too. In his hands he holds a clear glass bowl and I can see that it is filled with bloody flesh. He places the bowl on my table by my feet. He then walks forward and crouches by my ear, whispering words that I still remember, 'Windsor when you skin a Negro the skin shrinks, so we hope we have chosen a Negro who is the appropriate size. Windsor you wear leather shoes made of cow. You wear beaver hats made of beaver. Today you will wear a Negro suit made of Negro.' My father told me to be still and move not a muscle. The man in the apron proceeded to cover me in the black man's skin from my head to my toes. I drew in deep breaths as I am drawing in deep breaths now. I felt the blood tickle my skin. Every now and again my mind would falter and I would hear the black man's screams, but just as soon they would vanish. The flesh did not cover my eyes and I could see the men with guns nodding with approval. I don't know how long I laid there like that, covered in the flesh of another man. My memory of it now is not a memory of time – it is a memory of feeling – a memory of bliss. But it is here that my memory vanishes. It is here that I open my eyes and return to this world, discontented that I am not covered in the black man's flesh. And it is now that thoughts of jumping from a window approach my brain because my brain knows that it is not right to be covered in another man's flesh – a black man's flesh – but my body tells me Yes Windsor Yes, you must do this now. And so now you see that when I look back it is dangerous both for myself and the innocent others, and in the interests of both those concerns, myself and the innocent others, it would be a fortuitous decision to leave me so strapped for a little longer, say 30 minutes, so that I can fully return to this world, and to thoughts befitting a man of society."

"Windsor that's horrible. Such a thing should happen to no one. I'm sorry for both of you. For him that is a most horrific way to die. And for you, for an undeveloped mind this must have done unimaginable damages. Again, I'm sorry," said Zachary.

"And I'm sorry that I'm not sorry, truly I am," said Windsor.

"Why do you think this was done to you?" Zachary asked.

"You might as well ask me to predict the last second of my life, for I have no idea," said Windsor.

"No idea?" Zachary asked.

"And to put it another way: just as a boy does not wonder why he is so privileged as to receive his first kiss from a pretty girl, rather he simply savors the moment and relegates the memory to an enduring part of his mind. And yes Zachary, as I have explained before, my childhood before 5 is a blank slate, though for some reason this memory of being covered in a black man's flesh remains – though it remains as feeling more than anything else," said Windsor.

"Well if you have to guess now what do you think that the purpose of it all had been?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know. Or to put it another way: to start to think of this would bring me to places that I cannot go. For after the going I would either lose my life or others would lose theirs," said Windsor.   
"I understand, but do you know anything else about the place, or who else was there besides your father, or anything?" Zachary asked.

"I'm sorry Zachary, but I have no more to give," said Windsor.

"I understand, and though this story creates more questions than anything else, it does answer one question: it would seem your father definitively had the CMR trait," said Zachary.

"Yes it would seem that I am a chip off the old block Mr. Dunbar," said Windsor, though completely devoid of sarcasm.

"So, we know that one parent carried the trait \--."

"I told you – information about my mother is off limits!" Windsor exclaimed, the restraints rattling.

"I have been able to find out nothing of use from your relatives. It seems they did not know her," said Zachary.

"I smell it. I smell it here," said Windsor.

"You smell what?" Zachary asked, looking around the room. Remarkably, Alexus, the black housekeeper had just passed through the back of the room, though at least 50 feet away, and from an angle of which Windsor had no view. Zachary wondered if she were safe remaining in Windsor's employment after such deep memories had been brought to the surface.

Should I suggest that he let her go with some sort of severance package?

"Mr. Dunbar, one of my servants will release me from my confinement when the time is right – when my pulse has slowed and my adrenaline has lessened. We've had quite a day, and you have more information to put in your report. But it has been draining for me and my strength is diminished and so, old boy, I think that the hour has come where it is right for us to part for the day..."

Assessment Eight: Yetta's Household

Yetta's Relation to Windsor: Niece

Address: 3259 R Street, Georgetown, Washington, D.C., 20007

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Yetta Smith...daughter of Donald and Lily Thurmond

B. 1966. Age: 42

Profession: Financial Industries

Who says women can't hack it in the financial sphere? Not Yetta Smith that is for sure! She gives her bother Mick a run for his money! Her husband Tom is an all around swell guy and a big football fan. These two gorgeous individuals have produced two beautiful children, Park, and Betsey. I remember when Yetta a child she would climb a tree in my back yard, all the way to the tipsy top. She had no fear of heights! (Which I personally think is something that deserves an exclamation point because I get afraid once I am higher than ten feet!) That lack of a fear of heights has translated to the rest of her life, she has no fear. I have never seen it in her eyes. She is quite productive at work and (sorry Tom) the major bread-winner, because as aforementioned her financial know-how is first rate (where did I go wrong in this gene pool?).

Park Smith...daughter of Yetta Smith and Tom Smith

B. 1992 Age: 16

Isn't adolescence supposed to be awkward? Well, someone forgot to tell Park because his charm and grace bestow on him a noble demeanor past his short lived years! May your days to come be as enchanted as your days that have passed!

Betsey Smith...daughter of Yetta Smith and Tom Smith

B. 1994. Age: 14

A charming nymph! A goddess of youth! Your golden hair, your rosy cheeks! Oh why can't the young stay forever young? But if they could stay forever young they should stay as you are Betsey, such sweetness, such goodness!

Washington: The Washington National Airport had become a familiar place for Zachary. During this trip Zachary hoped to test the remaining four D.C. households: Yetta, Nikkie, Mick, and Donald. And if this goal was met only one household would remain: Philip (Pennsylvania).

First Zachary would test Yetta's household which consisted of Yetta, her husband Tom and their two children, Park and Betsey. Philip had noted that Yetta worked in finance and that Tom was a football fan. Zachary met them at their house, another gargantuan Thurmond abode. They lived in the Georgetown section of D.C. And although their home was situated in a densely populated neighborhood, it was hidden from view by strategically planted trees and shrubbery. Zachary found these D.C. Thurmonds to be more welcoming than the seclusion of their home would have implied.

Yetta asked Zachary for details about Chase and Teal's children and not sure what else to say, Zachary replied that they all seemed in fine health.

Except that Nolene has a dormant desire to murder African Americans and eat their flesh...

As expected Yetta's husband Tom tested CMR negative. Yetta's boy Park also tested CMR negative, while Yetta and her daughter Betsey both tested CMR positive.

Zachary conducted interviews and asked family history questions. They seemed open with their answers, and when relevant Zachary jotted down their responses. The day's testing having concluded, Tom and Yetta were curious to know about their estranged Uncle Windsor. Zachary replied that Windsor was protective of his privacy "but I'm sure you can see from all his charitable work that he is a good guy, and you should be proud that he is a member of your family – even if he has decided to separate himself from it."

After Tom left, Yetta asked Zachary if he could give her advice on how to best handle the mental health of her daughter.

Zachary politely explained that he was a research psychologist not a practicing family psychologist but that he would be happy to make three recommendations (three being the professionally appropriate number).

"No that isn't it at all Mr. Dunbar, when the invitations went out I saw that you would be testing us, and curious about your credentials I looked you up online. There, I stumbled upon Trait Theory. I found it fascinating," said Yetta.

"How so?" Zachary asked.

Why do compliments never get old?

"My daughter has developed a rather nasty habit. She has been capturing and dissecting small animals," said Yetta.

Zachary knew that animal dissection was often a precursor to human killings.

"Yeah, that is pretty serious stuff. How did you make the connection to Trait Theory?" Zachary asked.

"I did the same thing as a child," said Yetta.

Zachary wondered if perhaps CMR was such a super-strong trait that sometimes its sublimations were actions not accepted by society.

"And what happened?" Zachary asked.

"It vanished of its own accord," said Yetta.

"Do you ever get urges?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, but I just go watch a movie, or work long hours, or have sex –really anything to get it off my mind," said Yetta.

"So do you think it will also pass for your daughter?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, but I'd still like to have someone talk to her about it, an expert. My husband wants me to talk to her about it, but of course I haven't told him about my actions as a youth. And I don't think I'd be the best person to talk to her about it, because as I just expressed, I only barely have it under control myself," said Yetta.

Zachary nodded and told Yetta he would talk to Betsey. Yetta called for Betsey and left them alone in the back yard where they both sat on a wooden bench. Right away Betsey asked Zachary if there was something wrong with her.

"No, everyone is special in their own way. And everyone has their own special kind of problems. Your problem is special because it is different from the type of problem that most people have," said Zachary, hoping he made sense.

"After I slice open an animal I feel like a freak," said Betsey.

"Then why do you do it if you know it will make you feel like that?" Zachary asked.

"That is how I feel after I do it. While I am doing it I never feel so alive," said Betsey.

"Betsey, your problem won't become a problem so long as you recognize it as a problem. You have to fight it. Do you have a boyfriend?" Zachary asked.

"No," said Betsey.

"Do you want a boyfriend?" Zachary asked.

"Yes," said Betsey.

"Do you think a boy will want to be your boyfriend if he knows you do this to animals?" Zachary asked.

"No," said Betsey.

"Well, there you go. It makes sense not to do it because you want a boyfriend," said Zachary.

"Yeah, I guess, but the problem is that I'd rather do it than have a boyfriend," said Betsey.

Zachary wished that he could explain to Betsey that she carried the CMR trait, but he feared that it would currently do more harm than good. At this point she had not identified blacks as her actual desired target, but if he told her what she truly desired she might seek it out because her sublimation was already one that did not confirm to the expectations of society. Betsey could then turn into one of those rarest of breeds – a female serial killer. Still, when Zachary published the final report she would learn that she carried the CMR trait, though hopefully by that point she would be more mature and ready to handle the implications. In any case, Zachary would have to arrange for frequent therapy for Betsey when this revelation was made.

Assessment Nine: Nikkie Thurmond

Nikkie's Relation to Windsor: Niece

Address: 4847 Rockwood Pkwy, Spring Valley, Washington, D.C., 20016

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Nikkie Thurmond...daughter of Donald and Lily Thurmond

B. 1969 Age: 39

Profession: Teacher

Aint no man gonna slow down this go-getter. Nikkie is unmarried and I am told quite happy about it! More than one man has offered the ring, but Nikkie has turned them all down. She is a Thurmond family heartbreaker. Quiet I think I hear a sound? Hark, it is the sobs of her latest lover! Or it could be the sobs of her students, for it is rumored that she is the hardest teacher in her school, and to add insult to injury her subject is chemistry. If there was ever a subject where students need a little teacherly compassion it is the subject of chemistry. But they won't get any from Nikkie, because true to her craft she holds them to a high standard of achievement. I once heard Donald complain that Nikkie hadn't entered the family business, saying, "Her mind is sharp as a tack. She would have made a fine addition to the company." (Again, where did I go wrong in this gene-pool for talent abounds!)

Washington: Zachary next traveled to Washington Heights High to test Nikkie Thurmond. After providing the front office with a current CORI report, Zachary was led by a pimply hall monitor to Nikkie's chemistry classroom. She had planned for them to meet during an open block and he found her grading papers. Zachary observed that the room was carefully organized. After minimal small-talk the testing began. Result: CMR positive – a result which surprised Zachary as teaching is considered a helping profession and it seemed to Zachary that teaching would provide poor opportunities to sublimate her latent CMR desires.

How does she cope?

Therefore, he began interviewing, probing for interests and hobbies.

"If you are wondering how I spend my free-time Mr. Dunbar, I enjoy exercise, healthy eating, and reading about historically important figures in chemistry," said Nikkie, sighing and adding. "Who unfortunately are usually boring dead white guys."

Not much there...

After a short pause, she continued, "But if you are wondering about what I am really passionate about in life there is only one subject."

"Chemistry," Zachary guessed.

"No, the prevention of male school violence," said Nikkie.

Zachary nodded and prepared to take notes.

"Mr. Dunbar, when I learned that you would be interviewing my family I became quite excited. It is true that I am a chemistry teacher by day, but my real passion lies in preventing male school violence – and I believe that this subject is more psychological than anything else. When I researched your credentials I thought it a happy coincidence," said Nikkie.

"How is it that you are connected to the prevention of male school violence?" Zachary asked.

"I'm not. But I wish to be. I've been researching the question for almost 10 years – ever since the Columbine shootings. My data is extensive – and I think it could be quite accurate, someday I hope to publish." said Nikkie.

"What is your theory?" Zachary asked.

"My theory is that boys in high school are motivated primarily by the possibility of sex. And for the ones who aren't getting it, everything they do is meant to achieve this aim."

Zachary thought back on his own high school days, "Yes, that is an intuitive statement, well for me as a male. But how does this connect to preventing male violence?"

"My theory continues that when male teens are unable to consummate their sexual longings those longings can turn to violent acts. For example, I believe that the Columbine killings were almost certainly perpetrated by virgins and that the student's gunfire was a symbolic 'final ejaculation.'" said Nikkie, straight-faced.

"An interesting hypothesis – I'm sure it must make good conversational fodder in the teacher's room anyway," said Zachary, trying not to grin inappropriately.

"Hardly. I've kept it a secret. I know that my work is racy and controversial and so I do not want to publish until I am retired. But I am also conflicted about keeping the work a secret because I think this research could help prevent future violence," said Nikkie.

"You believe that strongly in your research?" Zachary asked, seeing in Nikkie a like-minded thinker.

Could her result have been a false positive? Maybe I should test her again...

"Mr. Dunbar, I believe that there is no greater threat to the safety of our children in public and private high schools than the frustrated male virgin," said Nikkie.

"So what is the solution?" Zachary asked.

"I've struggled over this. I'm really not sure. First, they would be difficult to identify. High school males are notorious for lying about their status as virgins. Second, once identified, we obviously can't just send them off to brothels. So I really don't know. But maybe if they are just made aware that they are at a high risk to commit a violent act precisely because they aren't yet successful in their mating endeavors – then maybe they would think twice before deciding to commit a killing spree in the form of a violent 'final ejaculation'"

"I must be honest – this sounds like quite an off the wall theory. Yet at the same time it is quite intriguing. May I peruse your data?" Zachary asked.

Nikkie handed him a notebook, one filled with pages of observations.

"So what does this data consist of?"

"Like I said, while they are in high school males will often lie about their status as a virgin. But I carefully note each violent act of my male students. Then years later I interview them at reunions and after having them sign confidentiality agreements I explain the nature of my study and ask them when they first had sex. The results have been clear. The virgins were much more violent than the non-virgins: fights, verbal altercations – you name it..."

For the next hour Zachary pored over the data, reaching the impression that this amateur researcher had a professional's touch.

"You do seem to have data to back up your theory. When you are ready to publish let me know and I will point you in the right direction."

Nikkie beamed.

The CMR trait just does not seem to fit...

"Would you mind if I quickly test you again?" Zachary asked.

Nikkie consented and Zachary obtained the same result: CMR positive.

A sublimation that is the pursuit of a research question! Astounding!

Although Windsor had informed Zachary not to pester him with individual results during the testing phase, Zachary, due to the perplexing nature of the sublimation, decided to make an exception and called Windsor:

"I know you told me that you want to bestow your inheritance on someone without the CMR trait."

"Yes that is certainly the case," said Windsor.

"Why?" Zachary asked.

"The answer is obvious my good fellow. I know exactly what is like to live with this trait. As I have previously expressed, it is only through enormous self-restraint that I have not unleashed my destructive forces upon the world. Giving someone this much money with the CMR trait could put race relations in this country back a hundred years, at least."

"The reason I ask, and I am just playing devil's advocate here – is because one of your female relatives tested positive for the trait, and yet through her sublimation of the trait, she has developed a social theory – a theory which she has named The Deadly Virgin Theory for Safety in American High Schools – that if correct could help prevent the senseless killings that crop up from time to time in American schools. I firmly believe that it was her sublimation of the CMR trait that caused her to do this. Of course I can't prove that and it is only theory, but \--."

"Zachary, I already told you – test the females if you wish for your report – but my inheritance must go to a male – so this will not affect my thinking on this individual family member."

"I'm not trying to affect your thinking on an individual member; I'm trying to affect your thinking on all members – and specifically the males – I'm saying that maybe you should look at the males differently. For example, some of the CMR positive Thurmond males hold quite commendatory positions on racial relations. Perhaps it is time to consider the position, no matter how contradictory sounding, that you should look at the whole person."

"Zachary thank you for your input. But if you were to walk a mile in my shoes you would realize that what you speak of is just not a possibility."

"I understand – I was mostly just playing devil's advocate."

"This isn't a game."

"I know."

"Do you? Or to put it another way: are you approaching this project from the angle of a scientist or the angle of a human, a human with emotions and feelings?"

He's put me on the spot – and the moral tables have been turned...

"I'm just trying to do my job," said Zachary, realizing that he sounded defensive.

"I know and you are doing a fine job. Keep me updated if there are any more developments. And I don't mean to chastise you \--."

"No, No I understand, and you are right. Sometimes theories do separate me from the human and that's something I should stay on the look-out for. And you're right that this isn't a game. Your relatives have a strong urge, even if subconscious, to eat the flesh of African-Americans and I shouldn't just be playing around with that fact as if it is a mental game."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye on that."

"And Windsor, I have to admit something to you. I came into this project for the money. I'm deeply in debt. I convinced myself that it wasn't totally for the money, but I think that was just a rationalization on my part so that I could cross the boundaries of my own moral standards by agreeing to work for a person who admits to having the desires that you have. But the longer that I have worked on this project -- and Windsor, I have tried to imagine what it is like to walk in your shoes, though I know that is completely impossible – so yes the longer I have worked on this project the more respect I have --."

"Zachary this isn't necessary \--."

"No let me finish – the longer I have worked on this project the more respect I have began to have for you – to do what you do every day – to function in society – to do good for the world – and all the while to do it --."

Suddenly Zachary realized he was speaking to a dial tone.

It is just like his charity work. He does not accept accolades. He thinks he does not deserve them. But because of the hand of cards that life dealt him, he deserves accolades more than most...

Assessment Ten: Donald Thurmond

Relation to Windsor: Brother

Address: 2510 Foxhall Road, Foxhall Neighborhood, Washington, D.C., 20007

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Donald Thurmond...son of Norman and Virginia Thurmond

B. 1933 Age: 75

Profession: Financial Industry

The first thing that I have to note about Donald is that the old bugger has had seven children! Of course, of the 7 only 5 would see adulthood as both Edbert and Elvin would succumb to an early death in 1972. However, Donald's marriage with his wife Lily has remained strong. I called Lily and told her I was putting together this family tree. I said to her, 'How was it that you stayed together during those stressful years after 1972?' She replied to me, 'I was able to make it through because of Donald's kind heart.' As Donald's brother I can second that opinion. Often when people in the family think of Donald the first thing that comes to mind is that he is another family financial success story. And that is true, among amazing financial accomplishments: he created...the first and now largest private penal corporation in the country! Yet it is his kind heart that I think we should think of when we think of Donald. I remember when I fell into a well as a child, breaking my leg Donald ran six miles to get help! Six miles at the age of 7! Donald has the heart of a warrior. But his fight is love. Donald is a proud member of the Gray Cliff Lodge and has served as secretary of that noble organization for 20 years. Thus his book-keeping skills are put to use not only in the arena of finance but also in the arena of fraternity...

Washington: Because Donald lived next door to his son Mick it would have been simplest to test them together, but Mick's household couldn't be tested until the next day. The narrative family tree outlined that Donald (if Philip was accurate) had created two hedge funds of hedge funds, so that those who were not ultra-rich could still invest in these specialized instruments, and also a door-to-door investment service, which listed as its mission statement, "The achievement of favorable returns for the common people."

Another socially positive CMR sublimation?

Two years prior, Zachary had attended an annoying networking seminar and therefore knew that he should at least provide Donald with a business card for Dunbar and Associates. Yet the thought made Zachary feel more snake oil salesman than upstanding businessman.

But I suppose that is the way the world works, selling yourself or selling something else...

Zachary found Donald's wife Lily to be a naturally pleasant hostess. After the testing concluded (results: Lily: CMR negative; Donald: CMR positive) Lily expressed that it was a sad occurrence that Windsor persisted in maintaining his familial estrangement. She showed Zachary an old photo album. Zachary was able to identify many of the family members.

Hoping that this moment of Thurmond family sharing might lead to answers about the Gray Cliff Lodge, Zachary suggested that Donald reminisce about this long-standing family establishment. However, Donald only smiled softly, saying, "I may be getting on in the years but I still keep my oaths, and so I'm sure that you've heard by now that all occurrences at the Gray Cliff Lodge are veiled with a Thurmond oath of secrecy."

"Yes, although I hadn't heard that exact term. What can you tell me about the oath?"

"Very good! If you can't learn about what the oath secludes then you try to learn about the oath itself! I admire your tenacity. But I must repeat, affably though firmly, that all matters pertaining the Gray Cliff Lodge are family secrets, including all matters pertaining to the oath to maintain that secrecy," said Donald.

The man practically speaks in legalese about what is supposedly a vacation. What are they hiding?

"I'm sorry to persist, but I am trying to put together a family history. Grey Cliff is a gaping hole in my report. Based on the fact that the Gray Cliff Lodge is frequently referenced in Philip's narrative family tree and because absolutely no one will talk to me about it, I have to assume that this lodge must be of some major importance to the family," said Zachary.

"Young fellow, I wish you were a Thurmond because you seem like the respectable sort who would fit right in were you given the chance. But the truth of the matter is: Zachary you are not a Thurmond, and as much as you seem to be a fine fellow, the wonders of the Gray Cliff Lodge are for the Thurmond family only. I'm sorry but that's just the way it is," said Donald.

"It is for Thurmond males only," Zachary corrected.

"Yes, yes, the women have their lodge as well of course," said Donald.

"I simply love the Yellow Daisy Lodge. It is the highlight of my year..." said Lily, who proceeded to describe her favorite activities. Zachary nodded politely while impatiently tapping his foot.

I must continue to press Donald...

"...Donald you described what occurred at the lodge as 'wonders' – how so?" Zachary asked, thinking that perhaps he would finally receive some answers, even if limited, concerning this secretive family vacation spot.

This man at least talks about the concrete in the abstract, which is more than any other male Thurmond has done...

"Good try, but I have already said too much. And even if I could tell you I wouldn't. The Gray Cliff Lodge is something that needs to be experienced for words do not do it justice. I will say this though, the time that I spend at the Gray Cliff Lodge gives my body and soul the sustenance that it needs for all the time spent away from the lodge," said Donald.

"It sounds like the perfect vacation," said Zachary.

Donald slapped his thigh as if Zachary had made a noteworthy joke, saying, "I may have given away the family secret after all because that description is just right,"

Zachary decided to try another method.

Perhaps Lily has heard something...

After Donald excused himself to take an urgent telephone call, Zachary asked Lily what she knew of the lodge.

"I wish I could help you because you seem like such a nice boy, but I know nothing about what goes on at that lodge with those men – men and their secrets. Well, that isn't exactly true. I know that they hunt deer because each year Donald and the other Thurmond men bring back so much deer meat that the Thurmond wives could create at least ten cook books solely dedicated to creative deer recipes – believe me we've had to learn," said Lily.

"Yes, I've heard that before," said Zachary.

And killing a large animal is probably quite an effective CMR sublimation.

When Donald returned he asked Lily what he had missed.

She summarized.

Donald exclaimed, "What a coincidence! Zachary we were about to have lunch and the menu today actually is venison if you would like to partake."

"No, I grabbed a bite to eat before I arrived," said Zachary, playfully grabbing at his belly.

Lily coyly waved a finger, saying, "Zachary, I insist. I have made Venison soup – and call me a roguish opportunist, but I would simply love to get the opinion of an unbiased taster. Of course Donald tells me everything I make is marvelous, but he has to live with me. But you can be honest. You don't have to live with me!"

"Okay, I'll give it a try," said Zachary.

But only because I still have questions to ask...

"Wonderful!" said Lily, leading Zachary by the hand into the informal dining room. Zachary immediately noted the room's singular decoration: mounted deer heads. He began counting.

"45," said Donald before Zachary had finished.

"Are these all of your kills?" Zachary asked.

"Of course not – but these were some of my proudest moments. I wish I could describe them to you, but of course I cannot," said Donald with a rakish smile.

"You must be a very competent hunter," said Zachary.

"Draw whatever conclusions you want from these magnificent specimens on my walls but you will draw no information about the lodge from me," said Donald, smiling again.

"Well," said Zachary, seating himself, "allow me to change the subject then. And I apologize because I know that this must be a difficult subject, but could you speak about the circumstances surrounding the deaths of your children Edbert and Elvin. Herod's curse is something that I have also been trying to make sense of."

While Lily spoke at length about her two deceased children, Zachary jotted her responses, often nodding sympathetically. Her tears began flowing almost as soon as she choked up and when she found herself unable to continue, Zachary thanked her for her efforts. Immediately Donald grasped her hand, kissed her gently on the cheek, and turned to Zachary, saying, "The loss of Edbert and Elvin were the most difficult tragedies that I've ever experienced in my life..."

I can't quite place why but he seems phony...

"And on a more theoretical level, what is your opinion of Herod's curse? Why do you think this curse keeps after the Thurmond family?" Zachary asked, a servant placing a bowl of soup before him.

Both Donald and Lily stated that they believed the curse to be nothing more than the chance unfolding of a series of horrendous tragedies. Zachary noted their answers and turned his attention to the soup, a soup which he found highly seasoned and surprisingly appetizing.

Soup usually leaves me wanting another dish but this soup leaves me wanting more soup...

"Interesting, this does not actually taste like venison to me," said Zachary.

"So then you are familiar?" Donald asked.

"Yes, I've had it on perhaps 10 occasions. But I must say this is the best tasting venison I've ever had – how did you cook it Lily?"

"Well just like Donald I also have some family secrets that I am not willing to talk about, like my recipes – but I can tell you that it was extensively marinated," said Lily.

"Oh, well that must explain the difference between the gaminess I expected and the present flavorful taste – very nice job," said Zachary, as he continued to consume the bowl's contents.

"Zachary, in my line of work, finance, you have to make split second decisions about people – and I must admit that the thought of having someone judge me never sits well in my mind – that's actually why it took me so long to respond to your RSVP. I wasn't sure I even wanted to do this -- Let another family member get the money I'll be departing this world in the not too distant future anyway was my thinking – but whenever someone likes my wife's venison cooking and thinks my wife's venison is delicious: well, I like that person a whole lot more," said Donald, raising a glass of milk in salutation.

"Yes, it is very good and I'm not just saying that to be polite," said Zachary.

Lily grinned appreciably and said, "thank you Zachary, you are welcome back any time – and if you do come back there is a good chance we will be eating venison again..."

Time to network...ugh...

Before leaving Zachary summarized the mission statement of Dunbar and Associates and briefly outlined their accomplishments.

"Yes, effective hiring is important. If you think you could improve the hiring practices in prisons I'll send word along to my contacts," said Donald.

They shook hands. Donald's grip was strong.

"Zachary you've been in my home, you've eaten my meat, and though you aren't officially a Thurmond, I now consider you a surrogate Thurmond, and we Thurmonds watch out for each other – so if I hear of some work I will hand it your way..."

"Thank you, again thank you for the meal. You don't happen to have any extra that I could take with me do you?" Zachary asked.

"I'm sorry, but we really don't..." said Donald, which Zachary thought an odd answer because Donald had earlier been bragging about his stockpile of venison and had been generous in doling out portions.

It had been a hearty meal and once Zachary reached the hotel he decided to nap but the hotel bed was so comfortable that he slept straight until morning. After shaving and showering, Zachary ate breakfast at the hotel, finding his toast and muffin intolerably bland.

But maybe Mick will be eating venison too, though I doubt it would be as tasteful as Donald's...

Zachary had time to kill before meeting with Mick, so he analyzed data sets and started outlining his preliminary report. Then he read a newspaper and watched the news. Nothing newsworthy in either place, he turned his attention towards test preparation. Mick was divorced, a Thurmond rarity. His first child Kolby had died at age 11, a victim of Herod's Curse. His two surviving children, Ralph and Jonnie were, respectively, 16 and 20. Zachary had already tested Jonnie, result: CMR negative.

Assessment Eleven: Mick Thurmond's Household

Mick's Relation to Windsor: Nephew

Address: 2520 Foxhall Road, Foxhall Neighborhood, Washington, D.C., 20007

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Mick Thurmond...son of Donald and Lily Thurmond

B. 1963 Age: 45

Profession: Financial Industries

If there was ever a worker who was ready to burn the midnight oil, well then that worker is Mick Thurmond. I think it is a fair assessment to say that he takes after his daddy in his financial wizardry. I don't think Mick has ever seen a quarterly report that he wasn't too busy to read, analyze, re-organize, and evaluate for pros and cons. As I once heard Chase state about his brother Mick, in his characteristic speaking way, "If I had one half of the work ethic of my brother Mick, I would already have built a ladder to the moon, taken up a construction crew, and built myself a genuine lunar vacation home!" Sadly, Herod's Curse struck Mick's family, and took away his sweet boy Kolby in 1986. As with his grandparents (Norman and Virginia), the loss of a child introduced too much stress for the marriage to remain intact, and Mick and his now ex-wife Courtney have gone their separate ways. However, I'm told that the divorce has been amicable and that they rear their surviving child Jonni tenderly and wonderfully. Mick played football for Harvard and now as a body builder cuts quite a wide-berth.

Ralph Thurmond...son of Mick and Courtney Thurmond

B. 1992 Age: 16

Profession: high school student

What a fine young man! A well rounded high school scholar, ready to enter the world, ready to do his Thurmond duty!

Washington: Mick lived next door to his father Donald and the outside of their houses looked similar, but Mick's interior was gloomy with dark paints, foreboding modern paintings, framed antique weapons, and of course that Thurmond mainstay: mounted buck heads. Having observed the buck heads, Zachary tried his best to nonchalantly insert his venison appeal.

Mick laughed.

"Yes, Donald told me that you really took to the venison."

"I imagine everyone must. It was heavenly," said Zachary.

"You'd be surprised, some people don't. My boy Kolby never could seem to acquire the taste, which was unfortunate because we eat it so often."

Zachary took the opportunity to question Mick about Herod's Curse, and carefully noted his answer. Zachary continued, "Well, it must be a relief now that Ralph is older than 13. You don't have to worry about it anymore."

Mick changed the subject and offered Zachary a beer. Zachary accepted and they drank on the patio in his backyard. The patio overlooked an in-ground pool built to resemble a flatbed creek. Zachary complimented Mick's yard and Mick waved off the compliment, explaining that it had all been his ex-wife's idea.

"Yes, I heard that you were divorced. I'd like to get her contact information from you if possible. It would be good if I could test her as well," said Zachary.

"What, she didn't already get enough money from me? She needs another 3.5 billion?" said Mick and after chuckling, he added, "Yes, of course. Whatever you need Zachary – my father Donald told me to get you whatever you need."

"Was that before or after I enjoyed his venison?" Zachary asked, smiling.

"Why do you ask?" said Mick.

"It just seemed very important to him," said Zachary.

"Well actually, after," said Mick, laughing again.

Both Mick and his son Ralph tested CMR positive. Mick took an interest in the specifics of the test, saying, "It seemed obvious that you were testing for racism there, but were you testing for anything else?"

Zachary still believed that the murderous-cannibalistic part would be too much for the Thurmonds' pride to handle, yet due to ethical disclosure the question could not be avoided. But Zachary found a way out of the dilemma, saying, "Yes, racism, but a very strong form of racism, a form that might cause a person to commit acts not condoned in society."

"Interesting, can you be any more specific?" Mick asked

"It will all be in the final report, along with recommendations," said Zachary.

"So what does that mean that Ralph tested positive? I mean, does it mean that Ralph is like me because we both tested positive? Do we both have a similar type of this strong racism?" Mick asked.

"Yes, it is similar, and it will be within a similar range. But the magnitude will differ, and that will take a little time to calculate," said Zachary.

"How long?" Mick asked.

"Perhaps a few days."

"I'd like those results as soon as possible," said Mick.

Zachary noted that Mick was the first Thurmond interested in score specifics, and wondered his reason. However, the subject was changed because the butler at that moment placed a platter of venison on the patio table. Zachary's mouth instantly began watering.

Mick grabbed a piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth, explaining, "finger food." Zachary followed suit. Remarkably Mick's venison was just as tasty as Donald's and Zachary continued to toss chunks of the meat into his mouth until the platter was empty. As they ate Zachary tried to pry from Mick some information about Grey Cliff. But he gave the standard Thurmond answers and the subject was closed. Fortunately Mick was as generous with his venison as Donald had been on the prior day and a second platter was consumed. Zachary left Mick's house in convivial spirits.

It is too bad he is CMR positive, or I think that I just might make a personal appeal on his behalf to Windsor. (Then Zachary wondered if that was the venison talking.)

Later Zachary called Courtney, Mick's ex-wife. Her children had already informed her about the testing.

"I know that I am no longer married into the Thurmond family, but I was still wondering if you would eventually contact me."

As the sun began setting, Zachary met her at her home. Judging by her home's size she had done well for herself in the divorce.

If she isn't from some independently wealthy family line too that is...

The gratuitousness of the test shocked her and consistent with that shock she tested CMR negative. After the testing had concluded, Zachary stated, "You know, I have to admit that you and Mick are the first divorced couple in the Thurmond family that I have come across, though not the first, and I don't mean to sound harsh, that lost a child."

"Yes, the divorce was mostly my fault. Mick was always kind to me. But I needed to leave him because he basically lives at work, and after Kolby's death I needed more attention. As a couple, dealing with the death of a child is very hard. It wasn't that Mick was cold about Kolby's passing, but he never wanted to talk about the memories..."

Zachary realized that he should have asked Mick to take the Philadelphia Grief Inventory, but because he had not, he decided to at least take the opportunity to question Courtney about her husband's reaction, "Did he seem matter of a fact about Kolby's death?"

"Like I said he was not a cold man. He gave a stirring beautiful eulogy at his funeral. And he sends flowers to Kolby's grave pretty much every holiday. But he just wasn't available to talk about it. But we all grieve in our own way Mr. Dunbar. Kolby was our little baby, our little baseball player boy. He had quite an arm. I remember after Kolby threw Mick a baseball, Mick would sometimes take off his glove and pretend his hand was injured. It was funny." Courtney paused, adding, "See that right there is something I never could have talked to him about. I just met you and I can talk to you about it. So you can see our marriage wasn't fated to last. But all and all he was a good father and a good husband."

"Thank you for your time Mrs. Thurmond..."

Assessment Twelve: Phillip Thurmond's Household

Phillip's Relation to Windsor: Brother

Address: 1410 Monk Road, Gladwyne, PE, 19035

Phillip Narrative Tree Snippet:

Philip Thurmond...son of Norman and Virginia Thurmond

B. 1934. Age: 74

Profession: Financial Industries

What do say about me? Clearly, my brother's had more business acumen than I. Yet they never avoided a chance to give me a helpful tip. I think there were many times that I would have been ruined were it not for the help of the noble Charles or the fearless Donald. One of my saddest moments that must be mentioned is the death of my twin Henry. Oh, Henry Henry I will see you soon on the other side! (Although not too soon I hope for I still have things to accomplish as a Thurmond's work is never done!) I've heard it said that only a twin can understand the love that a twin has for a twin. I believe that statement to be true through and through. We were inseparable Henry and I. There was no mischief that we didn't dare to get into. The pneumonia that took him took him oh so fast. But through the fraternity of my brother's and the love of my parents, I was able to grieve and move forward. Although it is true that I did not achieve as much worldly success as my brother's, I was no slouch. For seven years my financial advising company... brought in hefty profits, comparable with my brothers. And though tragedy is no excuse for we have all had tragedy in this family in spades surely, it was after I lost my own two children Nat and Woolcott in one horrific year 1977, that my own business drive subsided. It was at this point that my wife Penelope gave her courageous eulogy for our boy's titled, 'Herod's Curse.' And in this Eulogy she stated that the frequent occurrence in our family of the death of a first or second born male was similar to Herod's massacre of the innocents in the Bible. However, through my wife's love and through my daughter Laural's comforting eyes, I moved forward, and we have remained a functional and nurturing family. In the words of Tiny Tim, "God bless us everyone!"

Laural Toomey...daughter of Philip and Penelope Thurmond

B. 1969 Age: 39

Profession: Homemaker

Laural my daughter my everlasting sun! You bring me hope when the skies bring me only rain. Laural cares for my old bones in our grand Pennsylvania home. Her husband Jeremy is a good man, and her three sons, and my three grandsons, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carl do proud the Thurmond family name!

Sawyer Toomey...son of Laural Toomey and Jeremy Toomey

B. 1993 Age: 15

I don't know if my daughter Laural named her boy after Tom Sawyer but she should have because that boy muddles into his fair shake of trouble. I remember hearing last summer that he almost blew off his hands with some firecrackers! But if the saying "boys will be boys" were ever true it is true of good old Thurmond Boys! What is more is that he is kind and good and even helps his little brothers with their homework. I hope that my boys Nat and Woolcott have someone as good-hearted as Sawyer to help them with their homework in that great green pasture in the sky!

Teddy Toomey...son of Laural Toomey and Jeremy Toomey

B. 1995 Age: 13

This boy likes to play video-games so much that he has even convinced this old-fart to give them a try! But in this boy I see the makings of a fine man, a man in the tradition of the Thurmond Family way!

Carl Toomey...son of Laural Toomey and Jeremy Toomey

B. 1998 Age: 10

What an explorer! And he likes to read about nature. Carl, I bet that when you grow up you will sail around the world and in doing so will make your granddaddy the proudest of the proud and lend only more glory and greatness to the Thurmond family name!

Gladwyne, PE: After Zachary finished analyzing his recently obtained data he decided to research Gladwyne, which was the town of Philip's household, the final Thurmond household. Zachary discovered that Gladwyne has one of the highest per capita incomes in the country, had been populated based on its proximity to a Philadelphia railroad station, and had landed most of its old money families when "white flight" from Philadelphia began. However, white flight populating a suburb was nothing unusual and so there was no reason for Zachary to include this information in his report on tested Household Number 12.

The 2000 census determined Gladwyne to be 97.22% white and .32% black (the remainder being other races). This would also seem to hint at a potential dislike for blacks. However, the wealthiest neighborhoods in the U.S. are usually almost 100% white, so this also did not point definitively to racism.

Though they aren't going out of their way to find a non-segregated area from which to integrate either...

The Gladwyne Thurmonds had offered to shuttle Zachary from Philadelphia to their suburban mansion by way of limousine.

Another bribe offer in the making?

However, Zachary told them he was perfectly capable of driving -- his rental had GPS -- and besides, (though this part went unstated), Zachary wanted to maintain his autonomy.

The Gladwyne Thurmonds' household consisted of 6 family members. The eldest, Philip Thurmond, author of the narrative family tree, was a widower and he lived with his daughter, Laural, her husband, Jeremy, and their three children, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carly. From the narrative family tree Zachary learned that Philip was CEO of a financial advising company called Water Tower LLC. The company was privately held and so information regarding its financial status was not available for public purview through the SEC.

Zachary surfed the company's website, but log-in credentials were needed to continue past the first couple of screens. The company advised accredited investors (those with a net worth of U.S. 1 million, not including real estate, or those making over $200,000 per year) on a limited basis. The standard minimum investment in the company was U.S. 10 million.

And this is a man who declared in the narrative family tree that he was much less financially successful than his brothers? If that is true then how financially successful are Charles and Donald?

As Zachary arrived at the property, parking his tiny rental beside a massive SUV, an ambulance slowly pulled away, lights off. While taking a few minutes inside the cramped confines of his rental to organize testing materials another vehicle pulled up, this one a hearse. Groaning, Zachary exited the car and approached the front door apprehensively. Now walking behind a man in a black suit, Zachary thought testing that day clearly unlikely.

And not just for whoever died but for the living as well.

Yet, however unlikely it seemed to the mind of the PHD at that moment – quite – before the day had concluded Zachary would have tested each of the Gladwyne Thurmonds, except, of course, the one who had deceased and who Zachary would soon learn to have been the patriarch, Philip.

Expressions of grief were minimal. No one was crying. In fact, the family seemed more interested that Zachary had arrived than that Philip had departed. Zachary was led into the parlor and instructed to wait. When he stated that he could return later on some future date he was informed that that wouldn't be necessary and that the testing could continue as scheduled:

No lost love for the recently deceased? I'm guessing we are going to score some pretty high positive CMR traits at this locale...

But as his daughter Laural later explained, "The dementia had lately gotten so bad that this is really a gift, for me, for my husband, and for the children, and most of all for Philip. I don't know if I'm in shock, or what, but I feel a sense of peace because I feel that Philip is finally at peace."

"It had lately been difficult?" Zachary asked.

"Pretty much nothing he said lately made sense. It was difficult. The man my father became over the past six months was not the man he was over the course of his life," said Laural.

"Please explain," said Zachary.

"You've obviously never had a family member succumb to dementia Mr. Thurmond," said Laural, somewhat gruffly.

"No, but I am familiar with the disease through clinical study, though I am sure that is nothing like the experience of losing someone in its grasp," said Zachary.

Am I following Windsor's advice? Am I trying to inject more empathy into my professional capacities?

"It has been very hard. Philip had been such a loving man and then once the dementia came," Laural said, stopping mid-thought.

"He was no longer the same loving man?" Zachary guessed.

"Not at all – he became something of a monster," said Laural.

"How so?" Zachary asked – thinking that even if he couldn't test Philip, a posthumous description could still be included in the case history section of the final report.

"I'd rather not talk about it. The important thing is that he is at peace now," said Laural.

These Thurmonds never want to talk about anything...

"I understand. This might not be the best time, but I'm trying to put together a comprehensive family history for my final report. Could you instead tell me about your deceased brothers Nat and Woolcott?" Zachary asked.

"What do you want to know?" Laural asked.

"For starters what is your opinion on Herod's Curse?" Zachary asked.

"It scares me. Sawyer is a 15 year old and Teddy is 13," said Laural.

"Sawyer and Teddy yes, but are you aware that Herod's curse has never struck a bloodline female Thurmond mother, only the fathers?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, there has been talk of that at the Yellow Daisy Lodge, though I probably wouldn't have noticed it myself. I don't know. It still doesn't make me feel safe though. I love my children more than anything. I don't know what I would do if any of them were to die," said Laural.

"At the Yellow Daisy Lodge were there any theories tossed about as to why the curse had repeatedly struck at the bloodline male Thurmonds but never the bloodline female Thurmonds?" Zachary asked.

"Sure – all sorts of crazy ideas," said Laural.

"Do you remember any of them?" Zachary asked.

"Honestly, I try not to think about it because it scares me so I just put it out of my mind," said Laural.

"That is only natural," said Zachary.

"But I do remember one theory. I forget who came up with it. But they pointed out that one main difference between the males and the females of the family is that the males vacation at the Gray Cliff Lodge and that the females vacation at the Yellow Daisy Lodge. So maybe the males pick up some bad luck at the Gray Cliff Lodge. Maybe it isn't the family that is cursed, but that it is that lodge that is cursed," said Laural.

"And what do you think?" Zachary asked.

"Who knows? Like every other female, Thurmond, I don't know anything about the Gray Cliff Lodge, so I don't know," said Laural.

"Okay that theory makes a little sense but it does have a hole. Even though you don't attend the Gray Cliff Lodge your boys still do and therefore they could pick up this so-called bad luck on their own," said Zachary.

"No that isn't true: perhaps no one told you, but female Thurmonds cannot send their male children to the Gray Cliff Lodge, only male Thurmond fathers can send their male children," said Laural.

"I didn't know that, interesting. So where do you send Sawyer and Teddy while you attend the Yellow Daisy lodge?" Zachary asked.

"There's a private camp not too far from here, they love it..."

Later, after having implemented his CMR tests, Zachary discovered, somewhat shockingly, that the results indicated negative CMR scores for each Gladwyne Thurmond.

False negatives?

So Zachary tested them again but the results were the same.

I should have started with Philip. He wrote the narrative family tree. He was therefore obviously the most likely candidate to share secretive Thurmond family information.

While eating a light meal consisting mainly of venison, an awkward conversation ensued that seemed to touch upon every subject except the man who had just left the house in a box. Remembering that Philip had written in the family tree about a room for the mementos of prematurely deceased Thurmond boys, Zachary mentioned this to Laural.

Nodding her head knowingly, she said, "Yeah, I only read that ridiculous family tree one time but I remember what you are talking about. That room only existed in his mind. There is no room like that in this house."

"Laural I understand that you don't want to talk about your Dad right now, and I'm just appreciative that you have actually allowed me to conduct testing today, but is there anyone else around that I could talk to? I just want to try to get at least a little information for my report."

"If you really like you could talk to his live-in nurse. We told her she could stay until she found another position so she is still here – if she is at home that is – but I do think I just saw her in the kitchen making a sandwich," said Laural, showing Zachary the way.

In the kitchen Zachary found a meek woman with a mousy face busy consuming a sandwich.

"I bet that is venison," said Zachary to the nurse.

"You're right," said the nurse, smiling.

"Sharon this is Mr. Dunbar, the psychologist I told you about, the one who is conducting the testing," said Laural, and placing her arm upon Sharon's shoulder, she added, "Again Sharon I have to thank you for everything you did for my father. You were an angel for him, though I know it was at times quite difficult."

"Please, no more thanks. I was just doing my job," said Sharon.

"Yes, but it still needs saying. Mr. Dunbar would like to ask you some questions about father. Don't hesitate to answer them honestly. I would do it myself but that isn't the way I want to color my final remembrances," said Laural.

Sharon told Laural she understood.

"I'll be outside getting some fresh air if you need me," said Laural, though neither Zachary nor Sharon was sure who she was speaking too so they both nodded politely.

"How is the venison? I just had a sandwich myself and I thought it delicious," said Zachary, attempting to build rapport.

"They really know how to cook it here – I will give them that. Actually I'd never had it before I started working here, but now it is venison breakfast, lunch, and dinner," said Sharon.

"Really, three meals a day? That must get old," said Zachary.

"Sometimes – so you wanted to talk about Philip?" Sharon asked, sneaking a small bite.

"Yes, Sharon expressed that he became – well the way she actually put it was that he became a 'monster' as of late," said Zachary.

"Mr. Dunbar, I've worked with my fair share of dementia patients. Dementia can take a person in any direction and that direction is completely unpredictable. What is difficult for the family is for them to accept that the loved ones are no longer themselves," said Sharon.

"So what was Philip's change like?" Zachary asked.

"When I first arrived he was usually polite. Yes, sometimes there would be flashes of anger. But nothing like the despair of his final days," said Sharon.

"How so?" Zachary asked.

"Well, he had convinced himself that he was a murderer," said Sharon.

"Really?" Zachary asked, flipping open his pocket notebook.

"And he said that I was too – and moreover, that everyone who lived here was a murderer," said Sharon.

"And how did he come to this conclusion?" Zachary asked.

"He said it was because we ate Negros," said Sharon.

"He said that?" Zachary asked.

"Yes," said Sharon.

"What else did he say?" Zachary asked.

"When he went to his dark place he just kept focusing on that delusion – that we all ate Negros -- stating it over and over again – at first it drove Laural and the rest of the family nuts, but eventually they accepted that this was his delusion, and that it wasn't his fault that he had this delusion, and that in all probability the delusion was going nowhere," said Laural.

"Anything else?" Zachary asked.

"I thought that was a pretty good one. It was something that I had never heard anyway," said Laural.

But not as impossible as you might think...

"No, that is helpful. But was there anything else – let's say – peculiar about his delusions?" Zachary asked.

"Delusions by nature are peculiar --."

"I'm sorry that was the wrong word choice – let's say racial – was there anything else racial about his delusions?" Zachary asked, wondering if dementia had unleashed Philip's subconscious mind and in the doing had unleashed his latent CMR desires.

This would make a fabulous research question – but what are the odds of ever getting another subject?

"Not really – but it is funny that you should say that. White patients often become quite racist when dementia strikes and much to the families embarrassment the N-word, nigger can be freely tossed about. I don't know why but this really is a frequent occurrence with white dementia patients," said Sharon.

Trace elements of CMR perhaps?

"And so this also happened with Philip?" Zachary asked.

"Sort of – except that instead of saying the N-word every one became a Negro, but he used the word Negro in just as derogative a manner as if it had been the N-word," said Zachary.

"And you found that odd?" Zachary asked.

"It's just the first time I've ever heard one of my old timers do that..."

Zachary spoke with Sharon for a few more minutes and then thanked Laural for her hospitality. She told him to visit if he was ever back in the area.

If I didn't still have to test Chase's boy I would actually be finished with testing. Still, I can start to get my final results together for Windsor and begin outlining the final report...

Zachary texted Jasmine, writing:

Jasmine I think I am almost finally finished. Thank God, this assignment has been too much hectic traveling. I'll be back in Boston tomorrow and after I attend two meetings we should meet up for drinks.

Jasmine replied:

That's great news! But don't think you can use the hectic traveling line as an excuse not to take a vacation. A vacation and hectic traveling are not the same thing, and you should still take a vacation and we should still go somewhere!

Zachary replied:

Lol, I still do want to go somewhere with you. By the way, I looked orienteering up on Wikipedia and I still laugh when I think of you doing that.

Jasmine replied:

Hahaha. That is so funny, making fun of orienteering, like everyone I know doesn't make fun of me for being an orienteer. That is like so original. Jasmine.

Zachary replied:

The Three Stooges repeated a lot of the same gimmicks but they were still funny. So maybe you and orienteering will never stop being funny. Zachary.

Jasmine replied:

Professor, so now you are comparing orienteering with the three stooges? I just might have to cancel those drinks. Jasmine.

### Chapter Eight

Somerville, Davis Square: While traveling the Thurmond circuit, Zachary sorely missed the eclectic tea selection provided by his Davis Square Coffee shop and upon his first return visit chose an herbal flavor he had never tried, cinnamon chai – though it proved a poor choice so he stood back in line again and ordered his usual standby, honey ginger. A few minutes later, while sipping at his still-too-hot tea, Zachary glanced over his preliminary results and finding reading impossible without note taking -- even if the writing were his own -- he jotted copious notes in the columns, so that by the time Omar and Samantha arrived his preliminary results had the appearance of a failed graduate paper.

Samantha greeted Zachary with a forceful hug and dominated the first few minutes of conversation to such an extent that neither Zachary nor Omar got a word in edgewise. Samantha informed Zachary that their Texas offer had fallen through but that there had been some interest of late by private prisons founded by Donald Thurmond.

"Nice job Zachary, it seems that he has taken an interest in you and therefore in Dunbar and Associates," Samantha concluded.

"Yes, it was a nice though rather odd meeting. In fact that is the impression that I had with many of the Thurmonds – the CMR positive ones anyway – nice but odd."

"So what big discovery did you make this time?" Omar asked.

"Well, Dunbar and Associates did not make any big discoveries this time around but we do have some interesting data," said Zachary, shuffling through his papers and handing Omar and Samantha his preliminary report, their copies of the charts still to his left.

"This looks very rough," said Samantha, flipping through.

Omar and Zachary looked up both expecting her to say more, but when she did not Zachary explained, "This is only the preliminary report. I still actually have one more test subject, so I want to find out whether Windsor wants me to start writing the final report now or to wait until I have the last subject's results."

"So what are we looking at here? Is there a clear heir-apparent?" Samantha asked.

"There are some good prospects, yes, but I really don't know what criteria Windsor will use. All we can do is to present him with the data in an organized fashion," said Zachary.

"Okay, so here is the million dollar question that I know you have been dying for me to ask you. What discoveries were made concerning CMR and Trait Theory?" said Samantha.

"Actually it is all pretty dry. Like I said there were no big discoveries. But let's go through the data. Okay, so all and all there were 24 family members who were tested – and if you can believe it I still haven't tested Windsor. He will make 25 and the final boy will make 26, if he ends up being tested that is –"

"You still haven't tested Windsor?" interrupted Samantha.

"No," said Zachary.

"Well, why the hell not? It would seem that he is a pretty important point of comparison," Samantha said.

"I know, I agree totally. The opportunity just hasn't presented itself. I've tried but he wasn't up for it. But when I present him with these preliminary results later today I will see if I can test him," said Zachary.

Samantha shrugged.

"Give the guy a break. He's been traveling around the country," said Omar, a big bite of his muffin still in his mouth.

"No it is okay," said Zachary, while continuing to riffle through his papers. "I understand her concern. I will get it done. So all total there could be 26 or 25 tested. But at this point there have been 24 tested and I have broken them down first individually. The way these chart works is that a white background indicates CMR positive. A pink back ground indicates CMR negative. And a blue background indicates an unknown CMR status."

"So we can see that of the 24 who have been tested 13 are CMR positive: Donald, Chase, Mick, Yetta, Nikkie, Nolene, Betsey, Charles, Alburt, Teal, Presten, Dwade, and Hazel. And the 11 CMRnegative are: Kaci, Fara, Posy, Tori, Jonni, Park, Fayne, Laural, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carl..."

"Interesting -- with an approximately even split like that I bet we are looking at a lot of situations were one parent has the trait and one does not," said Omar.

"You know your Trait Theory, Omar, yes that is the most likely scenario, though I wasn't always able to test both parents so we don't know with 100% certainty. But the overwhelming probability points towards this cause. Now we can further break the results down by gender. There are 7 CMR positive males: Donald, Chase, Mick, Charles, Alburt, Presten, and Dwade. There are 5 CMR negative males: Park, Fayne, Sawyer, Teddy, and Carl. There are 6 CMR positive females: Yetta, Nikkie, Nolene, Betsey, Teal, and Hazel. There are 6 CMR negative females: Kaci, Fara, Posy, Tori, Jonnie, and Laural," said Zachary.

"Okay, I'm sure that is completely accurate. But what is the point of giving Windsor a visual breakdown of the data like this? Why should it matter how many males and females are CMR positive and negative?" Samantha asked.

"Windsor is going to give one of these family members a massive inheritance of 3.5 billion dollars. He has charged us with the responsibility of using Trait Theory to identify the CMR trait. So we have done that and it was straight forward and we have succeeded in that mission. Sure we could just stop there, pat ourselves on the back, and move forward But I would like to go the extra mile and provide him with extra information that he can choose to use or not, but I believe that this extra information will help him to make a better informed decision," said Zachary.

"Okay, so what is the extra information?" Omar asked.

"We've been talking about Herod's Curse off and on. If we can provide more information about Herod's Curse by using the data that we have already gathered then we can provide that information to Windsor. He can then take that information and do whatever he wants with it. But at that point he will be making a more informed decision, and for all the money he is paying us, and also considering all the good that he does for the world, I feel that we owe it to him to go the extra mile --."

"Zachary, the man wants to eat African Americans, like my husband here," said Samantha pointing at Omar.

"Actually Zachary and I have already met," said Omar, with a chuckle.

"And he is not the type of person that we owe anything to," said Samantha.

"The man has restrained himself from acting on his deepest impulses. We have no idea how difficult that may be for him. I can't even restrain myself from eating a donut when I walk into a bakery," said Zachary.

"A donut and my husband's flesh are two different situations," said Samantha.

"You know what I mean. Hey, we don't have to agree on this issue. Believe me I felt the same way you do now when we started. But in imagining everything he has had to go through, I don't know, I've just begun to respect him," said Zachary.

"The man is a ticking time bomb. What do you think Omar?" Samantha asked.

"I agree with you," said Omar, though feebly.

"Do you? Do you really? Because you wanted to go test him – you wanted to go walk right into his house," said Samantha.

"Please, I've told you a thousand times that that was a mistake to suggest that and that I'm not going to do that," said Omar.

"Guys – I'm meeting with Windsor today – Hopefully I will be testing him and then one other Thurmond and that should be it. So even if you don't like him -- which is completely understandable -- then let's admit that it makes sense, maybe even good business sense, to go the extra mile for him. There could be referrals," said Zachary.

"Anyone this guy knows I don't want to touch with a ten foot pole," said Samantha.

"Samantha, be reasonable," said Omar.

"Oh, don't talk to me about being reasonable, Mr. I-wanted-to-test-the-cannibal-who-wants-to-eat-me," said Samantha.

"Guys, do you want to hear what I have figured out about Herod's curse?" Zachary asked.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," said Samantha.

Zachary sighed.

Samantha continued, "No, I do want to hear it Zachary. I know you have put a lot of work into it. I'm just giving you a hard time because sometimes I think you forget that your boss wants to eatAfrican Americans."

"Okay, point taken," said Zachary.

"That's my man Zachary. The only way to get out of an argument with Samantha is to wave the white flag," said Omar.

"He wasn't waving the white flag he was taking my point," said Samantha.

"Okay. You are right," said Omar, waving his napkin.

"All right guys so back to the data here. I have broken the Trait Theory down into as many small sections as possible to try to find a pattern – and if you follow along with me for just a couple minutes you will see that I do think that I have found something," said Zachary.

"Okay – continue on then, professor," said Samantha, and suddenly Zachary felt a bump against his leg.

Did she just kick me?

"Right," said Zachary, breaking eye contact with Samantha as she grinned.

She did kick me. She probably has some new footies study going and I'm her subject. Come on, seriously?

"So we can further break the results down by generation. For the sake of simplicity I'm calling Windsor's generation, generation 1 --."

"For a simple statement this all sure does seem complex," said Omar, while staring at the generation chart.

"Well then maybe you should pay closer attention hunny. Zachary is not speaking in Mandarin. You know this is the same problem I have with you sometimes. You think my..."

She kicked me! Right in the middle of her statement she kicked me! Are her abilities to connive actually increasing?

"...statements are complex when they are in fact simple. I don't know why this has begun happening," said Samantha.

She kicked me again!

"Darling you know I was just joking. I understand what he is saying. That was a joke, just a joke," said Omar.

Zachary thought Omar looked worn down.

Probably from defending all his statements to Samantha and possibly defending his shins too...

"So anyway, yes, when we break the data down by generation we find that in Thurmond generation one 100% of the generation is CMR positive, in Thurmond generation two 66% of the generation inCMR positive, and in Thurmond generation three 46% of the generation is CMR positive.

Okay so what does this tell us?" Omar asked.

"By itself, nothing," said Zachary, handing Omar and Samantha another chart, "But we can also break the data down by looking at the generation and the gender within that generation. In generation one 100% of the males are CMR positive. In generation two 100% of the males are CMR positive. In generation three 37% of the males are CMR positive. There are no bloodline Thurmond females in generation one. In generation two 50% of the females are CMR positive. In generation three 50% of the females are CMR positive. And as you can see for these charts I identified the positiveCMR percentages within generation and gender."

"Okay, so what does this tell us?" Omar asked.

"For all of this data and these charts it isn't so much what it tells us as what it does not tell us," said Zachary, pausing and wondering if Samantha would fill in his thought.

"Wait a minute here. Let me see if I can figure out where you are going with this," said Samantha, spreading the charts out in front of her.

"I knew you'd want to give it a try," said Zachary, and both Zachary and Omar sipped at their drinks.

After a few moments she shook her head from side to side, saying, "I'm sorry I just don't see it."

"That's okay. You've had five minutes to look at this stuff –."

"I've got it," Samantha interrupted, tapping the paper in front of her. "It does not take into consideration the CMR status of the Thurmond boys who died. Therefore within these charts there is a lot of missing information."

"Precisely, very good," said Zachary.

"I don't see why that would matter," said Omar.

"So have a look at Norman's, Donald's and Charles's sons – they are all CMR positive. So Omar, according to trait theory what might we assume about the parents?" Zachary asked.

"Well, we might assume that they both had the trait. If only one parent had the trait in which case the parents had a 50% chance of having a CMR positive child the chances of having two children who were CMR positive would be ½ times 5 – which I believe is about 1 out of 32 – possible, just not probable," said Omar.

"Right, except what Samantha just pointed out is that they had children who died, Henry, Mandred, Aldric, Edbert, and Elvin. What if some of them or even all of these children were CMR negative? Then that would make it less likely that both parents had the trait – which is what we are assuming, that only the bloodline Thurmonds have the trait," said Zachary.

"Okay, sure, I follow you. So why does this matter?" Omar asked.

"We can use that same line of reasoning to look more specifically at the question. Charles was a widower – so we don't know if she had the trait or not – and in all probability she did not as the control group showed that this is not a trait out in the general population – it is instead a specified trait that we are finding within the bloodline Thurmond family. But let's put that aside. I was able to test Donald's wife and she, like every other non-bloodline Thurmond tested, was CMR negative. That means that their children had an approximately 50% chance to inherit the trait. But when we look at Donald's children what do we see? Four out of Five children are CMR positive. That is certainly a possible outcome. That is just like a man and a woman having four girls and one boy. For healthy couples where the man has no Y chromosome difficulties, while it's not a likely birth ratio it is certainly possible – in fact the odds are: 20%. But Donald also had two children who died prematurely, Edbert and Elvin. Were they both CMR negative? If they were then he would have had three children who are CMR negative and four children who are not – a much more likely outcome. What about Charles, were his two deceased children Manfred and Aldric CMR negative? That would have brought his ratio closer to 50% as well. In fact it makes me wonder if all the Thurmond boys who died young were CMRnegative," said Zachary.

"Okay, this is somewhat interesting but it is also all mere speculation. There is no way for you to ever know the CMR status of the prematurely deceased Thurmond boys," said Samantha.

"That is true. But I also further broke down the data which I believe will lend more credence to this theory --."

"But even if true what does this theory prove?" Samantha asked.

"Obviously it won't conclusively prove anything, but I believe it does indicate something, something perhaps troubling – though if you just follow me a little longer we'll get to it," said Zachary.

Samantha nodded her head.

"Right, so we can also break the data down by looking at the early Thurmond boy deaths. How do they compare to non-early Thurmond boy deaths? Here are the results," said Zachary.

"That is, until the Thurmond males in generations 1 through 4 reach age 13, at this point in time, they have a 34.7% death rate. If we look at an actuary chart the number is not even 1%," said Zachary.

"Okay, but as PHD's familiar with the study of statistics we know that you will see the largest swings in probability in a small population. This population is only 23. We need a population of at least 30 to start comparing percentages with, say, an actuary chart – and a population of 100 would be much more preferable," said Samantha.

"That was my thought exactly. But we can break the data down again by asking a more specific question. Did the early Thurmond male deaths occur to bloodline Thurmond fathers or bloodline Thurmond mothers? And here the results were staggering. Have a look," said Zachary, handing them the chart.

"So this has never happened to a bloodline Thurmond Mother?" Samantha asked.

"It has not happened in generations 3 through 4, and for Henry we don't know the CMR status of his parents. So now we can further break the data down and ask the question: If a child is born as a male to a bloodline Thurmond father what are his chances of dying before the age of 14? Take a look," said Zachary.

"Omar what do you notice about this number?" Zachary asked.

"Well, when we break it down this way the death rate gets a lot closer to 50%," said Omar.

"Right, and it could actually be even higher. Three of the non-early Thurmond males deaths are Thurmond males who have still not reached age 14 – and therefore I didn't really have to include them in this data. If I did not this death rate would be exactly 50% -- a shocking number indeed. So we can further break the data down by asking the question: If you are a male Thurmond born to a bloodline Thurmond father what are your chances of being CMR positive? And, if you are a male Thurmond born to a bloodline Thurmond mother what are your chances of being CMR positive? Let's take a look," said Zachary, handing them the chart.

"Okay, so there unfortunately is not enough data here to come to a conclusion on the Thurmond female bloodline side. For bloodline Thurmond females the number is 0 for 1. There was one bloodline Thurmond mother who was CMR positive and she only had one son and he was CMR negative. But for the bloodline Thurmond fathers they were 6 for 6. Charles is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his son is CMR positive. Alburt is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his two sons are CMR positive. Donald is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his two sons are CMR positive. Mick is a CMR positive bloodline Thurmond father and his son is CMR positive," said Zachary.

"Where are the CMR positive bloodline Thurmond fathers with CMR negative sons?" Samantha asked.

"Precisely – that is precisely the question that we should be asking. But before we do let's ask one more question: I also wondered if one is born a CMR negative male Thurmond what are the chances of living past age 14 if you have a bloodline Thurmond father compared to having a bloodline Thurmond mother. I didn't even make a chart for this because the answer is so clear cut. There is no instance of a CMR negative Thurmond son with a CMR positive bloodline father living past the age of 14. However, this has occurred with a CMR positive Thurmond mother – which leads us back to my original thought. The male Thurmond boys who died early were either mostly or all CMR negative – And that leads me to your question Samantha and to my conclusion: these CMR positive bloodline Thurmond Fathers did have children who were CMR negative, but they just aren't living anymore," said Zachary.

"Okay, so even if that is true then what is the reason?" Samantha asked.

"I have no idea by looking at this data what the reason could be. But the data does not lie and it troubles me because Windsor told me that he wished to bestow his inheritance upon a male Thurmond. I'm also assuming that he wants to bestow his inheritance upon a male Thurmond who is CMR negative. Therefore, his only choices will be Fayne, Park, Sawyer, Teddy, or Carl. That means that because Herod's Curse has effectively killed off many, and in all likelihood eight Thurmond males who were CMR negative, now he will only have five choices. So when I present him with this data I would reopen the subject of including females in the discussion. If he were to include females he would have many more options to choose from," said Zachary.

"So you've analyzed all this data and made all these charts and that is what you have extrapolated? Include females in the discussion?" Samantha asked.

"You don't agree?" said Zachary.

"No, I completely agree because predetermining that the money will only go to a male heir sounds ridiculously sexist and causes me to like Windsor even less – which I didn't think was possible by the way. But I also extrapolate something else from the data," said Samantha.

"And what is that?" Zachary asked, glancing at the charts, wondering what he had missed.

"Why the fuck did all these potentially CMR negative Thurmond males born to CMR positive Thurmond father's die before the age of 14?" said Samantha.

"The data can't answer that question," said Zachary.

"We don't need the data to answer the question. We've already got Windsor. We know the psychopath that he is. These CMR positive fathers are probably eating their CMR negative children for dinner," said Samantha.

"Putting aside the absurdity of that statement, it wouldn't even make sense because their children are white," said Zachary.

"Well, something is certainly happening and it can't be good," said Samantha.

"I interviewed all the Thurmond fathers, and though they seemed to be a little odd a times, they also all seemed to be law-abiding citizens," said Zachary.

"Omar, what do you think?" said Samantha.

"You guys are the experts but my gut opinion is that we are looking at cold data here and that we'd have to look closer at the facts, and unfortunately we aren't getting paid to do that," said Omar.

"This is ridiculous. I hate Windsor and I hate his fucking family and I haven't even met his fucking family – but these charts paint a picture for me – a picture of some kind of evil. I mean we talk about Herod's curse as if it is an actual thing, like malaria," said Samantha.

"We could substitute in the term unknown variable for Herod's Curse, but I don't know I liked the ring it had – in any case we will be done with this job soon, it will be over, and we can all put the Thurmond family behind us," said Zachary.

"Amen to that," said Samantha.

Kicked again...

"Oh, and one more thing: I actually made a chart looking at Personal Adjustments scores of CMR positive Thurmonds along gender lines. I have no strong theory as to why the data came out this way but I thought it was interesting. Here take a look," said Zachary, handing them the chart.

"So the CMR positive males are much better adjusted with their place in society than the CMR females?" said Omar.

"Yes, they actually scored higher than the control group – and I thought it was fascinating to find such a huge disparity in the personal adjustment scores across gender lines. I'm thinking that perhaps males are better suited to bury this trait deep within their subconscious so that they do not have to think about it on a daily basis – while for females the urges are closer to the surface," said Zachary.

Samantha replied, "Or maybe the CMR positive Thurmond males have sublimated their desire to eat black flesh by eating their male children who they sensed to be weak, aka CMR negative – and therefore they are happy and content with their place in society, while the CMR positive Thurmond females have not done this and therefore they are not happy and content with their place in society – which brings me back to my original thought: these CMR positive Thurmond fathers are psychopaths just as Windsor is a psychopath."

"Samantha, again, if you had come on the Thurmond testing circuit with me and met these Thurmond fathers you would not in the least have that ridiculous opinion. Furthermore, I took interview data and found that CMR positive Thurmond males and females had similar sublimations for the CMR trait and that those sublimations mostly occurred through excessive dedication to their work environments, frequently work in the financial sphere. But anyway I thought you guys might get a kick out of this – I think it speaks to that whole men are from Mars women are from Venus thing," said Zachary, while beginning to gather his papers.

"Oh I am familiar with that Zachary," said Samantha.

Kicked again...

Boston, Commonwealth Street: After meeting with Omar and Samantha, Zachary traveled to Windsor's Boston mansion to present him with the preliminary results. Alexus, Windsor's African- American servant, met him at the door.

I still have misgivings about her working here.

But why? Windsor's self control has been paramount.

She led him to the second floor where Zachary found Windsor in a lavish bathroom, about 200 feet square, reposed in a lion-footed tub. Four skylights and a large wall of windows faced east, the tub shrouded in sunlight. Walls of white marble contrasted with darkly polished furniture and fixtures. A piano recording played softly. Zachary could see Windsor's naked flesh from the chest up and noted the brawn of his shoulders and the heft of his arms.

As Zachary neared the tub, Windsor opened his eyes, suds splashing about, and he motioned for Zachary to hand him a drink just out of reach. The drink was pink and topped with three orange slices.

"It isn't often that I imbibe alcohol other than wine my good boy. But from time to time I indulge. It seemed to me that today, the day of the presentation of the preliminary data, should be a day of celebration. For so long the chains of responsibility have kept me grounded, but they have also worn me down, like an old baseball glove, happy to remember its glorious catches but wearing thin at the palm."

"It's good to see you Windsor. I mean that. The last time we spoke you didn't want to hear any of the compliments I had for you --."

"Please, you have said enough, the mere hint of your admiration for my daily charitable work means more to me than I ever deserve --."

"Please, just let me say --."

"No, Zachary, you've said enough. I understand how you feel. I understand that you admire me because you can't comprehend me, can't comprehend my pain. And you, a doctor, a PHD, a scholar, a professor, well it is only natural for you to admire the things you do not easily comprehend because you comprehend so much --."

"No, but it is more than that --."

"Zachary, Zachary, I mean it. We do not have to pass words on this subject – the subject being the way I am in the world and your feelings about it. Believe me, I caught that hint during the phone conversation and I appreciate that you respect my sacrifices," said Windsor, gulping from his pink drink.

"Okay, but at some point we are going to have to sit down together so I can tell you just what kind of a good old boy I think you are," said Zachary, using Windsor's descriptive term as a display of endearment.

"Agreed but not today: this is the day when I will learn about my family and about matters that only you could tell me," said Windsor.

"Okay, do you want me to tell you here? Or do you want me to give you a chance to dry off and we'll go someplace else?" Zachary asked.

"Maybe it is the booze or the celebratory atmosphere of the day, but I have carefully weighed the request you made before we last parted," said Windsor, placing a serious stare upon Zachary.

The CMR status of his mother?

"You must not remember or perhaps you are just being polite. My mother Zachary – you wanted to know all that you could know because as you stated, you knew little and wished to know more," said Windsor.

"Yes, I remember. It would be helpful for the final report, but I already have plenty of data," said Zachary.

"Do not confuse the matter with wishy-washy statements good old boy because the offer will probably never come again," said Windsor, his eyes shut as they had been when describing his experience as a boy covered in black flesh.

"Windsor if this is going to be one of those emotionally draining conversations you don't need to feel obligated to do it for my sake because I was hoping to get some CMR testing done with you today and I know from the last time I was here –."

"Zachary, I'm not going to tell you anything. To speculate on my mother's position would contort my mind into such knotty positions that I fear it would never come untied, condemned to a fate tangled as a ball of yarn. No, my old boy the offer is this: when my mother passed she passed here in this home and I ordered the servants to make no changes to her bedroom. So today, while I towel off, I give you the chance to gently look about her things and to draw what conclusions you may based upon that brief and gentle looking," said Windsor, his eyes opening.

"Yes, okay, so I should --."

"Let us talk no more of this because even just the briefest talking brings the blackness to the fore of my head. But one point I must quickly make and you must remember always old boy: never tell me what you discover – for I have never entered that room and so I never shall. Her memory is the single memory that keeps my spirits alight," said Windsor, his eyes closed again.

"Certainly Windsor, just tell me where to go," said Zachary.

"I have informed Alexus. She waits for you now in the hall as perhaps my mother's spirit waits for you in her room," said Windsor.

Zachary nodded.

"See you in a few -- and should you see my mother's silhouette resting on the bed or should you feel her soul wafting around, remind her that I have never forgotten her words or the sweetness of her smile," said Windsor.

The alcohol really is opening him up.

"Okay Windsor, I'll be back in a few..."

As Alexus led Zachary to the room of Windsor's mother, Virginia, she told Zachary that most of the servants tried to avoid its weekly cleaning assignment because they thought the room creepy.

Creepy as it may be, it offers me an opportunity to unearth some case history concerning Windsor's mother.

Fittingly, the door creaked open. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark and in its present lightless state Zachary could see only as much as the light from the hall provided: the outline of a canopied black bed near the door and the shadowy figure of a statue near the bed.

"May I open the curtains?" Zachary asked.

"Sorry, nothing can be changed. Those curtains have been closed since the day of Virginia's death. But Windsor gave me a flashlight in case you want to use it," said Alexus, handing Windsor a red flashlight. Zachary thanked her and began shining the light around the room, a room which appeared mostly bare, though like all other rooms that Zachary had observed in the house, it was large, perhaps forty feet long and forty feet wide. The walls beside the bed contained two, practically life size, paintings of angels.

"Do you know the artist?" Zachary asked, impressed by the style.

"Virginia made these paintings," said Alexus.

"She was an artist?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know. I've just noticed her name down there in the corner," said Alexus.

Creating angel paintings is a soothing endeavor and one that supported Zachary's original hypothesis: that Virginia was CMR negative. A hypothesis originally made because Windsor's father, Norman, was a bloodline Thurmond and from descriptions that Zachary had already received from Windsor, Norman appeared CMR positive. Furthermore, as of yet Zachary had not discovered even a singleCMR positive non-bloodline Thurmond, in either the control group or otherwise. However, any Virginia narrative details learned, such as her proclivity for painting, could be included in the final report's case history section and so he continued to poke around the room.

Dresses and shoes reminiscent of old Hollywood movies filled the closet, probably made by designers who were the toast of the town in their day but who had long since been buried deep underground. Holding the flashlight between his knees, he spread the dresses apart to see if anything was hidden by the closet's wall.

"Just be careful, work isn't so easy to find these days and I don't want to get fired," said Alexus.

Although if you knew what I knew you just might quit.

"I understand and I will be careful. Don't worry," said Zachary, dropping to the floor and shining the flashlight under the bed – nothing. Standing back up he dusted off, retrieved the flashlight from the floor, and headed towards a black armoire. Opening the armoire he found more clothes of a bygone era and searched for anything hidden between, underneath, or to the sides of the clothes – nothing.

He shut the armoire and moved back towards the bed – the place where Virginia had probably spent her last moments and whispered her final words to Windsor "Do not look back." To the right of the bed was a statue of a grotesque figure engaged in a gloating dance, its expression an eerie smile as if celebrating some mischievous occurrence. Bronzed, it loomed over the bed like a shadow of increasing darkness. Gently placing his hand on the statue, Zachary observed that it easily wobbled and with an accidental tilt he caught the glimpse of a small book hidden beneath its hollow base. His first instinct was to snatch the book and flip through its pages with the time that remained but realized that might not be time enough.

Not for the contents of a hidden book anyway.

He tilted the statute back, pretending to examine the details of its face – and in the pretending came face to face with its mocking eyes and beastly horns – and backed away, forming a plan to later steal the book.

What will Windsor care? He never comes in here anyway. And some other time I can return it.

"In your cleaning have you ever found anything interesting in here?" Zachary asked, hoping that she would not mention the book beneath the statue.

"Mr. Dunbar, I bring in a feather duster, dust what I can see, and leave with my job intact – as do the other servants in Windsor's employ," said Alexus.

For the next 15 minutes Zachary continued to search the room but finding nothing further of interest he told Alexus that he was ready to leave. After they had left the room and were half way down the hall, Zachary feigned panic as best he could and stated that his keys must have fallen out of his pocket when he dropped to the floor.

"You wait here and I'll be right back," he said, jogging down the hall.

"Windsor wouldn't like that. I'll come in with you," she said, though lagging behind.

Immediately upon entering the room Zachary procured the book, fortuitously small enough to be stuffed inside his pocket.

As soon as Alexus entered Zachary exclaimed, "I just remembered that I left them in my ignition."

Alexus commented that she hadn't thought she'd heard the sound of keys falling upon the floor and they went in search of Windsor.

A few minutes later they found Windsor sitting in the kitchen. He wore a yellow bathrobe and held another fruity beverage. As Zachary entered, Windsor offered him crackers and cheese, saying, "This would go better with wine, but I can't seem to put the hard alcohol down."

"How many drinks have you had? I'm thinking about the CMR testing," said Zachary. Yet another reason to postpone his test...

"This is only my third good old boy, and though I am feeling quite lofty, my senses are clear," said Windsor.

"Would you mind finishing that drink after we complete the testing?" Zachary asked.

"Agreed," said Windsor, handing his drink to Zachary, "But first allow me to change into clothing suitable for a test that will judge the contents of my mind."

"It really doesn't matter. You will test the same in a bathrobe as you will in a business suit," said Zachary.

"As a man in an electric chair will die just as easily in shorts as slacks, though any man making that final journey would prefer the slacks I am sure," said Windsor with a wink.

"Windsor this is not your final journey. We are just getting a number for the magnitude of your CMR. But I understand if you want to change your outfit," said Zachary.

"The clothes have already been placed at the foot of my bed and so the changing will take but a moment. If you would like to prepare your testing materials here then we can commence my assessment shortly," said Windsor.

As Zachary waited for Windsor to return, he ate all the crackers from the platter.

Although I suppose with 3.5 billion he can afford another box.

Then thinking that the cheese looked lonely he ate all that too.

I have a PHD and yet I fail to mix my cheese and crackers. Sometimes I think my highly developed ability to compartmentalize can be a detriment.

The walls of Windsor's bedroom were covered with plaques complimenting his charitable achievements. In keeping with the protocol of many charitable donors, Windsor made the bulk of his donations anonymously. Yet the various recipient organizations often sent his lawyers plaques of thanks which were eventually delivered to Windsor. He wondered if, after he died, people would examine this display of accommodation upon his walls and think him vain.

But that isn't it at all. They remind me of who it is I need to be.

He knew that before he died he could take them down and bury them in storage.

But what would be the point?

He removed his yellow bathrobe and placed it in his closet, as naked to the world as the moment his umbilical cord had been clipped.

Everything is coming full circle and soon I will be with you again, mother.

Above his suit, which he had earlier laid at the foot of his bed, he had tied a rope to the solid beam which passed just above the top of his canopied bed, a quirk of his old mansion – and yet a beam high enough for a rope with a noose to hold his figure suspended from the ground. The noose had been tied with the precision of a man who had tied a noose many times, and though after each previous tying he had decided against his hanging, he knew that today he would finally slip his neck into the noose, kick away his chair, and sleep peacefully for the first time since his memories had begun. To the right of his suit -- his funereal suit --was the will his lawyers had drawn up, and as instructed the single name to whom his inheritance would be bestowed had been left blank. After Zachary presented the preliminary data and Windsor had thoughtfully analyzed that data, the heir's name would be penned into the will and Windsor's obligations to the world would have been completed. He felt as if he was entering a season for which there was no name.

Having completed the ceremony of his final dressing, he glanced once more at his plaques, satisfied that he had lived a good life and had achieved many goals beneficial to humankind -- though his singular desire to consume black flesh occupied a space in his mind even at that moment and he thought it unfortunate that man was capable of holding simultaneous and contradictory thoughts.

And soon I will discover if others in my family must also grapple with my particular strain of cursedness.

He left his room and met Zachary in the kitchen where over the next half hour he completed his CMR testing.

"Well, how did it pan out?" Windsor asked after Zachary had printed the ten sheets containing Windsor's data sets.

"Actually Windsor it takes me a bit of time to fully analyze the results. However, my CMR testing becomes more accurate by combining the scores, after multiple administrations, of alternate versions. I convinced some of your family members to take the alternate versions, though I was not only interested in improving the accuracy of their scores but also in deriving the test's inter-test reliability, which I found to be quite high by the way. And in your case I would like to do the same and administer the alternate versions. Would you mind engaging in some further testing?" Zachary asked.

"Old boy I don't have anywhere else to go," said Windsor – except underground – and he spent nearly two hours completing not only five alternate versions of the standard CMR test but also other measures. Meanwhile, Zachary began analyzing Windsor's results from the first test. After Windsor had finished the final alternate version, Zachary explained that this was the point when he would normally engage with interview procedures, "But in your case we have already settled that that is not a good idea. So I will look over these results and get back to you with what I find. But now it is finally time to turn our attention to the presentation of the preliminary results."

Placing his hands upon his heart, Windsor drew a deep breath.

"Windsor are you okay?" Zachary asked, moving closer.

For a few moments Windsor said nothing, staring as blankly as if the world did not exist. Then, his face pale and his voice quivering, he slowly stated, "This day has been a long time coming like a letter carrier seen from afar down a long winding path. And yet seeing that letter carrier there at the end of the path I feel an urge not to meet him welcomingly from the sidewalk, but to close my doors, shutter my windows, and retire to a dark room where little sound can be heard."

"Windsor, I've gotten to know you a bit and I know you like to delay these types of events. But there is no reason for you to fear my presentation," said Zachary.

"You may be right old boy, but I do wonder if I should have invited my four therapists here in case things should go awry, in case the past is awoken, in case I break down the way a potted flower can be broken down through excessive watering, good intentioned though that watering may be," said Windsor.

"Don't worry good old boy, I won't over-water you, I promise," said Zachary with a smile.

"I've gotten to know you a bit too old boy and I've gotten to know that your promises hold true. Therefore, continue, Zachary and tell me things which, though difficult perhaps to hear, are of the most vital and pressing importance," said Windsor, attempting to relax his heightened senses.

For the next two hours Zachary presented the Thurmond CMR preliminary data, and Windsor, throughout the presentation asked no questions, maintaining such total concentration on the hypothesis's unfolding that he found it necessary to take 3 five-minute breaks to calm the pounding of his temples. However, the presentation having finished, Windsor made a rapid decision. That it did not matter which of the five CMR negative male Thurmonds he bestowed his inheritance upon, because they were all equally well-suited, and that he would pick one of these names at random, perhaps only moments before he completed his final act with the rope.

The important thing is that my affairs will have been settled and they will have been settled in a satisfactory manner.

"Windsor, there is one more things that I wanted to talk to you about?" said Zachary.

Windsor nodded.

"I just wanted to suggest, and I don't want you to get angry, but I wanted to suggest that perhaps you should reconsider your decision to not allow any Thurmond females into the discussion," said Zachary.

"Old boy, I apologize if I ever got snippy with you over the course of your testing endeavors. However, I must also apologize for the fact that your suggestion is not a possibility and that this is because of reasons that I cannot disclose. Therefore let us speak of it no more," said Windsor.

"Well then allow me to apologize for pressing the matter, but it is just that after all the early male Thurmond deaths that occurred, you would have many more options if you were to take the female Thurmonds into consideration," said Zachary.

"What early deaths?" Windsor asked.

"The ones listed on the family tree," said Zachary.

"I have never looked upon it," said Windsor, gruffly.

"Never?" Zachary asked.

"In looking upon that document I might be tempted to look back, so I have left it alone," said Windsor.

"Well, other than your brother Henry who died quite young, each of your other brothers had 2 male children die between the ages of 11 and 13. Also in the next generation there was a child who died at that age too. Your family calls it Herod's Curse," said Zachary.

"Herod's Curse? Why?" Windsor asked.

As Zachary proceeded to explain the term's history, Windsor rose from the table, pacing about. Lost in thought, Windsor wandered from room to room with Zachary silently following and eventually they landed in a study where Windsor continued to contemplate the rundown he had received. Suddenly, as if possessed by inspiration, Windsor requested that Zachary detail his hypothesis for the CMRnegative status of the deceased children. Zachary laid out his hypothesis and the reasoning to support it. After he had finished his presentation, Windsor began pacing again, this time slower.

"What is it?" Zachary asked.

"I am looking back," said Windsor, intently.

"Is that a good idea?" Zachary asked.

"No," said Windsor, still pacing.

"Then don't do it," said Zachary.

"Old boy, revelation is a one way street, though I have the unsettling feeling that in driving down this one way street I'll be driving in the wrong direction."

"I don't understand," said Zachary.

"Neither do I and that's the problem because I must find out and immediately," said Windsor, distraught that once again his hanging plans had been undone. He knew that the only way back to his rope's promised soothing sleep would be to fully complete his earthly affairs -- affairs which had suddenly become upended and could only be resettled though a confrontation with his brothers.

Yet that assumes I am mistaken and that they will set me straight – If I am correct then other measures will need to be taken, measures that would best be completed through the use of a gun.

However, taking a gun on a flight would be a bureaucratic nightmare. Therefore, he decided to hire a limousine to shuttle him to D.C.

"What is it? You look like you are thinking about something important," Zachary said.

"It is nothing old boy, but you did a good job and I'll instruct my lawyers to make sure you are paid in full, and today," said Windsor.

"Thank you, but I'm worried that something is not right," said Zachary.

Windsor assured him that the matter was of minimal seriousness and he managed to change the subject. For the next ten minutes they spoke of Zachary's adventures while on the testing circuit, but all the while Windsor considered the day's unexpected turn. From what he remembered of his first memory he had been covered in a black man's flesh from head to toe while under the doting supervision of a hoard of onlookers, one of whom had been his father. This event had neither a before nor an after and existed in his mind merely as a snapshot, and though when his brother Henry died from pneumonia he and his mother had already separated from the family, he overheard her speaking about the boy's death and later wondered if pneumonia had actually been the case or if he too had undergone a covering with black flesh and that perhaps something had gone wrong and that during that covering he had contracted a sickness and had died as a cause of it; in any case, the fact that his brother's children had died at a young age too, coincidental as it may have been, at least suggested a possible nefarious cause, and though Windsor knew not what this cause might be, the combined reasoning of his earliest memory and Zachary's judgment concerning Donald and Charles's CMR status led him to believe that before parting this world the necessity had arisen to ascertain the nature of his family's intentions.

After a few minutes of contemplation, he decided that if those intentions proved proper, all would be well, and he could get along with his business with the rope. Conversely if he discovered his family to be a barbarous people the gun would need to be brandished.

Too long I have looked away from what I knew might be lurking in my bloodlines bones!

When Zachary finished his story Windsor said, "Today has been a magnificently important day in my life and I applaud again the hard work you have completed. But this day has also wearied my mind and I feel that rest would now suit me well."

"Sure, sure, I'll call you when I have analyzed all your results and I'll let you know how they compare. Also, when the final report is completed I can give you a presentation," said Zachary, shaking Windsor's hand.

"No, No, the preliminary data has been sufficiently eye-opening. Mailing, or hand delivering if you wish, the final report will suffice. Save your next presentation for your honorable scientific peers. Good bye Zachary, you are a good man and I wish you all the best and we shall have to have dinner together soon," said Windsor, though knowing this untrue because his death would occur just as soon as he settled his affairs.

Which I hope to be very soon indeed...

"Yes, I would like that very much. As you are tired I will not take this opportunity to try to slip in a compliment before I leave, I promise, because I know that would pain you very much old boy," said Zachary, laughing.

"Well, thank you, you understand my peculiarities completely," said Windsor.

"Hey, by the way, whatever happened with John the photographer?" Zachary asked.

Windsor fidgeted upright, saying, "I thought he met you out on the last couple of testing sites? He didn't meet you?"

"No," said Zachary.

"He hasn't called me either. I better call his company. After everything I have learned today I hope all is well," said Windsor, though more to himself and almost forgetting that Zachary was still present.

"He doesn't have a company. He works for himself," said Zachary.

As Windsor searched for John's phone number in his wallet, he realized his mistake. "Sorry, Zachary, I just let it slip and so I might as well let you know. John's position as a photographer was a bit of a subterfuge. That old boy works for a private investigation company. I didn't let you know because I know that you are a man of high principles and I didn't think that you would think it right to be toting around a snooper."

"You're serious?" Zachary asked.

Windsor nodded.

Zachary was momentarily silent.

"I can't believe you did that! To use me as a shill so that covert activities could be conducted is completely unacceptable! Even though I participated unknowingly, that is an ethical breach on my part."

"Good old boy you weren't a shill, you were the whole shebang. Bruce, that is his real name, was merely a sideshow--."

"There is no excuse..."

Suddenly Windsor regretted his admission that the photographer was a PI and decided that a more thorough explanation might sooth Zachary's wounded pride. "It wasn't right I know. But I was worried about the type of people that my family may have become – namely that they may have become very adept at hiding their true nature from the world, even from a competent tester such as you – and I thought a private investigator might shine a light upon their personal lives. The plan was two pronged, one, to test them with your Trait Theory evaluations, and two, to sample their daily doings through the use of a PI. I thought this plan would best enable me to make an informed decision about the inheritance. That I could not divulge the entirety of the plan to you, a scientist and man whom I much admire, was eventually the cause, I believe, of significant gastric difficulties. If you feel that financial compensation is required --."

Zachary interrupted, "It might be necessary. Dunbar and Associates could be sued, and honestly, Windsor, at this point we are not much better than a break even organization so any lawsuit would likely put us under."

"It goes without saying that the forces of my prestigious legal representation would be made available to you. But I'm not trying to bribe you off here. I'm trying to make the best of what is admittedly a rotten situation," said Windsor.

Zachary sighed.

"If I could go back in time I would take it back. But some days I feel that I have had a successful day merely when I succeed in my objective not to consume black flesh --."

"Playing the-I-have-CMR card doesn't work on me Windsor. You have crossed a boundary in our relationship." Zachary sat down on a bench, taking the pose of a despondent version of Rodin's The Thinker, a few moments later saying, "Windsor, I apologize for my emotional outburst \--."

"Old boy you don't have to apologize to me --."

"No it was unprofessional and should not have occurred. However, you have made me aware of a fact which must be dealt with immediately --."

"Yes, of course, whatever I can do!" said Windsor, happy that the problem seemed to be coming to a resolution.

"Okay, I think we need to call any of your relatives who came in contact with – what is his real name?" Zachary asked.

"Bruce, his name is Bruce Johnson," said Windsor, glancing down at the PI card to make sure he had the last name correct.

"Very well, I'm thinking it would be best if we get the reports first, call the Bruce-contacted-Thurmonds, inform them of the situation, and fax them the reports followed by photographic evidence of the shredding. From there the ball will be in their court."

"I'll call Bruce right now," said Windsor, who then called Bruce from his cell. However, the call went unanswered. Windsor called Bruce's PI company, Cloaked Solution Inc, reaching a secretary and asked to speak with a manager. The secretary transferred his call to executive manager Bill Lawless and Windsor asked Bill if there were methods for reaching Bruce besides his cell.

"You said your name is Windsor Thurmond?" Bill asked.

"That is correct," said Windsor.

Bill posed a series of previously agreed upon queries to ascertain Windsor's identity, and satisfied, said, "We were going to contact you soon. But we had to wait until all of Bruce's family had been contacted. Bruce is not going to be able to complete the job for you. I'm sorry to inform you that Bruce has died."

"Died?" Windsor said, while Zachary moved closer and whispered for Windsor to place the call on speaker.

"Did you know him other than from the present case?" Bill asked.

"No, I just met him the one time in relation to my case. That's awful, how did it happen? Was it during some task that he was conducting for me?" Windsor asked, growing alarmed.

"No, his death occurred during his personal time. He left a suicide note stating that he planned jumping off a bridge. Apparently he was swept out to sea, though the authorities are still searching for his body. An unbelievably tragic occurrence. I don't know if he told you but he has -- well had -- a wife and kids. I've known Bruce 30 years – grade A detective," said Bill.

"I'm sorry for your loss," said Windsor.

"Thank you Windsor. Today at Cloaked Solutions it has been a day of mourning for the entire staff. But if you need us to send someone else to complete the job --."

"No, thank you, that won't be necessary. Bruce did just fine, and you can tell his wife that too, that he completed his final job thoroughly and with great competence," said Windsor.

"Yes, I will inform her just that," said Bill.

"One last thing, Bill, and I hope you don't think this unsympathetic as I am asking you during this time of mourning, but if Bruce finished any paper work, if you could immediately fax that paper work here to this office that would be much appreciated," said Windsor.

"Yes, I remember that that case was proving to be a difficult one and that there were roadblocks to him even getting started. If I find anything of course I will pass it on to you right away," said Bill. A few moments later the conversation ended.

This was an unexpected turn of events and Windsor tried to recall Bruce's comments the last time he had phoned. "He said that his company had figured out a way for him to use phony background check documentation. I didn't suspect from his tone that he was distraught. But I only knew him on a professional level. Then again, as I know from personal experience, the public and private spheres of life can sometimes be two completely separate universes."

Zachary replied, "He didn't seem at all down during the two days that I worked with him either. However, he wasn't exactly being honest with me, pretending to be a photographer, so who knows what else he was hiding, on a personal level that is. I must say as tragic as this is, I'm not sure that it changes matters. The only thing it changes is that we do not know if he got started or not. If Bill sends a fax where will it arrive?"

"Here in this room. This is where I keep my office supplies," said Windsor.

"But it is possible that no fax will arrive because perhaps Bruce did not even start his investigation. In that case I wonder if we even need to tell your family at all. At that point there would have been no ethical breach because the job was not started."

"That would be quite fortuitous," said Windsor.

Zachary nodded. "Now that I think about it with a clearer mind, the only person that I would have to tell about Bruce would be your brother Charles, because I don't think Bruce came into contact with any other Thurmonds. And if it came to just telling your brother Charles, I think that perhaps I would be all right. Your brother Charles and I seemed to get along swimmingly."

"Is that so? Even though he is afflicted like me, he seemed like one of the good ones?" Windsor asked.

Perhaps I am just being paranoid. Perhaps my family turned out just fine after all.

"The fact of the matter, Windsor, is that Bruce and Charles butted heads a little bit during their brief meeting. And I think Charles would believe me if I told him that Bruce lied to me about his true profession," said Zachary.

"Good," said Windsor.

Perhaps it isn't necessary to contact my family. Perhaps I can get back to my rope. Zachary is a discerning fellow and he sensed nothing untoward about my family. I'm being paranoid because I am thinking of my own peculiar madness and projecting it onto to others, something that my team of four therapists has repeatedly warned me not to do. Besides Zachary told me in his preliminary presentation that my relatives CMR was repressed and why shouldn't I believe him? He is a scientist of the highest regard and I am merely a dabbler. No, if the fax does not come I will proceed with the rope, and if the fax does come I will write Charles a letter and then I will proceed with the rope.

"Windsor, the only thing to do now is to wait for the fax and see how it plays out. If the fax does not arrive tomorrow then call Bill and ask him if any reports were started," said Zachary.

"I will do just that," said Windsor, who then wished to dispel any trace of lingering doubt about the intentions of his family, adding, "And what exactly was the nature of the disagreement that occurred between Charles and Bruce?"

"Something ridiculous, it was that Bruce had not completed his background check. But of course as we now know he could not complete it because he had assumed a pseudonym for himself," said Zachary.

"That must have been a strange argument," said Windsor.

"Well, I think what happened was that Bruce was attempting to get away with not completing the background check by claiming that in his capacity as a professional photographer, he had never before had to complete a check. However, Charles called his bluff and he was rather biting in his remarks. But the thing that set them both off was when the race issue got involved," said Zachary.

"Race issue? How so?" Windsor asked.

"Well, when Charles saw the expression on Bruce's face I think he believed that Bruce thought he was pushing the background check matter so thoroughly because of Bruce's race, so Charles, anticipating what Bruce might say, rather bluntly told Bruce that it wasn't on account of his race at all, and that it was merely a procedural matter. But I think that it was at this point that feelings on both sides were hurt," said Zachary.

"That's odd. It is quite a routine occurrence for a Caucasian to complete a background check. So I don't see why the feelings should have been hurt on either side," said Windsor.

Zachary paused and Windsor observed that some of the color had faded from his face.

"What is it?" Windsor asked.

"I thought you knew, and I almost told you more than once – but you told me that your ability to discern blackness had been a skill that you had acquired," said Zachary.

"You're not saying what I think you are saying old boy?" said Windsor, a surge of adrenaline rush through his body.

"Yes, I'm sorry I thought you knew. Bruce was an African American. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to insult you," said Zachary.

"Insult me! I'm only human. I may have acquired the skill to perceive blackness as blackness, but as I previously expressed it is an effortful procedure and one that may not always be completely accurate. Knowing what I have described to you about CMR, you thought it appropriate to take along an African American as an assistant?" Windsor asked, instantly realizing that this changed everything. Now it was quite possible to wonder if Bruce had not committed suicide but had actually been murdered. And yet if he had been murdered it could have been for one of two reasons (a) for discovering something that he should not have discovered in his capacity as a PI or (b) for merely being an African American PI attempting to poke around in the affairs of a family replete with CMR. And now because of the addition of these possibilities the rope would have to be untied and Charles would need to be confronted.

Zachary may be a competent scientist but sometimes, as I manage to overlook the black race, he manages to overlook the obvious.

"Yes, but it shouldn't matter. As I have already told you their CMR has been successfully repressed. I could have taken along ten African Americans and it would have had the same effect," said Zachary.

"That is mere speculation!"

"What is it that has you so worried? You think that your relatives' CMR is active? You think that someone in your family may have eaten the PI?" Zachary asked with a chuckle.

"I don't know old boy, but that's just it: I don't know. Sometimes coincidences are too coincidental."

"Windsor, as I have expressed to my colleagues, there is absolutely no chance that your relatives' CMR is active. And the reasoning for this will be even easier for you to understand than it was for them. CMR is an obsession that overtakes your life, isn't it? Do you think you could work in a demanding profession, such as finance, with such an obsession hounding you? Yet the members of your family are highly successful members of society. Mostly they have learned to sublimate their CMR desires through an increased work load..."

As Windsor continued to politely listen to Zachary's explanation, an explanation which lasted for over ten minutes, he mentally prepared himself for his confrontation with Charles.

The time for listening to academics has ended. It is time to listen to myself.

After Zachary had completed his explanation he asked Windsor if he had understood the crux of his main points.

"Yes, old boy, I see that I was mistaken. And so I think that I will be able to take that nap after all," Windsor lied, sensing that at this point in time Zachary was incapable of separating himself from the odd logic of his data and looking instead to the simple logic of common sense.

"Good, I'm glad that you can see that. So, again, before I leave, let me state one more time that if that fax arrives to give me a jingle and that if it does not give Bill a call tomorrow," said Zachary.

"Will do old boy..."

Arlington, MA: As soon as Zachary arrived at home he plopped himself on his couch and began examining the hidden book. He quickly realized that it was Virginia's private diary. Remembering that he had promised Jasmine that they would meet for drinks, he sent her a text:

Jasmine, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to cancel those drinks. Something has come up. Yes, it has to do with my work. Let's meet up tomorrow if possible. Don't bother texting back because I am shutting my phone off. But I'll text you tomorrow. Again, I am sorry. Zachary.

For the next four hours Zachary thoroughly examined the diary's contents and made a number of discoveries. The first discovery was the peculiar nature of the diary's construction: a typical diary consists of intense periods of consistent daily recordings and also lackadaisical sporadic recordings, but Virginia's diary was atypical in both its formation and style. She began writing it when she was ten and, her last entry composed one month before her death, it spanned a total of 35 years with, astoundingly, no gaps. The diary was almost completely devoid of the soul searching and self reflection that is typical diary fodder. For example, she did not record her first kiss, first love, or emotions after giving birth to any of her children. She did, however, record the number and color of shoes acquired during a month long trip to Paris in 1927. Entries were recorded once every three months, and other than a grouping of entries in 1929, they were concise and almost scientific in nature, and because the author never allowed herself a diarists usual flights of fancy, the vast majority of entries were only one paragraph long. Therefore, although the diary spanned 35 years its meager entries, 140 in total, had been fit into a book small enough to be carried in a pant pocket. However, the guarded nature of 133 of the entries, combined with the naked honesty of the remaining 7, painted the picture of a conflicted soul who had much to hide from the world – and as would become apparent to Zachary by the time he had finished reading its contents: a soul afflicted with perhaps a CMR of the strongest magnitude. This meant that, potentially, both of Windsor's parents had been CMR positive. However, obviously neither Norman nor Virginia, as deceased souls, could be conjured from the beyond and given objective CMRassessments. Therefore, their identification as CMR positive had been made informally by analyzing the narrative details of their lives. These informal narrative identifications lacked the rigorous backing of an objective CMR measure and were unfortunately more speculative than indicatory in nature. However, the informal identifications were still somewhat scientifically significant. For example, Virginia'sCMR identification was the first time that a non-bloodline Thurmond had been identified as (possibly) being CMR positive. Furthermore, it also indicated that Windsor's maternal line also had (if the CMRidentification was accurate) family members afflicted with CMR. But besides the potentially far reaching and important scientific revelations the dairy indicated, it also spoke to the tragic nature of Windsor's early development by detailing a series of ghastly events that he long since relegated to his mind's sequestered borders -- events described with gratuitous, and even pleasurable, detail in Virginia's 7 revelatory entries, which dated from March 1929 to December 1930:

March – May, 1929: Two months ago as I watched Henry play outside I wondered the flavor of his flesh. Later he cut his knee, and I cleaned the cut by sucking on his wound. His blood tasted sweeter than I had imagined. My hands shook and I went back inside, placed a wet towel on my forehead, and took a long nap.

June – August, 1929: Henry is dead. At his funereal, his small body in his small suit, I no longer had any desire to eat his flesh. These desires had begun to subside in May. Lately I've had more interest in my housekeepers. Their flesh is mature and they are not of my blood. Furthermore, their futures are dim and the world would not weep at their disappearance. Of my five housekeepers, I desire Joan most. I know it outlandish, but I wish to eat her eyes and to suck the blue color from them.

September – November, 1929: Norman has recently ended an affair with Joan. This affair occurred completely unsuspected by me, though it was my harsh treatment of Joan's duties which brought about her unexpected admission. The strange creature believed that if she admitted her foul act then I would treat her more cordially when she conducted her household duties. She told me she feared for her position and thought this affair was needed in order to keep it. With a calm face I told her all was well. Then I walked with her to the top of our grand staircase and there I shoved her down with the full force of my arms. She tumbled and landed at the bottom with a thud. When I reached stair's bottom I heard her groan and thereupon I stomped her face with my foot. She would have died within moments but another housekeeper happened upon the event and pulled me away. My bloodlust having passed, we both carried her to bed and nursed her as well as we could.

Norman apologized for the affair. I forgave him. Joan did not remember how she had fallen down the stairs or how her face had become so bruised.

During the weeks when Joan convalesced, I began taking evening strolls about town. During these walks I was looking for something, though I knew not what. On the eighth such walk, we entered the town's Negro quarters for the first time. What a dismal place! My servants claimed their noses could not handle the stench. I told them then to pinch their noses because I wished to explore. I entered an apothecaries shop and I asked to speak to the owner. Thereupon, I told the owner I wished to hire a black servant for my mansion and he directed me to the place where I could make such inquiries.

Next week a black servant, Edith, appeared at our door and as soon as she crossed into my household I wanted nothing more than to take her into the barn, place her beside the blacksmith's anvil and smash her head upon it. Yet, I steadied my impulse, welcomed her into my home and served her hot tea and biscuits.

I considered her form and the manner of her dress, finding both sorely wanting, and yet something more than my wish to smash her head upon the anvil drew me to this hapless creature, something deeper, something ineffable. The sight of her glimmering black skin was like tasting fine wine for the first time.

Although I know it right for a wife to be submissive and weak, I wished to flip the table, trap her beneath, and squash her face. We parted for the remainder of the day and I thought of nothing save her.

She returned in the morning. I dressed her in white linen and the contrast with her black skin was such a gratifying sight that I gave her three such outfits and demanded that she keep them in a condition of perpetual cleanliness. At this moment, Norman entered, a look of shock falling over him.

Later he admonished my choice of servant, saying I was impetuous, and that Edith had no references of merit. Although perturbed, he allowed me to keep Edith on two conditions. The first was that Edith could never sleep at our mansion. The second was that Edith must always be within my sight. The reasons for these conditions were not abundantly clear. Yet I wholeheartedly agreed to them, eager as I was to have Edith as my object of contemplation.

December 1929-February 1930: Edith almost never slips from my sight and when she does I reprimand her harshly. On two different occasions I took her into the garage and sat her beside the anvil. On the second such occasion Edith became nervous and asked to leave the garage. I slapped her in the face and then told her that the slap had been for her misbehavior. She looked to the ground and did not protest. At that moment I could easily envision smashing her head and Edith asked why my body shook so violently. I told her that it was because I cared for her so deeply and that my body was unhappy that I had needed to slap her so. She apologized and my body shook with even more violence. I found it necessary to leave the garage.

June – August, 1930: I have demanded divorced. Norman thinks this is because of his affair with Joan and his affair with the now late Edith. The real reason that I have demanded this divorce is because I now fully understand the desires of my soul, and those desires are not desires fitting for a wife to have. I asked for Windsor in the divorce and Norman has agreed.

Edith and Norman had begun an affair. How a respectable white man could choose to sleep with a Negro I will never understand. Yet this is not the important issue. The important issue is that I failed in my duty to keep Edith within my sights at all times, and one day when I was without her presence and I was searching for it I saw the sight that I will now describe.

In the billiards room Edith's death body lay on the ground. My boy Windsor, not yet five, knelt over her body. In his hand he held a sharp knife, and having cut open her stomach, had been, before I arrived, eating her stomachs insides. Upon seeing me he fled from the room the knife still in his hand. I could have chased him and comforted him. Yet I did not. Instead, I approached Edith's bloody body.

As I approached the body I saw that Edith has been carrying and that her body held the contents of a nearly fully developed baby. By some trickery of her apron, I had never noticed her belly's bulge. It became clear that Windsor had been feasting upon the baby, as half its tiny hand was missing. This scene should have horrified me but instead I felt a wave of elation and I crept into the position which Windsor had occupied moments before and with a hunger that I did not know existed feasted upon the baby.

This continued for nearly twenty minutes, at which point my jaw sore and my belly full, I ran into the bathroom and cleaned my bloodied face. Finding Windsor, I took him to Norman. I told him what I had seen, though told him nothing of my actions.

Norman guessed that Windsor and Edith had been playing and that Windsor had accidently stabbed her and then had become curious about the contents of her belly. I think otherwise. I think Windsor is like me, though I did not tell Norman my thoughts.

The deaths of poor Negros are not investigated, and so no trouble with the law occurred. When I asked Norman about the baby, he admitted that the baby was his and asked for my forgiveness. Later I pretended not to give it. A woman with a proper soul would make him a better wife.

September – December, 1930: Two big events have occurred (1) I am now living on my own with Windsor and (2) the doctor has cured Windsor's sickness. Norman found a doctor who was able to cure Windsor's peculiar affliction.

The affliction was this: after Windsor ate the Negro fetus whenever he came within ten paces of a Negro he began screaming and on more than one occasion vomited the complete contents of his stomach. The doctor explained to me that Windsor suffered from a condition where he found the existence of Negros to be so loathsome that to merely be in their presence brought him into a frenzied state of madness.

The doctor explained that the cause was unknown, but that Windsor was not the first to be afflicted. The doctor's cure was a heavy regimen of brainwashing so as to convince Windsor's malleable mind that the world consisted entirely of whites. This meant that after the brainwashing had concluded that Windsor would believe Negros to be whites. Norman assisted the doctor in the brainwashing sessions, sessions which I found too painful to observe, consisting of a combination of hypnosis, recitation, and electrocution. It seems that Windsor's affliction is stronger than my own. I have decided that for the good of Windsor that I must cure myself. When I spoke to the doctor in confidence he told me that my brain was already too strongly formed to be effectively brainwashed and that the presence of the Negro would exist in my world always. He further suggested that if I found their presence to be uncomfortable that I should separate myself from them and stay away from the places where they frequent.

From this point Zachary found the remainder of the diary to be exceedingly bland, consisting almost exclusively of the descriptions of mundane purchases and containing no further insights into either Virginia's or Zachary's development, except the final entry:

June – August, 1945: Someday Windsor you should read this diary. Should you find this diary before manhood, remember always that truth never ceases to be a welcome visitor. Windsor you brighten my days and I have always loved you the most. Windsor I am much like you. We both ate of the same dead Negro fetus and in that moment we were forever connected with a bond stronger than that of mother and son.

Windsor after I ate that baby fetus's hand, I never again sunk my teeth into Negro flesh and I hope you can do the same. Your urges are much stronger than mine. You managed to kill an adult with a knife when you were not yet five and somehow you sensed, perhaps smelled, that the choicest part of her body was hidden within her belly and you split open her belly and began feasting on the fetus. Because of the blinding strength of your longings, I think you will have it more difficult.

Windsor I daily teach you the difference between right and wrong. I teach you the importance of charitable endeavors. And based on all that I have taught, you probably think I expect you to live a perfect life and accomplish great things. No, Windsor, no – I have tried to give you a foundation only, for I know the burden which you must carry; I know the voices of the demons who whisper in your ear; that you think yourself passing the time only until you should again feast as you once feasted on the Negro fetus.

Yet these thoughts must be resisted! Do not fret when you find that you can never banish these thoughts from your mind; accept them as a permanent part of your soul.

Soon I will die and someday you will find this diary. When you do, do not think your memories of me wrong. Think of me as a mother who after eating from the fetus corpse, never again ate of the Negro's flesh.

I have separated us from the rest of the family because we are different. They would not understand that which we wish to do. These final words I impart on paper and will impart again from my bed before I die: do not look back. The past only holds the taste of the dead Negro fetus's hand.

Be good my child, do good deeds, and make your mother proud, just as I hope you are proud of me. Windsor I love you and will always love you, no matter the man you become, no matter the deeds you do, but for your own sake and the sake of your soul, follow me upon the path which I have set before you.

Good bye my son. Good bye my love.

These diary entries supported Zachary's previous conclusions about Trait Theory and CMR. First, it indicated that Virginia's CMR had lain dormant until sufficiently stressful circumstances had brought it to the surface – in her case, the grotesque viewing of her son eating a fetus from the belly of a dead African American house servant. Prior to this event, Virginia had sensed that she wished to use African Americans for some unidentifiable purpose, a purpose other than her identified purpose of smashing their heads upon an anvil, and after the stressful event she was able to specifically identify her CMR.

Zachary found it interesting to note that her first diary entry considered the option of consuming white flesh, the flesh of her child Henry. However, this urge was not strong enough for her to commit the act and was, Zachary decided, sublimation for her CMR and not a separate trait such as Cannibalistic Filicide.

Also, the diary put Zachary into a catch 22 situation: in order to view the contents of Virginia's room he had sworn to Windsor never to reveal to him what he had discovered, but Virginia explicitly stated a wish for Windsor to read the diary and Windsor seemed to always want to follow his mother's directions. Hadn't he modeled his life around her main directive, "Do not look back"? And Virginia taught Windsor the importance of charitable acts and he had followed that directive as well.

After considering the situation, Zachary decided to follow Windsor's wishes: that he would not reveal to him what he discovered concerning his mother. This conclusion was reached for two reasons (1) Zachary had sworn an oath to Windsor and had not sworn an oath to Virginia and (2) the instructions which Virginia wished to impart, Windsor had already stumbled upon and had been successfully following for over half a century: he lived to accomplish goals for the betterment of humankind while simultaneously suppressing his CMR urges.

Although it may have momentarily brightened Windsor's day to learn that he had followed his mother's wishes, had not Windsor been the one who had frequently expressed that he did not deserve praise? No, Zachary would copy the pertinent quotes from the diary as narrative support for informal scientific conclusions, such as the potential and highly likely CMR positive status of Virginia (this section of the final report would be redacted in Windsor's version) but he would not use the diary to deliver to Windsor a message from beyond the grave. Therefore, Zachary decided that during his next visit to Windsor's residence he would place the diary back under the hollow base of Virginia's ghoulish statue and never speak a word of the matter to Windsor.

That settled Zachary turned his attention to the analysis of Windsor's CMR testing. He was satisfied to discover that Windsor's results offered further support for Windsor's active CMR status and the dormant CMR status of Windsor's family. He found the I-told-you moment to be so sweet that he considered calling Samantha and sharing the results, an option which he rejected (as a tweeting bird notified him that the dawn had just arrived).

The data indicated that a gargantuan gap existed between the Thurmond CMR positive mean (every positive Thurmond not including Windsor) and Windsor's CMR mean (Windsor had been tested 6 times).

As could be readily observed from the chart, Windsor's CMR magnitude was much more intense than that of a typical positive CMR rating for a Thurmond family member: 26.8 to 3.5. More intriguing had been the variability in Windsor's CMR scores. Zachary composed working notes on this issue, deriving the main point that Windsor's CMR was so intense that it ebbed and flowed through wild extremes over even short periods (Windsor's six tests had taken no longer than 2.5 hours).

Figure X: Variability of the Relative Magnitude of the Cannibalistic Murderous Racism (CMR) trait for Windsor on six testing occasions.

Working notes: I will not include a chart of the control group's variability or the Thurmond Family's variability because statistically these scores have remained modest, 5% and 7% respectively, and although I will report these differences in narrative form, they are so minimal that they cannot be detected by the naked eye in the charts that I have attempted to construct. These modest variability 7% scores imply that the test has a high degree of test retest reliability. Windsor on the other hand has a massive range from a low score of 17 to a high score of 47, which is a whopping 276% difference! If the test is indeed as reliable as it appears, what could account for such a vast swing in an already incredibly high magnitude? But more importantly I must pose the fundamental question: Although Windsor expresses to me that he has, over the years, learned to control his CMR trait, has it been in actuality been more of a phenomenal miracle and less an act of determined will power that he has not given into his desires -- given that at any particular moment his trait can be much stronger than the moment before? And if this is true is it safe for Windsor to be out among people in general society, particularly among African Americans? This data would seem to suggest that Windsor should be segregating himself from the African American population, not as an act of discrimination, but as a public safety measure. Then again, does not his mental trick of turning all black people white accomplish this very end? Therefore the final question would seem to be: When blips in his whitewashing system occur, how effective is his blip-fixing system? Apparently it has been quite successful, as he is almost 78 years old and has not yet given into his desires. Still, from a purely objective point of view this data is quite concerning...Dig deeper...

Zachary further analyzed the data by comparing Windsor's highest single CMR score with the highest single CMR score that had been acquired for any Thurmond family member, discovering this range to be a massive gap.

In essence, Zachary's hypothesis had been correct. Windsor's CMR was much stronger than average. This stronger CMR magnitude, combined with stressful life events, such as the covering of his body with black flesh and the consumption of a black fetus, had managed to bring his CMR to the surface and activate the trait. Finally, Zachary analyzed Windsor's personal adjustment scores, the results of which at first perplexed him:

Zachary wondered why Windsor should have a personal adjustment score so much lower than was typical for CMR positive Thurmond males. However, he soon realized the answer, it was the same answer that he had proposed when presenting preliminary results and Herod's curse hypotheses to Omar and Samantha: that CMR positive Thurmond females had personal adjustment scores considerably lower than CMR positive Thurmond males because the CMR for Thurmond females was closer to the forefront of their minds, and thus, more aware of their discontent, the CMR Thurmond females were less satisfied with their place in society.

Windsor had an active CMR status and therefore his desires were always in his consciousness and because he was unable to act on desires unacceptable in civilized society, he was – as Freud had termed – a discontented man, and therefore his personal adjustment score was low. This offered yet further support for Windsor's active CMR status and the remainder of the Thurmond's dormant CMRstatus. As a Thurmond male, Windsor's personal adjustment score should be similar to that of other Thurmond males unless there was a difference in the status of their traits, which was what the data indicated: Windsor was CMR active while the other Thurmond males were CMR dormant and therefore the personal adjustment scores of the two groups varied.

Satisfied of a job well done, Zachary neatly stacked his notes and thankfully climbed into his bed, deciding to sleep for as long as he could. However, that goal lasted a mere 30 minutes because he had absent-mindedly turned his phone back on and its jarring ring sprung him awake. His cell on his night stand, he could see from his phone's display that the caller was Jasmine. Zachary answered and explained that he had been up analyzing data since 4 am, but that they should meet later.

Zachary slept for 12 hours and after he texted Jasmine, she told him that she would be over right away. Two hours later they completed a sexual epic that Zachary would, later that night, describe to an old college buddy in an embarrassingly long-winded and sordid email about each and every detail, as "by far the best sex of my life..."

They slept contentedly through the day and at 3PM Zachary started a pot of coffee in the kitchen. His business with the Windsor family was winding down and he felt as if he was rounding the final corner in some soul draining marathon. All that remained was the construction of the final report.

Who knows, maybe even Samantha can be goaded into its writing?

Satisfyingly, he had been well compensated for his efforts. Mortgage payments could be now made with ease for at least 12 months, a state of affairs which left him in a comfortable financial position should his house happen to remain on the market for an extended period.

He checked his email – the PBS documentary producer said that the taping of the show about Dunbar and Associates would probably not occur for at least six months – and then opened the online version of the Boston Globe, boston.com, and scanned through a few articles, quickly becoming bored.

Journalists have it wrong. They look at the world through the lens of now and not the lens of history. But Jasmine, though merely a blogger, looks at the history of institutions and the history of problems.

He decided to check out her blog, but just as he was about to open her site he heard her descending the stairs and, feeling squeamish, he resumed reading an article that did not interest him in the least, but which involved an important local issue.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Jasmine asked, wearing only a long shirt and slippers, her legs bare, and Zachary suddenly had the urge to playfully bite at her beautiful legs, but then shuddered at the thought.

Trace CMR perhaps?

It occurred to him that as of yet he hadn't tested himself and so had no idea if he, as did the majority of his race, possessed trace CMR, though wondered if perhaps it was better for him not to know.

But what was that Virginia told Windsor, that truth is always a welcome visitor?

"You looked so peaceful," said Zachary, reaching towards her and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Why do you have so many cameras inside your house?" Jasmine asked.

"PBS wants to do a documentary on my company, so they have set up cameras here. Actually, I just got an email that it is being delayed by at least six months. It was supposed to start after the Thurmond testing concluded."

"So you're going to be famous pretty soon?" said Jasmine.

"Maybe you too, if you are around," said Zachary.

"I'm camera shy, that's why I work on the radio," said Jasmine.

"Hunny cakes, you were made for the camera," said Zachary.

"That sounded a little perverted," said Jasmine. "And hunny cakes?"

"It just felt right at the time."

Jasmine laughed.

"So where are we going?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary's face blanched as he searched for a reply.

Seriously, why haven't I come up with any idea as to where I want to go?

Jasmine replied, "I was just kidding. We don't really have to go anywhere you know."

"No, I really do think that was good advice. Unfortunately right now I have to see this work through to the end. But, yes, once it has finished I would like to take a break," said Zachary.

"Really?" said Jasmine, looking doubtful.

"Yes, I promise. And I'll take that advice that you gave me: we won't plan anything, we'll just go somewhere on a whim," said Zachary.

"That sounds like a slight adventure," said Jasmine.

"Exactly!" said Zachary.

"Maybe we could do some orienteering," said Jasmine.

"I don't know if that is my cup of tea."

Jasmine laughed, "Or we could go hiking and camping. I like to do outdoors type of stuff when I take time off."

"I'm not much of the rugged type myself, but I suppose I could make an exception. Although I'd just like to relax today," said Zachary.

"So would I," said Jasmine.

As if to prove that they were both ready to be lazy, they snuggled together on the couch and began watching a pointless TV program. However, the peace did not last for five minutes before Zachary remembered that he had a mortgage payment to make and shot up like an exclamation point. Jasmine followed him into the kitchen, curious about the hub-bub, as he shifted pots and pans, searching for his old mail.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Mortgage payment, and it slipped my mind until now," said Zachary, still searching upon his counter for the envelope.

"Don't you just pay online?" Jasmine asked.

"I'm not that technologically advanced," said Zachary, now growing panicked as he began searching in places where he had already searched.

"Silly old man," said Jasmine, hugging him as he rummaged.

Suddenly Zachary remembered that he had ordered a post office box so that he would not have to worry about his mail as he traveled.

They drove to the post office while listening to Jasmine's style of music, a style which Zachary tried his best to appreciate. Once Zachary had located his post office box he shifted through his mail and located the document. Then he began tossing his junk mail into the trash. Feeling hurried about mailing his payment, he almost discarded a hand written envelope, but managed to sort it into his "keep" pile at the last moment. Oddly, the return sender was Philip Thurmond and the return address was Philip's Pennsylvania address:

Phillip Thurmond

1410 Monk Road

Gladwyne, PE

19035

"You look confused," said Jasmine.

"Yes, this letter is from a dead man," said Zachary, lifting the envelope from the counter and examining it. It was post marked one week before Zachary had arrived in Pennsylvania, at which point Phillip would have still been alive. Zachary opened the envelope, finding inside a single sheet of paper, which read:

This way is the way down

Though down the rabbit hole

Phi: 10923

Lambda:55045

"What does it say?" Jasmine asked.

"Probably nothing, it makes no sense. But it is also confidential so I really can't tell you anymore," said Zachary: like the fact that Philip lost his marbles. Zachary decided that the letter, in all probability, showcased the final ramblings of an acutely developed dementia. The rabbit hole was clearly a reference to Alice in Wonderland, but Zachary was unfamiliar with the terms Phi and Lambda when used together. He did remember that Phi was a Greek letter, one which represented the golden ratio and had a number of practical mathematical uses, as did Greek lambda letter. However, the pairing of these Greek letters with these particular numbers held no meaning for Zachary, though Zachary suspected the real meaning of Phillip's letter to be nothing more than the poetic and mathematical gibberish of a man who had lost his reason. Therefore, Zachary considered tossing the letter into the recycling bin but after a moment's consideration decided to save it just in case it should prove useful for the final case history.

Yet the last thing I want to do is to make more work for myself. When the final report is finished I am going to buy an expensive bottle of champagne, celebrate, and think of these Thurmonds no more.

Gray Cliff Lodge, Area One: Setting down his bow, Mick Thurmond surveyed the camp's cliffs, a familiar vista that carried his thoughts to a youthful time of frosty morning still hunting. Donald often spoke about proper still hunting technique and the crucial importance of moving slower than one thinks necessary, once holding Mick as an example and saying, "And the boy is only seven! Seven! What a bright future ahead!"

At the time, from seven to ten when Mick first earned his stripes by falling crafty bucks, he thought those vacations a welcome diversion from schoolwork and saw no relation between the camp's wilderness and the school-life he would soon re-enter, though later he learned that hunting wisdom informs every action taken once manhood arrives -- that life equals hunting.

A precocious hunter, Mick transitioned smoothly from bow hunting bucks at Gray Cliff Area One to bow hunting the markedly different prey at Gray Cliff Area Two. And that was as it should have been. Like cumulative lessons in math, mastery of buck hunting at Area One provided the groundwork for mastery of hunting at Area Two. Groundwork for mastery of life in general, and steps which when successfully taken made well-rounded Thurmond society members. And for many Thurmonds it had worked magnificently.

The problem was that for some Thurmonds it had failed miserably. Mick's boy Kolby had also been a precocious buck hunter. But when transitioned to Area Two something failed and he unlearned the calm learned in Area One. He panicked and did not adapt. Finally he broke. The same had happened to Edbert and Elvin, to Nat and Woolcott, to Manfred and Aldric, and to Henry before them -- and what exactly had happened to Windsor was still up for debate.

When Chase told Mick about the bribe he offered Zachary, Mick completely understood. Clearly, the ability to master Area One did not transfer to the ability to master Area Two. Frustratingly, Area One had been specifically designed to filter out those unsuited for apprenticeship in Area Two. To Mick's thinking, the experiment had failed. It seemed that while all Thurmonds were competent buck hunters in Area One, clearly not all Thurmonds were successful hunters in Area Two – an off-limit subject at lodge meetings because Donald and Charles, as co-presidents, had declared that tradition would always remain intact, and tradition held that Area One was the filter for Area Two.

But the traveling psychologist Zachary Dunbar offered a possible solution. It seemed plausible that his test could prove a better filter than Area One.

Though that remains to be seen...

After Kolby's death Mick had sworn to never enroll another of his boys at Gray Cliff. So while he vacationed there, his boy Ralph remained at home.

But circumstances had changed. Ralph's development had been largely ineffectual. To Mick he seemed more woman than man, a tentative, spineless, fleshy boy. In manhood his failure seemed certain. Still, Mick figured that certain failure was better than early death and so for the last year, rather than rushing a decision, he had mulled over the idea of enrolling Ralph at Gray Cliff. However, Zachary's test was the final weight upon the scales. Zachary had said it himself, "Ralph may need counseling for latent racist tendencies..." Could it be true? Could a psychology test have been all they needed all these years?

I want Ralph to have the chance to be a smashing success in life -- Gray Cliff will provide that opportunity. I just hope that Zachary Dunbar was correct.

Mick broke from his reverie and lifted his bow upon his shoulder, nodding to Ralph who stood silently at his right.

He looks the part of a hunter anyway.

For the past two weeks Mick had been teaching Ralph archery basics but the boy had advanced fast, proving to be a quick study.

Just as I had been.

When they traveled by minivan to the camp, Ralph looked curiously at the large black box in the back.

"That box is why we aren't flying isn't it? You wanted to take the box with us and it would have been too large to check into the plane."

"No, we could have checked it. I just wanted to take a road trip with my boy. I wanted us to have a chance to talk," said Mick.

"What is in there anyway?" Ralph asked.

"You'll find out soon enough," said Mick.

"Is it a present?" Ralph.

After Kolby's death I spoiled the shit out of Ralph. All this brat thinks about is presents. That's my fault. But now it's time for him to man up.

"Sort of," said Mick.

"Oh, I'm excited," said Ralph.

"That box is going to change you forever," said Mick.

For better or for worse...

"Really? How will it change me?" Ralph asked.

"It's impossible to explain. It is something that has to be experienced?" said Mick.

"If it is a present then why isn't it wrapped?" Ralph asked.

"I didn't say it was a present," said Mick.

"When do I get to open it?" Ralph asked.

"After your first kill at Area Two," said Mick.

"How long will that take?" Ralph asked.

"There is really no telling. But from what I've seen with you in the backyard with that bow, I don't think you'll have any difficulty making the kill," said Mick and with his free hand he rubbed Ralph's mop of hair, tussling it up. "Just don't freeze. We call that buck fever. It happens to many first timers. You don't want to kill the buck because you are awed by its presence. The only way to get over buck fever is to not hesitate and make the kill."

"Did you have buck fever the first time you tried to make a kill?" Ralph asked.

"No," said Mick.

They drove in silence past barren corn fields, a range of mountains to their left. There were no other vehicles on the road and stars looked much brighter than the stars seen from their backyard.

"Father," said Ralph.

"Yes," said Mick.

"I don't want to let you down," said Ralph.

"You won't," said Mick.

"I fucked up big time with the car and the drugs. I think things would be different if Kolby hadn't died. I feel like you've always been disappointed in me. I feel like you always wished I was Kolby – because you took Kolby to the camp but you never took me. Now we are going to the camp together and I don't want to let you down," said Ralph.

For a moment Mick thought he felt a vibration and looked in the rear view mirror, staring at the box, but the box was still.

"After Kolby's death I didn't want to push you too hard. And while that seemed right in theory, the fact of the matter is that you are a Thurmond and with that name comes not only material wealth but a wealth of expectations. Truth is son, Kolby couldn't shoulder the expectations. But you aren't Kolby. You are your own person," said Mick, feeling the emergence of tears, a sensation absent since the day of Kolby's death.

When they finally arrived at Area One, Mick and Ralph loaded the box into the family helicopter so that the box could be transported to Area Two.

Before they set down the box Ralph said, "I think I felt something move in there."

"No hints," said Mick, winking. "I told you. It's a surprise."

Donald welcomed Ralph to the camp, saying, "Enjoy your time at Area One – with your father and the children. When you are ready to be a man I'll see you at Area Two \--."

"Dad that is enough," said Mick, securing the box with a strap.

Donald held out a wrapped box.

"Another present," said Ralph, reaching for the box.

Donald tossed the box onto the empty passenger's seat, saying, "Sorry, you'll get this in Area Two."

Tradition held that the Thurmond boys hunted at Area One from age 7 to 10 and that if they successfully learned the art of buck hunting they were then, at age 11, transitioned to Area Two. If during those three years they did not learn the art of buck hunting they were forever removed from the ranks of Gray Cliff, never to return, and sworn to secrecy concerning any Gray Cliff details learned. Yet, as Mick had pointed out, for the last three generations this had not occurred.

Washington: Before exiting his limo, Windsor pondered his list of CMR positive Thurmond males one last time. From Zachary's preliminary report, he had identified Charles as having the strongest strain.

If things have gone wrong anywhere they will have at least gone wrong with Charles. And so this brother of mine will be the canary in the coal mine.

He checked that his .45 was fully loaded and that his silencer was properly fitted.

It's ironic that I have dreamed my whole life of killing blacks and then eating their flesh but that I might end my life through the killings of whites, a people who I have never desired to murder and a people whose flesh I have never desired to eat.

When Windsor phoned Charles, Charles said that he had planned to take a family trip but that he would gladly postpone his departure to meet with his longer than long-lost brother, asking, "And should I invite other family members?"

"No, this is a private matter. If we could speak alone that would be much appreciated."

Charles told him that they could meet the next day, either there in Boston or at his home in D.C.

"D.C. works just fine. I could use the change of scenery, and a tour around your home would perk my architectural interests..." said Windsor, who had already arrived in D.C., and from his hotel window looked upon a view of the Washington monument.

That night sleep came and went in sweaty fits and his dreams of death were not those he typically dreamt, there was no black flesh raining from the skies or black appendages littering the roads, instead he dreamt of his brothers as children and that it was his duty to lead each of them to a guillotine on a hill.

Windsor left the limousine, tipping the driver handsomely. Slowly walking to Charles's front door and attempting an air of ease, his hand brushed against the .45 fitted behind his belt and the dream of his brothers and the guillotine flashed back into his mind. Before he had a chance to knock, a man, who he presumed to be Charles, opened the door, asking, "How was your trip?"

"You must be --."

"Charles yes, your brother of course. How rude of me!" said Charles, and Windsor held his waist back so that the bulge of the .45 would not be felt. The two embraced for nearly a minute with Charles heartily patting Windsor on the back and adding, "It has been very much too long! I never thought I would place eyes on you again..."

Windsor replied, "And I have within my library the picture of the whole family in the alpines, and that picture is the last time that I have seen you."

"Yes, I think I know the picture," said Charles, leading Windsor into a parlor room with two billiards tables, an oak whiskey bar, and an assortment of dear heads upon the wall.

"Do you play?" Charles asked, referring to the billiard's tables.

"Many years have passed, but at one time I was something of a shark," said Windsor.

"I know the feeling," said Charles, taking a cue from the wall and chalking the tip. "Let us play, as men, brother to brother, and as once did we play, brother to brother, as boys."

Windsor nodded, suddenly sensing the gravity of the situation.

Here I am, come to judge and perhaps execute a death sentence and yet standing before me is the little boy with whom I played my childhood games, even if those games I cannot remember.

"Brother," said Windsor, immediately noting how odd the word felt upon his lips, almost as if he were speaking to a ghost and not a man, "What do you remember of me as a child?" "Not much – I was too young. But there is one thing," said Charles.

Windsor fought against his curiosity and did not ask about the hinted event.

But perhaps Charles saw the doubt in his eyes, because he said, "You mean you do not remember?"

Windsor realized denial would be futile and so admitted that "My memory of childhood is not as it should be. There is a black wall where there should be memories. For example, I have no memories of you, save that picture in the Alpines, and though I am sure we shared many."

"It was an event that must have shaped you deeply \--."

"Yes, but let us not speak of such serious things. I came so that we could embrace and as you earlier said, not dwell," said Windsor.

"Would you then like to see my old photo albums then? We are all there," Charles asked.

"No! No," said Windsor, trying to control his nervous energy and feeling a bead of sweat drip down his ribs and land upon the gun.

Charles snapped a ball into the corner pocket. "Tell me about your charitable work."

Windsor outlined his charitable endeavors while wondering how best to broach the subject for which he had entered, but decided that more than enough time remained for Charles to let something slip.

Perhaps once alcohol has entered the conversation will flow more freely.

"Do you mind if I have a glass?" said Windsor, pointing to the whiskey.

"You have traveled from Boston to D.C. and yet I do not offer you a drink," said Charles, placing down his billiards stick.

"It is fine. You didn't even know if I was a drinker," said Windsor, laughing.

"Stay where you are and we will salute that we have finally been reunited," said Charles.

Something in Charles's tone reminded Windsor of a time long passed and again he glimpsed himself upon the table with the black flesh pressed upon his skin.

What is it about Charles that reminds me of father and that place?

"Yes, we have got on well in the world, though I through inheritance, and you through inheritance and hard work," said Windsor with a smile.

"Don't shoot yourself short. I know you worked hard to become the philanthropist that you became," said Charles.

There it is again, that tone, it brings me to another time, almost transfixing my soul there – the table, I see the wooden table, the wooden wall and the men, and the black flesh too, and the flesh is nearly covering my eyes...

Windsor felt a strong urge to sit, and remembering the advice of his four therapists, sat with his head between his legs and drew deep breaths.

"What is it? Have I said something wrong?" Charles asked, sitting by Windsor's side and placing his hand upon his head. It felt strange for Windsor to be sitting so close to this person who in some respects was a stranger and yet in others was one of his greatest intimates, a brother with whom he had shared a short and forgotten childhood and yet had not laid eyes upon for over seventy years.

"No, you have said nothing wrong Charles, but you must think me rude for never having responded to your invitations?" said Windsor, and as he straightened, felt the cold metal of the gun press again his skin.

And you will think me worse than rude, forsaken brother, if it comes to the worst and I must empty my cartridges into your brain.

"Nonsense," said Charles.

Windsor looked deep into his brother's eyes, sharp blue eyes made sharper still by the intensity of his stare, and Windsor again lay on the wooden table covered in Negro flesh, transfixed by his father's eyes of total compassion, eyes forcefully declaring, "I love you all the more because you are covered in this peeled Negro's flesh."

Yet in so thinking, in so pondering, I find myself traveling back and that is a dangerous position. You must get to the point of your mission and stop with this foolish wandering.

They drank another glass of whiskey while Charles described his working life, concluding his narrative by saying, "But I can see the fog descending over your eyes. The business life is not the life for every Thurmond. Come, I would like to show you my home."

Windsor followed Charles from room to room. "Tell me brother, do you do all your housekeeping yourself?"

"No, I have given my servants a holiday so that we can reunite in privacy," said Charles.

He wants me isolated from his servants as I wanted him isolated from the family. Do we each have some aim kept hidden from the other?

Seated beside a fireplace in Charles's smoking room, the fire unlit, they smoked Cubans and talked current events. Charles stated that Obama would make a fine president, "It is high time that an African American led this nation. For too long have we been a nation of two people: them and us. It is time to unite. It is time to heal the wounds of slavery and African American exploitation."

Windsor agreed, momentarily wondering if perhaps Charles had nothing to hide.

Or perhaps like me he has become so effective with his hiding that he convincingly and effortlessly blabbers without a second thought.

Windsor changed the subject by noting both the preponderance of cultural artifacts and deer heads which filled Charles's home, saying, "From the furnishings of your home I must conclude that you are a collector of the finest cultural achievements from warfare to the arts and that also you must be an able hunter, as you display your hunting trophies with pride."

"Collecting is a hobby. Hunting is a passion. In fact, Windsor my brother, hunting is something that flows within every Thurmond's blood," said Charles.

"There you may be mistaken. I have never hunted," said Windsor.

Charles, his cigar between his lips, puffed a well formed smoke ring which floated above his head and vanished like a halo.

"The menu tonight is venison and this venison I have hunted and skinned myself" said Charles.

"We haven't seen each other for seven long decades, so I suppose I can stay for dinner," said Windsor, laughing.

"Have you ever had venison before?" Charles asked.

"I think so," said Windsor.

"You are in for a treat," said Charles.

"Splendid, because though it is true that your whiskey has warmed my spirits and your Cuban has cleared my facilities, I find my belly to be simply famished and so a good meal would be a considerable gift for this hungry and somewhat wearied traveler," said Windsor.

Charles led Windsor back downstairs to a dining room. The room had been unlit during the tour and so Windsor had not noticed the multitude of the mounted buck heads. As Charles warmed the dinner, Windsor lit the room's candles. All the candles finally lit, Windsor seated himself in the middle of a long table and watched shadows dance upon the walls. Windsor again felt the black flesh against his skin and drank his whiskey faster than he knew advisable, attempting to drown the past.

A trail of smoke following him, Charles bounded into the room with a massive platter of meat. Placing the platter in front of Windsor, Charles sat directly across from him.

"Please help yourself," said Charles, a devilish grin upon his face. "And do not wait for me; I just remembered that I need to fetch that whiskey bottle."

"I think I may have had enough," said Windsor, whose glass was now empty.

"Nonsense," said Charles, with a slight bow before leaving the room.

Windsor assumed that Charles must have forgotten to retrieve the other dishes; the only dish upon the table was the venison. After having stocked his plate with a sizable portion, Windsor decided to follow his brother's suggestion and started his meal immediately. The moment the first bite touched the surface of his tongue, Windsor realized that Charles had not exaggerated.

A moment later Charles returned.

"I've never tasted anything like this. I feel as if I am a child trying my favorite flavor of ice cream for the first time," said Windsor, who had spoken with his mouth full of meat and having realized that fact added, "And forgive me please for speaking with my mouth full, this meal has made me completely lose my manners."

"Windsor, that you enjoy the taste of my venison brings me even more satisfaction than it brings to you," said Charles, now filling his plate full with venison -- so full that Windsor noticed there was no room for other dishes.

"Brother would you like me to retrieve the rest of the dinner from the kitchen? I think I remember the way," Windsor asked.

Charles replied that the venison was the complete meal and tore into his meat. Suddenly Windsor felt ill at ease, though he knew not why. The venison was simply too perfect, like a perfect Christmas never to be repeated. Windsor realized that this all meat meal was reminiscent of the all meat meals he had instructed his wife to cook in the 70's, his attempt to satisfy his longing for black flesh.

Does Charles do the same?

A phone rang and Charles excused himself from the room. Windsor felt the eyes of the Bucks staring down and wondered which buck he presently consumed.

However, you must forgive me dead deer, for your meat is indescribable.

The combination of whiskey and soul satisfying venison led Windsor into a contemplative state and he felt as if his soul was dancing with the dancing shadows on the walls.

Arlington, MA: Zachary wondered if it had been a mistake to invite Samantha to his home with Jasmine present. Samantha half-invited herself by saying, "Well, if you want me to complete the final report, I think that is something that we should talk about in person."

Zachary's CMR data had been organized into an accordion file.

Never before have I so desired to be completely finished with an assignment. What is it about the Thurmonds that so makes me want to run?

As Zachary flipped through the file, double checking that nothing had been misplaced, he sensed Jasmine's stare.

"I like watching you work. It is sexy," said Jasmine, who sat on the couch and held a book.

"This is just preparation," said Zachary.

"So you have to give that to Samantha, your colleague?" Jasmine asked.

"If all goes well I will," said Zachary.

"You two used to be an item, didn't you?" Jasmine asked, though with no alarm in her voice.

"How did you know that?" Zachary asked, and having prepared the file he now turned and faced Jasmine. In her unmade state, dressed informally and lounging, Zachary thought her breathtaking and wished that he held a camera so that he could photograph her.

Which is an odd feeling, I never take pictures...

"I know all," said Jasmine, laughing.

"Really how do you know, I'm curious?" Zachary asked.

"Then you'll just have to beat it out of me," said Jasmine, with an irreverent stare.

Zachary playfully shook his head. "We can't right now. She will be here any minute."

Jasmine was just about to reply when there was a knock on the door. The door opened. "Zachary I'm here," yelled Samantha.

"I'm in the living room," Zachary yelled.

Samantha entered the living room and noticing Jasmine upon the couch, her expression cooled and she said, "Hi there. I'm Samantha. And you are?"

"Jasmine Jackson," said Jasmine with a wide smile.

Samantha approached and they shook hands. Small talk ensued, though Zachary wondered what was going on beneath the words.

Probably scanning each other for imperfections...

As they continued to speak, Zachary's cell phone rang and observing Windsor to be the caller he snuck into his den and answered.

Windsor immediately told him the good news, saying, "Zachary old boy, I spoke to Bill today and Bruce had begun no reports. Everything was still in the stages of preparation. So you don't have to worry about making any calls or about the high standing of your reputation."

Zachary replied, "I am so happy to hear that. Thank you for getting back to me..."

Washington: As Charles took his seat, Windsor folded shut his cell and wondered if a comment would be made concerning the copious amount of venison consumed during Charles's brief absence: the platter was nearly empty.

But instead Charles toasted to the Thurmond family enduring ties.

For the next hour, as they continued to consume plate after plate of venison, they spoke of their personal lives and discussed at length the difficult subject of their wives' deaths.

Charles stated, "A long marriage that makes an old man a widower is often the cause of that widower's demise. The doomed widower will not face life without his life partner and so withers and dies. After my wife's death, I decided that I wanted to keep living: that I had too many important things left to accomplish."

Windsor replied, "Yes, brother, I thought that I still had important things to accomplish through my charitable endeavors, though I feel my days numbered and will soon pass the torch of charity onto another deserving Thurmond."

"Have you come to a decision?" Charles asked.

"It has come down to five and I think them all equally well qualified. The only thing that needs to be done is for the name to be penned into the blank line," said Windsor.

Charles toasted.

Windsor reciprocated the toast and thinking the moment right said, "Yet it wasn't only your wife you have had to mourn. You buried two children as well. What happened?"

Charles spoke at length of the tragedy, twice excusing himself to wipe his eyes dry.

As Charles concluded speaking the last of the venison was consumed, and he added, "Brother this brings us to a crossroads. There is no more food on the table. Judging by my belly you would think me full, and you look much the same. What do you think? Should we cease or continue feasting?"

Windsor stated that the feasting should continue and with a slight chuckle displayed the mammoth girth of his belly.

"Unfortunately my venison supply has run dry so more must be skinned. It will take but a moment. Although you can accompany me as I skin the buck if you so wish."

Windsor declined, blaming his belly for inducing him into "a state of contented immobility."

As Charles rose to leave, he refilled Windsor's whiskey glass.

"Old boy, I think I have finally drunk my limit," said Windsor, surprised to note that his glass was empty once again.

"Nonsense," said Charles, who then refilled his own glass. Toasting to their reunion, Charles chugged his glass empty with a mischievous glance challenging Windsor to do the same. Windsor did and realized he was drunk.

When Charles returned, Windsor said, "I understand why you became a hunter. If I knew that venison tasked this good I would have become a hunter too --."

"There is still time."

Charles heaped a pile of bloody venison onto his plate.

Windsor wondered if his drunkenness caused the venison to appear redder, bloodier, even raw. Unsure, he stabbed a large chunk with his fork and with his head lowered, raised the chunk to his eyes. Blood dripped from its edges and gathered into a puddle on his plate.

"Is this meat raw?"

"Yes," said Charles, simply.

"Why?" asked Windsor, now peering at the bloody meat curiously.

"Why not?" said Charles, who had begun with effortful strokes to cut the tough meat into small pieces, the bottom half of his knife dripping with blood.

"I don't believe I have ever eaten raw meat," said Windsor.

"Just as Sashimi can be a deliciously prepared raw fish – this venison is a deliciously prepared raw meat – fresh from the bone and perfectly delectable," said Charles, with a bloody mouthful.

Thus far the meal had been perfect. So Windsor had no reason to think the present dish would disappoint. And perhaps noting Windsor's hesitation, Charles explained that the bloody meal was safe to consume because he had mastered the art of sanitary raw meat preparation, and noted to Windsor the main rule: the use of fresh meat.

Windsor nodded with drunken understanding and began to cut his meat into small pieces, similar in size to the pieces on Charles's plate. He wondered if raw meat was an acquired taste or something naturally exhibited.

As Windsor bit into the meat he was struck with a euphoric feeling. He dared not take a second bite for fear that the continued ecstasy would knock him from his seat. The euphoric taste of raw meat still upon his lips, he stopped chewing and held both fork and knife upon the table like soldiers at attention.

"What is it?" Charles asked, blood dripping from his lips and onto his chin.

"This, what you have made. I never thought anything could, could --."

"You don't have to try to explain it to me. I know exactly what you mean," said Charles.

This is why my brothers have functioned so successfully in the world. They have mastered the art of raw meat! It almost makes me wish to continue living. The meal is perfect, but does the contentment last? As I have been eating I have been having no thoughts of black flesh consumption. Such a thing has never occurred!

"Brother I need to express something," said Windsor, still not having taken a second bite.

Charles nodded and stabbed a massive piece of meat straight through the middle, raising the bloody mass to his mouth.

"I need to tell you something which may be difficult for you to hear --."

"Yes?" said Charles, blood now covering his entire chin.

Windsor began quietly, "You think me to be a perfect sort of person. Yet Brother nothing could be farther from the truth. It has only been through incredible will power that I have been able to abstain --."

"Abstain from what?" Charles asked.

"It is difficult for me to talk about. Charles I came here because I feared that you might be like me. But I can see from your statements and your hospitality – and most of all from your mastery of raw meat preparation– that you are not like me, not in the least. Yet you have a hunger that you do not even realize you have. Zachary's test – that was not just testing for racism. It was testing for a trait that is active in me, and a trait that is hereditary. You have the trait Charles! You tested positive for it! The difference is that you do not even realize that you have it, which is wonderful for you. I now believe that you and the others in the family with this trait do not feel its influence because of your mastery of raw meat preparation. Because brother when I eat this raw meat all my desires disappear," said Windsor, suddenly feeling tears gather in his eyes.

This is ridiculous old boy – a well prepared meal is literally bringing you to tears.

"I don't understand. What is the trait?" said Charles.

"We have been absent from each other so long that the least I owe you is honesty. The trait is called: Cannibalistic Murderous Racism."

Charles stared at Windsor with his sharp blue eyes.

"Nothing in the world do I wish for more than to murder and eat African Americans. And until I ate your meat today, I have never, like a wound clock ticking, existed absent the thought of black flesh consumption," said Windsor, the tears now falling about his cheeks, and he quickly added, "But I can swear on our parent's graves that I have never acted on this impulse."

After an awkward pause during which Charles finished most of his drink, he said, "I don't fully understand what it is that you are saying. But I can't help feeling that we should have reunited earlier, and you should have eaten this raw meat earlier."

"It was mother who instructed me to stay away. I was merely following her instructions. I thought she knew best. But perhaps I was wrong," said Windsor, taking another bite. The juices which poured forth, as if, not juices from meat but mango, rivaled that of the first bite. Suddenly Windsor believed that anything was possible.

To hang myself with a rope seems an absurd proposition now that I understand that the world contains the wonders of such raw meat.

Charles replied, "Mother, instructed you to stay away from us? I never would have guessed it. But the important thing is that we are together now."

Windsor, still chewing the fragments of the second bite and feeling waves of ecstasy wash over his body, said, "Only minutes earlier I thought the suggestion preposterous I should become a hunter. But if I can hunt meat such as this then I want nothing more!"

Charles rose from his seat and delivered a long-winded toast which imagined the future feasts that they would together consume. And as Charles spoke Windsor pounded his fist upon the table in agreement and held high in the air not his whiskey glass but a bloody meat slab.

Arlington, MA: Because Samantha had agreed to write the final report, Zachary had an urge to wash his hands clean of the whole Thurmond matter. He had told Windsor that they should keep in contact, but part of him hoped that Windsor would leave him in peace. There was something about the intense contemplation of CMR that had brought his mind into a distressing state of existence. For one thing, Zachary liked looking at the positive side of life, but CMR was almost altogether bleak. The only good that came from CMR was through its suppression and sublimation; but that did not alter the fact that good was being achieved precisely because the members of one group wished to murder and eat the flesh of the members of another group. And this underlying reality, the base reason for the Thurmond family's worldly motivation and success, whether charitable, financial, or otherwise, did not sit well with Zachary. Yet he understood that he could not blame the Thurmonds for inheriting the CMR trait.

But that also does not mean that I need to hobnob with them...

Zachary had given Samantha his CMR accordion file, which contained every document compiled during his testing circuit -- except for the letter that he had received from Philip. Discovering the letter on his counter, Zachary mused that its omission from the file was an understandable oversight.

After all I only saved it from the trash bin at the post office at last moment.

Again he pondered what it meant:

This way is the way down

Though down the rabbit hole

Phi: 10923

Lambda:55045

Jasmine peered over his shoulder and said, "Where is that?"

"What?" Zachary asked, whisking the letter out of her sight.

"Oh, is that the confidential letter from the post office?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes. I think I'm just going to shred it and throw it out," said Zachary.

"Well, where is it though?" Jasmine asked.

"It is in my hand," said Zachary, confused.

"No I don't mean the letter silly. I mean those coordinates. Where is that?" Jasmine asked.

"What do you mean?" Zachary asked, again looking at the letter. "Do Phi and Lambda indicate coordinates?"

"Yes, they are the universal symbols for latitude and longitude – of course you would probably know that if you were into orienteering," said Jasmine, laughing.

"So these are the symbols used on orienteering maps?" Zachary asked.

"No, we have our own special universal symbols not based on any particular language. But I knew that those were the universal symbols for longitude and latitude because my love for orienteering has caused me to become something of a cartophile – a map lover -- and so I study maps of all kinds, not just the heavily topographically focused orienteering maps. But nautical maps, lunar maps, whatever," said Jasmine.

Zachary laughed.

"I am almost speechless that orienteering seems to have a practical use in my life right now. Do you know how to find this place?" he asked.

"Sure. But am I really allowed to see this? Isn't this confidential?" said Jasmine.

"I'll just keep the name confidential," said Zachary.

"Well, let's find out," said Jasmine, booting up Zachary's computer. Zachary entered his password and Jasmine located an internet site that she commonly used (www.itouchmap.com), where latitude and longitude measurements could be entered into a search function and located on a Google map. After Jasmine entered the coordinates, she gasped.

"What?" said Zachary. To Zachary it seemed that the Google map showed only a wide expanse of trees.

"Do you know where this is?" Jasmine asked.

"No, where is it?" Zachary asked.

"Only a place that I've always wanted to go – only a place that is on my bucket list," said Jasmine.

"Your bucket list has about 500 locations," said Zachary.

"True, but this is one of them," said Jasmine, adding, "Actually it isn't! But it is very close – in a map sense anyway."

"Okay, Miss Map Expert, will you please tell me what we are looking at?" Zachary asked.

"So these coordinates that you gave me are probably like a two days hike outside the Glacier National Park," said Jasmine.

"The Glacier National Park?" Zachary asked.

"You aren't familiar?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary shook his head.

"You really do live in a psychology research bubble don't you? The Glacier National Park is only one of the most pristine national parks in America," said Jasmine.

"Is it on a glacier?" Zachary asked, laughing.

"You can be a real knucklehead. I think because of global warming the glaciers are melting but it still has like 20 – though I think there were like 150, when the park first opened," said Jasmine.

"So where is this map, Alaska?" Zachary asked.

"No, you knucklehead. This is still the continental US: Montana," said Jasmine.

"The Rocky Mountains," said Zachary.

"Oh, you do know some geography after all. Do you know why you were sent a letter pinpointing this location?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary shook his head, "I really have no idea. I don't know what he was getting at. Perhaps he wanted to take a vacation at the Glacier National Park before he died."

"This location is outside the Glacier National Park, but you can see from the Google map that there are no roads. This land is unsettled, pure wilderness. The easiest way to get there would be from the Glacier National Park, to hike from the edge of its borders and then make our way to the coordinates," said Jasmine.

"It sounds like we are already going," said Zachary.

"We should! Like I said, you don't plan, you just go. I've always wanted to go to the Glacier National Park. Who knows maybe we'll find some buried treasure," said Jasmine.

"A slight adventure," said Zachary.

"Yes, we'll go on a slight adventure," said Jasmine, kissing Zachary.

"But I thought you said that when I finally take a vacation that it shouldn't be a research vacation?" Zachary asked.

"This won't be. The final report is already being written by your colleague. This just gives us a reason to go hike," said Jasmine.

"Couldn't that be dangerous? What if there are animals out there?" Zachary asked.

"It will be a risk," said Jasmine.

"I'd rather not risk death," said Zachary.

"I'll bring my bow. If anything jumps out at us I will shoot it in the heart," said Jasmine.

"That's right you said you almost made the archery Olympic Team. Fighting for justice, expert archer – hmmm, maybe you are trying to suppress that Righteous Murder Trait after all," said Zachary, laughing.

"Hey, when are you going to test me for that anyway?" Jasmine asked.

"Why don't we do it when we get back?" said Zachary.

"So, we are going then?" Jasmine asked.

"Sure," said Zachary.

"You better be because I am going to buy us plane tickets right now," said Jasmine, already searching for the cheapest tickets.

Zachary told Jasmine that he needed to call Samantha first. After receiving Samantha's reluctant okay he gave Jasmine the go-ahead to make the ticket purchase. Departure Time: 24 Hours.

"What about gear?" Zachary asked.

"I have everything I need, and I know everything that you need. So on the way to the airport we will stop at Eastern Mountain Sports, and I'll tell the sales people not to pester us, and I will scoop up everything in a swift buying blitz," said Jasmine.

"Just like that?" Zachary asked.

"Just like that," said Jasmine.

The next day before leaving for his shopping spree, Zachary decided to call Philip's daughter Laural and find out if she knew of any connection between Philip and the Glacier National Park. However, she was as flummoxed as Zachary. He thanked her and informed her that the final testing report was currently being written by a colleague.

"Any word on when Windsor will make his announcement?" Laural asked.

"When I presented him with some preliminary information he actually seemed almost ready to make a decision then and there. He didn't mention an exact date when an announcement would be made but I had the idea that it will be soon..."

Glacier National Park: Zachary had managed to buy and read three Glacier National Park guidebooks before their arrival, and like a first grader excited to tell his mother what he had learned in school, he kept bombarding Jasmine with facts, "Did you know that Glacier is over one million acres?...Did you know Glacier has more than 100 lakes?...Did you know that the mountain goat is the official park symbol?...Did you know..."

As they drove their rental car towards the park, Jasmine replied, "I'm glad that you are reading about where we are going. But book learning and real life experience are two different things. Remember that now is the time to shut down your research instincts and to just experience life."

They planned to lodge for the first night in one of the park's many grand hotels, Lake Mcdonald Lodge. The next day they would continue down the legendary (a descriptor from Zachary's guidebook) Sun Road until they reached their camping site. Camping at Glacier is legal only at the park's designated camping areas. Therefore, if they made the decision to hike to Philip's coordinates -- a decision which would entail more than one night of backpacking – they would have to camp illegally, subjecting themselves to the prospect of park fines, fines which the Glacier pamphlets described as, "$500 per offense and/or up to six months in jail." Yet Jasmine thought this unlikely to occur, "We will be in the middle of nowhere. As long as we don't make a fire, we should be fine."

"That comforts you that we will be in the middle of nowhere doesn't it?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, and believe me, it will comfort you once we get there too," said Jasmine.

"How do you know when you are in the middle and aren't just, say on the sides or in a corner?" said Zachary.

"You are such a dork," said Jasmine.

"But I'm not the orienteer," said Zachary.

"Is that your answer for everything that I say to you?" Jasmine said.

"Pretty much," said Zachary.

"Weak."

During dinner at the lodge they struck up a conversation with a group of fly fishermen, then retiring early. Again the sex seemed otherworldly and Zachary slept like a log. Boston felt a whole universe away and in the morning, standing on the balcony with his arms wrapped around Jasmine and with blue skies wrapped around the world, he experienced an unaccustomed feeling: complete and utter contentment.

Later when they reached their camping outpost, Zachary marveled at Jasmine's outdoor know-how. Tents, fires, food, packing, unpacking – she could do it all.

"I have to admit that I have found myself having a hard time putting into words what I have experienced here so far, and we are only a couple of days in; but I think the simplest way to put it is that I feel free," said Zachary, staring not at Jasmine but the snow capped peaks of the Rockies.

"Yes, which is strange isn't it? Because I bet back at home in Boston you didn't feel like you were not free," said Jasmine.

"No of course not – we live in America, the land of the free – that has been drilled into my head my whole life – but maybe to be really free here in America you have to get away from, I don't know --."

"The expectations of the world," said Jasmine.

"Is that it?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, and with all this beauty in front of our face it is impossible to ignore how breathtaking life is even when nothing is happening. I mean, what are we doing right now?" Jasmine asked.

"Planning an illegal camping trip into the depths of an untrammeled wilderness," said Zachary.

"Well besides that, forget about that for a moment," said Jasmine, laughing. "We are just standing around and doing nothing. Doesn't it feel great to do nothing?"

"Yes, I have to admit that it does. For the last 24 hours I haven't thought about psychology and its ramifications at all," said Zachary, who breathing deeply added, "And the air here really is so much crisper."

"I'm glad we're here together..."

Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two: As Ralph and Mick walked towards the Area Two Lodge, Ralph realized that they, father and son, had finally traveled a common path. In Area One Ralph had not experienced buck fever, just as his father had not experienced buck fever, and he had killed his first buck without hesitation.

His arrow's release had been sharp, his shot striking the buck's neck. Ralph bounded from his platform, and Mick, who had been watching from a platform behind, bounded down too. Instinctively, Ralph grabbed his knife from his belt's latch, preparing to stab the buck if the buck had not yet died. However, as they approached the buck Mick explained, "An injured buck is a dangerous animal, so if it is injured you don't want to get that close with a knife. Instead poke it near the eyes with a long stick."

After poking the buck, it became clear that Ralph had killed the buck with a single arrow. Ralph knew that his transition to Area Two would soon occur.

And there I can prove to my father that I am worthy of the Thurmond name.

Ralph successfully field dressed, skinned, and butchered his buck. By the end of these three processes Ralph understood that one of the most important factors to their efficient completion was the use of sharp knives. As Mick explained, "A dull knife just does not get the job done. That is why in Area Two you will learn the art of expert knife sharpening."

Among other tasks, he'd had to hang the buck by the legs, slicing a sliver from the buck's head (which he imagined was somewhat like scalping a man) so that the blood could successfully drain from the buck's body; slice the buck from the genitals to the rib cage then turning the buck on his side and emptying his guts; cut through the diaphragm while avoiding the bladder (a task completed with much direction from his father) and cut through the esophagus so as to completely remove the intestines; cut in the shape of a circle around the neck and connect this with a cut through the stomach, then use a hacksaw to cut through the knees; remove the hide by pulling it down from the neck, over the leg nubs, and cutting it free by cutting off the tail; and lastly cut the meat from the buck, first from the hindquarters and the tenderloins and then from areas less choice.

Having finally finished all instructed tasks, he said whimsically, "That is the sort of thing that I could do all day long. I have difficulty concentrating in math class father, but that was fun."

Mick replied, "That is nothing to make light of Ralph. The Thurmond family way is the way of the skilled hunter. And a part of being a skilled hunter is preparing your meat for consumption."

"Father, I am ready for Area Two. I know that I can meet all challenges there," said Ralph, wiping the blood from his cutting knife clean.

"Yes, I believe it too..."

The Area Two Lodge, a massive three storied shingled building, resembled a mansion more than a hunting lodge. On three sides the lodge faced fields, each perhaps a minimum (Ralph estimated) of 500 yards that eventually led to thick wilderness; on the fourth side, the rear side, the lodge faced a flat expanse of trees.

"You may not approach within more than one hundred yards of the Area Two Lodge until you have completed you first Area Two kill," said Mick.

Ralph nodded.

"Do you see this faint line of gold, drawn upon the ground?" Mick asked.

"I see it father," said Ralph, surprised to see a golden line which cut across the field.

"This is called the Newcomers Mark," said Mick.

Ralph nodded.

"Grey Cliff regulations stipulate that when a newcomer arrives the president gives the instructions."

"Father, I will not disappoint you."

Mick hugged Ralph and then left for the lodge.

As Ralph waited for the president, Donald, he scoured the wilderness for signs of motion.

I will kill a buck before this night is through.

A hooded figure approached, who Ralph soon realized to be Donald. Dressed in all black and carrying what appeared to be a staff, he walked as if counting his steps.

As Donald neared, Ralph smiled but his smile was not returned. Ralph shifted his feet nervously.

Now within ten paces, Donald said, "Child, you have asked to be admitted to these hallowed halls. You have passed the tests previously set before you. Now it is time to show your mettle, here, in the place of reckoning. Do you accept the challenge?"

Ralph nodded.

"The instructions are thus: One, until you make your first kill you will receive neither food nor water. Two, until you make your first kill you will receive no shelter. Three, your first kill will be a glorious kill and will be unlike any kill that you have ever made. Four, your prey may not think of itself as your prey. Five, you may find killing your prey difficult at first and then incredibly enjoyable. Six, in deciding what creature your prey will be think not of what you think your mother or father would say. Seven, you do the Thurmonds proud when you kill from the heart. Eight, take no one from the outside to the Thurmond lodge for any reason. Nine, if you think the kill is a strange kill then it might be the right kill. Ten, if you think the kill is the wrong kill then it might be the right kill. Those ten are the instructions. Do you understand?" said Donald, handing him the paper that he had just read.

"I think so," said Ralph, though the nervous energy caused him to focus on the first two rules.

No water, food, or shelter until you have made a kill...

"I have these last words of instruction. You must listen carefully for these last words will not be written down and so they must be remembered. For this first kill you also must remember that your prey will cry out to you. Listen for the crier, wait for the crier to approach, and then kill the crier and you will bring everlasting glory to yourself and the Grey Cliff Lodge," said Donald, taking Ralph by the hand and leading him towards the wilderness.

"My father taught me about cries and about mating calls," said Ralph, trying to remember what his father had taught him on this subject.

Donald, still holding Ralph by the hand tightened his grip as he replied, "I will lead you to the place from which you will still hunt. Your father has told me that you have a good heart, can make a swift kill, and can prepare meat without growing queasy. The Thurmond way is not an easy way, and though failure is always a possibility, for you my grandson I have high hopes."

Twisting their way deep into the forest, Ralph realized that he felt like Hansel without bread crumbs.

I'm not going to be able to find my way out of here.

"From this spot you shall begin your still hunting adventure," said Donald, motioning to the thick woods which surrounded them.

"Here? But there is no clearing here and it is already beginning to grow dark," Ralph protested.

"That is why you shall have this torch," said Donald, who then handed Ralph the long wooden object that he had been carrying.

"Can't I just have a flash light?" Ralph asked.

"Tradition states that a torch must be used," said Donald.

"But this will scare everything in the forest away," said Ralph, observing that the torch was nearly his height, and now wondering if this was all some elaborate practical joke.

This doesn't even make any sense. No one can hunt with a torch!

"Not all animals will be frightened by the sight of the fire. Some will be driven to it. And if prey is driven to the fire you must ask yourself if that is the prey that needs to be killed," said Donald.

"So I'm not looking for a buck? I'm looking for some nocturnal animal?" said Ralph, no longer sure how to proceed with his task.

"Follow my instructions," said Donald, who after lighting the torch descended back into the woods.

"You're leaving now?" Ralph asked, the torch blazing about his head.

Donald nodded, now practically out of sight.

"But how am I supposed to use my arrow if I also have to hold this torch?" Ralph shouted. But Donald could no longer been seen and he gave no reply.

Darkness arrived with the abruptness of bad news. Ralph searched for a clearing so that he could gather brush and start a fire. However, he was unable to locate a clearing because the wilderness remained inexplicably dense.

What does Donald mean that the prey will come to me?

For what seemed like hours Ralph leaned against a tree, somberly watching as the blaze of his torch began to fade.

In the distance Ralph heard the sound of a helicopter.

Is that the family helicopter?

Ralph knew that he had to think fast and devise a plan. From his position in the dense brush it seemed that simply continuing to hold the torch was the best option for making his position known. Angling the torch into the air, the sky above remained an unlit sea of black. But he heard the helicopter fly directly overhead, and he shouted, "I'm here! I'm here!"

Ralph heard the helicopter flying even lower.

It must be landing! So there must be a clearing close!

He rushed through briars and prickles. At first the pain did not slow him and he barreled forward. Yet after fifty yards or so of tearing through the wilderness, he slowed. Suddenly Ralph again heard the sound of the helicopter's blade. The landed helicopter had begun lift-off.

I can't get a break in my luck here...

He thought of his home and of his mother who he loved dearly. He thought of his ex-girlfriend and how he had ruined their relationship.

I never should have offered her the drugs. I wish I could take it back.

From deep in the distance he heard a voice miraculously calling into the dead of the night, "Hello! Hello! Is anyone there? Hello! Is anyone there?"

Ralph shouted, "I am here! Hello, I am here!"

Ralph expected the man to reply at once. But he was met with silence. Wondering what this all meant – perhaps he could not hear me! – Ralph attempted to yell louder, and screamed, "Yes, I said I am here! Hello! Hello! I am here! Can, you hear me? I am here."

Again silence. Had his mind been playing tricks? He yelled out a third time: nothing still. After a few minutes of wretched silence the voice sounded again from deep in the distance, "Who are you?"

Ralph yelled at once, "Ralph Thurmond. I am lost! Who are you?"

Silence again. Was this a game? Some part of his ordeal?

To pretend there is human contact and then to take it away?

Ralph shouted, "Please answer me."

This time the man answered quickly, yelling, "You sound like a boy."

"I am 16," Ralph yelled.

"What are you doing here?" yelled the man.

"I'm lost. Can you see my torch?" Ralph yelled.

"Yes, I can see it," yelled the man.

"How far are we?" yelled Ralph.

Silence again.

"Answer me please!" Ralph yelled.

Silence again. A minute passed and Ralph yelled, trying to hide the desperation from his voice.

"What are you doing here," the man yelled back – though this time it seemed to Ralph that the voice had grown more distant.

Is he moving away from my direction?

"I'm lost," Ralph yelled, (for what seemed like the tenth time).

"You sound white," yelled the man.

"What?" Ralph yelled back, unsure what the man meant.

"A white person," yelled the voice.

"Yes, I am white," yelled Ralph.

There was no reply, and Ralph wondered if he had stumbled upon some strange mountain man.

Perhaps he is a recluse who saw my torch and became curious, but now hearing my story he does not wish to help.

Ralph's continued to yell but received no reply. On the verge of tears, he remembered the parting words of his father.

But what am I supposed to do here alone and in the dark?

The snapping of a twig sounded from the darkness and Ralph wondered if a nocturnal animal approached. A long silence followed. He heard the snap of another twig and the sound of movement through bushes. Ralph guessed the animal to be large. Thinking that he should prepare his bow – though what stalks me I have no idea \-- he searched for a place to wedge his torch upright.

Please let there be no growling from the darkness...

Instead, he heard the man's voice, "I asked you before: what are you doing out here?"

Ralph tightened his grip around his bow. At least with an animal he knew what to expect. But if Ralph had stumbled upon a crazed mountain man, one perhaps violently territorial, who could tell what the outcome might be? Still, he saw no reason to panic, and answered, "I thought you were some wild animal thank God! I'm lost. My name is Ralph Thurmond. Who are you?"

"Lost, why?" the man asked from the darkness.

Ralph was not sure how to reply.

What do I say? That my grandfather brought me here and hinted that I needed to hunt a nocturnal beast?

"I was with a hunting party, and I became separated from them, and now I am lost," Ralph lied, though not sure what else he could have said.

"Why do you have that torch?" the man asked, still hidden.

"Everyone in my hunting party had one, just in case we get lost," said Ralph, again wishing that his grandfather had simply given him a flashlight.

"I've never seen a torch that big. It looks strange," said the man.

"Yes, it is a big torch," said Ralph, while smiling at his torch. "Who are you? Why are you staying out there in the darkness?"

"Man, you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you," said the man, and now Ralph heard the sound of twigs snapping and branches moving as the man approached. Ralph saw that he was an African American, and Ralph instantly tried to hide his displeasure, a difficult act he knew, because his face glowed brightly beneath the torch's blaze.

The presence of African Americans had always caused Ralph to become riddled with a mixture of unpleasant emotions. And although in school Ralph had dutifully learned about racism and the continued oppression of African Americans, this learning had never changed his personal (though hidden) feeling of African Americans, a feeling of a soon to arrive sickness.

With a group of white friends, he spoke freely and without forethought; he could also make all the African American jokes that he wished, and though the jokes were usually nothing too pejorative, just calling his white friends "my nigger" and things like that, still, these were moments of edited life whenever some African American was hanging around.

Furthermore, Ralph sensed that African Americans did not feel comfortable around him. He had been accused more than once of staring at them with some freakishly blank stare, and though he had denied the staring each time, he couldn't help but sense that there was something beyond their blackness that he wished to examine, poke, and probe.

But now, to be stuck out here in the woods, with this strange African American, what a nightmare! We are going to have nothing in common. Frankly, I think that I would have rather stumbled upon a crazy mountain hermit.

Ralph did not consider himself a racist because he knew that he was perfectly capable of suppressing, like a violent dog crated for the sake of guests, his roaring disgust, and that once suppressed –which is an instant occurrence really \-- that he would say and do all the right things. Therefore, after the man had stepped into the light and Ralph had forced a pleasant expression on his face, he said, "No, I would like to hear your story. How is it that you came to be out here in the middle of the night?"

The man searched for a place to sit, but finding nothing, he leaned against a tree. "Man, this is the craziest shit that has ever happened to me – and I was in Vietnam. Man, I'm spooked. I don't know if I even want to talk about it. I just want to get out of these woods and get the fuck back home."

"What's your name?" Ralph asked.

Evidently the man did want to tell his story, because without further prodding he said, "All right, this is how it all went down. My name is Jeremy. I'm from D.C but I was staying in Bethesda Virginia. If you aren't familiar it is a rich town. I'm a panhandler man. I'm not ashamed to say it --."

Are you kidding me?

"...So there I am panhandling and I'm I having an all right day – I've probably made like 50 bucks and this white van comes along and gives me a 20. That's a lot of cash to get from one car. So I'm feeling really good. But get this: the guy offers to give me a ride to D.C. I've been dying to get back to D.C. Bethesda has been driving me nuts. The cops there are nut-jobs. I mean, worse than me man, and I've spent a lot of time in a lot of institutions okay..."

Great, so I'm stuck alone in the woods with some nutcase African American.

"...but this guy says he'll take me to D.C. So I get into his van right?"

Ralph nodded.

How long is this pointless story going to be?

Jeremy continued, "And there are these two guys in the back. So they tell me: get in. So I get in. The next I know I wake up and I'm all tied up --."

"You're tied up?" Ralph asked.

Great, so this guy probably just escaped from an institution. He's delusional.

Jeremy replied, "Yeah, tied up around my arms and around my legs. And then I start yelling but then they start hitting me --."

"So how did you end up out here?" Ralph asked.

As in, skip to the end of the story...

"I'm tied up and traveling in that van for a good long while. And then they took me out of the van and put me inside a box. It was big enough to sit in and it was sound proof – they told me that I could scream in it as loud as I wanted but that it wouldn't matter because no one would hear me. I traveled inside that box for a long time \--."

"So what happened next?" Ralph asked.

"I don't know. But I was just taken by helicopter to these woods," said Jeremy.

"You were inside that helicopter that just flew by," Ralph asked.

What is this guy doing: mixing fact and fiction?

"Yeah, I think so," said Jeremy.

Suddenly Ralph remembered the box that had been in the back of their SUV.

He loaded it into the helicopter. What the fuck...

"So if you were inside some locked soundproof box then how did you get out?" Ralph asked.

"They took me out of the helicopter and put me on the ground. I'm going crazy inside there because I think that I am going to die at any moment. I mean why do people go through all that trouble just to let me out?" Jeremy asked.

The concern on his face looks genuine. But he's a panhandler: he knows how to put on an act.

"Who were they? And you didn't tell me how you got out," Ralph said, the thought flashing through his mind that his relatives might somehow be involved, but also thinking this irrational.

But being left alone in the middle of the wilderness without food or drink is also irrational...

"They looked like average white people. I guess like you but a little older, you know, fat and balding. But I don't know who was in the helicopter. They put me on the ground and flew back into the air. They must have had some remote controller or something, because suddenly the box just popped open," said Jeremy.
"So you were like a human jack in the box?" Ralph asked, searching for holes in the man's story. Yet he had the feeling that their meeting had not been a chance occurrence, and that it was his duty to figure out the next course of action.

Maybe I am supposed to save this guy? I always hear about these Grey Cliff merit badges. Is this whole thing some elaborate set up so that I earn a Grey Cliff merit badge for helping a homeless guy?

"Yeah, it just popped open," said Jeremy.

"Can you take me to the box?" said Ralph.

"I've been walking away from that box just as fast as I could. I don't want to go back to the place where I was imprisoned," said Jeremy.

This guy is good. He always has an answer ready.

"Yeah, but think about it. If you were a kidnapper and you let someone go, would you go back to the place where you let them go? That would be stupid. The police could be there waiting," said Ralph.

"They know I don't have a phone and that I am in the middle of nowhere. For all I know they could still be watching. That's why I didn't know if I should come to the fire. I didn't know if you were one of the kidnappers. But I came because you aren't that old."

"Seriously Jeremy let's go check out the box. For one thing if it is made of wood we could break it up and make a fire..."

Jeremy remained reluctant, but eventually he caved.

He'll probably just say that he can't find it. That way he can continue with his lie.

"Hey man, where is your search party?" Jeremy asked.

"My search party?" said Ralph.

"Yeah, you said you were lost. There must be search party out there," said Jeremy.

"Maybe there is: I don't know," said Ralph.

"Well, why wouldn't there be? Does your family not like you?" Jeremy asked.

"You know Jeremy I really don't know the answer to that right now," said Ralph, thinking this perhaps the most honest statement he had made to Jeremy all night.

They entered a small field.

"I never thought I'd see open land again; I was getting claustrophobic in there," said Ralph, pulling briars off his pants.

"That's where I was getting claustrophobic, right in there," said Jeremy, pointing ahead.

Ralph, pointing the torch forward, observed what appeared to be a box.

It can't be!

It was an exact match for the box that had been in the back of his father's SUV.

Was this man Jeremy my father's prisoner? And if so what was the purpose? Has this man done my family some harm?

"I told you. I told you man. I told you, there it is. Look at that fucking thing. I was in there," said Jeremy, backing away from the box as if it were capable of attack.

Ralph sat on a log.

I have to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Ralph said, "Maybe we should rest and make a fire. If my people are looking for me then it really does not make much sense for us to move around."

"Yeah, okay, but this place still gives me the creeps. I don't like looking at that box. I thought I was going to die there man," said Jeremy.

"Yeah, well they aren't coming back whoever they are," said Ralph, wondering again if "they" might somehow be connected to his family -- and then suddenly sensing that there was an important action he needed to take.

But I just can't put my finger on what it is...

"Man, after you been through what I've been through you don't know what the fuck to think. I'm just glad it is fucking over," said Jeremy.

"Do you know how to build a fire? Because I am clueless," said Ralph.

"Yeah, I can do that man. I got to build fires all the time to keep warm, you know? I usually just build them in trashcans but I know how to build a fire, yeah. Here, you take the torch again and follow me around while I gather some dry wood, cause the wood has got to be dry my man, the wood has got to be dry," said Jeremy.

This guy has so little to offer the world that whenever he has something to offer he says it loud and like it's a big deal...When is this night finally going to be over?

The more Ralph pondered the matter, the more it seemed a probability that Jeremy was a crucial, though as yet undetermined, component of his Grey Cliff Area Two initiation.

But what is Jeremy's purpose?

Jeremy started a fire. Ralph tossed the torch into the fire, the fire fanning like some conjured demon.

Ralph unfolded his instruction paper. The first two directions merely stated his dire reality: that he could neither eat nor drink nor enter the cabin (and therefore sleep indoors) until he had completed his first kill in Area Two. The third direction stated that his kill would be "glorious" and "unlike any kill that you have ever made." This direction solidified his earlier suspicion that he was not hunting for a buck because he'd already killed a buck and this kill would be "unlike any kill that you have ever made."

The fourth direction stated that the prey "may not think of itself as your prey." However, it seemed to Ralph only tamed animals did not think of themselves as a human's potential prey.

Am I hunting a tame animal? But what would a tame animal be doing out here?

The fifth direction stated that making the kill would both "difficult" and "enjoyable." This direction at least made some sense to Ralph. His father had explained more than once the phenomenon of buck fever: that before the moment of killing a buck some hunters freeze and allow the buck to escape; yet if the killing is concluded the results are enjoyable.

The sixth direction stated that before killing his prey that Ralph should "think not of what your mother or father would say." Ralph found this to be an odd direction, especially when compared with direction seven, which was "You do the Thurmonds proud when you kill from the heart." How could he do the Thurmonds proud and yet not take into consideration what his mother and father would say? After all, his mother and father were Thurmonds.

The eighth direction was straight forward, "take no one from the outside to the Thurmond lodge for any reason."

Fine, I can handle that. Why can't all the directions be that clear?

But unfortunately the ninth and tenth directions were more nebulous, stating, "If you think the kill is a strange kill then it might be the right kill" and, "If you think the kill is the wrong kill then it might be the right kill." The ninth direction did not surprise Ralph, that the kill might be strange, because whole night had been strange. But the tenth direction was a paradox. How could something be both wrong and right?

He recalled the verbal directions that his grandfather had given.

Something about an animal crying. The only noises I have heard have come from this buffoon to my right.

No! That would be preposterous!

Suddenly Ralph considered the absurd possibility that Jeremy was his prey. Ralph obviously knew that he had not been left in the middle of the wilderness to murder another human. Yet, as he reviewed the ten directions and the final verbal directions, Jeremy was almost a perfect fit. A human would certainly be "unlike any kill" that Ralph had ever made. Jeremy did not "think of itself" as Ralph's prey. And killing a human would clearly be "difficult."

Yet it would obviously not be "enjoyable," so that part did not fit.

However, in a joking way maybe it does because this guy has been driving me crazy.

If he killed another human he would need to refrain from considering what "his mother or father would say." But would killing Jeremy "do the Thurmonds proud"?

Perhaps – because if Jeremy had been telling the truth and he had been transported to this location in a box, then it was also possible that members of Grey Cliff had done the transporting, and therefore there might be some reason why Jeremy needed to be punished.

Furthermore, killing a human would be "strange." And likewise killing a human would be "wrong" – because as Ralph had been taught in school, only the government can kill another human and then only after being convicted by a jury of peers. So how could killing this man be "right?" That part did not fit either.

But Jeremy had cried out to him into the night and also Jeremy had sought Ralph's flame.

Ralph chuckled to himself as he imagined shooting an arrow into Jeremy's heart.

That will certainly stop his motor mouth once and for all!

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," said Ralph, trying to stop his chuckling. However, for some reason he couldn't drive from his mind the picture of shooting an arrow into Jeremy's heart, and the more he tried to stop, the more he thought of it, and the more he thought of it, the funnier it became. Eventually his chuckling increased into laughter.

"Oh, man, you got to tell me now," said Jeremy, who had begun warming his hands in the fire.

Finally Ralph contained his laughter. However, his laughter's containment only seemed to build its pressure.

"Come on man, I'm in need of hearing something funny. My days have been miserable lately. You got to tell me," said Jeremy.

Ralph composed himself. "You wouldn't think it was funny."

"Why not?" Jeremy asked.

"I'm hungry and I'm thirsty and I think things have become funny that aren't really funny," said Ralph.

"Oh, you are laughing at our situation," Jeremy guessed.

"Yeah, something like that," said Ralph, and though the image again appeared, Ralph suppressed his laughter.

"Yeah, when things get bad sometimes laughter is the best medicine. But man we got each other and in the morning we'll find our way. It won't be so bad. You'll see..."

Washington: Charles' head entered a space with little candlelight, a dark hole, and he spoke softly, "Before you can hunt you must learn the fundamentals, such as skinning and butchering."

Windsor considered this statement, nodding in agreement.

This time it was Charles who slammed his fist upon the table, the empty plates bouncing and their bloody oozes flying forth and settling brightly into the white table cloth. "Now is the time!"

Further glasses of whiskey were consumed, and though Windsor could hardly stand, he told Charles that he was ready to learn the Thurmond family's first hunting step: the skinning and butchering of already slaughtered meat. However, Windsor was so wobbly that he needed Charles's assistance as he was led from the table and through the now dark house.

"Have you no lights brother?" Windsor asked.

But Charles did not reply and led Windsor by the hand down darkened stairs. Suddenly Windsor remembered that he still held a gun tucked into his pants.

If it should fall out then what would I say?

"We are descending into my basement. This is the place where I store my fresh meat. This is the place where my skinning and butchering occurs," said Charles.

Windsor felt his foot scuff upon the basement's floor. Suddenly, a light blinded him.

"Here take it," said Charles, handing the flashlight to Windsor,

Windsor took the flashlight, shining it around. But, he saw no clear direction, and said, "Where should I go?"

"To the meat room, to the meat!" Charles exclaimed.

Without a whiskey in his hand, Windsor found that Charles's exclamation rang hollow. "So there is a meat room I must locate?"

"Indeed!" Charles exclaimed, as if Windsor had just made a great discovery. Windsor chose a direction at random. He noted many meat hooks and bloody butchering instruments upon tables, but he saw no meat room. He walked parallel to each wall, until he had located a small opening, one barely slim enough for a normal sized man to fit through. Windsor pointed the flashlight into the darkness, finding, predictably, more darkness.

"Is this where we must go?" Windsor asked.

"I call this the Hall of Changed States. The people who enter, depart in a changed state," said Charles, as delightedly as if he had confided a secret accomplishment.

"We will be quite constrained," said Windsor.

"A curious design clearly, but the meat found at the end is well worth the awkward scurrying," said Charles.

A divine taste still remaining in Windsor's mouth, he saw no other option than to navigate this peculiar hall.

For if possible more meat should be obtained.

Therefore, Windsor sucked in his gut and walked sideways into the dark hall, dirt falling about his head.

"How do you move so compactly? You are bigger," Windsor asked.

"With the practice of many years," said Charles.

At the hall's end, Windsor discovered a large empty room. To his left were three metal doors and as he approached he observed upon each a combination lock.

Why does Charles lock his venison?

However, as if reading his mind, Charles stated, "You would lock up your meat too if it tasted as good as mine."

Windsor laughed, admitting this to be true, adding, "And I think I would hire an armed guard to protect it as well. So which of these doors contains the venison from which I will be taught?"

Charles pointed to the middle door and told Windsor the combination. Windsor entered the combination and pulled the door open. Inside, a large buck hung from its feet with a bucket below the head to catch the drained blood. To the left was a table with skinning and butchering instruments. Zachary approached the instruments and ran his hands over them, accidently drawing blood. He sucked his finger.

"We always keep our knives quite sharp – you are luckily that the cut is not deeper," said Charles, who had taken Windsor's hand in his own and examined the wound. "Fortunately, you are not the only clumsy Thurmond. I have a first aid case here."

Having dressed Windsor's cut, Charles asked him which knife he would like to use.

"For what purpose?" Windsor asked, still somewhat shocked, even through his foggy drunkenness, that the knife had been so sharp.

"The perfect question: for skinning. That is the first step," said Charles.

Windsor examined the buck, saying, "But it appears all the skin has been removed."

"Precisely so – our animal is contained in the door to our left. We came into this room to gather the instruments," said Charles.

"Lead me to the beast and the beast shall be skinned!"

Glacier National Park: Like children discovering a common pursuit, Jasmine and Zachary sometimes spoke with rushing words for hours on end, and the hiking seemed as effortless as if they were lounging on a boat's hull and watching the shore pass.

It is like I have been a brick mason, who has steadily worked to seal himself inside a brick box and in doing so I have blotted out the sun, the blue skies, and all the natural wealth of the world. Instead existing within a lightless pit of my own creating, pondering for hours upon end subjects sometimes as horrific as the CMR trait? And why? So I can pay for a home in Arlington? So that I can display the outward signs of success? No signs of success can compete with what I witness here, and what I witness here can never be owned...

"Everyone should have a chance to experience this," said Zachary. Light spliced in beams through the branches of towering pines and Zachary reached down and touched water rushing through a ravine of moss covered rock.

After walking for eight hours they set up camp. Jasmine's choice of gear had served them well. Anything needed was easily at hand and yet their backpacks were light. Blisters had formed on Zachary and Jasmine's feet, and Jasmine broke them with a needle and heeled them with an ointment. They set up their tent and organized their packs, ensuring that everything was well covered should a sudden rain begin.

Later Jasmine showed Zachary her prowess with a bow, setting up targets and nailing them with ease. "If you want to put an apple on your head, I'm game," Jasmine joked.

"Have you ever hunted?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine shook her head.

"Why not?" said Zachary.

"I've never had the urge. I know that whole argument that it makes more sense to kill what you are going to eat. But that doesn't make sense to me," said Jasmine.

"Why not?" Zachary asked.

"I'd rather eat something that has been cooped up on a farm for its entire life than eat something that once was free," said Jasmine.

"You don't want to take away the freedom of the animals in the forest?" said Zachary.

"Exactly. But I should really just become a vegetarian," said Jasmine, laughing.

"So why didn't you make the Olympic team?" Zachary asked.

"I came very close – so I was proud of where I finished," said Jasmine.

"You reached your potential," said Zachary.

"I guess," said Jasmine, becoming contemplative. "I don't know I wouldn't go that far. Shooting at targets is fun but in the end I don't see the point of it. It's like when I go bowling. When I go bowling I have the feeling that I should be paid," said Jasmine.

"Why?"

"When I am bowling I feel like I am working in a factory – maybe on some strange assembly line – You know you just do the same motion over and over. And eventually I start to feel like I should be getting paid. But I don't get paid for bowling, which is one of the reasons I hate it," said Jasmine.

"You feel like there are a bunch of bowling alleys out there that owe you money," said Zachary, and they both laughed.

Dusk approached. A fallen log was used for a bench and they sat silently. Nothing exceptional was happening, no clever twist in a movie to behold, no sensational gossip to hear, no triumphant achievement to witness, and yet Zachary was transfixed.

He would describe this later to a friend as one of his greatest spiritual moments and that as an atheist it was the closest he had ever come to the belief in a higher power, a ubiquitous energy of the universe. Best of all it seemed that they were the only man and woman on the earth. And in a way they were. They'd heard no other voices for at least a day. And so for all they knew the world had ended and they were its last inhabitants. And although it had only been one day, this disconnect, what some refer to as an unplugging, had rendered a shocking effect on Zachary's facilities.

"That was a good idea to leave our cell phones in the rental. Like you said our batteries would eventually die anyway. And if I had taken my cell phone I would have been surfing all over the internet. My mind would have been divided. But now I feel complete. And though we are walking forward to a destination, to some mysterious coordinates, I feel like we are really searching for nothing because everything is already right here," said Zachary.

"It's strange how the middle of nowhere can turn busy bodies into philosophers?" said Jasmine, smiling a smile so sweet that Zachary noted that it challenged the beauty of their surroundings.

"You said this trip would affect my thinking. I think is already has," said Zachary.

"As a radio host, I must constantly judge and you as a research psychologist must constantly evaluate – but sometimes you need to do the exact opposite of what is most important to you. It seems anti-intuitive, but a u-turn can be one of the most effective ways to grow. We humans don't know nearly as much as we think and so sometimes we must escape our arrogance and just submit before existence..."

Jasmine philosophized for a few minutes more and then they made love. For Zachary it felt like a ménage a trios because it almost seemed that the forest had been involved. They ate a small portion of their packed food and then made love again. After they spoke about meaningless things, Jasmine revealed a book of poetry that she had stowed away – her one unpractical item.

"I didn't know you were a fan," said Zachary.

"I'm not. Poetry doesn't really do anything for me," said Jasmine.

"Then why did you bring that book?" said Zachary, laughing.

"Because here the rules of the real world don't apply, because here poetry is perfect," said Jasmine.

They read from Whitman's Leaves of Grass. It seemed that all life was good and it became hard for Zachary to accept that a nature so beautiful had afflicted some with burdens as difficult to bear asCMR. Suddenly Zachary caught himself thinking in his usual ambitious manner and he laughed.

"Why are you laughing?" Jasmine asked.

"I was thinking about my work and it occurred to me how absurd it was for me to think about my work out here," said Zachary, laughing again.

"And isn't that pleasant? We are in a place where no work can find us. My work, my radio show, usually focuses on the criminal justice industrial complex \--."

"I know I listen. That's why if I was going to be interviewed I wanted to be interviewed on your show. I wasn't kidding when I told you that. I wasn't trying to butter you up," said Zachary.

Jasmine laughed and said, "Often my work takes me to a dark place that I'd rather not go. But I feel compelled to do it because I think I can help people... The criminal justice system in America is a disgrace. Our courts system is based on maintaining legal procedure and not maintaining common sense. We have had a string of ridiculous decisions that all appear on the surface to be race-neutral but as a confluence have made things really bad for the African-American community. It has literally gotten to the point where African American females do not have African American males to date because all the men are in jail--."

"Is that why you are dating me?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine laughed and continued, "But the mainstream news just presents that statistic, the jail one, alone. But what the mainstream news does not talk about is why all these African American males are in jail, which is the injustice in the criminal justice system --."

"Now you are thinking about work," said Zachary.

"My point in bringing up my work is that even in a state of affairs where the world is horribly upside down, I also understand that things change: old injustices die and new injustices grow. But here I can just be. And that is nice. If we could take this frame of mind and give it to people as gifts, the world would be a much better place," said Jasmine.

"It's like pure freedom," Zachary agreed.

"You know it is funny, remember my ancestor's slave narrative?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Well, because that racist group named themselves after Thomas Jefferson and because he is implicated in the narrative as the father of many more bastard children with his slaves, I became, I think, somewhat understandably rather obsessed with learning about Thomas Jefferson," said Jasmine.

"Yes, that is completely understandable. I have become obsessed with subjects for reasons much less involved than that," said Zachary, again noting how soothing it felt to be beyond the reach of all such obsessions.

"So I've read about a million Thomas Jefferson biographies and it is funny because in a lot of his older biographies, ones before the DNA evidence of his coupling, or rape, or whatever, of Sally Hemings came out, a lot of the biographies made these elaborate cases for why Jefferson never could have slept with Sally Hemings --."

"Such as?"

"All different reasons and as farfetched as you can imagine, but a lot of them implied that it never could have happened because Jefferson was too civilized \--."

"Civilized?"

"Yes, that he was the perfect gentlemen. But I think they should have realized from the get-go that they were making a really bogus argument because it does not take all that much life experience to learn that many people who appear civilized and good on the surface are often trying to hide something monstrous," said Jasmine.

Like Windsor...

Jasmine continued, "So anyway this guy – the main author of the Declaration of Independence interested me big time, he still does by the way, and I have studied him a lot. But it's funny but because I have read so much about him I often take him with me."

"Is he here right now?" Zachary asked, playfully looking around.

"Yes, he is – This place makes me think of his work as a proponent of natural rights. At that time the idea of natural rights was cutting edge stuff. People did not take it for granted," said Jasmine.

"And natural nights are related to the idea that we are all entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, right?"

"Yes, that's right," said Jasmine.

"So what exactly, besides that line in the Declaration that I just mentioned, is the idea of natural rights anyway?" Zachary asked.

"So I get to teach the professor?" Jasmine joked.

"Hey, you've been teaching me a lot – and I don't just mean, you know," said Zachary, laughing and nodding to the tent.

"Kings and Queens held that they had divine rights, or that they were empowered by God to do whatever the hell they wanted to people. Natural Rights is the idea that every human has certain rights that cannot be taken away. For example a government may declare that slavery is legal. However, if you believe that freedom is a natural right then it is impossible for one person to enslave another, even if you live in a country where slavery is declared legal," said Jasmine.

"How so?"

"Because while the master might enslave a person's body they can never enslave that person's mind, so the slave is free even while enslaved. The slave relationship is a false state of affairs, because freedom in an inalienable right," said Jasmine.

"I bet it felt pretty real to American slaves," said Zachary.

"Of course – And this is one of the reasons they were often kept illiterate – so that they couldn't discover ideas like natural rights," said Jasmine.

"Here is a question for you: how did Jefferson reconcile his advocacy of natural rights, one of them being the inalienable right to freedom with his position as a slave master?" Zachary asked.

"He tried when he was younger. For example, when he wrote the first draft of the Declaration he tried to blame Britain for America's institution of slavery. But the argument was not that logically strong and the most members of the delegation wanted the document more focused, and also they didn't want to piss off the South, so they took it out. Also, when he was younger he tried to present some measures which would have gradually ended slavery – but they failed to pass or even be presented in some cases. As he got older he no longer tried to reconcile the contradiction. He wanted to live lavishly – and so he needed his slaves," said Jasmine.

"How can people be like that? How can they try to impose their will on other people?" Zachary asked.

"People can make convincing arguments for anything. But that's why a place like this is so great. Out here the truth is so clear. Here it would be very difficult for anyone to make the argument that freedom is not an inalienable right..."

The next day they happened upon a footpath. At noon Zachary's romantic illusion of complete solitude came to halt when they met a man upon the trail; he was on horseback and seemed as surprised by the chance encounter as Jasmine and Zachary.

The man, Ronald, was a Native American of the Blackfeet Nation and he explained that they had wandered to the edge of the Blackfeet's 1.5 million acre reservation. He had never heard of tourists wandering into a corner so remote.

Zachary and Jasmine explained that they were on a backpacking adventure, and Ronald laughed. "You do know that there are wolverines here?"

Jasmine nodded and Zachary tried to hide his discomfort.

Ronald noticed Jasmine's bow and told her that hunting was illegal on parks grounds and was forbidden on the Blackfeet reservation unless permission was granted. She informed him that the bow was only for "protection of the last resort and mostly so that my friend here will feel safe."

Ronald asked if they had reached their destination.

"No, we will continue in that direction," said Jasmine, pointing.

Ronald's smile vanished and he asked, "How far?"

"Another one or two day hike I believe," said Jasmine.

"Why do you wish to go that way?" Ronald asked.

Zachary said, "It's difficult to explain, but someone I worked for, before he died, he seemed to hint that we should go to this place. We don't know what we will find, if anything at all. He was so old you see that he was losing his mind and so his instructions may have been nothing more than gibberish."

"You should not go that way," said Ronald.

"Is it difficult to pass through?" said Jasmine.

"That is not a good way. You should go that way," said Ronald, and pointing in the opposite direction, he added, "Yes, that way, the way that you came."

"What's wrong with the way we are going?" Jasmine asked.

"For my ancestors, when the buffalo still roamed, they would not follow the buffalo there," said Ronald, pointing in the direction that Jasmine had pointed. "And so we do not wander there either."

"Why?" Jasmine asked.

"Places are like people. Places have souls. And as we all stand here we sense this place and sense that its soul is good do we not?" Ronald asked.

Zachary and Jasmine nodded.

"The way you are going that is a place with a soul that is not good. That is a place with a bad soul..."

Jasmine and Zachary thanked Ronald for his advice. Before they parted Ronald invited Jasmine and Samantha to his home for lunch "when your journey has concluded." Thanking him, they exchanged telephone numbers.

After Ronald had left, Zachary said, "That was strange."

"Yes, but I liked it – it added to our \--."

"Slight adventure?" Zachary guessed.

"Yes, exactly. I think it did. We were warned by the wise old Native American \--."  
"He wasn't really old," Zachary interrupted.

Jasmine laughed, saying, "Okay fine he wasn't – I guess that would have been too perfect. But anyway we were warned by the wise Native American not to continue forward. And we being the cocky city slickers that we are, what do we do?"

"We continue forward and then we face tragedy," said Zachary.

"Exactly, it is like we have entered into some movie's predictable plot device. It is almost too perfect," said Jasmine.

"I'm glad you see it like that. I pretty much just saw it as a warning, and maybe a valid one at that. Do you really think we should keep going? His ancestors didn't follow the buffalo there," said Zachary.

"I guarantee he was making that up," said Jasmine.

"What do you mean?"

"Wouldn't you do the same thing if you were a Native America and some tourists wandered onto your reservation?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't follow you," said Zachary.

"He's seen all the movies too. He knows that the Native Americans always warn people, 'Oh, don't go that way, that is an Indian burial ground' or 'Oh, don't go that way there are evil spirits there.' He knows that and I guarantee that every time he happens upon tourists he asks them where they are going and then he says the same thing, no matter what the direction they are going. He's probably going to gallop off to a bar right now and laugh about this with his buddies," said Jasmine.

Zachary shook his head, chuckling.

"He brought up the wolverine too, he was obviously trying to scare us," said Jasmine.

"I did read about wolverine in the guidebooks. I just didn't bring it up because I didn't want to think about it," said Zachary.

"But guess who is with me again?" Jasmine asked.

"Thomas Jefferson?" said Zachary.

"Yes. He's standing right next to you," said Jasmine.

"So what does he have to say this time?" Zachary asked.

"Well, Thomas Jefferson at first highly respected Native Americans. When he was a young man he heard a famous farewell speech that a Native American chief, Ontasseste gave. He did not have racist thoughts about Native Americans like he did about black people. He respected their culture. You see Jefferson's vision for America is not what America became."

"So what was his vision – slaves everywhere so he could bang them all?" said Zachary.

"That is very irreverent," said Jasmine, laughing. "And maybe accurate I don't know. No, his vision for America was that it would be a primarily agrarian society. He thought that cities corrupted both governments and their people. He thought that farmers were the most moral of all people --."

"And maybe he liked farmers because farmers needed lots of slaves and so in this way America's master-slave sex romps could continue for generations," said Zachary, laughing.

"Again quite irreverent professor – but anyway, he thought that Native Americans could be taught to be farmers. And therefore, he, someone who believed and was forever espousing why religion needed to be separate from the state – actually sent out, when he was President, state sponsored missionaries to try to convert Native Americans to Christianity," said Jasmine, "And this was coming from a guy who really didn't believe in Christianity himself."

"How so?" Zachary asked.

"Well in his later years he wrote a book that has become known as Jefferson's Bible. In it he rewrote the New Testament and removed all the miracles, and removed the part about Jesus thinking he was divine. What you had left was a remarkably boring Jesus. So anyway, the Native Americans didn't want to convert and they didn't want to become farmers. And so Jefferson's opinion of Native Americans began to sour. And in Jefferson's second term the seeds were planted for the federal government's policy of eradicating Native Americans from their own soil, genocide," said Jasmine.

"How many Native Americans did the government kill anyway?"

"Again, I'm getting to teach the professor something --."

"Don't get used to it," said Zachary.

"I've looked it up and I actually don't know because no one does: demographic data did not exist back then and the estimates vary widely. But whatever the actual number, it is a number too large for the human brain to comprehend its horrific reality," said Jasmine.

"It seems the Native Americans didn't have the inalienable right to be free either," said Zachary.

"No, don't you see? They realized that they did have the inalienable right to be free. That's why they fought to keep that right. They could have just assimilated. But they fought for a right that they knew in their heart of hearts that no government or person had the right to take away from them..."

Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two: The more Ralph pondered the situation, the more plausible it seemed that Jeremy was his prey. And furthermore, Ralph made the shocking realization that he actuallywanted Jeremy to be his prey.

Sure, African Americans had always rubbed him the wrong way. But murder them? Murder was for criminals. Murder was for people who could not live within the rules of civilized society. If his family was suggesting that he murder this man, did that mean that his family was not civilized? Did that mean his family was a gang of criminals? And if so, how could that be? His relatives had all attended the most prestigious colleges, often Ivy League. Their pursuits were refined: world travel, opera, golf, fine wine, etc. Sure the hunting seemed to be an anomaly as something that most people equated with rednecks, but Ralph knew that America had many exclusive hunting lodges, some more exclusive than the most exclusive golf courses, and that it was at one such exclusive hunting club that the Vice President of the United States, Dick Cheney, had accidently shot another member in the face. At that club did they hunt humans too? Did Dick Cheney confuse another member for his human prey?

Ralph knew that his family had a strong connection to slavery; it had established their family fortune. But within the family Ralph had never heard African Americans spoken of disrespectfully; he'd never heard any racist remarks. And yet if his family was killing blacks it would make perfect sense to him, not because he would have understood his family's motives, but because he understood how easy, even pleasurable, it would be to drive an arrow into Jeremy's heart.

That image which had made him laugh nervously \-- the image of shooting Jeremy in the heart – had made him laugh nervously precisely because he wanted to enact it, because he wished to do something outside the bounds of civilization that would bring him indescribable pleasure.

Wasn't where he stood almost outside the bounds of civilization? They were in the middle of nowhere, a place beyond the disapproving glare of civilization's so-called rules. This place was reached by helicopter. There would be no police to tell him that what he had done was wrong. There would be no phones for Jeremy to call the police. No one would know and therefore no one could judge him. It all seemed too perfect like a summer day that keeps getting better.

But what if he was wrong? What if he shot this man with an arrow and his family had intended him to do no such thing? It was simply a risk that he could not take.

But still, how sweet would that be if they did intend it.

So what to do? Perhaps he could just shoot Jeremy in the leg? If he was mistaken, the wound would not be mortal and life would go on. Yet if they had intended him to kill this man he would have taken the first step. But how would they know?

Maybe they are watching? Why wouldn't they be? They brought Jeremy out by helicopter – that black box was in the back of my car. I really do think that I am meant to kill this man...

Washington: While grinning widely, Charles pointed to the left door. Windsor had chosen a skinning knife that felt light in his hand. Windsor entered the code into the left door. As the door swung open, Windsor was met with hysterical screaming.

Sweet Jesus! Am I dreaming?

It was not a buck hanging before him but the mangled body of a girl, an African American of perhaps 30 years. The room was a bloody mess and the girl had no legs; they appeared to have been hacked off. Her two stumps flailed wildly as she screamed, her arms chained to the wall. And just as fast as Windsor had opened the door he slammed it shut.

"Yes, brother," said Charles, his face lit like a Jack O' lantern in the beam of Windsor's flashlight. "She is the meat. The meat you must skin!"

A legless-bloody-black mess was the kind of sight that Windsor had long dreamed of, and to see it so clearly and with such shocking swiftness had almost caused him, like a long playing lottery gambler finally having won, to faint in a fit of excitement – which was why he had immediately slammed the door shut. But he knew his present euphoric sensation could not be furthered and that before him lay the path that he had long been avoiding. Yet from this girl's horror some good could arise. He could now kill his brother and others so afflicted, and from these actions save innocent lives.

Yet how many could I kill before being killed myself? And if I am then killed who will then continue with the killings?

Perhaps it would be better, Windsor mused, to inform the police that all Thurmonds should be immediately questioned and if possible that search warrants should be obtained.

The police will have a faster and quicker reach than I ever could.

"I have shut that door Brother, dear Brother Charles, because there are some doors that should never be opened. And for me that is just one such door. However, for the poor wretch beyond, the door must be opened quickly, though opened by another, so that her safety and freedom may be procured," said Windsor, who had dropped the knife onto the floor and now held the gun, its carriage pointed directly at Charles's head.

A bullet to the head will be a swift and merciful death – for I understand his affliction and do not blame him...

"Windsor! Don't you see that in killing me you destroy the solution to your hunger pains! That, poor wretch as you call her, the one behind the door– she is the remedy! She is the cure!" shouted Charles, not mentioning the gun pointed at his head.

"Brother I'm sorry. But she must be saved. It is the way I have lived my life. And though you have chosen to live your life as you have, I do not blame you for it, so know that before you die" said Windsor.

"Blame me for what? For giving you what you have always wanted? Yes, I am sure you have guessed that it was her very legs that comprised our feast, it was her very legs which sealed our reunion, it was her very legs which dripped from our mouth and which now sit so happily in our bellies \--."

"So the raw meat was her meat," said Windsor, and having been apprised that the supposed raw venison had only been an illusion he was now even more certain that the only way to quell his ubiquitous longing to consume black flesh was through the act itself.

So the meeting with my rope will come swift and much welcomed.

"Yes and wasn't it wonderful?" said Charles, his lips red with her hardened blood.

"That was wrong Charles. I have abstained through much willpower and concentration of mind. You played a gruesome trick. But it is not in retaliation for that trick that I will put this bullet into your brain, but rather because you are sick as I and we both must be put down," said Windsor, tightening his grip on the pistol and preparing to fire.

"Wait! Can you deny me that those legs were not sweeter than the sweetest candy? I have long dreamed of this day when together we could feast! Do not end the feast. The feast must continue! We must continue to feast on the appendages that remain. And when the Negro is lacking in all appendages and is but a square we will feast from her face."

Windsor realized that the brute ferocity of Charles' tone suggested that even while talking he was feasting on the Negro girl still. Windsor knew that he needed to shoot his brother yet he found himself unable to pull the trigger. His mind spoke of the future prospects of black flesh beyond the steel door. As Windsor stalled, Charles continued to demand in a ferocious tone that the feast continue and that they devour the meat together.

Perhaps I should just put a bullet in my own skull? But what about the girl?

"Windsor, do you really not remember that event which occurred many years ago, which caused mother to flee and our family to part?" Charles asked.

"No, and I wish not to hear it. If you have any final words say them now, for I am soon pulling the trigger and ending your life, brother, dear brother," said Windsor, praying for the strength to commit the fratricide.

An event which will be one of my last charitable acts...

"My final words are this: you ate a Negro fetus straight from a Negro belly when you were but 5! That is why mother left! She thought you were a monster – and so thinking took you away from the only family members who have ever understood you!" shouted Charles.

Windsor told Charles that he spoke only lies, but he soon remembered the image and in remembering the image he tasted the image, both the housekeeper and the fetus, though mostly the sweet taste of fetus's tiny hand, a tiny hand of tender soft flesh, a flesh so softly tender that the merest of nibbling produced juices of blissful ecstasy: a memory that had remained buried for over 60 years and yet a memory so delectable it produced a taste many times more euphoric than the bloody raw meat of the girl's butchered legs.

"Yes you taste it! That indescribable taste of Negro fetus! And trust me brother that no matter how many times you eat Negro fetus its glorious taste never ceases to amaze. If that girl beyond the steel door were carrying our lives could be made perfect. But trust me when I say that eating fresh Negro face is mighty fine too!" shouted Charles, seeming to snap at the air before him as if all the basement's darkness was a pit of black flesh.

For the first time Windsor felt his willpower waver and his hand lowered the gun as he became frozen with doubt. Charles began to approach and Windsor lifted the gun again.

I must act now. Even if mother knew you were a monster she must have taken you away to teach you to do right. She taught you charity, morals, and the difference between right and wrong. She would wish you to pull the trigger and to end her son's and your brother's life.

But again Windsor failed to squeeze, the gun shaking in his hand.

"Before you shoot me Brother, prove to yourself that you will see this thing through. In my hand I hold the key. If you can unlock her then I will kneel down and you may take my life. I will die happily contented because I will die with the knowledge that I never missed an opportunity to consume Negro flesh. But if you cannot free her then let us join together as brothers," said Charles, reaching his arm straight out, his palm open, and offering Windsor a silver key.

Again Windsor sensed that Charles's words had struck at his resolve, and suddenly he became aware that he felt as wretched as if his mother Virginia had given Charles a shiny new bike and he had received nothing.

Old boy you are jealous that Charles has been eating black flesh all these all these decades – that is only natural for you have wanted nothing more – But you must ignore this human foible of sibling jealousy and continue to be steadfast in your plan...

Fearful that this might be some trick to attempt to wrestle away the gun, Windsor suspiciously viewed the key in his brother's hand.

Charles continued, "Remember that if you fail to free her, the bargain is that you will spare my life and that we will unite with black blood on our lips and fresh flesh in our bellies."

Windsor replied, "The moment I opened that steel door and saw that girl, reality descended like a curtain ending a play, and I knew without a doubt that the night had been a farce. Yes dear brother, for all night I have been drunk but this scene has knocked me sober. And in my sober planning I had planned to shoot you first and then call the police – and in this sequence of events the police would free the girl. But you are right and I see that there is a chance, however small, that after shooting you I might regret my decision and consume the girl – and in the doing I would have murdered a brother for exactly that act which I then pursued. That would not be justice and that would not be equitable! You have welcomed me into your home and you have tried to show me how you live – brother to brother – and though I do not approve of your actions and though I do not wish to follow in your footsteps – the hospitality that you have shown me cannot be denied! And therefore the least I owe you is an equitable chance! I accept your challenge, and therefore I will attempt to unlock the girl without submitting to my longing to consume her black flesh."

Windsor took the key.

Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two: If Jeremy was wrong this mistake would dwarf his previous mistakes. If he was right, he would both be making his family proud and fulfilling the greatest of imagined pleasures. A few minutes prior, Jeremy had fallen asleep and was now snoring loudly. He slept close enough to the fire that his upper torso and face could be seen. His legs were upon the ground and his back leaned against a tree.

As silently as possible, Ralph readied his bow and removed an arrow, first pricking its tip to ensure its sharpness. Slower than he felt necessary but with a slowness that had been drilled into him by his father, he crept forward, inserting himself between Jeremy and the fire. Shadows descended around him like giant black wings and he attempted to steady his breathing and to prepare his mind for the shot. Pulling the arrow securely into position, he aimed at his intended target, Jeremy's left leg. The bow's pulleys kept the pressure light and yet the pressure felt heavy.

I can't go through with this, this is ridiculous.

Ralph lowered the bow.

You need some food and water. You aren't thinking straight. Such an action could have changed the course of your life...

Ralph turned, having settled his mind that he would not shoot Jeremy. However, before he had taken a step, he heard snapping and felt a breeze. As he turned to look, the screaming had already begun. An arrow protruded from Jeremy's shoulder.

"You shot me. What the fuck! Why did you shoot me?"

What blissful occurrence is this?

Ralph looked around, but he saw nothing and heard no further sounds.

"I didn't shoot you," said Ralph, straining to discover the source of the arrow.

"Then why are you holding that bow?" screamed Jeremy.

"Because I was thinking about shooting you," said Ralph, surprised that he had been so honest.

"What? You're one of them aren't you? Fuck!" said Jeremy, struggling to his feet.

Suddenly from the woods came a booming voice, the voice of Ralph's father and in a tone that Ralph had only heard during those rare times when his father had attended his sporting events, an approving tone which cheered him mightily on, "Shoot him now son! Shoot him now before he flees into the darkness!"

Ralph did not need to be told twice and already having bow and arrow in hand, he let fly an arrow at the now fleeing Jeremy. The arrow struck him in the calf and he fell to the ground somewhere in the shadows and his screaming increased, either from the new shot or from falling awkwardly on the old. Ralph pursued.

"No, son No!" came his father's voice from the shadows. "Remember that an injured buck is a dangerous buck – and so is a Negro."

Following his father's instruction, Ralph paused and at that moment torch-lighted figures appeared at the edge of the field. Swarming forth in a circle, Ralph saw that they were hooded in black just as Donald had been. They stopped within ten paces of Jeremy. Ralph recognized them as the Area Two members (save for Charles): his father, his grandfather Donald, his uncle Alburt, his uncle Chase, his cousin Prestin, and his cousin Dwade.

Jeremy had struggled to his feet and was screaming from the agony of the two arrows, one in his left calf and one in his right shoulder. But seeing the haunting circle of hooded men, he paused his screaming and looked about.

"Negro, do not run!" Donald commanded.

"Who the fuck are you people?" Jeremy screamed .

"We are the Thurmond family of the Grey Cliff Lodge!" all the Thurmond voices shouted in unison -- all except Ralph.

"What the fuck is going on?" Jeremy screamed.

"Negro, the time for questions has ended. The time for dying has begun. Ralph he shall be your first kill in Area Two. Take him now! Take him in the heart!" shouted Donald.

As Ralph lifted his bow, Jeremy began to run.

Donald shouted, "Shoot now!"

But Jeremy kept running and Ralph missed his chance. The Thurmonds collapsed the circle and fell upon Jeremy. With each Thurmond having gripped some part of Jeremy's body, they lifted him into the air like a pig on a spit.

Donald shouted wildly, "To the box! To the box! We shall take the Negro to the box!"

Jeremy tried to twist his body from the grip of the Thurmond men, but their grips held strong. As he was carried screaming past the fire, Ralph saw him glance with a pleading look, a look that seemed to say, "I thought we were in this together."

Ralph watched Jeremy scream as he was tossed into the box and the door was slammed and the latch locked and it occurred to him that he did not care about the statements contained in that glance anymore than he had cared about any of Jeremy's statements.

For I have never been listening...

With Jeremy back in the sound proof box the night was quiet, only the snapping of the fire now heard. The hooded heads turned, somber as nocturnal priests in the midst of a ceremony. Ralph stood by the fire and held his bow limply. He would have shot that final shot if Jeremy had not fled.

But with my family so close I couldn't risk the shot...

Hooded faces surrounded Ralph and lit by the fire's glow, he could see from their expressions that the night's business had not concluded.

Have I failed as Kolby and the others failed?

"Ralph Thurmond!" boomed Donald.

Ralph felt his legs trembling.

You knew that you were supposed to shoot him! You should have just fucking done it!

"You have been told Ralph Thurmond that you must finish a kill here in Area Two before you can enter the lodge, before you can eat, before you can drink!" Donald boomed.

Ralph nodded; his head already slumped because eye contact had become too painful. I've let them all down, but especially my father.

"You shall remain here tonight."

The hooded Thurmonds turned and retrieved their torches and like fireflies spreading, disappeared back into the woods. For a moment, Mick remained behind, saying, "Son if I could leave you this torch I would. But keep that fire lit."

"Father have I failed?" Ralph asked, hardly able to hold back his tears.

"The way to Thurmond glory is not an easy way," said Mick.

"Is it all over then? Do I go home tomorrow?" Ralph asked.

"Never despair that is not our way!" said Mick.

"Then I still have a chance? I haven't failed as Kolby failed?" Ralph asked.

"Son, you didn't get your first kill in Area Two tonight. But you came very close. We all watched you as you loomed above the sleeping Negro. We all hoped that you would strike him with a killing shot. But what happened to you is the same thing that has happened to many Thurmonds who have gone on to achieve great glory at Grey Cliff," said Mick.

"What?" Ralph asked.

"Buck fever – you froze in the moment. You did not let your arrow fly," said Mick.

"Father?" said Ralph.

"Yes, son?" said Mick.

"Did you have buck fever the first time you tried to kill a nigger here in Area Two?" Ralph asked.

"Son, a true supremacist never calls a Negro a nigger. The Negro has taken that word back. It is a small battle they have won in the war. A true supremacist always calls a Negro a Negro. And to answer your question, yes son I did get buck fever the first time I tried to kill a Negro. Almost everyone does..."

"Father, I won't let you down again," said Ralph.

"Son, you haven't let me down yet..."

Unexpectedly, Ralph slept peacefully. When he awoke the sun was overhead. Refreshed, and now understanding the task that needed to be completed he headed back into the woods with strengthened resolve.

At the edge of the Great Field and with Gray Cliff deep in the distance, he remembered that his opportunity would come soon after entering the field, and he readied his bow and prepared to hunt his pray.

Where are you Negro?

As he approached the helicopter, he saw a black box directly behind it.

Jeremy?

Ralph hurried his pace and not a moment too soon, for as he began to approach, the box popped open and Jeremy sprang out, bloodied and screaming. Ralph sprinted forward. And Jeremy screaming in agony or fear or perhaps both, appeared to take stock of his surroundings, freezing when he saw that it was Ralph who pursued. Ralph froze when he saw Jeremy freeze and they both stood in their spots, about 40 yards away – Jeremy with an arrow in his shoulder and his calf and Ralph holding a bow not yet lifted.

"You people are fucking psychopaths!"

"Don't talk about the Thurmond family that way!" Ralph shouted.

"What the fuck is going on? We were out in those woods together. We were trying to figure out what was going on. I was worried about you man. You know how much this fucking hurts, these two fucking arrows. My left side is fucking numb! Are you fucking listening to me Ralph!" Jeremy shouted.

"Yes I have been listening and thanks for telling me that your left side is numb – that means that I am going to bury this arrow into your right," said Ralph, who lifted and aimed.

"No! No!" shouted Jeremy, running and weaving from side to side.

Ralph followed the pattern of the weave and let fly his arrow. It hit-- striking Jeremy at the jugular, red blood flying forth and almost instantly dropping Jeremy to his knees. Sprinting to the spot where Jeremy had fallen, Ralph poked him with his bow to ensure that he was dead. Death must have been instant. A wave of euphoria rushed over Ralph and he jumped into the air, pumping his fist high.

Thurmond glory is mine!

Trumpets began blaring and Ralph stopped jumping and listened to the music. As the song continued to play, the front doors of Grey Cliff burst open and his father bounded out, followed by the others, dressed not in black, but bright colors. His father reached him first and tackled him to the ground. Everyone except Donald piled on top. The weight upon him was painful but Ralph knew that the piling was good-natured and laughed with the pain. After a few seconds the pile dismantled, and once Ralph was on his feet he was embraced in a Thurmond family hug, and with his head pressed closely against his family, he heard his father's voice cut through all the other celebratory remarks, saying, "Son that was a good kill and a fine kill!"

After the hugging stopped the congratulating continued, so much so that Ralph had started to become embarrassed. But the glorious trumpet music still played and so Ralph tried his best to savor the moment.

Because he could now walk past the newcomer's mark, everyone cheered as he stepped over the line. And once past, his father hugged him and said, "Now truly you are a man."

"Grey Cliff awaits!" said Alburt, his fists pumping into the air as if he had been the one to make the kill.

Suddenly something occurred to Ralph, "Father, all these years, the venison! It was? It was \--."

"Yes, son it was Negro flesh," said Mick, a large smile on his face.

"So then we don't just kill them? We eat them too?" said Ralph, as another wave of euphoria washed over his body. And as everyone laughed at the naivety of the statement, Prestin joked, "But what else should we expect from a newcomer?"

Mick said, "Of course we eat them son – that is the best part."

Ralph said excitedly, "So after I skin and butcher a Negro right after I get to --."

Mick interrupted, "Yes son it will be a feast, a great and long Negro feast!"

Washington: Windsor opened the door and was immediately met with a barrage of screaming. He ordered Charles inside the room.

What are you doing old boy? This is a risky venture indeed...

"Help me! Please! I have no legs!" The girl screamed.

"Yes we know. We just ate them," said Charles.

"You sick pig!" the legless girl screamed.

"Charles, I'm not going to ask you again. You must maintain your propriety while I finish my task. If you do not I will just shoot you now and have it over with at once," said Windsor, waving the gun about.

"Yes! Shoot him now! Shoot him now!" the girl screamed. And as she screamed her desperation washed over Windsor and drew him to her misery as a shark is drawn to blood.

"Miss, your screaming, though understandable, is affecting my spirits in a manner which is ill advisable. So please maintain a sense of calmness and a spirit of quietness while I unlock you from your chains," said Windsor, holding up the silver key.

But the girl screamed hysterically as the prospect of release was waved before her.

"Please," said Windsor, gripping his head, dizzy with the sense of her desperation, "Stop screaming, please, please..."

Windsor could smell the girl's fear and it put him into a daze and he could no longer hear her screams. The same had happened, he realized, when he was a boy and the bloody black flesh had been placed upon his naked body. He saw her as she was, black, violated: and sumptuous...I must resist. This is the test you have been waiting for your whole life. Will you remain a dignified member of society or will you descend into a hellish pit of depravity? Remember, mother is watching...mother is always watching...

For a moment the girl's words were heard, "What are you doing? Why are you touching my hair? Please..."

I didn't realize I was – but your hair feels so soft and I wonder what the skin just beneath the hair tastes like?

Stop it! You must not give in...

But maybe just a taste? She has already lost both legs so what difference does one small taste make?

Stop it!

"Sink your teeth into her! Rip off a chunk of her face! Crush your jaw into her nose! Tear off her ears! Eat her up bit by bit brother! Have a feast! A bloody good feast! A bloody good feast of black black flesh!" Charles shouted, foaming at the mouth.

Momentarily thought was lost and Windsor violently bit into the girl's face as if her face were a polished apple. Endorphins rushed about his brain and all was bliss. The first bite was followed by a second and then a third. The tough flesh tasted better than his strongest expectations. He caressed his body and caressed her body, searching with his fingers for the supplest area to savage, for the juiciest meat to fill his belly. Her screams, heavily muted, added to the pleasure of the taste.

Which is just as I had imagined it...And I feel no regret...I feel like, what? I feel like – yes – I feel like me...

Blood poured from her face, from her arms, from her belly and Windsor lapped it up, simultaneously biting and lapping, his fists clenched in balls of rapture, his toes curled with delight.

This is leagues better than I thought. This is everything my life was supposed to be. I am united with my soul. How did I spend so many years in a state of absolute suppression? My brother has been eating black flesh every day. My brother is the person I should have become...

Windsor turned, blood dripping from his lips, his teeth red, and the spaces between his teeth redder, saying, "Brother, Charles: I am home."

"Welcome home brother. We are fully reunited at last..."

Grey Cliff Lodge: After Mick gave Ralph a tour of the lodge, he told him that it was time for him to pick a Negro to skin.

"You mean I won't just skin Jeremy?" Ralph asked.

"No, of course not: you will skin a live Negro. But do not take this task lightly. Even when gagged the Negro will try to convince you not to skin, and with its pleading eyes the Negro will try to make you believe that it is your equal," said Ralph.

"Take me to them father. I am ready," said Ralph.

"Alburt is the Keeper of the Boxes. He shall show you the way," said Mick.

Alburt led Ralph to the Grand Room, which resembled a ball room. At the end of the Grand Room was a small pink door. Alburt slid the pink door open and Ralph and Alburt climbed through. Inside were 30 black boxes, just like the box that had held Jeremy prisoner.

"Are all the boxes full?" Ralph asked.

"Yes," said Alburt with a wide grin.

"But there are dozens of boxes here. I thought you said that we hunt and skin approximately 5 Negros each year," said Ralph.

"We do – but this year is an exception. What a beautiful year to be a newcomer! This will be the best Thurmond hunting season ever!" said Alburt.

"Where did all these Negros come from?" Ralph asked.

"There are 32 boxes. 25 came from a failed slave plantation. We were able to get them at half price," said Alburt.

"A failed slave plantation?"

Three Weeks Earlier:

Mississippi: "That is just it doctor, ever since the primitism – when I had the erection that lasted for longer than a week -- I haven't been able to get erect. The biggest tragedy of all is that I have a very large penis."

"Sexual potency is an area of science that we still do not completely understand. Your theory about the primitism causing permanent flaccidity is not backed by scientific research. But these drugs are new so it is not out of the question," said the doctor. "Is it possible that maybe you picked up a sexual disease?"

"No, I was completely celibate during that week."

"Why if you were hard for a week did you not attempt sexual intimacy?"

"Over that week I was transitioning from the person that I used to be to the person that I have become."

"Did your sexual orientation change?"

"No, of course not, it was my sexual preferences that changed."

"How so?"

"I've always wanted to be a sexual god. I thought I deserved it – my penis is approximately 14.5 inches long I have always thought that entitled me to some sort of sexual contentedness. But I have never been content because I have never had the sex that I have desired to have."

"And what is that?"

"I have always had sex with white girls and I really wanted to have sex with black girls," said Peter.

"That's it? That's not a problem. Have you tried to dating black girl?"

"No."

"Well, why not."

"I hate black people."

"I think I see the problem. You are a supremacist. There are many in the South here who are still supremacists. And for whatever reason you have developed a sexual preference for the black race."

"Doctor a Klan brother recommended me to you so I know I can speak freely."

"Which brother?"

Peter named the brother.

"Yes, he is a good friend of mine. So you haven't been speaking freely?"

"No, I have. But there is more. It isn't just that I want to have sex with black women. I want them to be my slaves. And not just slaves in some perverted S & M sexual sense. But like in the old days. When there was still slavery – and the master of the plantation could sleep with his slaves at will."

"Peter now that is a problem: we don't live in the 1800's anymore – and as disagreeable as it is Negros do have some rights. We obviously can't enslave them. But you could try role play."

"What if I told you – and in complete confidence – doctor to patient and Klan member to Klan member \--."

"Of course--."

"That I have tried this and I still haven't gotten hard."

"You have tried this?"

"Yes."

"You've kidnapped or you have role-played?" asked Doctor Lawless.

"It was more of a role play – but it seemed real and it didn't work."

"It could be more of a physical problem, caused by your diet, or..."

A few minutes later Peter left the doctor's office in a state of dejection because as honest as he knew he could be with Doctor Lawless he knew that he still could not tell him about his profession as a hit man for an elite racist group, The Jefferson Elites, or that The Jefferson Elites had awarded him (and his brother) experimental slave plantations – and that he had tried to sleep with slaves from each plantation – but that still his penis had remained flaccid.

Peter's theory was that it was not a physical or a mental problem – it was that he needed the right stimulus – that he needed the right slave – and that she hadn't yet presented herself.

But the time will come when I find the slave who makes me hard again and once I do I will forge iron chains for her and never release her from the slavery of my rock-hard and throbbing 14.5 inch magnificent cock...

During the drive home he daydreamed about which slave he would strip naked and subject to the sting of his whip.

And I know such thoughts should make me hard and yet they do not...

The dirt road at the outskirts of his plantation wound around chalk maples, pipe vines, giant cane, yellow birch, red hickories, black gum, red spruce, and countless other vegetation that Peter catalogued during his hours away from the slave factory.

Just as Jefferson kept detailed logs, so do I catalogue the world around me, as a wishful Jeffersonian Elite member...

Peter's plantation was fifty miles from town on a one hundred acre parcel. The entire parcel was enclosed with an electric fence.

It had been a tough sell, convincing his contact from The Jeffersonian Elites to allow him to start a modern slave plantation. Peter hadn't admitted to the man he knew only as Mr. X his real reason for the endeavor: because I want to sow my seed with enslaved and tortured black females ...Instead, he had been much more scientific in his approach. Although Peter killed both blacks and whites for Mr. X, when blacks were killed he always wanted to the specific details of their last moments. It was as if he was systematically recording Peter's observations. He never asked such questions about the killed whites.

Peter presented the proposal to Mr. X. as more of an experiment than anything else, saying, "It is obvious that the Civil War ruined everything. There was never a more civilized society than the Old South. In the Old South Negros knew their place. Negros were slaves and if they were free they had no rights. Negros have been freed and look at the results. Babies out of wedlock – Murder in the cities – rampant drug use – preposterous high school drop out rates -- Negros were never meant to be freed. They were meant to be a permanent slave population. The Old South knew that. I want to try that again. I want to build a plantation. I want to see if I can make slaves happy and content because they must obey the snap of my whip."

"That is a very interesting idea. But I don't think the neighbors would be up for it," said Mr. X.

"There will be no neighbors. For the decades of my services you have paid me well. I have bought land deep in the South and I have no neighbors. I can fence it all off."

"Satellites might pick up your slave population," said Mr. X.

"I'm one step ahead – a modern slave state no longer needs slaves for farming. I would have them doing mechanical work under a roof where their chains cannot be observed by satellite. Also, you have told me about your connection to prisons. Send me some prison work. We can split the profits and meanwhile I will report on the modern Negros ability to transition back into a slave state – to make the Old South into the Real New South..."

A week later, after receiving a faxed version of the proposal, Mr. X called Peter, stating, "You've served me faithfully and I think your idea has much merit. Operation Modern Slave State is a go, and I will supply you with freelance prison work..."

"One more thing, my brother wants in. He will build a plantation right next to mine. We each want to be masters," said Peter.

"Joe Bob is a buffoon," said Mr. X.

"True, but Joe Bob is my brother and he will be quite close, so I can keep an eye on him."

"If anything goes wrong with Operation Modern Slave State by Joe Bob's doing it is on you, not him. I will not hold the fool to blame when it is another man who places their confidence in the fool," said Mr. X.

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then – build your plantations..."

Parking his SUV behind the main house, Peter changed into his master's attire – a vintage suit from the 1800's. Currently there were 25 slaves on his plantation and 25 slaves on Joe Bob's plantation. The slaves remained chained to their stations during the day and to their beds at night. On Peter's plantation there were 15 male slaves and 10 female slaves, and on Joe Bob's plantation there were 20 male slaves and 5 female slaves: and not one of the females sufficiently turns me on to make me hard... And this problem could not be explained to Mr. X. For Peter knew what the agenda of the Jeffersonian Elites had been: to kill the potentially someday high-status mixed raced bastards of Jefferson...to purify the country...to keep the nobility of the bloodlines intact.

So what could he say now? I really wanted to start Operation Modern Slave State in order to bang tortured hot black slaves and none of these slaves is hot enough...

Uttering those words would be more of a death sentence than anything else:

For Mr. X kills at will...I know, I have been his instrument for decades...

It seemed to Peter that the only cure would be time.

Eventually she will come...

The slave factories were disguised as red barns, a precaution for low flying planes with pilots who might wonder about a middle-of-nowhere factory (an isolated farm was much easier to rationalize). Opening the barn door, Peter grabbed a cow-hide whip attached to the door's left, unfurling it and holding it by his side. The visit to the doctor had been disappointing and someone would now pay for Peter's ill-humor. The 25 slaves kept their eyes down, focusing intently on their work. All whispering had ceased the moment Peter rattled the doorknob, the only sounds now, overlapping nervous breathing.

Peter could not risk loose lips and so there were no employees; the two brothers were judge, jury, and executioner. Walking among his slaves he examined their day's handiwork. The factory objective: fit hairbrushes with tiny bristles. It was work that Americans could no longer compete with on a global scale – that is unless the labor was unpaid slaves.

Clearing his throat, Peter spit upon the ground. "I've had a bad day, and though it is only partially your fault -- partially because as you know your very existence is an affront to the natural order, someone needs to pay," said Peter, stroking his hand across a wooden beam outfitted with two metal rings, a spot he referred to as the 'board' and where he administered the majority of his punishments.

He continued, "Who would like to volunteer to answer my question?"

Dumb Negros...

"No one? If no one volunteers then you will all be punished. You have five seconds. One --."

"I volunteer," said Dana, the biggest and strongest of Peter's slaves.

Stupid Negro...

"Did you volunteer because you are stupid or because you are a hero?" Peter asked.

"Because I am stupid Sir," said Dana.

You're dumber than rocks...

"Yes, good – my children Dana has accepted that he has a pee brain. I will not ask Dana my question because he was so fucking stupid as to volunteer first that I applaud his stupidity. Dana has embraced his stupidity. Well done Dana! Please every clap for Dana...Stop fucking clapping! I told you that I had a shitty fucking day and you clap about it! How fucking stupid are you! You're all fucking stupider than Dana – and because you are stupider than Dana you should be raising your hand first. I need another volunteer. Someone?"

This is the sort of stuff Mr. X. loves hearing about in my reports, so I will have to remember this play by play...

"Yes, you child, Tracy –Here is the question and though it is hopeless that you will answer it correctly, I ask it anyway. Are you ready Tracy?" Peter asked, moving in close and running his hand across her neck, down into her shirt, and about her breasts.

Still nothing, not even a tingle down there – what the fuck?

"Yes, Sir."

"Why is it that your work consists of putting together these hairbrushes?" Peter asked in a game show host voice.

"I don't know," said Tracy, trembling.

"When you answer incorrectly, and you will answer incorrectly, I will tie you to the board and I will whip you within a hairs-breath of your life. But because I am a sporting man, and because I am not devoid of all compassion for such an inferior species as your own – I will give you a chance to answer, even if in all probability that answer will only be a ridiculous guess," said Peter with a malicious smile.

"Please don't. I beg you," said Tracy.

"You have three seconds to answer."

Tracy, as if visualizing her response, answered with closed eyes, "I don't know maybe because you want to remind us of our inferiority by having us, all day long, put together brushes that we would never use for our hair as it naturally is. So we put together these brushes for white folk so that we can be reminded how ugly and coarse our natural hair is – because just as our hair is ugly and coarse so are our souls and our minds."

I don't believe it...

"Wow! I feel like I just discovered a talking horse and it then sang me the national anthem in perfect pitch. Tracy you have potential to really lead your species. I know you talk in here when I am not here. Use that time to remind them of the lowly crap they are – will you do that?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"And again good job – I was having a bad day. But it is a little better now. It is better because I feel that I have at least been teaching you something. Although you have pee brains you can still use your pee brains to look at the world in the way that it really is – and so for the 24 rest of you I would like to remind you to look at the world in much the way that Tracy looks at it..."

Maybe she is the one who can get me hard – but I felt nothing when I groped her – Still, she has potential – She sees the world the way that the world should be...

Peter decided to drive to Joe Bob's plantation.

Perhaps he has a slave deserving of a punishment.

The two brothers did not inform the slaves that there were proximate slave plantations: they might feel bolder if they understood their actual numbers were 50 and not 25...

So Peter played the part of overseer on Joe Bob's plantation and Joe Bob played the part of overseer on Peter's plantation.

The two plantations were mirror images, both having been designed by Mr. X, who had explained, "Jefferson designed Monticello to be the crowning jewel of all slave plantations. Many plantations have a main house that is ostentatious and white, reminding visitors and slaves alike of the supremacy of the white race. But Monticello took the idea of the manor house to the level of white holiness. While most manor homes are on level ground, Jefferson ingeniously built Monticello on a hill so that from his dome he could use a scope to look down upon all his slave subjects. Jefferson also attempted to make Monticello as breathtakingly beautiful as possible so that the slaves would constantly be reminded of the absolute divide between the refined world of the whites and the soiled world of the blacks. As a Jeffersonian disciple, I try to emulate Jefferson whenever I can. That being said I must admit that there is no way I can design something like Monticello for you even if I wanted – for undoubtedly Monticello is the masterpiece of all slave-plantations. But even if I could design a slave-plantation as splendid as Monticello it would be stupid to do so, for a plantation that grand would be discovered instantly. Your plantations need to be hidden and disguised..."

The main house, the factory, and the slave's sleeping quarters were all connected. However, the three sections were markedly different: the main house maintained a Victorian architecture, the factory was metallic and dreary, and the slave's quarters consisted of twin bunked beds and a single shower and toilet. Recognizing that the original paid laborers may have become suspicious, torture chambers were not included in the design. Instead simple torturing apparatuses had been imported into the compounds.

For historical accuracy, Peter had consulted with Mr. X when the first death sentence was passed.

Mr. X explained to Peter, "Because slaves had no rights and because blacks could not testify against whites in court, masters could kill a slave for any reason no matter how whimsical if they felt an example needed to be made. Therefore, most any type of death you can imagine is historically accurate: bludgeoning, hanging, lynching. But I do have my favorites, which are also historically accurate and which I would suggest that you use."

"What what are they? I can hardly wait to hear," said Peter

"I have three, each beautifully horrific. The first is to hang the slave upside down until they die in that inverted position. It is a very slow and particularly grueling death, one which I often see at night before I close my eyes and which whisks me off to a pleasant sleep \--."

"And the others? What are the others?" Peter asked, his excitement growing.

"The second is to tie your slave tie down horizontally and then with a blunt instrument to break all of the bones in their body. This too can last for many hours, even days, during which the slave will go in and out of consciousness, though it is considerably satisfying when you realize that they have awoken to the hell of their position – that yes they are still alive – and yes there are still bones in their body that have not been broken – and that yes it may be insufferably long before they die --."

"And the third?" Peter asked, though busy visualizing the first two, and wondering why as a hit man he had never tried some such sadist techniques when he'd had the time to spare: No I couldn't have...I strive to make everything look like suicide or natural causes and thus my deaths must be simple...

"Oh the third is my favorite. One which was done often in the Old South, and one which I save for only the most precious occasions: the slow roast --."

"I think I remember hearing about that as a boy, but I did not think it real," Peter interrupted.

"Oh, it was real and still is in certain quarters my friend. There is nothing that brings more solace to the souls of the Jeffersonian Elites than a good old fashioned American BBQ accompanied by the slow roasting of a dark-skinned Negro," said Mr. X.

"If I remember correctly this is death by fire, but the fire is kept quite low, almost in a state of embers, so that like a Crock-Pot at work, the flesh is slowly consumed," said Peter, while wiggling his hands as if conjuring a fire.

"That is correct and I will fax you papers describing all particulars, though after you read them they must be destroyed," said Mr. X.

"Thank you. Are there any others?" Peter asked.

"You ungrateful shit! I have given you three beautiful methods. There are others of course but they are the intellectual property of the Jeffersonian Elites – a group of which, I find myself reminding you, even after 30 years working relationship, that you are not a member. Say it," shouted Mr. X.

"I am not a member," said Peter.

"And why aren't you a member?" Mr. X. asked.

"Because the Jeffersonian Elites do not exist," said Peter.

"Good, now choose with method you will implement, and then report the results..."

For the first four deaths Peter had decided upon inverted hangings and as of yet had killed no other slaves.

But perhaps what would really do me good would be some excitement – like a slow roast...

After walking into Joe Bob's house, Peter heard rustling upstairs, and when Peter opened an upstairs bedroom door, he observed Joe Bob buckling his pants. A naked female slave lay chained to the bed.

My labors have built this operation and yet he enjoys their fruits...If I cannot screw her I will roast her...

"Joe Bob, I have made a decision. The slaves have become cocky. They have become resentful. They do not understand their position. One must be sacrificed and made an example of," said Peter.

"Do we have to? I don't like killing people," said Joe Bob, buttoning his flannel shirt.

"They aren't fucking people!" Peter shouted while slamming his pointer finger into Joe Bob's forehead.

"You know what I mean," said Joe Bob, falling into a chair and grasping the black leg that hung over the bed's side.

"And it will be her," said Peter, pointing to the naked slave on the bed. She immediately began screaming, her chained limbs flailing and Joe Bob's hand thrown back.

"Please not her," said Joe Bob. Standing, he moved closer to his brother, whispering, "She really knows how to fuck. You should give her a try with your legendary cock."

"Her? She's disgusting," said Peter, who still hadn't told his brother about his erection difficulties.

Joe Bob looks up to me and I think in some strange way he would be crestfallen if he were to learn that my massive cock can no longer harden...

Peter continued, "And therefore she must die, and so we will slow roast her..."

Mississippi: Joe Bob often wondered how different his life would have been if he had been endowed with a package as big as his brother's.

Peter doesn't realize how good he has it. I'd take a picture of my cock and send it to everyone on my cell phone list at least once a day.

But Joe Bob no longer had a cell phone list because he no longer had a cell phone. His brother had seen to that, saying "If you want to be a plantation owner Joe Bob you have got to cut out all communications – that means no speaking to anybody except me or the slaves. You're dumber than shit Joe Bob and if you have a cell phone you will let something spill."

Joe Bob thought it strange to suddenly be living life without a cell phone. However, Joe Bob had long ago accepted that the world was a strange place, with strange happenings, and strange differences between people.

Such as the fact that my brother's cock is 14.5 inches long and mine is 2.5.

And there were many other strange things about the world such as the fact that Joe Bob used to save up for a week to buy the pleasures of a prostitute, but now he could extract such services free of charge from the slaves on his plantation. He found it strange also that his brother so enjoyed killing his female slaves.

Why is a guy with a cock that long killing his females? It just don't add up?

Yet Joe Bob knew that things in this world did not have to add up because most things did not add up. The fact that he was a slave owner and making hair brushes and having sex at least six times a day, also did not add up.

But that is just the way things is and there aint no fighting the way things is.

Sometimes Joe Bob's body tired, an overall weariness he believed caused by the demands his frequent fornication rate. He once complained about this Catch 22 to his brother, that he liked sex but that he did not like moving, saying, "I'm serious. I been doing the deed so often I worry that it might fall off, like the preacher told me it would if I put my hand on it. It aint gonna fall off is it Peter?"

"No, that can't happen," said Peter.

"How often do you fuck your slaves? Today I fucked them ten times. I aint got no more left in the tank. I'm pooped. What about you?" Joe Bob asked.

"Shut the fuck up. I don't want to talk about this with you," said Peter.

"Okay, we don't have to talk about it. But it is pretty much the only thing I do, hump all day, so I thought it might make sense to talk about it. People talk about what they do, I hump. I hump all day long," said Joe Bob.

"With your tiny fucking dick!" said Peter.

"Yeah and I wouldn't be fucking and fucking and fucking all day long if it wasn't for you \--."

"Okay, I get the point, enough said," said Peter.

"I'm just trying to say thanks the way Mam and Pop always taught us to always say thanks when someone does us a good turn," said Joe Bob.

"Joe Bob you have and you don't need to say no more about Tiny Tim down there. You understand me Joe Bob?" Peter asked.

"Not really, cause I am thankful. I aint never seen such action as until we got these slave plantations: and that is all on account of you and your doings," said Joe Bob.

"Yeah, I know. Joe Bob you are my brother and I love you. I got you your own slave plantation because I didn't want to be alone out here. And I got you your own slave plantation cause you are dumber than rocks and you don't realize how fucked up this all is. But I did not get you your own slave plantation so that you could tell me all day about your fucking and your fucking and your fucking."

Since that truck ride Joe Bob had kept private his fornication details. For example, he had not informed Joe Bob that for months he had been simultaneously fornicating with two slaves, and that just recently those two slaves had convinced him to include a third. At first Joe Bob did not like the idea, because as he explained, "I don't know if there will be enough in my tank for that."

But his slave Alice, replied, "Sir, you are a sexual all star. And Sir if you think it possible then your pure sexual magic will make it happen."

Eventually, Joe Bob decided that he was enough man to share himself with three.

If those prostitutes could only see me now they would see the sexual all star that I have become.

For the big night Joe Bob decided to get dressed up and so he put on clean clothes. Then he led the three females into his bedroom. He wished he had a camera so that he could take pictures, but as his brother had told him, "Joe Bob we can't take pictures because this stuff we are doing is completely illegal. People take pictures so that they can show them to other people. What is the point of taking pictures if you can't show them to anyone?"

Joe Bob replied, "I don't want to show my pictures to anyone. I just want to take pictures of me fucking my slaves so I can look at them later."

As the three females entered Joe Bob's bedroom, he decided to take a mental picture, saying, "Okay so the first thing that I want all of you slave bitches to do is to undress all pretty-like cause I'll be taking a picture here inside my head, and if I do it just right I'll be able to remember it a long time from now..."

Mississippi: Paradoxically, Alice had observed that survival was easier when she managed to avoid thoughts of her real life, especially thoughts of her children. And although every new day proved both a battle for survival against the overseer Peter and a battle against suicide, when Alice noticed someone having an especially, and not just an ordinarily, despondent day – an observation based on factors such as the frequency of their tears or their refusal to eat – she would try to whisper words of encouragement such as, "Try not to think about anything but this place. Thinking about what you could be doing in the outside world does not help. We will get our chance to escape. But we must stay focused."

Unlike the overseer Peter, Alice found that Joe Bob was not interested in torturing and murdering his kidnapped slaves. All that seemed to concern him was sex (though rape really). Also unlike Peter, hair brush assembly rate was something that Joe Bob hardly ever spoke about. Sometimes Joe Bob even seemed to try to implement small kindnesses. For example, Alice believed that because Joe Bob was a typical white guy and assumed that nothing was more important to African Americans than the NBA finals and so during that time he had dragged a television into the factory room and allowed them to watch. (Predictably, when Peter arrived later that day and saw the television, he smashed it upon the floor.)

Joe Bob's interactions with his slaves were straight to the point. He hardly ever said more than one sentence to any of the slaves, and the slaves believed him to be some kind of evil genius. Who else could put together a modern slave plantation? Who else could have gathered them together from such different places as prisons to parking lots? Yet once Alice began sleeping with Joe Bob and slowly started to engage him in pillow talk, she realized the undeniable level of his idiocy, whispering to the other slaves when neither Joe Bob nor the overseer Peter was present that "Joe Bob is a complete moron. Peter has to be the brains behind this operation."

They realized that Alice was correct when she informed them that she had convinced Joe Bob to include a second slave in their sexual activities; but the matter of Joe Bob's low IQ became glaring obvious when Alice convinced Joe Bob to include a third sexual partner.

Alice estimated that she had been kidnapped for six months and the longest estimate she had received from another of the kidnapped had been eight months, which might mean that this so-called slave plantation had probably been in operation for less than a year.

Which makes it vulnerable because they have not yet figured out the holes in their security...

In the outside world Alice worked as a security consultant, mostly for banks. Increasingly, her job had changed from consulting on brick and mortar threats such as robberies and employee theft to the virtual threats contained in cyber space, such as hacking and fraud. But there was nothing virtual about her current situation. Now she needed to use her old school skills, skills that had been honed over her two decades of employment.

The most obvious obstacle to escape: the chains. Everyone was chained, not only in the factory, but also in their barracks. They were chained at their ankles and wrists and the chains connected to a runner in the ceiling.

The only time the chains were removed was when Joe Bob took the females into his house for sex – and therefore this exception to the schedule presented the most obvious opportunity to overpower and overtake Joe Bob. Furthermore, Alice had analyzed the chain's locks and they all seemed to use a common key. Finally after months of considering all opportunities it now seemed to Alice that the best plan for the group's escape consisted of subduing Joe Bob during sex and forcing him to surrender the key.

As the three slaves, Alice, Wilma, and Jada, were led to Joe Bob's bedroom, Alice poked them to remind them of the instructions that she had earlier whispered:

Get him naked first and wait for my signal. Then as you two wrestle with him I will locate something from the room with which to bash his head. If he throws you down grab anything that can be used as a weapon. At all costs do not stop attacking. Remember that if all is going well that we don't want to kill him. But do we need to knock him unconscious and for long enough to find something with which to tie him up. Then we will convince him to tell us the location of the key, and we must move quickly for there is no telling when Peter may arrive, and we know that Peter, unlike Joe Bob, often carries a gun.

As they entered Joe Bob's room, Alice's body shook with anticipation. Worried that Joe Bob might, by some miraculous infusion of insight, realize that something was not quite right – other than the fact that he has agreed to put himself alone in a room with three people who obviously wish to do him harm – she grabbed him by the shoulders and began kissing him passionately.

Joe Bob pulled away and said, "I know you want it. And I know you all three want it, and there is enough of me to go around. But you have to be patient. Okay so the first thing that I want all of you slave bitches to do is to undress all pretty-like cause I'll be taking a picture here inside my head, and if I do it just right I'll be able to remember it a long time from now..."

Instantly, Alice began unbuttoning, knowing that it was imperative that they follow his instructions until the optimal opportunity presented itself. However, to her horror, she realized that the new girl, Jada, had stepped away from the group and had grabbed a small dinnerware plate from Joe Bob's desk. Fortunately, Joe Bob, intently watching Alice unbutton, had not noticed the theft and therefore Alice continued unbuttoning and swaying her hips in what she hoped to be a seductive motion.

Seconds later, Jada smashed the plate upon Joe Bob's head and though the plate shattered instantly, it seemed that even before the plate had shattered that Joe Bob had, in one motion, both turned and grabbed Jada by the neck, and then while swearing he furiously strangled her – Jada's face becoming blue within seconds.

Realizing that she needed to act fast, Alice unhooked a framed picture from the wall and swung it sideways so as to use the frame bat-like and landed a hard blow upon the side of Joe Bob's head. The impact caused him to lunge sideways but he still had not released his hold of Jada's neck. By this point, Wilma had also located a weapon, a large book, and having lifted it above her head now brought it down flat upon the crown of Joe Bob's skull. A split second later Alice again struck at the side of his head with the side of the framed picture: multiple blows which dazed him just enough for Jada to wrestle free, a red ring around her neck already apparent.

Alice and Wilma continued to strike Joe Bob's head and Joe Bob, who had finally, between bouts of swearing, lifted his hands above his head and managed to deflect some of the blows, eventually collapsed to the floor. Jada had now risen to her feet, and bare-footed, began stomping his head with her heels until Alice screamed for her to stop, finally pulling her away and saying, "We can't kill him we need that key."

The three girls pulled off his shoelaces, tying his hands behind his back.

"We can use a sheet to tie his legs," said Alice, and they pulled his sheet from his bed, twisted it until it became rope-like, and then tied his legs together. By the time Joe Bob had been bound he had regained consciousness, and began groaning, a trail of blood dripping down his face.

"Where is the key?" said Alice, lifting his face with her hands so that he looked her directly in the eyes.

"What key?" Joe Bob asked, and even before he had finished asking Jada had elbowed him from behind, right on his spine.

He winced, shouting, "You've broken my back."

Alice said, "Jada please, he might just be asking a question. The key for our chains: where is that key?"

"In my pocket," said Joe Bob. She dug the key out of his pocket and then asked for the location of his phone.

"I don't have a phone," said Joe Bob.

"Liar," said Jada, elbowing him from behind again.

"Really I don't" said Joe Bob, now crying. "Peter won't let me have a phone."

"So Peter runs everything?" Alice asked.

"Yes, Peter runs everything. Please don't hurt me no more. I don't want to be a slave owner anymore. This isn't fun anymore," said Peter.

"Was it ever fucking fun?" shouted Wilma, grabbing him by the hair.

"I like the sex," said Joe Bob, sobbing.

"He's a sick fuck," said Alice.

"I don't tell no lies. Honest I don't. I do good just as my mom and pop told me to do," said Joe Bob, a mix of blood and mucus running from his nose.

"Where is Peter now?" Alice asked.

"I don't know. He don't tell me. Honest, he don't," said Joe Bob.

"Where is your fucking phone?" Wilma shouted.

"I told you I don't have one," said Joe Bob.

"I believe him," said Alice.

"Where the fuck are we?" said Jada.

"You're on my slave plantation," said Joe Bob, between sobs. "But I don't want a slave plantation no more. Honest I don't. I don't like all the killing. I don't like seeing people die."

"I know I'm on your fucking slave plantation but what fucking state are we in?" said Jada.

"This here be Mississippi," said Joe Bob, looking up at Jada for the first time.

"Fuck, I'm from New York. I've never been to the South before. Do you think everyone down here is this fucked up? Are we ever going to get the fuck out of here?" said Wilma.

"Don't panic – this place is obviously not representative of the South. These are some fucked up apples Peter and Joe Bob. I'm sure the next people we meet will be completely normal. Let's just stick to our plan. I think we have gotten some pretty good information from Joe Bob, so now let's unlock the others and let's get the fuck out of here before that creep Peter shows up," said Alice.

Suddenly Wilma, who had been holding a shard of shattered plate in her hand, drove it into Joe Bob's neck, blood spraying all over the room.

"What the fuck!" said Alice.

"What? I've imagined that fucking moment too many times not to do it. That fuck deserves to die," said Wilma, stepping aside to avoid the wild spray of Joe Bob's blood.

"I know but maybe we could have gotten some more information out of him," said Alice. Joe Bob now lay in a pool of his own blood, gurgling like a fish on land.

"I thought you said it was time to release the others and get the fuck out of here," said Wilma.

"I did, I guess my point is that we just need to stay on the same page here and work as a team. If we are going to do something like that lets just talk about it first," said Alice, who had now begun looking out the window, making sure that Peter had not arrived. By the time she looked back from the window Joe Bob lay still.

"I aint part of no team," said Jada, still rubbing her hands over her throat at the place where she had nearly been strangled to death. "I'm getting the fuck out of here."

"Jada no, we have to stick together and what about the fucking others?" said Alice.

"It don't take three people to unlock them. We only got one key. I'm getting the fuck out of here?" said Jada.

"Jada come on, we have to stick together," said Wilma.

"Fuck that I'm out of here. Peace bitches," said Jada, running from the room. Alice and Wilma ran after her, yelling for her to stay. Jada continued running. Alice and Wilma decided not to pursue, thinking it imperative that they free the others while they had the opportunity.

Mississippi: No matter how many needles the acupuncturist pricked into Peter's body she could not induce an erection. Finally, twenty minutes into the second hour, she stated, "I'm sorry, but it seems that this isn't going to work. Have you tried pornography?"

At that moment Peter wished that the acupuncturist was one of his slaves so that he could tie her to his post and kill her. But instead he swallowed his pride and just nodded dejectedly. In fact, the whole ordeal had been so demeaning and unproductive that Peter decided to murder one of his brother's slaves.

I feel stressed and believe that the bloody death of a female slave, even if it does not cause an erection, will at least bring about a state of peace.

Therefore, after arriving at his plantation and retrieving some recently obtained torturing apparatuses, he climbed back into his SUV and began the short trip to his brother's plantation. However, he had not even driven half the distance when he saw a woman, one who appeared to be a runaway slave, sprinting barefooted straight in the direction of his SUV. Because the factory and the barracks were windowless, she had no reason to recognize his vehicle and Peter continued to drive slowly towards her. The SUV windows were darkly tinted.

While steering with his left hand, Peter fished his pistol from his center console with his right, unlocking the safety.

That is Jada! Is she the only one who has escaped? Or has there been a rebellion?

As Jada came within ten paces, she stood in the center of the road and attempted to wave down the SUV. Without leaving the driver's seat, Peter leaned over and opened the passenger side door from the inside. Now having set the trap he waited for his prey to approach. Slowly, she walked towards the vehicle, peering around the side of the door. At that moment, Peter jumped outside and ran around to her side of the vehicle. Realizing her mistake she had begun to sprint, but Peter shouted that he would shoot if she did not stop running. She stopped and began walking back in his direction, tears streaming down her face. Peter, with his gun pointed at her head said, "Tell me what the fuck has happened?"

"Three of us were having sex with Joe Bob. We jumped him. He's dead," said Jada.

Joe Bob is dead! What the fuck! I should shoot this slave in the head right now! But I can't. I need information.

"Where are the other two?" Peter asked.

"They are at the factory freeing the others," said Jada.

Peter ordered Jada into his vehicle and with the gun still pointed at her head he peeled off in the direction of his brother's slave factory. Once they arrived, he ordered Jada out and retrieved his AK-47 from the trunk. Jada screamed at the sight of the gun and Peter shouted for her to keep quiet, and marching her towards the factory with his AK-47 pointed at her back he commanded that she open the factory door.

As soon as she had opened the door he shoved her inside. Observing half of his brother's slaves still in chains and half wandering about the factory, he immediately fired his pistol into the air and told everyone to keep still. However, the released slaves started running at him. First shooting Jada in the head with his pistol, Peter dropped his pistol to the ground and held his AK-47 with both hands, aiming it at the onslaught. Unleashing its automatic firepower straight into their screams, he fired a hail of bullets back until everyone, even those still chained, lay dead on the ground.

Can Joe Bob really be dead?

After having firing an unnecessarily numerous amount of bullets into any body that showed even the smallest signs of life, Peter sprinted from the factory and into the main house where he discovered Joe Bob's corpse. Furious, Peter raced back downstairs and into the factory, continuing to riddle Joe Bob's dead slaves with bullets. His bloodlust not yet satisfied, he sped back to his plantation, having decided to mow down all his slaves as well.

However, by the time he arrived his pulse had slowed and he began thinking about the ramifications of killing the rest.

I gave the Jeffersonian Elites nearly the entire remainder of my life savings for these slaves. I have too much money invested to wipe them out in a fit of fury.

Besides, his hair brush production had been increasing and over the last nine months their work had brought him a good income.

Yes, Joe Bob is dead, but do you really want to throw that all away?

Therefore, Peter decided to sleep on the matter.

The next morning Peter felt as if he were awaking to a nightmare. The reality of his brother's death and the death of all his brother's slaves caused Peter to reevaluate his own situation and as he did so a horrific notion descended: None of my slaves now or in the future is going to give me an erection and my gargantuan cock is going to remain flaccid for the rest of my days.

Depressed and resigned, he returned to his brother's plantation to review the carnage. Once there, he realized that he had no way to dispose of 25 bodies. Seeing no other option, he called Mr. X and apprised him of the situation. Mr. X. listened quietly as Peter narrated both what he had done and what he imagined had occurred before he had arrived, ending his narration with the words, "Those monsters they took Joe Bob from me. They took away my innocent Joe Bob!"

Mr. X. gave Peter his condolences for the loss of his brother, saying, "You handled the situation quite well though Peter. Tell me, as you massacred those 25 Negros, what was it like? What was running through your head? And what do you think was running through their heads?"

As always after a killing, Peter gave Mr. X his play by play, again wondering what Mr. X did with this information or if perhaps it was just for his personal pleasure. Finally, after stating every detail remembered, Peter asked Mr. X what his next action should be, saying, "There aint no way I can dispose of no 25 bodies."

Mr. X replied, "I can arrange that. But Peter we have to talk about something else now. The reality of the situation is that Operation Modern Slave Plantation has been a failure and we are going to have to shut it down."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But I was also thinking that I might give it a little time, see how things progress, and if maybe things can get back to normal. I mean I still do have all my slaves," said Peter.

For a long time Mr. X did not say a word and Peter knew that this meant that Mr. X had not approved of his last statement.

That means he wants me to shut it down.

Mr. X unleashed a profanity laden rant, the gist of which meant that Operation Modern Slave Plantation had been immediately declared defunct. Peter apologized for his insolence. "And I don't mean to piss you off more here Mr. X, but the remaining 25 still constitute a sizeable investment for me. What do you want me to do, kill all them too?"

"I'm prepared to pay you ¼ price for the remaining 25," said Mr. X.

Peter knew better than to haggle with Mr. X.

Twenty five percent is better than nothing, and I can still sell this land and these buildings – no one will know what happened here...

"What are you going to do with them? Are there other slave plantations out there?" Peter asked, suddenly wondering if he had not, as he had assumed, founded the first modern slave plantation. However, the moment he finished asking the question he regretted having asked it, as Mr. X's answer consisted of a barrage of profanities. Finally, after more apologizing, Peter was allowed to end the call. Looking over the 25 dead bodies one last time, he wondered if any of his slaves had ever suspected that their lives had become expendable commodities because of his penis's continued flaccidity.

But surely Negros have died for lesser causes...

Grey Cliff Lodge, Area Two: Ralph listened intently as Alburt told him the story of the failed slave plantation. Although he knew it was good fortune for his family that the plantation had failed, he could not help empathizing with Peter.

Alburt, perhaps noticing Ralph's expression said, "What is it Ralph?"

Ralph replied, "I know that it great for us Thurmonds. But that man was trying to build something great. As you spoke and I thought about the idea of reinstituting slavery it just felt so --."

"Perfect?" Alburt offered.

"Yes, perfect, like all would be right in the world – like everything would be in its proper place again. Perhaps if all Negros were again slaves I wouldn't feel so horrible whenever I was standing next to one. The world would be a more comfortable almost as if we had never been born and we were still floating in our mother's wombs," said Ralph.

Alburt laughed.

"What?" asked Ralph, realizing he had allowed himself to get carried away.

"No, it's just, believe me Ralph, many people have had Peter's dream," said Alburt.

"What do you mean?" Ralph asked.

"Do you think he is the first to wish that we could revert to slavery? There are millions of Americans who would want nothing more. That if they could simply push a button and reinstitute slavery, they would push the button without a second thought and be much happier for it," said Alburt.

"Really?" Ralph asked.

"Of course – Look at how stressed out people are these days! Working three jobs! Schedules full of activities. Never a time to just stop and relax – white America knows that reinstituting slavery would bring back their leisure time – that they could again spend time with their children – that they would have the time to attend more church services – that they would have more time for artistic pursuits," said Alburt.

"And many people think about this?" Ralph asked.

Alburt nodded.

"Then why don't' we do it?" Ralph asked.

"The fault is not ours Ralph. The fault is with the Negro. There are inferior creatures and as such are unfit to even be our slaves. But look at them now. Are they better for their freedom?"

"I don't know any black people. I avoid them," said Ralph.

"As well you should! But just turn on the television and watch the news. What do you see?" Alburt asked.

"Black people doing bad things," said Ralph.

"Exactly, every night, it the same thing over and over," said Alburt.

"So that is why we hunt them, because they are not fit to be slaves?" Ralph asked.

"After the Emancipation Proclamation, the Thurmond family thought about starting a slave plantation and it was heavily debated within the family. We Thurmonds have always enjoyed eating Negro flesh. Well ever since we were slave owners in the 1800's and we ate many of our slaves \--."

"We did?" Ralph interrupted, trying to imagine the scene: an orderly colonial plantation with bloody black flesh on porcelain plates.

"Yes. You see the reason our family was so successful was that our form of punishment was merely a threat: If you don't work very hard we will eat you," said Alburt.

"How did we get this idea?" Ralph asked.

"That's the funniest part! We didn't! It was the Negros who came on the slave ships. They thought we were white devils and that we meant to put them it a pot and cook them. Of course, we did not. But they kept persisting with this idea. Eventually a Thurmond tried it. And do you know what he discovered?" Alburt asked.

"Just how glorious the consumption of black flesh can be?" Ralph asked.

"Yes, and from then on we have eaten the Negro. And our slaves worked the hardest because they did not want to be eaten. Thus, our fortune was derived," said Alburt.

"And we have given up on the idea of slavery?" said Ralph.

"In a sense, it is no longer formal. But we have other means of control. The Thurmonds are just a small part of this control. But we all profit heavily. Once our profits have cleared for the year, we take this vacation and hunt the Negro," said Alburt.

"I feel very fortunate to be a Thurmond," said Ralph.

"Yes, these are plentiful times," said Alburt.

"So, when you were telling me about the failed slave plantation you mentioned the Jeffersonian Elites and that they sold us these Negros very cheap. Are we part of this group, the Jeffersonian Elites too?" Ralph asked.

"We are not. The Thurmond family is its own entity. And there are other families like us. And then there are other individuals like Peter. It a complicated network of highly privileged whites who all work together to profit from the misery of the Negro," said Alburt.

"So who are these other families?" Ralph asked.

"Mostly, they are unknown to us just as we are unknown to them. But what keeps us all connected is the Jeffersonian Elites. They run the show, said Alburt.

"How so?" Ralph asked.

"Well from time to time the Negro tries to rise. And each time behind the scenes, the Jeffersonian Elites strategize and determine new means for control. Different racist families have different specialties. Our specialty is finance. And depending on how the Negro is trying to rise the Jeffersonian Elites will get in contact with the appropriate family to squash the threat," said Alburt.

"Can you give me an example?" Ralph asked.

"Sure, during slavery the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted scientists to explain why Negros were inferior – and mainly by examining the size of their skull and determining that it was more ape-like than human, and thus because Negros were inferior the institution of slavery should continue for all time. The Jeffersonian Elites also enlisted the help of the church to declare that God wanted us to protect and rear the slave because they were the doomed children of Ham. But slaves, being the inferior creatures they are, kept complaining and doing things like running away. So they convinced enough stupid whites to start a war against the South. So then after slavery was ended the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted the help of politicians, this was a period called the Reconstruction, and we made it very difficult for Negros to vote. And then made laws to arrest them and put them in work gangs – these work gangs were highly profitable because again the white man did not have to pay the Negro. But the Negros continued to complain and the Civil Rights movement occurred. So the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted hit men and killed MLK, JFK, Robert Kennedy among others \--."

"Was Peter one of these hit men?"

"Yes, he was one of the best. That's why he could afford to buy all that land in Mississippi. Anyway, so the Negros believed that they had won some rights for themselves. So the Jeffersonian Elites enlisted the help of many in the judiciary and slowly behind the scenes chipped away at those rights – but not in obvious ways of course. And then eventually the Jeffersonian Elites hit upon a brilliant idea, something called the War on Crime. It has really been a War on the Negro. We knew that we could not start an overt War on the Negro because too many stupid whites would put up a stink. So we started a covert War on the Negro. And in keeping with its covert nature every once in while we arrest a white, what we refer to as a white martyr, so as to keep up the illusion that it is not really a War on the Negro. But the ratio is 9 to 1, 9 Negros for every 1 white. And the great thing about this is that with all this Negros in jail for small little offenses we profit on them while they are there --."

"We do?" Ralph asked.

Alburt laughed, "Of course, once the War on Crime began the Jeffersonian Elites realized that we would need many more jails to house the Negro. And now because there are so many Negros in jail America has the highest incarceration rate in the world by far. It has been a smashing success."

"So how do we profit from them in jail?" Ralph asked.

"Two ways: First we, or rather the Jeffersonian Elites, created the private prison industry. We were the first to start this in the world, no other country had it. Every time we throw another Negro in jail our shares prices go up. So the name of the game now is to keep increasing the incentives for the War on Crime. And we do! With our vast network we create laws and use federal money and do this quite well!" said Alburt.

"And what is the second way?" Ralph asked.

"We make them work while they are in jail. It like we have a slave class again! Many people don't realize, but customer service, when it is not say an Indian accent and sounds American, is often a jailed inmate. And we pay them pennies on the dollar! The system is beautiful. And it isn't just customer service, there is all sorts of work that we have them do," said Alburt.

"But what if the Negros stop getting in trouble and stop going to jail, won't the profitability go away?" Ralph.

"Of course it would yes – but that's why Negros get singled out by the police at an early age. We try to get them into the system as soon as possible. And of course we get them into the system for the very things that teenage whites are doing – but in their case we throw the book at them. Furthermore, we make it increasingly difficult for them to get out of the system. We have created a vast network of laws that takes away a myriad of rights once a person becomes a felon – and for blacks that often means just merely possessing marijuana – and once these rights are taken away, they essentially can't be productive in society – because for example they can't get licensed in a profession or apply for a job without declaring their felony status – and so they become outcasts and thus they stay oppressed and always end back in jail somehow. The whole system is set up so that the vast majority has no chance at success – though there will always be small exceptions of course – but the vast majority of Negros are put into the system as soon as possible, and then are kept in the system to keep our profitability moving."

"How do we keep them in the system?"

"Various methods, such as mandatory sentences – thus even if they have a sympathetic judge, the judge will have no choice but to give a harsh sentence because we have created law: mandatory sentences... So you see even though reinstituting slavery sounds like a grand idea on the surface, it really doesn't make sense anymore. Because there will always be stupid whites who will think that the Negro should be free, we have found more clever ways to keep the institution going. And admittedly there are some smart Negros, I won't deny that fact. But however they plan and adapt, white America will be smarter and white America will be more clever and white America will continue to profit from their misery, and best of all we will continue to --."

"Eat their flesh," Ralph interrupted.

"Yes, eat their flesh --."

"But isn't the Negro rising again? Obama is mixed race but most Americans consider him all black, so if he wins the election to their minds we will have a black president," said Ralph.

"First off, it is the official policy of the Thurmond Family and especially the Grey Cliff lodge to ascribe to the one-drop rule. That means that if a person has even one drop of Negro in them to our minds they are all Negro. So the Thurmond family, as do most Americans, view Obama as 100% black. Because he is 50% black his 50% Irish make up is declared null and void. Do you understand?" Alburt asked.

"Yes, that certainly makes sense to me," said Ralph.

"Good, second this was yet another brilliant plan on the part of the Jeffersonian Elites," said Alburt.

"What?" Ralph asked, not yet following his train of reasoning.

"Obama! They have been behind his rise. They fully support him. They want him to win the general election," said Alburt.

"But why?" Ralph asked.

"Since the early 1800's when slavery was legal the world has changed. Racists can no longer be overtly racist. There are too many stupid whites, and annoying laws, for that to occur. Therefore, white America has been inculcated through propaganda created primarily by the Jeffersonian Elites and provided to schools and popular culture that overt racism is bad – which means something like blatant discrimination, like saying to a black during a job interview, 'I am not hiring you because you are black.'"

"But why would the Jeffersonian Elites create propaganda declaring that overt racism is bad?" Ralph asked.

"Because they saw that the world had changed and they knew that white America had to adapt. Whites are as racist as they have ever been but they can no longer go around calling people 'nigger' and wearing white hoods and burning crosses on front lawns and doing fun things like that. Now racism has to be below the surface. The first step in this process was to give white Americans the knowledge about how not to be overtly racist. And the gist of this instruction is that so long as you don't call blacks 'niggers' and you are not overtly racist then you can then be as racist as you want. And that was the system the Jeffersonian Elites have built for present day America.

"So how does this all relate to Obama?" Ralph asked.

"Okay, so like I just said, nowadays all successful racism needs to occur under the surface – such as with the War on Crime which as I said is really a War on the Negro. Obama would appear on the surface to be a step forward for the Negro. And the inferior stupid creatures that they are they believe that he is! But Obama is exactly the opposite, he is many steps back and we are praying that the Jeffersonian Elites can enlist enough of their scattered racist networks to get this Negro elected," said Alburt.

"But why?" said Ralph.

"Okay, so white America puts a black man into office. What does that mean?" Alburt asked.

"I guess that white America is not racist," said Ralph.

"Exactly, it would appear that way wouldn't it? But you know from everything I have told you that the opposite is true. We are waging a War on the Negro at this very moment! And if any stupid whites try to point out that we are waging a hidden war all we have to do is say, 'How can that be the case? America would never do such a thing! American has elected a Negro President!"

"That's clever," said Ralph, shaking his head in amazement.

"But there is more to it than that. Another way we keep Negros in a continuous state of oppression is through discrimination at the work place. We don't hire them! Pretty much ever! And once whites vote for Obama they can wear this as a badge on their shirt or a bumper sticker on their car, to prove they are not overtly racist, and this then gives them the freedom to go on and make actual racist decision in life, such as not hiring the black man who just applied for a job at their business. And then that business owner can say, 'It was not because that man was black that I did not hire him. It was because I did not think he was fit for the job. And of course I am not racist I voted for Obama and he is 100% black,'" said Alburt.

"Wow, I never would have thought there are so many reasons why it is so beneficial to have Obama as President," said Ralph.

"There are many more. Here is just one. With Obama as President we can now judge all other Negros against him. He went to Harvard and he became President and we like him. We would like you Negro as well if you also went to Harvard and became President too. But how many Negros can really do this?" Alburt asked.

"So by voting Obama as our president we are telling white Americans that this is essentially the only Negro they have to like in their lifetime?" Ralph asked.

"Exactly! It is a trade-off of sorts. We bite the bullet and allow one Negro to achieve some glory, good for him clap-clap-clap. But on the other side we never have to talk to another Negro again. Obama becomes the one token Negro friend to prove that whites are not racist. And the token Negro friend is something that has long occurred in white circles. But now even the actual token Negro friend is out of a job! Because now the token Negro friend is virtual and on TV! And I must add that although this theory will be perfected if Obama is elected President, it didn't start with him," said Alburt.

"No?" Ralph asked.

"No, before Obama there was Opera of course. She has been the token black friend for millions and millions of white American housewives. The Jeffersonian Elites put her into power and it has worked marvelously. For those white American housewives it has already been 20 years since they have had to talk to another black person. And Opera was actually not even the first instance of this clever vein of thinking," said Alburt.

"Who came before her?" Ralph asked.

"Not a person but a thing: Affirmative Action. The Jeffersonian Elites have been completely behind Affirmative Action, it is brilliant!" Alburt exclaimed.

"But I don't understand. I've always heard that Affirmative Action is like racism against white people. That is allows some blacks to get into good schools, say Harvard, even if their test scores are lower than some whites who apply and do not get it," said Ralph.

"Yes, that's exactly it. But the reason it is so brilliant is also hidden in your definition. You said that Affirmative Action always some blacks to get into elite schools – you could change that statement to a few blacks. So just like with Obama we bite the bullet and allow a few blacks to succeed. But all the while we continuously debate the merits of Affirmative Action and this ties up all the brightest black minds in its defense. And while they are defending it and spending all their energy defending a program that will only ever allow a few blacks to succeed – and ironically just as we want them to succeed so that we can have those few black exceptions to prove that we are not really overtly racist: the token black successes – we are quietly waging a massive War on Negros and jailing them by the millions! So while we give many lifetime sentences for a third offense and sometimes the third offense is something as meaningless as stealing a two videos \--."

"Really?" Ralph asked.

"Oh, yes – mandatory sentences – so anyway, while millions of blacks are suffering in jail just as we want them to, the brightest black minds aren't trying to fight against the War on Crime, instead they spend all their energy fighting for a program that will only ever allow a few bright blacks to attend Harvard – and just as we want a few blacks to attend Harvard! It has been a masterful strategy by the Jeffersonian Elites!" Alburt exclaimed.

"I feel like I have much to learn," said Ralph.

"You have time. You are young. So why don't you pick a box so that you can begin the skinning and butchering," said Alburt.

"Is there any way for me to know who is inside the box before I pick it?" Ralph asked.

"Silly me! So over here on the left side, these 25 boxes come from the failed slave plantation. We don't know anything about these Negros, so I can't tell you say their life story. But on the right side are the Negros that the Thurmond family hand selected," said Alburt.

"Hand selected?" Ralph asked.

"Yes, as the year goes on we keep our eyes out for the choicest Negros. We Thurmonds in our day to day life keep a notebook of any Negros we come in contact who seem like they might make a good meal, and for whatever reason really. Then we give this list to the Jeffersonian Elites and they do the kidnapping for us. It's a wonderful system," said Alburt.

"So who are these people then?" Ralph asked.

"So here is the first box. The first box is empty. That was Jeremy's box..."

Two Weeks Earlier:

Bethesda, MD: Panhandling just really was not possible in Bethesda, Jeremy had discovered. The city was too small and the area too affluent, and even though his sign was honest -- disabled vet any help appreciated – he had frequent run-ins with the police no matter where he tried to set down panhandling roots. Eventually it would be back to D.C.

When a white van approached holding a twenty dollar bill from the window he thought it too good to be true, but the bill passed cleanly into his hand.

"Thank you very much sir," said Jeremy, trying to remember the last time he had been given such a large sum.

"It can't be easy doing that here?" said the man.

"No, sir – it is back to D.C. just as soon as I get me a bus ticket," said Jeremy.

"Washington? That's where I'm headed. I could give you a lift if you don't mind riding in the back," said the man in the driver's seat, while the man in the passenger's seat nodded in agreement.

"Oh, well I'm much obliged. That would be very helpful," said Jeremy, unable to believe his luck: a twenty dollar score and a free ride.

"Hop in, the door should slide right open. But if you want to go you have to get in now," said the driver.

"Thank you. Thank you. I will do just that," said Jeremy.

When Jeremy opened the side door it surprised him to see two men inside.

"We are off to Washington too. Come on in. There is room for us all," said the man, shuffling the big black box he sat on to the side.

Jeremy climbed inside the van and sat on a crate. After a few minutes of small talk he felt a sudden blow to his head and everything went black...

Great Falls, Virginia: Aysha had researched and knew that at the 2000 census Great Falls was 93% white and 1% African American. But Aysha had not moved to Great Falls for its laughingly absent racial diversity; she had moved there for its tight knit community. As the real estate agent had noted, there were over 20 public clubs that could be joined from the Great Falls Garden Club (Aysha lovedgardening), to the Great Falls Newcomers Clubs (Aysha and Darnell were now members), to the intriguingly named Great Falls Optimists Club (Aysha's attempts to convince Darnell to join, pessimist he was, had been fruitless).

At first Aysha worried about the race issue and wondered how she and Darnell, as an African American couple, would be welcomed to the Historical Society and the Newcomers Club. But aside from a couple of seemingly well intentioned, yet race ignorant remarks, she quite enjoyed the company of these well-bred and well-off white folk (Great Falls median income, approximately $200,000).

However, the same could not be said of Darnell's impressions of Great Falls mingling. Although he clearly enjoyed bidding at Great Falls Historical Society benefit auctions (most recently winning a decorative plate straight from the White House) he bristled when the old socialite men teased him with their reoccurring joke about his status as a stay-at-home spouse. On one occasion he had replied, "I'm not a stay-at-home spouse. I'm a writer." And then a bald lawyer with an alcoholic's nose had asked him whether as an unpublished writer he considered himself a professional or a hobbyist. Aysha noted that Darnell looked as if he had been kicked between the legs.

Darnell was her world through and through but his writing drove her nuts. Most of his writing concerned racial inequalities. To Aysha his racial theories seemed well formed, yet as she pointed out, "I just wonder how marketable this all is. I know there is an African-American market but it is small. Maybe you should dream bigger."

That comment had turned into a blowout in which he eventually admitted that he despised living in a nearly all white town, saying, "You at least work in the city. For me it is a drain. It is killing me creatively..."

Since that argument she had attempted to always compliment and never criticize his writing.

When I criticize his writing he feels that I am criticizing him, and I don't want to do that. I feel that there is no more beautiful, soulful, man in this world...

Therefore during their late night dinners Aysha mostly talked about her podiatry practice and her colorful patients.

And now it was Darnell who had begun to tease her, saying things like, "Feet, Feet, Feet – all you want to talk about is feet. I should have married a plastic surgeon so that we could talk about, breasts, butts, and lips..."

Rare was the day that could be spent entirely in Darnell's company: patients, clubs, and chores took up the vast bulk of her time. However, Aysha had taken a personal day and planned to spend the next 24 hours reconnecting with Darnell. First she cooked him breakfast. And when Darnell opened the front door to fetch the Washington Post – his duty since they had relocated to Great Falls from D.C. 12 months prior – she told him that today she would make the trek to driveway's end.

Darnell laughed, replying, "Now I know that you surely trying to butter me up for something. Don't tell me that there is another Great Falls Club to join?"

"I promise no more clubs," said Aysha.

"Does that mean you aren't going to pester me about joining the Great Falls Optimists Club anymore?" said Darnell.

"That – like those pancakes that you have not finished -- is still on the table," said Aysha, smiling.

"You just don't give up. No baby, I'll get the Post. If I didn't, I think maybe the world would stop turning," said Darnell, already slipper-footed.

"And ask that white van what is going on," shouted Aysha, the last of her bacon still in her mouth. "They have been down there all morning."

Darnell confirmed he'd heard her comment by waving to the window and Aysha got up from the table and poured two more glasses of orange juice. By the time she placed the glasses on the table she could still see the van and the Washington Post at the end of driveway, but she could not see Darnell. Curious, she slid on her slippers and literally scratched her head while calling her husband's name. Hearing no answer she walked to the end of the driveway, peered down at the Post as if it might have consumed Darnell, and then turned her head 180 degrees from left to right.

Walking within a few feet of the white van, she could hear a muffled rumbling from within. Somewhat nervous she looked around for help but there was no one else outside. Her cell phone was on the kitchen island. In the front of the van two men read newspapers. She tapped the glass -- thinking it absurd that in this moment of semi-panic she still had the wherewithal not to tap so hard as to chip her newly manicured nails -- and the man in the passenger seat rolled down his window.

"I'm looking for my husband. Did you see a man out here?" Aysha asked, while analyzing the inside of the van. But nothing seemed odd and the men were both well-dressed.

"Sorry, I've sort of had my head buried in this sport's story. What does he look like? I'll keep an eye out," said the man.

"Never mind, but thank you," said Aysha and the man nodded. It was preposterous. Where had he gone?

Probably just in the backyard doing something...

As Aysha began walking back the van door slid open and two men dressed in all black jumped out and grabbed her by the shoulders and waist. She tried to scream but something covered her mouth. She tried to fight back but they were too strong. Suddenly everything went black.

She woke up to a man whispering in her ear, "You should have stayed in D.C. Negro. You should have stayed in the city where Negros belong..."

Vienna, VA: At this point Mariah was The Vienna Theatre Company's only black actress and she thought it obvious that Jenny, a beautiful blonde, didn't like playing a supporting role. However, Mariah found Ted, the male lead, to be unabashedly sexy and during tonight's performance she had felt something more than the standard play kiss.

Does he have feelings for me?

She had refused a ride home from him.

I don't want to come off as too easy...but if he asks again I will say yes.

The walk to her apartment was short, but still she carried mace. When a white van pulled beside her, she didn't think it suspicious, but when the side door swung open while the van was still moving she instinctively began running. Horrified, she realized that a person dressed in black had jumped from the moving van and was sprinting in her direction. Although she was running as fast as she could -- he caught her by the neck, wrestling the mace from her hand. Then a second person grabbed her, and though she was now screaming, they threw her into the van, slamming the side door shut. Immediately her eyes were covered, her mouth was gagged and her legs and feet were tied together. The van seemed to be driving very fast and once it slowed she felt a hand upon her head and heard someone say, "That was an awful performance – so awful that you must now die a torturous death..."

Potomac, MD: Joseph, an African-American in his mid forties, had mixed feelings about racial profiling. On one hand he had been a victim of the practice multiple times, from overzealous department store security accusing him of stealing the pants he was wearing to having the police called on him for watching his children play at a public park.

What the police told me is that the caller said that I looked suspicious. What the caller had obviously meant it that I looked black.

However, as a member of the Homeland Security Terror Watch Task Force, racial profiling was a necessity. That did not mean that Homeland discounted the fact that anyone could be a terrorist because they did not and all leads were followed – but the smart money focused on individuals with ties to groups connected, no matter how tenuously, to terror organizations. 99.99% of the time these people would be innocent but still when big collars were made they were made through these connections, and usually individuals with these connections, on American soil, fell into 1 of 2 racial groups, Middle Eastern or African American.

Potomac seemed as unlikely a place for a terror cell as Walt Disney world – which was exactly why Joseph watched Izabal and Muhammad which an especially keen eye.

Terror groups have learned to adapt and what better place to locate a cell than right in the lion's den, Potomac: the place where thousands of government employees commute to D.C.

Thus far their activities had not been suspicious and unless something quickly materialized a court-ordered wiretap would not be granted. For the last couple of days Joseph had noticed a white van with a missing front left hub trailing his SUV, and as he passed time in a pricy Potomac Village coffee shop he spotted the van again. Deciding to memorize the van's license plate he walked out of the coffee shop and towards the van, though once he noticed two white men sitting in the front he thought the likelihood of them belonging to a terror group to be low – white domestic terrorists traditionally work alone -- and decided to just ask them their deal.

Are these guys internal affairs? I don't care. I don't have anything to hide.

As he stood in front of the van, his arms crossed, the man in the passenger's seat lowered his window. "Can I help you?" he said, slightly sticking his head out the window.

"You can tell me why you've been following me?" said Joseph.

"We have a message from Scott Johnson?" said the man. Scott Johnson was Joseph's superior director at Homeland Security

"Why doesn't Scott just tell me himself?" said Joseph, now certain these guys were internal affairs.

"Because he is busy – open the side door, we need you took look at something," said the man.

"I don't understand I approached you. If I hadn't approached you would you have just waited here all day?" Joseph asked.

"We couldn't risk blowing your cover – but you are doing a pretty good job of that right now," said the man.

Something didn't feel quite right and yet against his better judgment Joseph slid the side door open. There were two men inside wearing suits.

"Quick, shut the door," said one of the men.

"Who are you guys?" Joseph asked.

"FBI – quick," said the man nodding at the door while flashing a badge.

Joseph shut the door and then felt a massive blow on his head. When he woke up he was tied and blind-folded.

"What gives you the right to carry a gun as a Negro?" asked a man with a deep voice. He felt a hard pain in his gut, probably a fist.

"Answer the question?" said a different voice. As of yet he hadn't heard a Middle Eastern accent, which confused him because he didn't think it possible for so many Americans to be colluding with a terror group at a street level.

"That's part of my job," Joseph replied and almost instantly he felt another hard pain in his gut.

"No it isn't. You've been fired. Now it's your job to die..."

Mclean, Virginia: Kenny thought Mclean a strange place for a hockey match because as the location of the CIA headquarters he wondered just who was watching from the stadium seats.

Big brother?

Having given up all other sports, hockey was Kenny's passion. Gliding fleetly on skates and colliding while padded made him feel superhuman. He thought whoever invented the game to be a genius. Playing year round in a variety of leagues, a college scholarship seemed probable. More than one college scout had joked with him about his race because in high school hockey-playing-African-Americans are a rarity; hockey is the same season as basketball and most African American high school students follow the stereotype and play basketball. But Kenny, a hockey standout, had always preferred the swift cleanness of the ice to the squeaky grind of the court.

Tonight he had scored 5 goals and had single-handedly won the game. After celebrating in the locker room by engaging in some ill-advised (by the coach) full padded boxing with his teammates, he removed his gear and packed his massive hockey bag. As his friends left, he told them to meet him later because he wanted to play some video games in the main lobby. He spent $7 on a hockey arcade game, walked outside to the parking lot and dumped his gear into his trunk. A man in a white van asked him if he had a cigarette.

"Sorry I don't smoke," said Kenny, looking around for his smoker teammates, but the parking lot was empty so he added, "Sorry man."

"That's okay. I should quit anyway," said the man, who then motioned to the side of his van. "I don't mean to impose, but I've got to drop off this trunk to the main office and it looks like no one else is around. I'll give you $10 bucks if you help me."

That money could be put to use improving his arcade skills, so Kenny agreed. The man hopped out of the front seat, smiled at Kenny, and then opened the side door. Before the door was completely open he turned to Kenny, grabbed him by the shirt and attempted to manhandle him into the van. But Kenny, trying to squirm away, would not be moved from his position and he began to scream and punch. He landed a couple of punches when two more men grabbed him, and then all three hurled him inside the van. Once inside the three men dropped all their weight on him, restraining most of his movements and after a few minutes had him hogtied.

"You should have played basketball," said one of the men.

Wondering if this was some elaborate high school prank, Kenny replied, "Fuck basketball."

A voice, undoubtedly a malicious voice, replied, "Wrong answer. The right answer is that soon you will beg for life and then you will beg to be killed and then just when you think death with never come you will experience a pain you did not think possible and then your corpse will be roasted and eaten...basketball would have been easier."

Irvington, VA: Sometimes Joan felt absurd delivering the mail in Irvington because (1) she could never afford to live there and (2) she believed herself to be the first African American that many of the residents had ever seen – at least it certainly appeared that way judging by many of the resident's stunned expressions when she began delivering Irvington's mail. "What happened to Wally?" was a question she often fielded four years ago – but eventually she understood the residents to really be asking, "Why was Wally replaced by you," emphasis on the African American part of 'you'.

But now that she had become a part of the small town routine (population 700) the surprised looks had faded and the residents on her mail route had become cordial. In ten more years she would have her pension and all the saving and scrapping that she had endured to send her two children to college would be worth it. But for now it was one day at a time, one street at a time, one mailbox at a time – and not insignificantly the chief perk to working in an upscale town like Irvington is the organized mailbox ubiquity that makes annoying door delivery unnecessary, though Joan doubted that accommodating motive had been on the minds of the wealthy homeowners when they cemented their mailboxes into their front lawns.

They just want to keep the plebians as far away from their front door as possible.

Today Joan observed a white van parked, street-side, on three different occasions, an observation which she found noteworthy because if Irvington followed anything it followed routine and an unmarked white van was not part of that routine. When Joan saw the van for a fourth time, she approached it, wondering if it were some government spy vehicle filled with million dollar technical equipment. As she neared, the side door swung open and two men jumped out. Perplexed, Joan continued to approach the van and was taken completely unaware when they violently grasped her clothing, muffled her screams, and wrestled her inside -- the neighborhood sprinklers continuing peacefully as if her screams had never occurred.

Georgetown: Bruce had finally compiled his phony background checks. He would have produced them earlier but he did not think that the Thurmond family would be such sticklers. Thinking it made sense to make amends with Charles, he had decided to deliver the documents directly to him.

"Should I wait?" asked the taxi-driver.

Bruce considered the pros and cons of having the driver wait, deciding to call another cab when the photography session had ended.

"Come in," said Charles, wearing a hooded black robe.

"That is quite a different outfit compared to what you were wearing last time. Are you sure you want me to photograph you in that?" said Bruce, trying to make light of its oddity.

"Yes, this is my favorite outfit. I call it the Last Outfit, because for some people it is the last outfit that they ever see," said Charles.

This guy still gives me the creeps...

"So here are my documents," said Bruce, handing Charles a manila folder with his forged background checks.

"But we both know these documents aren't accurate," said Charles, grinning eerily.

"What do you mean?" said Bruce, trying to play shocked.

Does he know? Does he have a PI trailing me?

Suddenly two more people walked into the room, also both wearing black robes. It was not often that he had to display his concealed weapon, but this seemed to be one such a time. However, before he had a chance to do anything, he felt a crash upon his skull and everything went black.

When he woke up everything was still black and he began screaming. Running his fingers over his confines he reached the chilling conclusion that he had been placed inside a box...

Location Unknown: Her last memory was leaving her gym. She had run two miles on a treadmill.

Where have I been taken? Why is this man peeling the skin from my body? And why can't I get his stupid sick song out of my head?

An old man with white hair and a disarmingly avuncular face had used an assortment of shiny medical instruments to literally peel swaths of skin from her body. Her hands were tied. She sat on a wooden chair. The room had cement walls and was empty, except for a black wooden table with white candles, a chair, a plate, and a bottle of red wine. When the peeling sessions began a mechanical rig lifted the rope tying her hands until she was forced to stand with her hands high above her head. The man made no statements and answered none of her questions. However, he sang a gruesome song with a tune similar to ring around the roses, a song that remained in Lily's mind as stubbornly as a jingle, "A little piece of your flesh. A little piece of your flesh. I little piece of your flesh. I little piece for meeeeeee."

After he forced her to write a suicide note she feared that all was lost. When she asked him the purpose of such a note, he had punched her directly in the nose. The pain stung like hell but that hard punch was the hand of mercy compared to the flaying of her flesh. In some places her skin had begun to rot, multi-colored puss scabs peppering her body like the skin of a mangy dog. Recently her crying bouts had ceased.

Resigned to her fate, death, she consoled herself with the thought that while her life would be short others had lived lives even shorter and that while it appeared her end would be cruel her life had been good. But this type of relative rationalization only kept her sane for so long – eventually she descended into a type of delusional madness that only those experienced with hopeless solitary confinement can identify. When the old man appeared to feed her – she guessed it to be every couple of days because in her cell there was no way to calculate time – she would attempt conversation but he never talked unless it was to demand an action, like the writing of a suicide note.

One day he told her that soon she would be moved, that she would make a trip with him and that if she tried to do anything stupid during the course of this trip she would be the recipient of horrible things, things so horrible that she couldn't even imagine them...

Grey Cliff, Area Two: Ralph carefully considered who he most wanted to skin. The mailwomen, the hockey player, and the Homeland Security agent all seemed appealing. But the final box, the box of the girl who had already had begun to have some of her skin peeled had a story that was remarkably devoid of details. So Ralph said, "I want to know more about the girl in the last box. She sounds interesting, mysterious even."

Alburt smiled and then said, "You're just like your pop. I can't get anything past you. No, I tried to make her sound boring so that you wouldn't pick her. But you sensed I was hiding something. Your father told me you could pick any box, except that box. That is the box that your father took with you in the SUV."

"That box?" said Ralph, approaching the box and sliding his hand over the top. He brought his fist down hard upon the top of the box and quickly put his ear to the box's side. At first he heard nothing but after a moment he sensed movement.

I can feel her trembling.

Ralph said, "So my father has been skinning the girl inside. Has he been skinning at my house? Do we take the wonders of Grey Cliff with us outside the confines of the Camp?"

"Well, we obviously do because we eat the venison year round. But sometimes Ralph the venison does not last. And even sometimes when we still have a perfectly good supply of venison we crave fresh meat. So yes, most Grey Cliff members do hunt year round. But those experiences are nothing compared to the glory and camaraderie that you will find here at Grey Cliff," said Alburt.

"Who is she?" Ralph asked.

"Sorry Ralph, strict orders from your Pop that it needs to stay a secret for the time being," said Alburt.

"I thought the secrets were over now? You just told me a lot about the Jeffersonian Elites anyway," said Ralph.

"Ah, but you still aren't a full member yet. So we still get to haze you a little bit. But don't worry. I think your dad has something special in mind for this box. You'll get to view the contents eventually. So who is it going to be?" Alburt asked.

After playing the stories back through his mind Ralph chose the Homeland Security agent.

"A marvelous decision indeed!" Alburt declared.

Alburt loaded the box into an elevator. Ralph followed.

As the elevator rose, Ralph noted that Alburt seemed to be in high spirits, which was odd, because whenever Ralph had observed Alburt at family events he had always seemed sullen and cold, and Ralph said, "You really like this place don't you?"

Alburt sighed. Then he said, "There is a Negro inside that box, half skinned, and probably ready to die. I don't profess to understand blacks: all I understand about them is that they make marvelous profit machines and morsels of meat. And I know that a black and a white have nothing in common, just as tissue paper and a hockey puck have nothing in common. Yet when the hunting seasons ends, and I step away from Grey Cliff, and I step back into my ordinary life, a civilized member of so-called civilized society, for a moment, just a moment, I believe that I can relate to the Negro and that we do have something in common, because for that first moment away from Grey Cliff I think I feel exactly as does a half-skinned Negro in a box."

"It is that bad for you to be away?" Ralph asked.

"You will soon be a member of Grey Cliff and we share all -- well most -- secrets. So I will tell you this about myself: I seek psychiatric help to deal with my Grey Cliff withdrawals," said Alburt.

"But you can't --."

"No, I don't tell my psychiatrist the details. He would pretend not to understand, though I suspect that deep down he would..."

The elevator opened and they arrived in a room with a medical ambiance: white padded walls, wooden tables, and many stainless steel instruments. All the members of Grey Cliff were waiting, dressed in white medical attire.

"Charles!" said Ralph.

"Yes, I have just arrived, business, and successful business at that kept me away. But I am here now. When I heard that you made a glorious first kill with a single shot to the neck, I couldn't help but think, 'That sounds exactly like the type of shot Mick has made many a time!'"

Ralph blushed and hugged Charles. Donald approached with a wrapped present. Ralph recognized the present as the one he had earlier been shown in the helicopter.

Ralph smiled and unwrapped the present. It was a shiny black knife.

"A skinning knife?" Ralph asked.

Donald nodded and Ralph expressed his thanks. After Charles and Donald discussed the skinning procedure, Ralph was presented with white medical attire. As he changed, the black box was opened and Joseph, the Homeland Security Agent peered carefully out. But just as he did, Mick brought a hammer down hard upon his head, knocking him unconscious.

"How did you know that wouldn't kill him?" Ralph asked, now changed into his medical outfit.

"I didn't," Mick replied.

"For a couple of years we had to take the hammering duty away from him because his touch was little too hard," Donald reminisced.

Joseph was lifted naked onto the wooden table and fastened into restraints. By the time he regained consciousness, a mouth gag had been applied. His muffled attempts at shouting continued until Mick shouted "Zip It!" and bashed his knee cap with his hammer.

The Homeland Security agent now quiet, Donald put his left hand on the right side of Ralph's head and Charles put his right hand on the left side of Ralph's head and the two brothers said in unison, "We are the co-presidents of the honorable Grey Cliff Lodge! We bear witness to what will be a glorious skinning procedure! We are prepared to welcome a new Grey Cliff member into our ranks! We salute you! We salute Thurmond glory! And we shall feast with the flesh of your glory..."

When their speech ended, Joseph again began screaming, and it seemed that Mick was prepared for this turn of events because he again brought the hammer down upon knee cap.

"When should I begin?" Ralph asked.

"At your leisure," said Donald.

"And where do I begin?" Ralph asked.

"At your discretion," said Donald.

"This really is like some dream. But it's like a dream that I never even knew that I had. So now as I approach it I feel that I am walking in a dream," said Ralph, as he scanned Joseph's body. "There are so many possibilities that I just don't know where to start: the bottom of his feet, or perhaps the back of his ear, the flesh of his inside thigh, or maybe the side of his neck..."

The Grey Cliff members laughed heartily, and Mick said, "The last time I saw him like this was when he was six years old and I took him for the first time into the ice cream shop."

"And what flavor did he choose?" Charles asked.

"I don't remember. There was a Negro behind the counter and my mind was fixated on her, actually we ate her in 88 --."

"Yes I remember the ice cream girl. She had that scooping muscle in her right arm," said Charles, wistfully.

Ralph was about to begin, having chosen to make his first incision in the middle of Joseph's nose, when Mick shouted, "Stop Ralph!"

"What is the matter?" Charles asked.

Mick said, "I held back a skinning option. I feared that he might not be ready. But I can see from the inherent pleasure in his eyes that he will do just fine."

"The final box? The one that we took with us in the SUV," Ralph said.

"Yes, she should be your first. And we should let the boy do her ungagged," said Ralph.

"Ungagged? That is a challenge for a first time," said Alburt.

"The boy could fail..." said Charles.

A debate ensued, but eventually it was decided that Ralph should be given the chance and the final box was delivered into the medical room.

"Who is she?" Ralph asked.

"You will see soon enough?" Mick replied.

"Then I know her?" Ralph asked.

Mick smiled as the top of the box popped open. The girl peered out and the Grey Cliff members grabbed her while she screamed. Still screaming, she was thrust upon the wooden table and restraints were applied. The girl had been thrashing around with such violence that Ralph had not had the opportunity to discern her face, but once she had been subdued on the wooden table Ralph said with noticeable surprise in his voice, "Lily?"

"Ralph! Help me! Help me Ralph!" Lily cried.

Charles said, "Oh, this is simply delicious, she has recognized him immediately. What is the nature of their relationship?"

Mick said, "They go to the same high school."

Lily continued to cry for Ralph's help, and Ralph crept to the back of the room. He had placed the knife down and was sitting in a chair. Ralph had known Lily since first grade and they had often been placed in the same homerooms because they had similar last names. Many of Lily's friends were cute and popular, just as Lily was cute and popular.

Ralph had a difficult time talking to most girls, but Lily seemed different. She joked easily and did not seem standoffish in the least. Furthermore, she was intelligent and had many times allowed Ralph to copy her homework or cheat off her paper during tests. They had even sat at the same lunch table during two years in middle school.

Yet Ralph never would have guessed the prisoner to be Lily because Ralph had never thought of Lily as black – he'd always thought of her as being just as white as her name.

But Ralph wondered if perhaps he had not been mistaken about Lily. For one thing, had Lily really been as nice as he had remembered? When she had allowed him to borrow her pencil had that been a smile or a smirk? When she allowed him to cheat off her test did she roll her eyes because she thought him silly or stupid? When she had freely joked with him was it because she found him friendly or so insignificant that it did not matter what she said?

But did these queries justify a skinning?

For I am not a barbarian good Sir!

These matters would only justify perhaps a gossipy Facebook post. No, at issue here was the very essence of Lily, or rather her race.

Have my eyes deceived me. I loathe black people. So why did I not loathe Lily?

And again Ralph probed his memories for falsities. Hadn't he always thought Lily had a little too much booty for a white girl?

For all these years, stealing glances at her rotund behind, packed into her tight jeans and leggings, I'd believed that I was feeling an attraction – but was it more like a curiosity, a wondering, a disbelief that a white girl could have an ass that nice?

Hadn't Lily always moved between social clicks with too much ease? She did not sit at just one lunch table. She did not joke around with just one group of people.

Was that because she herself did not know where she belonged? Perhaps she did not wish to admit it! Perhaps she has been trying to pass herself off as a white!

And Ralph realized that she wore no signs to display her blackness – no hoop earrings, no cheap bling, no bandanas.

And yet hadn't Ralph always sensed oddness about her? Once during an English final, she had allowed him to copy her multiple choice questions and he'd come within the realm of her personal scent, a scent which he had assumed was poorly chosen perfume, but now he wondered if that smell had been a stink.

Of her Negro soul?

And try as she might to wrap herself in ribbons and bows and fashion her hair in pigtails and curls, wouldn't that stink rise to the surface as will the stink of even a well-cared-for septic tank?

Ralph said weakly, "You mean she isn't white?"

Mick replied, "I know she looks that way son, and in the right light she might even pass for a white person. But I did the research. Her grandmother on her mother's side was a Negro."

Ralph did the math, "But then she is only ¼ black."

Mick replied, "Actually she is more like 1/8th. Her grandmother was mixed herself. But don't let her straight hair, those green eyes, and that light skin fool you. We don't skin Negros because they are black. We skin Negros because they are Negros. Once you get closer to her, once you smell the essence of her flesh, you will sense it too. Do not look at her with your eyes. Look at her with your soul."

Slowly Ralph stood back up and walked over to his classmate, her cries for help becoming louder and more imploring.

"So your grandmother was African American?" Ralph asked. But it was a rhetorical question. Ralph did not need an answer. That wafting stink of her soul had already lilted under his nose, a smell which nearly brought him to his knees. He had taken the knife back into his hand and it felt good and right, the way that one feels good and right after showering early, eating a hearty breakfast, and dressing smartly for the day.

Versed in the Greek classics (a graduation requirement at his private high school), Ralph sensed the tragedy of the moment. Lily wished to be white and put so much effort into the performance that she almost seemed the part. And yet because she was not, the tragedy of her deception would be a horrific death at the hands of an old friend.

If she had identified herself with her race, say worn hoop earrings, this never would have happened.

For Alburt declared that we hand pick – surely she was handpicked by my father because she was attempting to pass herself.

"Why? Is that why that sick fuck has been peeling my skin from my body?" Lily said.

"That sick fuck is my father," said Ralph.

"That's your father?" Lily said with incredulity.

"You lied to me Lily. I thought we were friends. I thought we were the same," said Ralph, on the verge of tears.

"We are and we have always been friends. Tiffany wanted to break up with you but I told her not to. I told her you were a good guy, a nice guy \--."

"Tiffany and I are no longer an item," said Ralph.

"Isn't it delicious how she tries to bargain for her life?" said Alburt to Donald.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Ralph. Let me talk to her. Get me a phone and I'll call her now," said Lily.

"Yeah that's going to happen," said Ralph.

"Ralph we've always been friends, please help me. Tell them this is a mistake. I have that picture you drew me earlier this year in art class on my fridge still," said Lily, crying.

Ralph remembered the picture. It was a picture of a lily and so he had thought it made sense to give it to Lily. Ralph replied, "I never should have given you that picture."

"Why?" said Lily, sobbing hysterically.

"Because I thought you were like a lily. But you aren't. And now because of that lie I am going to have to peel the flesh off your body and then I am going to have to eat your flesh with my family and that is just the way it is," said Ralph.

"What the fuck Ralph? Who the fuck are you!" Lily screamed.

"No, Lily, who the fuck are you..." 

### Chapter Nine

Jeffersonian Elite Headquarters: The phony PBS documentary team, composed of Jeffersonian Elites, had installed cameras throughout Zachary's home and had also bugged his car. The Jeffersonian Elite team assigned to monitoring Zachary's actions decided that he posed no threat. After all, Zachary had finished his testing of their associates – the Thurmonds – and had found them to be a normal American family.

Dufus!

Therefore, they stopped analyzing the audio and took a break from their work by watching an old favorite, an intense love making session between Zachary and Jasmine that had occurred on Zachary's bedroom floor.

Montana: As Zachary and Jasmine hiked past the boundaries of their park map, they joked that they should have followed the Blackfeet's example and retreated. There was eeriness afloat: too many craggy trees, too many unknown sounds, too many cloudy surges of gnats. The weather had turned with dark skies seeming ready to rain but then never raining. And a group of foreboding birds had begun periodically appearing, disappearing, and reappearing again. They were blackbirds, not ravens, but Zachary thought the opportunity too good to miss and from time to time gloomily whispered to Jasmine, "Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'"

Although they had allocated carefully, their food had begun to run low and so they took a short rest and considered whether they should return.

"These bugs want us to keep going. They like my blood," said Jasmine.

"Mine too," said Zachary, slapping a mosquito on his neck.

Unlike Windsor these bugs enjoy the flesh of all races.

They decided to hike until day's end because Jasmine estimated that they could reach the mystery coordinates before nightfall. The dreary landscape gave way to depressing conversation and Jasmine began speaking about the difficulties that African Americans have experienced since their forced arrival in slave ships.

After speaking about slavery and various post-slavery-injustices, Jasmine continued by saying, "...So then African Americans were corralled into metropolitan areas through discriminatory housing processes. There is a good book you should read Zachary, called American Apartheid. It talks about how we have some national myth that, say Italians or Russians, lived in ghettos but then made their way out. And the fact that African Americans have not made their way out of ghettos is due to some failing on their part – some lack of motivation, some character deficit. But the reality is that, say Italians or Russians, never lived in ghettos. They lived in poor immigrant areas that were never as densely populated with say only Italians or only Russians as black ghettos have been with only African Americans. All sorts of statistical research in the book display this. The authors make the point that you should only call a place a ghetto once it is densely populated with a single race and that this has only occurred in American history with African Americans."

"Okay, so African Americans are corralled into one area, then what?" Zachary asked.

"Well, then it is pretty easy to discriminate against them isn't it? How will the schools in that area be? How will that local economy be? Will employers hire someone who hails from that area?" said Jasmine.

"Okay, so the ghetto is a vulnerable spot..."

"Well, to take us to present day, it presented a great opportunity for politicians. Nothing sells like fear – companies know this. Therefore, it was only natural for politicians to eventually apply this principle. Who are the majority of voters? White people. What do the white people fear? Black people. So Regan pushed the War on Crime and the rest has been history," said Jasmine.

"Yes, I remember hearing you talk about this on your show. But overall why has the War on Crime been bad for African Americans?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine replied, "Another good book is 'The New Jim Crow.' It's clear and straight to the point and you should really read it --."

"I will," said Zachary.

"But what it explains in a nutshell is that..."

As Zachary listened he became depressed about the state of affairs in America, and it occurred to him that while he passed judgment upon Thomas Jefferson and others for owning slaves, he wondered how his own progeny – if I ever have children \-- would judge him for failing the African Americans of present day America.

I feel like I don't consciously contribute to the difficulties of African Americans, but what have I done to change things? Worse, I just made a boat load of money from an employer who wishes to eat their flesh. Maybe I should change my priorities...

Jasmine continued, "And a lot of white people today think that everything would be fine and dandy if everyone were colorblind, as if colorblindness is what we should strive for."

Windsor has achieved it...

"That would be good wouldn't it? If instead of looking at someone and saying, 'Hey that is a black person' or 'Hey that is a white person' just saying 'Hey that is a person.'"

"The problem is the underlying baggage that comes with race in American and because of that baggage race is not a neutral division, such as the division of whether a person has blue eyes or brown eyes. Furthermore, you know as a psychologist that humans make a vast amount of decisions below the surface, subconsciously, and our culture is inundated with negative stereotypes about black people. So when white people make decisions about black people, like whether they are qualified for a job, they might really be relying on subconscious stereotypes – but all the while thinking they are not because they are so-called colorblind. So rather than professing to be colorblind it would be better if people, both whites and blacks, would recognize someone's race and then recognize how this might affect their thinking about them."

Ironically, Windsor has recognized that when he recognizes someone as being black it causes him to strongly desire to eat them and therefore for their safety and for his ability to function in the world he must be colorblind.

"Okay, I follow you," said Zachary.

"The problem is that many people don't. They don't realize..."

As Jasmine continued speaking, Zachary noted that her argument could be bolstered by his trace CMR data, data which indicated that many whites have trace CMR – and though Zachary was confident that these minute longings of the general public to murder and eat blacks would never rise to the surface of consciousness, the fact was that these trace longings were nevertheless commonly buried deep within the white psyche.

And I wonder how that affects how whites interact with blacks on a day to day basis?

Grey Cliff, Area Two: After the skinning procedure had concluded, Charles drained Lily's blood, butchered Lily's body, and prepared her meat for Ralph's inaugural feast. The feast would not begin for another two hours and Ralph could take the opportunity, as Charles put it, "To continue wallowing in your already obtained glory." In actuality, Ralph and his father retired into the Grey Cliff Tea Room to share a few of beers.

"I don't like the taste," said Ralph.

"Unlike that first taste of black flesh people never like the taste of their first beer," said Mick

As they each drank a few more, Mick told Ralph highlights of his Grey Cliff achievements.

Eventually Ralph said, "I don't think I'm ever going to measure up to you."

Mick replied, "Son, you don't have to. All you have to do is grow into your own man. Just because I achieve certain kinds of glory here at Grey Cliff doesn't mean you have to achieve the same kinds of glory."

Their beers concluded, Mick instructed Ralph to arrive at the feast with his hair neatly parted.

Ralph replied, "Father, you no longer have to treat me like a boy. I know this is a ceremonial occasion and so of course I will brush my hair."

"Son, I have wanted you to be a man for some time. But now that the time has come I feel some sadness that you have grown so quickly. And I have found myself looking back upon your formative years, and thinking about the milestones in your life, your first word, first step, and first day of school. I'd always hoped that all of that would lead here. But then with Kolby things changed --."

"Father, what happened with Kolby and the others? How did they fail? In what area were they deficient?" Ralph asked.

"Their failure is a matter that has long confused the members of Grey Cliff. It seems that not every Thurmond is suited for everlasting Thurmond glory," said Mick.

"How so?" Ralph asked.

"Your brother and the other Thurmond family failures had difficulty performing their duties here at Grey Cliff," said Mick.

"Hunting, skinning, and butchering?" said Ralph.

"Yes, and more than that. They recoiled from these duties. They became hysterical. They acted as if their own family were composed of monsters. As if --."

"I can't imagine such a thing. How could it be?" Ralph asked.

"That's the way it son. And when you have children you will have to be careful with which children you take to Grey Cliff. That is why I delayed so long in taking you – for how could I be sure that you would take to your duties?" Mick asked.

"I'm glad you did, but then why did you? Was it because I fucked up so royally?" Ralph asked.

"Partly, but in the end it was Zachary Dunbar. Your test showed that you possessed covert racist tendencies. And after you took that test I figured that you made a good prospect for the killing of Negros and the consumption of their flesh," said Mick.

"So what happened to Kolby and the others?" Ralph asked.

"We had to put them down," said Mick.

"What do you mean?" Ralph asked.

"Their lives needed to be expired," said Mick.

"Killed?" Ralph asked.

Mick nodded. "But a Thurmond does not kill a Thurmond, he only places upon him the Hand Of Mercy, or at least that is the tradition."

"But how could you kill Kolby? He was your son!" Ralph exclaimed.

"Kolby will always hold a place in my heart. And of the Fallen Children we have a saying here at Grey Cliff: that though they did not share our taste for Negro Flesh and Negro blood they will always be our flesh and blood," said Mick.

"Then why?" Ralph asked.

"For his own good --."

"I can't believe that! You didn't give him a chance! You just assumed!" Ralph exclaimed.

"Ralph follow me to the Entertainment Room. There is something you need to see," said Mick.

"I don't care what it is! You killed Kolby and you didn't give him a chance to eat Negro flesh and that isn't fair! He should be here eating Negro flesh with us!" Ralph exclaimed.

"Ralph you are acting like a child," said Mick.

"I thought you wanted me to be a child again?" said Ralph.

"Just follow me and man-up. You're a Thurmond man now and with that comes Thurmond glory but also comes some tough reality," said Mick.

"Such as the fact that you killed Kolby?" said Ralph.

"Yes, such as the fact that I killed Kolby! Do you think that was easy for me! Do you think I enjoyed killing my first born son!" Mick shouted.

Ralph became silent. It was the first time that he had observed his father lose control of his emotions. Mick said no more and Ralph followed his father through Grey Cliff's white halls until they reached the Entertainment Room.

"These videos are some of the older recordings. We still haven't converted them all to DVD," said Mick, as he searched through the videocassettes.

Noting that his father had returned to his normal relaxed temperament, Ralph asked, "What do we record?"

"All the ceremonies here at Grey Cliff," said Mick.

"Why?" Ralph asked.

"Sometimes after a day of hunting and feasting, it's nice to sit back and reminisce with old memories, such as a Negro eaten a few years back," said Mick.

"Was my first skinning recorded?" Ralph asked.

"Of course, would you like to see it?" asked Mick.

"Yes..."

Mick found the DVD and they watched as Ralph separated Lily from her skin, bit by bit. At first the Homeland agent had turned his head to watch and for a while it appeared that he had been trying to scream something. But when approximately 25% of Lily's skin had been removed the Homeland agent closed his eyes and stopped watching. Because Lily had never been gagged she had continuously begged for the procedure to end.

By the end of the procedure she looked like a burn victim and was shouting over and over, "Kill me please! Please! I can't take anymore! Please! Please kill me! Please!"

"Isn't that a nice transition son? When they transition from begging for life to begging for death," said Mick, leaning back in his movie style chair.

"I did quite enjoy that. Is that common?" Ralph asked.

"It's common when you have done a good job," said Mick.

"So then I did a good job?" Ralph asked.

"Believe me son, many toasts will be made tonight at your inauguration," said Mick.

"So what was it you wanted to show me?"

Mick sighed and then played the videocassette that he had earlier located. On the screen was Mick's brother Kolby. He was standing in the same white room where Ralph had skinned Lily, and he was crying hysterically.

"Father why is he crying?" Ralph asked.

"So he finally killed a Negro. But only because he hadn't eaten in three days and by this point we made the kill very easy for him. So now he has had some food and drink and it is time for him to skin a live Negro. But he begs and begs not to skin."

They watched as an increasingly hysterical Kolby shouted comments such as, "Why did you make me kill that black man? "I want to go home!" "I don't want to do anything to this man's skin!" "Where is my mother!" "I want to talk to my mother!" "Mother help me!" "Mother! Mother!"

"Turn it off, I can't watch anymore," said Ralph.

"Just a little more son, I need you to understand," said Mick.

Kolby took the knife and thrust it at a somewhat younger Charles while shouting, "Take me out of here on that helicopter. You are all crazy!"

Charles said, "Kolby you are a Thurmond! Please compose yourself! Do not wave that knife at me, thrust it into the Negro's flesh!"

Kolby shouted, "I want to go home. I want mother! Dad take me home please!"

Mick said calmly, "I can help you do this son. Put your hand in my hand and together we will peel the skin from the Negro."

"I don't want to peel his skin dad. I want to go home," Kolby shouted.

"We can go home, just as soon as our vacation here at Grey Cliff Lodge is over," said Mick.

"This is the worst vacation ever! You said we could play baseball here!" Kolby exclaimed.

Mick replied, "And we can, just as soon as you do this. We will play baseball in the Great Field."

"I just want to play baseball now!" Kolby exclaimed.

"I'll throw you all the batting practice you want once this is over. But you have to do this first," said Mick.

"Dad, I can't do this. It is disgusting. That guy never did anything to me. I don't want to torture him," said Ralph.

"Negros have a higher threshold for pain. He will scream. But it isn't like when a white person screams," said Mick.

Ralph began to shake, the knife in his hand wobbling.

Mick continued, "Kolby, put your hand in my hand and together we can do this."

"No!" Kolby shouted, and he tried to run from the room, but he was seized by the members of Grey Cliff, the knife pried from his fingers.

Suddenly Donald said in a booming voice, "Kolby Thurmond you will not be a member of Grey Cliff until you have skinned your first live victim! Kolby Thurmond you cannot leave Grey Cliff unless you are a member of Grey Cliff! Kolby Thurmond if you do not skin this man you will be touched with the Hand of Mercy."

For a moment Kolby stopped sobbing, and he looked up through his tears and said, "What is the Hand of Mercy?"

Mick knelt down and whispered in his ear. Immediately after which Kolby began screaming, "I want to go home! I want to go home!" Mick pleaded with Kolby, trying to put the knife back into his hand, but he refused to take it.

"Okay I have seen enough. I understand," said Ralph.

"No, you must see the Hand of Mercy. You must understand what happens to those who do not become members of Grey Cliff. Someday you will have children. And I want you to be careful before you bring them here, for it is the father who must place the Hand of Mercy upon their child," said Mick.

"And what is the Hand of Mercy?" Ralph asked.

Mick fast forwarded the tape and then stopped it, saying, "When I play the tape again you will see the Hand of Mercy. I show you this so that you will hopefully never have to do it to your own child."

Mick played the tape. Now Kolby was blindfolded and tied to a chair, shouting:

"What is happening?"

Donald boomed, "This child is the Hand of Mercy!" Then Donald and Charles together chanted, "The Hand of Mercy! The Hand of Mercy! The Hand of Mercy!"

Mick stood in front of Kolby, holding a sledgehammer which he then lifted over his head and with a guttural scream brought it down upon the top of Kolby's skull, his skull instantly exploding like a watermelon, brains flying about, and all while Charles and Donald continued chanted in unison, "The Hand of Mercy..."

Mick ejected the video tape. He sighed and for a minute no words were spoken. Finally Ralph said, "Father, I do not judge you for that. Kolby brought that judgment upon himself. I can't understand his actions. I can't believe that was my brother on the videotape. I thought we were the same. But he seems to be of a different family."

When Mick lifted his head, Ralph could see that there were tears in his eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen his father cry.

Mick said, "I understand how you might feel like Mick is not your brother, but he was – he just was not ready for Thurmond glory. But maybe somewhere beyond he is achieving the glory he missed here on earth. It was my duty to place the Hand of Mercy on Kolby, but it was not easy. And some days I find myself thinking about his lifeless body, made lifeless by the swing of my sledgehammer, and I think, 'Why couldn't he have just peeled that damn Negro for such a thing to me is as simple as peeling a banana.' But it is useless to think such thoughts. Some things just are the way they are – just like you are the way you are son and that is a damn good thing."

"So if Kolby and all the others died by the Hand of Mercy, which is actually a sledgehammer to the head, then how come our family has never gotten in trouble with the police?" Ralph asked.

"Good question son, and you will learn at you inauguration about the importance of keeping things like what I am about to tell you secret. Grey Cliff continues because we operate in secrecy. So you will take the Oath of Secrecy tonight. But even before you take the oath I know I can trust you to keep this secret --."

"Of course," Ralph interrupted.

"It may look like we randomly pluck Negros from the street and kill our children at will. But that isn't the case son. We are very well organized in all matters, and the Hand of Mercy is no exception. You saw me use a sledgehammer to the head, but the Hand of Mercy takes many forms. Alburt has informed you about the Jeffersonian Elites and our union with them. We are our own entity, but owe our complete allegiance to the The Jeffersonian Elites. Their highly specialized, adaptable, and far-reaching supremacist network is why we are able to eat black flesh year after year. We consult with them when it seems a Thurmond child may not successfully become a Grey Cliff member. They tell us what form the death should take, and their specialists handle the rest – in this way the death seems natural."

"So they are more powerful than us?" Ralph asked.

"Very much so – but they respect the work that we do. And there would never be any reason for us to butt heads, for we want the same thing: an advantageous position in the world through African American exploitation, and that we eat their flesh as well is just a bonus --."

"So the Jeffersonian Elites don't consume them?" Ralph asked.

"They may or they may not. It is all up in the air. They are very secretive. Our family has only one contact with them, a man we know as Mr. X. But we don't even know his position in their group," said Mick.

"Mr. X. is a strange name," said Ralph.

"That's obviously not his real name. But I find the name fitting because he is rather strange. We Thurmonds have long ago learned that to effectively function in the world we must appear the same as others. So I assume the Jeffersonian Elites do this as well. Yet it is hard for me to imagine Mr. X. blending into the world," said Mick.

"Why does he look strange?" Ralph said.

"I've never seen him. I've only talked to him on the phone. But he often gets angry. And it seems that he can never stop thinking about black destruction. I imagine that the way Mr. X. thinks, a single minded thinking of black destruction is similar to how Windsor thought as a boy, with a single minded thinking of black consumption," said Mick

"How so?" Ralph asked.

"Remember yesterday I told you that Windsor had to be separated from the family because his urges were so strong. My grandfather realized that he needed help. That he needed to be taught to live as a normal person lives. He did not have the Hand of Mercy placed on him because the Thurmond glory that he achieved was so astounding and because there was never any danger of Windsor revealing the secrets of Grey Cliff that he had observed.

But through mind-control and intensive therapy he was taught to function without consuming black flesh."

"How did they know he wouldn't reveal the secrets of Grey Cliff?" Ralph asked.

"Because if he ever remembered, he would just do everything in his power to come back to Grey Cliff," said Mick.

"I don't understand how someone could have urges that are too strong – I can't imagine my desires to peel and eat black flesh being any stronger," said Ralph.

"Let me put it to you this way. When Windsor was 5 years old, he cornered a black servant with a steak knife, killed her, and proceeded to eat the fetus she was carrying, a fetus no one else even knew she was carrying. You don't know this yet but fetus flesh is the best flesh of all \--."

"It is?" Ralph asked.

"The gold standard – he was a prodigy," said Mick.

"Then why did his father agree to let his mother take him away?" Ralph asked.

"Because being a prodigy in black flesh consumption is not the same as being a piano prodigy – sometimes with black flesh there can be too much of a good thing. Norman was worried that Windsor wouldn't be able to blend into everyday society – that he would constantly be looking for his next kill," said Mick.

"But Alburt told me that we kill away from Grey Cliff – you took Lily," said Ralph.

"Yes, but we are smart about it. We plan heavily. Norman was worried that Windsor would kill spontaneously, and if he ever got caught that might spell an end to the Thurmond family glory," said Mick.

"I still have so much to learn that my brain hurts," said Ralph, smiling.

"You have only just arrived..."

Late for the feast, they rushed to the grand hall, and while running, Mick asked, "By the way, what did you think of the knife that your grandfather gave you?"

Ralph replied, "That it turned skin to butter..."

Montana: The brush had grown thick and Zachary and Jasmine would not reach the coordinates by nightfall. They decided to make camp and while searching for a spot to pitch their tent Jasmine made a chilling discovery -- bones – a small pile, and stacked neatly.

As Zachary examined the bones, he explained that the femur was the largest bone of the lot, and the largest bone in a human is the femur, and the sacrum and coccyx were fused, also human bone traits.

"This was a human," Zachary concluded.

"Why are they so organized?" Jasmine asked.

"Someone must have done this after the person's death," said Zachary.

"That's even more gruesome. This needs to be reported," said Jasmine.

"I agree. Having made such a discovery it no longer makes sense to push onto the coordinates. In the morning we should make our way back and report this to the authorities," said Zachary.

"Agreed..."

That night sleep was difficult and there was no love-making. In the morning they packed their gear and prepared to return. However, the more they discussed the matter, the less sense turning back made. The bones were so worn that they had probably gone unnoticed for many months, perhaps years, and so one more day would not make a difference.

"We will finish what we started."

They sighed in succession.

"Were you just wondering as I was, if we will find more?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine laughed nervously.

Zachary said morbidly, "Yes, I guess that is the main drawback of moving forward. What if we find more bones? Worse, what if we become bones?"

"Stop it," said Jasmine, laughing and punching him in the arm.

"Ouch," said Zachary and pointing to the bones he added "Well, I know you didn't do that. Your punch is too weak."

"Show a little respect," said Jasmine.

"For you or the bones?" said Zachary.  
"Both," said Jasmine.

After leaving their camp (which they named Camp Bones), Zachary said, "What if those were Blackfeet bones? What if that was a burial ground?"

"Roger didn't say anything about a burial ground. And he said that his people don't come this way. So that wouldn't make any sense," said Jasmine.

"Why is there no skull anyway?" said Zachary.

"Obviously whoever killed this person took the head," said Jasmine.

"Okay, let's stop talking about this," said Zachary.

"Oh, it is okay for you to joke around, but once I joke around you get all scared," said Jasmine.

"I didn't watch enough horror movies as a child," said Zachary.

"And?"

"So whenever anything scary happens I get more scared than I should," said Zachary.

"How does that make any sense?" Jasmine asked.

"I wasn't desensitized to horrors – to the worse case scenarios of the world," said Zachary.

"Like what?" Jasmine asked.

Like Windsor being covered with another man's flesh...

"I don't know the bad things that can happen in life, the gruesome things: the worst case scenarios," said Zachary.

"Yes, you already said that, give me an example of what you mean," said Jasmine.

"I don't know, like Jeffrey Dahmer," said Zachary.

"The guy who ate people?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes," said Zachary.

"So what about him?" Jasmine asked.

"If I was a police officer and I had been called over to his house and I had been the first to discover all the chopped up bodies or whatever they found, I think that I would not have been able to handle it. I would have had nightmares for months...I would have started sleeping with the lights on..."

"And what does that have to do with horror movies?" Jasmine asked.

"Well, people who watched a lot of horror movies as children, that sort of thing doesn't bother them as much because they have already been desensitized to the worst case scenarios of the world, you know, chopped up bodies, decapitated heads, horror movie stuff," said Zachary.

"Where did you get the PHD in psychology anyway – from a Cracker Jack box? Zachary that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. I did happen to watch a lot of horror movies as a child. So you think that if I happened upon a gruesome scene of, say, dismembered bodies that it would not bother me?" Jasmine asked.

"I didn't say it wouldn't bother you – I said it wouldn't bother you as much. But more significantly, your mind is better able to conceive of the horrible possibilities. To use Jeffrey Dahmer as an example again: did you know that one of his victims, a 14 year old boy escaped naked and bleeding into the streets at night? Two women found him and called the cops. Dahmer then found the boy with the cops and the women. Dahmer convinced the cops that the kid was 19 and that they were boyfriends and had had a fight. The cops did not check the kid's age. They did not look Dahmer up and find out that he was a registered sexual offender. They gave the 14 year old boy back to Dahmer and the boy was dismembered later that night," said Zachary.

"Wow, that really is a worst case scenario. The cops turn you over to a serial killer," said Jasmine.

"Yes, and I bet I know why – those two cops didn't watch enough horror movies as children, so their minds couldn't conceive of the worst case scenario: that Dahmer was a cannibal," said Zachary.

"That is ridiculous," said Jasmine.

"The world is ridiculous. But if I had a chance to assess those officers I bet I'd find that as children they watched less horror movies than average," said Zachary.

"Why don't you design a study?" Jasmine asked.

"Trait Theory is my passion—plus the science of horror movies doesn't interest me," said Zachary.

Which is why I think I was so relieved when the Thurmond case finally ended...

"Yeah you should stick to that. I think your instinct is wrong on this one," said Jasmine.

"Well, not to belabor the point, but I couldn't sleep at all last night. I kept waking up. Do you know why? Those bones! I couldn't get a comfortable night sleep with a pile of bones right outside the tent. But every time I looked over you were sleeping like an angel," said Zachary.

"And you think that is because I watched a lot of horror movies as a child?" Jasmine asked.

"You just admitted it. So perhaps this theory isn't so far off the mark," said Zachary.

"That might have just been a coincidence. But it sounds like you came up with this theory last night," said Jasmine.

"Yes, I did," said Zachary.

"And so now you can't get it out of your head," said Jasmine.

"That is both a strength and weakness of mine: I can get single-minded about a subject. Sometimes this single-mindedness allows me to succeed in an academic sense because I can consistently pursue one subject with a strong focus, such as Trait Theory. But this single-minded focus also means that I am not well-rounded. So I admire people like you. People who can have successful careers...Yet you maintain your interests in other areas, like orienteering, hiking, and archery – and American History," said Zachary.

"Yes, but one also does not want to become a dilettante. So I make sure that I focus the majority of my attention on my work. But thank you for the compliment," said Jasmine, and they kissed for the first time since they had found the bones. The kissing turned into something more and they dropped their backpacks, ready to make love in the dense thickets. But just as Zachary pushed Jasmine against a tree, Jasmine screamed and covered her mouth.

"What?" Zachary asked.

Don't tell me...

"Bones," said Jasmine, pointing at the bones and stepping away. These too were organized into a neat pile and again the skull was missing.

"See, that freaked me out," said Jasmine.

"Well, it was just a working theory," said Zachary.

"What should we do?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't know. But has just occurred to me is that perhaps we have stumbled upon an odd burial right," said Zachary.

"Not the burial ground thing again," said Jasmine.

"Hear me out on this...Whoever owns this land, maybe when a family member dies, instead of burying the deceased, the bones are placed on the ground, and arranged neatly. The skull maybe somewhere else – but because of the openness of all this I doubt that we have discovered anything sinister. Property rights are very strong in America, and someone may have decided to scatter the bones of their ancestors on their land: that would not be against the law," said Zachary.

"I think it is hard to say when you find human bones out in the open that something sinister is not going on," said Jasmine.

"Yes, but the world is a relative place – in Boston we bury people yes, but this is the backwoods of Montana. We are not familiar with their customs. Perhaps there are people here who do not bury bones but scatter them," said Zachary.

"This is still America, not, say, some strange jungle in Africa. Have you ever heard of any such thing happening anywhere in America?" said Jasmine.

"No, but America is a big place. We are well known for our diversity – and people here have diverse beliefs," said Zachary, adding, "I'm just saying we shouldn't jump to any conclusions..."

"You are right," said Jasmine, pulling away.

"What?" Zachary asked.

"You do have difficulty conceiving of the worse case scenarios..."

They walked on in silence, and at every turn Zachary expected to find another pile of bones.

And I bet Jasmine does too...

However, no further bones were discovered and Zachary's mood began to lighten. He noted to himself that he was glad that he had come on this slight adventure with Jasmine and predicted that by the time they returned to Boston their bone discovery would be something they looked on with amusement.

As Zachary imagined these safe and happy occurrences, Jasmine said, "You know who else couldn't imagine worst case scenarios?"

Zachary searched for a witty response, but before one came to mind, Jasmine answered her own question, saying, "Thomas Jefferson."

"You take that guy with you everywhere!"

"But it was mostly intentional. He had this theory that if he wished good things to happen good things would happen. When you have such a belief system, thinking about worst case scenarios actually becomes a fault," said Jasmine.

"Yeah, there is a recent branch of psychology called positive psychology, and most of its premises revolve around the same idea. Theories such as: merely thinking good thoughts makes you healthier and more successful. These theories do have some empirical support. And lots of authors have made millions by writing positive psychology best sellers, which is fitting, because they sort of prove their own point: 'Hey look at me. My theory is that thinking positive makes you successful and I'm thinking positive and successful,'" said Zachary.

"Interesting, but Thomas Jefferson really did live by that philosophy. For example, one day his dam broke and fixing it would have cost an exorbitant amount of money. He needed the damn for practical reasons but did not have the money to fix it. A visitor to his home that day noted that the news did not bother him at all. The way Jefferson saw it no good could come of brooding. So when a tragedy occurred he put it out of his mind as fast as possible. And when he wanted something good to happen he tried to wish it so – it didn't always work, but he kept at it," said Jasmine.

"Sounds like he was a half-glass full kind of guy," said Zachary.

"He also often didn't think about the worst-case scenario when it came to other people. But this was somewhat cultural. As a self proclaimed gentleman farmer he lived by what is known as the gentleman's code," said Jasmine.

"And what is the gentleman's code?" Zachary asked.

"I'd had my suspicions, but now I know that you definitely aren't a gentleman," said Jasmine.

Zachary laughed.

Jasmine continued, "It is the idea that if you are a gentleman you always do what is right, or rather your intentions are always to do what is right. Therefore, if two gentlemen are in a room each would assume only the best about the other and his intentions. And if one gentleman did not assume the best intentions about the other, the other could say something like 'You have offended my honor Sir!' and a duel might be fought. So to put this in perspective, Jefferson's home, Monticello, eventually got a reputation as being a place where the guests slept with the slaves --."

"The guests too?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, believe it or not. But Jefferson never would have been able to call them out on it because they were all gentlemen," said Jasmine.

"Which means that he knew no one would call him out for sleeping with his slaves either," said Zachary.

"He knew no gentleman would. Therefore, if anyone did call him out, the world would identify that person as not being a gentleman. Eventually a news reporter did make the allegation that Jefferson had coupled with Ms. Hemings, and soon after that new reporter died in an alcoholic stupor, which is a pretty ungentlemanly like way to go," said Jasmine.

"Thus proving Jefferson's point that the person making the allegation was not a gentleman so perhaps the allegation was unreliable: he really knew how to hide his tracks, but your point here is that gentlemen did not look at the worst case scenario concerning other gentlemen," said Zachary.

"Right," said Jasmine.

"So maybe that means I am a gentleman and that whoever arranged those bones was a gentleman, and that's why I just assumed the best about the situation," said Zachary.

"Right, either that or you didn't watch enough horror movies as a child," said Jasmine, laughing.

After breaking for lunch, Jasmine consulted her GPS navigator, calculating that they were only one hour from their destination.

Grey Cliff, Area Two: The next morning Donald instructed Ralph to choose the day's hunting prey. Ralph's head was still spinning from the glory of his Grey Cliff inauguration, and he was having difficulty focusing on his task. As a child Ralph had been forced to listen to opera and it had always caused him to feel sleepy. But last night during the ceremony, as he sat covered in Negro flesh and blood, and Wagner started playing, he understood that opera could be a transcendent experience.

Finally, he replied, "The logical choice would be the Homeland Security agent. But I like the idea of leaving him strapped to that table. Perhaps if we do another live skinning we can have him watch that skinning too."

"I like how our newest member thinks," said Charles, tearing into a bloody slab of meat that he had been carrying around all morning.

"So who will it be son?" Mick asked.

Again Ralph played their stories through his mind.

"How about the couple? Can we hunt them together?"

Donald said, "Yes, you have good instincts. That's the way to do it."

Charles boomed, "The Newcomer has spoken! The prey has been chosen! Prepare the box!"

As Alburt prepared the box, the rest of the Grey Cliff members packed their hunting gear and headed for the hills.

"Where are we going?" Ralph asked.

"To the House in the Field," said Mick.

"What is that?" Ralph asked.

"You'll see soon enough," said Mick.

"I thought no more secrets since I am a member now," said Ralph.

"Grey Cliff always holds secrets. I'm still learning things to this day son," said Mick.

As they walked into the crisp morning, clouds gently moved across the sky. A cool breeze blew across the Grand Field and Ralph wondered if he had worn enough layers for a day of outdoor hunting and asked his father if he should run back inside and grab a coat.

"We'll be inside the House in the Field. So I wouldn't worry about it," said Mick

Ralph decided to simply accept his newcomer status and not ask a follow-up question.

But how will this all work? Father told me to bring my bow and a small axe and yet I am going inside a house?

The Grey Cliff members made their way into the woods in order of hierarchy: Charles and Donald side by side and then in single file: Mick, Chase, Alburt, Prestin, Dwade, and finally Ralph. Ralph did his best to pretend that walking behind the two boys did not bother him.

They reached the top of a small hill. Still single file (except Donald and Charles who were side by side) they marched down the back of the hill and into the field below: in the middle of the field, a white house.

The House in the Field...

A dirt road led to the house, the road winding out of view and wrapping around the side of the hill. The house appeared to have been recently painted and was surrounded with a white picket fence. A leashed dog barked happily as they approached.

"Sparkles!" yelled Prestin and Dwade, and sprinting forward out of rank they passed the remainder of the Thurmonds. Charles signaled for the line to dismantle and Ralph walked beside his father.

"Whose dog is that?" Ralph asked.

"That dog belongs to Grey Cliff. His name is Sparkles. He is a white German Shepherd," said Mick.

"Where does that road go?"

"That's Death Road. Once we have taken our position in the House in the Field I will explain everything to you," said Mick.

Ralph tried not to roll his eyes. Soon they reached the House in the Field and Mick, Ralph, Prestin, and Dwade entered the house while Chase, Alburt, Charles, and Donald continued down Death Road.

The inside of the house smelled like lavender. Homey arts and crafts and framed pictures of Ralph, Prestin, and Dwade hung on nearly every wall. Suddenly Ralph remembered that they ate primarily "venison" during their family barbeques.

Is that why I have always looked forward to those summer barbeques so much? But what are these pictures doing here?

"Father, I don't want to keep asking questions, but come on, what's going on here?" Ralph asked.

"I was really confused the first time I was here last year too. But we're lucky. This place is way better than Death Road," said Dwade.

"Go ahead," said Mick, "You tell him what this is all about Dwade."

Ralph sighed.

"Okay, check this out," said Dwade, leading Ralph by the hand into the living room and turning on the television. The screen displayed a grainy image of two boxes in a dark room. On the lower half of the screen there were two blinking dots in the middle of a map.

"I don't understand," said Ralph, taking the occasion to sit on a sofa. Dwade sat across from him.

"This stuff is super cool. So we learned in Area One how to hunt bucks and we used mostly still hunting, decoys, and stalking techniques. Well, the same things apply here. Let me explain..."

Grey Cliff, Area Two: Aysha had lost track of time. A small slit opened in the side of her box to provide food and water and she estimated that she was being fed twice per day. But as time passed, the intervals between feedings seemed random and she recoiled in horror as she realized that that was the same lackadaisical manner in which she fed her dog: usually two times per day, but sometimes only one time, and sometimes three.

It's like I'm an animal!

If she were fated to die, she hoped that at least Darnell would live. She wondered if he had been placed inside a box as well. She hoped that he hadn't. At the prospect of death, she guessed that Darnell would turn crazy faster than most.

He's already so angry at the world about everything that a couple days in a box might be the nail in his coffin. But what does it really matter if he is clear of mind or crazy when he dies?

Aysha had stopped trying to figure out why she had been imprisoned in a box, reasoning that any experience this horrible had no rational explanation. She had long ago come to the conclusion that people were both mostly good and somewhat bad, but that in rare occurrences pockets of pure evil existed in the world, and she guessed that these pockets were hell's demons who had somehow traveled beyond their borders and had found habitation inside human minds and hearts. That she believed in such evil had never before caused her to despair. Her theory was that if she stayed on the straight and narrow that she would probably never come eye to eye with such accursed realities. But whatever the odds, she had lost, and was now housed in a pit of hell somewhere on earth. She prayed that her death would be quick and more than once had decided that if the chance arose she would take her own life.

For whoever has planned to imprison me in a box and feed me through a slit in the box must have much worse things in mind...

She did not try to imagine what her captors had planned, reasoning that such imaginings would do her no good.

She'd felt the box move on multiple occasions, but she could not hear sounds, only feel vibrations. And now feeling her box vibrate again, she tried to calm her emotions, and she prayed to God and asked Him to forgive all her sins. She swore to God that if she were to survive this ordeal that she would become a better person: that she would better follow the example of the Lord Jesus Christ; that she would quit the Great Falls social clubs and donate all her free time at the church; that she would donate more to charity; that she would do more free podiatry for the poor; that she would attempt to repair broken connections with relatives; that she would adopt a child and bring it up as best as possible; that she would rescue abused animals; that she would give her paper boy a better tip; that she would no longer drive fast when she was late; that she would be more patient when waiting in line – I'm really scrapping the bottom of the barrel here -- and finally she prayed for Darnell's life to be spared.

Suddenly as if her prayers had been answered, the box opened and with heavenly blinding light. After her eyes adjusted, she cautiously peered out. Across the room, also peering out of his box, was a man who resembled Darnell, and she whispered, "Darnell?"

"Aysha?" whispered Darnell, his eyes only half open.

"Yes it's me," said Aysha.

Darnel quickly sprung out his box, but his limbs in an atrophied state, his knees collapsed and he fell upon the floor with a loud thump.

"Are you okay?" Aysha whispered, still not having left the confines of her squalid box, trying to stretch her limbs first.

"Yes...what is happening," said Darnell.

"I don't know. How were these boxes opened?" Aysha asked.

"I don't know. Do you know where we are?" Darnell whispered.

"No," whispered Aysha.

"Do you know anything?" Darnell asked.

"No, I've just been imprisoned in that box," said Aysha.

"Me too," whispered Darnell, adding, "So you haven't spoken to anyone."

"No, have you?" Aysha asked.

"No," whispered Darnell.

Darnell helped Aysha out and they embraced as tears streamed. Aysha held Darnell even after he released her, and he whispered, "Baby, baby, we have to figure out what is going on. We have to be smart about this..."

The room was small with a dirt floor and stone walls. Approximately two feet from the ceiling a bulb hung on a course black wire. Excepting the two black boxes, the room was empty. A brown door was shut and Aysha suspected that it was locked. At the top of one of the walls was a small tinted cellar-type window.

"I think we are in a basement," Darnell whispered.

Aysha nodded. Darnell twisted the doorknob, locked.

"Should I try to kick it open?" Darnell whispered.

"Maybe we should try the window first," Aysha whispered.

"It's too high," Darnell whispered.

"We can stack the boxes," Aysha replied.

Darnell nodded and they wedged one box into the wall corner below the blackened window space and lifted the other box on top.

"I'll give it a try," said Darnell, climbing. He shoved the window. It did not budge. "Locked," he whispered.

"Is it glass?" Aysha whispered back.

Darnell placed his hand on the blackened space, whispering, "Yes, I think so."

"Can you break it?" Aysha whispered. Darnell climbed down and they searched for an object to break the window.

"Why don't you just put your hand inside your shoe and punch it?" Aysha whispered.

Darnell nodded, took off a shoe, and climbed on top of the boxes. He punched until glass shattered and Aysha saw bright grass. Punching until no shards remained, he stuck his head through the window.

"What do you see?" Aysha whispered.

"A lawn and behind it, trees," whispered Darnell, climbing back down.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"How many trees – enough to hide us?" Aysha asked.

"Yes, woods," said Darnell.

"How far to the trees?" Aysha asked.

"Maybe 15-30 feet, something like that," Darnell whispered, adding, "Who should go first?"

"I don't know. What do you think?" Aysha asked, trying to stop her legs from shaking.

"I think you should go first," said Darnell.

Aysha nodded.

"Once you get outside run for the trees. I'm going to come right after you. But if you hear anything, anyone yelling or anything just keep running, don't wait for me," said Darnell.

"No --."

"Yes, promise me that," said Darnell.

Aysha hugged Darnell.

Darnell kissed her and whispered, "We should hurry. But you must promise me."

Aysha nodded, tears clouding her vision.

"Baby, baby we're going to get through this," said Darnell,

His love flashed into her mind: he was always ready to center his actions on her wishes, comforts, and pleasures. Darnell loathed Great Falls the moment he set eyes upon it. Yet because he perceived that she might be happy there, he had agreed to the jarring relocation.

Was I being selfish? Was I taking advantage of a man who always seems so capable of putting me before himself? We wouldn't be here if I hadn't pressured him to move to Great Falls. And he was right, that place was not the oasis that it appeared to be...

"This is all my fault," whispered Aysha, still not having climbed onto the box.

"Aysha listen to me. We have to be smart about this and just think about what we are doing, nothing else," whispered Darnell.

"I know," whispered Aysha, quietly sobbing. She put her foot into his hands and he lifted her onto the first box and she climbed onto the second.

"I'll push you out – wedge yourself into the window."

Aysha nodded and put her arms through the window. Her heart pressed against the window frame, she expected to see something nightmarish outside but there was nothing and she pulled with her hands as she felt Darnell pushing, a moment later she was more than half way through the window and scrambled the remainder. Sprinting into the trees and ramming through bushes, she took cover and knelt. Looking back, she saw Darnell sprinting and frantically motioning for her to continue running.

Is someone chasing him!

He caught her and they both stopped. No one was pursuing.

"Who knows how long it will be before they, whoever they are, figure out that we are missing," said Aysha.

"How did those boxes open? They were sealed shut. And then both of our boxes just miraculously opened at the same time. I think we were purposely let out. But why?" said Darnell, adding, "I'm going back down there."

"Why?" Aysha asked.

"I want to see what is around that place," said Darnell.

"That's a bad idea we should just keep going," said Aysha.

"Yes, but don't you see? They let us out. Something is going on here and we have to figure out what it is," said Darnell.

"What we need to do is to escape before it is too late..."

"Trust me baby, I'll be back in a minute, you just wait here," said Darnell.

Aysha did not argue because she did not want to waste time. She searched for a weapon, eventually finding a large stick. Aysha had taken a self-defense class. The main point of the class had been that self defense is a frame of mind and that the best self defense is to avoid the sketchy situation altogether.

I failed that lesson.

She also remembered that an attacker's eyes and groin were the two most vulnerable areas.

But these fucking people imprisoned me inside a box so they are probably going to have guns. Therefore, this stick is absurd.

Yet Aysha held it tight.

Although more as a security blanket than anything else...

Finally Darnell returned. He was out of breath and covered in dirt.

"What happened to you?" Aysha asked.

"I was crawling. Listen, yeah that place is like a big mansion. In the front and on the other two sides there is a huge field. I also saw a helicopter on the front lawn \--."

"Why a helicopter? Where are we? You don't think we are on an island do you?" Aysha asked.

"I don't know, anything is possible: but I saw no roads leading to the house --."

"No, roads. Fuck Darnell. We can't survive in the wilderness," said Aysha.

"Yes we can and we will --."

"Did you see any people?" Aysha asked.

"No."

"Why did our boxes just open like that?" Aysha asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was a malfunction, maybe the same software for both boxes. I don't know. Glad as I am to be out of there we have to stay on our toes," said Darnell.

"What if they want us out here?" Aysha asked.

"We escaped," said Darnell.

"But that was too easy," said Aysha.

"I know and it has me worried too. But what can we do? We can't think our way out of this, we have to keep going. Why are you holding those sticks?" Darnell asked.

"Weapons, here I got one for you," said Aysha.

"If they have guns or anything it is not going to do any good," said Darnell.

"I know but --."

"Thank you," Darnell interrupted.

"Where should we go?" Aysha asked.

"Like you said before, I think we should keep going forward," said Darnell.

"What if they want us to go this way?" said Aysha.

"Why do you say that?" asked Darnell.

"It's just seems the most logical way to go, with the fields on the side and the front – like maybe we were set up to go this way," said Aysha.

"I think you are over-thinking it," said Darnell.

"You do?" Aysha asked.

"Yes, let's just keep it simple and push forward," said Darnell.

"Okay, you lead and I'll follow," said Aysha.

They jogged to the top of the hill and saw a white house and a road below.

"Thank God! Should we go to the house or the road?" Aysha asked.

"Or neither?" asked Darnell.

"Why neither?" said Aysha.

"I don't know. But I feel like we should put as much distance between ourselves and where we were just imprisoned as possible before we ask for help," said Darnell.

"Maybe, I don't know. Is that what you think?" Aysha asked, trying to ignore the almost unbearable weight of each decision they made.

"Yes, let's stay in the woods."

At that moment they saw two children run out of the house. The children started playing fetch with a dog. Although a good distance away, the children's laughter could be heard.

"What do you think?" said Aysha.

"I don't know," said Darnell.

"There must parents home and we could phone for help," said Aysha.

"Yes, but something doesn't feel right to me," said Darnell.

"What?" Aysha asked.

"It's just a feeling," said Darnell.

"It's difficult for us to trust people right now. But we are going to have to trust someone eventually," said Aysha.

"I would feel more comfortable if those were black children down there," said Darnell.

"Me too," said Aysha.

"But it isn't just because they are white. It is something about the whole situation. Look at it: white house with a white picket fence, white children dressed in all white playing with a white dog, and throwing the dog a white ball. I mean, what is that a cricket ball? Who plays cricket in America?" said Darnell.

"Maybe we're not in America anymore," said Aysha.

"That doesn't look strange to you? It looks strange to me. I feel like someone is toying with us. I feel like that is one big sign that says stay away," said Darnell.

"You're being paranoid. If their mother had dressed them in jeans and a red shirt you would be fine with it then?" Aysha asked.

"I don't know, maybe not even then; but that looks ridiculous to me," said Darnell.

"You're being paranoid. Let's go talk to the children and get help," said Aysha.

"Let's look before we leap baby. These could be life or death decisions we are making. Let's just talk about this for a little more. Also, those children are laughing a lot, too much, there is something strange about it --."

"About children laughing?" Aysha interrupted.

"No, but something about their laughter, almost like it is staged: listen," said Darnell.

"Well they are not laughing now," said Aysha.

"No, but let's just listen for a minute," said Darnell.

"We have to keep going. They could be coming any minute," said Aysha.

"I know, but I don't want to rush into anything, just listen for a little bit..."

Grey Cliff, Area Two: The two dots on the screen had stopped, which meant that Darnell and Aysha were again talking about something. Ralph guessed that they were probably talking about Dwade and Prestin.

Mick said, "It's just like when you send a mating call or any type of call to a buck son. Beginners will overdo it. But you want to let the right amount of time lapse before you send out another call. Prestin and Dwade their laughter is the buck call, and this whole place is the decoy. But they know their laughs should come at long intervals. They don't want to make that scene seem too perfect, or in any way phony."

"This seems like a lot of work. Why don't we just follow them and hunt them down?" Ralph asked.

"Son, one of the biggest elements of big game hunting is to give the big game a sporting chance. That's why bucks have a hunting season. The older bucks know the season by the day and will leave the area the day it starts and will come back the day it is over. And that's why we Thurmonds usually hunt our big game, bucks and Negros alike with the bow. A bow gives big game much more of a sporting chance than the riffle. You can shoot a buck or a Negro from hundreds of yards away with a rifle and a scope. But the maximum distance on a bow is about 30 yards," said Mick.

Ralph nodded.

But I think my kill on Jeremy was about 40 which made it even more spectacular...

Mick continued, "If they want to waltz right into this place of pure white, well that is their prerogative. I mean honestly Ralph have you ever seen an entire family dressed all in white?" Mick asked.

Ralph laughed.

"It's absurd and the alarm bells should be going off in their heads. If it isn't that isn't our fault, we have given them a sporting chance. But if the alarm bells do go off and they continue on down Death Road, then they'll come to a dead end, and meet up with your grandpa and the others," said Mick.

"What if they don't choose either, and just keep making for the woods?" Ralph asked.

"Then we switch gears from calling and decoy hunting, to stalking, and we follow their paths and we hunt them down," said Mick.

"Has anyone ever gotten away?" said Ralph.

"It's happened a couple of times," said Mick.

"Really?" Ralph asked.

"Yes many years ago and not when I was a member of Grey Cliff, this was the time before the national sports teams integrated races. Your ancestors used to scoop up some of the best Negro athletes, and a couple of those fleet-footed fellows did get away," said Mick.

"What happened?" Ralph asked.

"Nothing, they didn't say a word about it," said Mick.

"Really?" Ralph asked.

"Things were easier to control back then because Negros knew their place. That they were kidnapped and hunted did not surprise them at all. They were just happy to survive. Besides whom could they tell? Police would have laughed at them. No newspaper would have listened. They were on their own. They might have griped about it with other Negros but no one was going to listen to those other Negros if they tried to pass it on either. Of course once things started to become more equitable between the races -- though only on the surface of course -- we killed them. We couldn't risk them talking about it in their old age to some scandalous newspaper or anything like that," said Mick.

Ralph replied, "I see. But I have to say that I almost feel like if someone gets away from all this, and avoids all the gruesome things that are going to happen to them, like a meeting with a skinning knife, well just like the buck that makes it away, I feel like the Negros too should be able to keep their freedom, that they've almost earned it at that point."

"Son, I agree, but the world is not a perfect place, and the fact of the matter is that if any of these Negros do get away we are going to have to hunt them down and kill them. But we have those GPS trackers in their sneakers, so even if they do get away they aren't getting away too far," said Mick.

The two dots began moving again and it seemed that they were heading straight for Prestin and Dwade.

"They are on the move. You remember your part right?" said Mick.

"Yes I just sit at --."

Mick interrupted, "Okay I don't need a play by play announcement. I was just making sure. Help me get this cream of wheat ready."

"Dad that looks really lumpy," said Ralph, laughing.

"I don't know what to say, I'm usually positioned on Death Row, so I really don't have that much experience making cream of wheat..."

Grey Cliff, Area Two: Aysha and Darnell walked out of the woods and into the field. They noted that the two children had stopped playing and seemed to be watching them. The dog did not bark, instead standing silent at the side of the children.

"The dog isn't barking," said Darnell.

"It must be trained," said Aysha.

"What if it's trained not to bark at black people?" said Darnell.

"What are you talking about?" said Aysha.

"Something just doesn't feel right," said Darnell.

"Will you stop saying that, and let me do the talking. You'll probably start swearing at these kids," said Aysha.

"You're right I hate these two little brats already," said Darnell. As they came within shouting distance, Aysha and Darnell waved and the children waved back. The children turned and again played fetch with their dog.

"Remember, let me do the talking," said Aysha.

"Okay, okay," said Darnell.

Aysha waved again, saying, "Hello, I'm Aysha and this is Darnell. Are your parents home?"

"My father is home. But not my mother," said Prestin, smiling.

"Where is your mother?" Aysha asked.

"At church," said Prestin.

"What are you names?" Aysha asked, smiling.

"I'm Prestin, this is my brother Dwade, and this is our dog Sparkles," said Prestin. The dog barked once, as if in acknowledgment.

"What is your father's name?" Aysha asked.

"Mick," said Prestin, still smiling.

"And what does Mick do for work?" Aysha asked.

"Business," said Prestin.

"What kind of business?" Aysha asked.

"None of your business," said Prestin, and Prestin and Dwade started laughing hysterically.

Dwade whispered to Aysha, "Let's get out of here. These kids won't stop smiling and they are creeping me out."

Aysha elbowed him, whispering, "Calm down."

Suddenly the front door of the house opened and a man stepped onto the front steps. He shouted, "Can I help you?"

Darnell whispered, "What the fuck he is dressed all in white too!"

Aysha shouted, "Hello, yes. Would it be okay if I used your phone?"

"Certainly, my name is Mick. What brings you this way? We don't get too many visitors here," said Mick, smiling widely.

"It's a long story but if we could use your phone it would be much appreciated. I'm Aysha and this is my husband Darnell," said Aysha.

"Yes, by all means, come in, come in," said Mick, the smile not leaving his face even as he talked.

"Thank you," Aysha shouted.

"His teeth are glowing all the way from here," said Darnell.

Aysha shrugged. As Aysha and Darnell walked towards the house, the children ran around them in circles, and as they did so laughed every so often.

Darnell is right, their laughter does seem odd, like they are laughing for no reason, like they are laughing just to laugh, almost like they have been instructed to laugh. Maybe we should continue on down the road. This is odd, all this whiteness.

"Have you noticed the flowers in the field?" said Darnell.

"Yes, I know, I know, they are white," said Aysha, adding, "I don't know should we continue on down the road?"

Darnell replied, "Fuck it – he says he has a phone. But if anything strange happens let's just get the fuck out of there."

"Well I'm talking my stick inside with me," said Aysha.

"Good idea, me too," said Darnell.

Grey Cliff, Area Two: Zachary and Jasmine stood at the edge of the tree-line, baffled by the large field and the grey mansion. For one thing, the Google map had shown no such structure, instead portraying a thick cover of trees. And for another, how had it been built? There were no roads leading to it. Two helicopters were in the field, but they didn't have enough storage space to accommodate such an undertaking.

Zachary wondered aloud if planes filled with building materials had been flown into the field.

"The costs would have been prohibitive," said Jasmine.

"Or maybe builders were flown in, and they cut down the lumber here," said Zachary.

"In any case, whoever built this mansion he must have been one of the wealthier people in the country," said Jasmine.

However, Zachary began to suspect that the structure did not have a single owner but rather a family of owners.

This has to be Grey Cliff. It is grey and Philip was obsessed with Grey Cliff.

"What is it?" Jasmine asked.

"I might have figured something out," said Zachary, almost apologetically.

"That's great! What is it?" Jasmine asked.

"Sorry, it still has to do with \--."

Jasmine interrupted, "Don't worry, I understand, you take your ethical obligations seriously, as do I. But surely you have realized what this means?"

"I think I might, have but like I said \--."

"No, I'm not talking about your confidential matter. I'm talking about the bones. Since we have stumbled upon a house we can use a phone," said Jasmine.

"Yes," said Zachary, though worried how the Thurmonds would react to his arrival if this actually was Grey Cliff.

They stressed time and time again the importance of Grey Cliff secrecy, and though Grey Cliff information would have been nice for my final report, I had really hoped to just put this whole Thurmond assignment behind me. Still, Jasmine is right: we have to inform the authorities about the bones and the sooner the better.

"But you don't think anything illegal is going on there do you?" Jasmine asked. She had taken off her backpack, resting it against a tree. Zachary followed suit, the mansion remaining approximately 500 yards in the distance.

"Why would you say that?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know this place just seems strange. This big place in the middle of nowhere and we did find the bones," said Jasmine.

"Yes, but those were miles back," said Zachary.

"True, it's just that we wouldn't exactly be able to phone for help if we have stumbled upon some cocaine production facility or something like that," said Jasmine, grabbing a water bottle from her back pack and squirting a stream into her mouth, "So I know you have to respect medical confidentiality in your work, but if you think that we could be walking into any sort of a dangerous situation that you would let me know right?"

"No, it's nothing like that," said Zachary, accepting the water bottle from Jasmine and taking a quick drink.

This is similar to the Bruce situation. Jasmine is African-American, well half, and she like Bruce would be walking into a Thurmond situation, which is to say a situation containing individuals with dormant CMR. So on the surface it might appear to be a risky situation but just as Charles was hospitable with Bruce (until he refused a background check) I expect the Grey Cliff Thurmonds to be hospitable to Jasmine.

Zachary handed the water bottle back, saying, "What I am a little worried about is that if this home does belong to the people that I just worked for -- and I can tell you without breaking any confidentiality that it appears a strong possibility that it does belong to them -- then I am worried how they will react to me being here."

"Why wouldn't they be happy to see you?" Jasmine asked. They walked into the field, the yellowish grass up to their hips, and circled around each other performing a sort of monkey-grooming tick check that they had perfected by this point of their journey.

"My work entailed assessing a whole family and the family member who sent that odd letter with these coordinates. And I can tell you this as it doesn't have directly to do with a medical situation: well, he sent out another document that hinted that the family had this really cool vacation spot. For reasons relating to my report, I wanted to know some details about the vacation spot. But whenever I asked they quickly let me know that it was a family secret. So I am worried that if they see me here they are going to feel like I am barging in on their family secret," said Zachary.

"As opposed to just randomly stumbling upon this place," said Jasmine.

"Exactly, they are going to recognize me immediately and perhaps feel betrayed," said Zachary.

Suddenly Jasmine said, "Hold still --."

Zachary stopped.

"Got it," said Jasmine, having brushed a tick from his leg. "Well, if you want I could just make the call to the authorities alone. You could wait outside and they would never have to know that you were here."

"You would do that?" Zachary asked.

"Sure, but if it takes a while, if they offer me lunch or something you might be waiting for God knows how long because I am starving for some real cooking," said Jasmine.

And if she gets to eat some of that heavenly Thurmond venison while I have to continue subsisting off trail mix, I will admittedly be jealous...

"That's fine."

"You take your professional responsibilities very seriously don't you?" said Jasmine.

"My life is my work," said Zachary.

That sounded way too cold considering you were just thinking about asking Jasmine to be your girlfriend.

Zachary added, "But as you have reminded me that is not necessarily such a good thing. And Jasmine really I appreciate that you made me do this; I think that I have grown on this vacation, and it has really allowed me to refresh my spirits."

"I could see it in your eyes that first time we dated. They were blank and glassy, and I knew you needed a break," said Jasmine, smiling.

"Watson, you were spot-on with that analysis --."

"Watson? Why don't I get to be Sherlock?" Jasmine asked, laughing.

"My deductive skills – actually that is a fallacy Sherlock used inductive skills – my skills of inductions are obviously superior," said Zachary.

"I thought Sherlock deduced things not induced them?" said Jasmine.

"Ah, I finally get to be the professor \--."

"Don't get used to it --."

"In the simplest terms possible, which I know you need," said Zachary, then laughing, "Deduction means from the general to the specific, while induction is from the specific to the general. Sherlock found specific clues that then led to a general conclusion."

"So you think you induce better than me?" said Jasmine.

"Sometimes my job demands that I be quite good at that," said Zachary.

And my knack for induction is something that Samantha also has difficulty admitting at times...

"I didn't mean to interrupt your thought, you were just in the middle of complimenting me," said Jasmine, having grasped onto Zachary's arm.

"Yes, this last job caused me to view the world from a cynical angle, which isn't my style. You've caused me to see the bright side of things again..."

Jasmine stopped walking and they kissed. Standing near the helicopter they were mostly shielded from the view of the house and she said, "I want to make love to you right in this field."

"Here?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine nodded.

"But the ticks --."

"Fuck it," said Jasmine, throwing off her backpack.

"But what if someone is watching from the windows?" said Zachary.

Jasmine looked around. "Yeah, I suppose you are right. That view is mostly blocked but someone could perhaps...What is that red?"

"Where?" Zachary asked, now looking.

"There in the high grass," said Jasmine, pointing.

They walked towards the high grass, perhaps 20 yards from the helicopter. The tips of the grass and random lower areas had a deep red hue, red trails which led to a concentrated area of red, a packed down grass clump approximately the size of a large animal.

"What do you induce from this situation?" Jasmine asked.

"Actually now this would be deduction. I'd be running general principles through my mind to reach a specific conclusion, which is that I think this is blood," said Zachary, adding, "And a lot of it."

Zachary further examined the grass. He was no forensic specialist, but the bones and now this blood were testing the limits of the forensic knowledge that he had gained from watching endless reruns of CSI.

"So what does it mean?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't know," said Zachary.

"I think it is fairly certain what this means," said Jasmine, having bent down to examine how far the blood had spread throughout the weeds, "I think something died here, either a person or an animal."

"Why would you even say a person?" said Zachary, but he noticed that they had both crept down farther in the high grass, using it to shield them from the view of the house.

"The bones," said Jasmine, running her finger against some of the blood. "You don't think there is a connection do you?"

Zachary remembered that the primary Grey Cliff activity was buck hunting and laughed inwardly at his irrational bout of fear.

"What is it? You look like you have realized something again?" said Jasmine.

"I have," said Zachary, now heartily laughing. "But were I to tell you I would be pushing the limits of confidentiality. The family I was working for wanted all the activities of this place to remain confidential – I think even the one activity that they would tell me. I don't think they wanted that activity to be public knowledge."

"But whatever it was that they told you: that would explain this blood?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes," said Zachary, and kissing Jasmine on the cheek he added, "And you can rest assured that it has nothing to do with human bones."

"It just seems like a lot of blood. Are they hunters?" Jasmine asked.

"Since you guessed it: Yes, they hunt deer," said Zachary.

"Why would that be confidential?" Jasmine asked. They had begun walking towards the mansion again.

"This family, they are peculiar and secretive. But by the way, if when you go in there they do offer you any of their deer meat, their venison, would you mind trying to take a little with you so that I can eat some too?" Zachary asked.

"Sure, no problem: I've never had venison before. Is it good?" Jasmine asked.

"The way they prepare it – it is spectacular..."

As Zachary watched Jasmine plod up the stairs, her backpack looming over her head like a human-exoskeleton, he had the sensation that this would be the last time that he would ever see her.

But what you are really feeling is separation anxiety. We've been peas in a pod since this trip began.

Zachary hoped that his feelings for Jasmine and her seemingly reciprocated feelings were not some kind of vacation euphoria. As a psychologist Zachary knew that vacations took people outside the realm of the ordinary and caused them to make decisions and declarations that they would not perhaps make if they were still within the hum drum of ordinary life. So he wondered if this fairy tale romance would end once they returned to Boston: that what they thought was the spark of love would be identified as the influence of Montana's beauty.

And perhaps that is why the Thurmonds keep their vacation spot so secretive; it is a place that takes them away from the ordinary and as such they don't wish to diminish its meaning by trying to define it with words. In fact hadn't Donald said something of the sort? That Grey Cliff couldn't be spoken about because it needed to be experienced?

Donald's words had not made much sense when Zachary first heard them, but in the breathless Montana landscape those words seemed wise. At times he had thought the Thurmonds odd, but now he wondered if it was only his lack of world experience.

Sometimes you assume things about people too fast. You need to step away and give people the benefit of the doubt.

Back in the woods, Zachary snacked. He felt himself purposeless and wondered what to do. However, this self-reflection soon ended because he spotted Jasmine and called out, "Jasmine, I'm here."

"There is no one there," Jasmine shouted.

"That's impossible, the helicopters," Zachary shouted back.

Jasmine held up her hands as if to say, 'I don't know.' They met midway between the stairs and the edge of the trees.

"What do you think we should do?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't know. How do you know that no one was inside?" Zachary asked.

"I was knocking on that door forever, and I began lightly, but eventually I started banging on it," said Jasmine.

"They must be out hunting," said Zachary.

"Ah, must be, well the door was unlocked," said Jasmine, smiling widely.

"I don't know if that is a good idea Jasmine," said Zachary.

"It would be a risk," she replied.

"Oh, so you are going to call me out as a chicken, so that I then go do the stupid thing," said Zachary.

Jasmine laughed, "Who knows how long they will be gone for? They could be gone all night. Do we really want to wait? We could just go inside, find a phone, call the authorities and give them coordinates of the bones, and then we could start to head back."

"You make it sound so simple, and not like it would be breaking and entering," said Zachary.

"It wouldn't be. We aren't going to take anything," said Jasmine.

"Well, technically it would still be breaking and entering --."

"Chicken, bark, bark, back, Chicken, bark, bark," said Jasmine, thrusting her fists under her arm pits and waving them as if they were wings.

"Now you aren't even subtly calling me a chicken, this is an overt chicken calling," said Zachary. And as he laughed she continued with her chicken noises. Then he said, "I feel like I am 8 years old and I am being called out by the neighborhood bully to commit some stupid act."

The chicken noises did not cease.

"Fine, fine, I'll go in. But quickly, we are in and out," said Zachary.

"Being quick and efficient when you break and enter is the name of the game – duh," said Jasmine.

"That isn't funny," said Zachary.

"It wasn't a joke," said Jasmine.

"That isn't funny either," Zachary replied. They had begun to ascend the mansion stairs.

"Hey, you were the one who told me that you liked it when I took you out of your comfort zone," said Jasmine.

"That was a hindsight-statement made about events that had already occurred and were therefore deemed to have been safe. But I don't like it in the moment," said Zachary.

Jasmine laughed, poking Zachary in the ribs. Zachary allowed Jasmine to open the door and enter first, and as soon as she did so she yelled, "Hello?"

There was no answer.

"I don't like this place," Zachary whispered.

The entrance chamber had few windows, grand stairs led to a dark second floor. Scientific curiosities, eerily anachronistic, abounded: navigation devices, prehistoric fossils, a monocle, a yellowish map, a hearing trumpet, a phonograph, fading animal furs, jarred insects, a brass chandelier, human skulls, collections of black dolls, and gaunt portraits in the same style that Zachary had seen in Charles's home. He even believed that he might have recognized a couple of the faces.

Which would make sense if this was Grey Cliff.

"You don't think these skulls have anything to do with the bones do you?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary examined the skulls. There were over 50 inside a glass case. "It is quite normal for a scientist to have one skull. And this room does seem to have a scientific motif. A skull is a reminder that we are mortal. Skulls are actually used as tools by some Masonic lodges. Masons believe that meditating in front of a skull reminds people that their days are numbered and that therefore you should accomplish what you can when you can. And for a scientist a skull is a reminder of the importance of anatomy, and of getting to the crux of things so to speak --."

"But why so many? That looks like a tomb," said Jasmine.

"The sheer number of skulls in this collection is perplexing. I don't have an answer for it."

"What if a couple of these skulls go with the bodies out there?" Jasmine asked.

"It is certainly possible, but I don't think it is likely," said Zachary.

"Why?" Jasmine asked.

"Because of what I said before, this room has a scientific motif, and though objectionable to some people, a human skull is actually a symbol of science," said Zachary.

"Why the black dolls? How is that science?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary shrugged.

Possible sublimation?

Get over it: your contributions to the report are finished...

"In any case, it doesn't look like much has changed here in a while... I don't see a phone," said Jasmine.

"Neither do I," said Zachary, adding, "Let's find the kitchen, everyone has a phone in their kitchen."

They walked down a long hall, suits of armor displayed at twenty feet intervals and ancient weapons upon the walls. Some of the swords looked too heavy to lift.

"Who the hell were these people that you worked for?" said Jasmine.

"Don't ask?" said Zachary.

Really, don't...

"These weapons are too much! Do you think this stuff is real?" Jasmine asked.

"They certainly look it," said Zachary.

"What is the ball with the chain thing called?" Jasmine asked.

"I get to be the professor again \--."

"That doesn't count – trivia, knowledge like that is the lowest form of intelligence, no matter Alex Trebek would have you believe," said Jasmine.

Zachary laughed, "You are referring to Bloom's taxonomy, the belief that intelligence can be arranged in progression: knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation. And you are right, knowledge or just simply knowing facts is the lowest on that totem pole --."

"Yes, I know I am right," Jasmine interrupted.

"Had you been one of my students I have the feeling that you would have been one of the ones who was constantly questioning the supremacy of my teachings," said Zachary.

"Had I been one of your students this would be a really messed up relationship," said Jasmine.

Zachary pointed. "That, you wanted to know, is called a mace. It was a medieval bludgeoning weapon. This type of mace is more specifically known as a flail, or a ball and chain."

"How do you know this?" Jasmine asked.

"Immediately after puberty I had a crisis of manliness and my solution, though unfathomable to me now, was a brief descent into a pit that can only be known as Dungeons and Dragons," said Zachary.

"You are a Dungeons and Dragons, nerd? It all makes sense now. Do you know how lucky you are to be dating me? I mean seriously," said Jasmine, grabbing at Zachary's crotch.

Zachary pulled away. "I might have to defend myself with one of these weapons. No, I don't want you to associate me with D & D. It was only about a three months black hole, but some of the learning remained."

Jasmine examined the next weapon that hung on the wall, "This place is like a museum. And what is this called, Sir Dorkiness?"

"That," said Zachary, pointing to a large spiked ball attached to a club, "Is known as morning star. It is similar to a mace and was usually used by warriors on horseback."

Jasmine touched a spike. "It is sharp. What is this next one? How do you even use that?"

Zachary nodded, "Yes, that one takes a little more skill. That is a Chinese weapon known as a meteor hammer. Two heavy balls separated by a chain --."

"So how do you use it?" Jasmine asked again.

"It can be used offensively or defensively. You could swing it around your head and then launch it at someone by letting it go. You could swing it in a figure eight motion. You could try and wrap someone up in it. You could try to swing it straight down at someone. Then defensively you could use it to block," said Zachary.

"That you know so much about these dorky weapons is admittedly a major turn-off," said Jasmine.

"Then why do you keep asking me?" said Zachary.

"Because you are like the tour guide in this museum, and this?" said Jasmine.

"That is a bola. That is often a Spanish weapon, though some would not call it a weapon. It is used to wrap around the legs and trip a running person or an animal," said Zachary.

"Well, you don't have to tell me what these are: swords," said Jasmine, sticking out her tongue.

"Yes, but do you know what kind?" Zachary asked.

"Oh so you want to turn me off even more, while showing off that lowest form of intelligence trapped there inside your brain," said Jasmine, poking Zachary in the head.

Zachary laughed, "I think this first one is termed a Great Sword, obviously because of its size. They usually weigh about 10 pounds, which means that unless you are Arnold Schwarzenegger you have to hold them with two hands, and you can't do fancy Errol Flynn swordsmanship type stuff with them but you can cut off a man's head in one stroke, literally."

"Charming, and the Errol Flynn reference was lost on me," said Jasmine.

"Errol Flynn? The best Robin Hood? He wore the green tights, no?"

Jasmine shook her head.

"Really? Well, you've been deprived --."

"No, I was born into modern times is what happened," said Jasmine.

"This is a Long Sword --."

"Let me guess, because it is longer," said Jasmine.

"Okay, tour over, we really better get going."

"But there are so many more weapons here to teach me just how nerdy you really are," said Jasmine.

"Oh, so this isn't about learning about these weapons it is about learning about me?" said Zachary.

"Exactly," said Jasmine, slapping Zachary on the butt.

"You are frisky in this place," said Zachary.

"Breaking and entering makes me horny."

"Stop saying that," said Zachary.

They had nearly reached the end of the long wall of weapons when Jasmine stopped. Zachary stopped too, watching her peer at a sword.

"Is that blood?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary moved closer. The edge was red.

"Fuck," he said.

"What?" Jasmine asked.

"I really didn't want to see that. The skulls and now blood on a sword, what the fuck?" said Zachary.

"What does it mean?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't know. But that does look like blood and it's on a sword," said Zachary.

"Do you think maybe they used it to carve a deer?" Jasmine offered.

Zachary considered this. It did seem plausible. He replied, "I really don't know much about hunting. But it does seem like a sword might do the job. Maybe the knife was dull. And then someone said, 'Hey, let's use one of the swords.'"

"You don't think that would be overkill? Using a sword to carve up a deer?" Jasmine asked.

"Like I said I don't know much about hunting, but I like that you didn't just jump to a conclusion there. That you looked for a reasonable solution – that's how I think too. Yeah, it's possible, and honestly it puts my mind at ease. I was starting to get nervous there for a minute with the blood outside, and the skulls, and the blood on the sword. But things --."

Jasmine interrupted, "And the bones in the woods."

"Oh yes, and the bones in the woods: right, these finds are starting to add up. But they probably all have reasonable solutions. We have gathered some data, but as of yet we don't know where it leads," said Zachary.

"Who are these people? The bones and the blood aside, they've got this mansion in the middle of nowhere with all these weapons on the walls. Is this a normal family? I mean you said that you might have to tell them things that they might not want to hear? That leads me to believe that --."

Zachary interrupted, "Jasmine, Jasmine – you're not a scientist. You work in the media. The media is built around finding sensational stories and jumping to conclusions. For example, in the winter, every time I turn on the news and it's going to snow, 'This is going to be the worst storm since the blizzard of 78. Do you know how many times I have heard that? How can every storm be the worst storm since the blizzard of 78? It doesn't make any sense --."

"Zachary you are rambling," Jasmine interrupted.

"It may seem that way but I am making a point. My point being media people sensationalize. Scientists, we move slowly. We use the 7 steps of the scientific method --."

"Please Zachary you aren't going to bore me with those 7 steps that I had to memorize in high school are you?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary laughed, "No, but I'm saying that we don't know yet what is going on. We have gathered some data, but we need to gather more. We can form all the hypotheses that we want. But before we gather and analyze the data, we cannot reach a conclusion."

Jasmine rolled her eyes, "Suddenly I feel like I am dating my tenth grade chemistry teacher."

"Is that a bad thing? I mean aside from the fact that you shouldn't date your teacher in tenth grade, or any grade for that matter, what was he like?" Zachary asked.

"He was old. I'm pretty sure he was a virgin. He was very boring. And I think he went home every night and masturbated directly onto his Dungeons and Dragons memorabilia --."

"Jasmine, that is not fair..."

They continued walking until the hall split.

"I have an idea," said Jasmine, pointing to the left. "I'll go left and you can go right."

Zachary felt a cold shudder upon his spine. "Let's just stick together."

"Yeah, but we can cover more ground if I go left and you go right, okay?" said Jasmine, kissing Zachary on the cheek.

"Jasmine I'd just feel better if we stay together, for one thing --."

Jasmine interrupted, "I was just kidding! You should have seen your face."

"That wasn't funny," said Zachary.

"You sure did get nervous for someone who thinks that everything is just hunky dory," said Jasmine, walking ahead.

"I didn't say everything was hunky dory. All I said is that we don't know what is what until we \--."

Jasmine interrupted, saying, "I know, gather more data. Well maybe we will luck out and find a decomposing human head or something like that. Would that be enough data for you to start worrying? Or would you rationalize that away too?"

"I'm not rationalizing away. I'm just saying we shouldn't jump to conclusions. Why are you starting to get nervous about all this?" Zachary asked.

Is this our first lovers' quarrel?

"Fucking A yeah I am," said Jasmine, stopping. "I'm not saying that I know for certain anything bad is going on here. I'm just saying we should be on our guard. We've been finding a lot of odd things."

If this was Grey Cliff Zachary knew he had nothing to worry about, but perhaps he was in some strange place with strange people. Therefore he said, "Okay, I see what you are saying. And honestly I don't know if this is the vacation spot of the people that I worked for. Do you think we should grab one of those swords off the wall?"

"You're serious?" Jasmine asked, laughing.

"Well, you know, better safe than sorry," said Zachary.

"A minute ago you though everything was fine. Now you want to get a sword?" said Jasmine.

"Hey, I told you earlier that my mind has a hard time conceiving of worst case scenarios. Just in case this is one of those situations, maybe, you know, we should weapon-up," said Zachary.

"Weapon-up? Is that even a word?" asked Jasmine.

"Why are you giving me such a hard time?" Zachary asked, a film of sweat forming upon his forehead.

Have we entered into a worst case scenario?

"I'm just fucking with you. No, I agree. I'll get my bow you get a sword and if anyone comes home and they are like why the fuck are you in my home carrying those weapons, we will just explain that we are freaked the fuck out, but that we are just looking for a phone," said Jasmine.

"Agreed."

They had started running, but Jasmine stopped.

"What now?" Zachary asked.

"Suddenly I'm pulling a you," said Jasmine.

"What do you mean?" Zachary asked.

"I'm just thinking in my head how utterly preposterous we will look if anyone comes home and I am holding a bow and arrow and you are holding a sword. More than that, they might fear for their lives. And most states do have that homeowner law where they can just shoot you \--."

"Actually with that homeowner law I think they can shoot us even if we don't have weapons," said Zachary.

"Really? Maybe this is all too much of a risk. Maybe we should just hike back and tell the authorities when we return," said Jasmine.

"Agreed, let's get out of here," said Zachary.

"Yes –wait do you hear that?" Jasmine asked.

"What?" asked Zachary.

"That music, I hear music coming from somewhere...Is that Wagner?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary listened. "I don't hear anything."

Jasmine walked left and after 30 paces, exclaimed, "Yes, it's Wagner. I love Wagner."

Zachary had not followed. "Okay, so now we have an anti-Semitic composer to add to the mix as well. Let's get out of here."

"Yes, that's true but his music was beautiful. Let's find out where this is coming from," said Jasmine.

Zachary reluctantly jogged down the hall. "That's the Liebestod solo from Tristan and Isolde where she sings herself to death."

Jasmine nodded, saying, "Yes, I know. I think that is Shirley Verrett."

"Shirley Verrett?" Zachary repeated.

"Yes, you know the famous African-American soprano, big in the 70's. No? I may not know Errol Flynn but you don't know Shirley Verrett. I'm guessing that you are the more deprived -- you should YouTube her – though I like Leontyne Price better, another African-American soprano," said Jasmine. Zachary informed Jasmine that he was familiar and quite fond of the latter.

They had reached a black door and it seemed that the music was originating from the room beyond, the opera becoming much louder as the solo reached its climax. Immediately after Jasmine opened the door, she exclaimed, "What the fuck!"

A projection camera displayed a perplexing scene: a naked boy was covered in slabs of bloody meat. The Wagner solo, Liebestod, blasted loudly. The boy lay in the center of a large dining room table while six men in white hoods sat around him, their lips red.

Probably from drinking too much wine.

Suddenly Zachary realized that he recognized the hooded men in the video and that he also recognized the boy covered in meat.

These are all Thurmonds! What the fuck are they doing! And this is strongly reminiscent of the scene that Windsor described – which would mean that that boy is covered in human flesh!

"You look like you have realized something again and you better tell me this. It is freaking me the hell out," said Jasmine, glancing at the room's plush chairs, though sitting in none.

"I have, I have, and I hate to keep withholding information from you but you've got to give me a chance to piece this together. I don't want to jump to any conclusions," said Zachary.

Like my initial panicked thought...

"Jump to conclusions! There is a kid lying in the center of a table covered in what appears to be blood and meat. So if you know anything it better be a strong reason why we are not sprinting out of this house right now," said Jasmine.

"Just give me a moment to figure out what is going on. The good news is that I can tell you right off the bat that these were the people that I worked for so I don't think that we should have anything to worry about as far as them thinking that we are intruders or anything like that \--."

Jasmine interrupted, "You worked for these people! They are covering a boy in blood and flesh! They are dressed like druids! What the fuck is going on? That combined with everything else, what the fuck Zachary!"

"First off we don't know if that is blood," said Zachary.

"What else could it be?" said Jasmine.

"Wine," said Zachary.

"Then it would be the thickest and reddest wine on earth," said Jasmine.

"Yes that does look remarkably similar to blood."

"That's because it is fucking blood!" Jasmine exclaimed.

Zachary replied, "Well even if it is we don't know if it is human blood."

"Human blood! Why would you even say human blood? Why would you think that boy is covered in human blood? What the fuck!" shouted Jasmine.

"No, that is what I am saying we don't know that. If that is indeed blood it could be any type of blood is all I'm saying," said Zachary.

"What the fuck is going on?" shouted Jasmine.

Zachary knew that if there was ever a moment where he needed to call upon his wide range of book learning and analytic skills to solve a practical problem, that this was it.

I have over 14 years of secondary education and therefore I should be able to figure this out...But what is going on?

Suddenly a theory flashed into Zachary's mind. They had already identified the music as Wagner, the opera as Tristan and Isolde, and the scene as the Liebestod solo. Zachary knew that Wagner had been highly influenced by the philosophy of Schopenhauer and had used it as a basis for Tristan and Isolde. Schopenhauer believed that humankind's desires caused them to live in constant misery and that therefore the only way to reach contentedness was through the abandonment of desires. In the Liebestod solo, Isolde does not abandon her desire, and sings herself to death in a fit of singing ecstasy. Zachary theorized that the Thurmonds must have used this opera as the basis for some ritual in their secret family society. And by applying the principles of the opera to the present situation Zachary reached the conclusion that the Thurmonds knew as Schopenhauer had stated that it was only through the renunciation of their desires that they could achieve contentedness. Therefore this must have been some bizarre yet harmless ritual of their secret society, symbolizing the importance of renouncing desires, for if they did not renounce their desires then they would be covered, so to speak, in human blood and human flesh, and so had done so symbolically, with symbolic human blood and symbolic human flesh.

Zachary's mind having been put at ease, he gently smiled at Jasmine and told her that they had nothing to worry about.

"Why not?" Jasmine asked.

"I've pieced it together and this is not what it appears to be," said Zachary.

"I don't even know what it appears to be; I don't even know what we are looking at," said Jasmine.

"Don't worry, everything is good. In fact, I feel comfortable continuing to search for a telephone at this point. Although this family may not be happy to find me in their vacation home, we don't have to worry about any bodily harm coming to us. First off, they will recognize me immediately, and as I said, realize that we are not intruders," said Zachary.

"The boy is now eating the meat from his body," said Jasmine.

Zachary turned to the screen. It was true, Zachary noted, Ralph was now eating the bloody flesh covering his body.

However, this makes sense as well because as good as that venison might taste there is too much for one person to eat. Yet he might desire to eat it all himself. However, if he does give into his desire and independently consumes all the meat covering his naked body then he will invariably get sick, and so again these clever Thurmonds have proved Schopenhauer's point that it is only through a renunciation of desires that one can become truly content.

"I think that his meat eating is part of the ritual as well," said Zachary.

"What ritual? What are you talking about?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't want to get into the specifics because I will be closely towing the line of confidentiality, but you can rest assured that this is simply a harmless family ritual. But I feel like we are invading their private matters, let's leave this room and look for a phone," said Zachary, heading for the door.

"A harmless family ritual how so?" Jasmine asked, as they walked back into the hall.

"I told you they were a peculiar family. Let's just leave it at that," said Zachary.

"I really don't see how that is harmless," said Jasmine.

"Jasmine I would tell you if I could, but please don't pressure me to cross over that ethical line \--."

"Ethical line? We just saw a boy being bathed in blood? They, my friend, crossed the ethical line," said Jasmine.

"As a professional, my code of ethics promises family confidentiality. Those may not have looked like mental health matters to you --."

"No, they definitely seemed like mental health matters --."

"But they were mental health matters related to my testing, and it would be impossible to tell you what that all signified without breaching that confidentiality. And I have taken an oath as a psychologist to uphold my code of ethics," said Zachary.

"Do you know how ridiculous you sound right know? We found two piles of human bones, an ocean of blood in the field, enough human skulls to fill a crypt, a bloody sword, and a boy bathed in blood and covered in meat, and you are lecturing me about I don't even know what," said Jasmine.

"Please Jasmine don't be frustrated, but if I were to say this to you what would you think? A equals B. A equals C. Therefore, B equals C," said Zachary.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You are rambling again," said Jasmine.

Zachary smiled lightly while chuckling. Then saying in an avuncular tone, "Jasmine I can see how this would all seem frightening to you. But allow me to play the professor for a moment and give you a lesson in logic, now is this statement true or not? A equals B. A equals C. Therefore, B equals C. True or false?"

"I don't fucking know," said Jasmine.

"True or false?" said Zachary, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know, I've never taken logic," said Jasmine.

"Okay, listen closely because this is interesting and completely pertains to the current situation. Here is the statement: A equals B. A equals C. Therefore, B equals C. That is false and is known as the association fallacy. If you have ever watched any of the films of Micheal Moore they are primarily built on the association fallacy. Saudi Arabia is a evil place. George Bush is friends with Saudi Arabians. Therefore, George Bush is evil. That is a false statement. Now, George Bush may or may not be evil, but guilt by association just does not prove things --."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jasmine shouted.

"This whole present situation: you are making associations. Bones outside, blood inside, and so you are making the association that the people who vacation here have done bad things: but that is a logical fallacy. Jasmine, I hardly ever in life pull the trump card of my Ph.D. but I feel like this situation does call for it. My knowledge of logics, psychology, and everything else that I have learned over a lifetime of intensive learning indicates that this is a situation where things are quite under control," said Zachary.

"Among other freaky things, beyond that door there is a video of a boy, who in this house, was covered with blood and meat," said Jasmine.

"Not to pull that trump card again but what we are ultimately dealing with here is relativism versus absolutism --."

"You are really going to proceed to lecture me again?" said Jasmine.

Zachary laughed. "Only because this situation seems so strange. Trust me I hardly ever pull this trump card in everyday life. I don't tell the aging miserable waitress that she is miserable because she has not become actualized. I don't tell the angry police officer that he so desperately craves order because it took him longer than average to become potty trained. I don't tell balding middle aged man who has bought a convertible that he has done so because his penis now produces less sperm. Do you know how frustrating it can be to understand why everything ticks and yet have to stay silent about it? Why do I stay silent you ask? Because I have the inter-social knowledge that no one likes a know-it-all, and I have the intra-social knowledge that I have an inherent desire to be liked, and by combining these two types of social knowledge, inter and intra, the only reasonable conclusion is to zip my lips, so to speak. But in this current situation, given the emotional overtones, I feel it important to lay out how things really are and so at the risk of you not liking me, though only for a moment I am sure, allow me to explain --."

Jasmine interrupted, "Relativism holds that there is no absolute truth and that everything depends on context. Absolutism holds that there is only one truth, no matter the context. You were about to say that you are looking at the boy bathed in blood and covered in meat from a relativistic point of view – that for contextual reasons this ritual is moral. And you were then going to say that I am looking at the boy bathed in blood and covered in meat from an absolutist point of view, that there are no contextual reasons that could make this ritual moral."

"Yes, very good, but I also would continue to say, that over the course of history that relativism has proven to be the more robust and durable theory. Absolutism has led to dictators, to Nazis, and to Hitler. So I don't think that is a path that you want to go down," said Zachary.

"In my experience as a radio host, when people need to invoke Hitler to win an argument, unless the subject is WWII, then it is usually a weak argument," said Jasmine.

Zachary laughed gently.

Jasmine continued, "And why are we arguing about this any way? We are just wasting time."

"That's where you are wrong again," said Zachary, now following Jasmine down the hall. "You see, we don't have any time to waste because everything is copacetic. We could wait for this family to return or we could continue to search for a phone. It would make no difference. Which, incidentally, is the opposite of a situation determined by the theory of Path Dependence: which is the theory that the path you take does influence the outcome. However, the situation in which different paths lead to the same outcome also has a scientific name and is quite interesting when you get into the details, known to some as --."

"Zachary enough with the lecturing: I'm opening another door, this one, so prepare yourself, because who knows what the fuck we will find on the other side," said Jasmine, swinging the door open. The room was filled with shelves and an assortment of objects.

"This seems to be a storage room," said Zachary.

"Okay, well, no telephone here, let's move onto the next," said Jasmine.

Zachary nodded his head in agreement but just before he was about to leave he noticed the name "Kolby" on a gold plaque. So he held up his hand and entered the room.

"What silent conclusions are you making now?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary chuckled.

I can see how my educational merits could begin to wear on Jasmine: she is an ambitious girl and does not like to be outdone. Therefore, I should strive to stay humble, much as I did during the start of the week when I allowed her to lecture me on Thomas Jefferson and other matters...

The "Kolby" shelf was filled with toys, stuffed animals, and school documents such as report cards and a class project. The adjacent shelf had a gold plaque which read "Aldric," and held similar contents as the Kolby shelf, except that the toys and stuffed animals were obviously older. Adjacent to the "Aldric" shelf there was a "Manfred" shelf. Zachary examined the shelves and the names.

These are all the Thurmond children who have died young!

The shelves continued and there were names which Zachary did not recognize. Corresponding with these names were toys which were no longer plastic but had been whittled from wood and carved from stone.

How long has this Curse of Herod lasted?

However, Zachary pushed this last thought from his mind.

The testing has concluded. And you don't really know what to make of these other names. In any case, this shows that the Thurmonds have constructed remembrances for their children, which would seem to indicate that dormant CMR does not prevent the grieving process from occurring. However, this is all narrative information and because you were not able to implement the Philadelphia Grieving Inventory this information is less useful than it otherwise would have been.

"What is it this time?" Jasmine asked.

"Nothing that I can speak of specifically, but I will say that it is further evidence of the humanness of this family: come let us continue and find a phone," said Zachary, exiting the room.

"Humanness? Why wouldn't they be humane? What are we dealing with here?" Jasmine asked.

"Sorry, poor word choice, which I guess proves that even sometimes an egghead like me can make mistakes," said Zachary.

Yes, staying humble is the name of the game...

They continued down the hall, reaching a large black door. Inside they found a room that looked like the perfect setting for a ball.

I would not have expected to find a ballroom considering that Grey Cliff is a boys only club. But these Thurmonds never cease to amaze.

At the end of the room was a small pink door and after squeezing through they discovered a room filled with black boxes.

Zachary counted, "There are..."

"These two are open," said Jasmine, adding, "And they both smell bad."

Zachary examined the box, saying, "These are extraordinary boxes, very thick, and they look like they could be sound-proofed as well. But I agree: they smell putrid."

"What do you think is inside the rest?" Jasmine asked.

Zachary considered the question. "I really couldn't say. But as soon as the family comes back we could ask them. Yet I wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to be another one of their family secrets. However, I do feel like we are intruding on their privacy. Let's find that phone."

"You don't think we should try and open one?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't even see how we could. There is no handle," said Zachary, examining an unopened box.

"Yes, I suppose not. I just get the feeling that something is not right here," said Jasmine.

They walked back to the main hall, past the weapons, and to the second floor. On the second floor they found 14 bedrooms. Jasmine commented that the second floor seemed more like an ordinary hotel as compared to the first floor which she felt had resembled a museum.

"You know we still haven't found that kitchen," said Zachary. Therefore, they walked back to the first floor and retraced their steps. Remarkably, the next room was the kitchen, but there was no phone.

However, Zachary discovered that the kitchen's three refrigerators were filled with venison and he said, "They have been busy hunting."

"Hunting is what they must be doing now," said Jasmine.

"It is strange, but we haven't seen any mounted buck heads yet. They have them all over their homes," said Zachary.

"They must take them home," said Jasmine.

Zachary nodded. "Let's check the rest of the rooms. There has to be a phone here somewhere -- unless they all have cell phones."

They walked back into the hall and Zachary opened the next door.

Holy fucking shit!

Fucking shit!

Shit!

Restrained in the middle of the room on a wooden table was a gagged and naked black man. Jasmine screamed; Zachary screamed; the man screamed. And as Zachary read the pure terror in the man's eyes, he traveled back onto the Thurmond testing circuit.

What did I miss? The Thurmonds clearly had a dormant version of the CMR. All my data and my theories pointed to that conclusion.

Yet Zachary realized that in this moment of pure tragedy it was not proper to occupy the role of an ambitious scientist.

And even more than that I need to become just as Windsor suggested empathetic, caring, and human.

Therefore, Zachary stopped trying to figure out where his data, theories, or analysis had gone wrong.

For at this point in time my scientific failings are of zero importance and what is of paramount importance is that I focus all my physical energy and my entire metal prowess upon one objective: helping the poor wretch upon the table...

Jasmine and Zachary ran to the man's side, Jasmine reaching him first. She unbuckled his gag, his screaming did not cease.

Jasmine placed her hand on the man's chest, trying to calm him. Meanwhile Zachary unfastened the man's leg restraints but Jasmine stopped him, saying, "Don't you think we should figure out what is going on here first?"

The man became suddenly intelligible, screaming, "Yes unbuckle me! Unbuckle me! Unbuckle me!" The veins in his neck bulged and his sinewy body rose and fell in fits.

"I know what is going on and it's horrible," said Zachary. The man's screaming became more frenzied, his eyes pulsing.

Jasmine pulled Zachary away from the table. "Is this one of the people you worked for?"

"No, but I know what is going on. I'm almost positive of it," Zachary repeated.

"What is happening?" Jasmine asked.

"Horrible things – I don't know what we should do – I have to think," said Zachary, realizing that like Hamlet in his famous soliloquy "to be or not to be" that this was not a time for thinking; it was a time for action. Yet how could he take action without planning an action? The trick would be to plan an action but to not take too much time in the planning. Hamlet had taken too much time planning and while he planned, further bad events had occurred. So the one of the main points of Hamlet, as Zachary saw it, was not to blindly take action without forethought but to make use of efficient planning and then to take speedy action.

For if Hamlet had taken speedy action then isn't it likely that among other possible tragedies that might have been averted that Ophelia might not have taken her life?

"What are you thinking about?" Jasmine asked, squeezing the man's hand while he continued to scream.

"Hamlet, but hold on here and give me a second," said Zachary, starting to run the plot through his mind.

We are in Denmark and a ghost that resembles the recently deceased King Hamlet...

"Zachary stop it! This is some odd defense mechanism that you have. You are trying to intellectualize matters that should not be intellectualized! The only issue here is that there is a naked man strapped to a wooded table," said Jasmine.

Is she right? Am I trying to protect myself from directly viewing the crass vulgarities of the world through the obfuscating properties of the intellect? If so, I can actually, I think upon an initial gut-level pondering, postulate this to be a natural and expected reaction. And if so, therefore a somewhat forgivable reaction, given that the reaction is both natural and expected: for isn't it true that humans are most apt to forgive that which they find natural? For example we do not blame pre-14th century artists who displayed in their works only humankind's beatific qualities. Leonardo da Vinci was one of the first artists to draw the grotesque. This is because – wait!

Stop, and turn your mind to the matter at hand...

As the man continued to scream, Jasmine released his hand, whispering to Zachary, "And frankly, he doesn't seem right in the head. Maybe there is a reason that he is restrained here. Maybe he is the one who is responsible for bones, and the blood on the sword, and the skulls. He looks like a psychopath. Look at him, he's flipping out."

Zachary replied, "No, this is not his fault. It's the people that I worked for they did this to him. They are planning to do horrible things to him. We have to unbuckle him. But first we have to calm him and make him understand that we mean him no harm."

"Zachary what is going on? Tell me what is going on first -- that is if you actually know this time \-- so that I can help you to explain it to him," said Jasmine.

Zachary was breathing heavily and he said, "Okay, obviously confidentiality is a moot at this point so I am prepared to disclose everything. However, we have to work quickly because we aren't safe here and there isn't time to explain everything to you, but in a nutshell, those people you saw on the video: they are cannibals and they wish to eat this man."

Jasmine took a step back, nearly tripping over a chair. Asking Zachary if she had heard correctly, he assured him that she had. With noticeable terror in her voice, she asked if these cannibals would wish to eat them as well. Zachary nodded.

As the man screamed, "Yes fucking free me! Fucking free me!" Jasmine attempted to further question Zachary, but Zachary waved off the questions and explained that they had to take immediate action by freeing the man and fleeing into the woods, an explanation which caused the man to scream even more hysterically for his freedom.

Zachary turned to the man and said, "I will I just need you to be calm first."

The man screamed, "Calm how can I be fucking calm? They took the fucking flesh right off her body."

"What! Who did?" Jasmine asked, and with such a level of heightened alarm that Zachary wondered if he should ask her to sit and gather her senses.

"Those monsters, the people here: who are you?" the man asked, finally seeming, if only slightly, to have calmed.

But Jasmine did not answer. She had grown quiet and looked contemplative.

"My name is Zachary Dunbar and I am a psychologist. This is my friend Jasmine. We are going to let you out of your restraints. You may be suffering from post traumatic stress disorder so your decision making may be impaired. I want you to know that we mean you no harm, but you must stay with us. We must work together."

"Yes, I understand, just get me the fuck out of these restraints," said the man.

"I'm going to get us all weapons," said Jasmine.

"No, we have to stick together," said Zachary, while unbuckling the man's right leg.

"It's a chance we are going to have to take," said Jasmine, shoving a chair from her path as she began to run.

"She's right get weapons these people are fucking crazy!" the man shouted.

Jasmine had already sprinted from the room. Zachary considered following but he realized that leaving this man alone while still restrained would be inhumane. A few moments later the man was completely unfastened and with some effort he managed to sit upright.

"What is it? Are you hurt?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, one of those crazy people bashed both of my legs with a hammer. I think they are both broken," said the man. Zachary knew that he could not begin to fathom that the hell this man had been through.

And yet his sanity is still intact; I think that I would have broken by this point...

"So you can't walk?" Zachary asked.

"No, I don't think so, but I wish I could sprint, sprint the fuck out of here," said the man.

"What is your name?" Zachary asked, while he looked around the room for the man's clothes, finding them tossed in a ball in the corner.

"Joseph Louis, I am a special agent, Homeland Security," said Joseph, his breathing – out of the blue – had begun to grow heavy again.

"Homeland Security? How did you get involved in this?" Zachary asked, handing the man his clothes.

I hope Jasmine hurries. Who knows when these Thurmonds will be back and we are going to have to help Joseph out of here. He isn't going to be able to walk on his own. For that matter how are we going to get him back to Glacier with us, considering that he can't walk?

"I was kidnapped," said Joseph, his whole body shaking. "There was another."

"Was?" Zachary asked.

This is becoming more complicated.

"They killed a girl in front of my eyes. I don't know where she came from," said Joseph. Zachary helped Joseph with his pants and he grimaced as his legs were shifted.

"How did they get you here?" Zachary asked.

"Some awful box, soundproofed, lightless," said Joseph, and then glassing over, perhaps in a chilling return to the experience.

Then there are many more! Fuck! Fuck!

"We found a room with black boxes. There were about thirty," said Zachary.

"Thirty fuck! We have to help them," said Joseph.

Just at that moment Jasmine returned. She held two massive swords, her bow, and a spear.

"Where the fuck did you get all that?" Joseph asked.

"Right out there on the wall," said Jasmine.

"We have a problem," said Zachary.

"They fucked up my legs, I can't walk," Joseph explained, beads of sweat rolling down his face.

"Then we will carry him into the woods," said Jasmine.

"No, first release the others," said Joseph.

"Others?" Jasmine asked.

"The black boxes, they are filled with people," said Zachary.

"Fuck!" said Jasmine.

"We tried to open them earlier. They wouldn't open," said Zachary.

"Find a phone, call the authorities," said Joseph.

"We've been searching for a phone. We haven't been able to find one," said Jasmine.

"Damn it! Just leave me here. Sprint to the closest house and call the cops. Tell them to send SWAT, tell them to send everything," said Joseph, beginning to breath heavy, perhaps at the thought of being left alone again.

"We can't, the closest house is over a four days hike," said Jasmine. Suddenly Zachary saw how dire their situation had become.

And all because I analyzed my data incorrectly! But that isn't of importance now and you must stop thinking of it...

"Where the fuck are we?" Joseph shouted.

"Somewhere in Montana," said Jasmine.

"Fuck, we have to figure out how to open those boxes and fast," said Joseph.

"Yes, I agree," said Jasmine.

Zachary nodded.

"You two go and pry the boxes open with your swords. Hurry! Hurry! We don't have a moment to lose," said Joseph.

"Here, take the spear. You can at least try to do something with it if they return," said Jasmine.

Joseph thanked her with a pained nod and again repeated that they had to leave.

"We'll be back soon," said Jasmine.

Joseph shouted them off and Zachary and Jasmine sprinted to the room with the black boxes.

Jasmine positioned her face close to the first box, shouting that she was there to save them.

"It's no use. He said they are sound-proofed," said Zachary.

For the next fifteen minutes they banged, prodded, and pried at the boxes, but the boxes held fast. Eventually they stopped their fruitless tinkering and closely examined the structure of the already opened boxes, determining that the boxes were fortified and probably could not be opened without special tools.

"Fuck, what now? We can't even try to carry them out. They probably came down on that elevator and we don't have the key to use it. We could try to smash a hole through the wall with one of those weapons," said Jasmine.

"We don't have the time. We don't know when they will be back. Joseph is Homeland Security, maybe he has come up with some plan," said Zachary.

"Okay, let's go back," said Jasmine, and they sprinted back to Joseph.

"What happened?" Joseph asked.

"It was no use," said Zachary, fighting to speak through his loss of breath, "The boxes are mechanized and metal and they can't be opened without a key or something to get through the metal, and we obviously don't have the key and even if we could find, say, a hacksaw that would take way too long."

"Can we at least carry them out of here?" Joseph asked.

Jasmine pointed to the elevator, saying, "That leads down to the room, but it can't be activated without a key."

"Fuck!" said Joseph.

The mathematics of their situation flashed into Zachary's mind. "The way I see it, there are only two of us who can fight. There are seven of them. If we stay and fight we will probably lose. When we lose we will die and also the others in the boxes will die for certain as well. However, if we flee, we will survive and perhaps when we gather help some of the others in the boxes will still be alive and will be saved."

"No, they will know something is wrong when Joseph isn't here," said Jasmine, adding, "And then they will just kill everyone and cover their tracks. It won't work."

Joseph said, "You didn't understand his point. There are only two to fight or two to flee, either way I don't come into the equation. I have to stay here so that they don't think anything is amiss. I will be tortured and die a gruesome death but I'm prepared to do that. I became a Homeland Security agent so that I could serve my country and I knew at that at some point I might have to make a decision just like this. Well, I'm prepared to make it and I'm prepared to die."

Jasmine had begun crying and she hugged Joseph and kissed him square on the lips. Zachary replied, "He's right it's the only way. It's the only way the math makes sense. And I hate to fucking say it, but I have to say it. We have to put him back into his restraints. He won't be able to do it himself, at least not the last one anyway."

"I'm ready, strap me up," said Joseph, his face as sunken as if he were voluntarily jumping from a plane without a parachute.

Which is exactly what he is doing in essence...

Zachary fumbled with the right leg strap, his hand shaking as he began fastening Joseph back into his nightmarish position.

"No, no, I won't allow this to happen. I couldn't live with myself. No, there has to be another way," said Jasmine.

Zachary replied, "I'm sorry baby, this is the only way. Joseph is a professional and he knows that. He's prepared for what will come, however horrible, unimaginable, or painful."

Joseph had begun hyperventilating and he said, "Quickly strap me up before I change my mind. I don't want to change my mind because I know that this is the right thing. But if you don't do it quickly I might crawl right the fuck out of here."

Zachary began to quicken his pace.

Jasmine shouted, "Stop it Zachary! I'm not going anywhere. You go if you want. But I'm staying. I'm fighting."

Zachary had only fastened one restraint and he held up a finger towards Joseph, gesturing that he needed a minute, but Joseph ignored the gesture and continued to scream that they had to restrain him quickly before he changed his mind. Zachary did not respond to Joseph's implorations and pulled Jasmine to the side, whispering, "You can't stay here. You will die."

Jasmine spoke loudly, "You know you should have tested me for RMT like you said you would. At least then I would know what my chances were. At least then I would know if I would be able to stay calm at the moment when the rubber meets the road --."

"Jasmine you know that the odds of fulfilling the Trait Theory Theory of Exceptions are more than 1/1000. This is ridiculous! We have to get out of here while we have a chance," said Zachary, though doubt had already begun to creep into his mind.

I don't know if I would be able to live with myself if I fled either...

"You know it is funny. The closer this moment of reckoning comes the calmer I find myself becoming. I really think there is a good chance I might have RMT – which if I read my ancestor's narrative correctly, means that in my moment of chosen bloody chaos that I will be quite clear-headed, and make use of all opportunities presented to me," said Jasmine, flexing her body with anticipation, her biceps and triceps much larger than Zachary had realized them capable of expanding.

"Jasmine don't jump to conclusions here. Let's data gather data first and figure out our odds," said Zachary.

"You gather whatever data you want but --."

"Jasmine even if we are going to fight them we need to gather data," Zachary interrupted.

Science may have failed me up to this point but that doesn't mean that I have become so disillusioned with my chosen profession that I am ready to abandon the scientific method...

"Then you are staying?" said Jasmine, now kissing Zachary.

"If after analyzing the data that this seems to be the reasonable conclusion," said Zachary and then turning to Joseph he said, "Tell me about their weapons. Are their guns automatic or what? What are kind of firepower are we looking at?"

"They don't use guns. I've heard them discussing it. They only use arrows. They hunt with arrows," said Joseph.

"So what is their deal? They hunt for bucks during the day and then skin and eat black people at night?" Zachary asked.

"Black people? Why do you say black people?" said Jasmine.

"He's right, that girl was black. He's probably one of them. I've noticed they like to play games. Who the fuck are you man?" said Joseph, now shouting.

"I told you I told you, my name is Zachary Dunbar. Everyone calm down, I worked for this family okay, so that gave me an idea of what was going on --."

"You knew this was fucking happening!" Jasmine exclaimed.

"Jasmine this is a worst case scenario. But yes, when I saw Joseph here strapped down, I realized that reality was the worst case scenario --."

"You better start talking and telling me what the fuck is going on here!" Jasmine shouted, thrusting her pointer finger into Zachary's chest.

"Calm down okay, explaining all this would be like a 50 page research paper. We don't have time! We have to focus on fighting, and saving those people," said Zachary, glancing from Jasmine to Joseph and noting that they both seemed to be seething. "No firepower, that is good news that they don't have guns: There may be eight of them and only two of us who can fight, but apparently Jasmine here is a dynamo with the bow."

"Is that true?" Joseph asked.

Jasmine nodded.

Zachary continued, "And they have two kids and two old men so that almost takes four people out of equation."

"Kids what do we do about that?" Jasmine asked.

Joseph replied, "Don't be fooled by their youth. They are horrendous little fucks. I saw them eating the girl's skin."

"They should not be a target unless it appears that they are about to use deadly force and self-defense is an absolute necessity," Zachary declared.

"Says the man who knew his clients were eating black people," said Jasmine.

"Jasmine, I knew no such thing!" said Zachary, and sighing he added, "We have to be agreed on this fact. I won't enter this fight with the objective of killing children. And furthermore protecting those children should be a clear objective."

"Says the man who knew his clients were eating black people," Jasmine repeated.

"Will you stop saying that it isn't true!" said Zachary, though the thought flashed into his mind that his Thurmond conclusions had been too cavalier.

Still this is not the time for such analysis and self-doubt...

Joseph told them to stop bickering.

Zachary replied, "Can you tell us anything else about what you heard?"

"One of them had a key around his neck. He must have been the one who opened my box."

"Think, what did he look like?" Zachary asked.

"He was one of the middle aged ones. He had balding brownish hair," said Joseph.

"I think that was probably Alburt," said Zachary.

"You know the names of these monsters? That is disgusting," said Jasmine.

"Of course, I know their names. I worked for them. Will you get over it? We have to work together," said Zachary.

Joseph said, "He's right we have to be completely united."

"Well you are the homeland security agent, what do you think our strategy should be?" Zachary asked.

Joseph replied, "Our best bet will be to ambush them when they are alone or in pairs. Better yet, we should make Alburt our primary target. If we can isolate Alburt then we can..."

Grey Cliff, Area Two: It seemed to Aysha that these people never stopped smiling and she wondered if they were part of some odd religious sect. Mick offered them seats in the kitchen. Aysha and Darnell both sat. Aysha observed their surroundings. The white motif continued with white walls, white rugs, white furniture, and white decorations. Darnell looked at her with a pained expression, as if saying, 'Let's get out of here.'

"So the phone?" Darnell asked.

"I just remembered that my wife has the cell. We share a phone you see. But she will be back from church shortly," said Mick, and predictably, smiling.

"It must be difficult to keep everything clean?" Aysha said.

Darnell kicked her under the table.

"How do you mean?" Mick asked.

"Everything is so white, your clothes, this house, not to mention your children's clothes. It must be difficult to keep everything clean," said Aysha.

"Luckily my wife, she loves cleaning, so it works out well. But we do use a lot of bleach," said Mick, laughing as if what he had said was quite funny. The children were all standing behind Mick and they laughed too.

"Drinks?" Mick asked.

"Water would be nice," said Aysha.

"And for you, Darnell?" Mick asked.

"I'm good," said Darnell.

He has to be thirsty. And so his mistrust continues...

"Aysha, I just remembered that we are having trouble with our plumbing, all we have is milk," said Mick, while talking through a smile.

Aysha swallowed hard. "Milk will be fine."

Darnell kicked her under the table.

"So what happened? You said it was a long story. I love long stories," said Mick. The children had wandered from the kitchen and were now out of sight.

Darnell replied, "Basically, we were kidnapped. So we need your phone to call the cops."

"Kidnapped by whom?" Mick asked, the smile leaving his face for the first time since they had met him.

"We don't know. But that big house not too far from here that's where we came from," said Darnell.

"Really?" Mick asked.

"Yeah, really," said Darnell.

"Well, that isn't a fun occurrence," said Mick, smiling again.

"What are you smiling about man? Aysha let's go," said Darnell.

He's right! Something is wrong here.

She gripped her stick tightly and turned to leave, but to her horror the three children stood before the door, holding axes.

Grey Cliff, Area Two: Working as fast as possible Jasmine and Zachary stripped Joseph from his clothes and fastened him back into his leg restraints; his arms, though free, would appear fastened (through the use of some tape found in the room). They had taken a dagger from the wall and secured it under Joseph's table: it could be reached with his right hand. If the Thurmonds decided to skin him he would attempt to inflict upon his skinner a mortal wound.

"Remember the plan," said Joseph.

Zachary and Jasmine nodded. The plan was simple. They would hide in Alburt's bedroom, wait for him to fall asleep and slit his throat. Then using his key they would free the remaining prisoners, arm the prisoners with the weapons in the hall, and all work together to overpower the Thurmonds – though with the aim of sparing the children's lives.

Alburt's bedroom had been located and they had chosen to hide underneath his bed. Zachary had a sword. Jasmine had her bow and a dagger. She had volunteered to slit Alburt's throat and would use the dagger to complete the task.

For the first hour underneath the bed Zachary and Jasmine did not talk and Zachary wondered if Jasmine would ever talk to him again.

Finally Zachary whispered, "You know I can't allow myself to think about where I went wrong with everything right now because despair wouldn't help anything."

"I don't want to talk about it," Jasmine replied.

"But if we survive this and I do get a chance to think about it, I'm certain that my regret is going to be devastating," said Zachary.

"I mean it, I don't want to talk about it," said Jasmine.

"Do you think you are ever going to be able to forgive me?" Zachary asked.

"I don't even know what it is that I am supposed to forgive you for because I still don't even know what is going on," said Jasmine.

Because they had nothing to do besides wait and because Zachary realized that he had already withheld too much information, he told her the Thurmond story from the beginning and included all details no matter how seemingly insignificant.

Jasmine listened without interrupting and when Zachary had finished she said, "You're right, now isn't the time to think about all that. I'm going to have to think about it later and think about what all that means for the future of us."

"I understand," said Zachary.

"But what the fuck Zachary, how could you be so imperceptive?" Jasmine asked.

"I fucked up worse than I ever would have thought possible, that much is apparent..."

Jasmine replied, "Zachary I believe in the interconnectedness of the world. I think everything has to do with everyone. So when a duty comes along I don't shirk it. This has just as much to do with me, as it has to do with you, and as it would have to do with anyone else were they in this situation. Sometimes we don't choose situations they choose us but the actions then taken are the ones that define our character..."

Zachary considered her words. "Yes, that makes sense. I just wish that right before facing death I didn't have to feel like such a loser."

Jasmine sighed.

"Maybe it is because we are both under this bed and potentially about to die. Maybe it is because I am a girl falling in love and love is capable of overlooking a lot. Maybe it is because you have fucked up so bad that you are going to need at least one person to forgive you. I don't know and I don't care, kiss me," said Jasmine.

They kissed: a sword and a dagger rattling between them. For Zachary the utter horror of their situation now seemed more manageable and he had the desire to be as almighty as a movie action hero and protect Jasmine and save everyone.

But you don't have those skills. You can't expertly kick, punch, and break a man's neck with an able snap. And if you do need to swing your sword at one of these Thurmonds it will also be the first time you have ever swung a sword in your life...

"How do you think Joseph is taking it down there all alone?" Zachary asked.

"It's tough to say," Jasmine said.

"I don't know if I would have had the guts to allow someone to strap me back in. I think I would have crawled out to the woods," said Zachary.

"You don't know that, nor does anyone else know what they would do. We can't know until we find ourselves there in that spot. I mean look at our situation. We will be attempting to kill 5 and potentially 8 cannibals \--."

"It's crazy isn't it?" Zachary interrupted, suddenly having the urge to run from the house and sprint into the woods until Grey Cliff was a distant memory.

"No, Zachary, it is the right thing to do. But if I had said to you a couple of nights ago as we were peacefully roasting marshmallows that you would soon have to make a decision whether you would run to safety and away from 8 cannibals or stay and fight these cannibals to the death, which would do you think you would have chosen?" Jasmine asked.

"I probably would have chosen to run and live," said Zachary, again wondering if that wasn't perhaps the option that he should take now.

"Yet, here we are, waiting for these monsters to come home, so that we, two ordinary tourists from Boston, can fight them to the death. You just don't know what you will do in any extraordinary situation until you are there in that extraordinary situation. We can all judge Thomas Jefferson, just as I have done many times, for living lavishly and not freeing his slaves. And we can all say, 'I wouldn't have done that. I would have lived humbly and I would have freed my slaves.' But how do we really know? It's all speculation. But this right here, us under this bed and waiting for the moment of truth, this is what counts and this is what defines us," said Jasmine.

Zachary tried to imagine himself thrusting his sword into a Thurmond's chest, but the image felt unnatural.

I hope I can do this...

The front door slammed: the Thurmonds had arrived. Zachary was unsure whether the Thurmond's boots upon the floor or his heart thumped louder.

Images flashed through his mind; his major life accomplishments; his various lovers; life paths not taken; his childhood friends; the reflection in his first girlfriend's piercing blue eyes as she viewed her first sunrise, a sight she and Zachary had both viewed only moments after losing their virginity. And then he stopped reflecting, as aware and alert as if entering into the focused zone of thinking that he conjured when writing an academic paper.

Except my focus will be used for killing, not questioning.

Zachary was passably athletic. It wasn't that Zachary was not competitive it was just that he liked to compete in his areas of greatest talent, and as he grew older he realized that for him these areas were not contained within the realm of sports but rather the realm of the mind.

However, sports allowed him to make friends. The folks Zachary usually befriended did not have (or chose not to use) the focus necessary for mind-work. Most of his friends were laborers: mechanics, carpenters, drivers, bartenders and so on. He had made friends in academia but they usually put him off. Zachary's most lasting friendships had been made when he was a young man and active in the realm of sports, and sports was the common thread that kept these friends tied over the years.

So Zachary continued to follow sports. Yet Zachary had always assumed sports an impractical social diversion. However, he saw in this present situation a possible practical use for his sports dabbling.

Zachary believed that inadvertent tightening to be the core-substance of the legendary sports choke: a player sensed the immense gravity of the situation, say an important World Series at bat, and their body tightened and did not perform as effectively as if it had been loose. A-Rods' life coach had suggested that he use mantras during game at-bats, a method which Zachary found interesting because Buddhists have two types of meditation to empty the mind: one is through the use of mantras and one is through a willed blank state – but either way a blank mind leads to a relaxed and loose body.

For Zachary this Thurmond death match was comparable to a sports game because he reasoned that if he were to successfully fight and stay alive that it would require the non-thinking attitude of a sports game rather than the thinking attitude of a sports practice. The tricky part was that Zachary had never had a chance to actually practice swordsmanship or killing, so he had not acquired the muscle memory.

Therefore, he again tried to imagine these activities, knowing it crucial that he imagine himself, say decapitating a Thurmond before he attempted to actually decapitate a Thurmond. And even more than imagining a decapitating swing of his sword, he imagined that he was loose and non-thinking in the decapitating moment and that the act had come as naturally as a returned tennis serve.

The head is severed from the neck and though the brain stem spurts blood forth I am not concerned...

Although, Zachary believed this exercise necessary it had caused him to sweat and his heart to race. Yet Zachary had also learned that at least some butterflies in the stomach are a good sign before a sporting event because this manageable nervousness signified that the sympathetic nervous system had begun pumping adrenaline and that one would not begin the game flat-footed.

And when the game is one of death, an initial mistake could be my end...

This thought reminded Zachary of a fight that he had lost in middle school, a fight lost to a boy he had known to be his athletic inferior. The boy had become enraged over some snide comment on Zachary's part. Zachary had no wish to fight and had stood frozen, thinking that the boy would calm. But the machinations of the boy's mind were not like the machinations of Zachary's mind and therefore Zachary's theory of the boy's mind -- that the boy would calm because he would calm were he in the boy's shoes -- had proven incorrect. And meanwhile, the boy worked himself into such a frenzied state that when he eventually did fall upon Zachary he did so with a sprinting start and Zachary was caught flat-footed. The end result of this flat-footedness was a bloody nose, a black eye, and the knowledge that most everyone in school was talking about how Zachary Dunbar had lost a fight to what's-his-name (Zachary couldn't remember because they had barely known each other).

But here at Grey Cliff, the end results of flat-footedness could easily be death.

Like that boy who bloodied my nose and blackened my eye, I must work myself into a crazed warrior-like state...

Zachary had observed that most so-called motivational experts wrote in their best-selling books that one of the secrets to success is first visualizing that success. But conversely, Zachary had recently watched a Mike Tyson documentary titled 'Tyson' in which the boxer's career was analyzed by the boxer himself, and at one point Tyson spoke about his pre-fight routine, part of which involved not visualizing success but visualizing defeat. And perhaps by visualizing defeat, Zachary surmised, Tyson began to work himself into that you-have-done-me-wrong-Sir frenzied state that allows one to begin a fight, not flat-footed, but like a pit bull unleashed and thinking only of the jugular.

Therefore, Zachary began to imagine the Thurmonds killing him and imagined the unjustness of his death at the hands of a family of cannibals.

Jasmine whispered, "I want those fuckers now."

As time passed, the noise of the Thurmonds stopped.

Jasmine whispered, "What have you been thinking about?"

"Sports theory, I'm hoping I can apply it to the workings of this sword," whispered Zachary

"Still intellectualizing? I thought I might have talked some sense into you," Jasmine whispered.

Zachary tried not to laugh, but chuckled slightly.

Jasmine whispered, "My advice would be, don't think, act."

"That's the conclusion that I ultimately came to – you see I \--."

Jasmine whispered, "Zachary, I may have warmed back up to you, but a cooling is still possible. Let's just be silent until Alburt enters the room."

The light of day began to fade. Neither Zachary nor Jasmine had a flashlight and they wondered how Jasmine would locate Alburt's neck if the room became completely dark. Suddenly Alburt's door swung open.

How didn't we hear him ascending the stairs!

He entered mid-conversation.

Who is he talking too?

Charles!

"...Yes that is exactly what I thought," said Alburt.

Zachary could see Alburt's slippers. They were red and frilly. Alburt remained near the threshold of the door.

It is all happening now. Don't get caught flat-footed...

Charles replied, "Oh, Alburt, but her expression, that was priceless and worth more than the price of admission. And when Ralph cut off the Negros foot and the Negress began screaming, I thought that moment sublime."

Cut off his foot! Then they were not hunting bucks! Fuck...

"I'm just glad they told us to come up from Death Road and join in," said Alburt.

"Yes, I thought that was very thoughtful of them. And this Ralph he's a good one. Catching them alive so that we can skin them together, and feast while we skin, very good idea, very very good idea," said Charles.

Alburt replied, "Well, it's his show. He is the newcomer."

"Yes, well I didn't have nearly that much imagination when I was a newcomer," said Charles.

"When you were a newcomer you were much younger," said Alburt.

"That's true. Yet I do think this to be a glorious moment in the Thurmond family chronology. And I'm really happy for Mick. He has taken the Kolby thing hard for such a long time. He shares in this triumph." said Charles.

"That is true Dad. But it is also true that this is a glorious day for all Thurmonds. For when one Thurmond shines we all shine!" said Alburt.

"Here! Here!" said Charles.

"I need to get a drink myself," said Alburt, adding in a quieter voice, "By the way, what did you think of Chase out there drunk today?"

"I thought it deplorable. Hunting and drinking don't mix, especially when hunting Negros. You know me Alburt: I'm a typical Thurmond and not afraid to get rowdy, but only after the hunt is over, not before," said Charles.

"Well, maybe you and Donald should talk to him about it. I'd hate to see this go on all season. You could always propose a rule," said Alburt.

"I'll talk to him, but tomorrow once he is sober," said Charles.

"So when is the feast, or should I say skinning feast?" Alburt asked.

"We are expected in the Grand Dining Hall in fifteen, and we shall be wearing our red robes because this one will get bloody," said Charles.

Alburt laughed and Chase left. Zachary watched Alburt walk to his closet. He was whistling some old tune and Zachary finally recognized it as Stephan Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns." Alburt's pants dropped to the floor and after he stepped out of them, his shirt followed. He dressed in his red robe and left the room.

Jasmine whispered, "What the fuck is going on?"

"They were hunting people," Zachary whispered.

"Black people?" Jasmine asked.

"Yes," Zachary whispered.

"But it sounds like they have captured two, and have injured them, and are going to kill them now," Jasmine whispered.

"Yes, I think so," whispered Zachary.

"We can't let that happen," whispered Jasmine.

"We have no choice. Joseph explained that we cannot confront them all at once and they will all be in that dining room together," whispered Zachary.

"So what then? We just allow those people to die?" whispered Jasmine.

"I think that is what Joseph would want and he is the expert," whispered Zachary.

"No one is an expert in this situation," Jasmine whispered.

"We should stick to the plan," Zachary whispered.

"They are going to skin them alive and then eat them while they are there skinning them," whispered Jasmine.

"It's awful, but we have no choice," whispered Zachary.

Jasmine was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, "The dining room had only one door in. So if we block it they won't be able to get out."

"They will have us outnumbered," whispered Zachary.

"They won't have any weapons with them while they are eating dinner. We could perhaps convince them to surrender," whispered Jasmine.

"We should stick to the plan," Zachary whispered.

"We can do this Zachary. We will catch them by surprise. I will have my bow and a dagger and you will have your sword. If they try to fight us they will be fucked," whispered Jasmine.

Zachary pictured the scenario in his mind and though it seemed plausible that it could succeed his mind rejected it as an unsupported argument. The previous plan had been based on the advice of a Homeland Security special agent, and one who had probably studied the major war theorists such as Sun Tzu, Machiavelli, Mahan, Corbet, Douhet, and Pape. And while Zachary had read some works by these war theorists he had never read war theory with the aim of learning military strategy or tactics but rather war psychology – and that was of little use now.

Zachary had no intellectual framework upon which to choose an action. Jasmine was a radio host. Zachary was a psychologist. What did they know about warfare or fighting?

Nothing!

Zachary whispered, "Jasmine your plan is not evidence based, it has no scientific merit."

"Stop, please stop using your intellectual functions as a defense mechanism. We cannot let those people die. And this plan makes sense. But I need your help. One against eight even if they are unarmed might not work. But two against eight, I think we could make it happen," whispered Jasmine.

Shrieks were heard from below.

"They've started Zachary. We must act..."

Grey Cliff, Area Two: At the precise moment when Ralph's axe chopped through Darnell's right foot, Ralph had been overcome with immense pleasure. And as the foot fell and Darnell's leg began painting that house of white a spattered red, Ralph remembered that Aysha was a foot doctor and so had repeatedly asked her in as innocent a tone as he could muster what remedy she suggested for the patient: a statement which caused his fellow Grey Cliff members to roar with laughter.

Time seemed to freeze: he gripped his bloody axe, his eyes focused and his mind clear, and the abstract Grey Cliff principles that his father had previously espoused clicked into place as if bullets entering a chamber. He had been at Grey Cliff less than a week and yet he was certain that he never wanted to leave.

"Why must we?" he later asked his father, as they walked into the Grand Dining hall, Darnell and Aysha bound and gagged upon the table. The prisoners were naked and their bellies heaved as they breathed exhaustedly. Part of Aysha's thigh had been skinned in the House in the Field by Preston. Darnell's leg had been bandaged, though at spots the blood was showing through.

"Because the world is not a perfect place: and so we work hard during the year so that we earn this time, so that it can be ours, and so that we can feast upon Negro flesh unabated," said Mick, running his hand in a tickling motion over Darnell's leg, Darnell screaming through his gag.

"But our family has money and if Windsor returns, we will have much more. Surely we can afford it," said Ralph.

"But there is more to life than money and the freedom that money buys. You must also think of the future generations of Thurmonds, as those Thurmonds in the framed pictures thought of you. For they are the reason that you can enjoy so blissfully the taste of Negro flesh; and while it is true that the Negro is a dull and slow creature fit only for exploitation and consumption, the moment we stop fighting, the moment we stop performing our duties, at that moment we give them a chance to rise. Maybe not today, tomorrow, or even ten years hence, but at some point they could rise and challenge our dominant status. So we must never become lazy and loosen our grip upon the chains that bind them, and therefore we must work and then work harder still," said Mick.

"I want to poke Darnell's leg stump with a hot poker. Is that something I could do before he is fully skinned?" Ralph asked, poking at Darnell's bandage with his hand. Darnell's head rose in anguish.

"Were you listening to a thing I said?" Mick asked. He had taken his seat at the Grand Table, Ralph then sitting to his left.

"Yes, I was," said Ralph, though smiling.

"No, you weren't you were just thinking about the hot poker," said Mick, laughing.

"Well, can I?" Ralph asked.

"Yes, of course. Later, I'll help you make a fire and we'll heat up an iron poker," said Mick.

"Thanks, Dad," said Ralph.

Ralph wondered how he would ever return to the drudgery of school life. But it occurred to him that once home perhaps he and his father could take on a joint project, such as a wayward Negro to skin and feast upon. Ralph sensed that he had grown closer to his father during this short vacation than he had previously during his entire lifetime. And he knew that the Grey Cliff members were quite pleased with his progress. Donald and Charles had applauded his innovative qualities, such as his idea for joint skinning and feasting. As Charles had said, "Grey Cliff is built upon tradition. But sometimes it is acceptable for things to change and to make way for the next generation and their progressive ideas, and a joint skinning and feasting activity is one such acceptable change. Bravo Ralph Thurmond! Bravo!"

The members, all dressed in red robes, had taken their seats and a cornucopia of butchering and skinning instruments had been laid upon the table.

As Donald and Charles stood, talking stopped and heads bowed. Then the co-presidents of Grey Cliff said in unison, "Though we be but the mere Thurmonds here, we forget not the dead Thurmonds there. In life through life we feast on Negro flesh, but once dead still we feast upon the Negro in death! And so to the Thurmonds long past and to the Thurmonds yet to come, we say this feast not for us alone but for Thurmonds every one!"

"Here! Here!" said the members, their heads still bowed.

Donald and Charles continued, "So prepare your knives and prepare your spoons, for there be Negro bones to crack and Negro guts to consume!"

"Here! Here!"

"Slurping their blood and licking their brains, popping their eyeballs and sucking their veins!" Donald and Charles continued.

"Here! Here!"

"This feast be sublime because Thurmonds feast best but while feasting we never forget the children fallen to the West!"

"Here! Here!"

Then Donald and Charles sat.

"Can I start skinning now dad? Is that okay," Ralph whispered, though not looking at his father, his gaze instead fixed upon Aysha's left leg.

"Be patient son, dinner hasn't started yet," said Mick.

"Before the feast we have official business!" Donald boomed.

"Official business be thy will and may official business bring glory to Grey Cliff and its lands," said the other members while Ralph picked up the statement midway, still not fully versed in all Grey Cliff's ceremonial procedures.

Donald boomed, "Official business be this: Windsor Thurmond long lost brethren be he, has begged for reconsideration, reappointment, and readmission after many decades separation from Grey Cliff and its glory. What say ye Gray Cliff?"

Donald pointed a butcher's knife at each member and they stated either "Aye" or "Nay" When the voting had concluded Windsor had been unanimously readmitted. And so Donald boomed, "Official business is now official! Windsor shall be informed tomorrow at the dawning of the sun!"

Donald sat and Charles stood, Charles saying, "Ralph Thurmond this feast was your notion and so it is only fitting that you be the one to begin the carving of the meat!"

Charles sat and Donald stood and once standing, boomed, "Ralph Thurmond! Choose your skinning device!"

Ralph walked to the butchering and skinning instruments. He picked one up and tested its weight in his hand. He picked up another and felt its grip. Finally he said, "Donald I have brought the skinning knife that you gave me and I would like to use that."

Donald nodded.

Ralph said, "But if possible I would first like to bring to our feast a new dish. Joseph has been here alone all day and I feel that we have not paid him sufficient attention."

After a vote it was decided that Joseph should also become part of the joint skinning and feasting activity, and a minute later his wooden table was rolled into the Grand Hall and positioned at the far end of the Grand Table.

Ralph said, "I would like to start with Aysha, her left leg specifically, and I would like to do her ungagged."

Donald and Charles boomed in unison, "Ralph Thurmond, your proposals are accepted!"

Grey Cliff, Area Two: As soon as Zachary heard the shrieking he realized that Joseph's plan, waiting, had become unthinkable and the only reasonable option had suddenly become Jasmine's plan, immediate action.

Those shrieks change everything.

Another shriek and Jasmine whispered, "Please, Zachary we must, it is time to make our stand."

"I agree," whispered Zachary.

They crawled out from underneath the bed. The sword felt heavy in Zachary's hands. Don't be flat-footed.

He walked into the center of the room and practiced swinging and imagined himself hacking limbs.

A Ph.D. on the road to a bloodbath...

They concocted an attack plan and Zachary said, "I didn't want to say this before because I hadn't been sure. But I now believe with high certainty, due to factors that have unfolded, that you have the Righteous Murder Trait. If the trait has been dormant this stressful situation will cause it to rise to the surface. It is highly probable that like your ancestors, that in the moment of battle you will be transformed into an extremely focused and efficient killing machine, aka a warrior with RMT."

His entire speech had been based upon zero science. It was impossible for Zachary to know if Jasmine had RMT before she was properly assessed. True, her profession and her hobbies could be sublimation for dormant RMT, but that was only speculation. However, Zachary felt this white lie condonable because it could only help the situation.

"Really? Why didn't you tell me before?" Jasmine whispered.

"I didn't want your confidence to be too high," whispered Zachary.

"Well, this does make me feel much more confident," whispered Jasmine, an arrow in her right hand and her bow in her left.

"Ready?" Zachary whispered, though feeling hardly ready at all.

Jasmine nodded and in her eyes a happy innocence glimmered.

And yet in a matter of moments she will be attempting to slay monsters...

"Are you with me?" Jasmine whispered.

"Until the end," Zachary whispered.

Another shriek...

"We have to move," whispered Jasmine.

"I'll go first," whispered Zachary.

"No, I'll go first. If we see someone, I'll shoot them, move to the side, and then you can finish them with the sword," said Jasmine.

"Good strategy," said Zachary.

Maybe she does have RMT? Or is that just wishful thinking?

As Jasmine opened the door, it occurred to Zachary that much of life is a game of waiting and that like Chinese acrobats juggling an increasingly absurd amount of kitchenware we learn to hold more and more waiting times: this long drive will end and my destination will have been worth the driving, these shoes will wear out and better ones will be bought, this nagging girlfriend will be upgraded and perhaps with a blonde. And while waiting we build dream-houses in our minds, places where the waiting has ended and only fulfillment remains, our brains the stick and carrot machines and we the gullible donkeys.

But will all my waiting soon end?

They walked down the grand stairs and when they reached the bottom and were approaching the hall, Jasmine stopped, and so Zachary stopped.

"Did you hear something?" Jasmine whispered.

"I heard nothing," said Zachary.

They continued walking.

Another shriek...

Jasmine's arrow was fully drawn so that it could be released, if necessary, in an instant. Zachary walked behind, the sword positioned to his right and pointed vertical.

They began walking through the wall of weapons and decided against gathering more.

The shrieking was now mingled with the celebratory sounds of the feast. They turned left. The final hall was upon them. They passed the storage room. They passed the projection room. They stood in front of the double-sided dining room door. The sounds from inside the room were muddled because so many Thurmonds were speaking.

"You swing it open and I'll go through first," Jasmine whispered -- her eyes deadened.

Zachary nodded. And suddenly it occurred to him that the moment was comparable to a moment of many years past, a car accident, an accident in the snow where the car fishtailed and slid straight into a tree. Einstein held that time was not linear; that time was actually the fourth dimension. And Zachary was familiar with a recent study in which rollercoaster riders estimated their descent time longer than they estimated an equally timed yet ordinary task. During that slide into the tree Zachary too had felt time slow and knew death a strong possibility.

And here again, in the moment when he swung that dining room door open and the possibility of death greeted him as unabashedly as a door-to-door proselytizer, he felt his heart steady and his mind enter a state of slow-time clear-headedness.

He became aware that the noise from the room had ceased and that Jasmine had begun yelling. In a fraction of a second his mind had mapped these components: the dining room table faced them lengthwise; two naked people were strapped upon the table; Joseph was positioned beyond the Great Table; eight Thurmonds were seated at the table which meant that they were all contained within the room, and in facing pairs, were Donald and Charles, Alburt and Chase, Prestin and Dwade, and Mick and Ralph.

They were lounging on cushioned seats while disfigured humans writhed before them, and with blood dripping from their faces and red hoods upon their heads they looked to be a table of seated demons. Some Thurmonds still chewed and Zachary shuttered as he noted the clump of thigh carved from the naked women's leg.

Jasmine's words finally registered as she repeated while pointing her arrow directly at Alburt, "You will put down your butchering equipment. You will put down your butchering equipment. You will put down your fucking butchering equipment..."

None of the Thurmonds released their knives. And Charles, his expression indifferent, though his eyes dark, interrupted Jasmine's orders, saying calmly, "Zachary? What are you doing here? And why is this woman pointing an arrow at my son?"

Zachary's voice was strong. "Why do you think Charles? You're eating people – these people right here. We can't let that happen. Put down your butcher's knife. It's all over Charles. It is all over for all of you. Grey Cliff is over!"

Charles replied, "But the night is still young, join in our feast Zachary, join in like you did many times before. Strike down the Negro to your side! Strike her with your sword and join the feast! Her meat looks supple! Her meat looks firm!"

Jasmine shouted, "You are a family of sick fucks and if you don't put down your fucking knives this arrow is going straight into his chest."

Charles replied, "If you think our family sick than you must think Zachary sick too, for he has partaken in our feasts on more than one occasion."

Don't tell me! The venison...

Jasmine shouted, "Enough with the lies! Put down your knives or he is getting it in the chest!"

Charles replied, now intermingling calm statements with wild exclamations, "It isn't a lie. Zachary highly complimented Thurmond venison -- I mean Negro flesh -- and on more than one occasion. Isn't that right Zachary? Which means my dear that he would find your flesh just as tasty. So Zachary I say brother in arms brother in blood and brother in flesh, chop off her head and we'll all lap her blood! And Zachary brother is a brother who knows our family tidings well and so he knows what Thurmond camaraderie means! That we Thurmonds are always prepared to die, just as our children have been prepared to die, so that other Thurmonds can live in the fullest meaning of that word, glory! Yes live with Thurmond Glory, the only kind that matters and that makes our lives worth living! We the members of Grey Cliff will never fall! You may try to strike us down but our spirit will forever rise, and rise again!"

Jasmine told me not to strike until she had released her first arrow, but what the fuck why isn't she releasing an arrow? Charles is galvanizing them to action!

As if reading Zachary's thoughts, Jasmine's arrow flew straight into Alburt's chest and he fell from his chair. Instantly the Thurmonds bounded from their seated position with butcher's knives, scalpels, hacksaws and other various already-bloodied skinning and butchering instruments.

Zachary charged at Donald because Donald was closest and swung his sword like a bat straight into his chest, screaming as he hacked until Donald dropped his knife and fell to the ground in a lacerated heap.

Then Zachary swung his sword wildly, and though striking none (for most of the Thurmonds had fallen back) he created a protective space so that Jasmine was shielded from potential attack as she let a stream of arrows fly, into Mick's neck, Chase's chest, and a second into Alburt's chest. Donald was motionless and seemed to perhaps be mortally wounded and Zachary took the opportunity to momentarily abandon his protective position before Jasmine, thrusting his sword into Donald's gut. Donald howled in anguish apparently not yet dead at all.

The fog of war completely upon him, Zachary continued to drive his sword into Donald's chest and in his bloody passion had positioned himself dangerously close to a hoard of Thurmonds. Ralph launched a butcher's knife that barely missed Zachary's head and gouged a chunk from the wall. Meanwhile, Prestin and Dwade jumped upon the Great Table, sprinting across it, stepping upon the strapped naked people and each holding a butcher's knife and screaming wildly.

Jasmine shot Dwade in the leg and he fell off the table and onto to his head in an awkward position, one that looked capable of having broken his neck, but like a possessed soul capable of ungodly contortions, he sprung to his feet and with an arrow protruding from his calf he charged again, the butcher's knife held over his head, his red cape trailing him, and perhaps now screaming from both mania and pain, he appeared suddenly to have become the most menacing of all in a room of cannibals.

But Dwade's inflamed-blitz ended as he was clasped by his father Alburt, who, although wounded with an arrow, dragged his son away from the danger of Zachary's sword and the absurdly close range of Jasmine's arrows. Charles had retreated to the room's rear and somehow managed to lift his voice above everything else, as he shouted impassionedly, "The arrows are the danger! Flip the table!"

Suddenly the scattered Thurmonds had become of one mind, and with the exception of Donald who appeared dead and Prestin who was leaping from the table straight at Zachary, the Thurmonds arranged themselves into something resembling a pharynx complete with meat platter shields and they headed to the rear of the Great Table.

Meanwhile, Prestin, now mid-air, and towering over Zachary was in the midst of an attempt to strike Zachary from above. It seemed likely to Zachary that the almost-Olympian-archer to his side would not miss the leaping target and that therefore he would not need to use his sword upon the boy. But it still registered as something of a shock as the butcher's knife fell from Prestin's hand and Zachary realized that Jasmine's arrow had pierced directly through the boy's knife wielding hand. Prestin landed in a screaming ball upon the floor.

This time it was Zachary clasping a Thurmond child and he tossed him into the corner of the room while shouting, "Move from that spot and she'll put another arrow into you."

Prestin did not answer as he screamed continuously in pain.

Dwade could be heard screaming in pain too. But both boys had been struck in non-lethal spots which meant that thus far Jasmine had managed to conform to the war-plan.

By this point the Great Table had been flipped and turned sideways, and because of its extended length it divided the room in half. So besides Prestin who remained screaming in the corner and Donald who lay in a bloody heap upon the floor, the Thurmonds had managed to locate themselves behind a makeshift wall – not only that, but the two naked folk had become human shields because, still fastened upon the table, they were directly facing Jasmine and Zachary so if a Thurmond were, say, to peak his head above the table it would be a risky shot for Jasmine to take with imprisoned bodies just below.

But the Thurmonds were a wounded bunch. Jasmine had landed more arrows during the Great Table turning and in the moments prior to the Great Table flipping. And she said to Zachary, "They have almost all been shot and most at least twice. But they are back there strategizing now. I think we should charge."

"I've only managed to strike Donald," said Zachary.

"You're doing fine," said Jasmine.

Suddenly Charles said, "Enough! We surrender! Zachary we surrender."

Jasmine and Zachary exchanged a doubtful glance.

"Then come out, one at a time, you first Charles," said Zachary.

This may not be over...

"How are the others beyond the table? How do these other Thurmonds fare?" Charles asked.

"They are trying to buy time I think," whispered Jasmine.

"I think Donald is dead. But Prestin will be fine," said Zachary.

Charles said, "My brother Donald has fallen? This is a sad day in the Thurmond family history."

"This is the last day in the Thurmond family history -- this crazy cannibal shit is over!" shouted Jasmine.

Charles replied, "If we surrender will you guarantee our safety and the safety of our children?"

Jasmine replied, "We shouldn't. But we will."

"So come out here Charles, no more stalling. If you want to surrender come out now. This is your only chance," said Zachary.

Scuffling could be heard from behind the table. Zachary thought that perhaps Charles was preparing to stand. But precious seconds passed and Zachary whispered to Jasmine, "What should we do?"

Joseph was on the Thurmond side of the room and so little did the Thurmonds value African Americans that perhaps they had forgotten Joseph's existence at all because he had apparently heard their plans and he started shouting, "It is a trap."

The Thurmonds pushed the Great Table forward and thus blocked from Jasmine's arrows, they gradually approached. Zachary reasoned that if these Thurmonds rushed at once and from a close position, Jasmine's arrows would be useless and he would probably be overpowered after his first couple of hacks.

"Quick, put me on your shoulders," said Jasmine.

Zachary lifted Jasmine into the air and from this position she began raining arrows upon the Thurmonds, and eventually enough Thurmonds had been sufficiently injured that the table became stalled at a spot perhaps eight feet away.

"Here," said Jasmine, handing Zachary her dagger. "Trade me."

Zachary handed Jasmine his sword and without hesitation Jasmine leapt over the Great Table, landing on the Thurmond side. At first Zachary was too shocked to follow as he watched her hack while the Thurmonds screamed in agony, blood cresting like breaking waves. But finally Zachary gathered himself and jumped over the table too, though as soon as he landed he was met with such a gruesome scene of blood and hacked bodies that he shouted, "Jasmine, enough!"

Jasmine had been hacking Mick, but hearing Zachary's words she stopped. Mick looked dead, positioned on his side with his eyes rolled back, his left arm missing a hand, an arrow through his cheek, his right leg chopped half off and the remaining leg stump riddled with arrows. Charles looked dead, hunched against the table, his face dripping blood, sword punctures scattered about his torso, an arrow through his neck and blood bubbling from his body in odd places. Alburt looked dead, sprawled on the ground, arrow ridden, both arms amputated, and motionless as blood continued to gush from his body. Chase looked dead, collapsed, not seeming to breathe, a mess of blood and slashed clothing, two arrows in his face and one straight through his eye-socket. Ralph looked seriously injured, two arrows in his chest, missing fingers with arm blood pouring forth, a battered head, and he was crying hysterically as he grasped onto his father's motionless body. Dwade also looked seriously injured; an arrow through his arm and an arrow through his leg, blood dripping from his mouth, and he was crying hysterically too. Prestin, a single arrow through his hand, and still crying in the corner of the room, had fared the best of all the Thurmonds.

Jasmine's hiking apparel was covered with blood as were the exposed parts of her body, her arms, her face, her neck. Joseph had released himself from his restraints and was sitting up on his wooden table and he shouted, "Search the bodies for a cell phone!"

"Yes and free us! Free us!" shouted the man fastened to the Great Table. "I am Darnell and this is my wife Aysha!"

Zachary took the sword from Jasmine's hand, kissing her bloodied cheek. A cell phone was located in Donald's pocket and Jasmine gave it to Joseph so that he could phone Homeland Security. As he dialed he said, "But where the fuck are we?"

Zachary replied, "We have the exact coordinates..."

One Week Later

Arlington: Zachary had taken his home off the market because he could not imagine leaving his bed, never mind his home. The Thurmond affair had been a disaster ten times worse than the Capobianco affair, and while the Capobianco affair had rendered Zachary temporarily sluggish, the Thurmond affair had turned Zachary into something like a zombie – though a zombie with the events of Grey Cliff constantly playing through his mind and thus a zombie able to teleconference with government agents so eloquently about this single subject. But if these same government agents asked Zachary to describe the weather outside his window or to tell them his opinion on abortion, he would have withdrawn into a mental cocoon.

After Joseph, Aysha, and Darnell had been freed and the injured surviving children had been secured, Zachary located the black box key on Alburt's corpse. Then Zachary, Jasmine, and Aysha ran into the room containing the boxes to free the others, others who appeared like figures wandering from a concentration camp -- malnourished, wizened, and breakable – and though they emerged from their boxed-prisons in all imaginable ways, Zachary seemed to have repeating flashbacks concerning those who upon leaving the confines of their box had been punching, crying, laughing, pleading, and even one who had been calmly waving as if freedom had all along been expected.

Zachary, Jasmine, and Aysha quickly set up a system where Zachary worked the locks, Aysha attempted to reassure the survivors, and Jasmine supplied them with water and bread. Zachary kept expecting to find a corpse but fortunately everyone had survived. And it was quite a shock when Zachary saw Bruce pop his head from his box, and once Aysha's calming words, and the calming words of the other survivors had coaxed him out, Zachary said, "We meet again!"

They embraced, Bruce immediately crying.

"It is okay. It is all over now," said Zachary, who tried not to look shocked by Bruce's substantial loss of weight.

"I'm not a photographer," said Bruce.

"I know your name is Bruce. Everyone thinks you are dead because the police thought you committed suicide. Your detective agency and your family were both mourning you the last I knew. But everyone will be so thrilled to hear that you are alive!" Zachary exclaimed.

"I thought I was dead too, so they were right. My wife, I can't believe I am going to see her again. I'm sorry about lying to you about the photographer thing," said Bruce.

"That is such a zero concern right now. Your nightmare is ending. I can't believe you are here! Windsor is going to be happy too," said Zachary.

"I have to sit down," said Bruce.

"Yes, yes, right over here. This is Jasmine, tell her whatever you need," said Zachary.

"What is the place?" Bruce asked.

"Hell or it was – it's just a mansion in the middle of nowhere now," said Zachary.

"What happened?" Bruce asked.

"I just have about fifteen more of these hellish boxes to open and I'll tell you everything I know..."

While these survivors were being cared for, Joseph talked to the head of Homeland Security and explained the importance of immediate medical support. Homeland Security coordinated an evacuation with the FBI. The arriving support personal discovered that many of the survivors were heavily dehydrated but that none had sustained life threatening medical injuries -- mental injuries, however, were rampant: the solitary confinement combined with the fear of death had pushed many to the brink.

Joseph handled the authorities for Zachary and Jasmine. So although Jasmine had hacked up at least five people and had riddled even more with a slew of arrows, Joseph ensured from the moment the military helicopter landed that she would never face uncomfortable questioning. Zachary heard him constantly repeating the refrain, "Self-defense is an understatement."

After Zachary finished his interview, in which he explained Trait Theory and its ramifications \-- but before he was evacuated from Grey Cliff -- an obvious question was posed by Stephen Smith, Joseph's superior at Homeland, (and a question seconded by the coordinating FBI officials), "So what you are saying is that these 8 individuals are the only Thurmond males who tested positive for this so-called CMR. Obviously, as a law official having come in contact with a family run operation, we are already seeking immediate search warrants for a wide array of Thurmonds, and we will be raiding homes shortly. But let me ask you this: what about the females? Are there CMR positive females? And if so, shouldn't we make them the first priority of our search warrants?"

Why didn't I think of this! It must have been the shock of it all that caused me not to consider this clear implication! But luckily not much time has passed.

"Yes, fuck, yes! Um, I know who they are: think Zachary, think," said Zachary trying to recall the names of all the CMR positive Thurmond females. He had populated half the list in his mind when he suddenly exclaimed, "The Yellow Daisy Lodge! Holy Christ, all the females are together right now at the Yellow Daisy Lodge. Also, I believe that Virginia Thurmond, mother to Charles was also CMRpositive. That's a lead we should probably follow up on."

"So there are more people, you think, out in the general population eating black people?" Stephan asked.

"My research has shown very minute traces in the general population. So I'd say no. But we should follow up with Virginia's family."

"Where is this Yellow Daisy Lodge?" Stephen asked, the underlings around him rushing to attention.

"Shit! My partner Samantha at Dunbar and Associates has the address, unlike Grey Cliff it was not a family secret and they gave me that address. Her phone number is..." said Zachary, spitting out Samantha's number. Stephen commanded the man to his left to immediately call Dunbar and Associates and turning to the man to his right, he commanded him to commence raid preparations.

It occurred to Zachary that he was breaking his confidentiality with the Thurmonds but that agreement had become essentially moot the moment when he had discovered Joseph strapped to the table. Yet Zachary believed that Windsor needed to be categorized separately. Having had no contact with his kin for more than half a century he had essentially removed himself from the extended Thurmond family – and it was Windsor who had been the most adamant about confidentiality. But first things first -- he needed to find the address for the Yellow Daisy lodge: an agent handing him a cell phone, "She is on the line."

"Hello, Samantha?" said Zachary.

"Zachary?" said Samantha.

"Yes, Samantha, quickly, I need you to go through the paperwork. I need you to find the address for the Yellow Daisy Lodge," said Zachary.

"Was that really the FBI? What the hell is going on?" Samantha asked.

"It's a nightmare, but there is no time to talk about it now. I just need that address," said Zachary.

As Samantha searched for the address she continued to question Zachary and Zachary repeated that if possible he would call her later that night to inform her what was happening, but he assured her that he was perfectly safe. As Samantha read Zachary the address, Zachary relayed it to the agents. Stephan informed Samantha of an FBI fax number where he needed her to fax the addresses of private homes of the Thurmonds.

"So, Dr. Dunbar, what do you think we are dealing with at this Yellow Daisy Lodge? Another situation like this?" Steven asked, seeming remarkably calm.

He probably would have been much better with that sword. He probably would have decapitated everyone...

Zachary considered the question, realizing that Steven probably would not have asked it had he grasped the full scope of Zachary's failings with his Thurmond analysis. And as insecure as Zachary had suddenly become with his scientific abilities, that did not mean that he was ready to abandon the scientific method and answer the question with, say, a gut reaction.

Nevertheless, Zachary noted his gut reaction, a gut reaction was data after all (even if as purely subjective data it was data that was not usable in a scientific sense) and he found his gut reaction:Fucking A! We are going to find more horrible atrocities!

But then he thought about the question logically, mentally turning to his gathered Thurmond data and recalling the specifics of selected charts:

First he recalled that Thurmond males and females were comparable in their overall CMR positive and CMR negative occurrences, which meant that the Yellow Daisy lodge had a similar CMR positive population, in terms of total numbers. However, another piece of data occurred to him:

That all the early Thurmond male deaths had occurred to bloodline Thurmond fathers: this data piece combined with the Thurmond storage room -- a storage room containing mementos of Thurmond males who had deceased early -- caused Zachary to theorize that when the CMR negative male children at Grey Cliff had not successfully blended with their CMR positive peers, that they may have been murdered by their own families and that even if their fathers had not been present that they would have at least been accomplices.

Filicide!

It suddenly occurred to Zachary that Herod's Curse would have been better termed Abraham's Curse -- for although Abraham did not kill his son Isaac, he had been prepared to commit the act. But what did this indicate for the CMR positive Thurmond females and the Yellow Daisy Lodge? Zachary recalled another chart:

Zachary's previous conclusion had been that CMR positive male Thurmonds had a better developed ability to bury their CMR urges deep within their subconscious than did the CMR positive female Thurmonds. And Windsor's final data had seemed to lend further support to this theory. But Samantha had disagreed. Her theory (and biting words) flashed through his mind:
"Or maybe the CMR positive Thurmond males have sublimated their desire to eat black flesh by eating their male children who they sensed to be weak, aka CMR negative – and therefore they are happy and content with their place in society, while the CMR positive Thurmond females have not done this and therefore they are not happy and content with their place in society..."

While Zachary saw no evidence to indicate that the CMR positive male Thurmonds had eaten their children, it was obvious that she had been on the right track. The CMR positive male Thurmonds had been unequivocally, Zachary noted, engaging in repeated acts of Cannibalistic-Murderous-Racism. Therefore, they had no need for sublimation, and therefore they seemed quite content because they were quite content!

Contented, by acting exactly as they wished to act: as Cannibalistic-Murderous-Racists. Thus the CMR positive Thurmond males had personal adjustment scores even higher than the control group's score. But where did this leave the CMR positive Thurmond females and Yellow Daisy Lodge?

Mentally synthesizing his new personally gathered (though admittedly horrific) Grey Cliff data, with his previous Thurmond analysis, Zachary reached the conclusion that the CMR positive Thurmond females presently posed no threat to society. And although Zachary was no politician, he immediately sensed that this would not be a popular answer, especially with Jasmine. Yet the data was the data.

Therefore, he replied as confidently as possible to Steven's question concerning the Yellow Daisy Lodge, "Mr. Smith, raid the Yellow Daisy Lodge if you feel it necessary. For I am a research psychologist and I am not going to tell you how to do your job, but I can tell you with the complete backing of my data, and the ad-hoc revision of my previous data analysis, that you will find no incidences of CMR there. My data indicates that the CMR positive Thurmond females have not engaged in CMR."

Steven looked doubtful, but he asked, "And how sure of this are you?"

"Data is data and --."

Jasmine interrupted Zachary, "Steven, he also thought that these Thurmond males were harmless. So what the fuck Zachary!"

Steven nodded and gave the order to raid the camp. Zachary sighed but made no protest, instead asking Stephan if he could make a phone call of his own.

"Who do you need to call?" Stephan asked.

"My employer," said Zachary.

"You are kidding me!" said Jasmine.

"Jasmine, just give me a second here, this is important," said Zachary.

"As you just told it – that would be one of these people," said Stephen.

"Yes, as he told it to me too," said Jasmine.

"Yes, but I signed a confidentiality agreement with him. If I'm going to break that confidentiality agreement, I think it's right that I at least inform him," said Zachary.

"What the fuck!" said Jasmine, throwing up her hands.

"Jasmine, please," said Zachary.

I don't want to further ostracize the girl who I think I'm coming to love, but I made a commitment with Windsor and one bound by my professional word...

"That's very honorable of you, but he will be part of an investigation now. I can't have you giving him a heads-up that his home will momentarily be raided," said Stephan.

"He's an old man: the shock could conceivably kill him," said Zachary.

"What about the people he could be killing at this very moment?" Jasmine asked.

"I saw two old men included in those corpses," said Stephan.

"Yes, as I told you they are his brothers. But Windsor has resisted his CMR. If he hadn't, then what was the purpose of all my testing?" Zachary asked.

"Zachary, I don't see how you can make any further assumptions about what this family has or has not done after what we have just witnessed here. That you would even attempt to do so is almost inconceivable!" Jasmine exclaimed.

She's right I am jumping to conclusions. I haven't even objectively considered Windsor's results in light of these recent events.

Therefore, Zachary recalled Windsor's CMR data. First, Zachary considered the magnitude of Windsor's CMR: recalling that Windsor's magnitude was considerably more intense than that of a typical positive CMR rating for a Thurmond family member:

Windsor's extremely high magnitude would seem to be cause for concern, especially considering that Zachary could now qualify what an average of 3.5 meant: exactly what he had observed on the Thurmond testing circuit and Grey Cliff: endless meals of African American flesh labeled as venison and naked African Americans strapped to a table with flesh already severed and soon to be consumed alive. If these were the sorts of actions that a CMR magnitude of 3.5 equaled then what types of action did a magnitude of 26.8 equal?

However, Zachary realized that this was an unanswerable question. Unanswerable because these answers were contained within Windsor's darkest thoughts, and even Windsor would never be able to describe his darkest thoughts unless he started to put his CMR into action – and no one wanted that to happen, not even Windsor. So it seemed almost a useless question to ask. Therefore, Zachary considered Windsor's personal adjustment data:

Zachary remembered that Windsor's personal adjustment score was not nearly as high as his CMR positive male peers. Erroneously, Zachary had previously concluded that the CMR positive Thurmond Males (excepting Windsor) and Windsor had personal adjustment scores which had diverged because of different external conditions, i.e. Windsor was CMR active while the CMR positive Thurmond males were CMR dormant. However, now that it had become clear that both groups were CMR active this conclusion needed to be revised.

And after Zachary considered the mentally conjured data it seemed that Samantha had again been on the right track: Windsor had a low personal adjustment score because he did not give into hisCMR desires and thus was not contented, while the CMR positive Thurmond males had high personal adjustment scores because they did give into their desires and thus they were contented. But why the difference between Windsor and the CMR positive Thurmond females? Why was Windsor more contented than females? Suddenly Zachary realized the obvious conclusion.

Of course! Both Windsor and the females do not act on their desires. But the females have CMR which is dormant. But the females do not know why they feel discontented and thus can do nothing to alleviate the situation. Windsor, on the other hand, as an individual with a positive CMR status is able to at least imagine as he put it, 'scenes of black death and black destruction,' and these imaginings likely relieve some of his frustrations – similar to a pimply teenage boy wishing for but having no sexual partner and thus attempting to imagine away the burn of his desires through masturbation.

Thus far the data indicated that Windsor remained a non-threat to society and that a raid would be an unnecessary allocation of tax dollars. However, Zachary remembered that Windsor had had wild variability between his CMR scores from one moment to the next. If a person had tested in a comparable manner with an IQ score they would have ranged from an imbecile to a genius depending on the hour that they were tested:

Furthermore, Zachary had never been able to formulate a conclusion for why Windsor's scores ebbed and flowed with such ferocity, and given current events Zachary could ill-afford to make any assumptions concerning his data.

Therefore, he replied to Stephan, "Actually, I have just considered the matter and though on a personal level I felt it almost inconceivable that you will discover anything nefarious in Windsor's home, for the man has been a pinnacle of self restraint, and because he's aware that he has these problems, these urges, but he states that he has always been able to control them – And I believe that he was telling me the truth. And thinking of it now, it's probably the reason he has separated himself from his family and has not talked to them in over 70 years. But that is all subjective and the objective side of this, the data, is not 100% conclusive. Some of the data I am not sure about. So while on a personal level I would advise against raiding this old man's house, I can't say with absolute 100% scientific certainty like I can with the Yellow Daisy Lodge that you should not."

Stephan nodded. "We'll have to talk more about this Trait Theory later, I'm still not sure I really understand it. But what I do understand is that we have a family of psychopaths on our hands..."

After Stephan told Jasmine and Zachary that he might need them for further questioning, but that they could rest for the time being, Jasmine immediately pulled Zachary aside saying, "That is fucking irresponsible Zachary!"

"I know it seems like I am making the same mistake all over again but --."

"You are making the same mistake all over again! You think you know things that you don't know. Then you get so confident. How could you tell them those things – don't raid Windsor – don't raid the women – these people are CMR positive too! What the fuck!" Jasmine said.

"Listen, I have learned from the mistakes of my data. You are right that I really can't say for certain, objectively, with Windsor, and I don't exactly know where I went wrong with the rest of the Thurmond males. But, the females they weren't adjusted in society like the males. And the female children, they don't die young. So things aren't happening at the Yellow Daisy Lodge like they were happening here. I only know all this because we have seen what is happening here. But by combining my observations here with my previous data, I know they aren't going to find anything at the Yellow Daisy Lodge --."

"Your observations here, you make it sound like you were observing an amoeba under a microscope and not people who were being tortured to death!"

"Jasmine, I didn't mean it like that. Jasmine where are you going? Jasmine..."

Zachary and Jasmine spoke briefly during their military flight back to Boston. But the conversation quickly soured and Jasmine punched Zachary and they did not speak a word for the remainder of the flight. At home Zachary slept for 16 hours straight, and once awake he remained in his bed, though from time to time scanning online newspapers and channel surfing news stations for new developments:

After the Yellow Daisy Lodge raid and the Yellow Daisy Raid analysis had concluded, Zachary was proven correct: there was not a shred of evidence connecting the Yellow Daisy Lodge with a single incidence of CMR. And as the news outlets had gleefully reported, the descending SWAT team had found the shocked Thurmond women engaged in a knitting competition. Also, nothing was discovered at Windsor's mansion (and Virginia was found to be the last of her bloodline).

Alexus, Windsor's black housekeeper was interviewed by Fox News, and she expressed shock that Windsor's brothers and other relatives had murdered and eaten an undetermined number of African Americans, but she also explained that Windsor had not been in contact with his relatives in decades, adding, "Windsor is a very private man. He said that he did not mind if I spoke about my situation in his home but he does not want me to talk about him. But I will say that I have never felt in danger there. Windsor is a nice old man..."

However, the private homes of the CMR positive Thurmond males (excepting Windsor) produced an array of corpses and hundreds of pounds of frozen human flesh, and while the raids on the Thurmond female houses produced no corpses, refrigerators stock full of human flesh were discovered.

Over the following days, Zachary found himself again the professor as he addressed Trait Theory and its relation to CMR during umpteen conference calls with government big-wigs. One call was from a team of government officials curious about Zachary's take concerning Thurmond females; a team who, Zachary quickly perceived, were unable to believe that these women had truly thought themselves to be eating deer meat and not human flesh.

But Zachary tried to dissuade them from pressing charges – if that was their intent -- saying, "Listen guys, I am going to tell you something in complete confidence -- I don't want this being spread around -- but because I have already been cleared by the authorities I feel comfortable telling you that it isn't as difficult to accidently eat human flesh as you might think. Gentlemen I have accidently ingesting human flesh on more than one occasion."

"Yeah we know, we've been informed," said an official

"You, do? Well, what is so different from my situation and the situation of the Thurmond females?" Zachary asked.

"You were invited over for dinner during your work capacities. They had refrigerators full of human flesh in their houses," said an official bluntly.

"Yes, that was given to them by their relatives at Grey Cliff. They had no idea," said Zachary.

"No, idea they were eating human flesh? No idea that there was something odd about the taste of what they were eating? As I understand it for you it was only three occasions, but for them it was meal after meal. They had to have known, they had to have picked up a peculiarity in the taste," said an official.

"Gentlemen I can tell you from personal experience that that human meat that I thought was venison -- was quite delicious and far from being peculiar, so if they also thought it was venison it is quite understandable that they would keep fridges full of the stuff," said Zachary.

"By stuff you are referring to the chopped up bodies of African Americans?" asked an official.

"I feel like I am on trial here," said Zachary.

"So you liked eating African American flesh?" an official asked.

"I wouldn't have if I had known what it was, but not knowing yes I quite enjoyed it," said Zachary.

In the end the prosecution decided to press charges against the Thurmond women. Eventually Zachary was contacted by an attorney for the defense; Zachary informed the defense that he would be willing to testify as an expert witness.

"I know that you are a highly renowned psychologist, but specifically what are you thinking?" the lawyer asked.

"I'm the founder of Trait Theory, and I think it indicates that these Thurmond women did not realize that they were eating human flesh," said Zachary.

"Just as you did not know that?"

"Yes, exactly, wait how do you know that?" Zachary asked.

"Discovery, the prosecution had to give me what they have come up with so far, including some facts determined by the government. But I think that your testimony could really help my clients' case. The fact that you were almost killed by this family and yet you think these women are innocent: that is a strong argument. What about Jasmine? Do you think she would take their side on the stand too? It would really help if you two quasi-American heroes were to take the stance together in defense of these women," he asked.

"No, we don't exactly see eye to eye on this issue..."

Eventually the authorities interviewed the Thurmond children (after they had recovered from their injuries) and due to these interviews, a homeless man named Jeremy, a Washington area high-school student identified as Lily Smith, and various others were pronounced dead. The Thurmond children would face a slew of charges, though in what jurisdiction or in what capacity was still unclear. Zachary and Jasmine were informed that they would be summoned as witnesses at some point. A mountain of bones had been discovered inside Grey Cliff and also in the surrounding acres, piecing together identities was proving to be a nightmare for forensic investigators.

The Thurmond affair had become a media orgy and Zachary had further learned during his scattered news-watching that Aysha had recovered fully and that Darnell was being fitted for a prosthetic foot. And reportedly, Darnell had also landed a million dollar book deal. Of course that meant that Zachary could probably land a bigger deal but he didn't plan to cash in on the tragedy.

I didn't lose any body parts after all.

Also, he felt responsible. Responsible because he believed that he should have suspected that something was amiss and that therefore he should have acted faster.

And if you had then lives would have been saved.

A few nights earlier Samantha had brought over Chinese take-out. It was their second meeting since Zachary's return, but on the previous visit Zachary had been mostly comatose and so they had discussed nothing of importance. But this time Zachary broached the subject that he knew would eventually have to be broached, saying, "You were right."

Samantha smiled and squeezed Zachary's hand.

"Aren't you going to say anything about it?" Zachary asked, feeling like an old man begging a young relative to converse.

"For once, no," said Samantha.

"Dunbar and Associates is fucked," said Zachary.

"You'd be surprised. The media is divided on your verdict. In some quarters you are being hailed as a sword-wielding research-minded hero, and in others, well the comments are not so nice," said Samantha.

"It is okay, I've been partially following the news and I know what they are saying," Zachary replied, while running his hand over his stubble. He had not shaved since he had returned and for that matter he had not brushed his hair either. (Earlier in the day a trespassing paparazzi photographer had gotten quite the glamour shot.)

Samantha hugged him.

"You did your best. And if you hadn't killed all those crazy fucks it would have been a lot worse."

"Yeah, but that wasn't even really my doing. If it was up to me I would have run for help. Jasmine and the Joseph, they had to talk me into it," said Zachary.

"But you didn't run and you did the right thing," said Samantha kissing Zachary on the forehead. "You know psychologists see other psychologists for therapy all the time. You should see one and we both know there are great ones in this area who specialize in post-traumatic stress."

"Everything happened so fast. I don't even know if it is PTS. I think it is more the guilt -- though now that I think of it guilt is one of the major symptoms of PTS isn't it? Samantha, I did definitely kill a man and that is strange. I sliced him right through the gut with a sword. And before that I hacked at him like a wild beast," said Zachary.

"You did what you had to do to protect yourself and the others. Those cannibalistic Thurmonds were the beasts, not you," said Samantha.

"Yes, but it doesn't feel that way. I know one thing for sure – I contain no dormant violence traits that have come to the surface," said Zachary.

"Yes, but then again, that situation was probably sufficiently stressful that according to Trait Theory \--."

Zachary interrupted, "Yes, I know I've thought of it too. I may have developed something like a Righteous Murder Trait, which means that now if I have children they may be susceptible. But I suppose there are much worse things a father could pass onto his child."

"Maybe your children will be crime-fighting big-brained killers," said Samantha.

Zachary laughed for the first time in over a week.

"The news reports say that Joseph observed you both to be fearless, but that Jasmine was something of a superhero," said Samantha.

"That's accurate, but I would add that she was fearless the whole time. My courage came about a split second before we entered that room. When it became clear that they would not surrender and that they needed to die, I fought as best I could, but the majority of the carnage was her doing. If there had been another person just like me in there, I don't think we would have prevailed," said Zachary.

"So how is Jasmine?" Samantha asked.

"She still hasn't talked to me," said Zachary.

"She's probably just in shock as you are in shock," said Samantha.

"I don't know: once the Thurmond cannibals informed her that I had been a cannibal too, I think that was the end," said Zachary.

"I'm surprised she believed them," said Samantha.

"She didn't. During our military helicopter ride home she was telling me that she didn't think that she could ever be more angry with me than she was at that moment, though at that moment it wasn't the cannibalism she was mad about \--."

"What then?" Samantha asked.

Zachary noted that she seemed to be suppressing a smile.

She of all people would find this amusing.

"Well, before we left they wanted to know my opinion of Yellow Daisy Lodge and by synthesizing various data, one them being your previous theory, I reached the conclusion that those women posed no danger --."

"Yes, I always said it was those sicko Thurmond men. Their adjustment scores were too good," said Samantha.

"I thought you weren't going to give me that I-told-you-so moment?" said Zachary, laughing.

"I had come over planning not to do that, because I worried that you were blaming yourself for all this \--."

Zachary's expression grew serious. "No, I do and I shouldn't be laughing. So anyway I was trying to explain this to her in the helicopter and she said that whole 'I don't think I could ever be more angry with you than over this thing --."

"You didn't?" Samantha asked, apparently having guessed the turn of events.

Zachary nodded, "I knew it was a rhetorical question. But everything had gone so haywire that I figured that if there was ever a time to lay everything on the table that this was it. So I told her that Charles Thurmond had not been lying about my flesh consumption, and after I had explained all the details she started slapping me in the face. But I knew that I could not hold that fact from her. She is mixed-race and half African American, and I, even if unwittingly, have on more than one occasion digested large amounts of African American flesh. And more than that Samantha, like the Thurmonds, I genuinely enjoyed the taste. I really don't know if I would react to white flesh in the same way --."

"Well, you are never going to find out, either," said Samantha.

"True, but I thought that if I our relationship had any chance to continue and to continue on a foundation of honesty, that she needed to know that about me: that I had eaten more than one plateful of African American flesh and that I had quite enjoyed it --."

"Zachary, I did not come over here to lecture you in matters of love, though I know you know that that is one of my favorite pastimes, but come on! Sometimes you are too high-minded! You don't have to admit everything! All relationships are built on a certain degree of secrecy. You have to draw a line somewhere. It probably would have made sense to have denied that you had ever eaten human flesh, but you definitely should not have told her that you enjoyed it," said Samantha.

Zachary quietly poked the Chinese vegetables around his plate (for the last two weeks his meals had been completely vegetarian).

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so," said Samantha.

"Yeah, I probably fucked up," said Zachary.

Samantha smiled.

"You know I don't like cheating on Omar, and I have never cheated on him with anyone but you, but it's the combination of your sporadic genius combined with your clueless moments, such as this moment, that cause me to continue loving you. You and this girl saved something like 30 people together. And I hate to give you advice that might drive you away from me, but you shouldn't give up so easy."

"Yeah, but like you said, the flesh part," said Zachary.

"Females have an amazing capacity to forgive and to overlook faults. If we didn't this human species probably would have become extinct long ago. We are hard-wired to make poor decisions when it concerns males, so you should never count yourself out...I'm only telling you that because you just had a near death experience, but know that I still consider you mine."

Zachary replied, "Don't you ever wonder what will happen if Omar finds out? Aren't you afraid of losing that?"

"Not as afraid as I am of not having you..."

Zachary knew that eventually he would have to meet with Windsor and explain to him where his research had derailed. But at this point Zachary did not have the stomach to analyze his CMR data. One night he tried opening his folders and analyzing his failings but his data only brought flashbacks of blood and carnage. Also, Zachary thought it likely that Windsor would feel animosity towards him for two reasons (1) he had broken confidentiality (though he had received no threatening missives from McGrubb and Partners) and (2) he was a participant in the slaughter of Windsor's family members.

Although he has not talked to them in decades, he probably still cares for them...

Having finally shaved his stubble and washed a crusty pile of dishes, he decided to call Windsor. As he dialed it surprised him that his hands were not shaking: Thurmond thoughts usually brought him into a panicked state of mind.

Windsor answered on the first ring, "It is more than good that you have called! I've been wishing to talk, but I understood that you needed time to recover. What a terrible occurrence! But let me say first before I say anything else that it brought me to tears when I learned that you had survived."

"Hello, Windsor, how is everything?" Zachary asked.

He does not sound like he's angered with my actions...

"I've seen better days old boy. When this all started, and you sat in my library, patiently listening to the stories of an old man, I never thought that it would end like this. But more than that, I never thought that my family would end like this --."

"I'm awfully sorry about how everything turned out," said Zachary.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about old boy. They brought this upon themselves. You are a man of science and so you know that for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. You and your friend Jasmine, you were the reaction, the reaction to all those barbarous actions my kin had so shamefully committed," said Windsor.

"Yes, it needed to be done. But I didn't think when I took this job I'd be killing your family. It's ridiculous when you think about it," said Zachary, though trying not think about it: the gruesome mental images of the Thurmond family slaughter continued to haunt him.

"Old boy you have nothing to be sorry about --."

"Actually I did want to apologize for breaking the confidentiality agreement. I tried to call to warn you that I needed to break it – that I had to handle all my documentation over to the FBI. But I was prevented from doing so. And worried about your safety when I learned that they would raid your home: I'm sorry," said Zachary.

"Nonsense, old boy! That raid merely got my blood flowing. It had been a while since I had been up off my rump, and had been exercising my limbs – a good old pestering by some federal authorities was just the ticket. Besides, any inconvenience that I've been put through is nothing into comparison to what happened to those poor souls at Grey Cliff. Yes, I've been watching the news, and thoroughly," said Windsor.

"You've been watching the news?" asked Zachary.

"Yes, but this is all too important to ignore, and to be quite straight forward and to the point, I've mostly been racked with guilt."

"You? Why?" Zachary asked.

"As soon as I learned about Trait Theory I reasoned that there might be the potential for things to be this way. I should have acted sooner – countless lives could have been saved," said Windsor.

How different is Windsor from his CMR positive relatives! They used their CMR positive status to feast upon human flesh, while Windsor uses his CMR positive status to do good and charitable works.

"I feel the same way. Obviously my research did not stand up to actual events, my conclusions about the dormancy --."

"Old boy, speak no more of it! Your research was a great step forward for humankind! True, it was flawed in its specifics, but its generalities are simply spectacular! You do realize that because of Trait Theory you have essentially saved 30 people. I contacted you because of Trait Theory. Therefore, your theory saved those people. You once told me that you thought that Trait Theory could do much good for the world, and look, it already has! You even saved the PI! You saved Bruce!" Windsor exclaimed.

"I appreciate it Windsor. And yes, I was quite happy when I saw Bruce. But unfortunately I hold my research to a higher standard --."

"That you do old boy! If there is one thing that I have learned about you Zachary it is that you hold all matters to the highest of standards!" Windsor exclaimed.

"Well, as I have recently learned, it is one thing to hold things to high standards and another to actually live up to the standards that you have set," said Zachary.

"Enough of the melancholy speech, you are a genuine hero! Now the last time we met you promised that we would meet up, and meet up soon. Well, it's time for this old soul to hold you to your promise. I wish to throw a celebratory feast in your honor – you just tell me the day," said Windsor.

Zachary sighed.

"I'll have to get back to you on that. I really haven't been leaving the house much, actually at all. But yes, at some point, though I don't know when."

"Good! Good! Your heroics shall be celebrated! And bring the other hero, that one Jasmine Jackson. I've heard that you were quite the team," said Windsor.

"I don't know if that will be possible. We have been out of touch actually," said Zachary.

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to hear that," said Windsor.

Zachary was silent, the gloom having descended again.

Perhaps Samantha is right. Perhaps I should go talk to a professional.

"I hope it doesn't have anything to do with what I read in the papers," said Windsor.

"What did you read in the papers?" Zachary asked.

Why did you even ask that?

"Something of a gruesome irony: that you committed that act that I have so long both dreamed and have dreaded to commit; that my relatives tricked you into eating the flesh of African Americans and that while eating this said flesh that you quite enjoyed the taste," said Windsor.

That's in the papers now! Fuck! It must have been the prosecution. They must have leaked it. They are probably trying to discredit my character before I take the stand in defense of the Thurmond women. But fuck, how am I going to look people in the eyes?

"No, no, you pretty much guessed it. Well, listen Windsor I really should go --."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I know that you must have important things to do. But call me as soon as you feel able," said Windsor.

"I will. But one more thing, how has this been affecting you on a personal level? I know you don't like to go back to the past, but because you have been watching the news, it all must be taking you there," Zachary.

"Zachary, I'm no longer going to avoid the world – I'm going to live in it! I've turned over a new leaf. I'm a new man. And you helped me to get there. Things are changing for me Zachary old boy, things are changing every day!" Windsor exclaimed.

"So it sounds like the death of your family members has not been a traumatic event," said Zachary.

I hope that did not sound harsh...

"No...I'm sticking with my routine, and trying to look at the bright side of things – like the people you have saved. There have been some simply heartwarming stories. And I've been continuing to push forward charitable efforts – those things are the things that have kept me grounded in this time of terrible tragedy," said Windsor.

"Well I'm glad to hear that you've been maintaining your structure, because I know that you do important work for the world. By the way at some point I probably will need to talk about all this, and to talk to press about CMR, though I can't imagine doing so now. But when I do I want to hold you up, though anonymously of course, as an example of an individual who has successfully managed to live with CMR and to not give into its demands," said Zachary.

"Thank you Zachary, I hold your esteem in the highest esteem..."

After having been home for a few days Zachary finally ventured outdoors. A peppering of news reporters still outside, he attempted to sneak to his car before they had a chance to prod him for a comment.

"Zachary Dunbar," said a lightning fast reporter while shoving a microphone reading CNN into his face, "You helped save over 30 people, but it has also been alleged that you partook in cannibalistic rituals during you research activities \--."

"No comment," said Zachary, wishing that his house had an attached garage so that he did not have to walk outside to reach his car.

And for the money I paid it should...

A further circling of reporters shoved microphones into his vicinity and they also shouted straight-to-the-point questions. Zachary held up his hands and tried to maintain a calm disposition as the camera lights flashed. However, before entering his car he reacted spontaneously by grabbing the nearest microphone and saying, "I really hadn't planned to make any sort of a statement today. But I would simply like to send out my prayers to all of the families of those who were imprisoned, to the victims, and to the victims' families. I would also like to apologize to any of the families of any of the people I accidently ate. That was obviously not my intention, and as I have explained to the authorities, I thought myself to be eating deer meat. Nevertheless, I feel awful about what has happened – words can't even describe my feelings. I would like to add that I realize that there are reports circulating that I enjoyed the taste of the human flesh, and though I do not deny having made this statement, I think that to focus on this fact only brings sensationalism to a subject that is one of human tragedy. Thank you, that's all I have to say."

As soon as Zachary returned the microphone, the bombardment of questions continued, but Zachary held up his hands and entering his car, he added, "I have no further statement to make at this time."

News vans followed his sedan and so he took a jarring succession of turns until they disappeared from his rear view mirror. Then he drove to the New England Aquarium in Boston. Contemplating fish had always relaxed Zachary and though Samantha would not have thought it so, he was actually following her advice and seeking therapy – though therapy through fish. His therapy session began as he became mesmerized by a tank of translucent moon jellies, their glowing patterns resembling flower petals. These simple membranous forms appeared as if floating minds yet were beings completely mindless and therefore incapable of anchoring, through thought, their lightness.

I look at you moon jelly fish and I think myself superior. But if given the chance I wonder if I would be more likely to trade places with you, or you with me? Of course you have no brain to consider the matter, but perhaps a brain is not needed for such a choice, for I am clearly not glowing, floating, or meandering and perhaps that would be all that you need to observe...

Zachary thought his existence the exact opposite of these drifting creatures and if possible he would have submerged himself into the tank and floated away with them into the darkness.

But these jellies would sting me right back to reality...

And Zachary noted that all living forms have their places in the order of existence.

And yet Zachary's qualities had failed him. He had discovered through many years of research, the mathematics of Trait Theory. And yet during his two human applications of the theory, first with the Capobiancos and then with the Thurmonds, the applications had proved a disaster.

Yet it wasn't Trait Theory that failed it was me!

This seemed to be an odd paradox because Zachary had discovered Trait Theory.

It is as if I have invented the trumpet but cannot play it...

The moon jellies spoke no words in response. But Zachary read an answer in their drifting. It was the same answer that Jasmine had taught him through her wandering.

Don't take yourself so seriously – we are all eventually ashes and dust.

But she had taught him this lesson in the days prior to Grey Cliff, and Zachary wondered if now her priorities had changed.

He still had not called her. He thought it pointless. She had assaulted him on the helicopter and when they landed she had insisted on taking a separate vehicle home. If she wished to speak to him, she would call. But he remembered Samantha's advice.

That women are a zany lot capable of coming to all sorts of unexpected conclusions...

He called. Jasmine did not answer and while her answering message beeped, he wondered if he should leave a message. The beeping ended while he was still deciding and so similar to his spontaneous statement to the reporters, he once again felt trapped in a spot where it seemed necessary to off-handedly explain his failures, but this time he resisted the impulse, instead saying "Jasmine, hello, this is Zachary. Although I am sure that you know my voice by now so that was an unnecessary identification on my part. I've never been good at leaving phone messages, I think perhaps because when one uses a phone one usually engages in a communicative act, and communication is usually a two way activity. But here there is no one to respond to what I am saying either with a comment or with body language. In any case, I believe that what I need to say I would fail to adequately express in this message format, a format that lacks the benefit of human, and specifically, your human feedback, and so I will not even make the attempt, please call me."

Satisfied that the olive branch had been extended he entered into an unfamiliar restaurant for lunch. Zachary had often marveled that Jasmine had so quickly pegged his character: he believed that she had been correct when she had stated that his psychology research led to a life lived too monomaniacal and that in general he was laughably risk adverse.

Although Jasmine, together we endured enough risk for a lifetime, didn't we?

During their trip she had constantly prodded him for his interests outside psychology and he had claimed that these were all contained within the realm of sports. Yet he could have mentioned the aquarium (he went at least twice a month).

The food was delicious and halfway through his meal his cell rang. It was Jasmine. His internal monologue swore and he suddenly felt as brainless as the moon jellies.

"Zachary I just listened to your message," said Jasmine.

She does not sound ill-tempered.

"Yes, I just left it," said Zachary.

"You were rambling again," said Jasmine.

"Yes, maybe I was. I was caught in one of those limbos were I couldn't decide if I was going to leave a message – and so then my message was just about why I did not want to leave a message. But you know what? Phones should have stock messages for people to automatically leave, like my phone could say in a robotic voice to your phone, 'This-is-Zachary-Please-Call-Me-back.' But that is probably already invented, because the world invents everything so fast \---."

"Zachary, you are rambling again," said Jasmine.

"Yes, and now I have no excuse, except the excuse of my existence," said Zachary, now standing and beginning to pace.

"I'm sorry I should have called you before this, I've just been so --."

"Jasmine, this is all my fault. And I know that we were only dating for an absurdly short amount of time, but I don't know, I feel you connected with me in a way that people usually don't: that you understood me. And in the midst of all that understanding, we killed people and saved people. I feel like so much has happened with you. I think I'm rambling again," said Zachary.

"No, go on Zachary, I was just joking before you know," said Jasmine.

"Well, I'd like to meet up with you again. I've had a little time to process what has happened, and I would like to talk to you about it...I'm not saying that I want to meet up with on a date...I know you are really angry with me...if we could just meet up and talk as friends that would be great," said Zachary.

Why did you even say that? Of course you want it to be a date, and she hasn't sounded mad at all...

"Okay, let's meet up later tonight..."

Before dinner Zachary shopped for a new outfit, buying a black shirt and black pants. However, on the drive home he realized the subliminal undertones of his choice. He sighed wondering if Jasmine would think him dressed for a funereal.

And perhaps one of our making...

But there was no time to further shop. He called a neighbor who informed him that his home remained under siege by the news corps and so he changed in a coffee house bathroom. Still having an hour to blow, he took a seat, and there, dressed completely in black and with a tea in hand, he realized that he also resembled one of his least favorite types, the pseudo-intellectual.

At least I'm not wearing a turtleneck.

One of Zachary's biggest pet peeves (other than his ironic pet peeve, a loathing of the term) was having time to kill without a worthwhile book. Smart phones and E-readers had solved this problem for many but Zachary found the glare of a screen while reading to be disconcerting.

Especially when I'm considering complex arguments.

He knew it would be useless and a complete waste of time – as if time can be wasted – but he grabbed a local free paper at the front of the coffee shop, the Boston Phoenix.

Most of the paper concerned the Thurmond Affair and he avoided these articles. However, once the non-Thurmond contents had been consumed, he apprehensively began reading its Thurmond analysis. Eventually he stumbled upon a Grey Cliff editorial, the editorialist beginning with a simple question:

Because Grey Cliff, as we currently understand it, existed as some sort of African American torture camp for a super-rich old-money family, then isn't it possible that more of these atrocities are presently occurring?

Zachary thought this a fair enough question to pose yet an impossible one to answer (through a mere pondering). Furthermore, Zachary recognized in this statement an erroneous theory of argumentation, the slippery slope theory. The slippery slope theory held that because A was happening then it should be assumed that an exaggerated version of A was either happening or would likely happen.

It is a logical fallacy. Politicians use it all the time when they make arguments such as 'We can't allow homosexuals to marry because next we would allow people to marry their pets and inter-marriage with pets is sickening!'

The editorialist continued:

The Thurmond children have been clear with the authorities, all maintaining that the Thurmonds acted alone.

Yes, Zachary remembered new reporters echoing this statement. And it seemed fairly obvious that three children who had just survived a bloodbath and were suffering the loss of a significant portion of their immediate families would be incapable of aligning stories and shielding conspirators. Moreover, if conspirators had been involved wouldn't the authorities have found some kind of trail? But the authorities had stated that nothing, not even a finger print, connected Grey Cliff with anyone outside the Thurmond family. And fittingly, the editorialist noted, Obama had made Grey Cliff a campaign issue:

Thus far, Obama's campaign strategy has been to make race a non-issue, which prior to Grey Cliff has proved a cunning maneuver. Clearly, if Americans were to elect their first President of African American descent this would be a landmark moment for the country. Benjamin Franklin, in his autobiography, noted that people become stronger supporters of the conclusions that they (think they) have made themselves rather than those explicitly thrust at them by others. And Obama, by making race a non-issue in his campaign, has allowed Americans to reach their own personally-derived conclusions about what his election would mean for race relations in this country: in other words, Obama, by remaining generally silent about race, has given Americans the chance to make their own internal Martin Luther King speeches.

But Grey Cliff has rendered this strategy ineffective. Grey Cliff was an unimaginable event and as such, an event that leaders are expected to comment upon. Therefore, it has forced Obama to make his first race-themed speech of the campaign. And as the continued details of Grey Cliff continue to be sorted and analyzed, Obama decided to focus his speech on the authorities' conclusions that have pointed towards American unity rather than American divineness, as he stated,

"Over two hundred years ago the people of the American colonies banded together to fight tyranny and oppression, and though greatly outnumbered, vastly undertrained, and highly outgunned, these men and women, a rag tag assortment of farmers, laborers, and aristocrats alike, united in mind and spirit to achieve a revolution of both place and ideas. And our American revolution is still, over two hundred years later, sending shockwaves around the globe. This experiment, the American Experiment, an experiment in self governance has been based upon the belief that humankind is capable of determining as a general population how best to live in peace and harmony with their brothers and sisters.

Fellow Americans I say the American experiment is an experiment no more! It is a proof! It is a principle! It is a blueprint! America has proven that a people needs no King! That a people needs no Queen! The people need only the people! And so America needs the people! We the people! The united people!

And it is upon this day, a sad day, that I find it necessary to address my fellow Americans. The events in Montana have been beyond tragic. It is only natural to seek a reason for such atrocities, to seek an explanation of any kind. My fellow Americans I can offer no explanation for such unspeakable horrors, but what I can offer is what I have observed in the days following the unthinkable. As the facts have unfolded and we have learned that this family, these alleged cannibalistic murderous racists, acted alone, and as I have observed the reactions of my fellow Americans and from the Americans I have spoken with, I can say, with the full force of my soul, "That this family did indeed act alone! That here in America they will find no backers! That here in Americans we are united in our belief that no matter an American's race that we all fly the same flag, that we all share the same rights, because we are The People, the American People!"

As Zachary read the last paragraph he was stunned to discover that a presidential candidate had used his term 'cannibalistic murderous racists' in a campaign speech. Before his evacuation Zachary had been extensively interviewed by the authorities and had explained Trait Theory and how it related to his Thurmond family research. Although the authorities became aghast when Zachary explained the scientific reasoning for his incorrectly concluded Thurmond family CMR dormancy, Joseph quickly came to his rescue (having demanded that he be present during any interviewing of Zachary and Jasmine) saying, "Gentlemen, it is obvious that Zachary made some mistakes in how he studied this matter. But hindsight is twenty-twenty. This morning when you woke up I doubt that you would have thought these acts possible either. And it must be noted that nothing this man did was willfully malicious. I can attest to that. And as I have stated he saved my life and the life of many others. He needs to rest as do we all..."

Yet it was at this meeting, Zachary postulated, that 'cannibalistic murderous racism' had begun its path into the public consciousness. For Zachary, this realization was both thrilling and unsettling. Thrilling because Trait Theory could quite possibly be catapulted into the mainstream and thus provide the opportunity for it to flourish, but unsettling because if Trait Theory became a common discussion point, it also seemed likely that Zachary would be called upon to publicly explain his Thurmond Research failings.

Windsor magnanimously refused to listen, but the power hungry talking-heads of the world will not be so forgiving, and I imagine that they will demand an answer.

And Zachary still had not fully considered the matter himself. He groaned and continued reading the editorial:

It may have made good political sense for Obama to stress the unity that this atrocious calamity has fermented, for I have observed it as well. But in seeking out this theme of complete unity against these alleged killers, Obama, a graduate of Harvard Law, may have laid out his case before having examined all the facts. It has been reported that in a joint effort Homeland Security and the FBI have been furiously analyzing the contents of this hunting lodge with the so-called name Grey Cliff. And in press conference after press conference they have been assuring the public that no evidence leads them to believe that these acts were aided by conspirators. Yet never in the history of public discourse do I remember authorities so rapidly reaching such a shaky conclusion. Why the rush? For one, I believe it to be a public safety measure. That Grey Cliff has not caused a race riot is nothing short of a divine miracle. If it were to be discovered that the Thurmonds worked with others then the racial tensions would only rise and perhaps erupt.

But not all the evidence at Grey Cliff leads to the conclusion that there were no conspirators. While some of the survivors have stated that they recognize in pictures of the Thurmonds, the faces of the kidnappers, other survivors have not. Yet the government has not pursued this lead. Instead they have disseminated the report of a trauma expert who stated that it was highly likely that trauma had caused loss of memory and therefore loss of facial recognition. And so the neat and tidy story continues that there were no Grey Cliff conspirators, and in the hope of rosy harmony and blissful non-violence, the government continues to spew this public-speak.

Yet I wonder if behind the scenes, the FBI, Homeland, and perhaps other organizations, are pursuing the possibility that there were conspirators? And even if they are not pursuing this possibility they might be pursuing the possibility that there are other Grey Cliffs.

And why not? We have learned that this old money family dynasty was created through slave-holding origins. Is it so absurd to speculate that at this very moment that other old money family dynasties -- and perhaps also with slave-holding origins -- are committing even more abhorrent anti-African American acts?

Zachary shook his head. The conclusion of the article was exactly as Zachary had earlier predicted, a conclusion resting on the false logic of the slippery slope theory.

If this author wrote an article about me he would probably say: 'Zachary Dunbar has accidently eaten human flesh. Therefore, he will soon commit an even more atrocious act and...

Zachary sighed as he realized his difficulty imaging a more atrocious act than human flesh consumption. He was not sure the dirty feeling would ever leave him.

Shortly after agreeing to work for Windsor, Zachary had researched cannibalism and discovered that humankind has never universally condemned cannibalism, that cannibalism is presently practiced by some tribes in Africa, and that in most counties cannibalism, surprisingly, is not explicitly illegal. Furthermore, some modern cultures completely accept certain forms of cannibalism, such as the Chinese who practice placentophagy, or the practice of eating for nourishment the placenta after a child's birth.

But as he recalled these facts, he found they offered little solace, worried that his accidental cannibalism would always be cause for sully in the eyes of his collogues, friends, relatives, and acquaintances.

And I'll never be able to find solace through the common and shared experiences of others, say the way that a room of drunks can swap moralistic stories at AA about boozing...

It occurred to him that the unwitting Thurmond females were the best positioned to understand his plight. But other than spending time as a witness at their trials, he did not expect to come in contact with these moneyed Thurmonds – and that trial would only, Zachary predicted, rend further the divide with Jasmine. Would Jasmine ever love him again or would, if they kissed, she taste the remnants of his mistake?

But perhaps Samantha is right and Jasmine is capable of putting this matter out of her mind...

The coffee house was full and Zachary sat alone in a booth. As a young man he had traveled to Europe and knew that there strangers routinely sat at the same tables, that this was part of their culture.

But here in America we situate ourselves only with known people.

And it seemed reasonable to conclude that Grey Cliff would add to the fear Americans felt when considering strangers, because Americans as a group, for whatever reason, have a well developed capacity to envision the nightmarish.

But as Zachary explained to Jasmine during their trek, he diverged from the standard group-think in this aspect, seeming to continually look at the brighter side. Usually this optimism was a boon, and just the type of thinking that had, say, propelled him through seven lonely years of Trait Theory mouse research. However, with the Capobianco and the Thurmond Affairs it had proved disastrous.

Yet as Zachary sat sipping his tea, he realized that he felt no desire to change the workings of his mind, to become more sullen, more world-weary, more doubtful of his neighbor's intentions; Zachary had survived a terrible slaughter in which people he had assumed to be upstanding citizens were actually bloodthirsty killers who had acted without provocation. But Zachary sensed that no useful lesson could be taken from either the Capobianco or the Thurmond Affair, because by following the implications of these events he would start barring his windows, carrying a gun, and ignoring the nods of strangers.

Moreover, by following the implications of the Capobianco and Thurmond Affairs it would be necessary to view with suspicion even the most established of figures. Last year Zachary had met the mayor of Boston, Mayor Menino, a genial fellow who had accomplished a long list of major civic improvements, such as miles of well-marked city bike lanes. They had spoken for hours and Zachary had judged Menino to be a chivalrous public servant of the old school, one ready to sacrifice his personal comfort for the good of others.

Yet, if the logical conclusions of the Capobianco and the Thurmond Affairs were followed then Zachary would have to assume that while Menino appeared chivalrous that perhaps when the spotlight vanished his Hyde-side materialized and he committed unthinkable acts, such as lethal liquor stores robberies or sniper shots at children.

And that is not the type of thinking that I wish to engage in on a daily basis...

He looked around the coffee shop, wondering if now he had the ability to better read the face of evil. But the patrons looked harmless and he found himself suspecting nothing. Zachary knew that humans have a highly developed flight or fight response, a holdover from our caveman days, a time when we had to continually battle unforeseen terrors such as wild beasts and invading tribes. However, over the course of millions of years humans have evolved and civilization created the rule of law, and so now fighting physically was essentially an anachronism tolerated only as organized sport. A citizen of a developed country, all Zachary needed to do in a moment of unforeseen threat was exercise, not elaborate fighting techniques, but a few motions of his fingers and dial 911.

Yet I saved myself through the sword, how strange...

The dedication that some people spent learning to fight had always struck Zachary as misspent energy. But he guessed that these people had a better ability to suspect the lingering maliciousness of life. For Zachary a dark alley was merely a space absent light, but he doubted that these kung fu sorts would take the same perspective.

However, the question begs asking: could a bit more cynicism potentially do me some good? And if so, how does one develop cynicism?

It seemed to Zachary that if the Capobianco and the Thurmond Affairs did not implant the seeds of cynicism within his mind then nothing would. Through Trait Theory the development and inheritance of traits had become Zachary's specialty and he wondered why he was so lacking in the cynicism trait. And unlike Cannibalistic-Murderous-Racism, cynicism was not a rarity; instead it seemed to be flourishing wherever Zachary turned: the articles that he had just read in the paper a perfect example. The editorialist had not praised the fast action of the government in evacuating Grey Cliff or in providing medical support to the survivors, but instead had imagined the possibility of more killing camps.

But what purpose does such imagining accomplish? Only to make it more unlikely that a stranger will wish to sit by my side...

The conversation in the booth behind caught his awareness. They were discussing Grey Cliff and their comments were becoming louder, a disagreement having occurred. Curious Zachary turned, noting them both to be white, perhaps in their twenties, college students probably, and because they were sitting on the same side of the booth, Zachary assumed them to be boyfriend and girlfriend or at least dating.

"All I'm saying is that it is convenient that these two just magically showed up at this spot. They knew what was going on. There were privy to certain facts. So obviously, some rift occurred there and they decided to take matters in their own hands. But they aren't innocent, not by a long shot," said the guy.

Is he talking about Jasmine and me? Does he think we were involved?

"I don't know how you could say that," the girl replied. "Jasmine is black. These people ate black people. Why would she be involved?"

"Oh, so you think white people can eat black people but black people can't eat black people?" said the guy.

"No, I'm not saying that at all, I'm just saying that what you are saying makes no sense. Because Jasmine is black she could not have been on their side. The white people there, the Thurmonds, would have eaten Jasmine. So it's absurd when you say that she is like on their side," said the girl.

"Vampires eat humans right?" asked the guy.

"What are you talking about?" said the girl.

"Just answer the question," said the guy.

"That's like the dumbest question ever. That is like not even a question. That's like the questions that teachers ask in class and then say, 'why isn't anyone participating and answering my questions?' Well, most people don't answer questions that contain the answer in the question," said the girl.

She's got a point, during class I often struggled with asking questions that weren't too obvious yet were also not too complicated...

"So anyway vampires eat humans," the guy continued. "Yet in like every vampire story there are humans who help the vampires, who like drive around their corpses in the day light and stuff like that. Jasmine was obviously like one of these humans helping vampires..."

Their conversation became increasingly far-fetched.

And I thought the news was bad! If people are hypothesizing like this it is worse than I suspected.

Once again it occurred to him that he would need to set the record straight and probably on national television. He finished his tea, the final sip having become almost insufferably cold, and walked, head-down, from the coffee shop.

Inconspicuousness had never been one of Zachary's concerns – after all, research psychologists are not celebrities. But his photograph had begun appearing on news outlets and he wondered if strangers would start recognizing him in a crowd or perhaps asking him pointed questions.

Zachary believed that in America three main motivating factors drive people: fame, wealth and power. (He considered these fool's pursuits.) A theory of motivation with which Zachary was familiar held that fame conglomerates in L.A., wealth conglomerates in New York, and power conglomerates in D.C. But where did that leave Boston? A conglomeration of knowledge perhaps? If so, Zachary had settled into the right place.

The odd thing about fame in America, Zachary had noted, is that it made little distinction between illustriousness and infamy. Zachary knew that a certain percentage of the population would be jealous of his national news coverage, regardless that the discussion revolved around his role in a series of horrific acts and not, for example, some great scientific achievement on his part. Although he wanted Trait Theory to be well known by the public because he believed that it could achieve much good for the world, he wished to always retain his ability to blend into the background. Fortunately thus far, as in the coffee shop, he had not been noticed. Potentially this was because the one picture of Zachary that the news stations had obtained was grainy and over ten years old: the picture actually made him look more fugitive from justice than former Harvard professor.

Jasmine and Zachary had decided to meet at the location of their first date, the Joshua Tree, a Davis Square pub. Sometimes the pub featured bands but not tonight. The same as their first date, Zachary sat alone waiting for Jasmine to arrive. And although much had changed since that first date, Zachary sensed the emergence of familiar patterns. During that first date Zachary was grief stricken from the Capobianco Affair and now he was grief stricken from both the Capobianco and the Thurmond Affairs; during the first date, Zachary's most recent lover, Samantha, had been angered by his actions and their future seemed rocky. Now the same could be said concerning Jasmine, and during their first date Zachary was drifting professionally and now again.

However, when Zachary first met Jasmine, he never would have dreamed that they would experience so much in such a short time. First through her charms she had seduced him, and then through travel she had caused him to question his life's priorities, and finally through her example she had demanded his allegiance.

This third event, the Thurmond bloodbath, remained in his mind as an unconcluded story. Yes, the Thurmond bodies had been hacked and the corpses had been buried. Yes, the kidnapped had been saved and the government had begun to tie-up loose ends. But where did that leave Jasmine and Zachary? Or rather: what does joint-carnage mean for the prospects of a traditional relationship?

It wasn't as if Zachary could ask "Meredith" his local love columnist for the Boston Globe; a lover's vacation which had ended in a slaughter was an event that he guessed to be outside her scope of expertise. He wondered if Jasmine blamed him for not better playing the role of a male and killing more effectively, or if she now blamed him for the blood that she had on her hands, or if her worldview had changed and now she would desire the blatantly macho. And of course he wondered about the flesh situation... But these were not questions that he thought prudent to ask.

Here again I think Samantha would advise self-censorship. But what about me? Have my feelings about Jasmine changed now that she has hacked more than 5 people?

Jasmine had posed a similar question to him during their first date, asking him if he would stick around were she to test RMT positive. Dauntlessly, Zachary had stated that this would make no difference. But was this true?

Breaking him from his reverie, fingers snapped by his nose. Zachary looked up. It was Jasmine. She wore a glimmering black gown and she looked breathtaking. Taking a seat in the booth, she smiled and reached across the table. Zachary reciprocated, thinking that she wished to embrace, but she grabbed his beer and finished it in a gulp.

"I've been drinking a lot these past few days," she said, slamming down the empty glass as if the table was a Thurmond head.

"So how have you been doing?" Zachary asked, realizing that he loved her more than ever. After facing the reality of his flesh consumption, he had felt himself an irredeemable social deviant and yet in her eyes he saw no judgment.

Perhaps because she too strayed from the constraints of society when she hacked the Thurmonds limb from limb...

"I think okay," said Jasmine.

A waiter approached and Zachary ordered a round, though whispering his order and keeping Jasmine's drink a secret.

"Why all the drinking?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know. It's been hard to sleep without it," said Jasmine.

"I haven't been sleeping much," said Zachary.

"Then you should be drinking more," said Jasmine.

"Yeah, this is my first."

"I've missed you," said Jasmine.

"I've missed you so much. I didn't want to call because --."

"I shouldn't have slapped you on the helicopter. What happened was not your fault," Jasmine interrupted.

Don't cry: she will think you even less of the macho sort...

"Thank you for saying that. But I do blame myself for failing to analyze my data correctly. At least two lives were lost and maybe more on that account," said Zachary.

"You don't know that for sure...We had, as you put it, all the sick Thurmond males in one place. And the females are being put on trial, so they will get their just desserts as well," said Jasmine.

Fuck, I really don't want to tell her about my position as a witness for the female Thurmond defense team, like Samantha says some things are better kept as secrets. But what a stupid secret because eventually she will find out...

"I appreciate your support. Is there any way that I can support you?" Zachary asked.

Jasmine was silent for a moment. "I've done a lot of soul searching these last few days. We are both, to put it crassly, hot commodities right now. What offers have you had?"

"Offers?"

"Books, television, that sort of thing," said Jasmine.

"I really haven't been paying attention," said Zachary.

"You haven't been paying attention? How is that possible? Grey Cliff," said Jasmine, now lowering her voice, "We are everywhere – it's the national discussion."

"I've gathered that, but it's also a discussion I've been trying to avoid. I have been conversing with the government quite a bit and explaining Trait Theory, but I have not made myself available to anyone else," said Zachary.

"I've had offers all over my answering machine and email," said Jasmine. "But I haven't made myself, as you put it, available either. I'm still coming to grips with all of this."

"Right, well the government provided me with a secure phone and I've been talking to them on that number. But I've taken no incoming calls on my cell, other than the numbers that I recognize, and I haven't checked my email. But what offers have you had, I'm curious?" Zachary asked.

"Really what offers haven't I had. They are everywhere: Random House, Hollywood, the New York Times, Oprah --."

"Oprah Winfrey?" Zachary asked.

"No, the other Oprah..."

She still isn't afraid to deride me – that's probably a good sign...

"...Why does that surprise you? We were just referenced -- or rather our situation was just referenced \-- in a landmark campaign speech by Barak Obama," said Jasmine.

"I know it's probably just a little different for you. You were a genuine hero and nothing anyone can say can take that away from you. You acted bravely and valiantly in a situation which you were completely just tossed into unaware. In retrospect you were the perfect person for that situation. And if I believed in a higher power, I might be inclined to see the hand of God in what occurred --."

Jasmine interrupted, saying, "Zachary I am not religious but this situation has been bringing me face to face with God, it is something that I am still grappling with..."

Some people use fish for therapy others use buildings with high towers, to each their own...

Zachary continued, "But my position is different. When I try to step back and objectively view the situation my analysis reads something like this: that I was a bumbling professor who had reached completely incorrect conclusions which had mortal implications. Furthermore, I look like a complete buffoon."

"Then what are you going to do about it?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't understand," said Zachary, though sensing that she was, once again, questioning his manhood.

Fuck...I know what she is saying: are you going to continue cowering under the bed or are you going to barge through the door and slay the monsters?

Therefore, before she had a chance to reply he added, "No, you are right. I do have to face my critics. But like you I'm still coming to grips with all this. I just don't feel confident in my voice right now. I will soon. I'll get up from under the bed and I'll take the sword --."

"Zachary I get the sense that you think I look down on you for the way you fought. I don't, not at all," said Jasmine, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

That touch – it feels like peace...

"You don't?" Zachary asked.

"No, not at all: you know it is funny \-- well nothing about this is funny -- but you are going to think me weird, but I played all my past boyfriends through my head, and I put them under that bed. I'm not sure that any of them would have actually followed me into that cannibal-filled-room. They would have talked a big talk, but I don't know...The point is, you did – and that means a lot – you didn't want to – but you helped save me and those people, and I'm always going to feel close to you for that no matter where this relationship goes," said Jasmine, releasing Zachary's hand.

Here it comes, the part where she tells me that from now on we should just be friends, and though she doesn't say it we both know why: it's because I've consumed human flesh...Think, what would Samantha do? Maybe she'd make a preemptive attack...

"Well, that's good I'm glad to hear that, I am. But what about the other thing you learned about me from the Thurmonds. What does that do?" said Zachary, thinking it better not to directly identify his mistake.

"Accidental Human Consumption is what the press corps has termed it you know – that is something I have had to come to grips with too, and I have. The Thurmonds put you into that situation. You were a victim. I can't hold that against you Zachary and I think anyone who does is a narrow-minded fool, and I'll tell them that to their faces too," said Jasmine.

Good – just so long as you don't hack them to pieces.

God! Why would you even think that? Yet this is a perfect example of just the sort of moment that Samantha referenced, where silence, not admission, is the best policy.

But what about your position on the defense team? You are going to have to tell her about that...

Jasmine continued, "And actually this is something that I wanted to talk to you about. We faced a lot together and though we had our differences, we made a good team. I don't want this to be my big break. But then again, it is inevitable that I am going to have to talk about what happened. Anyway, I guess what I am trying to get to here is that when I do talk about what happened at Grey Cliff, I want you to do it with me."

"You do?" Zachary asked.

But what does that mean for us? Are we just a professional pair now? Like loveless married politicians, appearing together at public events and sleeping in different beds...

"Yes, I do," said Jasmine, smiling.

I feel like she wants me to kiss her...or am I just imagining that?

"Okay, how do you want to do this? Who do we talk to? But let me say from the start that I don't want to profit financially from this so if we sign a book deal for instance, I'll need to donate my half to charity," said Zachary, though trying not to sound too-stuffy.

"Then I will too," said Jasmine.

"Really?" Zachary asked.

Now I feel like she definitely wants me to kiss her...

"Yes, we are a team," said Jasmine. "And I was thinking the same thing. I mean I'm already going to benefit from this in some professional sense: that is just going to happen..."

As Jasmine finished her statement, Zachary stood up and sat beside her. She stopped speaking and he grabbed her face and they kissed. The moment brought Zachary back to Montana, not the Montana of death and misery, but the innocent Montana when Grey Cliff still lay in the future, and they were like the two lone souls on earth.

But Jasmine brought him back to the present, as she whispered into his ear, "Don't look back, a man has been watching us."

Zachary said softly, "And what would be out-of-sorts about that? Our likenesses are all over the news. I think it is something of a miracle that we have not yet been accosted by strangers."

Jasmine smiled and touched Zachary's face with her hands, kissing him again, whispering, "Act normal and keep kissing me."

So this is all a show? Not reconciliation? What about when I first kissed her? Was that kiss feigned too?

They broke away and Zachary said, "What are you worried about?"

"He's gone," said Jasmine, glancing around the room. "He left his beer. It is only half drank."

"Maybe, he just went to the bathroom," Zachary offered, still following Jasmine's instruction not to look behind.

"No, his cash is on the table," said Jasmine.

"What was his deal?" Zachary asked.

"Probably nothing, forget about it," said Jasmine.

"No, tell me. I want to know," said Zachary, feeling as if he once again held the sword and that this time around he was ready to behead.

Or maybe that's just the booze talking...

"Well, it was just the way he was looking at us. It was the same look that I saw in their eyes, a look of total disgust and hatred, like he wanted to consume me, us, I don't know," said Jasmine.

"Oh," said Zachary, now feeling as if the sword had slipped from his hand.

This is all over isn't it? Isn't it!

"But I'm sure it was nothing. I'm just being paranoid," said Jasmine.

Zachary eagerly accepted this view, saying, "And that is only natural given all that, you, we have been through."

But she looks doubtful.

Zachary added, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. But I have been thinking that maybe I should get a gun to carry around," said Jasmine.

"A gun? No, that's not a good idea, especially not for someone who, well, you know," said Zachary.

"What?" Jasmine asked.

Did she just slip a steak knife into her pocket?

Zachary finished his thought, saying, "Potentially has the Righteous Murder Trait, I should really test you for it now like I was going to before. You need to know."

"So you don't want me to have a gun because you think that if I see someone doing something bad I will kill them?" Jasmine asked.

"Basically, yes," Zachary replied.

"But isn't that the point of a gun?" Jasmine asked.

"No, it is most certainly not – that is what the police are for --."

"Shooting people?" Jasmine asked, adding, "You'd have been a more popular guest on Blinded Justice if you had stated that view during your interview."

Zachary laughed, "No I mean handling things like that – a gun is protection of the last resort – but you know that. I just don't think it is a good idea – get pepper spray – get a Taser."

"I want a gun," said Jasmine.

Zachary shook his head.

Jasmine said, "I am not convinced that the Thurmonds were all that there was to all of this. It does not seem likely, regardless of what the government is saying, that this was all the act of one family. I feel like they are covering something up."

She sounds like the editorialist...

"Jasmine, I'm a psychologist, not an officer of the law. But when the government and their law offices state something I generally believe it," said Zachary.

"Generally? Okay, give me an instance where you haven't?" said Jasmine.

"Haven't what?" Zachary asked, buying time, but he could think of no examples.

"When you haven't trusted something that the government has told you," said Jasmine.

"I mean I can't think of something right now, but I'm sure there must have been something over the course of my lifetime," said Zachary.

"You are so naïve. The government lies to us all the time – politicians lie to us all the time – that's how they keep everything running. But you know what else this makes me think? My ancestor and the Jeffersonian Elites: I had assumed that because they had accomplished their mission that therefore they had disbanded. However, after this, I mean Grey Cliff, I am not so sure," said Jasmine.

"So you thought that was a member of the Jeffersonian Elites spying on us?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know, but if not, couldn't there still be other groups doing these sorts of things right now?"

Here we come slippery slope theory...But I'm not going to mention it: the last thing our reunion needs is some academic lecture by Professor Dunbar...

"So you want to buy a gun?" Zachary asked

"Yes, exactly, I want to buy a gun," said Jasmine.

Zachary frowned. "We really should test you for the Righteous Murder Trait. These urges that you are having seem to be right in line with what your ancestor's narrative described."

"By all means test me, I've wanted you to do it for a while," said Jasmine.

"I will, but promise that you won't buy a gun until we have," said Zachary.

Jasmine took a big gulp of her drink.

"You still haven't told me what this is anyway and it's delicious. "

"Don't change the subject," said Zachary, his eyes narrowed. "Promise me."

"Okay, I promise you."

"And if there is anything that I have learned about you it is that you are not a damsel in distress," said Zachary.

Jasmine laughed.

"So you don't need a gun, and no, I'm never going to tell you the name of that drink – which means that if you ever want one that you are going to have it with me," said Zachary.

Jasmine laughed again. "I wasn't sure how this was going to go. But I'm glad I came. I still think we could work – even though you can be pig-headed."

"Pig-headed?" Zachary laughed.

"Yes, oink, oink...pig-headed by thinking everything in Grey Cliff was fine when everything there seemed to state otherwise. Pig-headed by, at first coming to the defense of those Thurmond women..."

Zachary swallowed hard.

"What?" Jasmine asked.

"Well, you know, I still think that they, like I, were unwitting participants in all of this, especially in the, you know, eating part," said Zachary, though looking into his drink as he spoke.

Zachary heard the sounds of the bar whirling around him: laughter, shouts, clinks of glasses, the shuffling of feet. But he heard no words from Jasmine. And when he looked up he half expected her to have left. Instead she sat with her arms crossed, scowling.

Fuck...

"The news said that you are testifying for the prosecution," said Jasmine.

Prosecution? The news must have mixed it up...

Zachary looked down at his phone. He had five new messages and he guessed that they were probably from the defense team.

"Jasmine, they must have that wrong. I'm sorry, I wish that we saw eye-to-eye on this but \--."

"But nothing! What the fuck! How do you come to the defense of these people?" Jasmine asked, shaking her head. "They were hacking people up and eating them! Seriously, what the fuck!"

Why does life have to be so complicated?

"I dreaded telling you that I did. But it isn't because I feel bad about it. I just know how opinionated you are about this matter --."

"Yes, I'm fucking opinionated! Opinionated because they were fucking eating people! Answer why you are coming to their defense – and if you say one word about your data this drink is going all over you," said Jasmine.

"It's simple: because in defending the Thurmond women I am defending myself. Don't you see? I am the same?" said Zachary.

"You are all women then?" said Jasmine, not smiling.

"No, I mean they were unwittingly eating African American flesh just as I was unwittingly eating African American flesh. And if the authorities are going to let me off, then they should let them off. But if the authorities send them away they should send me away – I did it too," said Zachary.

"So if they are convicted then you are going to volunteer to go to jail?" Jasmine asked.

"Perhaps," said Zachary.

"The justice system in this country does not apply to all people the same and innocent people, usually black, go to jail all the time. Zachary, I don't care if these rich-bitches knew what they were eating or not. According to news reports the Thurmonds have been eating black people for years. And while their husbands are dead and their brother's are dead, a public face still needs to be put on trial and made an example of," said Jasmine.

"Even if they are innocent?" Zachary asked.

"They aren't innocent. They knew something was going on," said Jasmine.

"Just like me?" Zachary asked.

"Fuck you Zachary, you are twisting my words – don't call me again until you have some sense..."

Washington, Jeffersonian Elites Headquarters: The sky was blue and clear. Mr. X had many tasks that he could have been accomplishing at that moment, but he decided to pause and sip upon a cold beer.

The Thurmond family had fallen. There were other financial players in the network, but the Thurmonds had been one of the biggest. Also, they had perhaps the keenest sense of how to continually profit from the supremacist policies of the United States, and over successive generations of their family run firm, had turned this manner of investment into something of an art form. But now they were gone and the government was scrambling to delicately handle the Grey Cliff mess that they had left behind.

Mr. X was a bit player in the Jeffersonian Elites organization, and his official government job demanded the bulk of his time. Still, he knew himself to be well-respected within the Elites. And he had been told more than once by his higher-ups that if it were not for his inflammatory temper that he would already have risen within the hierarchy.

Yet it was at times like this -- chaos -- when he felt most at peace. There are a small minority of men, soldiers and generals alike, who feel perfectly at ease within the madness of battle. It is not that these men take solace from the bullets whizzing by their heads, but where other men see insanity, these naturally born soldiers see possibility, and right now Mr. X saw possibility everywhere he looked.

By calling in favors the hemorrhaging had been contained and the authorities had declared the Thurmonds to be an isolated incidence. Apologists had been sent to their usual destinations, to Reverend Sharpton and Jessee Jackson, so as to pull apologies from thin air, apologies with the theme, "Yes, racism is bad. Yes, we should have done more. Yes, we should have seen this coming."

Thus, Grey Cliff could be used to prove to America (and the world at large) that America was no longer racist and that America condemns such atrocities.

Thurmonds you have been martyred for our cause...

And it gave ordinary Americans an opportunity to vent and declare their non-racist status. And with this venting having concluded they would need do no more, for they had already proven their non-racist status, and meanwhile the War against the Negro could continue unabated, that silent war that had yielded such a plentiful bounty for the Jeffersonian Elites and white America at large.

The beer tasted good. The breeze through the window was crisp and all seemed right in the world.

And those Thurmonds were busy beavers.

Mr. X knew that there were others in his network bloodier than the Thurmonds, but he admired the Thurmonds originality.

The hunting – the feasting – the imposing nature of Grey Cliff itself...

And the Thurmonds did business quite efficiently, never missing payments for services rendered and yet when offering their services providing only the savviest financial tips.

Furthermore, Mr. X admired Donald and Charles on a personal level, and had been highly entertained when they phoned him the details of their "venison" feasts. But that chapter in his life had now concluded and Mr. X promised himself that he would cease his sentimentalization of the Thurmonds once he had finished his beer.

Earlier in the week, Mr. K had consulted with Mr. X for possible policy maneuvers, and as Mr. X watched the news he noted that many of his suggestions had been acted upon. He had told Mr. K, "Fear will be our main currency. If any of our connects balk at your suggestions, just keep repeating the words 'race war.' No politician wants to see a race war."

Mr. K replied, "But I don't understand, you are always pushing for the instigation of a race war. It seems that right now it would be quite easy to ignite one, and you want to back away."

Mr. X replied, "Right now a race war could prove disastrous. It would bring more scrutiny to Grey Cliff. I've always advocated for the implementation of a race wars when they originate from a source that has no possibility of being connecting back to us. Rodney King – that was a spontaneous event – and the police had no connection to any of our organizations – so it was a perfect opportunity for us to ignite that riot and to further bury in the collective white psyche the crazed and dangerous reality of the Negro. We need to use Grey Cliff as an opportunity to shore up our resources, to unite, but also to act defensively."

And as Mr. X watched the news reports he noted with satisfaction that it appeared that a race war was not being pursued and that all policy pointed towards an American kumbaya moment. Mr. X had also suggested that Peter Graham (the assassin and previous owner of the now manumitted slaves) and Zachary Dunbar and Jasmine Jackson (the two tourists responsible for the Thurmond carnage) should all be eliminated, saying, "Peter must be put under ground. The freed slaves could somehow identify him..."

And in making his case for the murder of Zachary and Jasmine he stated, "The government is an organization that we have so thoroughly infiltrated that we can be confident of controlling its actions in regards to racial policy. But these two lone individuals worry me. They have no superiors for us to influence, and we don't know how this event will affect them. And we don't know what information they may have withheld at their interviews. Perhaps they learned something that they did not talk about."

Mr. X knew that both these suggestions had been accepted because he had been put in charge of organizing the operations. His plan was to first manipulate Peter Graham (a man still seething in disgust over the failure of his slave plantation) into killing Zachary and Jasmine.

And Peter accepted the job eagerly, saying, "It's been awful Mr. X. I can't even describe it to you. After having been a slave owner, and now not being a slave owner, the feeling is disastrous. Southern Pride had always struck me as absurd, and I'd never really bought into it. But now I understand it utterly. Southern Pride is a defense mechanism for the humiliating loss of our slaves. I've heard it said that it is better to have loved and to have lost at love than to never have loved at all. Well, the same can't be said for being a slave owner – having lost my slaves, I feel a shell of myself – and I wish that I had never owned them at all"

This was the part that Mr. X knew would come, the part where Peter would try to convince him that none of the slaves had ever seen his face and so the slave plantation could never be connected to him. In essence, Peter was begging for his life. Of course, Mr. X would never be able to give it to him – it was not even his call to make – but he did his best to convince him otherwise, saying, "Peter, listen, I'm fully behind you. This whole thing has become chaos and I need the support of all my allies. Those 25 who were freed they are going to have to be killed. That much is obvious. Don't worry I will get help from other sources. You won't have to kill them all. But first we need to start with Jasmine and Zachary, the two who found them. They are the biggest threat at this point. So I'm glad you have agreed to the job..."

Peter expressed his gratitude and Mr. X added, "One more thing – we can no longer leave anything to chance, not after the fall of Grey Cliff. Therefore, I will need you to keep a suicide letter in your pocket just in case you should fail – I know you won't, but just in case..."

In reality, it was simple mathematics. It would be easier to kill Peter than to kill 25 potentially under government surveillance, the survivors of the African American torture camp. Thus Peter had to go.

Another martyr for the cause...

Washington: Jeffersonian Elites Headquarters: Mr. K's thoughts were racing. The Thurmond Affair had become the single biggest threat to their organization since...well he couldn't remember more threatening time. And yet it was Mr. X who had offered a string of useful ideas.

If it wasn't for his temper and his peculiar sensibilities...

Mr. K rapped his fingers along his desk. By day he was a well-respected federal judge, an expert in constitutional law. He looked at the large portrait of Thomas Jefferson that hung above his fireplace and sighed. A decision had to be made much like the decision of a difficult court case.

Is it finally time to promote Mr. X?

He dialed a number from his desk phone.

"Yes," said a man with a weak voice, almost speaking in a whisper.

"How are you?" Mr. K asked.

"Dying," said the man, managing a weak laugh.

"How long do you have?" Mr. K asked.

"Not long enough..."

"I want to promote Mr. X," said Mr. K.

"He's smart, yes. But his temper?"

"I think with age it has stabilized."

"To what department?"

"Misinformation."

"He would be well suited, you make the call," said the man.

"Have you decided upon a successor?" Mr. K asked.

"My son."

"A good choice."

"Good bye Mr. K."

"Good bye..."

Washington, Jeffersonian Elites Headquarters: Mr. X nearly fainted. He was fifty-five years old and had long since abandoned the idea of promotion.

"You look surprised," said Mr. K.

"I had given up," said Mr. X.

"It would have happened long ago, if it weren't for your temper tantrums."

Mr. X nodded.

"But I believe you have those under control now," said Mr. K.

"Yes," lied Mr. X, swallowing hard.

"You have been a good contact for this organization, keeping up to date with various entities such as the Thurmonds. But the time has come to move you inside the organization."

"Yes, Sir!"

"You've been a member for over 30 years, and in all that time what have you learned about our inner branches?"

"Nothing."

"And that's the way it should be. Do you know that I don't know nearly everything about the Jeffersonian Elites?"

"No."

"It's true, but through joint ignorance our secret is tighter. You've been promoted, given your knack for policy suggestions, to the Misinformation branch. It is a small but very important wing of the Jeffersonian Elites. You will coordinate with the media and others, to continue the deluge of misinformation to the American public," said Mr. K.

"What will my responsibilities consist of?" Mr. X asked.

"Primarily cover up. Let's say a white person commits a hate crime and kills a Negro in the ghetto, it will be your job to present misinformation – it was a gang killing for instance. And as you can imagine, right now that department is quite busy." said Mr. K.

Mr. X nodded as Mr. K handed him a plastic card, "this will give you clearance..."

Arlington, MA: Had Peter been imagining it? Or had the sensation been real? Because one hour earlier, as he sat watching Zachary and Jasmine booze together in a bar, it seemed that his penis had tingled and transformed from a flaccid-lifeless-dangling into a semi-soft state of being. Back in his hotel, he had removed the bubble wrap that kept his member in its punished and constrained position, and the putrid smell which emerged from his pubic area nearly knocked him onto his back.

Deciding that it was time to finally scrub that damned area, he prayed that his massive 14.5 inch cock could again rise. Yet how many times had that hope proved false hope?

Too many times to count...

However, that image of Jasmine at the bar still burned strong, a glittering graceful creature both serious and sensuous -- this mixed-race woman had slaughtered men and yet spoke with intelligence and her sexiness surrounded her like an entourage. She would be the ultimate conquest for his penis and he suspected that if he offered her up for sacrifice his penis would finally obey the commands of his mind. Yes, to plunge his knife into her heart at a moment of ecstasy – if such a thing were to occur it would surely snap his cock back into position, its mushiness forever regaining its ability to change to a sinewy bulge of pleasure from the merest of glances at some sexual object of desire.

And yet now I know those sexual objects of desire to be the black female. But what a cruel twist of fate that ever since I have had this awakening I've been rendered into something like a eunuch, a twist of fate as tragic as the one imposed on Larry Flynt -- the porn magazine king paralyzed by a fanatics bullet, though ironically, that shooting was funded by the Jeffersonian Elites – for Joseph Franklin was paid through an intermediary and it is well known the reason for the shooting: that Flynt published a nude interracial photo -- and it is the unimaginable sway of the Jeffersonian Elites that has also caused Joseph Franklin to never have been brought to trial for the shooting...

Yes, the Jeffersonian Elites would have killed me long ago if they had known that it was not only hatred for the Negro but also lust for this wretched being that so fully encapsulates my soul...

But if Jasmine's death could accomplish what I believe that it could accomplish, then I could live as a man in this world. I could put the collapse of my slave plantation behind me. I could fully bury the memory of my brother. And I could again whisper to women – though now black women -- with complete belief in my words, "Have you ever seen a dick larger than fourteen inches, larger than a ruler, larger than a foot?"

And then after seducing them, I would strangle them at that moment of my climax, and continue strangling them until their gasps for air turned to silence...

Peter knew that even the arrival of this fantasy was a good sign: ever since the fall of his slave plantation he had not even considered his sexual impotency -- his mental state had been too despondent to glimpse at this apocalyptic reality.

It would have been too much. I would have taken my life...

Although this hope brought him the possibility of bliss, he turned his thoughts away from sexual imaging, noting their unprofessional nature as he stood hiding in Zachary Dunbar's closet, sword in hand.

The plan to murder Zachary Dunbar by sword had been formulated by Mr. X, who thought it the easiest way to stage the murder, explaining, "We will pin it on some fringe neo-Nazi group who evidently wished Zachary and Jasmine to die in the same manner that the Thurmonds had been killed, though absent the arrows..."

Peter thought the plan absurd. But while on such thin ice with the Jeffersonian Elites, it would be foolish to voice his opinion. And if he was going to win back their trust and convince them to spare his life, he knew that he needed to blindly follow their instructions, and thus he, a modern hit man, prepared himself mentally to use a weapon that had been forged in the 17h century.

He bought the sword at a consignment shop, though deciding upon a Samurai rather than a medieval sword (medieval having been the type of sword used by Zachary and Jasmine).

If I have to use a fucking sword, I'm using one with style...

He had never killed a person with a sword, and had never suspected that he would ever kill a person with a sword.

But life has a way of throwing curve balls...I also never thought in my heyday, my twenties, that one day my cock, legendary within my Mississippi county, would come to this...Yet maybe that will soon change because of Jasmine – Jasmine that wonderful glittering creature...Focus, you have a job to do...

Although Peter held a sword from ancient times, he himself looked anything but ancient, a hair-net and then a shower cap over his head, Zachary's ill-fitting shoes on his feet, and rain gear over his upper and lower body. It was crucial that he leave no evidence of his presence. (Mr. X had provided him with planting-material, finger prints and hair samples from a local area neo-Nazi.)

Peter hoped that Zachary and Jasmine arrived together. Zachary's bed would make a perfect location to attempt the reawakening...

Arlington: The night could have been worse, Zachary mused. It was true that Jasmine had stormed from the bar, but she had also forgiven him for the accidental flesh consumption.

And that was what concerned me the most...

Zachary believed that Jasmine was being irrational about the Thurmond women. Condemning people to jail did not make sense when his data so clearly pointed to their non-involvement in the Thurmond affair. But then again, she was a radio host, not a scientist, and therefore a person whose judgments were probably more emotionally influenced than data informed.

And if she gives me another chance, and we end up together, that is something that will probably always be different about us...

As Zachary parked in his driveway, the reporters rushed from their news vans like Thurmonds charging.

At least with all these pests around I don't have to worry about my house getting burglarized...

Zachary ran from his car, saying, "No comment," the barrage of questions continuing anyway. Reaching his front door, he excused himself with a wave.

Removing his shoes, he slid into his slippers, and though his home was under siege, he was happy to be back. He searched his refrigerator for leftovers, but there was nothing.

He wondered how a pizza delivery guy would react to making a delivery at a house surrounded by reporters. Deciding to find out, he called his favorite local place, Andrina's, and ordered an eggplant and spinach pizza (Zachary still hadn't eaten any meat since Grey Cliff), cost: $13. So he checked his wallet to make sure that he had a $20 (he did) and then plopped onto his couch.

Once there, his eternal debate raged: television or book?

He chose television, deciding to watch ESPN. Currently, the station was rebroadcasting Mike and Mike, a morning sports radio show. The two Mikes were interviewing Vince Wilfork, a New England Patriots player.

However, it soon became clear that the subject was Grey Cliff. Vince's third cousin, a man named Roger Towne, had been among the survivors.

Zachary remembered Roger, a skinny guy perhaps in his mid-forties who had nearly collapsed as he left his black box, a small group of survivors rushing to his aid. With Roger, Zachary had only exchanged a few words, but he remembered Roger's dissociated look.

Vince: He loves your show, but he told me he was too shocked to come on here with me. So I told him I'd come on alone.

Mike Greenberg: Well, we are glad you did and our prayers are with Roger for a full recovery.

Mike Golic: So what else did he tell you?

Vince: Okay, so besides all the details of everything: he is under the same impression as many of the survivors: that they were taken to Grey Cliff from some work camp, and that the work camp was far away from Grey Cliff. These government officials seem confident that Grey Cliff was the work camp, but Roger and some of the others are not buying it. They think that that place is still out there somewhere, which is awful when you think about it. That right now at this very moment there could be enslaved people in America. And that if there are then perhaps there is some group of people organizing all this. Some evil-master mind kind of group.

Mike Golic: Vince if there is one thing I have learned in life it is to expect the unexpected. But all this, it is just so completely unimaginable that this type of thing would happen in this day and age and it honestly has me flabbergasted. So what's going on, why aren't the authorities pursuing this lead?

Vince: They told Roger and the others, so far as I have heard, that they are pursuing all leads. But that these leads are all leading back to the Thurmonds and Grey Cliff. Also, the Homeland agent who was captured did not spend any time at this hair-brush work camp, so he can't add any credibility to the story...

Zachary turned off the television, wondering why it was that people so desired to see hare-brained conspiracies when they should have been analyzing the situation with scientific rigor: the editorialist, Jasmine, and now Vince Wilfork, were all seeking to explain horrific events by appealing to the fantastical idea of a conspiracy network.

But before science, humankind looked for answers to perplexing questions in magic and myth.

The ancient Greeks believed that lightning flashed because Zeus had hurled a lightning bolt, but science eventually proved lightning's cause: the uneven distribution of a storm-cloud's positive and negative charges.

But isn't a conspiracy theory comparable to magic?

A conspiracy theory seeks to make sense out of the perplexing. If one does not believe in science, then it is hard to imagine that man is capable of building a machine that can land on the moon. Therefore, a conspiracy theory is formed: that the lunar landing was staged.

And this is a conspiracy theory that millions of Americans believe! As recently as 1999 a Gallup poll discovered that 6% of Americans believe that the lunar landings were faked! Best-selling books have even been written on the subject – books which then make wild speculations about the motives for the so-called lunar deceit, such as (1) landing before the Soviets and (2) distracting the public from the horrors of the Vietnam War.

Zachary also considered the issue of global warming, an occurrence that all major scientific organizations agree is occurring. Yet because some Americans do not understand science they believe the conspiracy theorists who claim that scientists have worked together to falsify their conclusions \-- and again the conspiracy theorists have created a wide range of motivations for the collaborators such as (1) an attempt by shrewd politicians to target a common enemy after the Cold War (2) an attempt by America's executive branch to propagate socialism and (3) an attempt by the super-rich to drum-up support for nuclear power.

Grey Cliff was a horrific event, and perhaps one that will never fully be understood. But it seemed to Zachary that the full-scope of the tragedy was diminished when blame was placed on some behind-the-scenes and all-powerful team. Furthermore, with science Zachary could at least present a way for the Grey Cliff discussion to begin: that the Thurmonds were a family under the influence of an inherited trait: cannibalistic-murderous-racism.

Although Trait theory could never provide a detailed explanation for every event that had led to Grey Cliff, it could at least provide a framework for its analysis – but that scientific framework was razed the moment ignoramuses started blabbing about conspiracy theories.

Nevertheless, Zachary could see the appeal of a conspiracy theory to explain Grey Cliff: a conspiracy theory used simple explanations.

To understand jet propulsion, to understand the minuscule breakdown of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, or to understand why people inherit their specific traits, an understanding of science is required (and Zachary suspected that much of the general public had daydreamed their way through science class). But to understand the hare-brained theory that colluding groups pull the puppet strings of the world stage: for that, no science understanding is needed.

And how will Trait Theory ever compete with conspiracy theories? Conspiracy theories take no concentration to grasp and seem to explain everything.

Still, it frustrated him that Jasmine had not risen above the ranks of the easily influenced. And by this point in her life, it seemed unlikely to Zachary that she would return to school and earn a science degree. However, Zachary wondered if perhaps he could teach her the basics of metacognition, or thinking about thinking, a brand of analysis of which critical thinking is a major component. But as he imagined this scenario (and used critical thinking to internally debate its merits) he decided the idea to be unwise.

She would just think I was just trying to play the role of the professor again and that would bring us no closer.

The irony of the situation was that Jasmine had become obsessed with the notion that Zachary used educated-thought to make defense-mechanism-induced "assumptions" and yet it was through the application of his rigorous thinking principles, principles such as critical thinking, that Zachary sought to remove the unsupported and thus the assumed from his thoughts.

It seemed obvious to Zachary that anyone who believed a white-supremacist conspiracy, or for that matter, that any vast conspiracy was the determining force behind an exceptional event was a person who had not engaged in critical thinking. An argument based on an assumption is either a weak or a false argument, and a belief in an outlandish conspiracy theory requires making a host of assumptions -- yet assumptions that would be seen as preposterous were the matter seriously considered.

For example, the 6% of Americans who believed that the lunar landings had been faked needed to make the assumption -- because no one within NASA had ever said that the original lunar landing was a hoax -- that all of NASA was capable of keeping this elaborate secret. Yet that would be over 400,000 NASA employees! By applying critical thinking to the matter, even a child could determine that the odds of 400,000 people keeping a secret are practically zero.

It can be difficult to convince even your best friend to remain a faithful confidant...

Someone would tell someone who would tell someone. Or perhaps the money would be too hard to resist and a tell-all book would be written. Or someone would reveal the details in a suicide note. Or someone would wish to be momentarily famous. Besides what did 400,000 NASA employees have to gain by keeping such a secret? Their jobs perhaps – but what about once they had retired? Why not tell the world then?

And more disturbingly, the conspiracy theory that Grey Cliff was only one of a number of African American torture sites was not the only conspiracy theory that Zachary had heard regarding the Thurmond Affair.

One newspaper article reported the story of an internet site devoted to the quickly mushrooming Thurmond Affair conspiracy theories. Thus far Zachary had resisted visiting the site(www.whattheydonotwantyoutoknowaboutGreyCliff.com) but he had read the daily papers, one story reporting the Thurmonds had been the first settlers of an invading alien species and another that Grey Cliff had been faked by a small group of liberals determined to increase Affirmative Action funding.

These were clearly absurdist creations. Yet the understanding required for a simple narrative explanation was much less demanding than that required to rigorously consider the scientific backbone of Trait Theory.

Furthermore, a number of recent psychological studies indicated that humans are naturally lazy thinkers and that we often accept the instinctual easy answer rather than engage in the type of thinking which coats sheens of sweat across the brows.

If Zachary ever needed to explain this concept to Jasmine he would use the following mind puzzle from a recent psychology study:

If a piece of chocolate and a watermelon together cost $110 dollars, and the watermelon costs $100 more than the chocolate, then how much does the chocolate cost?

Over ninety percent of the people questioned stated that the chocolate costs $10 dollars. But if the chocolate cost $10 then the total would be $120: $10 for the chocolate and $100 dollars more for the watermelon, or $110, which when added together is $120. Yet here is the really interesting part of the study: once a participant had answered incorrectly they were then presented with the choice to either (a) take as long as necessary and figure out the correct answer and be rewarded with a 60 minute back massage or (b) abandon the problem and immediately receive a 30 minute back massage. Over 97% of the participants who were given this choice chose to abandon the problem and receive the immediate back massage. It probably would not have taken them much time to work out that the chocolate cost $5 and that the watermelon cost $105. But most people prefer to avoid difficult thinking.

Furthermore, besides being lazy thinkers, humans also seek to make sense of the world through stories. A recent book, The Black Swan, focused on what is known as the narrative fallacy: that people construct narratives to explain occurrences that can be more accurately explained in a statistical fashion.

People love stories that affirm their worldviews because these stories help impose order on the chaotic events of life. And for most Americans, a people who generally look favorably on the hard working loner, the so-called self-made millionaire fable fits these parameters and serves as a telling example.

Successful Americans get paid thousands of dollars at conferences to give speeches detailing these worldview- affirming tales, tales usually including comments such as, "I succeeded with my company because I never gave up and because I worked twice as hard and twice as smart as my competitors." And many conference attendees take lessons from the tales such as "If I too work hard I too will be a big success."

But thinking of the matter in a statistical, rather than a narrative fashion, rags-to-riches stories are more accurately understood as outliers upon the bell curve of life, because perhaps 99.9 percent of people who work hard to relentlessly pursue their dreams do not succeed wildly and make millions of dollars.

And their stories are quite different -- stories of people who go bankrupt, who go insane, who are murdered by their spouses, who are betrayed by partners, who die in horrible car accidents, who lose hands in meat grinders, who become paralyzed after falling from ladders, who are blinded in chemical explosions, who contract flesh eating funguses and so on and so forth.

But their stories contain no worldview affirming morals. And therefore, when considering the outlier success story, before one concludes that, "If you work hard you will prosper" all the other stories with their random seeming morals should be considered as well, morals such as "If you work hard you will lose a hand in a meat grinder" or "If you work hard you will be blinded in a chemical explosion." But no one wants to hear such things. People want to hear the stories where the world is seen following intuitive cause-and-effect patterns, and yet like the ancients using Zeus to explain lightning, these intuitive cause-and-effect patterns are often of our own making.

Grey Cliff was horrific; Grey Cliff seems inexplicable; therefore, Grey Cliff was probably part of some villainous network targeting African Americans: this thinking is easy thinking and the type that seeks to explain the world through a narrative. Thus, conspiracy theories, because they are both based on easy thought and narrative stories, are quite attractive to the masses.

To fathom Trait Theory, on the other hand, requires deep concentration and Trait Theory does not neatly explain the world through some popular and easily grasped narrative creation. Therefore, Zachary thought it highly-unlikely that he would ever be discussing the subtleties of Trait Theory with, say, his mailmen or the local barista.

So while Zachary knew that Donald Thurmond had eaten hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds of human flesh because of an inherited trait, for how many Americans would this knowledge forever remain misunderstood? Because rather than ponder Trait Theory they would chose the soothing immediate back massage of a conspiracy theory.

True, Trait Theory was capable of providing a semblance of a cause-and-effect explanation for some of the Grey Cliff occurrences, but the explanations were not the kind read in a sexy paperback page-turner but were rather the types of explanations painstaking gleaned from a dry science text, the land of Bunsen burners and uncomfortable safety goggles.

And rivaled against wild conspiracy theories, my explanations will probably never receive wide spread acceptance.

However, Zachary wished that he could at least convince Jasmine. Yet it seemed that her mind had already become infatuated by the false logic of the conspiracy theorist. At the bar she had suspected that they were being watched and that some hidden racist group meant to monitor their movements. Zachary laughed, thinking Jasmine like a baby, innocent to the realities of the world and trying to make sense of the surrounding jumbled noises.

And did someone just poop?

In the hills of Montana, Jasmine had explained that she ascribed to what was called the Critical Race Theory: a theory which asserts that racism in America is institutionalized, meaning that it is built into the very structures of society, structures such as schools, occupations, and the law system. Therefore, a person does not need to be actively racist in the sense of being an overt bigot, and yet by merely participating in the dominant power structure that person would be facilitating a racist agenda. Furthermore, this theory postulates that the reason the white majority engages in exclusionary practices is to benefit itself as a group.

At the time, Zachary remembered, that as he listened to Jasmine explain the theories subtleties, he realized that Critical Race Theory contained elements sometimes found in conspiracy theories, elements such as, a vast number of involved people (in this case the white race) and a collusion that benefits one group to the detriment of another group (in this case the white race benefiting to the detriment of African Americans). However, Zachary noted that it was undebatable that these exact elements had occurred during at least two points in American History, slavery and segregation. So perhaps Critical Race Theory was not so far-fetched after all.

The Holocaust was an extraordinarily horrific event. And it seemed likely that most people in, say, 1920 would not have deemed it possible. The murder of more than 6 million people by gas, oven, and otherwise, was obviously a crime that took considerable planning and collusion. Furthermore, most of the world remained ignorant while it was occurring, which meant that somehow, although thousands of Germans were involved, the secret was kept. This was the exception, the reason that the odds of 400,000 NASA employees staying silent about a faked lunar landing is practically zero, not zero. So while the Holocaust had started as a horrific conspiracy, once known to the world, it became a horrific reality. Could institutionalized racism, which began during slavery, now be a horrific, though silent, reality?

Zachary was not convinced but at least it seemed arguably possible. For one thing, institutionalized racism would not require the collusion of powerful men attending secret meetings. As a psychologist, Zachary understood the mind to be a commanding vehicle of both conscious and subconscious thought. For researchers the matter was still up in the air, but some theories held that for many people when making the majority of their decisions – and especially when making important decisions such as which presidential candidate to elect or which car to buy – that they were more influenced by subconscious than conscious thought. So while some ordinary Joe may believe that he voted for a presidential candidate because their views aligned on federal spending and illegal immigration policy, what had actually swayed his vote was the soft voice in his head that had whispered, "He has the same nose as your uncle Herb, and you always liked your uncle Herb, so this guy is probably a good guy too!"

Therefore, it seemed at least slightly possible that perhaps when making important decisions, such as creating public policy or deciding upon a hire, that the white majority might be influenced by subconscious racist beliefs, such as, "I should not hire him because he is black and black people make me nervous, and I think they make me nervous because they are sometimes dangerous. I don't know if he is dangerous but I also don't know him. And I don't think I want to get to know him. And didn't a black man kill someone last night in Dorchester? Yes, a child, a little girl who had been sitting on her porch and reading 'Charlottes' Web.' That's awful! And his palms look strange. Why are they a different color from the rest of his skin? My hands aren't like that are they? That's freakish. Yes, his palms make me uncomfortable and I don't like being uncomfortable. But I cannot tell him to wear gloves that would not be appropriate. And so if he works here I will just have to look at his palms and I will have no recourse. His palms could quite literally hold my mind prisoner and like a prisoner I'll have to stay silent about the whole matter, and like a prisoner I'll have to do my time with him until my time is done, and only then at the end of the work day will I be released from the sight of his palms. But then in the morning he will be back and with his freakish palms again. And what if he's a prisoner too, but an escaped one? And what if Shelly thinks he is attractive? I've been trying to sleep with her for months. Maybe she has never slept with a black man and she would like to give it a try. And I've heard that white women never again sleep with white men once they have slept with a black man. And he looks too clean, like he is trying to hide something. And I feel like he made too much of an effort to be articulate. Plus, I'm voting for Obama anyway..."

But Critical Race Theory made no mention of some secret collusion, and a secret collusion would be needed to support the existence of a network of African American torture locations. So why had Jasmine abandoned her belief in the Critical Race Theory, a theory at least grounded in some sensible logic, for conspiracy theory, which balances upon the weak logic of unsupportable assumptions?

The doorbell rang. Zachary grabbed his $20 from the coffee table and opened his front door. The delivery guy was smiling and Zachary invited him inside.

"Hey, how are you doing?" the driver asked. He wore ripped jeans and a shirt displaying a witty remark. Zachary observed that he appeared stoned, but stoned in a friendly, not paranoid way. He made no effort to determine where to place the pizza, and seemed to be dancing slightly as his head bobbed.

It occurred to Zachary that here was a human version of the mindless moon jelly, a human with little mind and who floated through life on the wheels of his rusty sedan, though gathering upon his meanderings not nourishing microbes but cash tips. Zachary guessed that that this twenty-something still lived with his parents and that if he had a girlfriend that she was even more lacking in long-term goals. Perhaps he had spent a semester in community college but had dropped out because the ceaseless dorm-room weed smoking catalyzed his ghrelin, inducing a bottomless appetite, and so he abandoned his studies and found employment at a food establishment with munchies he liked and where he could eat for free, or at least with a discount.

"That's a difficult question to answer," said Zachary. The driver nodded slowly as if Zachary had said something wise, and as if all pondering of this deep matter had concluded, he began smiling again and bouncing on his feet. Zachary tried to picture himself occupying this young-man's existence, and while doing so he remembered Jasmine's instance of the importance of natural rights, those inalienable rights that no entity, government or otherwise, can strip from a person, and mused upon that peculiar natural right listed by Jefferson in the Declaration, "The pursuit of happiness," a phrase that that had always caused Zachary to pause with wonderment. What exactly is the pursuit of happiness? It would seem to merely be an engagement with the pursuits that makes one happy. But what exactly makes one happy?

Zachary had assumed buying a house would make him happy. It had not and as real estate values continued to plunge it had become a nightmare, and so had actually made him quite unhappy. And many times over the course of Zachary's life he had noted that the goals he so faithfully pursued and that he had believed during the pursuit would eventually lead to a state of happiness, that once obtained did not make him happy and often had the opposite effect: his first car in high school, which he had dreamed would be some magic carpet upon which to whisk beauties to the beach, had been a money pit; his graduate studies, which he had dreamed as undergraduate would be a time of consultation among like-minded professors eager to create a familial atmosphere, had been a pressure cooker so excruciatingly tense that he had often thought himself at risk of spontaneous combustion; and Samantha an enchanting woman who he had, at first, dreamed would be his life partner, best friend, and confidante, had caused him to pass many days in his Harvard lab in a love-sick stupor and feeling as if his work day consisted of mining coal with a pick ax.

Conversely, it seemed that the unexpected more often caused happiness than the planned, such as unexpected good news from a relative or the sight of a rainbow after a downpour, and during these happy occasions there had been no pursuit at all. Yet perhaps that was not the point of Jefferson's belief in our inalienable-happiness-pursuit-right. Perhaps the point was not whether, once achieved, the achieved goal made one happy but that a continuous desire to be happy and achieve dreams, that this was the basic chemistry that kept both individuals and the entire the human race plodding on and doing things like building buildings and making scientific advancements.

It seemed hard for Zachary to believe, but the clamoring reporters gathered around his property boundaries, perhaps hundreds of miles from their families, each competing for some new morsel of information, that at a core level these individuals had convinced themselves that this clamoring, this pursuit of their reporting dream, that this would make them happy. And although Zachary felt partly responsible for the death of innocents and remained continually cognizant that he had accidently consumed human flesh, he thought it unlikely that he would trade places with any of those reporters if given the opportunity, because their chances at happiness, from what he could glean during their quick exchanges, seemed even slimmer than his own:

Each time I leave my home they shout questions. But they don't ask the right questions, the questions that I would ask if I were in their shoes, such as, "Do you think I would gain personal satisfaction were I to stop assaulting you, harassed Sir, with sensationalist questions, and if I were to take my leave of these hectic surroundings and dedicate the day to one of quiet reflection, perhaps pondering the enigmatic paradoxes posed by the ancient Hindu mystics?

But what about the delivery driver? He sincerely seemed happy and yet what was he pursuing? Of everyone in the immediate vicinity, the reporters, the camera men, the paparazzi, and Zachary, this buoyant driver seemed the least ambitious and therefore the most pursuit-less. Of course, this was completely unscientific speculation, and so Zachary decided to gather data through conversation, saying, "I bet people offer you a slice of their pizza all the time."

The driver laughed, saying, "They do. But I always turn them down. I already eat so much pizza back at the shop that it isn't even funny...it came to thirteen fifty."

He handed Zachary the box and Zachary placed it on his kitchen table.

"My name is Zachary Dunbar," said Zachary, holding out a fist for a fist bump, guessing this greeting form to be more commonly used by the driver than the handshake.

"I'm Mike Dupree, nice to meet you," said Mike, bumping his hand.

Zachary added, "You know I got to admit, I like the fist bump just as well as the handshake. But what I don't like about the fist bump is that it has introduced so much confusion into the greeting situation. Sometimes people fist bump sometimes they handshake, things just are not as clear cut as they used to be."

The driver laughed. "Do you need ones, or is a five and two ones better?"

"Nay, you can just keep it," said Zachary, waving his hand as if a twenty was simply a shred of paper.

"Thanks, man," said Mike, thrusting the bill into the middle of his wallet.

No organization there: his executive functioning could be lacking...

"Let me ask you a question Mike," said Zachary, sitting upon the edge of his couch, trying to create an informal air.

"Shoot," said Mike, his pizza bag tucked under his arm.

"I think most people would have asked me why I have a bunch of reporters surrounding my house but you didn't, why not?" Zachary asked.

"You have a bunch of reporters surrounding your house?" Mike asked, looking outside.

"Yeah, you didn't see the news vans?" Zachary asked.

Mike shook his head.

"But I see them now. What, are you famous?"

"I'm Zachary Dunbar, the Grey Cliff guy," said Zachary.

"Grey Cliff?"

"Haven't you been watching the news?" Zachary asked.

"No man, I hate the news. Those newscasters are always so insufferably cheery and they make stupid jokes – whatever the last news item was they will make some stupid joke about it. I do sort of like hearing the news, but their cheeriness and those jokes, it just ruins it for me. So no, I don't watch. But what's Grey Cliff?" Mike asked.

"You're stoned aren't you?" Zachary asked.

Mike laughed.

"Don't worry I'm not going to tell anyone, I don't care. I'm just curious," said Zachary.

Mike laughed again.

"What's so funny? You are stoned aren't you?" Zachary said, smiling.

This time Mike laughed even harder, finally he said, "No, man sorry, that just sounds funny 'stoned' I think I've only ever heard it called that in old movies."

Zachary smiled. "I must sound like a real square mixing up my terminology. But the reason I'm asking you this stuff is because I'm at a crossroads in my life. I've obviously been pretty successful -- I live in a big house. But I don't know if I've been happy. But there is this girl and she causes me to view the world in different ways. And I wonder if perhaps I shouldn't make concessions to win her back," said Zachary.

"I don't mean to sound impolite, but I'm the pizza delivery driver, shouldn't you maybe be asking a professional these questions?"

Don't you see, human moon jelly, that you are the professional?

"That is a fair statement. Would you think it odd if I told you that I am a professional, a psychologist?" said Zachary.

"Wow, now I feel really stoned," said Mike.

"But professionals ask others for advice all the time. It is much easier to give other people advice than to provide it to yourself," said Zachary.

"Yeah, I've had that thought before," said Mike.

"So what do you think? I think I love this girl. But I also think that if I abandon my work for a little while it might make it easier to get her back," said Zachary.

"Love is over-rated. Women come and go. I like women. But they need too much commitment you know what I mean?"

Zachary nodded.

Mike continued, "It's like this. I used to have dog. I loved that dog. I did, great dog, never bit anybody, played with the neighborhood kids, could even catch a Frisbee and would bring it back, wouldn't try to keep it like most dogs do. Well, eventually, Dozer, that was his name, he died. Man, I was broken up about it. I thought: how am I ever going to get over this? But once I did get over it, you know what, things were better. I didn't have to listen to him bark anymore. I didn't have to feed him. I didn't have to listen to the neighbors complain when he, you know, did his business in their yards. So you know, I guess what I am saying is just let things happen. You don't have to force it. You don't have to make some big life altering change you know?"

Drift, moon jelly, drift...

"Yeah, that makes sense. But Mike I've never really lived my life like that. I've been very goal oriented. There has always been some accomplishment just over the horizon that I've been trying to attain. But for all my striving, I don't know that it has made me happier. Yet at the same time I just really can't imagine separating myself from my work. It's a dilemma," said Zachary.

"Why don't you tell me your story man, like why those news vans are out there and maybe I'll be able to give you more specific advice," said Mike.

Zachary began summarizing the Capobianco Affair, but only a few sentences into the story, Mike blurted out, "Fuck! You're the guy who killed all those cannibals!"

Zachary nodded.

"Holy shit! Yeah man, I heard about that! Everyone is talking about that. Yeah man someone told me that you live in Arlington! That was some fucked up shit man. You sliced those fuckers up with a sword right?" Mike asked, holding out his hand for handshake.

"I guessed wrong on the fist bump?" Zachary asked.

"A fist bump is insufficient for this shit man. Can I get your autograph or something?" Mike asked, eagerly shaking Zachary's hand.

Zachary laughed. "Sorry Mike, I don't think that would be appropriate. If someone saw that they might think that I was proud of my actions."

"No one is going to believe this! What are the odds?"
Zachary shrugged.

"Zachary man, you have got to give me something so that I can prove to everyone back at the shop that I met you. Seriously dude, you are like all we have been talking about, like day after day. I mean how fucked up was all that shit? You're hiking, in the middle of nowhere, you've got not phone to use, and you discover some horror show, where people are eating people. And then you've got the big balls man to stick around and fight them with a sword? Dude that shit was ill! I'm fan Zachary. I'm a big fan," said Mike.

This was not the response that Zachary had been expecting. It seemed that Mike viewed Zachary as a type of vigilante hero. But hadn't Mike been listening to the details of the news stories? Didn't Mike know that Zachary had thought the Thurmonds a safe-bunch, and his job had been to test their mental states? Hadn't Mike heard that Zachary had accidently consumed human flesh?

"I'm honored that you would say that. But I'm still just trying to make sense of it all, you know?"

"Yeah, I do. So you are talking about the girl you were with, you are falling for her?" Mike asked.

Zachary nodded.

"I mean that is different. You two are like peas in pod. You should stick together, you know, if you can," said Mike.

"Thanks, Mike, I appreciate your advice, I do. Here, let me get you my second book. Do you like to read?" Zachary asked.

"Yeah, I do," said Mike.

"What type of stuff?" said Zachary, as he pulled his book On Decisions from the bookshelf.

"Philosophy usually," said Mike.

"Really? Are you in college?" Zachary asked.

"No, I don't want to go in debt. I just read on my own, when it's convenient. But I'll read your book for sure," said Mike.

Zachary handed him his book, having just jotted on the inside cover, "Mike, thanks for the life-advice, and I think that you were right on the mark. Zachary Dunbar."

"Thanks, Zachary. Are you going to go out there and talk to all those people?" Mike asked.

"What would you do if you were in my shoes?" Zachary asked.

"I'd probably just stay in bed and wait for them to go away..."

A minute later the driver left and Zachary shut his curtains, considering what to do.

Arlington, MA: From inside the darkened closet, Peter sensed that the light had slightly altered. It occurred to him that a text message must have flashed upon the screen of his disposable phone. Mr. X was the only person with the number. It had been incredibly unprofessional for him to text, Peter noted. Of course Peter had silenced the phone, but what if he had forgotten? He shook his head. He had only the most utmost respect for the Jeffersonian Elites, but sometimes they acted like impulsive teenagers. He sighed, taking the phone from his pocket. The text read:

Abandon mission: Do not kill Zachary Dunbar -- Zachary is an asset -- New Mission: Kill girl, Jasmine Jackson, and then kill Windsor Thurmond.

Peter nearly swore. Hit men may live outside the law, but they live by a code. The Jeffersonian Elites knew the code and that once a job is initiated that it cannot be abandoned. This part of the code was often used as a plot device in popular movies: Private citizen hires a hit man to kill target X. Hit man accepts job. Private citizen has second thoughts and decides to call off job. Hit man explains to private citizen that once he has been paid for a job that he always completes his mission. Popular movies use this part of the code for three reasons (1) to make a moral point: be careful of what you wish for because you just might get it (2) to add a plot twist and (3) to characterize (a) the private citizen as a hot-head with a conscious and (b) the hit man as a cold-hearted professional.

In reality this part of the hit man's code had been created for none of these reasons. The non-abandonment clause had been derived of purely practical concerns. Working as a hit man -- killing someone without leaving a trace -- is extremely difficult work. There can be no second thoughts. The possibility that the job might be abandoned introduces second thoughts. Furthermore, abandoning a job can prove to be more risky than completing it.

However, there was no possibility that Peter would ignore the Jeffersonian Elite's request: to do so would be to sign his death certificate.

Another fucking day at the office...

Why had they changed their minds? How could Zachary possible be an asset? And who was Windsor Thurmond and why had they decided to kill him? Obviously, he was a Thurmond. And if Peter had correctly read between the lines, the Thurmonds had made the Jeffersonian Elites a boatload of money over the years.

Those Thurmond fuckers had also been feasting on my slaves.

In any case, these matters did not concern Peter. He had his orders and they had to be followed. The whole thing was an odd situation and so Peter reasoned that it would require an odd solution.

But what?

The Elites had provided Peter with access to the cameras that had been installed in Zachary's home by the fake documentary team. But it seemed too risky jaunting from room to room as Zachary changed positions.  He considered climbing out the second floor window and lowering himself into the lawn. However, the only route with ample blind spots was from the back door. It was crucial that no photographer snap his photo. It seemed that he would have to approach the target. That was also a breach of the code. But -- as he had already considered -- it was an odd situation. He could cover his face but that would make it more challenging to win the target's trust. Yet could he ever win the target's trust? Zachary Dunbar was a psychological expert – how could he be fooled?

Like anyone – with an absurd and unflinching confidence....

Peter sighed, noting that the whole situation would be much simpler if he didn't have to explain the sword.

Then again, maybe the sword is the key...

Peter left the closet, removed his hair net, pocketed his plastic body covering, and as he descended the stairs said in a loud clear voice, "Zachary Dunbar, my name is Captain John Harris, and I don't want you to be alarmed. I am inside your house."

Silence. Peter slowed his pace, saying, "I repeat, my name is Captain John Harris and I do not want you to be alarmed."

This time Zachary responded, "Excuse me. Who is inside my home?"

Arlington, MA: Zachary grabbed the nearest object, a vase, and considered whether he should run outside and face the reporters or remain inside his home with an intruder.

Yet intruders, at least dangerous ones, don't introduce themselves – or I don't think they do.

Suddenly Zachary remembered his last conversation with Jasmine. She had been convinced that the Thurmonds were part of a larger conspiracy. What if she was right and there was someone inside his home with the intent of killing him right now?

But again, why would a murderer introduce himself? However, maybe the safe course of action is to flee outside and call the police...

On the other hand, if this intruder is harmless and I stay and determine his purpose, I can later tell this story to Jasmine, and offer it as further proof that we do not have to worry about some kooky conspiracy...

"Excuse me. Who is inside my home?"

A Frankenstein-like man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His chin was weak, but his forehead was massive. And though Zachary was a good thirty paces away, he noted that the man's left hand, a hand which held an object, was perhaps the largest hand he had ever seen, an almost Baroque hand. Suddenly, Zachary realized the object which the man held: a sheathed sword. Zachary's senses expanded as rapidly as the first second of the Big Bang – and he noted that the flight or fight response of his body had been initiated.

And I suppose that is the question: flight or fight? A week ago it would have been flight surely. So then why do I feel the urge to hurl this vase at his head?

The man smiled, but this smile did nothing to ease Zachary's mind.

Another cannibal perhaps? Where do these people come from?

The man laughed. To Zachary's ears it sounded forced, almost as if the man did not know how to laugh and he were imitating a laugh once heard. The strained laugh having concluded the man said, "I know how this must look. I am in your home. I have a sword. And let's not beat around the bush: my appearance is not dashing. But you are Zachary Dunbar and you are a world renowned psychologist. You know that people cannot be judged on their appearances, only their actions."

"Yes, and that is the reason that I have not yet called the police. I am giving you a chance – ten seconds perhaps, to explain your action of breaking into my home," said Zachary.

"My name is Captain John Harris. I am two things. I am an American and I am a capitalist. I know that you Zachary Dunbar are an American. What you have done for this country the country will never be able to repay you in kind --."

"And just what have I done?" said Zachary.

His words should have caused me to relax, but for some reason I have not...

"You have purged from this country a family of villains and I salute you for that --."

"Why have you broken into my home Sir?" Zachary asked, the grip around the vase tightening.

"When I was seven I made my first hundred dollars. I did it with free enterprise. And I didn't do it by being bashful. I set up a lemonade stand on the nicest lawn in town. When the owner of the home told me to scram, I moved next door --."

"You have ten seconds," said Zachary.

"In short, I knew I wouldn't be able to obtain an interview with you. But I came here to present you with a capitalist opportunity. I own a samurai sword shop. I'm offering you fifty percent ownership," said Peter.

"For what?" Zachary asked.

"For nothing: if you are connected to the shop sales will go up tenfold and we will both make out," said Peter.

Zachary wondered what Jasmine would have to say about all of this. She probably would have connected it to Thomas Jefferson somehow. Zachary remembered that Jasmine had explained that when Jefferson had helped to draft France's constitution that he had included private property as a natural right.

People like to cry about the wealthy, and people like to look for a hand out from the government. But in the end, private property is the engine that keeps things moving. It is the incentive that motivates hard work. The possibility of having a larger pool and a larger home than your neighbor may be considered by the rest of the world as ugly American attributes, but they are also part of the attributes that makes America great. And this man, Captain John Harris, is both a patriot and a capitalist, and I can respect that. However –

"John while I admire the risk you have taken, I can't take you up on your offer. It would be wrong for me to personally benefit in any way from this tragedy," said Zachary.

"Is that your final word on the matter?"

"I'm afraid it is," said Zachary.

"Well then, I don't wish to take any more of your valuable time. But if you need to call the police I understand."

"That won't be necessary."

"Then I will see myself out and I wish you only the best..."

"Hey – by the way, how did you get in?" Zachary asked.

"Through the front door – you left it open."

Strangely, the man left through the back door. But Zachary was just happy to see him go. He wondered if, after all, he should call the police. In the end he decided against making the call.

This episode can be used as a lesson to teach Jasmine that her conspiracy fears are unfounded...

Washington: As promised, Zachary met with the Thurmond defense team during their discovery proceedings, outlining his theories and why he felt that it would be a grave error of justice to incarcerate the Thurmond women.

"You truly believe that the wives of these alleged cannibals had no idea of what was happening at Grey Cliff?" asked Ted Trout, head of the Thurmond defense team.

"Yes, and I have charts and data to back it up," said Zachary.

"Would you be willing to testify in court as an expert witness?" asked Ted.

Zachary had already told them that he would, but because this would be put on the record he took a moment to consider how this would change his relationship with Jasmine.

It could really fuck things up. But this is right and it is time to do what is right!

Zachary nodded.

"Please note that Zachary Dunbar has agreed to appear as an expert witness," said Ted. Turning to Zachary he added, "Now we have to talk about a more difficult subject, the surviving Thurmond boys. Zachary your own report to the police puts them right at the scene of the crime, at the so-called Thurmond African American feast. By your own account, you fought to the death the Thurmond men and then captured these Thurmond boys who were also attempting to eat two African Americans. Is that true?"

Zachary shuddered. He could still see Prestin and Dwade's blood-spattered faces, the look of pure evil in their eyes.

They would have shown me no mercy...

"Yes," said Zachary, trying to keep a steady voice.

"And yet you have stated to me, and other members of the defense, that these children deserve the court's sympathy. Why?"

Because whenever I find love I get self destructive and I fuck it up. I'm sorry Jasmine.

"These children were being controlled by an inherited trait, a trait which I have earlier spoke about and which I have termed Cannibalistic-Murderous- Racism. In all probability this trait would have lain dormant, just as it has for certain Thurmond women. But the Thurmond men, engaging in a cycle of violence, systematically triggered this trait in their sons. These children never had a chance. These children need help."

"You yourself have said that these children have probably eaten many African-Americans?" said Ted.

"Yes."

"And yet they deserve our sympathy?" asked Ted.

"Listen, we are all products of genetics, heredity, and environment. The environment component means that we all usually have some choice, but these children never had the chance to make a choice. Listen, I've told the police that all my data has pointed to the fact that if Thurmond children did not engage in this behavior they were killed by their fathers. There was no way out for them. They are victims and they need counseling, not jail time."

"You spoke of a room where the deceased Thurmond..."

Zachary began to zone out, the horrors of Grey Cliff still fresh in his mind. But as the meeting continued he did his best to answer the questions as a scientific expert and not as a shaken up survivor. The meeting concluded and Ted pulled him aside, "I have an odd request."

Zachary nodded.

What now?

"Ralph Thurmond would like to meet with you," said Ted.

"What? Why?" Zachary asked.

"He wouldn't say. But he said that he had information that he would tell only to you."

Zachary sighed.

"Okay, when do I meet him?"

"Right now..."

A limo drove Zachary to the penitentiary. The ride was short but Zachary managed to down two complimentary drinks, entering the penitentiary with a slight buzz. The warden met Zachary inside, shaking his hand, and telling him that Ralph had been separated from the rest of the prisoners.

"...and not just for his own safety, he could likely start a race riot. A lot of the white gangs here have held him up as a sort of folk hero, and the black gangs would like to tear him to pieces. Things have been tense. I'd like him somewhere else honestly."

The warden led Zachary to a large metallic door.

"He's in there with a couple of guards. He's chained to his seat, but keep your distance."

Zachary shrugged. "I'd like to keep my distance a lot farther than this."

The warden laughed.

"Any idea what he wants?" Zachary asked.

The warden shook his head. As Zachary entered the room, Ralph Thurmond locked eyes with Zachary and smiled. Zachary almost smiled back but he checked himself.

Smiling is so conditioned that it almost happened...still, why shouldn't I smile at him? By my own account the blame lies not with Ralph...

However, Zachary maintained a straight face, deciding not to return the smile.

"It is nice to meet you," said Ralph.

Zachary nodded.

Ralph continued, "Actually it is nice to meet anyone. The confinement here is difficult. I am all alone. The guards usually don't talk to me. I think I understand what it was like to be inside those black boxes. They were waiting alone to be killed, as I too am waiting alone to be killed, if not by society than by the general prison population...my life is over and it hasn't even begun."

Zachary chose his words carefully. "Your lawyers have probably told you that I don't blame you for this."

"They have and I want to thank you for taking my side. So thank you."

"Is that why you asked to meet me?" Zachary asked.

"Sort of, but there was something else that I wanted to get off my chest...solitary gives me a lot of time for thinking. And I've been thinking about everything, my whole life from the cradle up until now. I asked you here because you are the only one who can relate to what I am going through, and I need some support. It has been very difficult."

Zachary again chose his words carefully, "The way life turned out for you was not fair. You never had a chance."

"Yes that is exactly what I have been thinking! Grey Cliff has been around for generations and generations of Thurmonds have had the chance to enjoy Negro flesh for their entire lives. I had a few short weeks. Now in here there is no chance to again eat the flesh of a black man. There are some black guards like this one to my left," said Ralph, nodding at the guard behind, "But I'll never get a chance to sink my teeth into him."

The guard did not respond.

"That isn't what I meant. I meant that you never had a chance at a normal life," said Zachary.

"I had a normal life. But what is a normal life compared with the taste of Negro flesh?"

"Ralph, I'm the person who helped kill most of your family precisely for eating other people. Did you really think I would sympathize with you on this issue? If you need some human contact request a priest," said Zachary.

"But you ate the flesh! You ate of the Negro body and you know its wonders. You know \--."

"Ralph enough," said Zachary.

"Am I truly alone in this world or are there others who also wish to feast as I have feasted?" Ralph asked.

Scientifically speaking there are millions. But their traits are minute. And I'm not giving you, Ralph Thurmond, the pleasure of knowing that information. However, perhaps I can use this meeting to finally put Jasmine's fears to rest.

"So then, besides your family there are no others? There is no conspiracy?" Zachary asked.

"That's the one millionth time I've been asked that question, and had you related to me concerning the splendiferous action of Negro flesh consumption, I might have given you a revealing answer. But instead I will continue, as I have vowed, to keep my silence..."

Zachary was soon gathered by the warden. But as he flew home to Arlington Ralph's words echoed in his head, "A revealing answer."

Just what was he getting at?

Boston, Jamaica Plain: Peter had learned that to be successful as a hit-man it is necessary to predict with great accuracy seemingly inconsequential events, like when a target will take a piss. So for the past two days Peter had researched all of Jasmine's habits. Yet during this research time Peter had found himself enraptured with Jasmine Jackson's form, his hand even sometimes absentmindedly running over his cock.

Could she truly be the one?

His van parked outside Jasmine's apartment, Peter waited. During the preceding hour she had not appeared in her kitchen window.

Perhaps she had been doing the dishes and now she is finished. If she were my slave, I would have ordered her to wash the dishes in nothing but chains.

He rubbed his hand over his genitals and the moment he cupped his balls, Jasmine's naked image appeared in his mind. He felt a pulse rocket through his dick. And suddenly he was not sure what caused him to feel more shock, that pulse or the rapid beating of his heart. Frantically, he unzipped his pants, unfurling his gargantuan cock, the sight of which -- even when soft -- would have caused most men to become limp with envy. As if considering the photo of a long-deceased love, he tenderly gazed at his shaft. The giant mass remained motionless. Still, Peter had felt that pulse and now he was certain that Jasmine had been the cause. Killing her would not be simple.

Yes, she is the cure! The sacrificial lamb that my gargantuan cock has been waiting for! When her blood is shed upon my member it shall rise again, born from the blood of black lust, and with my manhood restored I shall fuck and kill to my heart's desire.

Arlington, MA: Staring at the reporters through a slit in the blinds, the only decision that Zachary had reached was that it was time to grow a mustache. Meaningless as this decision seemed, Zachary wondered why he had made it. He had never before grown a mustache or desired to grow a mustache, and he realized that he needed to talk to somebody. He called Omar.

"...thank you for your support Omar, but I am really okay. The reason that I am calling you is, admittedly, a strange one. I have decided to grow a mustache," said Zachary without further elaboration.

There was a pause. "Is that so?"

"Yes, do you think I should do it?" Zachary asked.

"I've never grown one before," said Omar.

"Neither have I. It has been a spontaneous decision. It just happened moments ago. But I thought I should talk to someone about it. I've known people who once they grew a mustache they never shaved it off – people who have literally been buried with their mustaches," said Zachary.

"So you don't think this is a decision to be taken lightly?" said Omar.

"Right, I have decided to do it, but before I do it I could perhaps be talked out of it," said Zachary.

"But you are worried that once you have actually grown it that it might just be there forever?" said Omar.

"Exactly, so what do you think?" said Zachary.

"Well, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. I really have no opinion about facial hair," said Omar.

"You must have some opinion. As you yourself pointed out, you have never grown a mustache," said Zachary.

"What I meant to say is that I have no opinion about other people's facial hair," said Omar.

"Is that really true? What if I grew, say a handlebar mustache, I bet you would have an opinion about that, right?" said Zachary.

"You've got me there. But a standard normal mustache, I probably wouldn't even notice it. So this is really why you are calling?" said Omar.

"Yes, and you have been helpful," said Zachary.

"You know I have a relative with a mustache, if you want to get the real facts I could give you her number," said Omar.

"Her number? Good one," said Zachary, laughing.

I wish I could just come clean to Omar about everything...

Boston, Jamaica Plain: Sometimes Jasmine felt like she could strangle Zachary. He could be so obtuse! What would it take to convince him that there was more to the Thurmond affair than just Grey Cliff?

She decided to relieve the stress that Zachary had caused through yoga. From deep inside her closet, she located her full body yoga suit.

Kids wear yoga pants everywhere now, like they are casual! What's next, a yoga suit as casual attire?

The yoga suit fit like a glove and Jasmine nodded with satisfaction as she noted that she had not added any extra weight since it had last been worn. Scanning through her yoga DVDs she settled upon the most provocative: Sexy Yoga for Busy Women. It was a ridiculous title, but the yoga positions were relaxing rather than strenuous and the yoga teacher was a super-hot African American stud with a body so toned that Jasmine wondered if he had ever eaten a carbohydrate.

First up: downward dog...

Boston, Jamaica Plain: The yoga moves were too much and something miraculous happened. As if his penis had been injected with steroids, it bulged and bulked up inside his pants.

A stiffy, I've got a fucking stiffy!

Suddenly, all his recent failures seemed washed away. It was like God had once again made him his chosen child with a massive cock. Grinning a smile so wide he felt a long worn mask shatter from his face, he placed his right hand upon his penis and as wave of ecstasy washed over his body like a thousand tickling fingers, he swore an oath upon his member as if his member were a holy relic:

To live so that you live! To rise so that you rise! To feed your lust! To cum buckets of cum upon anyplace you deem worthy of a cumming, and especially upon Jasmine Jackson – Yes I shall cum upon Jasmine Jackson! And once my cum has landed upon her body and covered her over and she looks like a fly larva, I shall snap her like a twig, I shall break her, and then once she is dead and broken I shall cum until all the cum of these long flaccid years has been emptied from my body and I am reborn as a resplendently awakened penis-Lazarus!

Arlington, MA: A mustache, why a mustache? Some things just had to be done. That was a fact of life. And sometimes these things are things not seen from a distance, things like volunteering at a homeless shelter or the growing of a mustache.

Zachary peered at his reflection in the mirror. His upper lip looked naked, embarrassed, and even almost ashamed.

Why upper lip have I ignored you for all these years?

It was like he was coaching a little league baseball team and he had left the best hitter to sit on the bench and all because he looked like an upper lip.

Have I even ever looked at you before? And what does it mean that now in the looking I wish to clothe you with hair? What does it mean that I wish to hide you from the existence of my face?

The upper lip seemed to reply (it had many years to observe the mouth after all): You do not hide me. You show me respect when you allow the hair to sprout from my membrane.

And Zachary protested: But you will change the very shape of my face.

And the upper lip replied: Sometimes in order to see what is true, we must cover ourselves.

Zachary responded: Like I will cover you with hair.

The upper lip replied: Yes.

Zachary laughed. It had been a while since he had allowed his metaphysical side to roam free, probably since his undergraduate days – now it was all serious science, science with big implications like Trait Theory.

If my detractors could see me now, talking to my upper lip, my career would take even more of a nose-dive...

Something felt wrong. He walked backwards to jiggle his mind. Suddenly it came to him: Jasmine. If he was going to grow a mustache and change the shape of his face, she needed to be privy. He called. She did not answer. Fearing that she had seen his number and had ignored it, he decided to make an unannounced visit to her apartment.

Although his mustache did not yet exist and was only the fuzz of the future, he rubbed his fingers against his upper lip and pondered whether growing a mustache would allow him to ponder better.

I could curl my finger into my hairy lips folds and sink into a deep and undistracted trance.

He pictured Rodin's The Thinker with a mustache.

And what would I think about if I had a mustache?

For the next hour Zachary pondered his recent choices. He thought extensively about how he had withheld Windsor's mother's diary from Windsor. And he also thought about himself and how he would appear to the world with a mustache.

As a man who is hiding from his past with a thicket of hair on his lip or as a dignified member of society, as dignified as the carefully trimmed thicket of hair on his lip?

Ultimately he made two decisions (1) he would reverse course and deliver to Windsor his mother's diary and (2) he would still talk to Jasmine about growing a mustache.

But that meant that he had to dodge the paparazzi. Again wishing that he had an attached garage, he ran to his car. As the reporters rushed to his property line, he jumped into his front seat and sped away, Windsor's mother's diary carefully tucked into his front pocket. With another news van following, this time he decided not to drive like a maniac.

If that's possible in Boston...

Suddenly, he sensed something in the back of the car and when he looked in his rear mirror he saw the form of a man. Nearly slamming on the breaks, he released a girlish scream.

"Who the fuck are you?" Zachary shouted, turning back and observing a man in a suit curled up in the back of his car as if napping.

"I mean you no harm, but for both of our sakes pretend you don't see me," said the man, barely raising his head.

Another nut-bag entrepreneur?

Before Zachary had a chance to reply the man continued, "My name is Shawn Smith. I am a former state senator and I've come to tell you that your life is in horrible danger."

This isn't happening...

"What are you talking about?" Zachary asked, while grabbing his smart phone and googling Shawn Smith.

"I hope you're not dialing the police," said Shawn.

"I should be, but I'm not," said Zachary.

"The police can't help you, I don't know if anyone can," said Shawn.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Zachary asked, having retrieved a photo image for Senator Shawn Smith. The image seemed to match the man in his back seat.

Shawn stated quickly, "I'm a member of a powerful underground organization, I'd say former member but there is no such thing as a former member of the Jeffersonian Elites."

What the fuck! That was the defunct group mentioned in Jasmine's slave narrative.

"How do you know that name?" Zachary asked.

"How do you?" Shawn asked, clearly surprised.

"Nevermind that – But I thought the Jeffersonian Elites no longer existed – You already killed the mixed race progeny of Jefferson right?"

"Again how do you know that?"

"Why the fuck should I tell you anything? I don't even know who the fuck you are," said Zachary.

"I just saw you googling me, so I know you know I am a previous state senator of Mississippi," said Shawn.

"And clearly you've lost your fucking mind!"

"I'm a dead man that's what I am, but I've come here to do one good deed before I'm killed. I've come to warn you of the danger that you are in. Honestly, I don't know how you are still alive. They must need you for something that is the only explanation," said Shawn.

"Need me for what?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know."

"Why am I in danger?" Zachary asked.

"Because you got too curious, because you exposed the Thurmonds. They don't know what you learned and to be safe they will kill you," said Shawn.

"I don't understand. Were the Thurmonds part of the Jeffersonian Elites?" Zachary asked, nauseas.

This man sounds credible. Have I been rationalizing for the sake of my own sanity again?

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Jasmine was right.

Jasmine!

As Shawn explained that the Thurmonds were somehow connected to the Jeffersonian Elites, Zachary dialed 911.

"Hello, I'd like to report an emergency," said Zachary.

"What are you doing!" Shawn shouted.

"What's the nature of the emergency?" asked the operator.

"Just send a car to 157 Main street apt #3 Jamaica Plain," said Zachary, snapping his phone shut.

"Yes, she's in danger too," said Shawn.

"Why have you flipped?" Zachary asked.

"I was small time in the organization, an elected puppet. They got me elected. They got me women. I did what they wanted. But once this news broke – it was too much. They can kill me. They will kill me. But I'm not going to be a puppet any longer. Not when African Americans are being eaten for Christ's sakes! It's one thing to take advantage of them economically. But to eat them. Fuck that! I'm a God-fearing man Mr. Dunbar and I don't want to go to hell."

"Tell me about the Elites – who are they? What do they do?" Zachary asked.

"Fuck Zachary, I wish I could tell you more, but like I said, I was small time. But I know they control a lot. That's the scary fucking thing Mr. Dunbar, you don't know who is one of them. It could be anybody," said Shawn.

"What did you do for them?" Zachary asked.

"I voted however they wanted me to vote. I introduced bills that they wanted me to introduce," said Shawn.

"You have to tell someone this!" said Zachary.

"I am -- I'm telling you," said Shawn.

"No, I mean a news reporter, the FBI, someone who can do something useful with the information, someone who can put a stop to this," said Zachary.

Shawn laughed. "A stop to it! That's never going to happen. There's too much riding."

"You've got to try Shawn. People will listen to you. You were a state senator," said Zachary.

"Who's going to listen to me? The elites have infiltrated the media, they've infiltrated the FBI, like I said they are everywhere – inside all institutions," said Shawn.

Institutionalized racism, Jasmine was right!

"So that's their modus operandi?" Zachary asked.

"As best as I can tell, but like I said, I was a nobody – just a puppet – I reported to my handler and that was it," said Shawn.

"Where are they located?" Zachary.

"I have no idea, but my best guess would be everywhere," said Shawn.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Is this really happening?"

"I'm sorry. I wish it were all a joke."

"Me too, or a dream, fuck – what should we do? We're in this together now Shawn, till the end. Do you have any allies, people who can help us?" Zachary asked.

"I'm afraid not, but maybe we do have a better chance together. But we have to get out of America," said Shawn.

"The elites aren't global?" Zachary asked.

"No, I don't think so. America has so effectively subjugated African Americans that I would think the Elites have no reason to look elsewhere for greener pastures," said Shawn.

"Do you have a passport?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, I was actually planning to flee to Mexico after I warned you – and from there I don't know where – maybe Cuba, maybe Africa – but perhaps we can flee together," said Shawn.

"I have to take Jasmine too," said Zachary.

"Of course."

"Holy shit, I can't believe this is happening."

Glancing in his mirror, Zachary sensed that Shawn was trying to convey something with his expression. Zachary returned a puzzled look. Rummaging around on Zachary's floor Shawn located a pen, writing something on his hand. Zachary turned back and Shawn held open his palm. It read, "Car Bugged Canada." Zachary nodded as Shawn wrote something on his other palm. It read, "Get Out."

Zachary nodded.

Why is it that when life comes at you, it comes at you like a tidal wave?

Taking a quick turn, Zachary lost the news truck, and after driving down two more streets he came to a screeching halt. Zachary and Shawn bolted from the car, running across the street and into an alley. Zachary noticed that Shawn was holding a paper bag.

"We have to get to Jasmine. Is my car really bugged?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, and I hate to say it, but your clothes probably are too. The Elites try to leave as little to chance as possible," said Shawn.

"New clothes?" Zachary inquired, while pointing at the paper bag that Shawn held.

Shawn nodded and Zachary changed behind a dumpster.

He may have been a puppet without a mind of his own, but at least he took the time to research my shoe size...

Washington, Jeffersonian Elites Headquarters, Misinformation Branch: The first thing that Mr. X noticed was a large round table in the center of the room, and the second thing he noticed was that no one was sitting there. Yet in a crowded room beyond the empty table feverish men shouted and passed reams of paper between them like brokers on the floor of the New York Stock exchange.

"Now is not the time for introductions and I want to get you right into the mix," said Mr. K. "Here, let me show you to your desk."

His desk had a name plate that did not read Mr. X, instead reading his real name: Josh Bridge.

Mr. K explained, "You are on the inside now. Here we use real names."

"So you're not Mr. K anymore to me?" Josh asked.

"I'm Daniel to you now, but we don't have time for fifty questions. Ah, here is your immediate supervisor, Larry Jones."

A tall man with a strong grip shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you and let's get started – please turn on your computer. You are going to have to switch your password," said Larry.

Josh created a password and logged onto his computer.

"Okay I'll leave you two to it," said Daniel, leaving.

"Josh you are here because we believe that you have a knack for making real-time decisions," said Larry.

Josh nodded and tried not to be distracted by all the people running around his desk.

A man approached Larry and handed him a note. "Fuck! How did she read that story? I told you to take that story out of Oprah's paper – it never should have been in her copy."

"We took the story out of her paper. But then her maid brought in her own copy of The New York Times," the man explained.

"Why didn't we switch the fucking maid's copy too?"

"There wasn't time."

"Did Oprah notice the switch in her paper?" Larry asked.

"We switched it back before she had a chance," said the man.

"Good. Okay, well keep me updated, fuck...Josh, as I was saying, we have to make real time decisions here and we believe you have a knack for that...This program on your computer...Yes, that icon, it will direct you to the issues that we currently need you to deal with. This is how it works. There are two other people on your team. You all make suggestions on an issue, but only when two people agree is an action taken. Your two teammates are at the computers to your left and your right," said Larry, pausing just long enough for Josh to acknowledge the waves with a nod. "This is Bill and this is Geno."

Josh nodded again.

Larry continued, "Okay, so your program is up. The first thing that you need to do is look at the memo for any situation. I can't stress how important it is to fully consider the memo. The memo outlines decisions that have been made in other departments. It is possible to overrule the decision in a memo, but it is complicated and not a subject for right now. So here is the memo for this situation."

Larry double clicked a smiley face icon. It opened a document which read:

Subject: Zachary Dunbar; Situation: 114

Mr. Dunbar has been declared a person of interest for the court proceedings. Therefore, Mr. Dunbar has been assigned a protected status.

Subject: Shawn Smith; Situation: 34

Shawn Smith is attempting to divulge Jeffersonian Elite Secrets. Shawn Smith has been assigned a kill at your discretion status.

"So the memo tells you the subject names and what individual decision number this is for them, meaning that we have made 113 previous decisions concerning Zachary Dunbar and we have made 33 previous decisions concerning Shawn Smith."

Josh nodded and Larry opened the situation program, "Right now we have eyes on Zachary Dunbar and former state Senator Shawn Smith. As the memo has noted, Shawn is an Elite and a turncoat."

Josh peered at the image on the screen, "Yes, I recognize him. This is satellite isn't it? We have our own satellite?"

Larry did not reply.

"Do we have ears?" Josh asked

"We had ears when they were just in the car. They are planning to flee to Mexico together with Jasmine Jackson," Larry replied.

"And what did he tell Zachary about the Elites?" Josh asked.

"Nothing we have to worry about," said Larry.

"How do you know that? All information about our organization is so fragmented, so how would you know if was important or not?" Josh asked.

"Because I received a memo from a branch stating that it was not," said Larry.

"So there is a branch that understands all branches, which branch is that?" Josh asked.

"Memos are anonymous."

Josh nodded. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Along with Geno and Bill you are going to determine the next course of action," said Larry.

"I thought this was the Misinformation Branch?" said Josh.

"Primarily, but given the scope of this event we have had to tweak our responsibilities – all the branches have," said Larry.

"I'm assuming that protected status means that Mr. Dunbar is not to be harmed, what does kill at your discretion status mean?" Josh asked.

"First off, you will find a manual in the second drawer that explains all these terms and I suggest that later you study it. Second, protected status means more than we will not harm a subject. It actually means that we would offer protection, because this asset has become that important to us. Third, kill at your discretion means that you can make the kill if it is to our benefit, but that it is not a matter of pressing urgency," said Larry.

"Why has Zachary Dunbar become important?" Josh asked.

"Another department made that decision," said Larry.

"And they don't tell us why?" said Josh.

"No, not only are memos anonymous but their reasoning remains unstated. For example, when we pass on our decision, the next department won't know why we made the decision or that it came from us. But if you notice the memo does mention something about court proceedings, so it probably has something to do with that, but again, I can't say for sure," said Larry.

"What is the purpose of being organized in such a fashion?" Josh asked.

"To keep all branches separate is to maintain the utmost secrecy of our organization. There are overseers who look at everything, but that is not our concern," said Larry.

Josh turned to Geno, "So what do you think?"

"I say we take out the Senator," said Geno.

"How?" Zachary asked.

"Here, I should have pointed out this key. See these symbols on this sheet correspond to the listed professions. The blinking gun in the corner of the screen – that means we have a sniper within range, actually two, see there are two guns," Larry explained.

Josh nodded. "What do you think Bill?"

Bill replied, "I saw we let it play out. We let them run. They say they are going to meet up with Jasmine, but maybe they will lead us somewhere else first. Also, Jasmine Jackson is next on our activity list and I say that we send the second sniper to take out Peter after he has completed the job."

"That means it is up to you to pick a side," said Larry.

"What if I have my own idea?" Josh asked.

"Then it circles back until someone agrees with someone else," said Larry.

"I see. Well, I think we don't have anything to gain by letting them run off together. I agree with Geno: take out the Senator..."

Boston, Jamaica Plain: Peter remembered the shame that he felt as a boy when he had a boner and there was no way to hide the mountainous bulge. Later, that source of shame would become a source of pride, and later still that source of pride would become a source of frustration.

But a new page has turned!

As Peter jumped from his van, he found it difficult to walk, almost as if walking a rowdy dog that kept pulling on the leash, but there was no dog only his cock, rock hard and free-spirited and which fought to free itself from the constraints of the jeans. His cock felt harder than he could ever remember and there was no anxiety that the boner would lessen and instead only a slight anxiety that the whole thing would explode, tight and bursting as it felt. He laughed because he noticed a butterfly fluttering between two mailboxes and it seemed that only seconds after his member had been reborn that the world had again become beautiful.

But I still have to cum on Jasmine and then kill her...

Somehow he had convinced himself that this blood sacrifice was necessary to ensure the future hardness of his proud member.

And besides, I have to do it for the Elites anyway.

Opening the ground floor common door, he entered her building.

Rock out with your cock out!

He unzipped his pants, his penis shooting forth and then standing at attention like a retriever waiting for a fallen duck. Looking down upon it, it seemed to wink at him, as if to say, "Again we ride!" The death of his brother at the hands of his slaves suddenly seemed less harsh and even like a necessary causality.

For it was that path which created this path and this path which created my thumping, vigorous revival...

He shook his hips and watched it swing from side to side, cutting a wide berth like the strongest peasant with the biggest sickle. Placing his hand upon the tip, the flickering light of the hall felt a glorious light upon his face. He climbed the stairs, his third leg climbing with the most enthusiasm though never touching the ground.

I'm going to splatter her with a load larger than a fire hose putting out a five alarm fire...

His cock throbbed in agreement as he quietly slid down the hall, his gun in his right hand and his Colt 45 in his left.

No more swords...that was ridiculous...

Gently, he twisted her doorknob. It was locked. He saw no way around it and put his shoulder down and prepared to burst through the door the way that he planned for his cock to burst into her existence.

Slow down Romeo...I understand that it has been a while but we can't lose our minds – both of them that is...

Realizing that it would be impetuous to ram through her door because a neighbor might hear, he wedged his Colt between his belt loop and jeans and grabbed two small metal pins from his back pocket. Although it was a boring procedure, one might have thought the lock getting picked was that of a curvaceous babe and not a wooden door because the Cyclops between his legs never blinked. Taking a deep breath, he remembered Joe-Bob and what an idiot he was and then he remembered how Joe Bob had been scourged with a minuscule pecker.

Yes, it seemed his brain was the same size as his cock. But Joe Bob – this fuck and this sacrifice of black death – this is for you.

Inching the door open, he crept into her apartment. It smelled of roses and, predictably, jasmine. Having taking a few steps into her kitchen, he could now see her yoga-positioned heel in the living room. A step farther and he saw the whole of her leg.

If I was a Thurmond I would apparently wish to eat that leg, but I instead wish to make it lifeless and as limp as my cock used to be...

Another half a step, and he caught the outline of her butt, flexing and tight. His cock flinched, like a sprinter with a false start.

Don't cum yet...

He sighed, but perhaps a little too loud, and he strained for any unusual motion. There was none and it was time to pounce. Quickly, he walked into the living room, double fisted, and when she saw him from a yoga position with her head between her legs, she screamed.

Peter laughed. "Hunny, it's intimidating I know, but if you move a muscle I'm going to blow you to bits."

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want?" said Peter, still holding both of his guns.

"I have a boyfriend," said Jasmine.

"A little spunk, I like that," said Peter, his cock throbbing with anticipation.

"Are you going to kill me?" Jasmine asked.

"What do you think hunny?" Peter asked, having slowly stepped closer, and who now held his Colt and his cock only inches from Jasmine's head.

"I don't know," said Jasmine.

"Fuck no, you are too beautiful hunny. I just want to fuck you with my astronomically sized Johnson," said Peter.

"I've never seen one that big," said Jasmine.

Duh...

"I'd have been insulted if you had," said Peter.

"So what do you want from me?" Jasmine asked.

"You know what I want," Peter said again.

Jasmine closed her eyes and opened her mouth.

She actually wants it, the dumb bitch. Some of them just melt when they see it – and she is a melter...

Peter placed the Colt on the coffee table and approached. An inch before the cock entered her mouth he felt a cold metal against his leg. He stepped back. She held a gun and that was the last thing that his mind would ever register.

Washington, Jeffersonian Elites Headquarters, Computer Branch: When Alan Lozan had posed as Conrad the IT repairman, he had installed a host of computer viruses into Zachary's computer.

One of the most powerful was an application which caused Zachary's computer to communicate with his phone via a Jeffersonian Elite satellite, performing constant logistical algorithms created by the Jeffersonian Elite computer team.

The team prided itself on being the most racist nerds in the world. And if there is one thing that is true about a nerd it is that when they focus on an objective it is nearly impossible to expunge that objective from their heads.

The Elite big wigs had long ago learned that they had much less use for the brainless skinhead Neo-Nazis of the world than for racist who actually had an IQ. The problem, however, was finding them. While skinheads march in parades, write newsletters, and proselytize with such open salesmanship that they even occasionally convince those they profess to hate to join their ranks -- nerds stay more silent about their hatred.

Sure, nerds might play racist shooter video games for stretches of days a time, but they don't go around talking about how much they hate the black man who works at the corner store.

However, in 1959, as computer science was beginning to establish itself as a powerful world force, a high ranking Elite hit upon a ground breaking plan: to donate heavily to computer science college projects, infiltrate the computer groups, make connections, and build a racist computer network.

50 years later the Jeffersonian Elite Computer Group counted among its members executives from most of the major computer companies in America. There was almost nothing that the Jeffersonian Elite Computer Team could not do with a computer.

So when Zachary Dunbar called the police from his cell, Conrad sent Zachary to an automatic artificial intelligence dispatcher, and the AI program had convinced Zachary that he had actually been speaking to a human.

Boston, Jamaica Plain: When the bullet hit Senator Shawn Smith directly between the eyes, Zachary had been mid-sentence and he grabbed the Senator as he fell. Fearing for his own safety, he dragged the senator behind a dumpster. At first he attempted CPR.

What the fuck will this do really!

But it quickly became evident that Mr. Smith had departed this earth. Not sure where the bullet had originated, Zachary ran to the rear of the alley and hopped a fence, all the while sensing that his head would be the next head to explode. It did not and he continued running until he could run no more.

This is what is must have felt like to be a slave in the South and to run from the slave catchers. Why are you even thinking this? It is because you still feel guilty. Stop, you have to think about your own life, you have to survive so that you can help Jasmine.

Jasmine! Get to her now!

Zachary saw a taxi and he did his best to look calm and composed so that it would actually pick him up. The taxi pulled to the curb and Zachary gave the driver Jasmine's address. For the duration of the ride Zachary remained silent and he wondered if he should again call the police.

No, I'll just tell them everything when I see them at Jasmine's.

But when he arrived at Jasmine's he saw no police cruiser.

Fuck!

Tossing a wad of cash at the driver, he sprinted from the taxi and into the apartment complex. Although he knew he might be sprinting to his death, it seemed that he could not sprint up her stairs fast enough. Once inside her apartment he prepared to scream her name, but he bit his tongue as he heard gunfire.

Fuck!

Making his way into the living room, he saw a dead body, and he saw Jasmine with a smoking gun. Before he had time to take in the scene, Jasmine shouted, "Call the police."

"I did."

"You did?"

"I dialed 911 and sent them here at least 15 minutes ago."

"I don't like it Zachary. Let's just get out of here."

Zachary realized the man on the floor was the man he had seen at his house.

"You know him?" Jasmine asked.

"He was inside my house. Who is this guy?"

"I don't know but he tried to rape me and kill me, I don't know let's get the fuck out of here."

"He tried to rape you?" Zachary examined the body, and as he did so saw the massive penis lying as limp as the dead body. The sight of the massive penis, bloodied, and sinuous, sent a shiver down his spine.

What a monstrous human!

"Yes it's big, now let's get the fuck out of here!" shouted Jasmine.

Zachary nodded as they clasped hands and fled from the apartment.

"Where did you park?" Jasmine asked as they reached the bottom of her stairs.

"I took a taxi --."

"A taxi?"

"It's a long story. But I've just learned that you were right and the Elites still exist and I think they are after us now," said Zachary.

"I fucking told you," said Jasmine.

"I'm sorry," said Zachary.

"There's no point talking about it now. We can take my car," said Jasmine.

"No we can't," said Zachary. "I learned from a source that these fuckers are everywhere. They had my car under surveillance, I had to abandon it. So we can't take yours who knows it probably has a bomb in it or something."

"Shit, what the fuck are we going to do Zachary? What did your source say?"

"I don't know. We should go on foot from here though and then we'll figure it out," said Zachary.

For the next five minutes they ran through the streets of Jamaica Plain and as they rounded each corner Zachary kept expecting to see Jasmine's head explode. Finding an alley that seemed to provide sufficient cover, they stopped to catch their breath.

"What now?"

"We get you a change of clothes," said Zachary.

They walked into an open apartment and raided a bedroom bureau. The clothes were much too big.

"I look frumpy," said Jasmine.

"You look alive."

They fled from the apartment and once a few streets away, attempted to formulate a plan.

"We need cash so that we can go to Canada," said Zachary.

"Why there?" asked Jasmine.

"That's what my source advised," said Zachary.

"Fine, it sounds fine to me."

"So cash..."

They opened their wallets. They had $200 combined.

"I have money in the bank," said Zachary.

"Then let's go to an ATM."

Zachary scratched his head.

"What?" Jasmine asked.

"We can't."

"You think the Elites could see an ATM transaction?" Jasmine asked.

"We can't chance it."

"What then?"

"We find a pay phone and we ask Windsor for help," said Zachary.

"But won't they be watching him too?" Jasmine asked.

Fuck!

"You're right. What should we do?" Zachary asked.

"You could call him and pretend you are someone else."

"You think that will work?" Zachary asked.

"Probably not, fuck. I don't know," said Jasmine.

"Let's just chance it. If we can get to Windsor he'll probably give us a whole bundle of money, enough to live off the grid for a while," said Zachary.

"Do you really trust him though? He is a Thurmond," said Jasmine.

"Jasmine this man has contained the urge to eat black people for decades. So yes, I would say he is a man we can trust."

"I guess given the circumstances it is our best option. I mean we could try other people, but he is moneybags right?" Jasmine asked.

"Exactly," said Zachary.

At a corner store Zachary did not see a payphone, so he asked the cashier.

"Everyone on earth has a cell phone now dude," said the cashier.

"Can I use your store phone?" Zachary asked.

The cashier, a middle aged woman, scowled.

"No?" Zachary asked.

"We have cell phones for sale," she said, motioning behind.

Jasmine whispered into his ear, "Just buy one and then we will trash it."

Zachary bought a phone and set it up through a pay computer at the store. Then he sent Windsor a text:

Thanks for your generous donation to our civil rights charity. As previously arranged, a representative, J. J., will be by your residence shortly to pick up the donation in person.

A few minutes later Windsor replied:

Of course, come in through the back door.

"Do you think he understood?" Jasmine asked.

"It appears that way."

Zachary used the cell to call a taxi and then tossed it into the trash.

Boston, Commonwealth Street: Windsor licked his lips. It had been two days since he had feasted upon fresh Negro flesh, and ever since he had seen Jasmine's picture splashed over the news sites, he had wished nothing more than to tie her to his table, cut off her limbs, and cook her into a stew. He prepared busily.

Boston, Commonwealth Street: Zachary and Jasmine rushed in Windsor's back door. The room was dark and Zachary searched for a light. He found a switch but once flipped it did nothing.

"Windsor," Zachary yelled.

There was no answer.

"I don't like this," said Jasmine.

"We just need to find our way upstairs," said Zachary.

"Let's just go," said Jasmine.

"Calm yourself, Windsor is going to help us," said Zachary.

"Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me," said Jasmine, clutching Zachary's arm in the darkness.

"This is not Grey Cliff the sequel. He's giving us an infusion of cash and then we are leaving," said Zachary.

"And he has been a reliable source since?"

"Just trust me on this one. For once I am not thinking with my mind. I am thinking with my heart, and my heart tells me to trust this man."

"And trust me you should!" said Windsor as a light simultaneously turned on. For a moment Zachary and Jasmine were blinded as their eyes adjusted to the light, but when Zachary saw his surroundings he did his best to hide his shock. They were completely surrounded by hundreds of antique black face dolls. Jasmine pinched Zachary's arm and he nodded slightly.

I guess it is a good thing that Jasmine still has that gun...

The jolly dolls were piled one on top the other like a pit of dead bodies, their jolly feet, hands, mouths, and eyes all protruding in different directions. A path had been cleared in the center of the room, from the door to the stair case. Windsor stood at the top of the stair case smiling. He held a duffel bag.

"Come up! Come Up! Don't be concerned by this room. I bought these from collectors precisely so that they would be locked up down here and not on some hick's lawn in Appalachia or anywhere else. And yes, I have your money here and your ticket for a new life! So come up and allow me to say goodbye to you my good friend Zachary and to say hello to your well chosen partner," said Windsor.

Zachary and Jasmine hesitated. Jasmine whispered, "What should we do?"

"Let's just go up."

As they walked up the stairs, the smile never left Windsor's face. Once at the top, they walked into a large room and a steel cage dropped on top of them. The cage was approximately 8 feet high and 8 feet wide, the size of a small room.

"What the fuck Windsor?"

Windsor's smile vanished and he put down the duffel bag and unzipped it. From inside he took out a human head. It was the mangled head of the black housekeeper.

"I ate her body. But I've decided to keep her head as a souvenir. The last couple of days had been tough, so I was thinking about eating it until you called, problem solved old boy."

"I trusted you," said Zachary.

"My beef is not with you Zachary, or rather I should say the beef is her because soon I will cook her into a stew. Zachary you have eaten the Negro flesh. You know how unbelievable it tastes. You spoke highly of the Thurmond venison. I assure you that Jasmine Jackson will taste resplendent," said Windsor.

"Are you actually suggesting that I eat my girl friend?" Zachary asked.

"I've heard enough," said Jasmine, pulling the gun out from beneath her shirt. "Don't fucking move or I'm blowing off your head."

"You do that my resplendent piece of beef and you will never get out from that cage, by the way this is the exact cage that I used to imprison Shanice Cook years ago and then again last week. Here you can ask her about it," said Windsor, as he pulled another severed head from the duffel bag. Zachary could barely recognize the bludgeoned head, but it did seem to resemble the head of Shanice Cook.

So her luck and her inflation resistant checks have finally run out...

"Enough Windsor, this isn't you. I know you."

"You do know me because you know the pleasure of eating Negro flesh, and that is all I am, a Negro flesh eating machine!" said Windsor, locking eyes with Jasmine.

"No, Windsor, you are so much more than that. You are a philanthropist. You have good in you I know it," said Zachary.

"This is not Star Wars Zachary and I am not a reformed Darth Vadar --."

"Stop! Do you forget I have a gun at your head? Do you know how many cannibalistic racists I have killed?" shouted Jasmine.

"Yes, but if you kill me you will never get out of that cage. I know you have no cell phone. I know because Zachary texted me from a random number so I'm sure you already trashed the phone. Are the Elites after you? Ha! They are! I knew it. I knew it. Ha! This is delicious!"

"Why? If they are after us then they will kill you to get to us won't they?" said Zachary.

"They won't kill me. I am practically one of them."  
"But you aren't and that makes all the difference."

"Enough!" Jasmine shouted. "Let us out of here or I am putting a bullet in your head.

"No," said Windsor, with a malicious smile.

"Windsor I stole a diary from your mother's room and in the diary she talked about her wishes for you," said Zachary.

"Liar!"

"You know me Windsor, you know I wouldn't lie about something like that," said Zachary.

For a moment Windsor was silent. "Go on."

"What she wanted for you Windsor, what she wanted was exactly what you became!"

"Then maybe she too sensed how sublime a life of Negro flesh feedings can be," said Windsor, who, oddly, raised Shanice's head, blood dripping from her brain stem, and kissed her on the lips.

"No Windsor that is just it! Do you remember eating the fetus hand?"

"Now that you mention it – I have recently come to that realization. And forgive me for being crass old boy, but I think that was my first, once-you-go-black-you-never-go-back moment. It's a shame that I had repressed it all those years," said Windsor, nibbling on Shanice's nose.

"That day Windsor, your mother's dormant CMR trait came to life. After you fled the room she ate the fetus. Yes, it is true. She too had CMR, which could be why your trait is so strong. But it is also why she separated and cared for you until she died. She wanted to teach you right from wrong. She did not want you to give into CMR."

"You lie!"

"No, Windsor, I speak the truth. So know that she would have been very proud of the philanthropist you became – this new Windsor, the Windsor who keeps severed heads inside a duffel bag – that is not the real Windsor."

"You are grasping at straws. You are desperate to stay alive. Just like they are all desperate to stay alive in the moment before I devour them," said Windsor.

"I was on my way here earlier to give you the diary. I have it with me here. Here is the page. Read this page Windsor and you will see who you have been your whole life was exactly who your mother wanted me to be."

Windsor dropped the severed head. It plopped onto the ground with a thud, rolling to the foot of the cage.  
"Toss me the book," said Windsor, pointing at the spaces between the cage bars.

"Let us out first," said Jasmine.

"I will not," said Windsor.

"Don't give it to him," said Jasmine.

"He needs to see," said Zachary, tossing Windsor the book.

Boston, Commonwealth Street: Windsor instantly recognized his mother's handwriting and he sat down, reading the words that his mother had placed onto paper many decades ago.

June – August, 1945: Someday Windsor you should read this diary. Should you find this diary before manhood, remember always that truth never ceases to be a welcome visitor. Windsor you brighten my days and I have always loved you the most. Windsor I am much like you. We both ate of the same dead Negro fetus and in that moment we were forever connected with a bond stronger than that of mother and son.

Windsor after I ate that baby fetus's hand, I never again sunk my teeth into Negro flesh and I hope you can do the same. Your urges are much stronger than mine. You managed to kill an adult with a knife when you were not yet five and somehow you sensed, perhaps smelled, that the choicest part of her body was hidden within her belly and you split open her belly and began feasting on the fetus. Because of the blinding strength of your longings, I think you will have it more difficult.

Windsor I daily teach you the difference between right and wrong. I teach you the importance of charitable endeavors. And based on all that I have taught, you probably think I expect you to live a perfect life and accomplish great things. No, Windsor, no – I have tried to give you a foundation only, for I know the burden which you must carry; I know the voices of the demons who whisper in your ear; that you think yourself passing the time only until you should again feast as you once feasted on the Negro fetus.

Yet these thoughts must be resisted! Do not fret when you find that you can never banish these thoughts from your mind; accept them as a permanent part of your soul.

Soon I will die and someday you will find this diary. When you do, do not think your memories of me wrong. Think of me as a mother who after eating from the fetus corpse, never again ate of the Negro's flesh.

I have separated us from the rest of the family because we are different. They would not understand that which we wish to do. These final words I impart on paper and will impart again from my bed before I die: do not look back. The past only holds the taste of the dead Negro's fetus's hand.

Be good my child, do good deeds, and make your mother proud, just as I hope you are proud of me. Windsor I love you and will always love you, no matter the man you become, no matter the deeds you do, but for your own sake and the sake of your soul, follow me upon the path which I have set before you.

Good bye my son. Good bye my love.

Boston, Commonwealth Street: Windsor saw his beautiful mother in his mind's eye, her angelic mouth feasting upon black flesh and he smiled.

At least she knew that glory one time...

He spoke aloud to the diary, "Mother, sweet Mother, how satisfactory it would have been to eat at the same trough as you, to feast alongside your gracious touch, your humor, your humanity. But such things cannot be – the world is a place of contradictions: man and women, black and white, life and death. The life you wanted for me is not the life that came to be. But I still believe in your judgment above all others. Mother, I am sorry."

Windsor turned to Jasmine and Zachary, "Old boy, it appears that you were holding the trump card after all, that certainly puts a damper on my plans."

"Turn yourself in Windsor. It's the right thing to do. Your mother would have wanted you to do that," said Jasmine, still pointing the gun at Windsor's head.

"That gun has even less meaning now young lady. I have the key for your release in my pocket. Zachary you never knew, but it had always been my plan that when you ended your work for me that I would end my life. It seems that fate has taken me back to my original plan," said Windsor, smiling nervously.

"No, Windsor, no – you don't have to do this," said Zachary.

"What value does my life have now? And if there is a God I would like to meet him, and I would like to ask him why endowed me with this overpowering urge to eat the flesh of the Negro," said Windsor, tossing the key into the cage.

As Jasmine reached for the key, Windsor hobbled across the room, all the while Zachary screaming for him to stop. But a moment later he had jumped through an open window...

Here comes the end –finally -- five stories will surely kill me – and it's odd that I do not see my life flashing before me – instead a see one image: a massive plate of uneaten black flesh...

Boston: Jasmine contacted a friend who had been a previous gang member, now reformed he still knew how to hot-wire a car.

"It's got to be an old one though," said Miles.

"Why?" Zachary asked.

"Cause I don't know what has happened in all the years that I haven't been stealing these," Miles laughed heartily, a half hour later delivering them a rusted 1994 Toyota Corolla. "I don't know where you are going, and I don't want to know, but I hope it aint far..."

Canadian Border: Miraculously, the car had held up. Abandoning it in the woods, Zachary and Jasmine crossed the border by foot, traveling through a mountain-pass.

"It's like we are back in Glacier," Zachary remarked at one point.

Jasmine did not laugh.

Jeffersonian Elite Headquarters: Sebastian Wittgenstein, leader of the Jeffersonian Elites, was known simply as The Master – as in the invisible master of every African American. The fragmented nature of the Elites was something he had implemented after thorough study of Nazi organizational schemes. One such scheme: the Nazi branches were famously ignorant of each other's doings. This allowed Hitler and his top commanders to wield more power.

You never know who is watching...

Likewise, Sebastian had eyes and ears in every branch through his centralized command branch, known simply as the Razor Fold.

The Razor Fold accounted for all decisions made by the Elites. Sebastian and his top tier reviewed those decisions. Recent decisions included allowing Jasmine to live, and closely monitoring Zachary and Jasmine as a unit. This decision had been made so that if any unknown Elite resistance groups existed, Zachary and Jasmine would (hopefully) lead the Elites to their doorstep.

Another recent decision was to keep the Thurmond boys and the Thurmond women alive. Sebastian had learned through their prison branches that the Thurmond boys all had tight lips. They had not ratted and told the authorities about the existence of the Elites. And just moments ago, a decision had been made to force a prominent black man, possibly a well-known college professor, to identify himself to the police on his own porch.

The message: It does not matter Negro how high you climb. We can always take the ladder out from under you.

And yet another decision had been made that after this incident was well-known (through their various media branches) a high profile meet would occur with the President and with the stated objective of defusing the incident.

But the actual objective will be to give the incident even more coverage so that every African American will remember that they are still, and will always, be ruled by the white man.

But these matters would soon be left to a younger generation. Sick from a life of excess, Sebastian was dying. His son Stanley would soon take over the Elites, and Sebastian, in his raspy voice, spoke to him on his deathbed shortly before passing.

"If I could do it all over again, I would get out of the business of leadership, and into the business of pleasure. I've never tasted black flesh. I've never desired to eat black flesh. But what those Thurmonds were doing, it does make me wonder – was I missing out on an obvious pleasure? I think this is a question that most of America, albeit secretly, is wondering right now. They are thinking to themselves: wouldn't it be wonderful if I could eat a Negro, and then having finished, eat another?

Wouldn't it be wonderful if my neighbor down the street, that black man I have never trusted, if I could yank him from his house, bludgeon him to death, and eat his uncooked flesh?

Ah son, I will never know what it is like, my stomach couldn't handle it now. The doctors have me on pureed food and thickened liquids, so it all tastes like mush. I suppose I could have some pureed Negro meat, but I suspect that would be dismal compared to the real thing. Ah, it is a regret...it is a regret...There was a girl I should have married, apologizes to your mother, and there were many Negros I probably should have eaten.

But all of us son, all whites, we all die with regrets, with choices we could have made. Had I married that girl, had I eaten those Negros, perhaps my life would have been better. Yet, I will never know for certain – just as millions of Americans will never know for certain...But what can we do? We go on, we live, we die, and always, always, we take measures to suppress the Negro...and I can die peacefully knowing that I have done all that I can do to suppress the rise of Negro..."

"Father if you wish it I could obtain you some pureed Negro flesh," said Stanley, gripping his father's hand.

"Son, you have done me well but that is not necessary. Some things are better left alone...You have been a good boy and you will make a fine Master. Remember the key to our success. We, the whites, we evolve with the times. The Negro will again attempt to rise, though probably not for a while because we have incarcerated the vast majority of the males. And so hopefully this cycle of fragmented fatherless families will continue well into the future. But if it does not, we will adapt and rule the Negro in new ways. Remember son, the moment the Civil War started, a war began that will continue until the end of America. It is the unspoken war. It is our war. It is the War of the Whites! And the white man will never truly be free if the black man rises to equal status. For our freedom comes from being able to do as we please and we please to rule the black man. You will soon be the top general in this war and I know you will do great things..."

Jeffersonian Elite Headquarters: Stanley listened silently, letting the wisdom of his father's words wash over him, and after his father died peacefully in his sleep that night, one thought from his father's final words remained.

Maybe those Thurmonds were onto something...

Serious Sustainable Village, Canada: Zachary had no idea who to contact in Canada. But in the grand scheme of things, Canada seemed like just as good a place as any.

"I just can't believe we have no idea where we are going."

At a library just over the border, they decided to research sustainable villages, deciding to attempt to live at Lofstedt farm in Kaslo, British Columbia, a 60 acre farm with approximately 60 families. After a short telephone interview, Zachary and Jasmine were accepted as farming interns.

The farm seemed less hippyish than Zachary had expected. The founder, George Baumann was welcoming, and set them up with a small area for a living space. For the first week Zachary expected to hear gunfire. But eventually he settled in.

One beautiful moonlit night, Zachary and Jasmine, snuggled together in a hammock and discussed their future.

"So you are saying that I am the one for you?" said Jasmine.

"Of course," said Zachary,

"Why?" Jasmine asked.

"Well, for starters you saved my life," said Zachary.

"And what else?" Jasmine asked.

"I can't imagine living without you," said Zachary.

"And what else?"

"I want to share everything good with you – all my discoveries, all my joys – and I want to shield you from everything bad, disappointments, rain storms, boring days..."

"And what else?"

"You're the wisest person I've ever met."

"And what else?"

"You forgive me my faults."

"And what else?"

"You fear nothing and value everything."

"And what else?"

"I find your thoughts fascinating."

"And what else?"

"The idea of having children with you, or rather, beings with your spirit, seems an idea of pure impossible magic."

"And what else?"

"When my mind wanders it wanders to you."

"And what else?"

"You care for the whole world and yet you have more than enough love left over for me."

"And what else?"

"When I wake up at night, and you are there with me, I wonder which is the dream."

"And what else?"

"You've got a great butt," said Zachary, laughing.

"And what else?"

"You don't fish for compliments," said Zachary with a wink.

"Liar! And what else?" Jasmine asked.

"Because I love you with all my heart and I want to have children with you and I want to settle down in a medium sized house with you and I want to have lots of cozy nights with you and I want to travel with you and I want to share all my accomplishments with you and I want to watch you grow as a blogger and a journalist --."

They kissed and then made love in the hammock.

"Are we ever going to have a normal life?" Jasmine asked.

"I don't know."

"In Glacier I felt like we were the last man and woman on earth. I feel like that again," said Jasmine,

Zachary laughed. "I did too."

"But I also feel like that is a phony feeling – and like it is a feeling that Thomas Jefferson can relate to --."

"Are you kidding me? Again! Even after a group with his name has a contract out for our lives – he still travels around with you?" said Zachary laughing.

"Hey, they just stole the worst part of him and made him their own, you know that," said Jasmine.

"Okay, so what is the second President of the country we had to flee from saying now?" Zachary asked.

"Well, he lived during a tumultuous time. A revolution against Britain – and he put all his fortune on the line against the mightiest empire on earth – and more than one depression after that where he had real difficulty selling his crops – There were no government subsidies for farmers then –"

"Okay, okay, what is your point?" said Zachary.

"Well, through all that chaos, what he wanted most was to live with his family on a farm --."

"And with a bunch of slaves to bang," Zachary added.

"Yes, true – but he kept getting pulled away from his farm, reluctantly – because he saw America as an experiment in self-government, and he thought that he had ideas to help steer it straight. So even though he wanted to stay at home with his family and his slaves that he could bang – he often gave up those pleasure to pursue politics. And he hated politics. But he felt that politics, particularly these politics at the start of the country were very important for the future," said Jasmine.

"Maybe he wanted his great-great-great grandchildren to be able to bang their slaves too," said Zachary.

"Okay, I get your point, and it's true. But my point is that sometimes we have to do things not because they bring us pleasure – but because they are for the greater good. This world is so much more than just me or you, or even our – and I can't believe I'm saying this – our unborn children," said Jasmine.

"I don't know if I like where this is heading. So what are you getting at?" said Zachary.

"I'm not sure exactly. But I think what I am getting at is that so long as we live in a world where white people can eat black people and it really isn't that big a deal --."

"How can you say it isn't a big deal? It's all that is on the news," said Zachary.

"True, but there wasn't enough of an outcry – if there had been a massive groundswell the Jeffersonian Elites would have been exposed. White people eating black people was great for ratings on the news, but people did not demand answers. The inquiries were stifled, and people did not fight back. That state of affairs is not acceptable – and so long as that state of affairs is the normal state of affairs of the world, I'll never be able to live a normal life with you in a medium sized house, with two kids and a dog. We could try, but then I would just be thinking about killing the Jeffersonian Elites all day every day," said Jasmine.

"You could bury your Righteous Murder Trait. Windsor did it for decades with CMR," said Zachary. But remembering Windsor's demonic expression as dropped the cage upon them, he noted it perhaps not the best argument to make.

"This isn't about Righteous Murder and the reliability of your scientific breakthroughs. This is about God and revelation. Ignorance truly is bliss. But everyday Zachary on this planet we are judged. And when things are revealed, things change. Had I never known about the Jeffersonian Elites, things would be different. But because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they exist and that they are pulling the strings, well that confers a certain responsibility upon me. If I pretend that I haven't seen what I have seen then I fear that I will be condemning my soul," said Jasmine.

"I didn't know you were so religious," said Zachary.

"I never was. I've still never been to church. And honestly Zachary I didn't even believe in God six months ago. But having come face to face with pure evil, it seems only logical to me, that if there are demons, so are there angels. That if there is a devil then so is there a God. I don't know which God and I don't care. But I know he or she is up there and that this God is judging. This shit on earth is so fucking hard, why wouldn't we be judged? What's the point if we are not judged? That said, even if we are not being judged I don't give a shit. This shit is wrong and I can't let it stand," said Jasmine.

"And you can't love a man who could allow it to stand," Zachary added.

"I hadn't really thought about it, but I suppose not," said Jasmine. "But you don't seem to me like the sort of man who would let it stand."

"I just don't know what we can do," said Zachary.

"Probably nothing and I can admit that. But we have to try. Because our lives are not worth living if we don't try," said Jasmine.

"I know you are right. But I wish you were wrong. This time we have had here in this sustainable community, just farming, it has been so peaceful. I don't want it end. Yes, the world is crazy. But why can't we two be sane? Why do we have to fight the tide?" Zachary asked, his eyes teary.

"Because it is not the tide – the tide is natural – this fucked up institutionalized racism that has created a class of undesirables in America is not natural, it is man-made, it was constructed by a group of greedy blood thirsty men – and other men and women and children are still suffering because of it," said Jasmine.

"What did you call them a class of what?" Zachary asked.

"Undesirables," said Jasmine.

"Like in India – the untouchables?" Zachary asked.

"Yes, I suppose," said Jasmine.

"You gave me an idea. Gandhi changed that state of affairs. How did he do it?" Zachary asked.

"I don't know," said Jasmine.

"Well, that is what we should do. We should study all the great revolutionaries in history, and we should learn all the lessons that they taught. In science, evidence based practice says don't do something unless what you are doing is based in evidence. If we are trying to start a revolution, a resistance effort, then there is no better place to look than the people who have already done it," said Zachary.

"Always the scientist," Jasmine laughed. "That does make sense though."

"Yes, yes! And we could gather other materials too! I'm thinking --."

"Shut up and kiss me with your big bold mustache," interrupted Jasmine, locking eyes with Zachary. He quickly found resistance futile...

