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## The Voice of the Victim

By Robert Trainor

Copyright 2007

By Robert Trainor

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

## PREFACE

During the month of June, in 1999, I became entangled in a number of tragic events that completely altered the way I came to look at life. Although these incidents remained only locally significant and were not widely reported in the national media, they are certainly dramatic enough to merit their space in print. Beyond that, however, I discovered something that is far more important to me than the juvenile thrill of seeing my name on the cover of a book: As the detection of a certain clue at a murder scene points inevitably to the perpetrator, the experience of becoming a living victim led me to a realization that is _actually--_ despite many humorous interludes--the subject of what you are about to read.

For legal, ethical, and poetical reasons, I have changed the names of everyone who was involved in these crimes as well as the city where they occurred. The names I have chosen were not arrived at casually but are an artistic attempt to portray the essential and true character of contemporary life. It will be said that I exaggerate or that I am cynical and bitter, but I view myself as an advocate for all the vanishing victims of our world because I have experienced, in my mind, the sounds of their screams. _They have not gone gently into oblivion but are screaming, screaming to be heard._ The modern-day martyrs have something to tell us, and it is, in my opinion, far more relevant than what the living are propagating, which amounts to nothing.

## CHAPTER ONE:

## "I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY ANYTHING DISRESPECTFUL, AM I?"

Because of an argument with my wife, I was about forty minutes late for work on the morning of Friday, June 10, 1999. However, as a senior detective for the Darwin City Police Department, I was free of the stringent rules that applied to those who were unlucky enough to wear uniforms and ride in patrol cars. I could, as long as I remained within certain well-known parameters, exist without much fear of any disciplinary interference from our beleaguered and incompetent Chief, Randall Prince. But upon entering the station, I was somewhat alarmed to hear my name being paged repeatedly over the intercom. "Jackson James! Jackson James! Please report to Chief Prince's office immediately." If this concerned my tardiness, which had been escalating rapidly over the past year, it appeared probable that the Chief was about to make an example out of me, so before committing myself to any statements that could and would be held against me, I made the mandatory trip to the coffee pot where I had time to reflect on a reasonable excuse for my sins. Unfortunately, I simply wasn't in the mood to search through my mind for a plausible absurdity that might satisfy Randall, and I decided that it might be more believable if I resorted to blaming my two kids. It wasn't exactly the heroic approach, but they were teenagers, troublesome teenagers, and even though they weren't responsible for my hangovers and innate laziness, I felt no compunction in using them to my advantage since they would never hear about it anyways.

Minutes later, when I arrived at the Chief's office and saw him talking earnestly to my partner, Detective Sherry Green, I knew that my fears of a reprimand, although legitimate, had been misplaced and that this meeting would have nothing to do with my reprehensible conduct but concern our lack of respect for Randall's sycophant, the thoroughly inept Profiler, Mervin Pines. Sherry and I had been forced, as of late, to participate in many of these absurdly awkward gatherings that were officially termed conferences. Semi-comical and yet infuriating, they were an excellent illustration of the inconsequential machinations and tortured wranglings that exist behind closed doors in the bungling bureaucratic empire of "professionals."

But no! I received yet another surprise; far from being a tutorial on the insults that had been inflicted upon his peculiar personal pet, Randall informed me that the recently appointed Drug Czar of Darwin City, a cop by the name of Clayton Shane, had been murdered in his bedroom sometime during the night.

"I'm sure both of you realize," said Randall, who appeared to be shaken by the news, "that this has the potential to be a political nightmare. There's no telling how much mileage the press will get out of this--especially when they discover Clayton was a coke addict. How is it that no one ever told me about that, and why is it that I am always the last person to find out the truth about things that go on around here?"

He paused and stared at me for some reason, but I assumed, or hoped, that it was a rhetorical question and said nothing. There was no way that I would venture to tell him the real reason for the clouds of ignorance that swirled around and inside his head.

Realizing that no answer was forthcoming, Randall proceeded to issue us our instructions. As he nervously and aimlessly shuffled some documents that were in front of him on his desk, he said, "Now listen to me, for once. How many times have the two of you cut corners and neglected the very worthwhile procedures that Mervin and I have instituted, which, I might add, have all been for your benefit? And then, directly because of your carelessness, those demented dingbats in the press find out something, and it turns into a feeding frenzy for hungry cannibals. So if you have to talk to somebody, you can talk to me, but don't say anything to anybody else--except, of course, Mervin, who can point you in the right direction if, for once in your lives, you would have the humility to listen to the voice of reason. But if either one of you says a single word to Jablonski about any of this, I'll chain you to a garbage scow, tow it out into the middle of the lake, and blow it up with all our impounded fireworks. Clear?"

Sherry and I walked out to our unmarked car. In the parking lot, we met Randall's nightmare, the hard-bitten street cop, Jake Jablonski, who was arriving for duty. I knew that among the many people on the force that he disliked, Clayton was near the top of the list. "There's been a terrible tragedy in our official family, Jake--the Drug Czar has been assassinated."

"What a shame! Perhaps I can sign up for the grief-counseling sessions and get some time off. Are you going to be a good boy, Jackson, and deliver the eulogy for the departed sleaze ball?"

"Come on, Jackson, will you?" said Sherry who was not a major fan of male banter.

As I was about to get into the car, Jake came up to me and said in a low voice, "If I were you, I'd check out Clayton's daughter, Crystal. I can tell you something about her that you wouldn't believe."

"Let's go, Jackson, let's go!" said Sherry, who was probably wondering if Randall was gazing out the window and could observe us breaking his commandment of silence to the leader of the heathens. Much as he disliked me, I knew he despised Jablonski with a fervor that while unwarranted was certainly understandable. Everybody knew that Jake had made many unkind "remarks" about Mervin over the years, but I would prefer to leave these unspoken as I find profanities (as well as prayers) to be tedious, tasteless, and trite.

As we drove out of the parking lot, Sherry said, "Here's something that I know, Jackson. A few months ago, Crystal Shane came into the station looking for her Dad--he wasn't around, and we ended up talking for almost an hour. She told me that Clayton had sexually abused her and that she was moving out with her boyfriend. I thought it over and talked--around the edges, you know--with Clayton who claimed that his daughter's boyfriend was a thug, a lower-level drug lord over on the East Side."

"I don't suppose you were able to steer the conversation into his activities as a parent," I said with detached amusement.

"Not really. It was a difficult topic to bring up with a man who was clearly one of the Chief's special projects. I certainly tried; I told him that I thought Crystal was a wonderful young woman who would surely become successful and--"

"Did you believe that?"

Sherry laughed in her hearty but easygoing way. "Hardly. I found her to be spiteful and very weird, but when you consider the nature of the world we live in, I guess it's fair to say that a person who possesses those qualities does have the potential to succeed."

We turned onto Blackbriar Street, parked the car, and walked up a winding staircase to the second floor of an apartment building that seemed seedy for the newly appointed Drug Czar of Darwin City. We were met near the front door by the veteran cop, Buster Madison, who had obviously helped himself to a king-sized refreshment from a nearby liquor cabinet; behind him, his rookie partner, Billy Wheeler, was sitting on a large couch with his head in his hands and had apparently just thrown up on the living room floor after viewing the bloody remains of Clayton. Buster was in a jovial mood. "I never liked Shaneboy, to tell you the truth, but he has a great stash of booze. Whoever killed him must have been a teetotaler. His daughter Crystal was the one who found the body--I sent her out to the kitchen because she was so obnoxious that I wanted to punch her in the face. It's lucky for her that Clayton's been dead for a few hours; otherwise, I would have arrested her on the spot. You'll see what I mean when you talk to her."

Crystal Shane presented a formidable appearance: Appearing to be in her early twenties, she was dressed in black jeans that were topped by an ugly food-stained charcoal-grey blouse, while her jet-black hair, undoubtedly dyed, was pulled severely back from her face and tied in a snarly knot behind her head. She may well have been attractive, but it was difficult to discern that possibility as she peered owlishly at us through a large pair of black-rimmed glasses. When we entered the room, she was sitting at the kitchen table and, apparently in high spirits, swigging vodka from a bottle. Sherry literally had to wrest it from her hands before we could sit down opposite her and begin our "interview."

"Hey, back off," Crystal said in a voice that was flat and rather harsh. "I'm in mourning; my--whatever you want to call him--just got turned into certified Swiss cheese. A little belt off the bottle isn't going to hurt anyone. He sure had his share--every day he had at least a pint of vodka and that was before he went out at night and started his eight-hour tour through the bars and brothels. He was a roaring alcoholic, if you'd like a professional diagnosis. And I'm not even counting the specialty booze, the little two-dollar bottles that he carried around with him and was popping down all day long. Guzzlehead Shane. According to him," she said as she narrowed her eyes shrewdly, "everyone was more or less trashed down at the station; he used to call it Vomit City."

I thought to myself that Clayton had undoubtedly been referring to the political realities that existed within the Department, which were enough to turn anyone's stomach.

"OK, Crystal, I understand this is traumatic, but we need to ask you a few questions," said Sherry smoothly, as if Crystal's attitude was a normal reaction to encounter in the daughter of a murder victim.

"Who are you two? I thought cops were supposed to identify themselves, or are you just a couple of sightseers that barged in off the street?"

"This is Detective Jackson James, and my name is--"

Crystal seemed startled by the mention of my name. "What was that again?" she said, turning so that she could stare into my eyes with what seemed to me to be total amazement.

After I had repeated my name, Crystal burst out laughing. "Oh, that is a good one," I heard her say to herself. She was about to say something to me but changed her mind; addressing Sherry, she said, "How did they ever pair you two up? I've seen some ridiculous looking couples in my life, but--"

"Crystal," said Sherry interrupting authoritatively, "do you think we can talk about what happened to your father? We can either do it here or down at the station, whichever you prefer."

"He was murdered--can't you figure that much out? In case you haven't noticed, he must have about a dozen bullet holes in his carcass. As far as I'm concerned, they ought to give the person who did it a medal for meritorious service. I know the correct thing to do at a time like this is to go into some advanced state of mourning and start blubbering like a baby because my so-called father got wiped off the map. Good for him! He finally did something that makes me feel proud to be his daughter. So stop judging me," she said to Sherry with unexpected vehemence. "I know you're just trying to do your duty, but what if they didn't pay you, and you were forced to make your living flipping hamburgers? Then I think we'd see some of the air come out of your tires," she said with a malicious laugh. Turning in my direction and peering at me fixedly through her gawky glasses, she said, "Now this is someone that I might be able to converse with. To be totally honest, Mr. James, you look like a derelict who's making an unsuccessful attempt to kick the sauce, but you're obviously not the type of person who would dare to give me a sermon about my lack of morals. Why don't you ask me a question? I might," she said with a deliberately comical sexual suggestiveness, "be able to give you exactly what you're so obviously looking for."

Rather brassy, but it didn't prove much; if anything, I thought a guilty person would at least make an attempt to be respectful. "Perhaps," I said, "you can tell us what time you came home and what you found when you arrived here."

"Alright, Mr. Detective. Let's see...I need to be precise because my father was forever telling me tales about how they were able to convict people for irrelevant, microscopic inaccuracies. I came back here about an hour after sunrise, a little after six. I assumed the ugly hippopotamus would be gone, but I'd forgotten that his hours were changed after he'd been anointed as our new savior from the modern scourge that is sweeping our land and destroying the lives of our children." Amazingly, she had winked at me as she said "the lives of our children."

"I thought," she continued, "that he was joking with me when he first told me that he had been appointed as the new Drug Czar. At least, I reasoned to myself, he had plenty of first-hand experience, since he was always snorting up the white stuff. Instead of the pompous title that they gave him, he should have been named Darwin City's First Nose. Every night, he had something that he called a coketail, which was six ounces of vodka along with three of those infamous little white lines--except, in his case, the lines were very obese. All confiscated stuff that he stole from the station, in case you're interested. At any rate, to get to the part that you think is so important, as I was coming up the stairs, this black guy, blacker even than you," she said to Sherry, "came charging past me."

"Can you give us a description?" asked Sherry.

Crystal was now squinting at me in an exaggerated way. "A multiracial couple--I don't think that's very wise. Have you two ever solved anything, or is this some attempt by the city to display their advanced state of tolerance? There's a virtue that I can dispense with. I tried that out for a while with Mr. No Longer Here, and I ended up tolerating things that no one should ever have to tolerate. I should have had my boyfriend, Pavis Kran, come here, and he could have answered all these insane questions--I can tell you right now that he doesn't take to people like you very kindly."

"Tell us about your boyfriend," said Sherry with an edge to her voice. Undoubtedly, she was beginning to lose patience with this strange specimen of humanity.

"What's he got to do with it? Oh, I know what you're thinking, Mrs. Sherlock--you've concluded he's a foreigner because of his name, and now you're assuming he's a drug dealer because he's a foreigner. Real tolerant, aren't you? Actually, I don't have a clue as to what Pavis does, but I can tell you this: He's a stud, and not all studs are drug dealers, at least not in my experience. He's got some real life in him, and that's something you won't find in the dejected, washed-up local boys who are flopping around this disgusting city."

Although I had a relatively high threshold for oddballs, Sherry was not a woman who put up with nonsense.

"Crystal, if we take you down to the station, it's going to be a long day and an even longer night. Do you understand what I'm saying? Why don't you make it easy on yourself and answer our questions."

"Is that a question? It sounds like a threat to me."

Exasperated, Sherry looked in my direction. "Do you mind telling us what you did last night?" I asked her.

Speaking slowly and distinctly as she stared directly at me with her piercing black eyes, Crystal said, "This is going to disappoint you, Mr. Holmes, because I know how much you would like to arrest me, but I have an excellent alibi, probably a better one than either of you have. By the way, who's to say it wasn't another cop that bumped him off? I would think they'd be prime suspects, wouldn't you? Of course, there's always the danger that you might find something foul under your own rug, but I think that people would definitely be better off if they cleaned up the messes in their own back yards before they went prowling around the neighborhood looking for trouble."

"Would you please answer the question," said Sherry. "Where were you last night?"

"Yes ma'am," she said sarcastically, "I was at a nightclub called Roosters and Hens from midnight until almost six in the morning. I'm sure that you can find many people who were there that will remember me. One of the bartenders, Adam Grant, will definitely be able to corroborate my presence," she said smiling enigmatically.

"What can you tell us about this black man that you saw on the stairs?" I asked her.

"For one thing, he was real black--about the blackest person that I've ever seen," said Crystal as she glanced scornfully at Sherry. "To me, he looked exactly like something out of a horror movie--the most striking thing about him was his hair, which was dyed a nasty shade of bluish-green, and I also noticed that there was a large swastika on his shirt. He couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-five, and it's possible he was wearing a black leather jacket, but I can't say for certain because the stupid dimwit almost bowled me over as he passed by me.

"When I got upstairs, I saw that my...I don't know what to call him because knowing my mother, as I unfortunately do, he probably wasn't even close to being my real father. Oh, pardon me," she said with a subtle, mysterious menace, "I'm not supposed to say anything disrespectful, am I?"

"What happened next?" I asked her laconically.

"Just the facts, right?" Where she bestowed haughty and contemptuous looks upon Sherry, I was treated to something that seemed fierce and mocking. "The fact is that the black dude had given me a creepy feeling, and when I entered the apartment, I had a premonition that something awful had happened. I saw that the door to my father's bedroom was open, and when I looked in, it was like YUCK! Very gross. I wish that he could have done me at least one favor in his stupid life and arranged to have himself shot somewhere else. Who wants to look at that kind of bloody mess?"

"I see that you're familiar with swastikas, Ms. Shane," said Sherry.

I knew from the unusually sharp tone of Sherry's voice and the oddity of the question that I must have missed something.

"What is that ridiculous comment supposed to mean?" said Crystal.

"That is a tattoo of a swastika on your arm, isn't it?" said Sherry.

I saw it now, of course. On the outside of her arm and just above the elbow, it was at least an inch and a half across.

For once, Crystal was silent. Quite silent. Finally, perhaps sullenly, she said, "What of it?"

I don't know why, but when she spoke those words, I suddenly sensed danger. An image of a cobra came into my mind, a cobra about to strike. Intuitions, as I would discover, often have a long time span that conceals their murky method of expression.

"Did you know this man who passed by you on the stairs?" Sherry asked her.

"He was black! I don't associate with black people," she said leaning towards Sherry and speaking with intense, barely controlled contempt. "Given the color of the hand that you've been dealt, I imagine that's a difficult concept for you to grasp," she said tauntingly. "Let me make it real simple and put it into words that even you should be able to understand: Much as he deserved it, I did not kill my father. OK?"

Sherry stared at her impassively; I knew she was impervious, or virtually so, to the racial insults and was attempting to decipher the relevance, if any, of Crystal's recklessly confrontational attitude. By now, I had come to the obvious realization that the tattoo on her arm was not the result of a teenager's over-exuberant vicious whim.

I have my own instincts--the more they talk, the farther they go. This one might go a long way if I could wave something red in front of her; I also have to admit that I was incensed by the extreme arrogance that Crystal had directed at Sherry. Anyone who's been a cop knows what it means when somebody attacks your partner. Speaking casually, I asked her, "Doesn't it seem odd that a black man would be wearing a shirt with a swastika on it?"

"You're asking me? How should I know? Am I expected to be your scientific expert on unusual attire? Maybe he was broke and bought it at a yard sale for fifty cents because he was so culturally illiterate that he thought it was a religious symbol from the Far East. But at least you've finally gotten one thing right: There is no way that a black person could ever be a Nazi."

"So you consider yourself to be a Nazi?" I asked her.

She paused before she answered, started to say something, stopped, and then said, "What of it? Does that make me guilty of a crime, Mr. Detective?"

"How about your boyfriend--is he a Nazi?" Angry myself, I was trying to arouse her anger.

"What is it with you people? Would it make you feel better if I told you my boyfriend was actually a Russian lover? But what business is it of yours? I thought I heard a rumor that this was a free country--are you going to arrest me because of my beliefs? Not only do you not know the first thing about Nazism, but also, you're not as far from being a member of the Gestapo as you like to believe. Tell me this, Mr. James--do you believe in evolution, or are you some kind of religious fruitcake?"

"No," I said good-naturedly, "I do not attend church."

"Good for you! I can't imagine a less inspiring image than worshipping some sorry critter who committed suicide by having himself nailed to a cross. Whether you realize it or not, without Nazism we would still be mired in the Dark Ages of religious superstition; it was the Nazis who took the theory of evolution and transformed it into a reality, the reality that's become the modern world: Might makes right, the survival of the fittest, the extermination of the weak and the racially inferior, the cleansing of the blood to produce the master race. That's the _exact_ same thing as Darwinism, which is merely the fancy modern synonym for Nazism."

## CHAPTER TWO: "IT'S SOMEBODY WHO'S CLOSE, REAL CLOSE."

"That's enough," said Sherry to Crystal; "you're free to go."

"That must mean I'm guilty," said the dark-haired maid with the swastika. "When was the last time the cops in this city ever got anything right? How many times have you let murderers and rapists loose, and how many times have you incarcerated the innocent because you were too inept or too cowardly to go after the real criminals?"

"Ms. Shane," said Sherry firmly, "we are going to find the person or persons who committed this crime, and when we do, we will prosecute, convict, and sentence them to the full extent of the law. You may not be aware of it, but in this state, the murder of a police officer carries with it the possibility of a death sentence."

"You're really up on your threats, aren't you? Well, I have one for you: I won't forget the disrespect that you, you of all people, have shown me."

"Get out of here!" I shouted at her with a vehemence that surprised even me. There was no reason for us to take any more of this abuse. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sherry look at me reproachfully, but although I rarely lose my temper, I had heard enough. Out of control, I left my chair and stood threateningly above Crystal. I wanted to grab her by her filthy, ill-fitting blouse and shake her, but fortunately, I abstained. Instead, I said, "This is now a crime scene, you no longer have any right to be present, and if you are not out of here within thirty seconds, I will personally drag you down to the station and interrogate you, with or without a lawyer, for twenty-four hours."

She rose slowly and disdainfully from her seat with the obligatory smirk on her face. As she reached the doorway that led out of the kitchen, she turned to say something to me, but I was ready for that melodramatic trick and had a taunt of my own ready for her. Stepping towards her, I said, "Go ahead, Crystal. What is it that you want to tell me?" She knew what I meant, turned, and without saying a word vanished down the corridor, but it was hardly a surprise when we heard her laugh loudly as she exited the apartment.

We decided that Sherry would remain at the scene and conduct a search of the building--we were especially interested, of course, for any signs of a forced entry. Besides that, we were hoping that the medical examiner, who had only just arrived, could give us an approximate time of death. Meanwhile, because Crystal's attitude had been so abnormal, so utterly off the wall, we felt there should be no time lost investigating her alibi, and I would go immediately to Roosters and Hens in an attempt to locate Adam Grant or anyone else who could vouch for her presence there the previous evening.

We had discussed her for at least fifteen minutes; on the one hand, as I mentioned earlier, her behavior did not fit the psychology of someone who has just committed a crime. While I sat there talking with Sherry, my mind was running and rerunning various segments of our conversation with Crystal, and I could not find any reasonable explanation that was compatible with her guilt. Granted, her insolence was somewhat comparable to what we had to endure from the punks that we busted for minor drug transactions. They didn't feel they had much to live for, had been around long enough to know that selling a dozen grams of coke in Darwin City amounted to another suspended sentence that would be placed on top of the one they were currently serving, and consequently amused themselves by insulting us.

But as the severity of the charges escalated and the stakes increased, the mindset of the criminals we faced underwent a change. They became, especially if they were guilty, much more cautious and quietly devious unless they were psychotic, utterly desperate, or hopelessly strung out on drugs. None of these possibilities seemed to apply to Crystal who may, it is true, have been mildly psychotic, secretly desperate, or under the influence of any number of substances, but not to the extent that would explain her behavior towards us. Neither did she fit the profile of a sociopath as those characters were invariably polite and charming when they were confronted by authority. I was left, then, with a puzzling question: What kind of person, hoping to convince an interrogator that they were innocent, would mock their intelligence and disparage their race?

But, on the other hand, both Sherry and I felt something that was difficult to put into words. We had never encountered anyone even remotely similar to Crystal; she was, so to speak, a new breed of cat, and neither one of us was quite sure that the behavior of the other cats on the block could be used as a measuring rod. Her rage, although well-controlled physically, had been so intellectually and emotionally violent that, most ironically, it seemed she might be comparable to the psychopathic fanatics that used religion to justify their behavior. It was virtually impossible for us to discern the truth that lay behind her hatreds; perhaps, we thought, her father had abused her, and she had felt justified in killing him. Then, in the adrenaline rush of the aftermath, she had lost any interest in her fate and was essentially telling us that no matter how the law and its detectives looked at it, Clayton deserved to die. That would make her, I said laughing to myself, an idealist.

I knew that when I had reached this point in my analysis, I must have made a serious mistake, and I was left with the not so simple question: Who was this motley warrior of the underworld?

Around noon, I arrived at Roosters and Hens, which was a third-rate restaurant by day and a classless dance club at night. Over the years, its license had been suspended by the City Council on numerous occasions for allowing drugs, especially cocaine and heroin, to be sold on the premises. Behind the bar, I saw the owner, the heavyset Harrison West, who recognized me and cast a wary, unfriendly look in my direction.

"How's it going, Harry?" I said while trying not to laugh. The guy gave off the unmistakable impression that he wanted to shoot me but was inhibited by the unpalatable nature of the legal consequences. It occurred to me that if the penalty for murder were reduced to two weeks in prison and a fifty-dollar fine, I would, by now, have received some nasty metal messengers from Harrison and found myself rapidly departing from the earthly plane. And, to be rather wry about it, I am sure that I would have been merely one of a vast throng unexpectedly approaching the Pearly Gates.

"What do you want?" he said with a weak attempt not to be _too_ surly. So far, this hadn't been an especially enjoyable day to be trudging around as a cop.

Chill out, dude, I felt like telling him. "Nothing much--it doesn't have anything to do with you. We're trying to establish the alibi of someone who claimed that she was here last night."

Harry looked at me suspiciously and said nothing. He'd probably fallen for that kind of fishy line before, and it was obvious that as far as he was concerned, everything a cop tossed out was the bait at the end of a lethal legal hook.

"Have you ever heard of a person named Crystal Shane?" I asked him.

"Sure," he said cautiously, "she comes in here fairly frequently; her father and I were friends--at least before he became a cop."

"Did you know that Clayton was murdered this morning?"

"Murdered?" He was visibly astonished. "What's Crystal got to do with it?"

"Probably nothing but it would help us if we could positively eliminate her as a suspect."

He looked at me as if I were crazy. "Crystal? You must be joking. She's about the most level-headed person that I've ever met in my life; I'd give anything if my daughter was like her."

I wondered whether we were talking about the same person, or perhaps Harry, besides having some extremely irrational acquaintances, was burdened with the kid from hell for a daughter. "Can you tell me if--"

The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver. "I know," he said, "I just heard about it....They're crazy; you ought to know that by now, Crystal....Sure, it's still working; we use it all the time....That won't be hard because one of them is here now....I'm not kidding you--he's standing right in front of me. Would you like to talk to him?"

With a sinister look, he handed the phone over to me. "Well, Mr. James," said Crystal, "you're rather quick on your feet today, aren't you? I'm a little surprised, but then again, I know how anxious you are to arrest me. Have you managed to calm down yet from your ugly unprofessional explosion?"

"What do you want?" I asked her warily.

"I suppose you must be checking out my alibi, and I've just learned of something that will be of use to you, although, unfortunately, it does conclusively establish my innocence."

"What would that be?"

"I'm afraid I have an airtight alibi, and I want you to know that the reason I'm talking to you is because I'm trying to help you so you won't lose your temper again and do something that will make you look like a total idiot."

I wanted to laugh at this malicious being with the massive superiority complex. Somehow, someday, life would bring her down.

"Now," she continued, "if you will be kind enough to direct your attention above the bar, you'll see two video cameras. They've had a few problems lately with bartenders swiping money from the till, so they installed them to tape the transactions that occur at the cash register. Last night, my guardian angel must have been hovering nearby because, as it happened, I sat just to the right of the register almost the whole time that I was there. Of course, being a nosy cop, you'll want to know what I was doing, and even though it's none of your business, I'm sure that you'll be able to tell from the tape that Adam, the bartender, and I are quite fond of each other. Actually, to be honest, I don't like him that much; he's far too good-natured and laid-back for my taste, while I prefer men who are strong and decisive. I'm just stringing him along because he gives me free drinks. It always amazes me how stupid and gullible men are when they haven't had sex with a woman for a while. You ought to know all about that, Mr. James! But listen, I do have a tip for you, a theory about the crime."

"You already told me that you think it was a cop," I said.

"Or somebody connected to one," she said with conviction. "That's the trouble with you, Mr. Holmes: You're afraid to look at all the possibilities, including the fact that someone you know might have done the dirty deed."

"What about the black man that you saw? He certainly wasn't a cop."

"That's an easy one," she said with a laugh. "Clayton was always hanging out with weirdos like that--he'd probably run out of drugs and was looking for a quick fix. You wouldn't believe the characters that he associated with when he was desperate. So what probably ended up happening was that this street dealer, whoever he was, came over to make some money off the Drug Czar and whoops!--can you imagine the look on his face when he stumbled onto that gory scene? What a shock that must have been--no wonder he came flying past me down the stairs."

"Why would any cop," I said with real curiosity, "want to kill Clayton? What would be the motive?"

"Maybe he was about to bust somebody in the Department. Have you ever thought of that? If you want my opinion, Detective James, it isn't somebody far away; it's somebody who's close, real close."

There seemed to me to be something personal in her voice. "Close to whom?"

She laughed. "Close to all of you; I'll bet that if you ever discover who did this, which isn't likely given the track record of the police in Darwin City, you'll see that it was someone that knew both you and Clayton."

"But why? Why do you think that?"

"For one thing, when I entered the apartment, I saw no signs of a break in. Do you realize that you two never asked me anything about that? There's an example of real shrewd detective work! Sometimes, when I witness things like that, I wish I were a criminal because the police around here are so dimwitted that I realize I could rob a bank, and it would be just like taking candy from a paralyzed baby."

Ho hum, your day will come, baby. "But if Clayton opened the door for this person," I said, "why was he lying in his bed when he was murdered? That doesn't make any sense, does it?"

"Can't you think of anything, Mr. Holmes? You might want to consider taking up jigsaw puzzles for a hobby, as they could sharpen up your wits a bit. Maybe the murderer had a key, a key that Clayton had given him."

Sometimes, I feel that Crystal's derogatory comments were not so far from the truth. Many times over the next few days, I became lost in a bewildering forest of events that prevented me from perceiving what was, indeed, very close. Close this way, close that way, close every way. However, that is an easy thing to say from a distance, and as I sit here now, many years later, I am inclined to forget that it was inevitable and natural that I would be blinded by the overwhelming intensity of my feelings; further, I was an ordinary, relatively honest person, and it was beyond my capacity to follow the trail of the one who was, in a way, ever so near, the one who was a diabolical master of misdirection.

Before sitting down to view my long double feature of the Irksome One, I ran her name through the state and national crime databases. As Crystal would have said, it was quite disappointing--the only blemish on her record was a speeding ticket, which had occurred three years previously--forty-four mph in a forty-mph zone. Very serious stuff. She had undoubtedly been one of the many victims of Operation Clean Sweep; this avaricious program had been the result of Randall's desire to boost the revenues for the Police Officer's Pension Fund, which was augmented by twenty-five per cent of the fines that were collected by the Traffic Enforcement Division. Please note the use of the word Officer--of the roughly two hundred employees in the Department, there was a grand total of exactly six officers. For well over a year, it had been a fabulous boondoggle, but when the President of the City Council, the irascible Otto Van Bender, had been arrested and charged with reckless driving for going five mph over the speed limit, he had caused the whole sordid can of worms to unexpectedly explode into the public consciousness. Randall had raced to his own defense with uncommon alacrity by penning a guest editorial that appeared in the city's leading newspaper, the Sentinel. Entitled "The Law Is the Law," it was basically a concoction of high-handed drivel and pompous moralizing concerning the necessity of maintaining respect for the authorities. Besides that overworked balderdash, there was a long didactic sermon about criminals; the thesis of this feeble argument was that the road to prison began with petty infractions that the authorities had unwisely ignored. To top the whole mess off with some truly rancid frosting, Randall asserted that far from being castigated for his actions by the mob of modern cynics and deadbeats who have infected our culture with their disrespect for rules and regulations, he should be commended for the diligence of his efforts. Nevertheless, in an attempt to reach out to the community, Operation Clean Sweep would, against his better judgment, be terminated--effective immediately.

Retreating from these unpleasant reminiscences, I began my tour of duty with the six-hour video that I had retrieved from Harrison. Even assuming it contained a decipherable picture, which was hardly a sure thing, I didn't think it was likely that the tape would provide Crystal with a satisfactory alibi. I had timed my journey from Clayton's to Roosters and Hens, and in the noontime traffic, it had taken me only sixteen minutes. At four in the morning, she probably could have done it in five or six minutes; there was also, of course, the time it would take to reach her car from the bar, the time it would take to murder her father, and the time it would take to return, park the car, and reappear in front of the camera. Fifteen minutes was perhaps possible but certainly unlikely; however, I thought twenty minutes was well within the realm of possibility, and my instinctive feeling was that somewhere in the six-hour period beginning at midnight, Crystal, innocent or guilty, would have wandered off somewhere for at least twenty minutes.

As I began to watch the tape, which was of surprisingly good quality, I was immediately struck by the dramatic difference in Crystal's appearance. With an elegant, formfitting blouse, no glasses, and her wavy black hair falling to her shoulders, she was an attractive young woman. While she had not the looks of a model or movie star, she presented herself in a way that was at once businesslike and sexy, and I could easily see her playing a role as a conniving secretary in a sit-com. Perhaps, too, my prejudices were affecting my powers of observation; had I not known her, I probably would have used the words competent and alluring to describe her.

The obvious question was not why she had changed out of her stylish, much more revealing blouse to what she had worn when Sherry and I had talked to her. That could partially be explained as a natural reaction to the prospect of facing an interrogation, but why had she gone to the extent of deliberately marring her appearance so that she came across to us as an ugly, obnoxious bookworm?

As far as my afternoon at the cinema went, it proved to be extremely disappointing. First of all, I had received a call from Sherry who told me that Clayton had been shot between two and four in the morning; upon my request, when she inquired of the medical examiner the absolute far range of the time spectrum, he had moved the hours out to between one and five, but because the body had been discovered so quickly, it was, in his opinion, much more likely that he had been murdered around three.

Secondly, the tape, according to the time that was encoded upon it, started at five minutes after midnight and continued without interruption until the bar closed at six. Crystal was there when the tape began and her final appearance on the screen came at ten minutes before six. Third, and most significantly, I was able to zip through the footage quickly because Crystal rarely left her post by the register where she cavorted gaily with the overly solicitous Adam. When she did disappear, it was only briefly--bathroom breaks, probably, of no more than five minutes. The only exception occurred around quarter to four when she had vanished for just under eight minutes. I now knew, even before we talked to Adam, that unless the tape was somehow fraudulent, she could not possibly have murdered her father.

## CHAPTER THREE:

## THE QUEEN, THE TWO DOPES, AND THE GLORIOUS ONE

For reasons that are not yet obvious, it is necessary for me to step back from my adventures with Crystal and place into the record an extremely abbreviated summation of my "life" at home. This is certainly not done out of any sense of pride that I have in my family, as one can legitimately surmise from the title above, nor is it another version of the irrelevant, monotonous familial histories that have engaged the modern writer to the point of obsession. Unfortunately, the obscure meanderings of our most decorated authors, which are hailed as artistic revelations by the critics, have proven to be nothing but the entrance to a bewildering canyon of yawns that has quickly propelled the modern reader into the slumbers of the deep.

Although the feelings I would hold for my wife and children would shortly change, at the time of Clayton's murder, I was exhausted with the responsibilities of being a father and a husband. Twenty years previously, at the age of twenty-four, I had married Gloria Monroe; she was, shall we say, spawned from an upper-class family who found my pedestrian middle-class origins to be just slightly worse than repulsive. During our courtship and the early years of our marriage when we were basking in an understandable self-adulation that was fueled by our very intense physical passion for each other, the feelings of her overfed, pontificating elders were no more consequential than a ripped-up three-dollar bill.

But as time passed, the weight of the past began to outweigh the pleasures that might be inherent in the present, and the two of us slowly began the long slide, which seems to be so common nowadays, into the deserted regions of Outer Mongolia where we were left stranded within the modern angst of a seemingly meaningless existence. As the ship slowly and unknowingly began to flounder, we managed to distract ourselves by producing two kids who, by now, had become certified brats: Darnell, who would turn seventeen in late September, and Cassandra, who was fifteen.

Once upon a time, I had harbored fond hopes for these two, but I now privately referred to them as the Nasty Dope and Queen Cleopatra. To begin with, although he made some half-hearted efforts to keep his habit hidden, there could no longer be any real doubt that Darnell was seriously addicted to grass. It had become a dreadful, even humiliating experience to hear him as he coughed and hacked his way through the house towards the kitchen where he would become loudly engaged in another one of his inelegant bag-at-a-time eating episodes. Potato chips, chocolate Oreo cookies, whipped cream, and root beer were his invariable staples, and as soon as our snack-happy son had finished with his grotesque repast, Gloria and I would be treated to the sound of him belching obnoxiously as he swaggered back to his bedroom for another round of a video game--most likely Kill the Dwarfs or Slam the Sluts, which were his favorites. Gloria, the Glorious One, was under the impression that I, the second dope in the family, should take decisive action about our "problem." However, we had so many problems that I had long since given up coping with reality and had effectively vanished from the scene by retreating into my lazy, self-created philosophy of inaction or, to put it bluntly, doing nothing. According to the seductive commandments of my superstitious wisdom, anything that I did in response to a perceived difficulty was likely to make the situation worse, and while it is true that an exceptionally shrewd person might have been able, somehow or other, to act decisively and prevent the catastrophe that would soon descend upon all of us, I am still of the opinion that non-action is almost always preferable to action.

Apparently, if I understood Gloria correctly, a massive invasion of Darnell's room with the intention of discovering and rooting out the vile weed that "was destroying his brain" had become an imperative necessity. In increasingly obvious terms, she began to hint at the necessity of this search and destroy mission, but at the same time, annoyingly, it was made more than clear to me that I would not only serve as the Commander in Chief of this in-house swat team but would also be the sole foot soldier to participate in the upcoming crackdown. "As a member of the police force, Jackson," she said pointedly, "you surely must be able to understand that Darnell is placing himself into a position that imperils his future, and if I had the expertise that you possess when it comes to home invasions by the police, I would do something drastic. I'm telling you for about the millionth time that Darnell's going downhill fast, and we have to act before he ruins his life. Do you hear me over there? Are you awake? Say something!"

I was faced with so many absurdities that I didn't know which one was the most laughable. Running rapidly through my mind were a number of very strong candidates with exceptional platforms and unimpeachable integrity who were now contending for the prestigious title of First Absurdity. Luckily, the selection of the winner in this self-defeating but hilarious contest was not a problem, and I found the following scenario to be quite amusing.

I had no trouble imagining myself as I searched through Darnell's castle for a small bag of marijuana--there I was on my hands and knees still entertaining the notion that I was a moderately benign liberal while I very sheepishly groped for drugs under my son's bed. But what was this? From under his mattress, I extracted a sex magazine! Then, as I was kneeling by the bed looking at the lurid cover of that bizarre thing, Darnell, who we had assumed was gone for the day, would suddenly emerge from out of nowhere to be standing in front of me, and now it is anybody's guess as to which one of us has been caught red-handed. How many decades would it take for the two of us, or at least me, to live that one down? Maybe, in about thirty years, if we were lucky enough to share a drink together, he could laugh and say, "Remember the time you found that filthy magazine under my bed?" There was no doubt in my mind that this possibility, or a variation of it, was the reason that Gloria was attempting to foist the onerous and risky task of interdiction onto my shoulders.

And then there was Cassandra, the Queen in residence. Pouting and puffing with all her airs and a barrage of shopping bills that would send you to a therapist if you had any money left to spend on that kind of overeducated nonsense. She'd made it quite plain to all of us that our presence in her life soiled her pristine aura, which presumably accounted for the two hours she spent in the bathroom each day as she frantically scrubbed herself off and pampered her exotic moods before the large god-awful garish mirror that she had installed over my futile, counterproductive squawks. At least she wasn't a pothead, but of course, like everything else in my lame life, that had an unexpected downside when she went to Gloria and gave her "fair warning" that she would call the "real" cops if she ever caught Darnell smoking the weed that drove everyone crazy.

Apparently, some overwrought sophomore at the high school had cooked up a batch of brownies that contained, as a major ingredient, almost two ounces of marijuana. Feeling somewhat nervous about his experiment, he had begun to nibble on his chemical repast in a cautious manner but after fifteen minutes still felt no effects whatsoever. Disappointed and then enraged by the realization that he had been ripped off by his local drug dealer, he proceeded to wolf down everything on his rather large plate--up to and including the crumbs. As you may or may not know, when it is ingested, it takes about a half hour for the dreaded cannabis to reach the brain, but this was far beyond the scope of our drug chef's meager knowledge, and with a heavy heart, he tramped off to school for another boring day of spoon-fed regimented nonsense. Upon arriving there, however, he became delirious and disoriented; after removing all of his clothes outside the principal's office, he had raced up to the second story, stormed into Cassandra's accelerated math class, and leaped out the window. Fortunately, he had landed on a small plot of grass where he was not seriously injured, but my obviously naïve daughter was convinced that this was normal behavior for those who dared to dabble with the demons that are so deceptively disguised within drugs.

Even worse, she was now convinced that the slightest exposure to the fumes that might come pouring out of Darnell's room at any moment would fry her brain. "Second hand smoke--do you know what that can do to a person?" she yelled at me one night. "Look what it's done to you! You're brain dead just like everyone else around here--even if they don't realize it. You're a vegetable without a cause! I'm afraid people will smell that stuff on my clothes, and then they'll arrest me. If they do, I'm taking you all down with me. How does that sound? Won't you look good on the front page of the Sentinel as you waddle into court in shackles for running a disgusting pothouse for your lamebrained son? How did I ever get stuck with you two for parents? That's why I don't believe in God anymore--nobody could have been dimwitted enough to create creatures as bamboozled as you and that pathetic puffed-up pumpkin you call your wife, the one and only, the glorious monstrosity, the creature from outer space, the--"

"SHUTUP!!" I roared. For once, I lost my cool, which caused Cassandra to flee to her room and apocalyptically bang the door shut. To hell with everyone, I thought. I could hear Darnell's ornery laugh as Gloria entered the room and informed me in no uncertain terms that I was a disgraceful parent. It was true, she said, that I needed to be firm with the kids, but yelling back at people--my daughter, no less--was a sign of immaturity, poor upbringing, and a deranged, possibly psychotic, mentality. She wouldn't tolerate it, and any further infraction of the house rules would result in the application of severe disciplinary measures directed against myself. "Go ahead," she said trying to sound appropriately ominous, "make my day."

## CHAPTER FOUR: FIELD MARSHAL BRANKLIN FELL

Branklin Fell, now fifty-six, was nearing the end of his ninth three-year term as the Mayor of our thriving city. By anyone's reckoning, he would have to be considered as supremely successful; in fact, he had become more than a local hero and was now a living legend who, after he passed on to his eternal reward, would surely have parks, museums, buildings, streets, and auditoriums named or renamed in his honor. He had, through the strength of his magisterial vision, taken Darwin City from being a tiny suburban watering hole (not much bigger than a frog, speaking in evolutionary terms) and transformed it into a teeming, growling lion of a metropolis. During his nearly thirty years in power, so much has changed that it is almost impossible for me to portray the astonishing transformations that have occurred in our "neck of the woods." I have seen photographs that were taken before the beginning of his reign--the bucolic streets are narrow and lined with quaint, pleasant, unpretentious houses that have spacious backyards. These have, not so naturally, gone the way of the dinosaur, and one can now enjoy the scenery of wide vulgar roads that are copiously decorated with gas stations, fast-food joints, video stores with large fluorescent XXX signs, muffler-replacement shops, run-down ghetto apartments, and an assortment of decaying business ventures that are teetering on or toppling into the abyss of bankruptcy.

No one would consider the main drag strip, the treeless eight-lane mega-thoroughfare, Dogwire Drive, to be a walker-friendly zone. Many years previously, the pedestrian lights had been recalibrated so that only a track star with specially designed running shoes (the new Rubber Rockets from Sweatshop Unlimited) could possibly hope to arrive on the far shore before the growling herd of gas-guzzling robots lurched forward. Despite Darwin City's self-proclaimed reputation as the most evolved city in the nation--which, even if true, wouldn't be saying much--the Drive has seen its share of "unfortunate" incidents. The latest occurred on a drizzly, dreary May evening when four homeless people (completely bombed, of course) had unwisely attempted a passage through the roaring high seas of tumultuous metal and were summarily flattened by a massive forty-ton truck. Even though it was clearly a case of the survival of the fittest, the city had received very unfavorable publicity and what was worse, a huge bill from the Public Works Department for the cost of cleaning the godforsaken mess up. Infuriatingly, due to a budget shortfall, Branklin had been forced to pay the debt from his personal slush fund, which until the debacle with the news reporter Amanda Trane at the Hotel Esquire had remained carefully concealed through the complex financial stratagems of his long-time personal assistant, the slimy and shabby-looking Barry Pidgett.

Branklin had always been a handsome man and even at his rather advanced age maintained a trim and dapper figure. He was immaculately coifed with silver hair that gave him a distinguished presidential air, and his wardrobe was absolutely impeccable. Casual but elegant and blessed with erect, almost Hitlerian, posture, he often took the time to stroll the large marketplace near City Hall where he was invariably greeted with various effusions of warmth from his devoted subjects--excepting, of course, those social malcontents who were just too busy with their daily lives to worship the absurdity of another pretentious highbrow strutting around in a two-hundred-dollar suit.

Unfortunately, the Mayor did have something that, for lack of a better phrase, might be called a personal problem. Ever since he had been triumphantly placed on his throne, he had found the sexual constraints placed upon public figures to be hypocritical and stifling. In his dealings with powerful personages in the business arena, he found that many of them rampantly indulged themselves in what the Pope, in a special and rather peculiar encyclical, referred to as unbridled sex. And nobody cared! It was considered par for the course, and a very proper, if somewhat measly perk for any self-respecting CEO. However, the Mayor was supposed to set an example, and the only person on this earth that he could possibly consider consorting with was his aging wife, and he was getting extremely tired of that scene. Gazing out of the window into the park outside his office, he practically, even literally, drooled at the "scenery." Young, fresh, and definitely willing. It was totally pathetic--all he had to do was go out there, wave a few fifty-dollar bills around, and he could have his pick of the litter. But instead of that stimulating activity, he had nothing to look forward to but another miserable trip home where he would have to contend with his overblown wife and increasingly pestiferous kids. Branklin couldn't believe that he'd been foolish enough to generate four of those stupid things whose only claim to fame was their incredible ability to chomp through his money like a plague of famished locusts. As time passed, he became assailed by increasingly lewd fantasies and considered dumping his ugly fifty-year-old secretary, Mildred Puffer, for the very hot new hire in the outer office, Mandy Kane.

It was then, back when he was thirty-five, that his life had changed. Appropriately enough, it began with the inspiration of taking Mandy on a "business" trip to a city far enough away that he would never be recognized. Although the idea certainly had its merits, he wasn't at all sure that he could trust her to be discreet since she was about as intellectual as his second-grade reading primer and would probably throw a public tantrum after he had given her the heave-ho. While he was mulling this difficult and important problem around, he had been fortunate enough to meet Bruno Hancock, the world-famous multibillionaire geek who was cruising ostentatiously through town. Bruno had, fairly discreetly, enquired as to the quality of the escort services available in Darwin City. Branklin, truly a babe in swaddling clothes, had offered to personally escort Bruno around town; this lame sentiment was met with a loud guffaw and then a quizzical wary look as Bruno wondered if Branklin was of another "persuasion." Carefully, deftly, tactfully, he explained to his astonished compatriot the nature of the escort business. EUREKA!!

A week later, Branklin charged off into the sunset on official business. He had journeyed to the nation's largest city, Bleakfester Dump, and arrived at Goring Armaments in an attempt to land an extraordinary contract for one hundred thousand modern-day Gatling guns. These amazing high-tech inventions were now capable of firing six hundred rounds a second and were the happy instruments of a classic win-win situation: Unemployment would drop, while at the same time, certain repellent (I dare not say racially inferior) sectors of the world population would also "drop." Being a fantastic salesman and able to deliver as much as he could promise, Branklin had hammered out a deal--the end result of these perfidious shenanigans had been the creation, just off Dogwire Drive on Terminal Avenue, of the building that became known locally as the Bullet and Bomb Emporium.

Before all that transpired, however, Branklin, flushed with success, had been directed to Empress Escort Services where he hooked up with one of their current prodigies, Violet Rose. Well...what can I say? How shall I find the words that describe the riotous orgy of extravagant emotions that an egotistical, sex-starved public servant endures during his baptism of fire on the bed of one of the most beautiful, sexually sophisticated, and agonizingly erotic women in the universe? And just as important, aside from that obvious upside, the Empress was the last word in discretion--that was why she only accepted cash and an alias. (For those who might be interested: This chapter was originally written in February 2007 and reached its final form, after many revisions, in November of that year; it is based on my memories as well as an article that appeared in the Sentinel in 2001. Thus, despite the striking similarities, Branklin Fell is not a pseudonym for a much more famous person who made a grotesque splash by salaciously belly-flopping into the news in March of 2008. I want to positively assure the reader that when I am writing about Darwin City, there is no need for me to go rummaging through foreign ports to enhance or embroider anything. Furthermore, although Darwin City is, relatively speaking, a small town, we seem to have no trouble attracting those who have a mammoth, irresistible penchant for the sleazy antics of sexual corruption, and our Mayor rightfully deserves--in his own right--to be recognized for his outstanding achievements in this regard.)

Immediately upon his return to Dodge City, General Fell had deputized the woebegone Barry Pidgett to establish a secret fund for his traveling and business expenses. The escort gals didn't come cheap: Violet chimed in at one grand (plus the customary twenty-five percent honorarium common to the "service" industry). Besides being sneaky and malevolent, Barry was a wizard at reconfiguring computers to his personal specifications, and it was through his diligent efforts that a small proportion of the city's property taxes were redirected into the newly established Mayor's Emergency Relief Fund for Orphans, Battered Women, and Starving Children, which was also augmented by charitable contributions from concerned citizens. The distributions to the afflicted were quite rare but well-publicized and primarily occurred during the Christmas season when the fund was finally able to register a surplus since the Mayor, due to noxious family commitments on his wife's side, was unable to do his usual cavorting about the countryside.

However, as he entered his office at City Hall on the morning of Clayton's murder, Field Marshal Fell was wishing he could hop on a plane and skedaddle to Bleakfester Dump and breakfast (with all the accessories) at the Empress Inn. He had already been informed of the Drug Czar's untimely demise, but that was a mere tempest in a teapot compared to what he would be receiving from the President of the Teacher's Union, Ursula Van Wynch. She had informed him the previous evening that he could expect an e-mail from her in the morning that would set forth the union's last, best, and only offer regarding salary negotiations for the fifteen elementary schools that were located within the city. It had been made abundantly clear to the Field Marshal that these demands were final and absolute and that his failure to unequivocally fall into line would result in an immediate teacher's strike--in order, of course, to protect the interests of the students who could not expect to succeed in life if they were educated by the underfunded. And obviously, with the next mayoral election only six months away, the union would be forced to throw its support behind the opposition candidate if Branklin became "difficult." They had carried him to victory after victory, and if he could not support them in their hour of "dire" need, he would be "toiletized" (and presumably flushed down the sewer and into the polluted mess of waters that lay on the outskirts of the city, Lake Bracken).

The news from Ursula was about as bad as he had expected: A 9% raise the first year, followed by 11% the second, and 13% the third. Bleary eyed, annoyed, and feeling somewhat like General Custer, Branklin extracted his calculator and presented himself with an annoying analysis of the figures for the sacred superintendent cow, Nathan Taylor, who was currently making $249,900. Punching the buttons in front of him menacingly, he saw that Nathan would, if the contract were ratified by the voters, be receiving $272,391, $302,354, and $341,660. Not only that, if Nathan quit or, amazingly, even if he was fired for gross misconduct, he received health insurance for the rest of his life plus a golden handshake of two hundred and fifty grand. Branklin had to admit to himself that these people were masters of the game--it made his slush fund seem like a stingy allowance for a five-year-old with destitute paupers for parents. But, Dear God, where was the money for this going to come from? Branklin felt like burning Ursula at the stake; especially galling was his miserable pittance of one hundred and twenty-five grand with a 3% raise if he were lucky enough to be reelected, which he no longer considered a certainty.

He knew better than anyone that the well for the "teachers" was running dry; property taxes had swelled, ballooned, and then skyrocketed into the stratosphere. The taxpayer was tapped out, and the appalling scene last fall on Tarscraper Court had been the last straw for many a voter. Barton and Jasmine Hobbs, both in their eighties, had been unable to pay their property taxes and were given their eviction notices. But Barton, a cranky old duffer, became vituperative and refused to budge from the house he had lived in since his birth. Branklin graciously stepped into the breach and offered Barton and Jasmine a rent-free, fifth-floor, two-room apartment (with a "community" bathroom) that the city had confiscated from a crack dealer on Dogwire Drive. NO GO! Finally, the police had arrived at Tarscraper Court and forcibly evicted the elderly couple. Channel Nine News had received an inside scoop and was on hand to tape a cursing Barton being manhandled on his front porch by the crass veteran, Rodney Pierce. Eventually, Barton, bleeding profusely, had lost his balance and crashed headfirst onto the gravel "lawn" outside his front door, and it was very shortly afterwards that his wife, with a not so helpful shove from Rodney, came catapulting down the Great White Way. As the nightly news would graphically show, Jasmine was obviously not ready to compete in the gymnastic events at the Olympics--landing awkwardly with a grotesque somersault, she broke her arm with a resounding snap.

Jasmine had been rushed to the hospital and through a petrified Branklin's intercession was operated upon by the best surgeon in Bleakfester Dump, the world renowned Dexter Chewsbury the Third. Dexter was able to realign the multiple fractures and bolt the bones together with the intrepid precision for which he has become so justly famous. With the patient on the mend, all seemed well, and the Field Marshal decided it was time to bring the restive and overly liberal public back into line.

By now, he was fed up with all the stupid sob stories--the clamor over the recalcitrant couple's eviction had gone on long enough and was becoming alarming. Ms. Van Wynch, ready at the cannons, had sent him some interesting statistics, which along with his own feelings, he took the time to share with his vassals in an exclusive interview with the Sentinel. "Of course," he began philosophically, "everyone has sympathy with those who are entering their twilight years and watching the sun fall rapidly to the horizon. I am sure that we can all understand the fear, even terror, which must set in as the shadows grow longer and darkness falls, in this case, forever. As we are all well aware, there is no reprieve from death, and it must surely cut to the bone to review a life that contains so much past and so very little future. Be that as it may, each and every home owner is obligated by law and custom to pay their property taxes, which are the educational lifeblood of the next generation. The elderly, those who are so soon about to depart, should remember and consider carefully that they were once young--as long ago and far away as that might seem. They too, even if they have forgotten because of their physical and mental infirmities, were once supported by those who are now resting forever in their eternal graves.

"But what I find most exasperating about this situation can be found in a fair examination of the life styles of our seniors who are, to be frank, behaving like juniors. A recent study of this area compiled by the respected law firm of Hicks, Wacks, and Lynch shows that during the past year, well over half" (the actual figure was seven percent) "of all people over seventy have either embarked on a cruise or gone trotting off to one of our many gambling meccas. Here they have relentlessly force-fed the slot machines and thrown away millions at the roulette and blackjack tables where, once again to be frank, they have a well-deserved reputation for being mentally challenged, which has made them very easy marks for the sharks that troll these putrid waters. Thus, we are treated to the spectacle of a noble masquerade as little old people go around with cups begging for help with their taxes because they have quite selfishly squandered their savings on some very irresponsible and expensive pastimes."

This rather unsavory statement proved to be ill-fated and ill-timed. The next day, Jasmine developed an infection in her arm that quickly spread to her vital organs. State of the art antibiotics were administered, but it was to no avail, and sadly, she expired. Barton brought disgrace upon our city by attacking Doctor Chewsbury and inflicting a serious bite wound in the "groin" area before he could be gassed into partial submission and wrestled out of the hospital by the proper authorities.

Regardless of the sensible advice to refrain from overexerting himself that he had received from his social worker after the death of his wife, Barton, who was obviously a poor loser, formed an anti-tax coalition. A massive demonstration was now being organized that would take place in front of City Hall. Protesters were advised to bring their rotten vegetables, and it was expected that Branklin's sanctuary would be pelted. There was also a macabre rumor going around that Barton, besides making an incendiary speech, would show an edited video tape of Jasmine's final two hours, which were said to be excruciating. The Field Marshal, enraged and besieged, had sought the help of Governor Dodson Klopp in Bleakfester Dump, but that worthy chap, pleading a prior commitment, had fled the state and was vacationing in an undisclosed location. Upon calling Chief Prince, he was informed that because of the budget cutbacks in the Department (necessary to get the last school budget passed), he could only afford to send two cops. For an expected five thousand people! Would they storm the Alamo? Suppose he had to be lifted off the roof in a helicopter? Was he going to have to undergo the humiliation of climbing up a rickety rope ladder under the backwash of the whirling propeller blades? What if he fell--fell into the hands of the bloodthirsty mob? There had, he knew, been talk of hanging him in effigy, but what if the rabble went on a rampage and decided that the real thing was better? At his desk, Branklin noticed that he was sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Probably he was being paranoid, but one thing was for sure: He was not going to be the next Marie Antoinette; he would follow the Kloppster's worthy example and treat Mrs. Fell to a much-deserved vacation, also at an undisclosed location.

And thus, for once, the tale has, at least for a while, a happy ending: On a beautiful fall morning in early October, Mr. and Mrs. Fell escaped the confines of the city for two weeks and were able to bask in the delightful anonymity of a small seaside cottage where they were left undisturbed by the howling mobs of greed and anguish. Unfortunately, however, the Field Marshal returned to Darwin City, and it would not be long before he jumped willfully, even ecstatically, into a pot of boiling water and suffered--metaphorically, of course--the sad fate of many a lobster.

## CHAPTER FIVE:

## BAMBO DEEL AND THE TWILIGHT EXPRESS

Bambo, who would soon suffer the misfortune of becoming intimately involved with the central character in the Darwin-City murders, stirred under the covers on a cold March morning and wondered where the clock had gone. There it was--the stupid thing had fallen off the table and was upside down on the floor. But, he reminded himself, what difference did time make now that he was rich, fabulously rich? As he lay there contentedly, he reflected on his astonishing run of luck--it really did prove that there wasn't a God.

A couple of years ago, his sixty-year-old mother had died in an auto accident when some drunk had plowed into her as she was coming home from a church social and that was the end of that. He had never liked her or his father anyways; they had always pushed him to become a doctor, but he had despised the horrors of homework and dropped out of high school to work as a grenade packager at the Bullet and Bomb Emporium. It was a dreadful environment, but he made plenty of money, found a small grungy apartment on Dogwire Drive, and began to drift into the drug trade. As bad as it might seem to others, he found it was a far better life than studying the irrelevant stupidities of algebra and botany, which he was convinced were forms of insanity. Changing his name from Bestwick to Bambo, he wore black leather and grew a nasty-looking goatee. Although he was ripped off constantly and could never turn a sizeable profit, he had constant access to a variety of narcotics and zigzagged through his days in a drug-fueled daze. However, as he turned thirty, a feeling of desperation began to creep up on him. The nitroglycerin dust at the Emporium had invaded his lungs, and he was coughing up gobs of sticky white stuff that were really repellent, even by his substandard standards. Meanwhile, the boredom had soared into the mind-numbing regions of Mt. Everest as he labored on the wretched assembly line where every three seconds a grenade arrived, which he packed into a crate. Two dozen to a crate, fifty crates to a skid, and then they would be wheeled away to the loading dock, shipped to foreign ports, disseminated throughout the countryside, and eventually, if all went well, blow up whoever was deemed to be unworthy by the grenade holder.

There were also other dangers associated with his profession--collateral damage, so to speak. A few years back, there had been a wave of complaints from customers that it was too difficult to pull the pins out. Understandably, in the heat of battle, folks wanted things that worked quickly and didn't come with a nine-page instruction manual. The President of Goring Armaments, Rex Gunderson, had devised a new (and much cheaper) mechanism, but the problem was that it was a bit too efficient, and although it was indeed rare, a pin would sometimes mysteriously fall out "on its own." Shortly after the new grenades had made their appearance on the line, Booger Brooms, the second-shift worthy who replaced Bambo at four o'clock, dropped a grenade and ten seconds later permanently departed, in parts, for parts unknown. The Boss Man, Cretin Fleer, an up-and-coming fascist with a promising future whose supervisory manual was straight out of the 1880's, had made the rounds to the ones he graciously termed his "Third Worlders." Condescendingly sarcastic, he informed them that the floors at the end of the line would be rubberized for their protection; he only wished, he added, that he could afford to do the same to the walls.

But with his mother's death, Bambo suddenly realized that there might be hope. What if his father croaked? Bucks, BIG bucks, provided that he hadn't been cut out of the will. Everybody had expected his mother to live to be at least eighty, but his Pop was another story. He had been one of those hotshot, snazzy stockbrokers who smoked two packs a day and downed the nicotine with a fifth of whisky, and from the looks of it, he might soon be taking the big plunge into the endless jungle of eternity. Bambo thought it over, bought himself some respectable clothes, spruced up his appearance, and paid a visit to the old geezer. In a humble voice, he told his Dad that he felt he was maturing, and especially after the death of his (he didn't dare say dear) mother, he was ready to make more out of his life. By this time, his father was already on the tank, gulping oxygen and wheezing badly, but he appeared to be touched by his prodigal son. For the next two months, he took Bambo under his wing and regaled him with stories from his glory days when he was a master swindler and stole millions from both the firm as well as his gullible, greedy clients.

However, when the decrepit codger had a major stroke, the funny stories came to an abrupt halt. Bestwick, as he was now calling himself, went immediately to the hospital, and upon seeing the patient, his spirits rose considerably. It didn't look like "Dear Old Dad" could possibly make it--he was gasping and gagging, and his face was a strange, hideous shade of crimson-purple. Bambo wanted to stick a pillow over his father's head--it would be the best thing for everyone, but he didn't have the nerve. Maybe he could pretend that he was "ministering to his needs" and jam a bed sheet down his throat. But at this perplexing moment, fate intervened, and his elder brother, Gordon, the successful one, walked into the room. Great! The guy who would take care of all their problems. Mr. Fix It. The kind of person who invariably ruins everything. "Bestwick! So good to see you." He motioned confidentially to Bambo and took him outside the room. "I have some great news: The Doc tells me that Dad's going to make it. He says that his condition is fairly normal and that in a couple of weeks, he'll be as fit as a fiddle." Just then, the youngest member of the family, Dennis, the misbegotten afterthought of a senseless night of excess by his immediate ancestors, came shuffling down the corridor towards them. He had remained true to his slapdash origins with attire that featured untied boots, a ripped jacket, and a baseball cap that was turned backwards. "Hey dudes!" he said loudly. "Long time no see." He took a small bottle of whiskey out of his pocket and belted down a shot. "Has he popped off yet? I can't stay very long; I have a heavy date tonight, and knowing him, he's liable to hang on all night and expect us to hover around the bed."

It was a week later that the three of them had an important conference with Doctor Simon Squib--the same man who would later be indicted for billing irregularities, forged documents, prescription fraud, improper conduct with a nurse, injecting unruly patients with an elephant tranquilizer, and firing a weapon at an intern in the operating room. He was no longer as sanguine about his patient's progress and felt it only right that the concerned relatives be advised of the situation and the choices that they now faced. The old boy was a very sick man and would need, for starters, a new heart; since there were no transplants available, he would have to be outfitted with an artificial one. These weren't very reliable and rarely lasted a year, but by then, if they were lucky, some teenager might get killed playing Russian roulette, and they would be in business. His liver was totally shot, but they could give him a transplant from one of their specially cloned hybrid pigs that would match up much better with the artificial heart since those gadgets were finicky and tended to reject anything natural. He would also be on dialysis and an oxygen tank for the rest of his days, but other than the aforementioned problems, he was in good shape. The problem was money--his insurance company had gone bankrupt when the CEO had absconded with four hundred million dollars, and the advanced procedures they had been discussing would have to come from the old man's fortune and might very well swallow up the totality of his stash. "I knew something like this would happen," muttered Bambo to himself; "it was always too good to be true."

"And so," said Simon hopefully, "it's the time when families must come together and decide whether there can possibly be an upper limit to the value of a person's life."

"I'm with you, Doc," said Gordon with a sincerity that Bambo found sickening. "He's worked the last forty years for us, and I think everything possible should be done to preserve his life."

Bambo felt desperate, as he had not the slightest idea how Dennis the Goofball would vote. "Your sentiments are certainly noble, Gordon, but I'm afraid I don't quite agree with you." He had become so suave! "I think the measures proposed by Doctor Squib are liable to come up short, and the poor old guy, who I have come to respect dearly, will go through a long bout of needless agony. I'm voting, with great regret, to pull the plug."

"So it's up to me," said Dennis cheerfully. He pulled a coin out of his pocket, flipped it, and frowned. "That goes a little against the grain, so I'll have to make it two out of three. To be honest with you, boys, I'm kind of torn on this one. The way I reckon it, the odds are about ninety-nine percent that I've been axed out of the will, and there's no way he'd leave any money to Bambo, the family drug dealer or addict--whatever his current status happens to be. That means it's all going to Gordo, and he's already a millionaire. To top it all off, he's voting to hand all the money over to this money lecher, quacking hack of a doctor."

While Dr. Squib squirmed in his chair, Dennis tossed the coin for the second time.

"Just as I thought--that's why I don't like flipping coins. They're never consistent, and it gets me confused, but what else can I rely upon when I'm faced with a difficult decision? Certainly nobody in this room. What really bothers me is that if I vote to cut the juice, I'm going to turn Gordo the Great into a very rich man, and that's enough to give anyone second thoughts. On the other side of the coin, two things keep nagging me. If only I could see the will, it would be so easy. What if the old coot went bananas at the end and decided to split it into thirds? Wouldn't that be a shock! Personally, I can't imagine anything daffier than giving Bambo or myself any money. But what if he did? I could buy Leslie a rock and in ten seconds, she'd be flying into the sack with me, but that only supports my theory that money can be a dangerous thing. Most likely, if I did somehow inherit a million, I'd probably become all wrapped up with Leslie, and she's not that hot--at best average, and that's kind of a long, long reach. Meanwhile, some gorgeous babe that I would have met if I wasn't bouncing around in bed with Leslie would pass on by, and I would never even know it. Money can be a curse or a charm, and it's impossible for me to figure this one out."

Once more, Dennis flipped the coin. "Well, that's the clincher--I'm not going against the mighty laws of chance and fate. Now here's the second thing that disturbs me: If we keep the old buzzard on life support, then there will be dozens of these emergency conferences, and I'll never be able to get on with my life. What's more, I am determined that being in the same room with Squibo, Gordo, and Bambo is going to be a once in a lifetime experience. I'm voting to pull the plug."

Doctor Squib was obviously distraught as he suffered through the horrible nightmare of seeing millions of bucks go down the drain because of this idiot. Fawning mightily, he turned to Bambo. "Mr. Deel, this is really a momentous decision and one that can never be reversed. It might be more sensible to wait a week or so before committing to anything so drastic."

Bambo felt like screeching in triumph but amazed himself by adlibbing a wonderful lie. "I appreciate your concerns, Doctor, but about a month ago, my Dad told me he didn't want to die strapped to a bed while he gasped for air, and if there was any doubt about it at all, he would prefer that we pull the plug."

Dennis bolted out of his chair. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls--Bambo the Great has spoken! Can I do it?"

"Do what, Dennis?" said Gordon with obvious exasperation.

"Pull the plug! I want to be the one that cuts the juice! Let's get going; it's getting late, and I don't want to be late for my dinner date with Leslie." Before anyone could reply, Dennis was gone, and when the rest of them straggled into the bedroom of the dying man, they were unable to see any evidence of Dennis. Shortly, however, he emerged from under the bed with two cords. "This ought to finish the old bugger off," he announced with gusto. Five minutes later, when the patient began to gurgle and spew, Bambo left the room. Dr. Squib came out shortly afterwards and seemed bitter, which was a good sign. Dennis was the next to appear and gave Bambo a big thumbs up. "Doornailed. He's on the twilight express now--that's what I always imagined the first hour after death must be like before the big black curtain comes plopping down and puts an end to the sorry show. Of course, the mystics prophesize sunrise, but who knows? Look, Bambo, I have to run; Gordy tells me that we'll be meeting tomorrow to crack open the will and find out what Big Daddy Deel had in his piggy bank. Maybe he'll shock us and leave it all to his great aunt, Bertha Krankle, the nitwit with the knitting needles. Remember her?"

The next day, Bambo was "beside himself" as he entered the esteemed halls of Bunkle, Borridge, Panks, and Fisper. Twenty minutes early, he was still the last one into the office of Pelton Panks who appeared to be an ugly, short-tempered weasel having a bad day. The first order of business was the ten percent fee that the firm had subtracted from the estate. "Ten percent! What exactly do you do, Mr. Pranks?" said the effervescent Dennis.

"That's Panks, sonny boy," said the sour-looking Pelton, "and I don't think it's necessary for me to stoop down to your level and make an attempt to answer that accusation with a retort that would only serve to inflame your limited sensibilities. Let's be grownups, get down to business, and see who gets what. First of all, I must mention that only two month ago, your father revised his will, but everything about it is very aboveboard, and it was actually notarized by Governor Klopp, who happened to be here that day."

After Pelton had moved on from these formalities and declared that the estate was valued at twelve million, Bambo's heart began to throb, and he had the sensation that his eyeballs were bulging, maybe even popping. "The firm gets one point two million, and there's another eight hundred grand that will be tied up in probate court for at least a decade. You all won't see much of that since it's a near certainty that the probate judge will siphon most of that off for 'services rendered.' Fortunately, your father was smart enough to follow my advice, and he set up, unbeknownst to you, joint accounts with those who would be his beneficiaries. This means that when you leave here today, if you are lucky enough to inherit anything, you will have a fully negotiable check in your hands. How do you like me now?"

This was beginning to sound very promising to Bambo, and he noticed that Dennis was abnormally quiet and _focused._

"To his son Gordon Deel, he leaves twenty percent or two million. There was a stunned silence. Bambo's heart sank--it looked like he might be catching a goose egg, after all. Just one percent, he pleaded to the almighty stars above--that would be a hundred grand. "To his son Dennis Deel, he also leaves twenty percent. Consternation reigned supreme as Dennis leaped up and pounded a table exultantly. "I knew it--the coin is never wrong. _Never_ \--especially when it's two out of three. To think I almost voted not to pull the plug--what a blunder that would have been! Now I can buy Leslie a rock as big as a boulder! Not only that, I'm walking out of here with just as much money as Gordo the Sap. Justice!" Gordon was obviously disconsolate; it was becoming obvious to him that the old-timer must have developed dementia at the end. "And where's the other sixty percent going? Not to this clown, I hope," as he pointed at Bambo.

"Just so. The final sixty percent goes to his son, Bestwick Deel." The room was filled with the pandemonium of cursing and insults, but Bambo had temporarily lost his hearing and was oblivious to everything. He vaguely remembered Pelton Panks handing him a check for six million, and the next thing he could recollect was going into his bank and making a very substantial deposit to his scrawny, constantly overdrawn checking account. Five days later the check cleared, and he was rich, incredibly so.

## CHAPTER SIX: SHERRY GREEN AND MIRANDA BLACK

I have procrastinated long enough and will attempt to produce a description, inadequate as it might be, of Sherry Green. There is a loathing within me, an actual abhorrence to returning to the past, and I do not embark upon this task with my usual airy, if antisocial, disposition. There are, for some, events that occur with such impact that the whole subconscious tapestry of their lives, so complacently woven over the course of the years, is ripped to shreds. Afterwards, when the smoke clears and the bodies have been buried, the grandiose illusions of security that the herd cowers behind--religion, patriotism, and the family--will have been exposed as completely worthless. The optimists, assuming there are any left, are merely those lucky souls who have, as yet, not been touched by the violent mechanisms and machinations of our worthless and malevolent culture.

Four years ago on New Year's Eve, after the rather formal and official party at the Hotel Blue where Randall and Mervin awkwardly officiated, a group of us had departed for the much more rowdy atmosphere that existed at the Outpost, which was a large ramshackle basement club run by the ex-cop Larry Barr who had been thrown off the force for dealing drugs. Huge, rough, and menacing, he now existed well outside the short arm of the law.

There had, however, been a dismal attempt by "the authorities" to rein the rhinoceros in. A few months after his dismissal, Larry had been involved in an altercation with Randall who had sought to have the liquor license for the Outpost revoked. Although it was presented to the City Council as a punitive measure directed at the drug dealing that the Chief claimed was rampant in Larry's den of iniquity, it was obvious to many that it was merely a continuation of the personal vendetta that had originated out of their earlier conflict. But suddenly, without any explanation whatsoever, Randall had withdrawn his request the day before it was to be debated by the Council, and the matter, which had received considerable publicity, mysteriously vanished into thin air. According to the rumors that swirled rather gleefully through the Department, it was said that Larry had threatened to kill Randall, and the Chief, as was his invariable wont, decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

Regardless of these speculations, we had all been the recipient of a directive from Randall that declared the Outpost to be off-limits to all members of the force. However, when two cops from the vice squad were brought before the Disciplinary Committee for violating the Chief's edict, the President of the Police Union had successfully argued that since they had been off duty, their constitutional right of free association had been violated, which opened up the possibility of a serious lawsuit being brought against not only the Department but also Randall personally. After the fiasco of that humiliation, which was made even more cutting by the fact that everyone knew the two cops had been on duty, or were supposed to be on duty, Randall had admitted defeat and disappeared meekly into his office where he could safely discuss the intricacies of profiling with Mervin. Meanwhile, with the floodgates beginning to creak and groan, it wasn't long before the rank and file of Darwin City's finest had begun to seep and then pour into Larry's friendly domain where they were able to speak and act without any threat of interference from the "law."

And now, on this really ancient and nostalgic night when we were all so mischievously gay and unnaturally buoyant, Sherry Green walks into my life. At the time, I was not at all familiar with her; I only knew that she had been a recent hire who, according to Jake, was considerably more savvy and streetwise than the average rookie. She appears before me now in my memory--a nebulous figure arising out of the smoky haze that permeated the Outpost. Beside her are two other black cops who had been recruited from the slums of the East Side--the notorious, barely reformed ruffian, Scarlet Waters and her sidekick, Sandy Brown. Sherry is wearing a deep-green corduroy blouse and a kelly-green beret that Scarlet is trying to yank off her head. "We're going to have to give this here rookie a new name, Jackson," said Sandy. "She doesn't understand the color thing at all. Look at her!"

"Larry!" Scarlet screamed above the music, a thumping anthem from the disco years, "bring us some vodka."

Except for Sherry, we started belting down shots. "Oh no," said Scarlet leaning on me, "this gal doesn't drink vodka—she's too green for that!" She laughed abrasively at her rather stale joke, while Sandy, on the other side of me, whispered loudly into my ear, "A wine glass--can you believe it? Fop juice."

"The last time I drank anything like that," said Scarlet, "was when I was thirteen and got drunk and skunked in the back seat of my uncle's car." After helping herself to another shot, she walked over and smelled the wine glass that the lady with the green beret was twirling with a subtle elegance. "What is this?" said Scarlett. "It isn't even wine; it smells like the sewer juice my father used to drink. What did he call it? I can't remember." Rudely, she took the glass from Sherry and handed it to Sandy who poured a shot of vodka into it and gulped it down. "Awful stuff, whatever it is," she gasped.

The three of them drifted off, and Jake and Larry took me over to their favorite haunt, the dartboard. We were drinking double bashers--two shots of vodka in a beer--and started to play a game. Jake was very wild and could hardly even hit the wall until Larry retreated to the bar and came back with a picture of Randall that he pinned to the board. Suddenly, Jablonski was on target, and in a very short period of time, the photo of the Chief was a tattered mess. "I'm telling you, Jake," said Larry, "we ought to give Randall and Mervin a real Christmas present. What if we stole their cars, waited until midnight, and then had a head-on collision down at Oilpit Park? They'd only have to be doing ten or fifteen to blow up the air bags and turn their chariots into rubble."

"Man, you boys are bad!" We hadn't noticed that Scarlet was listening to us. "But it wouldn't work," she said, "because Princy boy would think it was an accident. He's so stupid that if you flattened all four of his tires, he'd be out there scratching his head and telling himself that he should have got them rotated sooner. Now, if it was me and I had a grudge against that slimy serpent, I would go and get some of that Zeus Juice the hippies used to take when they wanted to blow their brains out, and then I would dump it into Randall's coffee." Larry appeared to be interested. "LSD is the best," said Scarlet enthusiastically. "Give him a double dose about a half-hour before one of his big meetings with the Mayor. At that point," she said with a malicious wink, "you might want to consider making an anonymous call to Channel Nine to inform them that the Chief has a serious drug problem. By the time they reached the Mayor's office, Randall would be crawling on the floor and mooing like a cow."

Looking at Scarlet, I wondered which side she was on in the great, bizarre, and rather useless struggle between law and crime. She was too wiry, too washed out, too much of drinker, even by our exorbitant standards.

"Sherry!" she screamed in her raspy voice that grated on my nerves and sensibilities. "That's what she was drinking! Where is she? She's not getting away with that--swirling down fancy grape juice like a princess on her wedding day." As Scarlet left us and pushed her way back through the crowd, I could still see the hatred in her eyes. It was, I suppose, a manifestation of her private battle against racial hypocrisy--the ethical choice that she perceived between being a heroic lower-class ghetto black or succumbing to the phony aspirations of the whites and trying to rise into the middle class. Also, as a cop who was assigned to the worst area of the city, she was undoubtedly jealous of Sherry because she was a detective, and for Scarlet Waters, that occupation was just another version of the Mervin Pines approach to life. I knew exactly how she felt: It was perfectly acceptable for me to be a detective because I was white, and whites were nothing but bootlickers, but Sherry, being black, was expected to adhere to a higher standard and remain in the mythical heaven of the ghetto.

Scarlet was dragging her prey towards us with her usual cocksure alcoholic bravado. "Hey, darling, let me introduce you to the big weasels. We're giving up on that old name of yours because it doesn't fit you at all. Boys, this here is Miss Sherry Green. You just can't be a real black and wear all that silly highfalutin green stuff while you waltz around here with your wine glass and aristocratic airs. Where do you suppose my name came from? You think I was born with that name? They don't call me Scarlet Waters for nothing. Names," she said, staring at us with a fiery, fierce glare in her eyes, "are the stamp that brands us and sets us apart, and you shouldn't go carousing around under false pretenses. If you can't take pride in your name, if you can't even live up to your name, then you should change it. Now, I don't mean this as any kind of disrespect to you, sweetheart, but you ain't no black. Not even close. You got the skin color right, but that's about it. And it ain't just the clothes you wear--it's your attitude, baby."

Coming up closer to Sherry and speaking with an intense animosity that I found annoying and inexplicable, she said, "You're the type of person that would go to bed with a rich white man and shoot a poor black man right through the heart."

Sherry had remained aloof and composed during this unquenchable firestorm of insults. However, a sexual slur is difficult to ignore, and for the first time, she responded. "Why would you say something like that to me? I have never in my life slept with a white man."

"Oh, listen to that," said Scarlet as she raised her index finger and pointed it at Sherry; "maybe you haven't, but you would, you will. I know where you're coming from, and I know where you want to go. That's why you're not real and you never will be. You've never paid your dues: You've never lived on the street; you've never had a gun fired at you; you've never had to sell your body; you've never had to beg for your life; you've never been tied to the railroad tracks. Never! Not you! Am I right? Tell me," she said coming up even closer to Sherry, "am I right?"

Jake had moved closer to the two of them, and I suddenly realized that not only was Scarlet Waters out of control, but that she also undoubtedly carried a blade. How drunk was she? Did Sherry sense any real danger? I did, but as is often the case with me, I was unable to bring myself to intervene.

"No," said Sherry slowly and cautiously, "I've never been--"

"You've never done anything, girl. You are just so Sherry Green," she said derisively. "If you want my opinion, you look like an ugly Irish stripper who fell into the cellar and had a hard time crawling out of the coal bin."

For the first time, I saw a flash of resentment and a subtle wariness in Sherry's eyes.

"Cool it," said Jake as he abruptly stepped between them and slowly pushed Scarlet backwards. "Back off, lady. Do you want people going around tomorrow saying that you can't hold your liquor? Why do you want to pick a fight with this woman? She hasn't done anything to you. Nothing!" he said, with a commanding intensity that did not surprise me. Big, rough, and noble, Jake was not a man that anyone with an ounce of common sense would argue with at a moment like this.

Scarlet had her hand inside her leather jacket, but now Larry reached over and offered her a bottle of vodka. "Let's see if you can hold your liquor," he said disarmingly.

"OK, Mr. Big Shot," she said as she swiped the bottle out of his hand. I was astonished at her capacity for alcohol--she must have chugged down at least four ounces before she gave the bottle back to Larry. The jolt from the Vitamin V, plus the heavy presence of Jake who continued to loom above her, seemed to break the dark spell of her thunder, and she retreated to her stormy, pseudo-friendly, backslapping self, but before she left us to find Sandy Brown, she pointed at Sherry and said, "Don't forget your new name, Missy. You're a little too white for me."

Probably, besides the alcohol and the bad luck of her life, the real reason for Scarlet's anger was that, ironically, Sherry's real name was Miranda Black. At the time of Clayton's murder, she was twenty-nine, had never been married, and was extremely circumspect in regards to her personal life; it had taken me some time and effort to discover anything of her history.

Before moving to Darwin City in her early twenties, she had lived in the ghetto of the large eastern port, Peltfire Dump. The youngest of nine children from a broken and violent home, she had attended the city's worst high school, the gun-ridden, drug-infested, prostitute-producing Overseer Central. During her matriculation at this esteemed hall of learning, she had fulfilled most of Scarlet's criteria for black advancement. She had been shot at, lived on the street for two years, and although she had never sold her body, she had been raped--something Scarlet had forgotten in her list of qualifications necessary to become a black saint. On the other hand, she told me wryly, it was certainly true that she had never been tied to the railroad tracks. "I assume that was an exaggeration, Jackson--at least I hope so, but there's no doubt that Scarlet Waters has suffered greatly at the hands of others--much more so than myself. It's obvious that someone pushed her over a precipice, and she lost her soul and her sanity. Whatever she could have been has died, and in that sense, I was lucky to survive."

I have seen a photo of Sherry when she was a teenager, and there, behind her glasses, are those same dark brown, intense and yet very placid, languid, and really luxurious eyes. But otherwise, her appearance is far different from the days when I--what shall I say?--knew her. She appears as timid and quite fawnlike, and it is difficult, if not impossible, to see how the shrewd, robust, hearty, self-confident soul we came to know as Sherry Green had metamorphosed from Miranda Black.

It had been about a year after the party at the Outpost that she and I had been thrown together by Randall who was probably hoping that Sherry, who presented herself as someone who went by the book, would temper my obvious anti-authoritarian tendencies. But I soon realized that my new partner was not a person who could be judged by her appearance, which is, I suppose, exactly the same thing as what Scarlet Waters had said. Of course, what I saw underneath the face that she presented to the world was of an entirely different character than what Scarlet had perceived.

Surprisingly, despite the nature of its origin, Miranda had taken on her new name with enthusiasm. It gave her, she told me, a double identity, and except when her real name was required for official reasons, she readily accepted the mantle of Sherry Green and insisted, humorously, that the rest of us follow her example.

"This is such a public job," she said to me on a rainy day when we were bored and the conversation had meandered through many a byway. "It's lively work and sure does have some exciting moments, but it remains essentially a sham. We are not really paid to keep the peace or maintain law and order; rather, we are expected to compromise, evade, and pretend. We're paid to be hypocrites, you know? We carry guns, but we're essentially powerless before the forces that control us--Randall, the Mayor, public opinion, the thugs who prowl the streets. In reality, we're just a flimsy symbolic hope that society waves like a flag in front of the criminally rebellious.

"And so," said Sherry, "when I come to work, Miranda Black remains where I live because she deserves a better life than the one that I can give her. I walk around the station, I'm out here with you, and all I am is a pleasant nonentity, Sherry Green. And you know why it's going to stay that way? Because I've found that when you let too many people into your life, or when too many people invade your space, you essentially evaporate--your spirit flies off somewhere, and you lose touch with it until one day it's gone and gone forever. That's what happened to Scarlet, but it's not happening to me. I live in this world and I use it, but it's not going to use me.

"Scarlet Waters can insult me as much as she wants, but it doesn't make any difference because I'll just use the name she gave me to protect myself. She does have a point--compared to her, I am Sherry Green, but I'm not going to be like her and end up being scarred for life. I'll be real careful before I open up my heart to anyone, and that will never happen around here."

It seemed to me that this was just another rationalization from another disillusioned cop and that Sherry was really no different from Scarlet, Jake, or myself. Certainly, she was more socially sophisticated and literate, but underneath it all, there was the same lurking animosity. It was astonishing to me the way that Sherry would invariably slam the door shut to all aspects of her personal life; it aroused my curiosity, and I couldn't help but wonder about her alter ego, Miranda Black. Who was this mysterious creature? Was she really that different or any different at all from Sherry Green? Using my own profiling abilities, I was able to gather that Miranda enjoyed being alone, had read many a book, and distrusted men because they were "too easy to let in and too hard to kick out." But these were utterly superficial facts, and I wondered about the reality of her dreams, the things that she yearned for, the desires of her life.

I must also admit that as time went by, I found her increasingly attractive, but she consistently presented herself in such a plain and nonsexual way that before long, and sometimes for days at a time, I thought of her, believe it or not, as neither a man nor a woman but as a force, a kind of "unidentified flying object" that had drifted into my world through the mystical arts of chance, circumstance, and coincidence. It is my absolute, irrevocable, unconditional belief that coincidence is the only real evidence we have that there _might_ be a god. (To be thinking about a fifty-dollar bill and then to suddenly look down at the ground and--My God--there it is!) But when Sherry and I had been thrown together three years before by Randall, I was subscribing to the commonly held belief that everything happened for a reason and was part of a grand design. Miranda would stretch this happy and nonsensical mantra of the airheads well past the breaking point; first, because I found her presence confusing, especially sexually; second, and much more importantly, no matter what anyone says, I wish to God that I had never met Miranda because through my own carelessness, I was forced to endure something that no human being should ever have to experience.

A few years previously, an eighteen-year-old who refused to give us his real name and claimed to be a direct descendent of Christ had been brought into the station. He had been out in Barfall Park on Christmas Eve giving away tabs of LSD and had obviously ingested the chemical sacrament that supposedly, according to a few overstimulated souls, produced divine revelations and sometimes, for the very lucky, actual communion with the Supreme Being Himself--or Herself, as the case may be. He was wearing a ripped windbreaker, tattered jeans, and sneakers with no laces. It had been an extremely cold day, no more than ten degrees with a strong wind from the north, and the Direct Descendent was still shivering when I went in to talk to him. He had no ID, no home, no money, no friends, nothing. If there is such a thing as Christ in the modern world, this kid was it.

He was laughing in a pleasant lighthearted way that under the circumstances struck me as somewhat eerie, perhaps suicidal. Occasionally, however, the laughter would abruptly stop, and he would burst into tears and weep convulsively--I felt a deep sense of compassion for him but said nothing. Suddenly, he looked at me with his pale blue eyes, which were opaque but piercing and said, "I know what the message of Christ is," and the sobs were again replaced by laughter. "It's not what people think." Here he began to shake, tried to control himself, and then totally lost it. I had never seen a person cry with such overwhelming passion--it was so intense that I felt tears coming to my eyes, even though it was obvious that I was facing a drug-crazed kid who had swallowed too many pills and flipped out. But the anguish was so real somehow, so heartfelt. Now, in a long instant, he regained his composure and pointed his finger at me. "The message to man is this: You've come to the wrong place because you've believed in the wrong things, but as long as you are here, then you had better laugh because if you don't, then you are going to start to cry."

For a while, I found it hard to put him out of my mind. There was something about it that I found puzzling, unfathomable, and definitely disturbing. I had the feeling, very distinct, that it had been a passion play put on solely for my benefit, a warning of something that was to come. Gradually, I forgot about it, but then, about five and a half months before the new century arrived, I realized that it had actually been a premonition or possibly a coincidence, and I knew exactly what the Direct Descendent had meant, but I was unable to either laugh or cry because I had become affixed to the third rail--the very live wire called rage.

## CHAPTER SEVEN: THE ART OF PROFILING

For Sherry and me, the Friday evening ritual, provided there weren't too many unsolved cases that required a special advisory meeting with Mister Prince and Master Pines, was to hightail it down to the Outpost and trade anecdotes with our kindred creatures of blue whose sorry fortune was to prowl through the dangerous underworld of drugs, rapes, guns, and murders while they remained on the whimsical leash of their obstreperous overlords. But Friday evening was fun night as everyone came in believing that he or she must surely be in possession of the week's most ridiculous tale. It might be that in the middle of a conference with Marvelous Mervin concerning the recent spate of drive-by shootings on Dogwire Drive, he had received a phone call from Arlene, his ornery, high-strung, offensive wife. These conversations were unhappy affairs with Mervin often rising from his desk and pacing rapidly around in circles while his voice rose to a hysterical pitch. Master Pines would often lose consciousness of those who might be present in the room, and I found it embarrassing to listen to these pathetic brawls. We had all seen variations on this theme at one time or another, but on Wednesday, he had reached a new plateau of frustration. As told to us by the two cops who were in the room with him at the time, Bailey Lane and Clyde Staley, Mervin began berating his wife with a torrent of phenomenally foul language that abruptly ceased when he ripped the phone line out of the wall, raised Mr. Bell's obnoxious invention over his head, hurled it to the floor, and then began to kick the pieces around the room. Not satisfied with that admonishment, he had chased the receiver into a corner of the room, grabbed it, and smashed it repeatedly on a nearby table until only a small fragment remained in his bloody hand, which had been severely gashed in the fracas. Clyde told us that the two of them had started to crack up and that Bailey, being seized by fits of uncontrollable laughter, had left the room. Doubled over and gasping for breath, he had been spotted by the Chief who assumed that he was having a heart attack. However, as Randall solicitously approached his stricken comrade, Mervin came flying out into the corridor with blood on his hand, his shirt, and his face. Displaying very poor professionalism, he began pounding his bloody paw on the wall while he screamed repeatedly, "I can't take it anymore." And then, before anyone could react, he raced across the hall to the break room, picked up the glass coffee pot, and hurled it violently into the wall where it was smashed to smithereens.

The Chief reacted promptly and decisively. Bailey and Clyde were quickly rounded up and informed that what they had just witnessed had not actually occurred, and if they made any allusion about it to anyone else within the Department, they would be dealt with harshly. ("But we're off duty!" Jake interjected triumphantly.) Randall went on to tell them that, as veterans, they ought to know and appreciate that Mervin was under extraordinary stress. The murder of the Drug Czar, the drive by shootings, and the continual disappearance of employees at the Bullet and Bomb Emporium, just to name a few of the more obvious problems, were putting a strain on Mervin. No one was aware of the stress involved in successful profiling, and it was the Chief's opinion that the Profiler in Chief needed an assistant to help carry the load. Only yesterday, he had heard Mervin complaining about the electronic pencil sharpener in the supply room that had malfunctioned and swallowed up three of his best pencils, erasers included. Randall had leaned forward to the two detectives and confidentially informed them that a successful profiler never used a pen because of the shadowy nature of the work, which required constant adjustments and enhancements. Mervin had been forced to forgo his lunch hour and dash out to the nearest dollar store and purchase, with his own money, not only the pencils but also a pencil sharpener. Unluckily, rather than sharpening the pencils, it tended, being a cheap piece of trash, to break the points off into blunt nubs. The Chief had scurried down to petty cash, withdrawn thirty dollars, and bought Mervin a wonderful Ultra Point Power Sharpener that was guaranteed to hone the tips into lethal weapons. But wouldn't you know it? When they took it out of the box, they found that it used neither batteries nor a plug but required an adapter, which was, of course, not included. Fortunately, with the crisis now escalating to historic proportions, Randall was seized with the inspiration of making inquiries with the secretaries in the outer office where a serviceable sharpener was at last discovered, and the problem, so unexpected and at the same time so vexing, had been happily resolved.

As another cop, Tyler Grimes, joined the table, Larry sent over free pitchers of beer and a bottle of vodka. "We'll have to buy Mervin a fancy pen for Christmas," said the easygoing but enigmatic Tyler, "but let's rig it so it leaks and spews ink everywhere—that'll drive him crazy. Remember the time that someone stole his crayons?"

Laughing, Clyde said, "I was there when he discovered they were missing. I can remember him telling me, 'Those were the implements that I used to measure the full spectrum of the universe of possibilities.' Did you know that they were fluorescent?"

"What the devil is a fluorescent crayon?" said Jake as he pounded down a shot.

"They're sophisticated tools," said Clyde, "but I'm only a run-of-the-mill detective and have absolutely no idea what role they might play in a criminal investigation."

"I suppose," said Bailey, "that if there were a power failure at a murder scene in the middle of the night, you could use a crayon to mark a big X on the victim's forehead so that no one would stumble over the body."

"No," said Sherry, "that doesn't make sense. You're thinking of things that glow in the dark--like your watch."

"Not so fast there, Sherry," said Jake. "The X would glow if you shined a flashlight on it, wouldn't it?"

We all laughed and Clyde said, "The worst part for Mervin was that he'd received the crayons during his two-week stint at the Profiler's School in Ratpester Dump. 'I probably would never have used them,' he said to me, 'because they were a personal gift from the Director, Hamilton Head.' At that point, I had to leave the room because it appeared to me that he might be about to cry."

"Kids and their crayons," said Bailey. "An outsider wouldn't believe any of this; they'd think it would be impossible for anyone in a position of such authority to be so ludicrously childish."

"People would refuse to believe it," said Sherry, "because it's actually more depressing to face absurdity than violence--that's why everyone accepts violence as a fact of life and ignores absurdity."

Philosophy, for lack of a better word, was one of the few subjects that Sherry was not reticent to discuss, and I found it interesting to listen to her when she left her inhibitions behind. "Would you mind explaining that?" I asked her mischievously.

She turned slightly and stared directly into my eyes. "Because violence seems rational--you know, you fooled around with my wife, and now I'm going to kill you. Violence doesn't seem to destroy the basis of existence but absurdity does. There was an article in the Sentinel a few years back about some young, innocent kid who was riding his bicycle through a park in Bleakfester Dump and was shot through the head and killed instantly by a wild round from a cop who was returning fire from one of the Psycho Cycle Gang. It would have been better if it was a sniper picking out victims at random because at least we could have sent the character to a shrink and received some kind of explanation."

"You realize what you're saying, don't you?" I said. "If there's no explanation for an event, then that refutes the idea of God."

"Not really, Jackson. As a detective, I would say it refutes the ideas we have about God. If He, She, or It exists, that Being may not be anywhere near as loving, just, or merciful as the prophets have led us to believe."

A brief silence descended upon us as the participants of our drinking conference grappled with the long leap from a malfunctioning pencil sharpener to the psychological characteristics of the Supreme Being of our universe. Jake, in particular, looked unusually gloomy at this unexpected interruption to our merriment and poured out a shot that he handed to Sherry. "Sometimes, much as I hate to say it, you're better off drinking and not thinking so much. There are a million terrible ways to look at life, and I think alcohol is an underestimated antidote. That's your trouble, Sherry--you think too much and drink too little."

"Well, I'm trying, Jake." She took the shot glass and drank half of it. "How about you? Did you have any encounters with the Chief or his sidekick?"

"Every time I'm here, you always end up talking about those two," said Tyler, who worked undercover in narcotics and only occasionally drank with us.

"That's because all roads lead to the Prince and Pines Motel," said Bailey. "The Emporium would have to blow up before we started talking about someone else, but even then, Mervin would have done something so half-witted with his string-and-ruler routine that we'd all be saying, 'No, that couldn't be true--nobody's that stupid.'"

"It wasn't so bad this week," said Jake in response to Sherry's question. "All I got was another atrocious e-mail from Mervin--this one was about the bulletin board, which he feels has been peppered with notices containing poor grammar, spelling mistakes, and grossly inaccurate punctuation that only serve to bring disrepute upon the Department. He seems to be under the impression that I'm in the habit of leaving messages there, but I don't even know where it's located. Maybe, if someone can point me in the right direction, I'll post an official-looking statement informing the rank and file that the Putrid Prince and the Parasitic Pines have been terminated. But before I do that, I am now required to submit an advance copy to Mervin who will make sure that it meets his impeccable standards. I might add, although I'm sure none of you will be surprised, that he misspelled two words--grammar with an e and goosely for grossly."

"That's tame," said Sherry. "You should forfeit a shot of vodka for bringing up something like that." Jake shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms up. "Best I can do, Ms. Green. Don't tell me that you have something that can top the pencil story?"

I knew what was coming. "I think I might," she said with a gleam in her eye. This was unusual for Sherry who generally abstained from pouring gasoline on the bonfire of gossip we lit up every Friday night. As she began talking, her eyes caught mine and there was a trace of a wink, or maybe it was merely a sparkle of wit. "Well, Clyde," she began, "that explains the bandage on Mervin's hand. When I asked him about it, he said that while he was diagramming angles of fire with his plastic protractor, it had snapped and slashed his hand. Anyhow, Jackson and I were in his office with Randall about three hours ago to discuss Clayton's murder."

"He's cracked the case!" said Jake triumphantly.

"You're close," said Sherry, "only you have the tense wrong--this afternoon it was solved, but as it stands now, we're all the way back to square one."

"Sherry!" said Clyde reproachfully, "I thought you were going to come up with something original--Profiler solves first case after fifty straight whiffs. You'll never top my story by telling us that he tripped over the evidence and fell flat on his face again."

"But Clyde," said Sherry with mock seriousness as she finished off her vodka, "this one has some _unique_ features that I find _peculiar._ " We laughed at Sherry's precise imitation of Mervin's words and accents. "When Jackson and I walked into his office, he was explaining to the Chief how he had once caught a huge fish with a stick, an electric cord, and a bobby pin that he had honed with his pocket knife. 'Well, Miss Green' said Mervin who appeared to be irritated at the interruption, 'we caught a much bigger fish today--only a few minutes ago, we were able to arrest the murderer of Clayton Shane. I really nailed it this time. It's the little things that always get them, but without patting myself on the back excessively, I must say that only a person who is thoroughly trained to search for the psychological nuances that are present in every case can hope to make sense of the many bewildering clues that are to be found or not found at the scene of the crime. There is a famous murder mystery that has always struck me as salient to our line of work, and although I have forgotten the details, which are not important and serve only to distract the amateur investigator who is not able to sift the wheat from the chaff and come to a proper distillation of the relevance of the available data, the central thesis of this tale was that while the protagonist was knifed to death in his bed, his loyal watchdog never made a sound, which clearly indicated that the murderer must have known the victim, and thus--'"

"Not that stupid dog story again," said Tyler. "I don't know how many times I've heard that. One thing's for sure--if I ever kill anyone, I'll know enough to shoot the dog."

"And next comes the same old sermon from Preacher Pines," said Bailey. "I'm sure we've all heard it at least three times in our lives: Everything we discover at a crime scene is insignificant, and it is only when we're willing to look for what isn't there that we'll be able to solve the case."

"When he asked me to name the most important thing not present at the scene of the Wilson murders," said Jake, "I told him that I found the absence of the perpetrator to be a very disturbing feature of the case. What did he find that wasn't there, Sherry?"

"Actually, Jake, I don't know why he brought up the dog story because, ironically, what actually happened was that he found something at Clayton's that he definitely should have ignored. Around noon, he'd driven over and personally examined the crime scene, and the thing that struck him, forcibly struck him, was the electric clock in Clayton's bedroom. The alarm, which was still activated, had been set for 6:30 a.m., but the clock had stopped at exactly 6:36 when someone had unplugged it from the wall. 'Now,' said Mervin, 'we know from the records of the cab company that drove Crystal back from Roosters and Hens that she arrived home at 6:16, but when we interrogated her this afternoon and I questioned her about the alarm, she denied that it had ever rung. The conclusion, I must say, at least for me, is obvious--especially when you consider that Crystal's 911 call came in at 6:37. First of all, even an amateur without the special training that I have received can deduct that Clayton was dead by 6:30 when the alarm began ringing. Otherwise, he would have awakened. That's elementary. But secondly, and the thing that I found profoundly fascinating was the fact that the alarm had rung for a full six minutes. As you know, I am very thorough and fair, and I considered the delicate fact that Crystal might have been unaware of the grim situation in the bedroom and was in the toilet doing...actually, that doesn't matter. However, like all criminals, she talked too much and made the mistake of telling me that before she discovered Clayton's body, she had been sitting in the living room just outside Clayton's open bedroom door and was reading a horror book, which happened to be _The_ _Emissions_ _of_ _an_ _Elderly_ _Madman_ by Barker Drule.'" (Both Sherry and I noticed that this was quite different from the account that Crystal had given us earlier in the morning.)

"'Now I had her,' continued Mervin, 'and the trap snapped shut! I suppose she could have claimed that Barker's book was so engrossing that she never heard the alarm, but then how did it come to be unplugged? The alarm is set for 6:30, the clock is unplugged at 6:36 with the alarm still activated, and the 911 call is at 6:37. AHA! GOTCHA, BABY! Since everyone looks confused, I'll tell you what it means. Crystal murdered her father about 6:25, and while she's in the process of freaking out because there's blood spurting out all over the place, she never even hears the alarm. Maybe she's out in the kitchen washing the blood off her guilty hands; maybe she's hyperventilating and is running around in circles like an exhausted panting dog; maybe she's wiping the gun down and is trying to figure out where she left her prints. She's not completely stupid because only Clayton's prints are on the alarm clock, but she wasn't smart enough to outwit someone who's had, thanks to Randall, the experience of being sent to Ratpester Dump where I was educated by the world's foremost forensic scientist, the esteemed Hamilton Head.'"

Sherry paused and refilled her shot glass. "Why don't you tell them what happened next, Jackson."

"Wait a second," said Bailey. "This doesn't make any sense to me at all. Mervin is saying that the alarm rang for six minutes? I would think a murderer would shut that down real quick."

"That does seem obvious, doesn't it?" said Sherry with a laugh. "But Mervin was obsessed with the fact that he had caught Crystal in a lie--thought he had caught her in a lie."

"To tell you the truth, Bailey," I said, "it was all passing over my head. I always try to tune Mervin out because it ends up being a bunch of half-baked theories based on useless, irrelevant facts that you have to remember to forget. Plus, I'm liable to get embroiled in an argument with him over one of his stupidities, but Sherry is still laboring under the assumption that apprehending the real offender is an essential part of our jobs."

"It's a bad habit, Jackson, and one that I'm trying to break, but I do get carried away sometimes, don't I?"

"That's where my experience is an asset," I said knowingly. "I've discovered that the quicker you agree with him, the sooner you're out of there. Unfortunately, what happened was that Sherry, being a rookie at this game, asked to see the photographs from the crime scene. I should have stepped in at that point, but as usual, I was lazy and slow to react. While she examined the pictures, Mervin tilted back in his chair and gave Randall one of his smug glances. It was easy to imagine them later that evening in Randall's office talking about how they had really stuck it to all of us nitpickers and backstabbers who thought a few years on the street could somehow supplant the experience of sitting at the feet of Hamilton Head.

"After a minute or so, Sherry looked up from the photos and told Mervin that there wasn't a plug anywhere near the clock. Mervin, supercilious as ever, wanted to know what the significance of that insignificant fact might be. 'Why,' said Sherry, 'wouldn't Crystal have just pushed in the alarm button instead of pulling out the plug and moving the clock to another part of the room?' Mervin is now beginning to become annoyed. 'How should I know?' he said. 'Maybe she was distracted, but what difference does it make? I told you, Randall, I've got too much on my plate to explain myself to a couple of drunken Neanderthals.'

"Meanwhile, Sherry had taken out her cell phone and called over to Clayton's where she had Buster Madison examine the clock. Shortly afterwards, she clicked the phone shut and gave Mervin a hard, even contemptuous look that--"

"It was not contemptuous, Jackson--I was totally flabbergasted."

"She says to Mervin, 'There's a much more serious problem with your theory. The clock is broken--when Buster plugged it in, nothing happened.' Mervin's voice now took on a very nasty edge as he said, 'You're the one who said that she moved the clock across the room; probably, when she ripped the cord out of the wall, she was frantic with fear and ruined it. That's something that happens all the time at my house where every year I have to buy a couple of new appliances because my stupid wife is always yanking the cords out of the sockets when she's vacuuming.'"

At the Outpost, everybody burst into laughter. Besides the humorous demise of Mervin's theory, there were a number of spontaneous jokes about the dreaded cord-ripping ability of his cantankerous wife.

"Wait," I said, "we haven't even got to the funniest part yet."

"It better not be too much funnier, Jackson, or I'll die laughing," said Jake as he tried to down a monster shot of vitamin V but ended up slopping most of it onto his shirt.

Sherry looked at Jake and said, "This is the part where I really thought someone should call for the tranquilizer, the dart gun, and the straight jacket."

"Alright," I said, "it's lucky for me that everyone here is familiar with Mervin--otherwise, you would never believe what I am about to tell you.

"After a few moments of deep and dark reflection, Mervin said, 'I've got some information for you two: It doesn't even matter about the alarm clock because no matter which way you roll the dice, Crystal Shane is guilty. Now Ms. Green,' he said spitefully, 'see if you can answer this one, Miss Smarty Pants. There Crystal is, by her own admission, sitting only ten feet from her dead father's room while she's reading _The_ _Emissions_ _of_ _an_ _Elderly_ _Madman,_ and--'

"'Don't you mean admissions?' asked Sherry.

"'Dear God!' Mervin exclaimed as he slapped his hand to his forehead. 'Randall, these people are cultural barbarians! No, Ms _._ Green, emissions is the word, and just to get you up to speed on your vocabulary, there's a big difference between an admission and an emission. Here we have the number-one selling book for the last thirty weeks, by Barker Drule, no less, and you've never even heard of it. What do you do at night--read comic books and munch on popcorn? That's alright, Randall,' he said pompously, 'I know I should stop, but there are some things that need to be said, and these boozed-out prima donnas are going to listen. I'm tired of talking to people who think Hamilton Head is a new brand of imported beer.

"'First of all, Ms. Green, let me enlighten you as to the significance of this book and how it pertains to the crime. _The_ _Emissions_ _of_ _an_ _Elderly_ _Madman_ is a skillfully, I might even say exquisitely written tale of an axe murderer named Max Hacker who, in his younger years, had stalked the secluded areas of our national parks and chopped people up without the slightest remorse. Can you imagine? During these grisly, nocturnal excursions, he would bring with him his faithful dog, Fido the First, and together, after the ritualistic barbecue, they would partake of the remains. Don't worry, Randall, bear with me--I'm getting to the point. However, when Max was thirty-five, Fido, old and wobbly, choked on a bone and died in his master's arms under the glare of a blood-red full moon. Max, heartbroken over his tragic loss, takes the death of his companion as a warning from God and undergoes a religious conversion. Remarkably, he is transformed into an honorable, law-abiding citizen--so much so that he becomes a rather obnoxious prig. To be honest, I think this is rather overdone by Barker, as it becomes boring to read fifty straight pages of moralistic rubbish and sacramental gibberish, but the writing is so polished and flows unctuously with such a subtle beauty that the reader is left utterly mesmerized in the hands of this modern master of letters.

"'At any rate, after the passage of many years, Max eventually purchases another dog, Fido the Second, and before long, he finds that the old urges are beginning to return. He fights them off as best as he can, but finally and inevitably, Max succumbs to the dark side of his nature. By now, however, he is nearly seventy and has developed arthritis, which makes it difficult for him to grip his trusty axe. Nevertheless, and only after availing himself of some powerful new pills from the pharmaceutical industry that are guaranteed to alleviate his condition, he and Fido leave the house at midnight. Max has now completely risen above his ethical quibbles and is eager to return to the gory days of his youth. Reaching a park on the outskirts of the city, he hides awkwardly in some thorny bushes until he spots his prey--a young couple who are embracing romantically and are oblivious to the horrifying danger that is about to descend upon them.

"'Suddenly,' said Mervin as he slammed his hand down on the desk for effect and a startled Randall jumped futilely in his chair, 'Max lurches out of the bushes, and with Fido yapping stupidly at his heels, he raises the axe to deliver the fatal blows.

"'Then comes a twist of plot that is the mark of a truly great craftsman. Unfortunately for Max, the pills for his ailment turn out to be placebos he received from a quack doctor who had only recently escaped in a laundry truck from a mental institution where he had been incarcerated for numerous violations of the National Terrorist Act. Unbelievable, isn't it? In all my life, I have never read such an enthralling tale. Be quiet, Randall, and let me finish for once; when the time comes, you'll understand what I'm talking about. I can't believe that you haven't read this book, Ms. Green. How can you possibly hope to be an educated person if you turn your back on our greatest living author?

"'Where was I? Ah yes...back at the park a terrible pain shoots through Max's wrist, and he loses control of the axe, which falls harmlessly to the ground. The woman screams, of course, but the man charges at Max and punches him in the face. A seventy-year-old defenseless man, for God's sake! I know how liberals like you are, Jackson--you're thinking that Max got what he deserved, but that's not the issue. What Barker is addressing so eloquently, as far as I can tell, are the problems of aging that all of us, without any exception, are going to face--even axe murderers.

"'Yes, Randall, I'm not deaf--what's the point? Everybody wants to know what the point of everything is. OK, I'll tell you what the point is. Crystal was reading the book--anybody want to argue with that? What's more, she'd left a bookmark in that book, and where do you suppose it was? Any guesses? How about you, Ms. Green? You seem to know all the answers to everything today.

"'Since you're all so stupidly silent, I'll have to tell you, and when I do, you'll be forced to admit that we might just as well stamp guilty on Crystal Shane's forehead with a branding iron, and then, of course, the liberals with their rotten hides will come pouring out of the woodwork and start complaining about due process and the rest of that legal hogwash that they throw in everybody's face while the rapists and axe murderers run around with their writs of habeas corpus and bellow about their rights. Crystal just happened to be on the exact page where Max is trying to fight off his demons but is swallowed up by the return of his former self, the bloodthirsty ogre. Now isn't that a coincidence? Of all the pages, that happens to be the one she is reading. Even a blindfolded moron on roller skates could solve this one. But also, if you had studied crime and been proctored by Hamilton Head, then you would know that coincidence is the key that opens the door to all of the great mysteries. When you have what Hamilton calls a perfect coincidence, a one in a million shot, then there you have your solution.'"

Clyde was the first one to break through the laughter. "So what happened to Crystal? They can't possibly bring her to trial on that."

"What are you talking about?" said Jake. "It's an airtight case--an alarm clock that wasn't plugged in and doesn't work because his wife snapped the cord during one of her vacuuming safaris. What more do you want?"

"And don't forget the book!" said Tyler. "What was the name of it? Emissions from Extraterrestrial Cannibals as interpreted by Mervin Pines and Hamilton Head? Crystal's cooked."

"Imagine some lawyer like Early Borridge in the courtroom with this one," said Bailey. "He'll be laughing so hard that he'll blow a blood vessel."

"Unfortunately, Randall isn't that stupid," I said. "When Sherry and I left the room, Randall walked out with us and took us into his office. 'Mervin is a genius,' he said. 'We all know that, but sometimes he gets ahead of himself. There's no doubt that Crystal is guilty, but today she hired that viper lawyer, Oliver Polk. I don't want to have that oily turkey in my office threatening a lawsuit because we don't have every i dotted and t crossed. I decided to play it smart and have cut Crystal loose--that'll give her enough rope to hang herself, and I'm sure that before long, we'll end up arresting her for the murder of her father. I must say that it truly amazes me how Mervin always hits the bull's eye, and I still think he's onto something with that clock--we should consider the possibility that someone might have deliberately broken it to make him look ridiculous.'"

"You know," said Clyde slowly, "somebody should do something about those two. It's gone on long enough, wouldn't you say?"

## CHAPTER EIGHT: PRANKS AND SUPERPRANKS

Around six-thirty the following Monday morning, I was eating an early breakfast when the phone rang. "Mister James," said Chief Prince, "you have fifteen minutes to get down to the station."

"But Randall, I can't possibly--"

"I don't care if you're barefoot and wearing your pajamas--so much the better. For your information, I am sending a squad car out to your house, and if you haven't left by the time it gets there, you _will_ be arrested."

Before he abruptly hung up, I could hear Randall curse, which was quite unusual for him. "Who was that?" asked Gloria who seemed to be unusually grumpy.

"The Chief--I need to leave here now."

"What's the big crisis this time? Somebody wet their bed?" Fortunately, I was dressed and could bolt out of the house without bothering to reply to that not so solicitous remark, but as I crossed the lawn and approached my car, I could hear Gloria following me. "Don't you remember," she said bitterly as she stood in front of me in her bathrobe, "that I was going to drive you to work, so Cassandra and I could go shopping."

It was difficult for me to concentrate on what she was saying since I had become neurotically obsessed with the idea that a patrol car might be coming around the corner at any second, and I would then suffer the humiliation of being arrested on my front lawn. Randall was probably only bluffing, but it was not a chance that I was willing to take for the sake of yet another senseless argument with Gloria. Committing another one of my many acts of unavoidable perjury, I said, "I'll only be a few minutes, and then--"

"Am I supposed to believe that? You must think I'm brain damaged. There's no way that my day's going to be ruined because Randall needs to have his diapers changed. Wait here," she said imperiously; "it will only take me five minutes to get dressed." Five minutes, I thought to myself--let's try fifty-five.

Fumbling frantically through my pockets, I finally found the car keys but was distracted by our next-door neighbor, Johnny Wentworth, who was struggling down his driveway with a large barrel of rubbish. Old and somewhat feeble, he suddenly lost his balance, which was shaky even under the best of circumstances, and with a giant clatter plummeted onto the pavement. As I gazed in concern towards him, Gloria, who had begun to walk away, turned around and hissed, "Look at that clumsy oaf--he looks like you after one of your Friday evening binge-drinking parties."

Angered by this gratuitous insult, I yanked open the car door, jumped into the driver's seat, thrust the keys into the ignition, instantly revved up the engine, and bucked forward. In the rearview mirror, I could see that Gloria was actually running after the car. "Jackson! Come back here!" Squealing the tires, I accelerated out of the driveway and turned onto the road, but I could still hear her yelling at me as if it were life or death. Passing by Johnny's house, I could see that he appeared to be dazed and was sitting on his front lawn, but unfortunately, with the cops coming at me from one direction and Gloria pursuing me from another, there was no way, much as I regret to say it, that I could allow myself the luxury of being a good Samaritan, and with the pedal to the metal, I roared away.

Arriving at the station, I saw the Chief standing morosely in the parking lot, and it was impossible for me not to ponder the incomprehensible nature of his behavior. Randall was a proud and reserved man who invariably maintained his composure--it was easy for me to envision him as the stoic captain of an ocean liner who certainly wasn't going to have his feathers ruffled by a few icebergs that the paranoid dimwits in the crow's nest were yelping about. But now, as I exited my car, I saw him pointing at me while he shouted hoarsely, "Get into my office, James, or I'll have you dragged in."

Well! And how are you faring today, Mr. Sunshine? By now, I had switched into passive-aggressive mode, and even though I was quite concerned, I sauntered inside the building and went, as a matter of habit, to the coffee pot for a jolt of rejuvenation. Astonishingly, before I could even begin pouring out the sacred java, Randall grabbed the plastic cup that I had in my hand and hurled it to the floor. Impulsively, after all the accumulated aggravations of this nonsensical morning, I lost my temper and decided to go on the offensive. I kicked, or attempted to kick, the cup that was at my feet in Randall's direction, and instinctively, he retreated. Good! Now that I had the initiative, I approached the ornery mule in what I hoped was a sufficiently threatening manner and said with as much menace as I could muster, "Go back into your office and cool down, Randall. It's early in the morning, and I can't function without coffee. No matter what you think, I haven't done anything to you."

Moving slowly away from me, he said, "We'll see about that, Mister James. Make it snappy before I have you arrested."

When I entered his office, he was waiting near the entrance, and after I had crossed the threshold, he slammed the door with such force that a picture of our esteemed mayor left its moorings on the wall and toppled with a crash to the floor. Extremely puzzled and very uneasy, I sat down at a small table where Randall put a computer-printed note in front of me and said, "This was posted on the bulletin board in the front office. I don't suppose you know anything about it, do you?" Slowly, to give myself time to react, I read the following:

To the concerned citizens of Darwin City:

Today, Mayor Branklin Fell has announced that Chief of Police Randall Prince and his longtime aide, Mervin Pines, have been summarily and permanently dismissed. The grounds for this action as well as the charges that will be brought to bear are gross incompetence, absconding with public funds for personal gain, and numerous counts of sexual improprieties. In a statement released from City Hall late Saturday night, the Mayor made it plain that while the acts of misconduct pertained only to Randall Prince, he thought that it was in the best interests of everyone involved to also terminate the employment of Mr. Pines for reasons that will be dealt with in a forthcoming memorandum.

As for the Chief of Police, I find that the following list of offenses clearly constitute sufficient grounds for his immediate removal from office.

(I should interject here that there are a number of telling irregularities in this bizarre document, which I overlooked when I first read it. Most obvious, but by no means the most important, is the peculiar alteration of the voice of the narrator, which changes from an anonymous reporter to that of Branklin Fell.)

First, the ineffectiveness and stupidity of Randall Prince have been brought to my attention numerous times by scores of concerned citizens, and I am unfortunately forced to conclude that he is a buffoon who would be more suitably employed at the circus as a clown. Secondly, I have an authorized receipt that shows he removed thirty dollars from petty cash, which he used to purchase an Ultra Point Power Sharpener. Third, and most alarmingly, I have received irreferable (although this might, perhaps, be a word and actually does make sense within the given context, I am sure the writer meant to say irrefutable) proof that Randall Prince has engaged in multiple acts of gross sexual misconduct that are as outrageous as they are reprehensible. In the last month alone, he has placed, from his desk, over four thousand dollars' worth of calls to a 900 number where he has engaged in graphic phone sex with numerous young ladies. Even worse, it has been reliably reported to me that he has continually badgered and harassed many women in the Department. It is common knowledge that late one evening, he chased Birdie Swanson around and around her desk and that when she had fled from his grotesque and disgusting advances by dashing into an elevator, he was able to squeeze inside the doors where he attempted to perform a forbidden sexual act. However, when the elevator doors unexpectedly opened, his shameful conduct was publicly exposed, and he was forced to desist from his vigorous but vile intentions.

The former Police Chief is not considered violent but is undeniably dangerous. If he is observed on the premises, he is to be arrested immediately. Upon his successful apprehension, his vehicle should be seized and towed to the junkyard where, by my order, it will be crushed into a block of scrap metal, which will be donated to charity. Anyone who does not immediately detain him will be considered as aiding and abetting the commission of a serious crime and will face a felony charge of criminal conspiracy.

Branklin Fell

As I neared the end of this funny and not so funny document, a number of things went through my mind. The reference to the Ultra Point Power Sharpener made it clear to me that this had to have been written by somebody who was at our table at the Outpost the preceding Friday night. However, it was more than conclusive proof of this person's presence amongst us--for some reason, the writer had been remarkably explicit in demonstrating his knowledge of our conversation that evening. Had there been no mention of the Sharpener, the note could conceivably have been written by almost anyone on the force. For this reason, I felt that the originator of this malicious prank had taken an exceptional risk: How could he (or, most improbably, she) expect not to be discovered? Except for Tyler Grimes, I knew everyone at that table very well, and I could say with virtual certainty that none of them--Jake, Sherry, Bailey, or Clyde--could have written that note. But on the other hand, Tyler, being an outsider to our circle, would know that we would suspect him. Could he be that reckless? And what would be his motive?

Moving beyond the blatant absurdity of even mentioning the thirty-dollar theft from petty cash, which was well within Randall's rights and certainly paled before the other charges that the author had leveled against him, where in the world did the sentence about donating a block of scrap metal to charity come from? What kind of mind would write something like that? And who was it, I wondered as my mind raced down one corridor after another, that had brought up the idea of posting a notice on the bulletin board? I couldn't remember--probably it was Jablonski, but he would never sneak into the building and do something that was so juvenile. Also, practically speaking, what would happen with the discovery of our little soiree at the Outpost? There were too many people present to hope that its existence would become buried in the annals of time, and the worst thing of all, from my point of view, was that I had been the first one unlucky enough to be questioned. That would be a major and perhaps catastrophic disadvantage as the others, including, of course, the perpetrator, would have time to adapt and correlate their stories before they packaged them up with the usual concoction of half-truths, subtle lies, and outright whoppers. And finally, why was I such a prime suspect? There was absolutely nothing in the note that connected it to me.

"I didn't have a thing to do with this, Randall."

"Is that so? It sounds like your sick idea of humor to me. I wasn't halfway through it before I said to myself, 'If this isn't Jackson Slimeball James, then he has a twin.' So, let me ask you, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?"

On the basis of what? Why was he so sure that I was the author? There were easily twenty people within the Department who were capable of such an act--at an absolute, rock-bottom minimum. As for the lie detector test, I had been vaguely aware of that cloud upon the horizon, but I hadn't actively prepared an answer and had no idea what to say. I would undoubtedly be asked if I had any foreknowledge of the deed, and there was a reasonable chance that I might fail the test. As I struggled to find a reply, the phone on Randall's desk rang. Before he picked it up, he said to me, "Squirming in your chair a little bit, aren't you, Mister James?" Quite true.

But then, from the far reaches of left field, I was granted a reprieve as Randall sat bolt upright and barked into the phone, "WHAT? That's impossible...lock the doors. LOCK THE DOORS! Nobody gets out of here. Nobody! I don't care if their wife is having a baby in the parking lot. If anybody tries to leave, then arrest them. You heard what I said--it doesn't matter if it's Branklin Fell, Adolph Hitler, or Queen Victoria--ARREST THEM. You can let people into the building, but nobody gets out of here until Mervin and I figure out what's really going on."

What next? Looking bitterly at me, the Chief said, "Somebody has stolen all of the drugs from the dungeon." This was the small room in the basement that housed a huge safe that was twelve feet wide, six feet high, and five feet deep--three hundred and sixty cubic feet of space that had been crammed with the drugs we had garnered over the last several years in our various, never ending parade of drug busts. Although they were (theoretically) destroyed after each case was settled, we had to wait for the lawyers to plod through their plea-bargaining rituals, or if the case went to trial and the defendant was convicted, there was the interminable trek through the Sahara that went by the name of the Appeals Court. A truly gargantuan stash of pot, speed, coke, LSD, hash, opium, heroin, ecstasy, and a variety of other peculiar substances had vanished into thin air. No wonder Randall was upset--everyone would assume that it was an inside job, which it probably was, and when the pit bulls in the press got their voracious teeth into this juicy plum, there was no telling what would happen.

Sergeant Milton Cropp came barging into the room and was closely followed by Mervin who gave me a look that he probably would have bestowed upon a dead rat. Milton had a ramrod posture, flattop haircut, and an abrasive voice that I found irritating. He was waving a small piece of paper that he had discovered in the empty safe. "Another note," said Mervin as he eyed me spitefully. Randall and Mervin studied this new missive carefully, and when they had finished. they looked at me with absolute amazement. The phone rang and Randall picked it up and slammed it back down. This was repeated twice more until he punched up a dial tone so that any further incoming calls would be met by a busy signal. Then, pointing at me, he gave the note back to Milton who delivered it to me.

Dear Mr. Police Chief,

Lately, I have become bored with my feeble life--even my pornographic magazines don't interest me anymore. Then there is my job where I have to stare at your ugly flea-bitten face all day long. One of these days, you should look into the mirror, and after you've finished throwing up, you'll realize why I've turned into such an irritable jerk. I wish I could get on a rocket ship and fly to the moon or maybe even go someplace outside of this stupid solar system, but I am a physical wreck and would never be accepted into the astronaut program. I am sincerely hoping that these drugs, which I solemnly promise to use recreationally unless I need some quick cash, will give me the massive lift that I so desperately need--especially sexually.

Your drunken servant,

Jackson James

Shell shocked, my thought process came to a momentary halt. "It's certainly obvious that I didn't write this," I stammered.

Randall was drumming his fingers on the desk and glaring at me.

"Obvious?" shouted Mervin. "It's an obvious double ruse. You expected by signing your own name that you would eliminate yourself as a subject--it's an old ploy of amateur criminals, and one that I'm quite familiar with."

"I never thought of that," said Randall with a sense of admiration and wonder. "Of course...it all makes sense now. He comes in here with his pathetic memo that he posts on the bulletin board, and then, for good measure, he raids the drug cache. I bet if we search his house, we'll find the drugs. Thank God you're here Mervin, or--"

The door burst open, startling us all. Randall's personal secretary, Harriet Goebbels, came dashing into the room followed closely by an extremely agitated Branklin Fell. "Randall," said Harriet, "we've been trying to get through on the phone and--"

Branklin literally shoved her aside with his hand, and she went veering wildly off course towards Sergeant Cropp who remained at parade rest beside the fallen picture of the Mayor.

"What do you think you're doing?" the Mayor bawled out to a petrified Randall.

Captain Prince suddenly realized that his ship had not only hit a large iceberg but was also being simultaneously torpedoed. Stuttering, he attempted to mitigate the upcoming catastrophe that would befall the Department when the drug theft became public, and the result was a somewhat incoherent response. "I--we, I should say that the full weight of our investigators is currently being assessed, and besides developing a rigorous plan of attack, which we expect to implement immediately, we are, as we speak, probing through the multiple mounds of data that are currently available to us."

"What are you talking about, Chumpwit?" screamed the Mayor. "Here we have the most horrible crime in the history of Darwin City, and in the first half hour, you've managed to get two safety patrol officers to the scene."

"Safety patrol officers?" said Randall. "What are you talking about?"

"Talking about?" Branklin pounded his fist on the desk, and Randall jerked back in his chair.

"Sir, Mr. Honorable Mayor," Harriet interjected, "the Chief has been involved in a serious internal issue this morning, and so he is not familiar with what happened at--"

"Serious issue? I don't think the collection of retarded mutants and half-dead buzzards that I see in this room are capable of doing anything but discussing the depths and severities of their hangovers. And who is this sick-looking turkey?" he said whirling around and looking at me.

"Detective James, sir."

"Detective? What are you doing sitting there? The greatest disaster to ever hit Darwin City, and here you are chewing the fat with these febrile donkeys."

Today, the Mayor was a bit of a disaster himself. His silver-grey hair, which was always meticulously combed and then slicked back with an aromatic, sticky grease he had purchased on one of his many jaunts to Bleakfester Dump, was wildly astray and flopping around his face. Meanwhile, his shirt was, for the most part, unbuttoned, one of his shoes was untied, and worst of all, his fly was only partially zipped up. "Let's hit it, Detective James," said Branklin who was beginning to show some signs of serious distemper. "I need to examine the scene myself; you can drive me there."

"You can't do that!" said an agitated Randall who had risen out of his chair. "Where are you going? You can't take him--he's under investigation for a series of crimes."

The Mayor, surprisingly fit and aggressive for his age, spun around, grabbed Randall by the shirt, and hurled him backwards into his swivel chair, but the Chief landed awkwardly, and the chair flipped over backwards causing Randall to do an awkward somersault that left him ignominiously sprawled face down on the floor. While Mervin rushed to the aid of his mentor who seemed to be having some trouble gaining his bearings after the unexpected capsizing of his usually reliable chair, Branklin imperiously beckoned to me, and I was quite happy to follow him out of the room, although I had not the faintest idea where we were going.

However, we encountered a not altogether unexpected roadblock as we attempted to exit the building. Two part-time officers, Bugsy Washington and Gumper Hayes, stood at the door and refused to allow either of us to pass. An incredulous Branklin kept screaming, "I'm the Mayor! I'm Branklin Fell. Get out of my way!" From behind us, I heard the harsh authoritarian voice of Milton Cropp. "Back off, Mr. Mayor--we're in lockdown, and orders are orders." Branklin, thoroughly enraged, tried to muscle his way through the defensive perimeter but was no match for his stouthearted adversaries, and when Milton reached us, he jerked Branklin's arms behind his back and briskly handcuffed the thrashing Mayor.

Just then, the fire alarm went off. We were blessed with a sonorous high-tech calamity that alternated between a deep jarring drone and a blaring earsplitting horn. The unearthly nature of the noise reflexively produced feelings of consternation within all of us, which became much more pronounced when Mervin came running full speed down the corridor yelling, "Everyone out! Run for your lives--there's a bomb in the building! Plastic explosives! RUN!" Upon the reception of this startling announcement from the first mate, the members of the crew began to move uneasily towards the edge of the deck where the lifeboats were located. Bugsy and Gumper, after a _very_ brief period of reflection, abandoned their posts and departed the building with a brisk but relatively dignified pace. Sergeant Cropp's lifeboat had been christened the Worship of Authority, and he was not about to leave the area without receiving permission from the Captain. He continued to maintain a very firm grip on the Mayor until a disheveled Randall came trotting towards us and, without saying a word, dashed by. That was enough for Milton who fled the scene with great rabbit-like alacrity, and this allowed me to lead a still handcuffed and unzipped Branklin out of the building where we encountered the multiple cameras of the news media who seemed to have no fear of an impending explosion.

Apparently, the press had been alerted to the great, mysterious crime that Branklin had been ranting and raving about. Having heard that the Mayor was inside the building, the public watchdogs had dutifully scampered to the scene for an interview, but with people fleeing the building as if they were being chased by the Mafia, the salivating horde of barking wolves realized that they had the good fortune to be covering a live event. Nobody, of course, knew what was really happening, and as I held Branklin so that he could maintain his balance, I was surrounded by a throng of eager, one might even say rapacious, reporters. Becky Prant from Channel Seven corralled me and wanted to know why the Mayor was being arrested and where we were taking him. My denials were met with the reasonable question as to why he was handcuffed, and for that, I had no reasonable answer. Looking balefully and relentlessly at his unzipped pants, she also wanted to know whether he had committed a sex crime and was being transported to the Sexual Offender Unit at the state mental hospital in Bleakfester Dump. By now, a very subdued Branklin had realized the nature of his "condition" and I had an urge, which I certainly restrained, to help the poor fellow out and zip up his pants. Wouldn't that have been an inspirational interlude on the evening news?

However, these considerations ended abruptly when a swarm of braying people suddenly burst out of the building and charged willy-nilly into the camera crews. Adding to the mess, a number of fire trucks had come lumbering onto the scene, and off in the distance, I could hear the psychotic howls of a symphony of sirens; it turned out that the hospital had received reports of an explosion and that bodies had been seen flying out of the building.

It would not be long before the situation returned to normal, and it was discovered that the bomb threat was a hoax and the explosion a mirage. Meanwhile, I had other problems to deal with--after I had led the Mayor to the relative safety of Deadwood Park, a small weedy plot that lay behind the police station, a livid Branklin was demanding to be taken to Darwin King Memorial High School where a "terrible tragedy" had occurred. With the chaos that was swirling around us, there was no way that I would be able to locate a vehicle. Using my cell phone, I called Sherry and discovered that she had managed to extract our car from the station's garage during the lockdown and was now at Darwin King. "What is going on, Jackson? There's a rumor going around that there was a fire at the station and that quite a few people were trapped inside and incinerated."

"Who told you that?"

"Bugsy Washington. He came in here a couple of minutes ago and said that they had tried to evacuate the building because of a fire, but then there had been an explosion, and a lot of people weren't able to make it out. I'm telling you, Jackson, as soon as they told me that I could go in but couldn't come back out, I said, 'No thank you.'"

"Relax, Sherry. For the most part, like almost everything else in this world, it was more ridiculous than sad."

"No one would say that up here. Jablonski says that he's never seen anything like it."

"Jablonski's there?" In the background, I could now hear his voice. "Let me speak to him, Sherry," I said.

As I was about to reply to Jake, who had reached the phone, Branklin leaned over and blurted out, "Look, whoever you are, this is Branklin Fell and I need a ride to Darwin King. At present, I'm stuck here in handcuffs at Deadwood Park with some addled boozehound of a detective who doesn't even have the common courtesy to zip up my pants."

I moved away from Branklin and heard Jake's laughing voice. "We're mighty busy up here, Jackson, but it's obvious that you have a real crisis on your hands. You can inform the Mayor that I'm on my way."

"Listen," I said, "have you heard about what was found on the bulletin board this weekend?"

"The bulletin board? What are you talking about?"

"Jake, something weird is going on with Randall--when I get up there, I'll tell you about it, but in the meantime be careful what you say around other people." As I said the word weird, an eerie, unpleasant sensation passed through me...suddenly, everything seemed _abnormally_ quiet, and in my mind there appeared a fleeting dream-like image of a lurking menace that was about to strike in some unknown way. For an instant, I could see a form in the distance that I interpreted to be a sniper dressed in black, and I distinctly thought l heard a piercing scream, which seemed to come from behind me. Startled by the intensity of the feeling, I looked warily and rapidly around the park but saw no one except, of course, Branklin, who was totally oblivious to the possibility of any impending danger. (I mention this seemingly "imaginary" event because, later, I found it to be prophetic. Nowadays, I tend to feel there is such a thing as extrasensory perception, but that it exists absolutely independent of time and space, so that, for instance, a feeling of dread may not be connected to anything the conscious mind can perceive but has originated telepathically in an unknown, deeper layer of consciousness because of something that has occurred [or will occur] "somewhere else.")

Jake had said something, but I missed it. "It's more than weird up here," I heard him say. "Wait until you see this place--everybody is stunned."

"What happened?" I said, still under the sway of the dark feeling that had swept over me.

"Words can't describe it--you'll have to see it with your own eyes. Stay loose--I'll be there in fifteen to pick up you and your creepy pal."

## CHAPTER NINE: DARWIN KING AND KAISER HESS

In her exceedingly long essay entitled "The Reflections of an Educated Witch," the much-decorated novelist, poet, and talk-show host, Pandi Lune, has artfully delineated the problems facing the aspiring modern writer. After ten pages that center around the unusual clouds swirling around her large newly installed pane-glass window and a further seven pages that are devoted to her cat, the rambunctious Gertrude, she launches, without further ado, into a splendid exposition--perhaps demonstration is a better word--of the aggravating tendency of undereducated authors to overrate their meager talents. "There can be," she states with her usual pedantic effrontery, "no comparison between those who have labored for years polishing their craft and those grandiloquent neo-barbarians who are in the habit of assaulting us with their so-called 'realism of the streets.' We who have toiled so diligently through the sacred halls of our most esteemed universities, have been taught the most subtle refinements by their eminent professors, have written, edited, and emended endlessly until finally our prose resembles the almighty perfection of a polished, screaming diamond must simply stand back in shock and horror when we are confronted with the verbal refuse that spews from these depraved literary monsters whose sentences are atrociously punctuated, confusing to all but the thoroughly initiated, exceptionally long-winded, boring--if not obnoxiously repellent--and nothing more than a grotesquely awkward attempt to convince people of a writing ability that is so manifestly absent, even in the most infinitesimal quantities, that I simply must protest and even demand that agents and book publishers remain hyper-vigilant and admit to their realms only those authors who are properly educated and understand the meaning of culture and refinement."

Pandi rambles on in this vein for another thirty pages until she runs out of air and collapses in a pile of non sequiturs. Among the many abominations that she perceives within those who are "literally ignorant" (I assume she meant literarily) is the recent tendency of some authors to include within their works allusions to current political issues. These are deemed by Pandi to be completely out of bounds, and for those who have made the grueling attempt to analyze her novels, no one can possibly doubt that there is a complete silence in regards to anything that might be considered controversial. She stands, as do all the other award-winning mediocrities that have been produced by the culture of our educational system, absolutely mute on the critical issues that affect our world.

The commercially successful writer of modern fiction remains, must remain, aloof from the crimes that society perpetuates upon the individual and sneers, ever so politely, at the concept of social justice as being something that is far outside the province of literature; that, they assert, is the work of the politicians--as if those unfortunate flag-waving souls have any chance of accomplishing anything except, perhaps, a more spectacular war. For those who are dedicated to the mirage that they have read many novels that exhibited a sense of social awareness, l ask you this: Did it change the consciousness of humanity? If you deny that this is the purpose of fiction, then you are admitting that it has no actual relevance to life and is merely an entertaining wall decoration that will be permanently assigned to the attic when the new line of verbal fads hits the market--which is exactly what is happening. Among the many serious, perhaps fatal, failures of our culture is the complete collapse of writing that has any real, lasting value. That is so utterly, intensely obvious, I feel it is trite to mention it.

This spiritual deformity has been cleverly disguised because the publishing houses have been infiltrated and hijacked by this gang of educated know-nothings. It is safe to say, is in fact certain, that the greatest books of the last fifty years remain unpublished because the academics, who are merely concerned with their own survival and self-aggrandizement, have declared what and, more importantly, who is valid, and that then becomes what their equally corrupt commercial cousins publish and promote with the usual blatherous blurbs about "flowing prose...the hands of a craftsman...a modern masterpiece." None of these ridiculous books will endure for even a decade because while this crowd exults in the circular clique of their obligatory praise, the huge majority of humanity has long since given up on "literature" and moved on to other things. And rightfully so, since about the stupidest thing one can do nowadays is read the current number-one best seller.

Our pleasant notions of modern education are so divorced from reality that I hesitate to describe the conditions at Darwin King Memorial High School. Some will say that I exaggerate to an extreme degree, while others will completely miss the "exaggerations" and pronounce my "invention" of Darwin King as the antisocial mirage of a sociopath.

The reader should remember two things before they pronounce their judgment: First, there is a certain amount of subterranean poetry within my writing that relies on alliteration, multiple metaphors, and the alteration of names; the latter is done for the sake of sound quality, precision of meaning, and sometimes a desire to shield the guilty entities because their reputations are currently so formidable that it would be folly to present them to the reader with anything approaching literal accuracy.

Second, I would admit that Darwin King, as its name implies, is highly evolved and has perfected the techniques that are, in some cases, more rudimentary impulses at the less prestigious institutions of education that proliferate our land. If you will go beyond the superficial nature of the names that society uses to protect its most vile inventions and replace them with the realities that they represent, it will be obvious, at least to the acutely aware, that what I am describing is the central theme of modern education, and far from being unusual, there is not a single school of any type or kind in this woeful world of warring nations that is not well represented by Darwin King Memorial.

A decade before Branklin became Mayor, Markle Hess had purchased, on a majestic hill, a large house with ample grounds about two miles outside the city center. Recently graduated from college where he majored in physics and aeronautical engineering, he opened a small school in his house with the intention of tutoring an elitist clientele--a prep school for those who didn't want to have their kid's minds and bodies soiled at the miserable public school that was run by the notorious pedophile, Augustus Moss. When Augustus suffered a serious stroke during one of his more flagrant escapades into the dark underworld of sexuality, Darwin City contracted the students under his "devoted care" into the hands of Markle. With the arrival of Branklin, the town, as I have mentioned, evolved exponentially and in just five years went from ten thousand people to a little over eighty thousand. Markle established a close bond with Branklin who found him to be an admirable teacher and administrator--diligent, thorough, and disciplined. Adjacent land was purchased by the city and given over to the school, while sizable funds were diverted from the city's coffers and happily devoured by the construction conglomerates who, over a twenty-year period, constructed a fabulous maze of interlocking buildings that stretched over a half-mile-wide span.

And then, in the early 1990's, the redoubtable Ursula Van Wynch stepped onto the stage of public life. There had been many unfavorable reports circulating through the liberal grapevine about the conduct of Markle who was being derogatively referred to as the Kaiser. He was from the "old school," as they say, and was known to be authoritarian and rather harsh with his punishments. It was even said that he had studied the secret and brutal arts of torture and was capable of inflicting great pain without leaving any marks--a fairly common characteristic of our times. However, the Kaiser was perhaps somewhat extreme in this regard, and Ursula had received many complaints from the teachers at Darwin King about the conduct of Markle who had become a rather nasty law unto himself. After a particularly egregious incident where it was said that he had dangled a petrified student from the fourth floor with a frayed rope, he was served with a court summons on a complaint initiated by Ursula.

As this contentious lawsuit meandered through the courts with its motions and countermotions, a number of community leaders began to complain about the color scheme that had recently swept through the hallowed halls of Darwin King. Markle had a distinct preference for black--nobody could ever remember him wearing anything but a single shade of jet black. With his dyed black hair, black baseball cap, black shirt, black fatigues, and black boots, he was indeed an imposing sight to behold. As he approached sixty, he became quite eccentric, and a number of items not normally associated with black were, by order of the Kaiser, repainted to suit his dark tastes. To give a few examples: The toilets and the urinals, all desks and chairs, the floors, which were retiled a solid black, the inside walls, the stairs as well as the railings, all doors, the ceilings, and last but not least, the outside walls, which had to be sandblasted before they could be repainted with the authorized color. At the same time, the Kaiser hit upon the happy idea of solid-black uniforms for his obedient charges including, for both the gals and the guys, black combat boots.

If the Kaiser hadn't been so successful in the classroom, the voters would have turned against him, and Branklin would have been forced to intervene to preserve himself politically, but the fact remained that Markle was an excellent educator, and his students were quickly accepted at the top universities. Here, they excelled and went on to their graduate studies and doctorates before finally entering the professional world where they were rewarded with stupendous sums of money. Given this supremely important consideration, who was going to stand up and, for the sake of a few ethical quibbles, argue against the financial success of their own children? Ursula, naturally, but people were becoming exasperated with her ideological antics. The Kaiser, it was felt, was severe but fair, and the kids were learning the values that he insisted upon--order, discipline, duty, responsibility, respect for tradition, patriotism, self-sacrifice, religion, and, of course, the hard but noble path of the soldier. If there were excesses in his approach, one could still appreciate the results, and since, according to the Sentinel, "the machine was well-oiled and purring smoothly, there was no sense in bothering with the continuous counterproductive objections of a tired old battleaxe like Van Wynch and her cackling mob of sycophants who were secretly hoping to displace an educational giant with some thimble-brain from the suburbs." (Coincident with this editorial, the case against the Kaiser had been summarily thrown out of the courts by an irate judge who declared it to be nothing but "broiling drivel served up on the putrid platter of politics.")

The Kaiser had successfully blocked the efforts of a group of longhaired ragamuffins posing as environmentalists and had paved a large meadow that was directly behind the school. Here he personally supervised and conducted parade drill, which had become a mandatory class for every student, or student-soldier as he preferred to call them. Each of his young soldiers carried a small black flag along with a truncheon; they were taught the correct way to march, and regardless of the political animosities that might be involved, it was certainly an impressive sight to watch nearly four thousand young and enthusiastic student-soldiers as they executed their perfectly synchronized goose step.

These regimented exhibitions were actually dress rehearsals for graduation day. This was a special day in our town and drew thousands of spectators from the surrounding area who were only able to gain admittance to the parade ground if they were attired in the proper shade of the proper color. As such, it was a grand show--very well choreographed and definitely color coordinated, although some found the proceedings to be slightly on the militaristic side. The graduating class was divided into two groups with a wide aisle between them, and at the proper moment, which was announced by a long, deep, ominous drum roll, the Kaiser would stalk down the aisle. When he reached the raised podium, he would vigorously ascend the stairs as the strident chants of "Long Live the Kaiser" filled the air. Arriving at the lectern, he would allow his personal accolades to proceed for a full minute before he brought down a huge black truncheon and smashed a black gong that was near his right hand. The mechanism of the gong was connected to a number of powerful amplifiers, and the effect of the electronically enhanced, booming reverberations was quite compelling, even hypnotic.

When the last echo had faded, the Kaiser would begin his speech; it was an ancient tirade that was always the same--year after year, decade after decade, century after century, and its refrain would be echoed in town after town, state after state, and nation after nation. And even though it is a dreadful, ghastly, and horrible sermon, it is _always_ met with effusions of praise from the academics, the rapturous adulations of the public, and the imprimatur of science. Given the fact that it is the death knell of our civilization, it is a little surprising to me, even considering the pervasive level of mass stupidity, that at least a few people have not been able to see through the murderous Darwinism that is devouring our age and leaves in its wake an ever-widening swath of victims. But education! How can anyone have the nerve to denigrate the almighty commandments of Kaiser Hess and the interminable parade of frogs that basks in his shadow? The Kaiser is now ready to speak. Long live the Kaiser!

"Soldiers of the next generation--listen to me carefully. Today, we are engaged in a mighty struggle between the needs of the nation and the supposed rights of the individual. Everywhere, we hear that the human being is entitled to freedom and that society must allow all creatures life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Here the Kaiser struck the gong with a mighty blow, and as its echoes began to fade, a trumpet could be heard playing Taps. "But without the nation, there could not have been the creation of society, and if the nation were to perish, we would all very shortly cease to exist. That is indisputable--can you even begin to imagine a world where the inventions of society do not exist? There would be no electricity, no cars, no guns, and no authority. We need look no further than the American Indian to see what the result of that would be.

"A nation is essentially, from ancient times, a state of unity that comes from recognizing the enormous strength that exists in numbers. It is made up of the collective, unified, patriotic will of its citizens, and if there are those within its borders who mock the flag and what it stands for, then the power of that nation will begin to dissipate, and the result will be anarchy, which is a powerless state. As we all know and as history has shown repeatedly, it is only the powerful that will survive. That is what science, through the genius of Darwin, calls the survival of the fittest, and that is why might _always_ makes right, although there is obviously some value in concealing our true beliefs and intentions behind a cloud of Righteous Constitutions and Fantastical Declarations of Independence until the moment comes when we are in a position to strike. It is therefore imperative that the nation, any nation, absolutely crush the will of the individual because only then will it be mighty enough not only to survive but also, and much more importantly, to triumph. This is not a truth that is generally recognized, but it is the reality of our world, and we are much closer to achieving this goal than is commonly realized. Despite occasional outpourings of individualism, we can say that for all practical purposes, the nation-state, nationalism, has triumphed, and the individual has been effectively annihilated.

"As responsible citizens, we must ask not what the nation can do for us but what we can do for the nation. What is it that a nation needs? First and foremost, it requires armaments, but having the weapons in our hands is not enough; we, as a nation, need to develop the capacity to use them, and to do this it is imperative that we instill into all of our citizens a sense of violence since it is only through violence that a nation can become powerful. To accomplish this end, we will encourage a culture that is based on guns and the use of those guns because it is the gun that links the ordinary man and woman to the nation and to the wars of that nation. Those that do not own guns are traitors to the nation because a nation that has renounced guns is a contradiction in terms and will shortly be swept into extinction by those who are not afraid to impose their will through the force of arms.

"Secondly, it is also imperative, from time to time, that we embark upon adventures of conquest--these will serve not only to focus the energy of the nation but will also be an excellent opportunity to continually refine our weapons until our ability to dispense death is second to none." The Kaiser sounded the gong, and once again, one could hear a trumpet playing a very mournful version of Taps. "That is why war is more than necessary and good; war is the lifeblood of the nation and demonstrates our will to fight, to be cruel, and to kill--all of which are the fundamental principles of Darwinism. Those who would dispute this do not understand the theory of evolution and what the survival of the fittest really means. Darwinism, which means to kill the weak in order to sustain the strong, is the scientific law of the jungle and the justification for the murder of those who have become backward or are racially inferior.

"We will, however, be careful to mask our objectives through the clever use of propaganda, which is an essential venom that serves to numb our victims before we commence to their slaughter. We will present ourselves as individualists, our nation will be called a democracy, and our ideal will be freedom.

"There are those who have asked me: What is National Socialism, Nazism? What we mean by that term is a society that has been nationalized, that is patriotic, that believes in the flag, that is ready to fight, that is not afraid of the sacrifice of blood to achieve our greater objective, which is the total domination of all other nations. Nationalism, Darwinism, means war, and anyone who does not recognize that is naïve to the point of insanity. Therefore, as every nation must, we will prepare for war, and we must realize that if we are not able to impose our will, we will be crushed by those who are stronger. The ultimate goal of any nation, whether it be a democracy or a dictatorship, is to be victorious in war.

"Finally, we must remember that failure is impossible because those who would stand in our way have been silenced by the massive fist of our democratically elected, totalitarian nation-state. We have repressed, relentlessly repressed, all those who would present a truly contrary view and have permitted only sincere patriots, elected officials, and religious fools to make their opinions public."

Everyone is moved by this stirring declaration of patriotic nationalism and as the young soldiers march by the Kaiser, the audience rises and together their voices join in a stirring rendition of the national anthem, which is, of course, another hymn to war. Following that, all those present turn toward the Kaiser and raise their arms in a salute that he returns. As the crowd begins its hysterical, really maniacal, chant of "Long live the Kaiser! Long live our Nation!" a highly amplified, droning version of Taps begins its sorrowful sojourn through the assembled multitudes of humanity.

## CHAPTER TEN:

## THE UNITED FRONT FOR THE LIBERATION OF HUMANITY

By the time we arrived at Darwin King Memorial, Jake had been kind enough to discreetly attend to the Mayor's most outstanding problem, so he could now be presented to the public without suffering from acute zipper-related embarrassment. However, until we were able to locate the man who held the keys to his special military handcuffs, Milton Cropp, there was no way that we could free Branklin from the awkwardness of that dilemma, and the poor critter was a sorry sight as he lurched irascibly up the stone steps at the front of the building. While Jake helped him along, Sherry brought me around to a side entrance where we were able to avoid not only the press but also the horde of city and state police who were racing around in unproductive circles. My initial reaction to the frenetic intensity of the comically officious commotion was that this had to be another one of those terrible school shootings, which had been sweeping like wildfire across the country, and that, once again, a great many innocent people had been killed by some type of gun-crazed maniac laboring under the effects of a moronic, incomprehensible grudge. But that was impossible--it was two days after graduation, and the school was closed. "What happened?" I asked Sherry.

"This is an unfortunate crime, Jackson," she said pensively after we had taken the elevator to the third floor and were walking down a dark corridor painted in jet-black. "Essentially, it's simply an exaggerated version of vandalism, but people will react fiercely and repressively because of the ideology that was used to justify the attack. It's very distressing to me when idealists resort to violence because the fascists, the ones who are _really_ violent, will always twist that to their advantage and use it to justify another one of their assaults upon humanity. If you're familiar with history, that was Hitler's excuse, and nearly a quarter of the civilized world was exterminated because of it."

We had reached the door to a large classroom, and before going in, she said to me, "Except for the writing on the blackboard, which occurs in only one other room, this is fairly typical of what we've found throughout the school."

The first thing that I noticed was the shattered glass, which was everywhere. There was a sense of destruction and desolation that was similar to what could have been wrought by a tornado--very malevolent but, at the same time, exceptionally selective. Every computer monitor and printer in the room had been smashed with a hammer, while the computers themselves had been destroyed almost beyond recognition with what we would discover was an acetylene torch. Painted in red on one of the black walls that lined the room was a large swastika, and on the blackboard had been written:

We are the United Front for the Liberation of Humanity, and it is our mission to free the world from the tyranny of Nazism. Here is something for you to ponder: There will be, from this day on, zero tolerance for an educational system that glorifies war by teaching patriotism. There's a flag for you to salute! More lessons from our instructors will be forthcoming.

Ippolit

"There was," said Sherry, "one person murdered--Kaiser Hess. His body was found in a hallway on the first floor riddled with bullets." (The report from the crime lab would show that the Kaiser had been shot six times to the midsection and that four of the shots had probably been fired after he had collapsed onto the floor. This bore, although I did not know it at the time, a strange similarity to the murder of Clayton who had, while prone, been shot to the midsection six times. I am not surprised that after reading this information the following morning, Sherry asked for a comparison of the ballistic tests from the two murders.)

"Besides that," continued Sherry, "about four thousand computers with their monitors have been destroyed along with approximately five hundred printers. The reason Branklin is so upset is that nothing here was insured against vandalism. With the reputation and track record of the Kaiser, it seemed inconceivable that there would be any problem, and Barry Pidgett had convinced him to drop the coverage. This means that the city has lost almost six million dollars."

As I stood there transfixed by the scene in front of me, Jablonski came into the room. "Alright," he said, "now that I've delivered the Mayor to the press, I can concentrate on reality. What happened down at the station this morning, Jackson? First, we hear that the Chief has been fired for chasing Birdie Swanson into an elevator, and then, before we can get our bearings and figure out what that idiotic story really means, Bugsy Washington comes storming in here like a psychotic chicken being led to the slaughterhouse and tells everyone that the station has been blown up by a bunch of drug-crazed foreign terrorists."

After relating the peculiar events that I had been a part of earlier in the morning, I showed Jake and Sherry the note that had been signed with my name and left in the drug safe--as I was being dragged out of Randall's office by Branklin, I had crumpled it up and stuffed it into my pocket. Jake found it to be particularly humorous with its castigation of my sexual energy and said, "It's just another case of massive insanity striking when you least expect it, Jackson--you were lucky that the Mayor arrived and distracted everybody because about the only hope in those situations is that something even more stupid will occur, which will force the lunatics to jump onto some other bandwagon. Sometimes, when I hear people arguing, it seems so nickel-and-dime to me that I wish I could program the TV so that when I innocently and nonchalantly turned it on in front of them, some harebrained popeyed newscaster who looked like he had just swallowed his glasses was stuttering catatonically away about an incoming attack of hundreds of fifty-megaton nuclear missiles--one of which was expected to strike the downtown area in about four minutes. How would that be for a change of subject and a realigning of priorities?"

Sherry seemed oblivious to Jake's edition of the nightly news and was staring at me. "Why you?" she said, obviously worried. "Why would it be signed with your name?"

"I know--when I was being grilled by Randall, I wondered why he was so sure that I was the one who had written the note that was posted on the bulletin board."

"Probably because he assumed both notes were written by the same person," said Jake.

"No," I said, "because the one that was signed with my name was discovered hours after the first one."

"It has to be something personal--someone that you know," said Sherry to me. Although it was obvious, it wasn't until I actually heard these words that I realized the person who had stolen the drugs must be someone that I knew and knew quite well--the bizarre reference to outer space and the intense sexual slanders contained in the writing had obscured that glaring fact from my conscious mind.

Looking at me, Jake said, "Here's something that I can tell you about the theft of the drugs from the dungeon; while our addled Profiler was sifting through the clues in Clayton's murder and contemplating what wasn't there, no one checked on the whereabouts of Clayton's keys and even considered the fact that his killer might have escaped with them. I went into Randall's office Friday afternoon and warned him about that, but he was with Mervin and hardly even noticed me. 'It's OK, Jablonski,' he said, 'keep your pants on--Mervin and I have this one licked.' You're probably not aware of it, but Clayton kept all his keys together and had them labeled. Totally crazy. Later on, after I had checked on the current status of my pants and determined that they were not flying at half-mast, I called the evidence room and discovered that Clayton's keys had, in fact, not been recovered from the crime scene."

"Aha!" said Sherry. "There's something that wasn't there, and it is important."

"But Jake," I said laughing, "nobody's going to murder Clayton, take his keys, and go into the station to loot the safe--it's way too risky."

"When was the last time you were in there at two o'clock on a Saturday or Sunday morning, Jackson? You could roll a cannon through there, and as long as it didn't tip over, no one would notice. It's become even worse since Mutt Masters took over the graveyard shift. Last month, I came in around three A.M., and the whole lot of them, including the front desk guy, Porky Squires, were back in Mutt's office golfing down shots of whiskey and playing poker."

"But who would know that?" said Sherry who had walked over to the blackboard and was studying the message from Ippolit.

"Clayton's keys disappear, and a few hours later, the safe is plundered--it is a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" I said.

Jake laughed. "Exactly my point, detective."

"If that's the case," said Sherry turning towards us, "then the motive for Clayton's murder might have been to obtain those keys, and that would mean the person was not only familiar with the station but also with Clayton."

"That's Crystal," said Jake.

Sherry shook her head negatively. "I guess you haven't heard--she has an alibi, and we've eliminated her as a subject."

"Based on what I've seen and know of Crystal Shane," said Jake, "we might find a few leaks in her life raft."

"No, Jake," said Sherry, "it's a very airtight alibi, amazingly so."

"Those are the worst kind," said Jake. "I don't mind alibis, but the airtight ones are almost always fabrications. All you have to do is watch TV to know that. Let me guess: After you talked with her, she probably called one of you because she suddenly remembered something that could help establish her innocence."

From Jake, it was, perhaps, just a casual half-joking comment, but I realized it was almost exactly what had happened. Not quite--seemingly, when Crystal had called Roosters and Hens, she had not known I was there, but what difference did that make? After finding out from Harrison that the tape above the bar was working, Sherry or I would certainly have heard from her. I thought I understood Jake's point: An innocent person wouldn't be quite so aggressive in pushing their alibi forward because, being innocent, the idea of their guilt wouldn't have yet occurred to them.

"I understand how you feel about her," said Sherry to Jake, "but there's a video tape of her sitting at a bar during the time that the murder was committed."

"Isn't that convenient?" said Jake who did not appear to be impressed. At that moment, from outside the room, I heard, or thought I heard, a muffled thud as if someone had fallen. Jake was talking to Sherry about the tape and speculating, unbelievably or perhaps jokingly, that Crystal may have hired an actress when, once again, the sense of foreboding that I had felt at Deadwood Park returned to me. I had the feeling, completely inexplicable, that someone was about to shoot me.

Placing a hand on my gun, I walked over to the door, opened it, and looked up and down the corridor but saw nothing except two detectives who were walking slowly away from me. Why, I wondered, was I so paranoid? Darwin King was swarming with cops, not killers. Returning slowly back to the room, I heard Sherry say, "At least I know who Ippolit is."

Jake looked at me and laughed. "It's not another note from Jackson, is it?"

"No," said Sherry. "In fact, I'd say that the name Ippolit conclusively eliminates him as the author of this message."

"Why's that?" I asked. Joining the conversation seemed to bring me back to "reality."

"Ippolit," she said humorously," is well outside the scope of your interests, although that's hardly saying anything sensational."

"Well, who is he?" said Jake.

"Ippolit is a character in a novel by Dostoyevsky entitled _The_ _Idiot_. He's a sixteen-year-old embittered nihilist who has tuberculosis and doesn't have much longer to live. Because of that, he--"

Jake raised his hand slightly to slow Sherry down. "I hate to admit my ignorance, but please explain to me what a nihilist is, Professor Green."

"First of all," said Sherry, "a nihilist shouldn't be confused with an anarchist who, unfortunately, is often confused with a terrorist."

As I looked into Sherry's eyes, I found something fascinating: The sudden fire of passion--intellectual passion, of course, but clearly, there was an intensity of enthusiasm that was both attractive and distractive.

"What are you looking at, Jackson?" she said, catching me completely off guard.

Perhaps if Jake hadn't been there, I would have responded differently, but now, acting slightly annoyed, I said, "Nothing, I was just listening to what you were saying."

Jake looked at me and then at Sherry who, rather than speaking, stared at me with an expression that I found forbidding. "Anyways," she finally continued, "an anarchist is someone who does not believe in power and does not respect those who are in positions of power. Jake, you are, in your own way, an anarchist.

"Nihilism is much broader, and in its true expression is total. Jackson is a mild watered-down nihilist who uses humor in an attempt to destroy what he despises, which does, in fact, come close to being everything. But an intellectually pure nihilist such as Ippolit desires the complete and absolute annihilation of society--not simply the power structure. That seems to imply destruction, and while that's clearly the interpretation of our computer-smashing Ippolit, aggression is not really compatible with nihilism, which is simply a passive awareness of the absurdity of society as well as everything that it has to offer."

Before anyone could respond to that inspiring sentiment, Jake's phone rang. "That's right, Chief, I'm up here at Darwin King...Yes, they're here...What?...Look, that's not the case at all...I'm telling you—you're jumping to conclusions...but--"

Remaining silent for a few moments, he stared blankly at his phone before he looked up at us and said, "This isn't good news, folks. Randall wants to see us at noon--he says that he's discovered something very unpleasant, something that occurred at the Outpost on Friday night. The six of us who were there have been invited to come into his office for a little chat; he's being a good sport about it though--we can bring our lawyers with us if we so desire."

"How could he have found that out so quickly?" asked Sherry.

"It doesn't surprise me," I said. "There's someone that we don't suspect who's behind all of this, and not only was this person drinking with us at the Outpost, but now they're also phoning in tips."

"That doesn't make any sense, Jackson," said Sherry. "Everyone who was there with us made many derogatory comments about Randall and Mervin."

"It doesn't make any difference," said Jake. "Essentially, if this person wasn't planted by Randall, then they've turned state's evidence."

"If that's true, what are we going to do about Randall?" asked Sherry, who was obviously worried about the prospect of facing the Chief.

"Someone in that room will be trying to stab us in the back," I said. "Anyone have any ideas of who it might be?"

"If it isn't one of us," said Jake, "we're left with Bailey, Clyde, and Tyler, and for sure, it's not Bailey. He has one more year left until he retires, and there's no way he's going off the reservation with something like that."

"I think it's Tyler," said Sherry. "He's very strange--even for an undercover cop; I never trusted him, to tell you the truth. And here's something else to think about," she said vehemently and rather bitterly. "He may have been wired, and I think we should assume that Randall has already heard the conversation we had that evening."

"That's a little paranoid, Sherry," I said, but even as I was speaking these words, I began to realize that what she had said was a strong probability.

"No, it isn't, Jackson, not by a long shot. Think about it--if someone like Randall is trying to pin something on us, he would want to have it on tape. Otherwise, we could and would all band together and deny everything. You have to admit that it'll be mighty convincing when the Chief hauls out his tape machine, and we hear our merry voices chirping their way into oblivion."

Jake thought that was funny. "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. For five bucks, you can listen to the Kamikaze Kids as they perform their latest and final hits, Zooming Zeppelin and Ball of Flames. Wait until the Sentinel gets ahold of the tapes--we'll probably go national and win the Idiots of the Year Award."

As the realization of the ridiculous nature of our conversation at the Outpost began to sink in, I couldn't help but groan and said, "That's the conversation where we all mocked that nutzoid book by Barker Drule. No doubt when his faithful readers find out what we said about the _Elderly_ _Madman_ , they'll be leaping to his defense and demanding that we all be burned at the stake."

"I deserve special mention for my performance, however," said Jake proudly, "because I was the one who called Randall and Mervin the Putrid Prince and the Parasitic Pines."

"It isn't fair, somehow," said Sherry. "We all say things behind people's backs--it's just a harmless way to blow off some steam. You never expect it to be heard by others, and even more important, it's not meant to be heard, which means that there's no real intent to harm. But if it does reach the ears of those others, then they instinctively feel the need to retaliate."

Jake assumed a jaunty air. "If Randall has a tape, then the pressure is off. We don't need to worry about our stories, and who's going to say what--we can just breeze in there, use the Outpost off-duty defense, and tell the Chief that it was nothing but a lot of hot air."

Regardless of Jake's optimism, which seemed somewhat feigned, I didn't see a great deal of hope for us. It was one thing to defy the Chief and pour down drinks at the Outpost, but it was quite another to insult not only him but also his cherished, incompetent pet. However, as it was now getting close to noon, the time for concocting our alibis had expired, and we reluctantly headed out of the building for our depressing appointment with Randall. As we were walking towards our cars, we saw Branklin who was standing on the front steps of Darwin King in front of a large bank of cameras and a surge of clamoring reporters who were engaged in a shoving match for the honor of being the first one to stick a microphone into his mouth. By now, he had been liberated from his handcuffs and was gesticulating wildly as he delivered his increasingly discordant diatribe--he reminded me of a mental patient whose medication was more than a little out of whack.

"This hideous crime," he shouted hoarsely, "will be avenged _._ I said we will seek vengeance, the maximum vengeance that is available to us under the law. Renowned as he is, this is more than a crime against the person of Kaiser Hess--this is also a social crime against the property of the state that every single one of us will have to repay with the toil of our labors under the hot and broiling sun, which will relentlessly beat down upon us until the debt incurred by this barbarous action has been paid in full. In the meantime, I have forcibly instructed Prince Chief, excuse me, that would be Chief Prince Randall Pines, to take all necessary measures to bring the perpetrators of this animalistic act to their righteous and painful rewards, which will be delivered by the state with a ferocious finality. And I promise to you, the voters of our marvelous city, that when that moment of true justice arrives, I will be there as a witness, a witness who will be calling for the complete satisfaction of my most primitive desires, and I can further assure you that I will leap to my feet and applaud vigorously when they throw the switch or drop the pellets or inject the needle--however they get rid of them nowadays."

"He looks like a man who just lost six million bucks at the blackjack table," said Jake.

"It's not that," I said. "Can't you tell? He's going through the grieving process for his longtime friend, Markle Hess. What do you think, Sherry?"

"What I don't understand is this: How can anything as absurd as this world of ours continue to exist? It defies all the probabilities."

"Sherry," I said lightheartedly, "you're turning into an end-of-the-worlder. As soon as we're fired, I'll expect to see you patrolling the streets with one of those REPENT NOW--THE END IS NEAR signs. Any idea how much longer we have before our luck runs out?"

"The Mayans predicted December of 2012. That sounds about right to me--give or take a few years."

For two people, the end of this world--along with all of their hopes and aspirations--would be arriving _much_ sooner than that.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN: "OH DEAR GOD, NO!... OH MY GOD..."

By the time the three of us arrived at the station for our noontime appointment with Randall, the situation had returned to relative normalcy after the chaos of the early morning hours. We walked into a building that was curiously quiet and made our way up to the third floor and Randall's office. As we reached his door, Mervin emerged and came storming past us with a fiery and threatening glare. "We'll see about this," he said as the Chief appeared and informed us that he had pushed the meeting back to one o'clock by which time Mervin would have returned from his lunch. "Both of us will have a few things to say to you all," Randall said as he slammed the door in our faces.

Jake was now of the opinion that another bomb threat might be beneficial to our welfare and consoled himself by wandering off to locate Bailey who he hoped might have some useful ideas regarding our predicament, while Sherry, who appeared to be upset, decided to go home for lunch. I remained at my desk brooding--I was now convinced that we had been taped at the Outpost, and I had not the slightest idea how we could counteract our own words. Of course, at least technically, we couldn't be fired for the statements we had made off duty; instead, it would be a slow and lingering death featuring an endless procession of useless tasks that met with inane and relentless criticism, a restructuring of the force that was solely for the benefit of camouflaging our demotions, and a recognition throughout the department, especially among the ambitious new hires, that we were terminal patients with infectious diseases whom it would not be healthy to associate with unless one enjoyed dancing to the melancholy strains of the Suicide Waltz. And Sherry, an innocent victim really, would suffer the same fate as the rest of us.

For some obscure reason, perhaps because I had recently seen a documentary and was struck by the extraordinary number of innocent victims, an image of the torpedoed luxury liner, the Lusitania, drifted through my mind, and I became absorbed in a frightful daydream of panicked mothers clutching their children as they plunged into the ocean. I could literally see their frantic, terrorized faces as they struggled to stay afloat before they plummeted gasping and gulping into their watery graves. What was it with me? Why should anyone mourn for those unlucky and long-forgotten souls? True, they didn't want to die, but in a Darwinistic world, the slaughter of the innocents is the sacrament of the priests of progress as they trample through their grapes of wrath. It's always--

The phone rang, interrupting my gloomy monologue. As soon as I heard her quavering voice, it was apparent to me that something unusual had happened at my house and that this wasn't one of Gloria's ordinary "attacks."

"Jackson, for God's sake, Jackson, you have to get back here." She started to cry--something that, for her, was quite rare. I could hear Cassandra in the background, and I thought I heard her say, "Who are you? Get out of here."

"What's happening?" Intuitively, I felt fear.

There was the sound of a crash, somebody or something falling to the floor, and then I heard Gloria scream desperately, _"NO! DON'T! I BEG YOU--PUT DOWN THE GUN!"_ And then, the line went dead.

I stared wide-eyed at the phone for a split second and then leapt up, ran down the corridor, grabbed the keys to a patrol car, and careened out of the parking lot with the blue light flashing. Although my house is within a couple of miles of the station, it seems strange to me now that I never thought of using the radio to discover if there was anyone closer, but I was too terrified to think rationally and was obsessed with reaching my house as soon as possible. As a cop, I've seen a huge variety of emergencies, but every couple of months we get a really hot call--some macho maniac has a gun to somebody's head, and it's about fifty-fifty as to whether they pull the trigger. You can say what you want about cops, and I know that some of them deserve it, but there are moments in their existence when they forget about themselves, their safety, and even their own families to take chances with their lives that one can characterize as either reckless or heroic--I would call it recklessly heroic.

The only one I had ever been on before was with Jablonski driving. A guy with a restraining order was kicking in the door to his ex-wife's apartment. When the call came in, we were about a mile away, and Jake tore down Dogwire Drive zigzagging desperately through the traffic at eighty to ninety miles per hour. Suddenly, the dispatcher shrieked into our radio, "Shots are being fired. I CAN HEAR THEM!!" And then we could hear her as she burst into tears and her sobbing voice trailed off, "Oh Dear God, No!...Oh My God..." By the time we got there, it was way too late--another murder-suicide, another triumph for another gun, and another couple of bodies for the morgue.

As I spun onto our street, I was telling myself that it wouldn't be _that_ bad. But the gun! Still, it didn't make any sense--why would anyone want to kill Gloria? Yet there was no arguing with or explaining the feeling in my stomach, which was clenched in a strange supernatural knot of fear. Somehow, I felt that I would not be able to make any difference and that the damage had already been done.

With my gun drawn, I ran up the side of the house to the kitchen door, which I knew would be open. Slowly, now, I opened the screen door and stepped quietly inside. There was an unhealthy silence; clearly, there should have been some noise, but it was still, very still. Spooked, with my heart pounding, I reached the entrance to the living room and...

I will never forget that moment, of course. Gloria was sprawled on her back--there was a large, hideous bullet wound just above her left eye, and a river of blood had oozed from her head and run across the wooden floor until it reached a nearby wall. Deliberately, with my gun still drawn and looking around warily, I walked over to Cassandra who was lying face down in a huge pool of blood. I saw that she had been shot twice in the back and once in the head. There was an odor in the air that was the stench of blood and the brains that had been blown out by the bullets. Mechanically, I searched for a pulse, first with Cassandra and then with Gloria.

Retreating to the kitchen, I called the dispatcher at the station.

"Darwin City Police Department." It was Jennifer Gray whom I had known for years.

"Jennifer, this is Jackson James. I am at my home, 36 Darson Road. My wife and daughter have been murdered by an unknown assailant who may still be in the house. Do you have that?"

There was a short pause. "Jackson...are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm OK, but we need to clear the house; I have no idea whether the killer is still here or has fled." On automatic pilot, I talked as if I had no connection to the victims.

Hanging up the phone, I felt numb. I had the feeling, which many victims experience, that this had been done directly to me. It was not a haphazard roll of the dice but a personal attack upon my life, my dignity, and my sanity--a bloody painting that depicted the essential stupidity of all my hopes and irretrievably destroyed the simple subconscious faith that I had lived by for many years. I experienced, and this I remember vividly, an intense moment of revulsion for the instinctive trust that I had placed in a Higher Power to protect myself and my family; along with that, I realized how naïve I had been to believe in the preposterous fairy tale that goes by the name of God.

I don't know why exactly, but after that long and awful minute, I called Sherry. Probably, I was in a state of emotional shock and needed to talk to someone. "Jackson! Where are you? The meeting's in five minutes."

"Sherry...something terrible has happened." Although I wasn't aware that I was crying, I could feel tears running down my face.

"What's the matter?" said Sherry apprehensively. "Just a second, Jackson." I could hear her talking to someone. "Oh Dear God!" I heard her scream. "Jackson, watch out for yourself. The person who did this may still be there. If you're in the house, get outside. Now! You hear me?"

"I hear you." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"There should be someone there within seconds, Jackson."

"Sherry..."

"I am on my way, Jackson. I am on my way."

Stunned, I walked outside and stood in a place where it would be difficult for a person to leave the house without being observed, although by this time, I felt that no one alive was inside. But what about Darnell? Where was he? I should have gone upstairs and searched for him, but it was too late to go back inside now as I saw two patrol cars coming rapidly up the street. I knew, naturally, that I would be the first and best suspect--I was the husband and father of the two victims, had discovered them, and was standing on the front lawn with a pistol in my hands. As Tommy Burns and Billy McKinley began to walk uneasily toward me with their hands on their belts near their pistols, I threw my gun on the grass. I was vastly relieved to see another human being, and I sympathized with them as they had no idea whether I had completely flipped out or was the victim of a horrible tragedy. I was pleased to see that behind the two cops was detective Bryan Davies, a respected veteran with a calm demeanor and a reputation for fairness. He came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and led me back down to his car. As soon as I was inside, I burst into tears and started weeping, at times uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry, Bryan--it's so gruesome in there, incredibly so. Without doubt, it's the worst thing that I've ever seen in my life. I'll have nightmares about it forever...I didn't do it Bryan--I didn't have a thing to do with it."

He looked at me compassionately. "Look, Jackson, we'll wait until tomorrow before we have a formal interview, but if there's anything you can tell me that would help us, I would appreciate it."

As best as I could, I related the phone conversation with Gloria and my discovery of the bodies. He asked me if I had any theory or suspicion as to who might have committed the crime, and I said I was completely mystified, but that I would very much like to listen to the tape of the phone call from Gloria--there was something about it, some nuance that fluttered like a flag of warning or recognition, or maybe I was merely delirious and grasping at straws.

"You tape your calls, Jackson?"

Bingo! It hadn't even occurred to me, but as long as that tape machine was working, there was no way that I could be charged with murder--you have no idea how many innocent men have been convicted of murdering their families simply because they were the only available suspects. "Yes, the ones on that particular phone. But listen, I'm concerned about my son, Darnell. I have no idea where he is. He was here when I left this morning, so he may still be in there. In which case... but if he's alive, I've got to find him."

"OK, you're free to go. If we find out anything about Darnell, we'll call you on your cell. Come into the station tomorrow morning, and we'll talk--by that time, we should have a better idea where the case is headed. Do you have any place to sleep tonight? You know how these things go--the lab techs will be in there for at least two or three days."

"Don't worry about it, Bryan; that's the least of my troubles." As I slowly left his car, I felt like a feeble eighty-year-old man--my muscles and bones ached, and I banged my knee against the door before swaying unsteadily towards I knew not where. Just then, I saw Sherry come running across the lawn. When she reached me, she put her arms tightly around me and said in a husky voice that was filled with emotion, "I am so sorry that this happened to you, Jackson."

I had never sensed such feeling from her before--if I had been asked to describe her disposition, I would have said seemingly friendly but, in actuality, rather icy. Yet I could tell that she was deeply affected, and I felt comforted by the friendly warmth of her body. Eventually, we walked back to her car; she thought I should get away from the house, but as we were about to leave, I saw Darnell who was walking up the street towards us. I was amazed that I kept forgetting about him--it seemed like senility as thoughts dropped out of my mind and reappeared unexpectedly. In the long intervals between the rational thoughts, I was haunted by Gloria's ghastly face with its gaping wound, the absolute finality of her death, and the image of her murdered body, which was so startlingly and supremely vacant of any trace of life or consciousness.

"Sherry, you don't have to wait for me. I have to talk to Darnell, and it may take some time." Looking back on it, I had no idea what I was doing or saying--it was as if I had just crawled out of a horrible car wreck and asked a bystander what time it was.

"Darnell!" I yelled. From a distance, he noticed me.

"Listen to me, Jackson," said Sherry. "Where are you staying tonight?"

What I wanted to do was walk the streets like a dejected dog and pace around until dawn when, hopefully, an exhaustion that produced a mild forgetfulness would set in. It wasn't that I had lost the will to live--it was more like living didn't seem all that important anymore. What difference did it make? Existence was the ultimate nightmare--a never ending chamber of horrors from which the only relief was the nonexistence of death. One way or another, we were all on the Lusitania. Within me, there was a strong urge to escape from my surroundings, and I could easily see myself walking into Mile Square Mall at nine the following morning, ordering a huge vanilla milkshake, and falling asleep on a bench.

"Jackson! JACKSON!" Sherry interrupted my thoughts. "You go talk to Darnell, and when you're done, then come back here. OK?"

"Sure, I can do that, but--"

She came up close to me, put her hands on my shoulders, shook them ever so slightly, and stared at me. I was aware now of the warmth of her caring eyes. "These are dangerous hours for a man like you, Jackson."

"Nothing's going to happen to me--I'll be fine."

"I'm not talking about physically--I'm talking about your spirit. You know?" She placed a finger lightly upon my heart and said, "You understand what I'm talking about?"

I didn't understand much of anything at the moment, but I nodded in assent.

"Alright then. Go talk to Darnell, and I'll wait here."

## CHAPTER TWELVE: EVA BRAUN

On a blustery evening in late April, about six weeks prior to the murders of Gloria and Cassandra, Bambo sauntered into the Captain's Cabin, a swanky tavern frequented by sophisticates, where he was to meet Dennis and his brother's current heartthrob, Melissa Briles. Long gone were the bleak days of the Bomb Emporium and going out to grungy bars where he poured down shots of vodka with an assortment of vermin. He was an upscale dude nowadays and rather enjoyed it, although as a newcomer to the fabled haunts of the rich, he found the styles of the jokers who frequented these watering holes to be absurdly fanciful and woefully impractical. The men, for instance, either wore loafers or some other kind of treadless leather shoe that would send you soaring if you hit a patch of ice. Loafers! You might as well put a sign around your neck that said "Registered Creampuff." He could only imagine what it would be like to attempt to outrun a rip-off artist like Carver Pitts in a back alley with those things flapping and flailing around your feet. Bambo was indeed rising in the social register, but he didn't consider himself that much of a fool, and he still wore his old battle-tested boots that provided good traction and instant mobility--something he considered a necessity on the streets of Darwin City. But for the sake of appearances, he had made the concession of purchasing a one-hundred-dollar pair of jeans because he didn't come to the Captain's Cabin to amuse himself or bask in the glow of the posh atmosphere. Certainly not! The only reason that he tolerated this den of reeking, off-the-wall snobbery was that he was looking for something specific, something _very_ specific.

It was Dennis who had turned him on to the place. Now that he had become rich, Bambo's brother was a hoot and a half as he tossed his money around like King Tut and went through women like a sailor on leave. Leslie had been unceremoniously dumped the day after they had received their checks from Pelton Panks; she was followed, if Bambo remembered correctly, by Vicki and then Andrea and finally Melissa. Bambo still spent cautiously--the day that he had bought the jeans, he had puttered and muttered around the store for almost an hour before finally taking the grim walk up to the cash register. He knew it was absurd to be spending a hundred dollars on something that would, at best, fall apart in six months and was far inferior to the twenty-dollar jeans he had always worn, but Dennis had told him that if he wanted to make it with the gals at the Captain's Cabin, he just had to have a pair of Pont St. Jeans. "It's what the movie stars wear, Bambo, and when a woman sees you in those, her eyes will light up, and she'll say to herself, 'BUCKS!' Then, once one of them starts to come after you, the others will think you're it, and you'll find that the biggest problem will be juggling your appointment book to fit them all in."

Since his sudden departure from the workforce, Bambo had become bored with the drug scene and realized that he had lived in a narcotic stupor while he staggered through his dismal days at the Emporium. Although he still enjoyed an occasional toke on the weed, drug dealing was a senseless risk for someone in his position, and except for a very few trusted connections, he had retired from the trade. As the awesome reality of the power of money began to sink into his consciousness, his interests began to change, and it was not long before he found himself focusing on the fair sex and the intriguing possibilities of using his capital as leverage in the arena of sexual conquest. Women had always fascinated him, and he often hungered for them sexually, but what chance did a grenade packager with a drug problem and a negative bank balance have? There had been--he wasn't a monk, for God's sake!--a number of drug-induced flings with the likes of Barbara Strankman and Betsy Burriss, and there had even been one on-again, off-again affair with Adeline Nunn that had lasted for five mostly frustrating years before ingloriously ending with a credit-card abortion. Meanwhile, everywhere he went, it was the flashy dudes with the hotshot cars who grabbed the gorgeous babes, and he was left, along with a good many others, to fight over what was left--which wasn't much. Even now, basking in his millions, women seemed to avoid him, but he knew that everything would change if he could figure out a way to say, "How would you like to make it with a guy who's got six million bucks in the bank?"

But there were a few problems with that way of thinking that bothered him. What if the woman became pregnant? When Dennis heard this, he realized how emotionally stunted his brother was and began to offer him some free tips. "Bambo! You've got zillions of bucks! Give her ten grand for an abortion and tell her to keep the change, but whatever you do, don't have anything to do with her again. That's just too stupid to tolerate in a woman, but you don't even have to worry about that at the Captain's Cabin. The ladies there are very shrewd and calculating, and I can tell you from experience that what they're looking for is money and not some god-awful baby. What a horrible faux pas that would be!"

Sometimes, Bambo thought that Dennis's man-of-the-world attitude was extremely cold hearted, almost sociopathic. How, he asked him, did he ever expect to hold onto a woman? What would happen if he found a delightful, intelligent, sexy woman? Just keep throwing money at her?

"You may be a hopeless case, Bambo. So sincere, so sappy, so ready to head to the altar and plight your eternal troth. You're really a novice at this game--a goldfish penning love sonnets in a tank full of hungry sharks. Don't you realize that while you're pledging your heart's allegiance, your bride is checking out your bank balance? And if she discovers that the well has run dry, she'll sprint out of the house and fall into the arms of Count Greenbacks. Of course, it's the same thing the other way around--if my babe runs out of looks and the charm of that certain something, I'll go find another one. At this rate, you're never going to have any success with women because you take them far too seriously and see yourself as a noble medieval knight riding off to the crusades. Sex is a thrilling adventure, not a religious experience."

Even with this sagacious advice, Bambo was not at all convinced. He craved something more than an erotic body that he could show off like a prize he had won at the circus. He didn't even bother to mention that aspiration to Dennis since the answer that would be forthcoming was all too obvious. There had been times during his relationship with Adeline Nunn that were unlike anything that he had ever experienced. Episodes of rapture. The feelings they had shared just couldn't have happened with anyone--they were far too personal and related exclusively to their unique qualities so that the tenderness of the moment was the result of a colossal yearning they had invented for their own ecstatic amusement. But the ecstasy had been in their _romance_ and not in their sexuality, which was awkward, even embarrassing. Bambo laughed because Dennis would never understand that, but it was true. He wished he could remember everything he had just thought, write it down, and hand it to his brother, the dashing cowboy with the cosmopolitan air. The poor soul would throw a conniption fit, whatever that was.

To Bambo, Melissa was depressingly and stereotypically beautiful--tall, lusty, blond, and gorgeous. There was no point in even wishing for something like that; he'd probably have to fork over the whole of his six million in a very short period of time to keep her satisfied, and even that probably wouldn't work. Not only that, Melissa came across as an Amazon, a terrifying creature who demanded sexual satisfaction of the most muscular nature. Bambo was a bit more delicate than some and had no interest in surfing on a wild, windy day with the forty-foot waves coming in at twenty miles per hour. Even if he somehow made it to shore with this gal, he would suffer harrowing flashbacks and eventually the sexual version of post-traumatic stress disorder as every woman he "met" indelicately pronounced herself to be dissatisfied with his lackluster performance.

Discouraged, he left Dennis and Melissa and wandered over to the bar where he could order shots of cheap vodka at a mere seven dollars a pop. He had realized a long time ago that the way the Captain (whoever he was) kept the place free of riffraff was the super-exorbitant price of the booze, which meant that nobody with any common sense and average means would ever be found loitering in this financially rarified environment. For the sake of congregating within the golden aura of the Cabin, everybody ended up being scalped by the Captain, and Dennis, who was by this time a favored customer, followed the unwritten rule of only ordering the top of the line vodka, Code Blue, which went for an astounding twelve dollars a shot.

Bambo was into his second cheapo drink when he noticed that a young woman, probably only nineteen or twenty, was staring at him from the other end of the bar. When his eyes met hers, she rose from her seat and walked over slowly, quite casually, and sat next to him. He had a chance to observe that she was attractive and even elegant in an understated way; her clothes were tight-fitting but tasteful and real--black jeans, a white blouse, and a black vest. Black hair, black boots, and no lipstick. Thin but not scrawny, wiry, and probably strong. Athletic and lively but not frightening. Not at all like the stuck-up ponies that trotted ostentatiously around the Cabin at a dime a dozen. He was definitely interested, but she was rather young, and he instinctively sensed it was unlikely that their romantic inclinations would coincide. She definitely didn't appear to be at all similar to Adeline who loved to make a wish upon the first star that they could find on a dreamy summer night.

"I know a liitle bit about you, Bambo."

He wondered how she knew his name. "Like what?"

She smiled in a mischievous but friendly way. "I know that you're rich enough to buy me a drink."

He remembered that one of Dennis's maxims was that once a lady asked you to buy her a drink at the Captain's Cabin, it was your game to lose. It meant, he said, that the fair damsel had sized you up and was placing down a bet on her favorite horse. "What would you like?"

She smiled ingratiatingly. "How about ordering us a couple of Velvet Hammers? I think they're kind of sexy, don't you?"

It figured, of course. Bambo knew all about the Velvet Hammer, which was a specialty of the house--a weird concoction of exotic liquors that went for fifteen smackers and left a bad taste in your mouth. After he reluctantly slapped the money down and they had been brought their drinks by Spike, the ever-present and perpetual bartender, she said that she found the stools at the bar uncomfortable, and they went over to a booth.

"How'd you know my name?" he asked her, trying to sound friendly. He had not yet lost the mental habits of his drug-dealing days where suspicion was as natural as breathing.

She stirred her drink whimsically with a straw. "That guy over there," she said, pointing at Dennis. "I met him up at the bar before you came in, and I asked him if he knew anyone who was rich and lonely. 'That sounds like Bambo, my brother,' he said. Then he described you, and I must say that you're much better looking than I expected--based on what he told me, I was expecting a rather nasty piece of work, to be honest with you. I think your brother is jealous--you have much better features than he does."

She was drinking rather fast. "These Velvet Hammers are divine, aren't they? Almost orgasmic," she giggled, "but I shouldn't say things like that in front of a man because it can get you into trouble. How did you ever get a name like Bambo?"

"It's just a nickname. My real name is Bestwick."

Bambo's drinking companion spluttered into her glass and burst out laughing, which sent a froth of the sticky liquid in his direction.

"I'm sorry, really I am. That's the funniest name I've ever heard. Was your father a lecher or something? Best...wick--that's so creepy. No wonder you changed your name."

Bambo gazed intently at her. He liked the way she presented herself, her youthful exuberance, her playful sassiness, and the mysterious, alluring twinkle that sometimes sparkled in her dark eyes. But she was too young; she was coming from someplace strange.

Finishing her drink, she put her hand lightly on his. "What'ya say, let's have another round. After I've had two or three of these, I begin to loosen up and let my guard down a little bit."

Was he really this vulnerable? The touch of her hand that lingered on his sent his mind soaring on a rocket ship of erotic fantasies. She had already used the words sexy and orgasmic, and--

"It's a little warm in here, isn't it?" she said, taking off her vest leisurely. As Bambo spasmodically stood up to get their new round of Velvet Hammers, he noticed that her blouse was quite revealing.

Returning to the table with their drinks, he asked her, "What's your name?"

"Eva Braun. Do you know who she was?"

The "was" part of the question confused Bambo. "I'm not sure what you mean, Eva."

"I hope you don't get upset Bambo, but Eva Braun isn't my real name. I can't tell you that because it's important for me to keep my identity a secret. Eva Braun is my stage name, not that I'm an actress or anything like that, but there are some people who would be very disturbed if they found out I was here. You really don't know who Eva Braun was?"

"Not a clue."

"I thought everybody had heard of Eva. She was Hitler's mistress for most of his life--in fact, their story has both a happy and a sad ending. After Eva had begged him for years to marry her, Hitler finally consented, but the very next day, the awful Russians with their little runt of a leader closed in, and they were forced to commit suicide before being captured and beheaded. It was all very heroic, sort of a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, if you think about it."

Besides being incredulous, Bambo was disgusted. He wanted to get up and walk away since he was beginning to suspect that Eva might be off her rocker. To think he'd wasted thirty bucks on this starlet of the damned and her sinister infatuations. "What's that make me then, Hitler?" he asked her sarcastically.

She studied his face quizzically. "Come on, Bambo, it's a joke. You don't look like Hitler at all, and just because I'm Eva Braun doesn't mean I'm a Nazi. I do like swastikas though--I think they're very artistic." Leaning forward suggestively and once again putting her hand on his, she said, "Look--forget about all of that. I get carried away when I drink too much and say things that I shouldn't. Don't you?"

They had been sitting across from each other like lawyers at a deposition, but now she arose and came over and sat down next to him. He could feel her leg against his, and to his astonishment, she leaned over and whispered into his ear: "There's something that I want to ask of you, a favor, but I can't do it here because I wouldn't be surprised if this place is bugged." Moving back from him and staring into his eyes, she said, "You might be able to help me."

Of all the things! Nothing like this had ever happened to him, not even remotely. What did this woman want from him? It must be money. Money for sex? Maybe that was it--she needed rent money or something. He felt as if his life was passing before his eyes as a whirling spiral of thoughts that took the form of insistent admonitions raced through his mind. Everything about Eva went against all his instincts and the paranoias that had protected him over the years.

"Have you ever been in the Captain's Lounge?" she asked him.

"What's that?" Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, and he coughed.

Eva reached across the table and pulled a joint out of a pocket in her vest. "How about it, Bambo? Are you game?"

He couldn't say no to that--after all the booze, it would settle him down, and maybe after he had a couple of hits, he could figure out a way to disappear. That was an old trick of his--slide out the side door, bolt down an alley, hop a fence, and then, with the coast being clear, the night was young again. And so, with this cynical hope in mind, he followed Eva down a hallway until they reached a door that said ADMITTANCE BY PASSWORD ONLY. There was a keypad on the door, and Eva quickly typed in some numbers after which they entered a small, dusty, dimly lit room that was furnished with an oversized plush couch and a number of old-fashioned erotic paintings. After they were inside, Eva threw the deadbolt and announced that because of her special relationship with Spike, "We can stay here for as long as we want. Even all night, but I shouldn't have said that because it might give you ideas. I may look young, but I'm old enough to know how men are, and I've learned from experience that it's important for a woman not to place herself in a compromising position."

Bambo, by now hopelessly flummoxed, sat next to her, and they began to smoke the joint. "This is good ganja," he said approvingly. A sweet buzz in the Captain's Lounge with Hitler's mistress. It was all beginning to fit together--sort of.

"It ought to be, Bestwick," she said while playfully squeezing his knee, "because if it isn't, you have only yourself to blame."

What was that supposed to mean? "How's that?" he asked her warily.

"It's the same weed that you sold my boyfriend a while ago. Fritz always said you were the only straight-shooting dealer that he had ever met. Don't ask me his real name because that's privileged information."

So now it turned out that she had a boyfriend. How many times had he been with a woman who had unquestionably encouraged his "hopes" and then dropped the boyfriend bomb on his head? Thirty? Forty? Fifty?

"Don't worry," said Eva dismissively. "I'm getting tired of his attitude. He's starting to fall in love with the Russians, and that's something I won't tolerate."

And I'm falling in love with an alien, thought Bambo dejectedly.

She moved closer to him, much closer. Man, she was intense _._ "Bambo, I don't know how else to say this, but I need five hundred thousand dollars."

Rather steep! It was hard for him not to laugh. Who did she think she was? She must have accelerated into her Cleopatra mode. Too bad he didn't look like Hitler--he could have had her for a nickel. It was too funny, and he started to laugh.

Eva looked hurt and drew back from him. "You know, Bambo, I expected a little bit more from you." She turned slightly and put her hand on his shoulder. "I do find you attractive, Bambo, but I am not a prostitute. Who's going to pay half a million to spend a night with me? One hundred dollars if I'm lucky, but if I were going to be a prostitute, if I were going to lower myself to that level, which is something that I would never do, I would charge the lucky sucker half a million. How about it?" she said laughing softly.

He couldn't think of a single reasonable thing to say. He thought, rather comically, that maybe she had underestimated herself; he could see going up to five hundred bucks for her, but beyond that was out of the question.

"No takers, I see," she said with humorous dismay. "It looks like I'll have to offer you a substance that you can't seem to resist, but I still might be willing to sweeten the pot with a little something extra." She paused and lit another joint. "Bambo, what if I were to offer you at least three million dollars' worth of high-quality drugs for half a million, in cash?"

She passed him the joint and stared at him uneasily while he pondered this preposterous proposition. He thought the most likely outcome of this ludicrous offer was that he would end up with a bag of salt, lose the five hundred big boys, get pistol whipped, and once that was all out of the way, the police would arrive and cart him off. "Eva, it's true that I used to be a dealer, but those days are over because it's just way too risky."

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

He certainly was. "It's a lot of things, Eva. Like...let's be realistic--how are you ever going to come up with that amount of drugs?"

"You think I'm going to tell you that, Mr. Paranoid?" She narrowed her eyes and observed him carefully. "You think I'm a narc, don't you?"

"You don't really act like one, but every dealer that I knew who ended up being busted by one always told me that. I remember one guy said to me, 'Man, I never saw it coming. She's in the wrong career--she ought to be an actress. Don't ever trust anyone you don't know, Bambo, because the ones who come on to you from out of nowhere--at least nine out of ten of them are undercover cops.'"

Eva took a big hit off the joint, held the smoke in for a long time, and watched admiringly as she sent a long plume of it towards the ceiling. "You seem to be experienced in this line of work," she said lowering her eyes until they met his. Bambo realized there was something hypnotic about her. He wanted to get away but he couldn't. "Have you," she asked, "ever heard of a narc who had sex with her prey?"

Bambo's heart began to pound.

"I'm just speaking hypothetically," said Eva, "but I would think that would negate the whole case--especially if she accepted money for her, shall we say, services."

Bambo knew that was true. He'd heard stories about some crafty female cops who used their bodies to lure men past the point of no return, but they never crossed _that_ line.

"Let me see your wallet, Bambo--don't worry, I'm going to give it back to you."

He couldn't believe that this was happening, but it was beginning to look like it was. As arousal began to dominate fear, he handed her his wallet. "Well, you do have a lot of money here. I've been thinking it over, and I know that I'm worth more than a hundred, more like two hundred." She counted out four fifties, put the money in her pants pocket, and handed the wallet back. "But, you know, Bambo, I have my pride and my ambitions and my hopes, so I'm going to trust you and consider that a down payment on a future transaction that is very important to me. Of course, I realize that I have to make a good faith offering of my own."

Bambo felt quite tense now. The phrase, murky shadow of evil, drifted through his mind.

Eva leaned over to him and put her hand on his chest while she whispered into his ear. "Relax, Bambo. Orgasms are fun. I think we should have one together, don't you?"

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN: WHO??

Darnell had stopped walking and was standing a few feet from Sherry and me. It was obvious that he was transfixed by the extraordinary commotion that is so common at a murder scene, and as I approached him, he turned to me and said softly, "What happened?" His eyes wandered to the half-dozen patrol cars parked in front of the house and the two ambulances--actually hearses, of course--that were in our driveway. It probably wasn't going to be that much of a shock when I told him.

"Come with me, Darnell--I need to introduce you to someone." I could see Bryan Davies looking at us, and I knew he must have guessed who I was talking to. "After that, we'll go out to the back patio, and I'll tell you what I know."

Together, without saying anything, we walked over to Bryan who was standing near the front entrance. After introducing them, I said, "I'd like to talk to him alone for a few minutes."

"Sure, Jackson, take your time. Just let me ask him a couple of quick questions." He took out a notepad and pen and asked Darnell, "What time, as best as you can remember, did you leave here this morning?"

Darnell did not answer immediately. Finally, after what seemed an abnormally long time, he said, "It must have been around eleven-thirty."

"And were both your mother and sister home when you left?"

"My mother for sure--I saw her as I was leaving. I think Cassandra was here, but I didn't actually see her."

"OK. I have one question for you, Jackson. What time did Gloria call you?"

"The exact time will be on the tape machine, but I'd guess that it was around twelve-thirty."

Bryan looked at Darnell for a moment and then said to me, "I need to talk to you alone for a couple of minutes."

"I'll meet you out back shortly," I said to Darnell as I followed Bryan into the front entranceway. "Look, Jackson," he said solemnly, "there's something important I need to tell you. On the floor near Cassandra's body, we found a small blood-soaked address book that belongs to Darnell--it has his name in large block letters on the inside front cover. From our point of view, the really remarkable thing about it is that the blood from Cassandra's body flowed away in another direction from where the address book was found. You understand the significance?"

"Not quite," I said slowly.

"What I'm saying, Jackson, is that this address book was probably not peripheral to the crime scene. It didn't just happen by chance to be lying on the floor, and the most obvious explanation is that it was dropped during the time that the murders were committed."

"But then why is there blood all over it?" (A perceptive reader will probably discern that this is a question that makes hardly any sense, but I was under the mistaken impression that I was somehow defending Darnell.)

"I don't know, Jackson. Maybe it fell to the floor where it came into contact with the blood and then, during a struggle, was subsequently kicked by the murderer or one of the victims."

That sounded far-fetched to me, and my instinct was to argue with Bryan. It was impossible for me to imagine that Darnell could have committed this crime, but I realized that the opinion of his father was essentially irrelevant at a time like this.

Suddenly, however, I felt weak and nauseous. Could it possibly be?? How did his address book get there? Talk about a clue! In a matter of seconds, I went from disbelief to a state of dread because even if Darnell was innocent, he could easily be convicted on the basis of such evidence.

"I'm not interested in rushing to judgment and convicting an innocent person, Jackson. There are certainly a number of explanations for the address book, but someone is guilty of these murders, and we need to do everything in our power to discover who this person is. When you talk to Darnell, it's especially important that you avoid saying anything specific about what you saw inside the house. At the same time, whatever you can find out about what he did this morning could be very helpful to us. You understand what I'm telling you?"

I took a deep breath. Or I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest muscles had constricted, and my lungs seemed as if they were made of iron. I also felt dizzy, my knees were shaking, and I wondered if I was about to collapse. Sitting down in a chair that was nearby, I faced the most dreadful thought of all: Could my own son have murdered his mother and sister? I tried to remember the phone call, and it gave me some hope because, from what I could remember, when Cassandra had said "get out of here," it did not sound as if she were talking to Darnell.

"Are you alright, Jackson?" I heard Bryan say.

"I'm OK, a little woozy maybe. I'll go talk to him and see what I can find out."

Torn between anger, fear, and confusion, I walked behind the house and found Darnell sitting in a lawn chair and staring off into space. I sat down next to him but said nothing as my mind drifted wistfully through the past. For the most part, he had been a quiet and dreamy kid who was more interested in reading than sports. Rarely did he raise his voice, and when he became angry, which did not happen frequently, he was inclined to withdraw and sulk within a morose, belligerent silence, but this kind of response was easier for me to deal with than the temper tantrums that I witnessed in others his age. Nostalgically, a memory of a crisp autumn night, when he would have been about five years old, came back to me with tremendous clarity. We were walking home with the fallen leaves swirling around us, and he was holding my hand tightly; suddenly, he looked up, pointed to the moon, and said, "Daddy, what's that?" Other, more fleeting images crossed my mind, and I saw his face at different ages but disconnected from any specific event--very similar to rapidly leafing through an old album of photographs.

But then, there was the weight of all the more recent memories from the last couple of years when he had become unruly, obnoxious, and antisocial. I had been very laissez-faire about all of that as I recalled the strict disciplinarian upbringing that I had received from my parents. Besides being lazy, which everyone feels the need to point out to me, I also honestly feel most kids inevitably go through their own private learning curve that, practically speaking, amounts to a denunciation of their parents. From my point of view, there was no sense standing in the way of that emotion since it would only confirm a teenager's rebellious suspicions as he or she anxiously fought for their own self-identity. Even worse, it would also have the effect of making the denunciation of their elders permanent, or nearly so, instead of temporary. It was also reasonable to assume that with the passion of their youth as well as their exuberant inexperience, they would go too far, exaggerate their feelings, and lose their balance for a while. To put it another way, I thought that except for something truly extreme, it was best to overlook their questionable behavior and encourage everything else--without appearing to do so.

However, last year, when he was a sophomore, drugs had exploded into his consciousness, and I had, at Gloria's insistence, made an effort to discuss the issue with him. As a cop, the whole thing was doubly difficult--although Darnell was secretive and relatively discreet about his habit, it would not be beneficial for any of us if he were to be busted.

In an oblique style that I considered mandatory for these improbable, farcical, and futile conversations, I veered around wildly with a mixture of attempted charm and warnings about the possible permanent effects of his actions. All to no avail, as I had expected--in fact, after our little "chat," he became generally insolent and, at times, openly contemptuous towards me. Gloria was constantly grounding him, which I considered a serious mistake since it involved the use of force to achieve objectives that to Darnell had become increasingly abhorrent. It was as a direct result of this, I feel, that he began to refer to a whole range of people and things that he encountered as being "nothing but fascists and fascism--minus the swastikas."

Psychologically, I found it quite cumbersome to assimilate the fact that Darnell was now a suspect. I realized that even without the address book, it would have been foolhardy to immediately assume his innocence because, like me, he was related to the victims and by his own admission had been with them only an hour before they had been killed. Yet from what I could remember of the horror show inside the house, the murders appeared to be more an act of impulsive rage than the result of careful planning, and that seemed to me to be out of character for Darnell, whose anger, although it could be intense, was more moody than expressive. Moreover, I thought that if he had decided to conduct a vendetta against his family, then I would surely have been included. Yes! If anyone had been left alive, it would have been Cassandra and not me. Did he even own a gun? That would have been big news to me, and it is something that I would never have permitted, lazy or not. But, assuming he had obtained a gun, could he have suddenly lost it and blasted his mother and sister off the face of the earth? Clues or not, father or not, I thought it was extremely unlikely that he was guilty of this crime, and if, in fact, he was the one who had pulled the trigger, then I had been much more than lazy--I had been, and still was, asleep at the wheel.

"Darnell, this is a terrible thing to have to tell you, but your mother and Cassandra have been murdered."

He turned away from me and spit forcefully onto the ground. Then, folding his arms across his chest and speaking slowly and distinctly, he said, "I don't know a thing about it. Not a thing. They were alive when I left this morning, so if that Davies guy sent you out here with a bunch of questions, you can go back and stuff them down his fascist throat."

Shocked, I had no idea what to make of my son's strange and callous attitude. It aroused not only my anger but also my curiosity, and after a short pause, I tried another approach. "I was at my desk a little after twelve when your mother called. There was someone in the house who had a gun, and Cassandra was telling whoever it was to get out."

"And..."

"Then the phone went dead--I assume the killer ripped the cord out of the wall."

"But you never heard the voice of this person? Any idea if it was a man or a woman?"

"No," I said. "The call was taped--you'll probably be able to listen to it."

"I don't think I need to do that...I don't--" but here, he started sobbing. Slowly at first, but as the moments passed, it became convulsive and wracking. None of his reactions were comprehensible to me, and I felt there was something important that I was missing. When he had calmed down somewhat, I said, "Darnell, I know that this is a difficult thing to comprehend--"

"You don't know anything," he said with both defiance and hostility. "There's nothing that you can do about it. Nothing!"

He stood up and began to pace back and forth across the lawn. Abruptly, he came up to me and said, "They were shot, weren't they?" There was something intensely bitter in his face.

"Yes," I said warily. I also realized I had told him something that I should not have. It was difficult for me to simultaneously effect my roles of cop, eyewitness, and father.

Instantly, he snapped, "Shot in the head, both of them, right?"

Startled by the accuracy of this extraordinary question, I remained silent. This was certainly something that I could not reply to. Neither was it at all wise for him to be saying something like this--although the question actually pointed to his innocence, it would not be difficult to twist its meaning. I could hear the outraged prosecutor in his final summation to the jury: "And now we have not only his bloody address book that was found next to the body of his sister but also the astonishing fact that he knew both of the victims were shot in the head." Guilty! "Darnell, listen--"

He was looking at me and shaking his head negatively. In a voice that was at once both pleading and nasty, he said, "Just tell me, will you--they were both shot in the head, weren't they?"

I was affected by his heartfelt urgency that seemed, as best as I could decipher it, to contain within it something that he found to be perilous to himself. I said nothing but barely, as close to imperceptible as I could contrive, nodded in the affirmative.

After a few moments, he seemed to come to a decision. "I'll go talk to that detective now, but I'm not going to be able to help him because I don't know anything about what happened in there. You have to believe that." I was still sitting and staring at him impassively. Speaking with what seemed to me to be an exaggerated vehemence, he said, "But I will tell you this--there is no doubt in my mind that they were shot by a Nazi."

Keep them talking. It was discouraging to look at Darnell as a suspect, but I had no choice--especially after the things that he had just said. "Why's that?" I asked him.

"You don't know much about Nazism, do you? You're undoubtedly one of the ones who thinks it all ended when they killed Hitler. Let me tell you something: _They're_ _back_. That's why I knew they were shot in the head because that's the way Nazis kill people--it's their trademark, their signature. If they could resurrect Hitler, he could march into any town on this earth, and the ignorant hordes would kiss his boots and worship the ground he stood on. But they don't really need another Hitler because the second wave of exterminations has already begun and is sweeping like a tornado across the earth. Who do you think invented the gun? Poets? And what do you think the nuclear bomb is all about? Peace? The gun is the Christ of Nazism, and the nuclear bomb is its God, the giant gas chamber of universal extinction. Meanwhile, everyone expects me to shut up and grow up so that I can become a good, wealthy, highly respectable, patriotic bomb maker."

With that mostly irrelevant oration, he left me. In the years to come, I would view these political sentiments from Darnell in a different light. But now, immersed in another reality, I regarded it as a deliberate attempt to distract me from the logical conclusion that could be drawn from a question that he had asked me. However, the diversion hadn't worked because while he had been bashing guns and Nazis, the tape recorder in my mind had been replaying the much more relevant statement that he had made: "They were both shot in the head, weren't they?"

Why did he suspect that? Most of the gunshot victims I had seen had not been shot in the head since the body presented a far easier and more natural target. Had he heard about some wacko running around town who was shooting people in the head? But then, in that case, there would have been no need to conceal himself inside the Hitler diatribe. But, then again, why would he conceal anybody's name? Because he wasn't positive and only suspected? Who??

Yet that wasn't true either because his suspicions had come before he asked me that question, and after my response, silent as it was, he had become certain as to the identity of the killer. I felt that by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice, and I felt it strongly. Even if he was wrong, it was still amazing to me that there was someone in his life who he felt was capable of committing such an act. And what could their motive possibly be? What did Gloria and Cassandra have to do with it? And why was Darnell being so secretive?

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN: NINE TO FIVE

Crystal Shane did not like her job. Is there anybody who really does? A few years ago, in a poll that was conducted by our energetic Sentinel, it was discovered that over eighty percent of the population considered themselves to be somewhere between contented and "in love" with their work. Over beers at the Outpost, Jake had shown me the long two-page article that had arisen out of this remarkable statistic. Entitled "Love It or Leave It," the author, Angela Glass, had graced her readership with a careful analysis of the figures. (Regrettably, it was only shortly later that Angela had been dismissed from the Sentinel because of a number of "irregularities" that an enterprising investigative reporter had found within her writings. When, by court order, her notes and records were revealed, one of the many embarrassing things that came to light was that her "scientific" poll of the workplace consisted of exactly one person--herself. But so what? It certainly didn't bother Angela who finished her tale of the contemporary workplace with a quote from a nonexistent "social mathematician" named Albert Volk. In actuality, it was later learned that Albert was none other than the award-winning but recently disgraced sociologist, Jefferson Krupp, who it was no longer wise to quote directly, since he had completely fallen out of fashion after a terrible scandal of truly monumental, even gargantuan proportions that arose when it was discovered he had committed the most appalling act of plagiarism that one could ever possibly hope to imagine.)

Before I attempt to describe the woeful descent of Jefferson into the deepest depths of literary depravity, I should, in order not to prejudice the reader, allow this distinguished figure to speak for himself. Angela, apparently incensed by a threatened strike at a local boot factory, had modified an essay by the formidable Mr. Krupp that was entitled "Ultimate Fascism: The World As a Concentration Camp," and using her ingenuity with abandon, while also employing a selection of remarks by Jefferson that were well wide of the mark, she was able to produce the following: "A careful extrapolation of the available employment data that Ms. Glass has been kind enough to provide allows me to reach some obvious conclusions, which it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any sane person to refute. First and foremost, it is encouraging to note that a solid majority of the population finds that their current employment is 'exceptionally satisfying and fulfills their deepest needs.'" (Reading this, Jake said we now had positive proof that many people were "taking the pony for a ride" at the workplace.) "This is, of course, as it should be. No individual can hope to be happy who is unemployed and receives their sustenance by sopping up the alms of society, which are doled out by our hapless welfare organizations. It is inconceivable to me that there are those who do not feel honored to take their place among the toiling masses of millions, who do not cherish their avocations with loving abandon, and who, with the utmost perversity, refuse to embrace their responsibilities and expect to be spoon-fed by the state throughout the course of their calamitous 'careers.'

"This raises the vexing problem of the liberal malcontents who would use our sacred Constitution to launch an assault upon our most powerful and successful corporations. There can be no doubt that these perpetual misfits from the left have an inveterate, nauseating tendency to side with the hypothetical rights of the oppressed, and we must be willing to ask ourselves what our limit of tolerance can be for those who are obsessed with the long-discredited equalitarian fable of democracy as it relates to the supposed rights of the worker."

Our learned professor now launches into one of his favorite themes.

"Because voting is a pleasant farce that gives the masses an illusion of choice, it can be tolerated as an amusing sideshow in the political arena, but any business that caters to this abominable notion will simply be trampled to death in the marketplace where the playing field is a purely Darwinian one. Can you imagine the criminal absurdity of a company governed by some pigheaded Socratic ideology that used the ballot box to determine their leaders? This is clearly a model for failure, and that is why the absurdities of democracy do not exist in the workplace (with the exception, obviously, of such laughable sideshows as voting for the manager of the company softball team). What is extraordinarily important to understand is that in today's world, the struggle for power has been successfully transferred from the increasingly irrelevant platitudes and policies of the politicians to the business world, where it is obvious that the ideal of enlightened fascism has been attained and the rebelliously destructive spirit of man has, thankfully, been crushed under the burden of economic obligations.

"As far as equality goes, I think we can all dismiss that quaint anachronism out of hand. Are we going to pay floor sweepers and toilet cleaners the same amount as the CEO? Rational Nazism, which I would define as the successful application of the philosophy of brute force, demands that the leader of an organization set the example, and what this means is that the CEO must seize as much as he possibly can from the company and--yes, yes, and again yes--from his fellow workers, exactly as the company must seize as much as it can from the marketplace. This is known as devouring the weak and the helpless for the sake of the greater good. Thus, the truly great corporation will pay its leader billions upon billions of dollars a year, while handing out the chump change of near-minimum wage to the fortunate, well-fed slaves that are euphemistically called workers. Without greed, cruelty, subjugation, and the annihilation of the weak, there can be no survival--those are the obvious cornerstones of Darwinism. Therefore, the most successful businesses will be and _are_ entirely fascist and run by the spiritual descendants and current disciples of Hitler. Those that object to this statement on the grounds that it is 'a little bit harsh' fail to perceive the internal dynamics of the modern struggle for supremacy and are so blinded by the fact that the external artifacts of Nazism have been reconfigured that they have become oblivious to the nature of our world where everything is being constantly transformed into the image and likeness of the fascist totalitarian state."

That is more than enough of Mr. Krupp who was forced to resign his tenured position at Blackwater University when it was discovered, by chance, that his major work, "The Evolving Synergy of Fascism and Darwinism," was found to have been remarkably similar to an obscure tract entitled "The Fuhrer Speaks," which had supposedly been written sometime in the 1930's. Remarkably, a janitor at the university library had discovered a handwritten copy of this manuscript in a men's room at the university library and had forwarded it through the proper channels to a place where it could receive the attention that it so obviously demanded. After a careful examination, the general consensus of the academic and scientific community was that it had indeed been written by the Godfather of all Godfathers, King Adolph the First. Several weeks later, however, the authorities had received an anonymous tip that it was nothing but a clever forgery of Adolf's handwriting by a bored graduate student who had been in one of Jefferson's classes and had submitted it to him anonymously as a prank. This startling revelation had led to a reexamination of the writing in question, and it was not long before many readers realized that the Fuhrer, the graduate student, and Jefferson's Evolving Synergy were one and the same. Aghast, the trustees at Blackwater had forcibly expelled--disgorged was the word used in the official announcement--Jefferson from the grounds of the University, and although it has lately been rumored that he is now writing political pamphlets of a highly unsavory nature under the pseudonym of Truman Von Bock, there have been no confirmed sightings of his reviled presence since his sudden excommunication from the academic flock.

Regardless of these theoretical disputes and observations, Crystal did not enjoy working at the Bullet and Bomb Emporium, where she was employed as an order processor. Like almost all work nowadays, it was considerably worse than useless. I can recall reading about some poor soul in the Far East who worked at the end of an assembly line in a wretched sweatshop and was paid three dollars a day for the enviable and ennobling task of stamping each of the idiotic toys that went by him with a logo that read "Made on the Moon by Mad Max." After that important contribution to the welfare of the world community, the one-dollar piece of plastic trash passed on to the Inspection Department where a twenty-year-old suffering from severe sex fantasies affixed an Inspected by #12 sticker. The "inspection" consisted of making sure it existed to the extent that the sticker could be placed onto it. Every two weeks the number on the inspection sticker was changed so that in the event of a complaint, the manager could reply that #12 had been found to be an incorrigible slacker who was no longer allowed on the premises (or if the complaint was severe enough, they would be told that #12 had been shot and dumped into a lime pit).

Crystal worked in a room with a dozen other women and three men who spent their days taking orders either over the phone or through the computer. Because of the sensitive nature of the arms business, all large orders had to be reconfirmed; that is, Crystal was required to call back the purchaser who was obliged to produce their fourteen-letter password before she could issue the ten-digit confirmation number. In addition, of course, there was the daily rigmarole that the government put them through--the mandatory criminal background checks that required Crystal to enter the National Crime Database with her password that was a combination of sixteen letters, numbers, and punctuation marks. 4Lp:Z9Av,.k>?8tY This ridiculous mess changed on a daily basis and had to be entered within thirty seconds; furthermore, you were only allowed two shots at it before you were booted off the system with a hideous clang, and after a menacing warning, which stated that criminal misuse of the Database was a felony punishable by up to ninety years in prison and the confiscation of all your personal belongings, the computer would crash. At that point, Crystal would have no choice but to go into Cretin Fleer's office where he would enter the appropriate enabling codes that allowed her to resume her work.

However, Cretin, who managed not only the order takers but also the tank, flamethrower, grenade, and bazooka departments was a busy man who did not enjoy these interruptions--especially from Crystal, who had done the unthinkable by...

Neither did Crystal enjoy being in the presence of this repulsive being who looked like a large, horrible, two-footed ant. Since she kept to herself and didn't deign to socialize with the decrepit ninnies, glamour girls, and drooling boys that she worked with, she had not been aware of what was well-known about Cretin. But one Friday night, when she was working alone on a rush order, she had found out in no uncertain terms what Cretin was really all about--he was as bad as her father, and that was saying something.

Hot tempered and prone to bouts of inner verbal violence, Crystal had considered shooting the satyr in the parking lot and had even asked her boyfriend for a gun, but he claimed that he didn't own one, and by the time her rowdy, alcohol-fueled weekend was over, she had calmed down somewhat. However, when she returned to work on Monday morning, she brought with her a can of insecticide that was specially formulated for ants. Placing it in her top drawer with the cap off where it stood reassuringly ready for her self-defense, she murmured menacingly to herself, "How would you like to be sprayed in the face with this?"

But Cretin was no longer motivated by lust and had manfully moved on to revenge, which was much more compatible with his nature. Little Miss Pipsqueak would be taught a humiliating lesson in office politics. He instructed his assistant, Grover Franks, to funnel all the crank customers towards Crystal who would see her call-to-order ratio plummet. The end result would be an official warning, followed by a formal reprimand, and finally, a very sadistic firing.

Like millions upon millions of others, Crystal Shane hated her job and loathed the eight hours of each day that she spent in this quagmire of ascending absurdities. As so many others do, she dreamed of somehow escaping from this glorified concentration camp to a place where she would not be subjected to the economic tyrannies of the brutal fascist bulldogs who run this world. With the passing of each worthless and meaningless day; with the agony of watching the best days of her life as they flowed down the sewers of this sick and dreadful system; with the horrifying sights all around her of what she would look like if and when she reached fifty; and with the powerful feeling that this horror movie would never end on its own, she began to seek out various avenues of escape from this deadly pit of quicksand. And that, to her, was the most depressing thing of all because she realized that every hope of freedom was an improbable fantasy--something that merely sustained you through another day and kept you tied to the wheel of oppression for another month while you turned into an ugly rat on Cretin Fleer's vicious treadmill for the rest of your heartbreaking life.

"I deserve a lot more than this," she would scream silently to herself.

I think, much more than we dare to admit, that this is the universal but ruthlessly repressed cry of help from almost every single worker in the world. In fact, because of the fear as to where this emotion might lead, we often, in our less desperate moments, like to feel that we have risen above the "toiling masses" and are exempt from their complaints. We love our jobs! But, in actuality, we stand with the famous "quiet desperation" at our posts and bravely endure another day of supreme monotony. Slowly and invisibly, the daring hopes of our youth are crushed into utter oblivion, although it is certainly true that we do our best to avoid becoming aware of this awful fact. We love our jobs!!

What other choice does a person actually have? Leave their pitiful job, watch their bank account dwindle to zero, and then get kicked out into the street? Who wants that? Which means that the only thing in this whole wide world that is worse than working is not working. How's that for a choice? We love our jobs!!!

Crystal Shane, twenty-two years old, attractive but not _that_ attractive, had a dynamic imagination, but it seemed to be failing her, and she had the feeling that she was drowning, drowning in despair. Twice now, she had been the victim of a dreadful nightmare. In it, she was trapped below the main deck on a large ship that was sinking rapidly. The water around her was rising and pushing her relentlessly upwards towards a ceiling that was coming closer and closer. Finally, inexorably, she was pressed against it and struggling for her last breath. Choking and weeping, terror beyond terror. Blurry, ever darkening colors and the sustained sound of a piercing and agonizing scream. And then, in the dream, it suddenly became totally silent and completely black. After a minute of that blackness, she awakened panting with her heart pounding and drenched in a cold, clammy sweat. She knew what that dream meant: She was trapped on a ship that was sinking, and if she didn't escape, she was going to die.

Sometimes, however, people make grave mistakes when they interpret their dreams.

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN: STRUNG OUT AND STRUNG UP

Around two o'clock in the afternoon, an exhausted Branklin retreated from the disaster at Darwin King to the safer and much more private confines of his castle, otherwise known as the Mayor's office. He received a terrible fright when he peered into a mirror and was greeted by his ghastly visage. "My God," he muttered to himself, "if that's how I looked this morning, they'll be talking about having me committed." He repaired quickly to his personal bathroom and after ten minutes felt considerably better--very presentable and possessing a distinguished air that clearly set him apart from the tacky aura of the vulgar public.

What a day! The early morning events, Clayton Shane's murder and Van Wynch's e-mail, seemed like unfortunate incidents from a bygone age. Certainly, compared to Darwin King, they didn't amount to a can of rancid beans that had been half-eaten by a mangy rabid dog. Murder and the demands of a witch on a broomstick were merely a balmy breeze on a calm summer night, but the loss of six million bucks was a category-five hurricane that the city could not possibly hope to weather. On the way back to City Hall, he had spoken to Dodson Klopp who had pointedly reminded him that the state was itself teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. Sounding somewhat flustered, the Governor told Branklin that the accountants had only just managed to salvage the situation by discovering a clever and unusual scam, which involved kiting thousands of checks between several accounts that currently had a negative balance. They were still bankrupt but no one realized it, and although that was nine-tenths of the battle, the state clearly had no resources to dispense. Branklin knew that this was just another dose of self-serving drivel from the Kloppster who always had some cockeyed excuse for slithering out of his obligations. Undoubtedly, if he had asked Dodson for ten bucks, the guy would have said that as a matter of principle, he didn't donate to charity.

As for Darwin City, it also wasn't that far from taking the frightful plunge into the gory depths of red ink. Five years ago, its credit rating had been Triple A, but after Barry Pidgett had poured twenty million into high-tech stocks about two weeks before the dot-com bubble burst, the financial condition of the city began to plummet with the speed of a sky diver who has forgotten his parachute. Ignoring advice from all sides, including Branklin's, Barry had resolutely held his head high as he obsessively repeated the moronic mantra of the brokers who had convinced him that the buy-and-hold strategy was the highway to El Dorado. Reciting by rote from the catechism of his investment primer, Barry said history had repeatedly shown that the real losers were those panicky souls who pulled up their stakes and made a run for the hills. By the time Barry came to his senses and realized that the brokers were jokers, the twenty million was worth eight hundred grand, and after paying the early exit fees, option fees, brokerage fees, and all the other arcane expenses that were beyond Branklin's understanding, the city was presented with a check from the esteemed investment house of Balch, Henking, and Zank for ninety-seven thousand dollars and four cents.

As a result of this disaster, Darwin City's credit rating had nosedived to C Plus, and the interest rate on their loans, even the ones they had paid faithfully for years, went from 4% to 9%. With the rapidly escalating school budget, things had rocketed from bad to dreadful, and the city had only been saved from catastrophe by a thirty-million-dollar loan (at 14%!) from a pack of sneaky sharks who operated out of Bleakfester Dump. Barry had only been able to make the previous month's payment on that note by signing on to all the credit card offerings the city had received over the past six weeks and maxing out their credit limits. It didn't take a financial genius to figure out that the patient, although on advanced life support, was down to his last horrible gasp and that the end was nearer than near--it was _here_.

Branklin was interrupted from these depressing meditations by his ugly secretary, Patricia Bardonsky, who had opened the door and was peering in at him with her gloomy owlish eyes. Exasperated, he was seized with a sudden impulse to throw her out the window and onto the pavement two stories below. "What?" he barked out threateningly.

"Forrester Haggins is on line two, sir."

If there was anybody in the world that he didn't want to talk to, it was this self-inflated monster who was the Vice President of Channel Nine News. But he knew that if he avoided him, it would only make matters worse, and cursing under his breath at the foul luck of this miserable day, he picked up the phone.

"Mr. Mayor," said Forrester in his usual booming and authoritarian voice, "everybody's in a state of shock around here--nobody can ever remember seeing anything like it. Listen," he said lowering his voice to a confidential tone, "just between you and me, do you think that this is the work of terrorists?"

Just between you and me, Forrester, why don't you tie a fifty-pound block of cement around your waist and go for a swim in Lake Bracken, thought Branklin. He had always despised Forrester who made a habit of filling the airwaves with his sanctimonious special editorials of bombastic blather that invariably ended with an admonition directed at him. The usual habit, Branklin had observed, of pompous hacks who had entrenched themselves in their own bureaucracies and eventually became autocrats within their tiny domains. Without doubt, Forrester thought he was the conscience of the community, but the fact was that he was just another venal lackey wallowing in the jealousy that he reserved for those who were more powerful and popular.

"Forrester, there are absolutely no indications that this is anything but a massive act of vandalism, which--"

"Vandalism? You must be talking about Darwin King."

"Exactly what are you referring to, Forrester?"

"Haven't you heard about the murders of Gloria and Cassandra James?"

This was a predictable ploy of Forrester who enjoyed surprising him with some trivial scrap of information that Branklin was supposed to have somehow known about--the implication being that he wasted all his time goofing off in the office with sorry repulsive specimens like Barry Pidgett and Patricia Bardonsky. Having no idea who Forrester was talking about, Branklin played it safe and grunted into the phone noncommittally.

"I'm telling you, Mr. Mayor, you have a real crisis on your hands. On Friday, the Drug Czar is shot to death, on Saturday or Sunday, all of the confiscated drugs are looted from the police station, and then today, the wife and daughter of the lead detective assigned to the Clayton Shane case are murdered."

That was odd. And the drugs--nobody had mentioned that to him. What was going on over there in Princeville?

"What we'd like to do," said the annoying Forrester, "is a live interview with you that we'll run at six."

He wasn't going to sit there in front of the camera and let this vulture cut him to ribbons and then dine on the delicacy. "Forrester, really I can't possibly--"

"Give us a break, Branklin; Amanda's on her way over there now, and we've already--"

Amanda! Amanda Trane. Nobody knew how fervently, in his overwrought imagination, he had longed for this woman and how he had ached and perspired and palpitated when he watched the news, which because of her, he never missed except, of course, when he was occupied with "other things" in Bleakfester Dump. To him, she was beyond gorgeous, beyond ravishing, beyond everything. Fifty-six years old and he had never felt such a violent hunger--all the Violet Roses in the world withered on the vine and vanished into thin air, and the only thing he was left with was a ravenous yearning that could never be fulfilled. She was too beautiful. Stunning! But he could never have her--he was too old, too well-known, and he felt like a shipwrecked sailor stranded on a small unknown island from which there could never be any rescue. In his mind, now, he could see her vividly, could see her indescribably intoxicating eyes _,_ those wide-set, earnest, smoldering, dark eyes, those unwavering, intense, placidly erotic eyes. Bewitching! And she was coming to his office to--

"Branklin?" said Forrester quizzically.

Panting ever so slightly, his heart skipped a beat. "The interview will be with Amanda?" he said rather baldly.

"Absolutely--you know, as she was leaving here, she told me that she was excited at the prospect of meeting you. Being a newcomer to Darwin City, she's trying to make a name for herself, and an exclusive interview with you would be a wonderful achievement for her. We all love her here; she's a remarkable woman--totally professional but very down to earth."

No doubt! "Well...alright, I guess I can do that," he said nonchalantly to Forrester. "I'll need to talk to her first to establish the ground rules."

"Sure—that's not a problem. She might not get there until four-thirty or five because she's been delayed by the James' murders, but you'll have plenty of time with her before you go on the air."

Amanda...it had been about six months ago that she had arrived in town from somewhere out west. He could still remember the very first time that he had seen her, and how he had been aroused by--what was it exactly? It was everything: She was so solid and calm, but at the same time, it was apparent that she was a sensual woman who enjoyed having fun and didn't take herself too seriously. There were more beautiful women and more sexy women, but she was it--whatever it was--and, at least in his own mind, he could sense the hidden but dynamic sexual passion that radiated from her and gave off an impression of a deep, explosive eroticism. But as far as Branklin could tell, nobody else saw it. Maybe it was her rather clever way of presenting herself--businesslike but friendly, efficient but casual, well-spoken but with a laugh that was both knowing and funny, salt of the earth but with a subtle glamour that he found mesmerizing. The men surrounding her, the co-anchor as well as the weather and sports characters, acted as if she were nothing out of the ordinary and instead of stumbling all over themselves to impress her, they gave every appearance of being genuinely blasé. Very puzzling! Because if he had been forced to describe Amanda Trane with one word, Branklin would have had no trouble discovering it. _Smoldering_. And who was going to be the man to turn that into a blaze?

At the same time, these thoughts were very depressing to Branklin. Amanda was probably in her late twenties, and he understood how high-octane professional women operated. They were the new generation who had divorced themselves from men and fallen in love with their jobs, which gave them a sense of power. No longer did they have to sit at home like anxious beggars while their sordid husbands drank themselves into an ornery state, stumbled up the back stairs mumbling obscenities, and then beat them into unconsciousness. Marrying into their work, there was no way that they would compromise themselves sexually, least of all with a public figure. Nobody would accept a news anchor having sex with the Mayor--it was amazing how many restrictions were placed on his sex life by his public position. If he had been Rex Gunderson, the corrupt CEO of Goring Armaments, he could have offered her a million dollars for "a night on the town," and even if she refused and made his offer public, no harm would come to him. The bomb business was thriving, the stockholders were delirious with joy, and everyone would undoubtedly think it was a good sign that Rex was enjoying himself. He could, in the extremely unlikely event that it became necessary, explain to the board of directors that it was a mere attempted bribe of a newscaster that was intended to further the interests of the company. Nothing wrong with that! As the old saying has it, bribes and bombs go together like love and marriage.

However, Branklin was in another boat altogether, and he knew that it wasn't just Amanda who would be railroaded out of town and into oblivion for what the public would see as a sexual transgression. One would think that as Mayor of the city, he would be allowed sex carte blanche instead of being forcibly elevated onto his sterile throne where he was expected, with the single obnoxious exception of his wife, to remain celibate--or else! He might as well face facts--it was absurd to contemplate taking it "one step further" with Amanda. Anyways, what did he have that he could offer her?

He sighed. Money--it was the only way, the only thing he had that she might be interested in. He realized that he shouldn't be thinking this way because it was far too dangerous, yet he couldn't resist because even though she didn't look like _that_ type of woman, he knew that virtually everybody has their price--as long as it's guaranteed somehow. Here was another absurd obstacle: If he offered Amanda a truly enormous sum of money, it might only frighten her because that would seem too bizarre, and she might begin to think that he was some kind of weirdo who would eventually produce monopoly money when the time came to pay the bill for her "services." At least in that respect, his exalted position in the community should be a benefit since she would have to assume that it wasn't at all likely that a man who had been Mayor for nearly thirty years was going to go overboard and needlessly jeopardize his reputation by infuriating her with some kind of financial cop-out. Not only that, she would also understand that it was of the utmost importance to him that their assignation be kept a secret. Finally, he had found a benefit from his lousy monk-like job.

But the money--how much did he have in his slush fund? Nervously, he brought up the account on his computer. Eighty-seven thousand, and while that wasn't exactly pocket change, a woman like Amanda might somehow consider it to be an offensively small amount. If only he had been shrewd enough to have taken up bomb building as a career, he wouldn't be facing this dilemma because no one, no matter what their ethics, would consider an offer of a million dollars to be insulting.

But if he gave her the whole of his scrawny wad, which seemed absurd for one night, he wouldn't be able to take any trips to the Empress for a while. Still, he had his own personal accounts that totaled almost a hundred grand, and although he was reluctant to dip into his savings, he could always use these funds to tide him over, which meant that he could go up to one hundred grand for a night with Amanda--what a proposition! And maybe she didn't have a boyfriend, maybe she would fall in love with him, maybe he could divorce his wife, and maybe they could ride off into the sunset together.

But that was all beyond preposterous—probably, she would hate herself and despise him afterwards. The whole idea was totally ridiculous, and he shouldn't even be thinking about it. Nobody was worth a hundred grand, but he knew that he would take the plunge in a second except for the fear that he might get caught somehow. However, if he could bring this woman to the bed of his desires, it would be a night that he would remember forever. Neither was it anything to be ashamed of--it wasn't as if he were trying to get her drunk out of her wits and take advantage of her. How many men made an honest offer of a hundred grand for an evening of "entertainment" with complete discretion absolutely guaranteed? Even so, the throng of thimble-brains called the voting public wouldn't see it that way if they found out about their liaison. The astounding truth was that they would actually be less repulsed if they discovered that he had offered her two hundred bucks. Speaking of truths, what could possibly be wrong with the kind of proposition he wanted to make to Amanda? He wasn't using coercion, and he wasn't threatening her--in fact, it was an extraordinary tribute to her beauty. If she'd prefer a poem or a dozen roses instead of the money, he'd be more than happy to oblige. And, can you believe it? The public would then applaud his chivalry, if not his judgment. Waltz off with the prize, leave a few flowers on the bed, and have the hundred grand still safely secured in his pocket. A real knight in shining armor! No matter what anybody said, he was offering her a fabulous gift that could completely change her life. What he was doing wasn't any different from playing the lottery or gambling, but this was actually much more moral than stuffing your money into a slot machine so that a bunch of barbarians posing as gangsters or elected officials could rake in the cash for their own sordid ends. Really, all in all, Amanda could never be worth what he was willing to pay, which was his way of expressing the profound effect that she had upon him. And that was the truth.

But, noble or not, it was impossible. How could he ever bring the subject up? "Amanda, I was thinking--how would you like to satisfy me sexually and make a fortune tonight?" A real eye-popper of a statement. She'd probably think it was an off-color joke and slap him in the face. No matter how he went about it, he knew that there would come, had to come, that moment when she could not mistake his meaning, and he was terrified that she would react without thinking. "I'm not a prostitute!" And then, of course, she would feel compelled to fall back into some form of perpetual rage and do everything in her power to disparage and maybe even ruin him, instead of being calm and thinking to herself, "Well, that _is_ a lot of money, and he is the Mayor, and it could be interesting." Would she see it as both profitable and daringly erotic or flip into the morality of her professional mode and nail him to the cross?

It was a bad idea. At least ninety-nine out of a hundred women in her position would react with enormous outrage--just out of instinct or habit. If only he could find a way to convince her that the money was real. Now there was an idea! But maybe a hundred grand was a little over the top, too stereotyped, too much like a movie. At last, after many minutes of serious pondering, he came to a decision; he would go over to the bank and withdraw sixty thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills, and if the opportunity somehow arose, he could show her the money. Ten grand that she could have "beforehand" and fifty grand afterwards.

Highly agitated, he wandered over to the bank. True, it was the first step down a dangerous road that could easily be avoided, but it was not an irrevocable one. Maybe he could try some type of mild sexual innuendo and see how she reacted to that. He watched absentmindedly as the teller laboriously counted out the one-hundred-dollar bills, six hundred of them. What was the matter with him? It was hopelessly crazy to be throwing away this kind of money and maybe losing his family and his career. Was it just lust, whatever that was? For the ever-present Puritans, sex with your wife was a sacrament, while sex with anybody else was lustful and a sin that would send you headfirst into the broiling fires of hell. Preposterous poppycock. But why not do something less risky? Why not treat himself to a "doubleheader" in Bleakfester Dump this weekend and get it all out of his system? He could pretend that his new flame there, Amber Starr, was Amanda. Once the lights were out, it wouldn't make that much difference.

By now, Branklin had reached his office with his bulging briefcase, and he placed fifty thousand in a small safe and put the remaining ten thousand in his pocket to be ready at a moment's notice. It was getting close to three now, and he decided to freshen up before Amanda arrived but was stopped dead in his tracks by a loud bloodcurdling scream that was followed by the sound of someone running. Reaching into his desk drawer, he grabbed his revolver, which he always kept handy; he wasn't like the bigwigs in Bleakfester Dump who had their own bodyguards, and he was forever wary that some malcontent might go berserk, charge into his office, and attempt to assassinate him.

But as he raced out into the corridor with his gun leveled for action, all he saw was Patricia Bardonsky and her assistant, Peggy Buchanan, standing at Barry Pidgett's door. He watched in amazement as Peggy fainted with a thud, and Patricia, clutching her stomach, vomited copiously over the new parquet floor. She then staggered backwards with the apparent intention of seating herself in a wooden chair but missed her target and went crashing to the floor. Meanwhile, two secretaries from the outer office, Jill Billings and Sally Wales, came upon the chaos and saw two bodies on the floor along with an angry-looking Branklin who appeared to be frozen in place and was pointing his gun directly at them. Jill dived onto the deck and began to crawl desperately towards a door that opened off the corridor, while Sally whirled around and ran for her life. Reaching the main office area, she picked up considerable speed and let out a piercing scream as she galloped out of the building. Once outside, she grabbed a cell phone from a startled passerby and informed 911 that the Mayor was inside the building and had just shot at least five people.

Inside the building, Jill, realizing that she was cornered in the small room she had crawled into and that all the Mayor had to do was open the door and she was a goner, frantically climbed out a second story window. Without looking either backwards or forwards, she jumped into the park below where she landed near an off-tune itinerant musician who was stammering through an exceptionally sour rendition of "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," and that proved, mercifully, to be the conclusion of his far from sold-out concert.

Meanwhile, Branklin, beginning to realize that it wouldn't be very smart to be seen with his pistol, raced back to his office, locked it in his desk, and then reappeared in the corridor for an official assessment of the situation. What had happened? Why was everyone so distraught? Patricia was nowhere in sight, and Peggy, now on all fours, was moaning. She seemed to be saying something like, "The poor man, he just doesn't look so good right now." Stepping forward cautiously, Branklin peered into Barry's office and reeled back in horror. It was too ghastly, too shocking, too unexpected. The look on Barry's face--Branklin placed his hand to his throat and gulped. And those bulging, hideous eyes! Distracted by the terror of what he had seen, he suddenly felt weak, and his knees were shaking. What had happened to Barry? What had ever possessed him to hang himself?

By now, the first cop, who happened to be Jablonski, had arrived, and he was followed by many others who had rushed to the scene when they heard the report that the Mayor had shot a number of people. Order and sanity were restored and fortunately, except for Barry, no one had been seriously injured in the melee, although the musician, being homeless and cranky, made many unsavory remarks about the dangers he had been subjected to by the rash act of a city employee who should have had enough common sense to exit the building through the door instead of taking a shortcut and flying out the window. "What if I had been killed?" he asked a group of bystanders who shrugged their shoulders half-heartedly and walked away.

Back inside, a sealed envelope that was addressed to Branklin was found on Barry's desk. Jake gave it to a still shaken Branklin who retreated to his office and read the following:

To Mr. Branklin Fell,

For many reasons, I am tired of living in this world, but there is nothing that causes me more shame than the years that I spent as your dishonest servant. You have corrupted me, and the upcoming audit of our city will show that over the last year and a half, I embezzled well over three million dollars, which I squandered in the stock market. As has happened to many people, once I began losing money, I was unable to stop myself from pouring more and more into the market with the idea that I could recover my losses. But it was not to be, and the last week has seen the complete destruction of my last flimsy hope. However, more than anyone else, including myself, I blame you for everything that has happened to me because if you had been a man of integrity and a real leader, I would never have strayed down the path that has led to my doom. You were the one who demonstrated to me how easy it was to swindle this city with your Mayor's Emergency Relief Fund, which you used to cover up your diseased sexuality as you hid behind orphans, battered women, and starving children. A real man, aren't you?

I have nothing left to live for except a long prison sentence, and I have saved the world the trouble of pronouncing judgment. But I am not going to see a double-dealing person as depraved as you are escape the punishment that you deserve. A month ago, I went to the trouble of hiring a detective, and the last two times that you went on your "business" trips to Bleakfester Dump, he took over a dozen photos of you with a woman whose name is apparently Amber Starr. He has pictures of the two of you registering into the Hotel Sherman under the assumed names of Mr. and Mrs. Roosevelt Kennedy. Quite the name-dropper, aren't you? He has also been able to prove that Ms. Starr is employed by Empress Escort Services and uses that hotel for her rendezvous with clients. Very provocative behavior, wouldn't you say? I thought that Channel Nine would find this information interesting, and so this morning, I mailed them the relevant pictures and documents.

But wait, there is more. Over the last month, I made a careful examination of the city's books and was able to document your pecuniary malfeasance to my complete satisfaction, and I have forwarded a copy of my findings to both Channel Nine and the state's attorney in Bleakfester Dump. I feel it is extremely safe to say that you will be hearing from him shortly.

I want you to know that before contemplating the drastic action that I took, I had researched how many years I could expect to be lodged at the state prison. In this regard, our problems are somewhat similar, and I think that if you obtain a good lawyer and are humble enough to admit your wrongdoings and wise enough to plea-bargain, you can expect to serve about six years of actual hard time.

Although you may feel that my actions were inspired by revenge, you should ask yourself if that really makes any sense. What I think is required is the ability to admit one's errors and accept the punishments that may be necessary. That is called justice, and that is what motivates me. In the end, your life will be better for what I have done--at least that is my hope.

Your servant in life, your conscience in death,

Barry

Stunned, Branklin finished his reading of a document that announced, without the slightest doubt or question, his impending doom. Now what?

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

## "THERE'S THE BLOOD THAT THEY ONCE LIVED BY."

After Darnell left me to talk to Bryan Davies, I remained in the back yard. It was a beautiful June afternoon with the temperature in the low eighties and a light wind from the south. Near the horizon were a few white clouds, the merry ones, fluffy and full of fun as they danced with the wind and sailed majestically out of sight. I could hear the mildly hypnotic drone of bees, while from off in the distance there came the unnatural wail of a siren with its pulsating electric shrieks. I felt a deep, persistent anguish and closed my eyes; it was better, I observed, to avoid thinking, which inevitably led to feelings of intense despair. But the phantasm of Darnell's voice kept reappearing, and I could hear him with a surreal distinctness as he said, "They were shot in the head, weren't they?" And then I saw the remnants of Gloria's face, and I shuddered; how often, I wondered, would it reappear unwillingly, again and again and again?

I was surprised and disoriented by the depth of my grief, and while many things were racing haphazardly through my mind, two things in particular affected me. First, although it was true that it had been many years since I had really loved Gloria, the injustice of her death had awakened old feelings within me, and I was convinced that somehow I had failed to protect her, illogical as that was. Second, I was becoming aware of the fact that there was a simple human faith within me that had been irretrievably shattered by her death. I had always felt, at least subconsciously, that once the kids had grown up and left the house, Gloria and I would be able to enjoy ourselves again and that by the time we were in our sixties, we would look back on the battles we had fought in our late thirties and early forties with a detached amusement. There would be time, there would always be time because it never occurred to me that death would intervene in such an outrageous fashion. Who could ever imagine such a thing? Our saga, the saga of our lives and the love that we had shared was not meant to end in this way. It is just so horrible to have a life snatched away from you. What use is existence when things like this can happen? What is the point of making a single plan or dreaming even the most modest aspiration when everything can be erased in an instant? "Carry on," they say with their religious stoicism, but there is absolutely nothing left to carry. It is all gone and gone forever.

I felt a soft hand on my arm. Startled, I opened my eyes and saw that Sherry was sitting next to me. "Jackson," I heard her murmur on this soft and exquisite afternoon that was brimming with the sounds of life and the light of an exuberant sun. "Come with me," and I remember that I followed her from the back patio and along the side of the house, but I have no actual recollection of getting into her car. Later, when we were driving down a strange street that I didn't recognize, she told me that they were taking Darnell to the station for further questioning, and once that was completed, Jake would take him back to his house. "I have to talk to Jake, Sherry. There's something I need to tell him about Darnell."

"You'll have to wait a few minutes, Jackson," she said laughing softly. "He's got his hands full at City Hall. There was a rumor that the Mayor shot five people."

Like a semiconscious sleeper suddenly awakening in the middle of the night, that piece of news seemed to restore me to some sense of normal awareness. "What are you talking about? Branklin Fell shot five people?" It was too crazy--murders were springing up like mushrooms after a warm rain, and I felt that my life was spinning wildly out of control.

"It was a false alarm. You remember Barry Pidgett?"

"Sure, of course--Branklin's weaselly assistant. Don't tell me that he shot five people!"

"Hardly. He committed suicide."

"Shot himself?" I had naturally concluded that some shots must have been fired.

"No, he hung himself."

"Hung himself?" I said incredulously. "Where?"

"In his office. He attached a rope to a light fixture in the ceiling, put it around his neck, and jumped off his desk."

Perplexed, I said, "What's all that have to do with the Mayor shooting five people?"

"Jake told me that Branklin was running around with a gun, and one of the secretaries thought he had shot five people."

It didn't make any sense to me, but I felt better when I made an effort to focus on these mundane absurdities. "Did he leave a note?" I asked her.

"It was addressed to Branklin. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

It was difficult for me to think at all as my mind wandered in and out of different realities. Everything seemed senseless, unfathomable, and cruel. Then, as I looked out the car window, another memory came back to me, only this time it was of Cassandra who _\--My_ _God_ , _I_ _can't_ _take_ _this_ _anymore_ \--it was impossible for me to stop myself, and the horrifying images would burst into my consciousness. I wondered about the nightmares I would have and what they would be like. Vaguely, from a distance, I thought I heard Sherry say that someone had fallen out of a building and nearly hit a musician in the park. But that seemed too absurd, and I assumed that I had been hallucinating.

Eventually, we reached Darrow Boulevard, the street on which Sherry lived. She rented a small apartment on the second floor of an old but stately building that had been unaffected by the ravages of time. It brought back to my mind a distant era of different values when houses were built of solid stone and sturdy wood and were meant to endure. As Sherry had always been secretive about her private life, I had never been inside before, and ordinarily, I would have been astonished at entering her home, but I was far too preoccupied to notice such subtleties and unconsciously followed her up the steep wooden stairs.

Once we were inside, I felt an overwhelming need to sit and found a comfortable plush chair that was located in a corner of a large but sparsely furnished room. Along the wall to my left was a bookcase and an old-fashioned desk with a computer on it, while in the center of the room stood an elegant oak table with four matching chairs. Beyond that, against the far wall, was a dark green couch that faced a television, which had been placed upon a small coffee table. The curtains on the tall and spacious windows were a geometrical pattern of black and white, while the walls held many photographs, probably members of her large family.

Sherry put on some music, familiar songs by a rock group whose name I couldn't remember, and went out to the kitchen. As I sat there dazed and probably somewhat delirious, her friendly voice with its distinctive lilt came out to me. "I'm making you a soup, Jackson. A nice potato soup that my grandmother always used to make for me--it'll soothe your nerves."

However, I had little interest in these commonplaces of daily life, which seemed to be nothing more than the idle daydreams of inconsequential imaginings. Hauntingly and somewhat depressingly, I wondered about the mystery of instant death and how, in the modern world, a healthy and vigorous person could literally vanish in a split second. How could that be? Life seemed so much more durable and substantial than that, but Gloria's and Cassandra's deaths had upset the benign equilibrium of my existential certainties. With the traumatic events of this apocalyptic day, I had now become uncertain, very uncertain, as to the strength of my existence, which was so feeble that it could all be instantaneously blown away by a bullet. I realized that within me, deep down and unspoken, there had always been a conviction that life, being as generally enduring as it is, would somehow survive death. We wake up each morning, day after endless day, and we survive endless encounters in the dark, dangerous alleys of our life, and then, suddenly--BOOM--and it is all over. Gloria's hideous face reappeared in my mind with photographic accuracy, and it was impossible for me to believe that any life had the substance of real value. Logically and emotionally, I could not escape the conclusion that the life force that propelled humanity was absolutely no stronger than an autumn leaf that has fallen off a tree and is swept down a sewer drain by a chilling October rain.

We ate at the oak table. I had lost all track of time but the western sun was slanting through the windows, so it must have been almost eight. "Would you like some wine, Jackson? I'm sorry that I don't have any vodka to offer you, but I'm not a heathen like you and Jake. Culture, in my opinion, demands wine." She laughed gently at her self-mockery and brought out a bottle of Merlot from a cabinet and opened it with an extremely elaborate corkscrew that must have cost at least seventy-five dollars. "Don't be alarmed," she said, winking at me; "I didn't buy this thing--it was a birthday present from one of my brothers. As you can see, he's doing rather well financially."

I ate slowly and there was a long silence.

"How are you feeling, Jackson?"

"So-so. I suppose it's just selfishness but the murders--it isn't that they remind me of my own mortality as much as they make me realize the fragile nature of our lives. If a person can be obliterated in a microsecond, then--"

"It's still the fear of death, I think," said Sherry, interrupting. I could see that she was anxious about me and wasn't eager to linger on the morbid. "I suppose," she continued, "that it's a cruel thing to say, but when I see people mourning a death, it's not so much about the person that has died, who obviously couldn't care less one way or another, as it is the stark reminder that the sands of life are constantly running out. It's a tremendous fear, the fear of death."

"For me, it's a lot more than the fear of death, Sherry. I'm beginning to realize that death is total extinction."

Sherry laughed and then said, "I don't think we, meaning humans, are big enough to comprehend something like death, which is really a huge thing. Immensely, unexplainably huge. It would be like asking a mosquito to comment on the state of our society--it wouldn't have a clue."

I stared innocently at Sherry who struck me as considerably more attractive when she was away from her official environment. Our eyes met for a moment before she shifted her gaze and said, "What was it about Darnell that you wanted to tell Jake?"

I told her, as best as I could remember, not only about my conversation with Darnell but also about the discovery of the address book. She listened intently and made no comment until I had finished. After taking a long meditative sip from her wineglass, she said, "I think that most, if not all, of the events that have happened since Friday are connected. We are really going to have to break Darnell down, you know?"

I remained silent--it was too depressing to contemplate. That was something you did to other people's kids, and it usually didn't have anything to do with murder.

"What do you say, Jackson? Let's knock off the dishes and then watch a movie. You can wash and I'll wipe--it's good therapy, believe me." It was easy to see that Sherry was desperate to distract me, and I could hardly blame her because nobody on this earth would have wanted to hear what was really going through my mind.

Her kitchen was small and somewhat cluttered--there was a blender that stood next to a wooden salad bowl, many small bottles of spices in a rack above the stove, a large recessed alcove with shelves that were crammed with food, and a batch of cookbooks piled on top of one another near the refrigerator. Looking out the window that was above the sink, I saw a tiny well-kept yard enclosed by a picket fence and a short distance beyond, another apartment building with a fire escape that abruptly ended about ten feet from the ground. As far as I could tell, it must have been a cost cutting measure by the miserly landlord, but at least it had a magnanimous twist--the tenants might break a leg, but they would escape with their lives.

As I washed the plates, I found myself thinking about Sherry--more than thinking, actually. It must have been that I was vulnerable or intensely frightened, but it was immensely strong, whatever it was that I was feeling. At the same time, I had a strong sensation of being alone, inextricably alone, and a memory of a photograph I had once seen sprang vividly into my mind. There had been an enormous flood, and the raging river was racing towards a gigantic waterfall. Perhaps a hundred feet before the mighty drop, directly in the middle of the river, stood a man on a small piece of land that must have broken off from the riverbank. He was holding onto a small tree and was staring forward at the falls, which were clearly visible and rapidly approaching. There could be no doubt that these were the last seconds of his life. Having always been fascinated by things of this nature, I used a magnifying glass and studied the expression on his face carefully. The word that instinctively came to my mind was forlorn--later, I discovered that, originally, this word meant to lose absolutely everything. I have also seen that same expression on the faces of those who are being led to their executions. It is a look that is without violence or hope, and it has surprisingly little fear. Rather, it appears as a deep longing to be comforted, and a simultaneous realization that there will be no comfort offered by either man or God or nature.

Today, I understood, in the most graphic way imaginable, that sooner or later, I would be swept over the falls and propelled into nothingness. Gloria's face once again appeared before me, lurid in its gory intensity.

I think, at that moment, I might have screamed, but more likely, it was "merely" a prolonged silent scream that I had heard in my own mind.

And then, strangely, I find myself back in the other room and sitting next to Sherry on the couch. It is deep twilight now, and the room is illuminated by a small lamp that is giving off a warm orange glow. I have the feeling that there are many minutes that have forever passed out of my memory. Sherry is sitting close to me, and I can see that she is apprehensive.

"What happened?" I ask her.

"Ah, you're back," she said, smiling warmly. "I've never seen anything quite like that. I think you blacked out--for a couple of minutes, your eyes glazed over, and you kept saying something like, 'There's the blood that they once lived by.'"

I wanted to cry because I knew exactly what that meant. An image of the murder scene flashed across my consciousness. "Oh God," I murmured, looking at Sherry, "I can't get the blood out of my mind."

Suddenly, from the kitchen came the impetuous and jarring ring of Sherry's home phone. She left me to answer it, and I could hear her voice but not the words; a couple of minutes later, she came back and handed me the phone. "Jablonski," she said softly.

"Jake!" I said bravely. "What's up?"

There was a pause that seemed quite long. At last, he said, "How's it going, Jackson?"

I could cry in front of Sherry, but there had to be another way with Jake. "I've been better, but life goes on."

"I guess we're the lucky ones," he said with a discouraged air.

I was becoming nervous as I began to realize that this call must have something to do with Darnell. To help him out, I asked, "How's Darnell doing?"

"Man, I'll be honest with you--it doesn't look good. He was at the station for three hours before they let him go, and now they've got somebody tailing him--it's obvious that they think he did it."

"He's not staying with you?"

"I did the best I could, Jackson. But he stormed out from his interrogation in a rage and told me that he didn't want anything to do with someone who was a cop."

"It's not very likely that he killed them, Jake."

"Really? You really believe that?" For the first time, he sounded hopeful.

Sherry had opened another bottle of wine (a suggestion that I later discovered came from Jake) and handed a full glass over to me. I watched her casually as I spoke on the phone--the word alluring passed through my mind. I felt a sensual longing for her, but it probably could have been for almost anyone. It made me laugh at myself to see the mourning process so abruptly short circuited by the beauty of a woman's face. Who could possibly be more hypocritical? But, on the other hand...

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

After the call from Jake, during which we agreed to meet at the Outpost the following morning, Sherry and I sat on the couch and started to watch a movie, but I was too distracted to pay attention. "It doesn't do you any good if you don't watch it," Sherry said, laughing as she brought the clicker up to eye level and zapped the picture. She looked at me speculatively and seemed to choose her words carefully. "Outside of Darnell, you don't have any family, do you?"

It was something we had rarely talked about because I had so little interest in it.

"How did your parents die?" she said softly.

I didn't really want to talk about them, but I knew that family was important to Sherry, who was gazing at me placidly with her limpid, brown eyes. "I'm the master of disaster tonight, Sherry. They were both killed in a plane crash about fifteen years ago."

"Oh, that _is_ terrible." She was probably regretting her choice of subject.

"Actually, it didn't bother me--strange, isn't it?"

"But it must have, Jackson--they were your mother and father."

I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I remained quiet. My mother and father were both cold and authoritarian, and I had lost all feeling for them by the time of their deaths. Perhaps if I had seen what was left of their faces after the crash, I would have felt differently, and it might be that if Gloria and Cassandra had perished in a plane crash way, I would be immune from the trauma that I was now experiencing. Was that all it was--just an artistic revulsion, the shock of seeing a hideous mutilated face? What if someone else had found the bodies?

"What are you thinking about?" she asked me.

I smiled. "How many times in the last thousand years do you suppose that question has been asked?"

"Not going to tell me, are you?"

"It's a question that begs for evasion because thoughts are private and speech is public."

She pursed her lips and squinted at me with a comical expression. "So I shouldn't talk about my thoughts?"

"For the most part--I'll give you an example."

"Please do. I'm all ears." She put her hands to her ears and turned them towards me.

"You're making it so I can't think," I said with amusement.

"It never was your strong suit, Jackson. But please proceed--I'm anxious to hear your example of the benefits of thoughtless speech."

Our glasses were empty, and I poured some wine into them. "It's a stupid question, I know, but have you ever been really angry at somebody?"

"I don't live in an ivory tower, Jackson."

I wasn't so sure about that. "And what happens? You go through all these scenarios in your mind, the insulting things that you'll say to them when you meet them. You can hear yourself saying something like, 'For sheer stupidity, you make a hippopotamus look like Einstein--'"

"Wait," she said laughing and putting up her hand to stop me. "What does that mean? Wouldn't it be good if a hippopotamus looked like Einstein? I think it would make more sense if you said that they made Einstein look like a hippopotamus."

It must be the wine.

"You see," she said with her soft, melodious laugh, "you're better off if you think before you speak."

"Alright," I said trying again, "haven't you ever thought of what you'd like to say to somebody who has made you angry, but then, when you encounter them, it's 'Good morning--nice day out, isn't it?'"

"Well, of course! But that doesn't mean that speech should be thoughtless. What if you're thinking that you love someone?"

"In my experience, that's definitely a good one to avoid verbalizing."

Sherry's face took on a darker tone. "That's where you're wrong, just completely wrong. I know how you are, Jackson. You're afraid of emotion--I remember you telling me once that you liked to deceive people by looking left and then going right."

"I was talking about emotion?"

"You don't ever talk about emotion, but that's the way you feel about it. You don't want to get hurt, and so you slide away."

"Sherry," I said slowly, "it's so easy to hurt another person. I think there are things that are better off remaining unspoken."

"Between you and me?"

This was developing a serious edge, and sensing a slippery slope in the vicinity, I slid away. "Between everybody."

She stared at me while sipping her wine. I decided to change the subject.

"Tell me something about yourself," I said.

"Like what?"

"Well, we've been together three years now, and all I know about you is what I've observed."

"And what have you observed, detective?" she said curiously but with a slight edge to her voice.

"Not very much because you've always placed a wall between the rather artificial Sherry and the real you, Miranda."

"And why do you find Sherry to be so superficial?"

She was gazing at me with that steely, almost assassin-like look that I find alarming in the modern woman. "Sherry is superficial compared to Miranda; Sherry is the polite public official who has no private life, nobody that she really loves. I'm not the only one who avoids talking about feelings."

"It's for a different reason than you though. It's too painful, way too painful. I have a lot of unpleasant memories that I'm trying to forget, and besides, why should I burden others with them?"

"Of course feelings can be painful--that's why I often avoid discussing them. But I think you've gone beyond avoidance because sometimes when I'm with you, I see a person who is--what's the trite expression that the psychologists use?...shutting down emotionally."

"Shutting...down...emotionally," said Sherry deliberately, as if she were savoring a new wine and pronouncing its name reverentially. "There are so many things that you don't know about me, Jackson."

"That's what I just said! But the past isn't at all important unless it keeps you from being in the present, and that's what I think is happening to you."

"Yes," she said looking down and sighing, "there are things in my past that still affect me." She raised her head and looked into my eyes, and I thought I saw tears, but then I realized it was only my melodramatic imagination because what I had seen was merely the twinkling reflection from the light in the room.

She reached for the clicker, turned on the TV, switched it to the music channel, and scrolled down the menu to the old favorites. "It's hard being a woman--I think it's harder than being a man."

"Why's that?" I said.

"Because you only get one chance with a man. Once you let him in, then he'll stay for as long as he likes or leave as soon as he feels like it. And what makes it almost impossible is that you've got about five minutes to size him up."

"That's like buying a house. Before Gloria and I bought our house on Darson Road, the real estate agent took us through the place. It was obvious that she was in a rush to get out of there, and we had about twenty minutes to look it over. I was so nervous about it that I made another appointment, and after a lot of haggling, I was granted another twenty minutes. Forty minutes to decide on something that cost two hundred grand--I've spent longer than that on a pair of sneakers."

She gazed solemnly at me and said, "I guess you understand the concept, but a house can't beat the living daylights out of you. I mean, let me tell you, I went through a few years where all the men I became involved with ended up hating me. What's worse, most of them were violent in one way or another. Good-looking but violent."

"And so you don't trust men?"

"Oh no! I don't trust myself. I just feel that if you put five men in front of me, I'd pick out the worst one. Actually, the right way to say that is the worst one would pick me out, and then I'd go through my five minutes of decision time. I'd tell myself that this time it might be different--ah yes, this time it will be different because this man is kind and loving--the same old song and dance that I've always sung to myself. You know?"

It's difficult to talk about race without falling into stereotypical speech because it's so much safer to rely on the currently accepted formulas. Stray outside the rigid walls of politically correct discourse and somebody will be righteously offended and declare, "You're a bigot." It's about reached the point that if you make the foolish mistake of saying blacks are a little bit darker than whites, someone will invariably jump up and pronounce you a descendent of a slave owner.

Sherry, and I say this respectfully, was quite black although not as black as the recent wave of immigrants from Africa. There are certainly tendencies peculiar to each race, but I don't think they are anything more than cultural and physical conditionings, and of course, there are many who rise above or sink below the environments of their birth. Sherry was one of those blacks, and they are becoming much more common, who had assimilated the ways of the white culture to such an extent that I doubt very much that a blindfolded person would have guessed that she was black. Generally, except very occasionally when she was in an informal setting, she not only spoke with the same diction and accent of our ruling white culture but also seemed to hold within her many of its traditional upper-middle-class values. I had long felt this, but as I sat there with her on this strange and tumultuous evening, I realized, for the first time, that her "whiteness" was a reflection of the practical and emotionally aloof Sherry and that there was within her something that was almost akin to another being and that this being, Miranda, was altogether different than the cautious and logical person who was called Sherry. This other being was unpredictable and strong-- _wild_ was the word that came into my mind at the time.

"Jackson?"

"I'm sorry--you want to know what I was thinking about?"

She started to laugh. "Is that a joke?"

I laughed too when I realized what I had said.

"You're not supposed to talk about your thoughts, remember?" she said as she waved her hand at me with a mock warning.

"Let's make that some thoughts."

"Well, no one's going to argue with that! So what thoughts were you going to share with me?"

"I was thinking that Sherry's an illusion that's becoming real, and Miranda's a reality that's becoming an illusion."

Sherry started to speak but stopped herself. Finally, and I thought evasively, she said, "It was nothing that I brought about, Jackson--it was just one of Scarlet Waters' bad jokes."

She had known what I meant, but I was wary of the ground on which I was treading and said nothing.

"Remember this song?" she said, pointing in the direction of the television.

"Sure."

"Romantic, isn't it?" There was something unusual about her expression, warm but commanding. "It's been so long...feel like dancing? That's something I haven't done in years."

Shocked, I said, "Dancing?"

"Yes," she said in a low voice, "dancing. It'll do us good after all this serious talk."

I was very hesitant. The songs that we were listening to were slow and quite passionate--the type of music that was played in dancing bars at the end of the night when the couples would melt into each other's arms, and the thought that I would be touching her leaped into my mind with a disturbing intensity. I suppose that my physical feelings for her had been buried in my subconscious somewhere as vague intimations, but now they came hurtling out with tremendous force, and I was suddenly seized with an overpowering urge to hold her tightly in my arms. I knew that I could not possibly be an innocent dancer. She was certainly a sexually attractive woman, and when I heard that word dancing, she became almost overwhelmingly desirable and fearfully tempting. On this night of nights, I wasn't sure that I could control myself, and then she would be forced to reject me, which would cast a permanent pall over our friendship. And if we...I wouldn't even dare verbalize it to myself because _that_ would be the worst thing of all--a terrible choice since there was no way that something like that could ever have a happy ending. In so many ways, we were far too dissimilar, and it would be something that would produce, in both of us, regret and shame.

But as far as dancing was concerned, I didn't have much choice. She stood up, came over to me, and extended her hand in a surprisingly gallant and touching way. As I took her hand, which surprised me with its softness and warmth, I arose and followed her out to the middle of the room.

"You're probably going to tell me that you don't know how to dance," she said as we stood facing each other. "But this isn't the jitterbug--all you have to do is stay on your feet and move around a little bit."

At first, it was awkward, but by the middle of the second song, "Love Under the Moonlight," we swayed around the room with a fair amount of grace. We were dancing the old-fashioned formal way with one hand on the back and the free hands clasping each other. A faint breeze came through the open window, and I heard a solemn church bell chime out the hours, but I lost count at four. "Ah, to be in your arms and be able to feel your charms," sang a woman with a sultry voice. "I have longed for you these many empty days and lonely nights; I have yearned forever for your love under the moonlight." The song was fading out when Sherry, lightly laughing, said, "I wonder if the moon is out tonight?" We went over to the window and peered out but saw only the electric haze of the nightlife in Darwin City. As we stood there, I felt her gaze shifting to me, and when I turned to face her, she placed her head on my shoulder. I drew her closer to me and reveled in the touch and scent of her body, and a thought, just the kind of idea that I had been so recently afraid of, insisted imperiously that I must kiss her; that if I didn't, I would never have another opportunity, and the ecstasy, or the potential ecstasy of this moment, would be lost forever because of a trivial fear.

It was too crazy, too utterly juvenile, and I sighed. She lifted her head off my shoulder. "What is it, Jackson?"

We were so close to each other now. "Sherry--"

"Miranda," she whispered as we teetered on the brink of the unknown. There was something fierce and primitive in her face, or maybe that was just another thing that I imagined because there was no doubt that I was feeling rather fierce and primitive myself as everything I saw and touched reflected the blazing fire of my ardent lust. "Jackson," she murmured sensually as she drew ever closer to me--tantalizingly close--until our lips finally touched, and after the first tentative moments, I completely lost myself in a surging tide of ecstatic stimulation.

Abruptly, Miranda pulled back from me. "We shouldn't, Jackson, no,--it's not right." She shook her head negatively, and although I was naturally discouraged but perhaps at the same time relieved, I was certainly not surprised. We returned to the couch, and she slowly and studiously poured out the remainder of the wine into our glasses. Neither of us knew what to say, and it was quite embarrassing--should there be some kind of mutual apology or a ludicrous change of subject? After that prolonged kiss, we would be coming back to earth with a gigantic and depressing thud. We still had not spoken or even made eye contact and were quite subdued when a famous old song, "The Midnight Express," began to play. With growing amazement, I listened to the words, which were sung by an old black male blues singer over a dark and throbbing bass line. "You only live once, baby, and then you're gone. Ain't no use cryin about it when the midnight express comes for you. And once you're on that train, baby, there ain't no gettin off because it don't stop for nobody." This soulful dirge was followed by a mournful trumpet solo, and then, "At the end of the day, baby, at midnight when your life is over, where have you gone and what have you done? You don't get another chance, so you had better make it good. Because the midnight express is comin down the tracks for all of us, baby, and you had better get it while you can because you won't be gettin nothin over there."

I looked at Miranda who was looking directly at me. Was she feeling what I was feeling? It was as if--was I hyper-fantasizing?--we had gone to church and listened to a new preacher who had delivered a sexual sermon that made a mockery of abstinence. Miranda's eyes were riveted on mine; motionless, she appeared to be in a trance. Reaching over, I took her wine glass and put it on the table. As I approached her again, she willingly put her lips to mine, and once again, we fell under the spell of our aroused senses--only this time it was more real, more dramatic, more sexual, more that there could be no possibility of going back.

At length, minus our pretenses and inhibitions, we were back on the dance floor for a long and erotic encore. Swooning toward the lovely deep darkness of our ultimate passions, Miranda and I "waltzed" across the threshold of her bedroom entwined in each other's arms. Through the open window, the warm, soft southern wind rustled into the room with a divine enchantment. Rapture! And then, like awakening from a dream, we were suddenly startled into a semblance of normal consciousness by something that I would never forget--the haunting sound of the church bell, which had begun its ritualistic tolling of the hour. As we looked at each other with mystical and poetical fascination, I began softly counting: "Nine...ten...eleven...twelve."

As the final reverberation faded away, she pulled me down onto her bed with an ancient _wild_ yearning, and we were swept off this earthly plane by the thunderous energy and the enormous enigma of the midnight express.

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE MORNING AFTER

Before Miranda awoke, I went to the kitchen to brew some coffee with the fervent hope that Mr. Caffeine would bring my body back to some sense of normalcy. I had slept very little, my nerves were jangled and mangled, and my heartbeat felt thin and fluttery. Beyond that, I felt fear; maybe trepidation is a better word, since there could be no telling what Miranda's reaction would be on this classic "morning after." As I absentmindedly watched the coffee drip into the pot, I could easily visualize her face as a mask of cold fury that would eventually transmute itself into contemptuous coolness. There had always been something within her that frightened me, and I was plagued by the premonition of a harsh rejection. What if it was even worse than that--what if it was the hot fury of open hostility? Although that was a remote possibility, I thought it was much more likely that she would revert to her Sherry defenses. I would be politely informed that even though I was not wholly to blame for the catastrophic incident that had occurred the previous evening, such a thing was reprehensible and repugnant and to insure that there would be no repetition of last night's grotesque antics, she would be immediately submitting a request to Randall that would hopefully terminate our professional partnership. Not in those exact words, naturally, but that would be the gist of the lecture, and if I were stupid enough to question her meaning or intention, I would then be impolitely and explicitly informed of my current status.

Meditating at random on the depressing condition in which I now found myself, I realized that I didn't even have the heart to excuse myself with a phony apology, since what had happened between us had occurred because, for once, the restraining bonds of common sense and practical morality had snapped, and the desires of two beings that had been thirsting for love had emerged with unstoppable force. There was no doubt that the climax of sex was a manifestation of love--that was always true for everybody--but afterwards, at some point, it might be seconds or days or years, the mind almost always stepped in with its confusing combination of conflicting wishes, bizarre moralities, supposed obligations, hidden lusts, and God knows what else until the love that had been expressed was buried under the litter and dross of daily life.

I was searching for the sugar when Miranda entered the room. Immediately, I went into maximum fright mode and simply couldn't bear to behold her. She probably had a special withering look prepared for me, and there was the whole problem of what to call her--Miranda was far too presumptuous and to address her as Sherry was an act of surrender. Distinctly, within me, there was a strong feeling of wanting to run away from the embarrassment of the upcoming reprimand that I was surely about to receive.

"What are you doing?" she said curiously but neutrally.

By now, I felt like a terrified child and had most of my head inside a large wooden cabinet. It was ridiculous, of course, but I felt safer that way, and if the winds of wrath were about to blow, it would be in the form of a tailwind. Turning slightly sideways, I mumbled, "I'm looking for the sugar."

"Sugar! There's nothing but glasses and plates in there." Hearing her move over towards the stove, I backed out of the cabinet and dashed promptly over to the sink where I could pretend that I was observing the scenic wonders of the truncated fire escape. She (was it Sherry or Miranda?) came over to me and said, "Here it is, Jackson," and held out a small bowl to me. Acting distracted, I glanced quickly in her general direction--I could see that she was wearing a colorful black and green bathrobe and seemed to be acting normally, as if nothing had happened. What did that mean? Was it the calm before the storm? Was she waiting for me to say something before she lowered the boom and sent me flying off the deck?

"Thanks," I said while I started to move away from her towards the coffeepot, but she stopped me with her hand, and for the first time, I looked into her eyes, which although not hostile were perplexingly inscrutable. "Would you fix me a cup, Jackson? I've got quite a hangover." As I dutifully poured out the coffee and added the cream and sugar, I realized, just then, how much love I felt for her and how terribly it would hurt, if only for a few days, when she got around to dealing me the crushing blow. What else could she do? A "relationship" between us made no sense practically, and professionally, it was a complete disaster; Randall would have a field day with this one as he took out his animosities against me by destroying Sherry who, unlike the rest of us, still aspired to greater things than a paycheck. And even if there hadn't been the hierarchical nonsense of the work world for us to contend with, she was still fifteen years younger than me and also many shades darker, with the variety of images that provoked, both in ourselves and in others.

I brought the cups of coffee out of the kitchen and set them on the oak table where we had dined the night before. Ms. Black was sitting pensively with her elbow on the table and her head poised in the palm of her hand. Leisurely, she took her cup with both hands and brought it slowly upwards; closing her eyes, she savored the aroma before taking a long hearty gulp. "Ahh," she said, "I don't know what I would do without this--it's amazing how fast it clears the cobwebs out of my head."

There was no way that I was taking the stage first, especially since I was suffering from severe stage fright, and I carefully and slowly sipped at my brew, which gave me a credible excuse not to talk. "Look left, go right," I chuckled ominously to myself.

She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on me. "Well, Jackson, what do you think about our adventure?"

I wasn't falling for that one--there was no way that I was going to stick my neck out and say something hopelessly romantic so that the guillotine could come plunging down and put a permanent end to my feeble hopes. But I had to be tactful, as the last thing I wanted to do was offend her. "I don't know--it was so sudden, and it's difficult for me to say what I feel even when I know what I feel, but there are so many things going through my mind right now that...I don't know...I just don't know." That was well done, I thought--stumbling, somewhat incoherent, and essentially meaningless.

"Do you regret it?"

"Oh no, not at all, that's not what I meant." Now I wondered if I had said the wrong thing--perhaps I had been too cold, and maybe I should have affirmed myself in a meaningful way instead of dodging around--something she had already complained about. I had the strong feeling that if I spoke, I would say the wrong thing and that if I remained silent, it would be interpreted incorrectly.

Gently but decisively, she put her hand on top of mine and said, "I think it was genuine, heartfelt, and I don't think it's something that we should turn our backs on."

If this was a verdict, it was a most unexpected one. But, practically speaking, what did it mean?

"Generally, Miranda, what follows a statement like that is the word but."

"Which ends up," she said laughing, "negating everything that has been said."

"Or worse."

"No, Jackson, the next word is not the notorious big but. I was thinking more of the word and because the way I feel is that it was something...well, spiritual, for lack of a better word." Gripping my hand forcefully, she said, "It was as if the spirits willed the bodies. Am I wrong? Does that make any sense to you at all?"

Yes, that seemed true as I reflected upon it, but using that analogy, how long would the spirits continue to will the bodies? To be somewhat cynical, how much alcohol did the body require before the spirits arrived? Plus, maybe spirits, being as free as they supposedly were, enjoyed one-night stands. But even if they were serious, God-fearing creatures who had chosen to linger in the immediate vicinity as interested, enthusiastic spectators to our new romance, how would I ever find a way to convert my semi-innocent lust into Miranda's quasi-ethical mysticism? Her idea was interesting, but then again, perhaps she was merely attempting to deflect the physical passions into the quiet backwaters of what would turn out to be a stagnant pond. "The thing I felt," I said at length, "was some kind of irresistible force that continually overwhelmed my thoughts, just obliterated them really." It could have been lust, or it could have been God. Who knows? Who cares?

"That's what I'm saying!" Miranda said with subdued excitement. "As soon as I heard that song 'Love Under the Moonlight,' all these wild ideas went through my mind. I don't know where they came from, but they just swept me away."

I gazed at her tenderly--how could I not after the things she had said?--but I was still filled with doubt. I could not picture us as a couple, even remotely. And then, suddenly, I was violently assaulted by a very paranoid and terrible thought: What if she became, rather, what if she was pregnant? As far as I knew, she hadn't had a boyfriend since I had been with her these past three years, and from my sense of her, I thought there was almost no chance that she used any form of birth control. Maybe there was a tiny junior spirit up above us somewhere who had decided that we were going to be a Mommy and a Daddy. Spirits were undoubtedly colorblind and would never be able to perceive meaningless abstractions such as the difference in our ages or our peculiar circumstances at the station. The little fellow may have been impatient to get the ball rolling down here and made a hasty decision that he (or she), as well as I, would later come to regret.

It was a very unpleasant thought because it didn't seem to me that I was _that_ much in love with Sherry. Interesting that I had used her old name--perhaps, deep down, I was now the one who wanted to hide behind the old defenses and go back to the old ways.

"I'm hungry," Sherry said abruptly. "How about you?"

Startled, my instinctive and rather agonized interpretation of the question was whether I was hungry for a relationship, and I was about to reply negatively when I realized what she had meant. "Famished," I said, but I could hear my mind finish the sentence with the disclaimer, "but not for that."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I remained absorbed in my contradictory contemplations. It was baffling because I knew that if she had rejected me, I would be sinking into a state of severe dejection, but when she had apparently offered me what I assumed I desired, I was assailed by deep doubts. If, now, she had come back into the room and told me that she thought we should go our separate ways--but that wasn't what I wanted either. I enjoyed being with her; I appreciated her keen intelligence; I admired her sense of truthfulness; and I adored her sexuality. That was a lot to sacrifice simply because I had suddenly imagined that Jackson Junior might be arriving on the scene. What was so horrible about that? He'd be a strange color, but that certainly wasn't anything to be ashamed of, and I could imagine myself happily holding his little hand as we walked around the neighborhood. Naturally, there would be some awkward and annoying incidents--as sure as death and taxes, I could see someone staring from him to me and then back to him again. If I were really unlucky, it would be two bitter old has-beens with irritating nasal voices. "I think, Madeline, that he must have gone down to the slums and gotten somebody into trouble, and now he's stuck with that preposterous-looking thing. Serves him right, if you ask me."

However, it was something else that really bothered me because it was obvious that the absurdities of these racial prejudices were dying out; there were, in today's world, so many shades of people running around that only a total ignoramus could be stuck in the quagmire of these ancient, off-the-wall bigotries. What if, I wondered, Miranda had been white? Would I be going through this kind of agitation? Possibly, but it would be very muted, muted directly into nonexistence because it seemed to me that I was interposing our age difference and the difficulties we might face in our careers in order to discreetly evade the issue of color. What was it that was bothering me so much about that? It was...and my thought process slowed as I pondered this and groped for an answer...something about sex...it was so potentially binding and...I stood up and walked over to the far wall where a number of old photographs were hanging. There was one large picture with Miranda, her parents, her four brothers, and her four sisters. I saw stark poverty, courage and desperation, the strength of the mother and the cruelty of the father, an older sister, Angelina, who would be murdered in the ghetto, the hotshot cocky black kid, Dixon, who had become a successful lawyer, and Miranda's favorite sibling, Josephine, who now worked in a halfway house for women in Peltfire Dump. And my "family" photo? Two ornery-looking, comparatively well-heeled snobs with a bratty kid licking an ice cream cone.

Could a person, could Miranda really have left all that behind? Was it possible? How would, how could the wise guy from the suburbs and the plucky gal from the slums find common ground? Her consciousness contained everything that was in that photo--it hadn't mysteriously vanished when she moved to Darwin City. But now, I realized I had come back to exactly the same place--if her family had been white, I would have looked disinterestedly at the picture and passed by without giving it a second thought. Everybody has a family and everybody grows up--what's the big deal? However, at the same time, there was no getting around the fact that while the opposite side of the tracks is a grand romantic ideal, in real life it's almost always a sad story that ends in heartache because there are too many dissimilarities to form a lasting bond as each person arrives in the relationship with hopes and promises that the other person not only doesn't understand but also doesn't even perceive.

"Jackson!" I heard Miranda call from the kitchen. Breakfast, scrambled eggs and French toast, was ready, and I helped her bring it out to the table. I refilled our cups with java, and we sat down to our repast with a generous, even ravenous hunger.

I felt it was obligatory to compliment the cook, but then I decided it was trite and didn't bother. I had, by this time, managed to further confuse myself by observing that Miranda could be compellingly attractive--so much so that my previous prevaricating thoughts now seemed like the bleats of a balky sheep. But, finally, I said, "Last night..."

Her eyes, which had been restless, settled on mine.

"I remember you were talking about choosing people and often making the wrong choice." I paused warily as she nodded her head affirmatively. It is difficult for me to describe Miranda because the two words that come to my mind are not ordinarily associated with beauty--primitive and fierce. Miranda was not an artificially beautiful woman; to me, she was the real thing. She used no lipstick, wore no jewelry, and her thick black hair fell straight to her shoulders. Her eyes were wide set and expressive while her lips were sensuous and inviting. These qualities were intensified by the fierceness of her expression, fierce in the sense of definite, intense, strong-willed--similar to the pictures that I have seen of American Indian women. There was, and I think this is what frightened me sometimes when I was with her, nothing tentative about her face, her character, her emotions, or her intellect. She demanded directness, and while I was skittish because I feared offending her, she was a person that I would never have dared to be dishonest with. First, because she was so valiantly forthright with a deep integrity that transcended the usual shoddy and literal notions of truth, and second, I knew that she saw dishonesty as a sign of weakness, not moral weakness because morality was something that she considered superficial and not to be taken seriously, but a weakness of the heart, a lack of bravery, cowardice.

I decided to be more straightforward. "Do you think--this is a question, Miranda, not a statement--that in the long run, we would be good for each other?"

Her answer was quick and challenging. "Why wouldn't we be?"

I just was so not ready for the way that she was responding to me and for the seemingly quantum leap in the dimensions of our relationship. Did she, for instance, really desire to live with me? I could not possibly imagine it, and I have, I believe, an excellent imagination.

Since I had been confused into silence, she answered her own question. "Perhaps we wouldn't be," she said with a slight air of sadness. "Maybe I've misjudged you, and you're not what you seem to be. You know, we've spent many hours together over the last few years, and what I see in you is someone who I feel that I can trust, someone who would never knowingly hurt me. Am I wrong?"

Well! _That_ was a compliment. "No, you're not wrong, but there are many men who are like that."

"What difference does that make?" she said. "It's like the man said in that song we heard last night--you can sit around and hope for something better, wait and wait, but every day that you live brings you one day closer to death. What is it," she said, leaning towards me and speaking earnestly, "that makes you so prone to doubt the truth of your experiences?"

I would not admit to that because the way she had phrased her question made me uneasy as to what she might say next. But, if I understood her correctly, that was exactly what I was doing. Suppose she was pregnant? Could I doubt that experience too? Look a child in the face and say, "Well, kiddo, you were a big mistake that never should have happened." But I just couldn't believe that she was pregnant, and anyways, that's not what we were talking about.

"You used to bother me with your indecisiveness, Jackson, your almost comical way of evading decisions. I can remember joking to myself that at least you never made any bad decisions because you never made any decisions. But I'm older now and can see that because I made some choices too impulsively or too emotionally, they turned out badly. I wish now that I'd had more of your survival instincts."

"You think that's what it is?"

"Well, I don't want to give you too much credit! A lot of it is that you're just plain lazy and don't like to exercise your intellect. You could have been a marvelous drifter, hopping freight cars from coast to coast--you have exactly the right kind of temperament for that sort of thing."

That remark didn't sound like a compliment at all, but it crossed my mind that I had survived for many years by drifting and that now I was facing, perhaps, a decision. Certainly, I felt a decision brewing in the present and immediate tense: Should I, in some fashion, tell this woman that I loved her, or should I not? If I had to ask myself that question, it wasn't a good sign--obviously, the wanderer was wavering. It was very difficult for me to speak because I sensed within Miranda the capacity for real fury--a fury that would be final and irrevocable, and a fury that would put to death any thoughts of reversing myself.

I decided on something potentially dangerous, but at least it wasn't evasive, and as far as I could judge, it appeared to be an honest expression of what I felt. Gently and tentatively, I said, "There's something that's been on my mind, and I suppose it's rather a strange thing to say, but don't you think, Miranda, that race is symbolic of something more than skin color?"

"What a peculiar question!" she said laughing. "I don't even understand it--what are you talking about?"

If she didn't understand it, then I didn't want to talk about it because I thought that it was a fairly simple question and that her reply should be taken as a not so subtle warning.

Miranda stood up and walked over to the window and gazed out for a few seconds at the early summer morning. Instead of returning to the table, she went over to the couch and said, "Come and sit next to me, Jackson--there's something I want to tell you."

I complied and she took my hand and looked compassionately into my eyes. "It's easier," she began, "to accept rather than reject. I could push you away if I wanted to, but why should I? It wouldn't do either of us any good, and if you think about that, you'll understand what I'm saying is true. Love can last for only a few minutes or, for the very lucky, a lifetime, but you can't possibly deny that there was a time last night when you were ecstatically in love with me. Can you?"

In reply, I compulsively pressed her hand.

"You're doubting, you're worrying, you're wondering. You're afraid that you have to make a decision but the chance for that has passed away because you really can't go back on that kind of love, on that kind of action. Sexual love is a statement, a statement of the spirit, and if you deny the reality and the wishes of your spirit, then you deny everything that gives you life. Sex is the dance of the spirits as they roam through eternity. _Sex is spiritual,_ Jackson, not religious, _spiritual_ \--get that into your head and throw out all those nasty Puritanical ideas, which are telling you that you did something wrong." Now, there was a slight edge of fury to her voice. "You gonna tell me we did something wrong last night? You gonna tell me that?"

It didn't appear that I was expected to reply, and she took my silence as an affirmation. She paused and studied me with an appraising look that I found disturbing, and my mind, under the severe stresses of the last twenty-four hours, went flying off at an irreverent tangent.

What was Miranda really saying to me? Logically, I thought her argument was seriously, if not fatally, flawed. Apparently, according to her, once two people had sex together, no more choices were necessary or even possible. The spirit had made its statement, and you couldn't alter it, so you were stuck with that person for the rest of your life. How absurd was that? But perhaps, for us, what she had said was indeed possible--we were older, the feelings had been real, and the physical passion had been propelled into our lives by something that came from deep within ourselves. Maybe, then, it had been a spiritual experience. However, unless you were lost in the stupefying clouds of a religious halo, how daffy an idea was that in this day and age? And what if you were having an affair? At that point, the spirit would be making a lot of sexual statements, which would require, despite Miranda's admonition to the contrary, some serious decisions. Didn't that prove her whole idea was false? Or could a spirit have a split personality? How tacky a rationalization was that?

But my thoughts seemed weak and powerless before the presence of the homespun black prophet whose church I had unknowingly entered. There was so much force and conviction and impact to her voice that I felt as if I were under the spell of a hypnotist, and I knew that when I was released from my trance, I would remain under her very considerable powers. Miranda's voice had now become melodious and much more soothing....

When you awaken, you will not forget these words...

"Don't you remember, Jackson, what it was like to be young and to fall in love? Head over heels, body and soul--and each moment you were consumed with a turbulent passion, with those desperate, aching hopes and longings, the despairing fear that heartbreak was just around the corner. Did you worry about differences then? Or were they the farthest thing from your mind? Did it make any difference to you what color her hair was? Did you spend any time fretting about your dissimilarities? We're all different, Jackson, and skin color is such an irrational way of making distinctions between people. What about kind and unkind, violent and nonviolent? Is the color of a person's skin that blinding?

"Yes, Jackson, to answer your question, I suppose race is symbolic of differences amongst people, but a perceptive person realizes that these differences don't make any difference. In fact, they don't amount to anything at all. Do you look at a black car and say to yourself, 'Oh no, that's a little scary?' If you go to the store, do you avoid purchasing things that are packaged in black? There's a real candidate for king of the nuthouse!

"I'm packaged in black, Jackson. It's a beautiful color, and eventually you'll get used to it--so much so that you won't even notice it anymore."

## CHAPTER NINETEEN: MAYOR OF THE MARTIANS

There was a knock on the door, and Branklin was aroused from his apocalyptic reveries by the woman of his dreams, Amanda Trane. "Mr. Mayor, I hope I'm not intruding."

"No, not at all." Live and in person, she was even more beautiful than he had imagined--and the clothes she was wearing! A skirt! And not a long one by any means.

She quickly pulled a chair from in front of his desk and moved it so that she could be sitting next to him. "These are merely some standard forms we need to have you sign before we can begin the interview."

As he pretended to read the documents she had placed before him, he had a chance--it wasn't his fault, and he really couldn't help it--to observe that, besides everything else, she had, to put it succinctly, a very unusual skirt. For one thing, it was a remarkable combination of colors--black with streaks of orange and bright red, but even stranger was that it appeared to have a mind of its own, a very rambunctious mind. As his eyes alternated between the stupid release forms and Amanda's skirt, he saw that she was constantly tugging it downwards until it almost reached her knees, but then, after he had made a perfunctory trip back to the papers, he would find that when his glance shifted back to her, it had mysteriously risen far above her knees, which would then occasion another small wrestling match between Amanda and her apparel that would result in a more modest presentation of her person. But it was all to no avail, and although he was certainly not offended, Amanda appeared to be losing the struggle to maintain her professional propriety and was, as the Mayor noted to himself, putting on quite a show. Branklin began to feel a growing sense of arising, unbounded optimism from her rather risqué performance, which seemed to be oddly out of character with her usual businesslike demeanor--could it be that she was fascinated, sexually, with powerful men?

After drinking at that well for as long as he dared, he signed the forms and handed them back to Amanda. Perhaps "it" wasn't going to be as difficult as he had feared, and even though she was well worth all of the sixty grand, what was the point of laying out that kind of money when he might be able to obtain the goods at a much cheaper price? Besides, he had to begin thinking selfishly now, since he had concluded, shortly before Amanda arrived, that his only sensible option was to flee Darwin City immediately and seek out an anonymous and peaceful life, preferably in a foreign country and certainly under an assumed name. For that, he was going to need money, and he didn't think, under these circumstances, that he should go above twenty grand for Amanda, and if it was less than that, so much the better. Maybe two hundred bucks wasn't such a bad idea, he joked to himself. But no, that was vulgar, and realizing that he couldn't altogether abandon his principles, he set the absolute low figure at ten thousand dollars. You get what you pay for, he told himself sternly, but sixty grand was totally crazy, just over-enthusiasm and juvenile posturing.

"I hope you won't think I'm flattering you, Amanda, but I must tell you that I think the Channel Nine News stands head and shoulders above the competition."

"Really!" She seemed delighted. "Why's that?"

"Oh, I don't know...perhaps it's the new face they've put on the nightly newscast."

Amanda wasn't quite sure whether he was referring to her or the new format they had gone to about a month earlier. She decided the former was more likely. "Why thank you, Mr. Mayor, I--"

"Please, if you don't mind, I would be much happier if you would call me Branklin. I think it's important to establish a rapport with the members of the press, and it's very difficult when it's Mr. Mayor this and Mr. Mayor that."

"Certainly, Branklin, if that's what you wish."

HE HAD IT! What an astounding idea--all he had to do was figure out the details. "Amanda, I don't know how much time you have, but after our interview, I would be willing to discuss something with you that could be the biggest story to hit the streets of Darwin City since I have become Mayor." The only thing he could think of at the moment was his upcoming demise, and that certainly wouldn't do. He'd have to concoct something, but he realized he was perfectly positioned for that kind of farcical activity since he would be disappearing in the morning.

"Well, that is unexpected," she said as she attempted to adjust her gravity-defying skirt to a more proper position. "What does it concern?"

How should he know? Maybe he could tell her that some extraterrestrials had been found wandering around the town dump. "It's something that I don't feel comfortable talking about here, Amanda, but I can assure you that this would be a major story."

"I see. In that case, what do you have in mind?"

He knew the answer to that question! _Slow_ _down_ , he told himself loudly while he attempted to restrain his desperate leering enthusiasms.

"How would it be if we have dinner tonight at the Hotel Esquire? They know me there, and we can speak without being overheard."

She hesitated a moment before answering, "I couldn't do this, Branklin, unless it was on the record because I've found that otherwise it ends up as being nothing but gossip, and not only do I not have that kind of time to waste, but it could also compromise my integrity as a reporter. If I'm eating dinner with you, it has to be for a reason."

Don't worry about that, baby, thought Branklin as he began to envisage a startling headline.

MARTIANS IN GREEN SUITS INVADE DARWIN CITY'S DUMP--ALL PRESUMED DEAD OF TOXIC SHOCK SYNDROME.

"Not a problem," said Branklin graciously. "You can quote me."

FURTHER INCOMING FLIGHTS OF FLYING SAUCERS ARE NOW BEING MISDIRECTED BY OUR BRAVE AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLERS AND ARE CRASH-LANDING IN THE DUMP. AUTHORITIES ARE ADVISING ALL CITIZENS TO REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL THE SITUATION HAS BEEN STABILIZED.

It was now nearly time for the interview, and Amanda excused herself as the camera crew flooded into his office with all their preposterous paraphernalia--the triple bank of seven-hundred-watt light bulbs were enough to make any sane person plead for mercy. Branklin quickly escaped from the ruckus by retreating to his small secret sanctuary, which was located behind the janitor's storeroom, and popped down a hefty shot of a rare German vodka, Panzer Plus, that came roaring in at a whopping 150 proof. Maybe he'd tell Amanda that he had just discovered the Governor was actually a Martian and that he was in possession of a number of classified documents, including a birth certificate, that would conclusively prove the truth of this startling accusation. Wouldn't that make for a sensational story!

As he thought about it, he realized that he was in the catbird's seat because he didn't have to worry about the consequences of anything that he said. What a fantastic way to settle a few old scores! THAT'S IT! He'd tell Amanda that he'd discovered Randall and Ursula Van Wynch were in the midst of a torrid--no, nobody would believe that concept--a disgusting affair. He could also say that he had actually caught them in the act and had been able to photograph them in some positions that were far more than excessively compromising. Randall was a closet Martian anyways, and Ursula must have arrived on a wayward space ship from Pluto. If he was lucky, this bombshell would explode before he was exposed, but it didn't matter much because, one way or another, he would be on a jet plane and hurtling towards a better life that would bring him freedom from his wife, his four pathetic kids, Van Wynch, Fleabag Haggins, and Princeboy--just to name a few of the more prominent basket cases that he had to deal with on a daily basis.

With these cheery thoughts, he set out for his interview, which had been moved to the conference room to accommodate Tommy Edison's blinding-bulb battalion. As he sat down before the blazing strobe lights, he noticed that Amanda had changed her attire to something that was much more appropriate to the occasion--black pants, a grey blouse, and a blue vest. Although understandable, it was still a little depressing, and he felt like a sailboat that had just entered the doldrums on a dreary summer evening.

In a curt and officious voice that he found annoying, she asked him, "Mr. Mayor, since last Friday, there have been a number of horrific events that have engulfed our city. People are beginning to wonder if Darwin City has become another Bleakfester Dump, and I wonder if you would like to comment upon that?"

He certainly would. What a grand feeling to be free of the necessity of kowtowing to the lamebrained voters. Talk about Martians! "Actually, Amanda, I am now in possession of information that..." (It was hard for him not to burst out laughing as his mind went on a ridiculous bender and forcibly interjected an alarming news bulletin that there was now reason to believe that some of the Martians had escaped the noxious odors and rampaging poisons that swarmed through the dump, and after raiding the Bomb Emporium where they had seized over five hundred machine guns, they had issued a bizarre manifesto in pidgin English declaring that "for the most part" their intentions were hostile. To make matters even worse, the police were now receiving reports that the little green men were taking potshots at motorists as they advanced erratically down Dogwire Drive towards City Hall.)

Unfortunately, after this internal digression, Branklin had no idea what he had been about to divulge that was so startling, and he began to wish that the Martians would go away and leave him alone. Stalling for time, he dredged up a minor coughing fit that allowed him some much-needed cover. Now he remembered--he wasn't about to divulge anything because he didn't have anything to divulge except his impending doom. "This information," he said as he gathered himself together, "is both shocking, highly sensitive, and privileged, and I regret to say that I cannot share it with the public at this time; however, I can absolutely assure all of our citizens that it will be brought out into the open very shortly." Amazingly, Branklin reflected, all of that horrid hogwash was the absolute truth.

"Are you telling us, Mr. Mayor, that the series of crimes we have recently witnessed are connected and that arrests are imminent?"

He had to be careful since Dunderhead Prince might be listening, and besides that, he had to conserve his firepower for the dinner date with Amanda. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but I really am not at liberty to discuss this any further, at least at the present moment," he said pointedly, "but I can absolutely assure the viewing public that they have nothing to fear and that all these matters will be resolved within twenty-four hours."

Amanda gave him a curious look--had she just smirked?--and moved on. "Are you able," she said with a subtle undercurrent of sarcasm, "to shed any light on the suicide of your chief assistant, Barry Pidgett?"

"He was, I am sorry to say, a tormented man with many troubles, and in the end, he decided to take the easy way out."

"I've been informed that he left a suicide note and that it was addressed to you."

"Why yes, that's all true. We were very close, and it was merely a pathetic but touching letter in which he apologized for his actions and harbored the hope that I would continue to be able to serve the fine citizens of our great city."

"Was there any reference," Amanda said incisively, "as to any misconduct in relation to his job?" Branklin was about to reply but she held out her hand peremptorily to stop him. "In other words, Mr. Mayor, was there any indication in this _note,_ " she said with a peculiar and almost obnoxious intensity, "that there was any fiscal malfeasance on his part, or to put it more bluntly, that he had been involved in embezzling money from the city treasury, or that he had aided any other member of your administration in the commission of serious financial crimes?"

"Absolutely not, and I think that is really doing a great dishonor to a man who has--"

"And this would include you, of course."

"Include me? Include me in what, Amanda?" Branklin said irritably. He was rapidly coming to the understanding that this woman was sometimes not as beautiful as she appeared to be.

"Let me put it this way, Mr. Mayor. Are you now pledging to our viewers that you never defrauded this city or caused Barry Pidgett to do so on your behalf?"

He looked at her furiously. It might be the gospel truth, but it was an outrageous thing to say, nevertheless. "No, Amanda, those allegations are completely untrue, and for you to suggest--"

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor, but I'm afraid our time is up."

That was enough of that. Without saying a word, he left the room. She was like all the rest of them--another Martian, although decidedly more attractive than the ones he had seen so many years ago in his comic books.

He had nearly reached his office when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he was surprised to see Amanda before him. "Branklin, that was wonderful! I thought you were magnificent," she said in an excited voice. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. After I was kind enough to consent to an interview, all you did was badger me with an inane bunch of insulting accusations."

"Branklin, I had to ask you those questions about Barry because of Forrester Haggins, or else he wouldn't have permitted me to talk to you--I'm sure you know how he is. But I am sorry for it, and I hope you'll accept my apology." She held out her hand, and Branklin hesitated only momentarily before shaking it. "If we're still having dinner at the Hotel Esquire," she said, "could you give me a lift? Otherwise, I'll have to take a taxi."

After the questions he had been peppered with, he had taken it for granted that his dinner date would be a no-show. Pleasantly surprised, he said, "Certainly, I'd be delighted."

"Good, I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes--you can meet me in front of the building."

Amanda walked off, and Branklin went to his office where he removed the fifty grand from the safe before dropping into the sanctuary for a double shot of the Panzer Plus, which was good for revving up his "engine." Slightly dazed, but feeling quite euphoric, he took the elevator down to the parking garage and put the briefcase with the money into the trunk. As he pulled out onto the street, he saw Amanda standing in front of the building, but it wasn't until he glided up beside her that he noticed she had changed back to the feisty black skirt with the streaks of orange and shimmering red. It occurred to him that this might actually be easy--maybe she was a swinger and wouldn't think twice about it. Or, possibly, she thought that if she had sex with him, she would be able to blackmail him--not for money but for news. There was a missed opportunity that he had never even considered. Without doubt, that would have been an intriguing angle that might have worked with Becky Prant over at Channel Seven, especially if he could have found a way to place her into competition with Amanda. But sadly, it was far too late for that kind of sexual sweepstakes.

Amanda had given up trying to control her skirt, and Branklin was in a heady mood. It was time to steer the car--no, the conversation--into a more productive channel as there were quite a few roadblocks that he would have to surmount before he could claim his prize. He began obliquely by enquiring into her job, which she droned on about for a solid five minutes. From the small snippets that made their way into his consciousness, he gathered that she found her work to be exciting and challenging, although the salary--and here Branklin suddenly awakened--was rather modest compared to what she had received out west. "Really?" said an energized Branklin.

"I could be making almost double what I do here, and then if you throw in the cost of living expenses in Darwin City, there are some months when I can hardly make ends meet."

That was a little much since she had to be making at least eighty grand. Probably she had bought one of those fancy, absurdly overpriced condos that had recently sprouted up along the shores of Lake Bracken. Either that or she tossed away a lot of money on clothes and jewelry, or maybe she spent hundreds of bucks a night carousing around the expensive streets of the downtown area while she hobnobbed with other members of the blasted Fourth Estate. But obviously, he wasn't about to discourage her sentiments in this regard, and he pretended to sympathize with her as he rambled on for a bit about his (nonexistent) financial troubles when he was her age.

"If I could only get ahead," she said mournfully. "I know people assume that I make a lot of money, but once you fall behind, it's so hard to catch up."

A real pity, thought Branklin. By this time, they had reached the hotel, and after parking the car, he led her into the restaurant, which was a swanky place that catered to big-shot characters like Branklin. They were shown to a booth in a secluded area, and he ordered them a ninety-dollar bottle of wine while they pondered the obscure and snobby menu, which was cluttered with indecipherable French words; probably over there, mused Branklin, the menus were saturated with Spanish specialties. The wine arrived, and after a few sips, Amanda asked, "So what's the big story, Branklin? You're not quitting your job and leaving the country, are you?"

What was it with her? Where had she come up with that? It was so prescient that it alarmed him. "Whatever inspired you to say something like that, Amanda?"

She laughed. "It was just a joke, Branklin; "it's not true, is it? That would be a big story."

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous." Despite her odd remarks, Amanda was beginning to excite him, and he didn't feel like wasting time on the crazy story about Ursula and the sex-crazed Randall--it was, after all, a little too close to the truth. He decided to divert her and took the roll of one-hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket and put it on the table. "I'm sorry, Amanda, but the first thing I have to do is count this money because...?...my broker has been known to make some mistakes, and they invariably tend to be in his favor."

"Are those all one-hundred-dollar bills?" Amanda asked in a reverential tone.

"They should be--that's one of the things I have to check."

"Where did you get all that money?" she asked pensively or perhaps suspiciously--it was difficult for him to tell.

"Stocks--it's the second time this month that I've made a killing." He was beginning to enjoy this tale because it made him sound like a wheeler-dealer, and he thought that it might impress her. "But my broker has a counting problem. The last time I cashed in, he slipped me some twenties."

"How much money did you make?" she said with a note of awe seeping into her voice.

He looked at her blandly. "Not so much today, only sixty grand."

"There's sixty thousand there?" she said sounding puzzled, since the wad wasn't all that big.

Branklin laughed. "No, no. This is only ten--the other fifty is out in the trunk of the car--I'll be depositing that into the bank tomorrow." He wondered if she would see through the blatant absurdity of being paid in cash by a broker, but she said nothing. "This is my spending money, my reward for taking a risk. Sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm really rich, and I'll go through it all in a single night." He looked up at her, but she was gazing at the money.

"I've never seen so much money before," she said with the attitude of one who is helpless before a supreme power.

"I bet that would help with your bills."

"It would almost do the trick. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but the fact is that I'd need about twenty-five thousand to really turn things around."

It was just beyond the twenty-thousand-dollar limit that he had set for himself, but it was close enough--he wasn't going to haggle over a mere five grand. Finally, incredibly, he realized that it was getting close to the moment of truth. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Amanda, but you are a..." (he wanted to say beautiful but didn't dare) "woman who..." (he couldn't possibly say "turns me on") "and...I...it's not an easy thing for me to talk about but..." He paused because he didn't know what to say next.

"Yes?" she said, and to his surprise, it sounded like an encouraging yes.

Suddenly, he was seized by a phenomenal inspiration. "What if I were to arrange for that amount of money to be transferred to your bank account." How was that for being sly and keeping his options open?

"Oh, Mr. Mayor, NO! I couldn't accept any money from you, much less twenty-five thousand. It would completely compromise my integrity."

"I wouldn't give you the money, Amanda, because I believe that people should earn their money and not survive on charity."

"I agree," said Amanda simply.

Branklin saw the waiter approaching and surreptitiously waved him off. Taking a big gulp of wine, he said, "But perhaps there is something that you can do to earn this money, something that I would be willing to pay twenty-five thousand dollars for."

Amanda put her hand to her mouth and gasped. "No!" she said theatrically. "I don't believe it--you're propositioning me, aren't you?"

Branklin said nothing and sipped at his wine nervously.

"I thought," she said quietly, "that this only happened in the movies. Are you really making me this offer, Branklin--twenty-five thousand dollars for one night? For me?"

He didn't want to admit to it because he still wasn't sure what her final reaction was going to be. As far as he could tell, she appeared to be both flattered and disgusted. "It is a large sum of money, Amanda." Close to an admission, but not quite--he still had a little bit of wriggle room left.

"And you...I mean...you're really willing to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars if I were to have sex with you?"

He took a deep breath and plunged into the Rubicon. "That's right, Amanda." She said nothing, so he went on. "And there's nothing to fear because it's certainly not in my interests for this to become public. No one will ever know."

"But why? Why me?" she said, staring at him with those smoldering eyes that he had rhapsodized upon during the past six months.

"Because you are the most beautiful woman that I have ever--"

"Me?" she said astonished.

"I can't help it, Amanda. When I see you, I suffer because I have never held you, and I go through agonies because our lips have--"

Amanda laughed and put her hand up gently to stop Branklin. "I don't know, Branklin...I'm more romantic than that. I think combining money and sex is—it's wrong, isn't it?" she said, with a pleading look in her eyes. As Branklin remained understandably silent, she continued with her audible ruminations. "Still it is tempting... _very_ tempting--but you said twenty-five thousand, didn't you?"

"Would you like to see the other fifteen? I can go get it, if you like."

"Well," she said sipping her wine, "I haven't said yes, but that might help me come to a decision."

Branklin took the money on the table and put it into his pocket--he wasn't that stupid--and nervously went outside to his car. Vague grumblings about the value of money were overwhelmed by increasingly erotic images of Amanda, and his imagination ran amok, gamboling through the climactic summer air. No matter what the future brought, he would always remember this night.

Returning to a quiet Amanda, he placed the full twenty-five thousand in front of her. Slowly, she brought the wine glass to her lips, but there was an eerie look in her eyes. They seemed to be simmering with--

Without warning, she flung the wine in her glass into his face. At the same time, from behind him, he heard the voice of Randall Prince, and as he whirled around, the strobe lights came on and virtually blinded him.

The images that came on the late news that night were not at all flattering to Mr. Fell. His face and shirt splattered with red wine, he was shown being handcuffed (for the second time that day) as Randall loudly informed him that he was being arrested for the misappropriation of well over three hundred thousand dollars of city funds, which had been diverted into Empress Escort Services where he had allegedly engaged the services of numerous prostitutes. He would also, of course, be charged with his most recent sexual infraction, a single count of solicitation. Much to his mortification, he was told that everything he had said to Amanda from the moment she had entered his office had been taped and that the contemptible scene in the restaurant had also been videotaped. The latter proved to be a fascinating attraction for the major networks who conducted a frenzied bidding war for the broadcasting rights. It was finally sold for three million dollars to the international conglomerate, NNN, the National Nazi Network, and after a well-trumpeted ten-thousand-dollar donation to charity, the proceeds were divided evenly between Amanda and Channel Nine.

It was only later that Branklin learned what Barry Pidgett had meant in his suicide note when he said that "this morning I _mailed_ them the relevant pictures and documents." As it turned out, about an hour before his suicide, he had taken it upon himself to deliver the mail personally to Channel Nine where he had placed his pictures and documents directly into the hands of the beautiful Amanda Trane.

## CHAPTER TWENTY: THE BLACK WAVE

Bambo enjoyed his new life, the life of a bohemian. Gone were the days of the Captain's Cabin, his brother's sexual carousing, and Eva Braun. He had made quite a few trips to the Captain's Lounge with her, but that was all over now. She was probably searching the streets of Darwin City hoping to find him, but he was lying low, flying way under the radar, and departing into the depths of anonymity. Nobody knew where he was; he had hit the trail and was long gone. Boom! Just like that.

Since the day that he had met Eva, he had been aware that something strange and disturbing was lurking in his subconscious. No matter where he went and no matter what he did, he felt possessed by a feeling of guilt, as if he had committed a crime, an ugly, evil, sexual crime. For a while, he rationalized it away as the tattered remnants of his mother's stupid, Sunday-lunch-bunch morality, but then came the night when he realized that something really was wrong, that a dark shadow was passing through his spirit, and he was crossing into a domain from which there could be no return.

His encounter with the demons of the underworld had begun on a strange, tempestuous day in late May. In the afternoon, a cold wind that had been gusting forcefully out of the north had scattered a few stray flakes of snow onto the streets of the city before there followed a very brief but intense hailstorm, which left a glaze of slippery ice on the pavement. By the time twilight arrived, Bambo, who had been tooling aimlessly around, found the western sky to be more a replica of Judgment Day than a harbinger of the pleasant evenings that were so common at this time of year. High above Lake Bracken, gigantic purple-black clouds were mounting to the heavens, and in the distance, he could hear a growling, muffled, menacing thunder. Suddenly, there was a small rift in the clouds, and an orange sun streaked with the wisps of a black cloud shone through the gloom with startling intensity. But then, the wind swung around to the west, the sun vanished, and the clouds advanced towards the city with a dark, primitive savagery. Bambo stood protected under a large doorway and watched in astonishment and awe as enormous bolts of jagged lightning plunged out of the sky with a supernatural hiss. Huge raindrops mixed with pelting hail, booming, _cracking_ thunder that shook the ground under his feet, and lightning that momentarily blinded him with its high-voltage electric intensity left him with shaking knees and a shaken heart.

He had gone back to stoking up heavily on the weed, which had intensified his natural tendency to paranoia, and as a result, he felt that these kinds of events could not be dismissed lightly--they were signs, warnings, portents. Bambo didn't believe in God, but he did believe in death, and he found it hard to disassociate himself from the idea that the Grim Reaper had just fired a massive cannonball across his bow. It was time to cut the engines, put on the brakes, and do some serious pondering. He knew that grass often made him feel this way, but he didn't really consider it paranoia, just elemental common sense.

It happened to be a Wednesday night, the night that he always met Eva. Everything between them had become ritualized, but that didn't bother him since it lent their trysts stability. Their first meeting had become the prototype: A couple of Velvet Hammers in a booth, a big joint of ganja in the Captain's Lounge, vague but persistent references by Eva to a mammoth amount of drugs that would shortly be in her possession and which she wanted to sell to Bambo, the two-hundred-dollar "down payment," and then, at last, the fun part, the rowdy romp in the hay.

But on this ominous night, they had not fallen asleep after their sortie into the treacherous lands of Sexelvainia. "Hitler really was a great man, Bambo."

Inwardly, he groaned. Lately, he had become mesmerized by the feeling that came over him when he spaced out, and the type of violent mantra that Eva was likely to preach would undoubtedly inhibit his carefree flight of fancy and bring him back down to earth. He had noticed that anger and resentment were real downers when he was floating aimlessly through the fantasies of inner space.

She had turned slightly to face him, and her black eyes seemed to grow and become more luminous. The timbre of her voice had also changed becoming more guttural with a harsh conviction that disturbed Bambo who was trying to imagine what it would be like to be a bird on a windy summer day, swooping around in a lazy good-for-nothing way.

"He was," she said in the manner of an ancient priestess, "far ahead of his time, and that's why the world turned against him."

Bambo wasn't a student of history, which he found stupendously boring. He could remember his high school teacher, Kelby Bell, droning on endlessly about wars, assassinations, purges, and disasters. So what? However, he had absorbed enough to know that this Hitler dude was really bad--he could still visualize the photographs of the piles of emaciated victims who had been gassed to death in the concentration camps. "Wasn't he the guy," Bambo said dreamily as he tried to maintain his trance, "who exterminated millions of people?"

"Why does everyone bring that up? They were racially inferior, and--"

Whatever that meant, thought Bambo who found it amusing to have some demented clown on a podium pointing his finger at you and declaring that you were racially inferior. Same to you, buddy. If Hitler had been black, he would undoubtedly have packed all the whites into railroad cars and sent them to the gas chambers. How could anybody possibly take his racist nonsense seriously? Wasn't there just one race, the human race? It was all a very poor joke that went terribly wrong and ended up killing millions of people because everyone forgot that you were supposed to laugh at clowns, even the sick ones like Adolf the Brutal Buffoon. As Bambo pretended to listen to Eva who was rambling on about the curse of modern liberalism, which was polluting the sacred blood of the community with a variety of sexual diseases, he realized the world was still spinning around the same axis of evil that the power clowns had originated for the sake of their hideous reign of everlasting war. Only these days, the clowns didn't call themselves the Fuhrer, which would have been considered a bit outre, but went by such barely camouflaged pseudonyms as President, Prime Minister, Dictator, or Strongman. And although these guys were just as funny as Adolf the Bozo, no one was laughing, and because of that, millions of people were still dying. Was it true, wondered Bambo as Eva diligently ploughed through the holy Hitlerian rites of racial extermination, that when people stopped laughing, then they began dying? The best joke, and one which was now about five thousand years overdue, would be to laugh all these power-crazed, flag-waving, patriotic maniacs off the stage and gently return them to the oblivion of the crowd where they could, for once, enjoy their lives in the peace of anonymity.

Meanwhile, back in the Captain's Lounge, Eva, the true zealot, had completely missed the fact that Bambo had mostly tuned her out, and she was bravely floundering through an increasingly aggressive digression, a bizarre footnote of her fascist manifesto that now centered, incredibly, on the American Indians. "What is the difference," she asked a drowsy and dissociated Bambo, "between George Washington and Hitler?"

Well, let's see, thought Bambo. Wasn't Georgie bald? And although he was certainly able to walk, there are no known reports of a goose step.

"I'd say," said Eva with more than a note of malice in her voice, "that he and his little tribe of psychotic followers--Adams and Jefferson and all the rest of that presidential riffraff were masters of racial extermination. They hated the reds the same way that Hitler hated the reds--that's why he attacked Russia and killed fifty million of them. What's wrong with that? They were nothing but barbarians--exactly the same as the Indians who couldn't even read a book and had never even heard of God. Savages!"

Despite Eva's rationale, which sounded decidedly sketchy at best, it seemed to Bambo that an apology to the current descendents of our own holocaust might be in order: "We the people of this Great, Grand, and Glorious Kingdom do solemnly proclaim our deepest and most profound regret for the horrific extermination of your race but must regretfully inform you that we are reaffirming our intention of keeping the few of you that have survived upon your reservations until further notice--which is not likely to be forthcoming."

But through the fog of his drug-induced state or perhaps because of it, Bambo became aware of an image that was much more than a mirage and just slightly less than a phantom--those spirit forms that some have claimed to perceive in this, the material dimension. It was a sensation that came into being when he began to perceive Eva's voice as a color--black, naturally. He saw a sea of grey-black with rolling jet-black waves that stretched out to a horizon that was lined with clouds of a fiery and bloody red. Her voice undulated with the thunderous waves that came rushing in to crash down on a beach that had been wrecked with the blackened devastation of a war. There were dead and mutilated bodies everywhere, and they had been blackened beyond recognition by fire, a terrible fire that had swept along the shore and incinerated everyone. The water from the breaking waves would race up the black sands of the beach and drag hundreds of bodies out to sea with their overpowering undertow. Then the next line of colossal waves would come marching in carrying other bodies that had been swept off the shore earlier, and as the wave broke, these bodies would be hurled onto the beach with such force that they disintegrated into a small murky oily cloud. The beach was now filled with a poisonous thick black fog that began to drift in Bambo's direction, and as he became more and more terrified, he became more and more aware of Eva's black eyes, which were staring intently into his, and in those eyes, he saw the same black fog that he had seen on the beach, and he also saw that everything he had seen in this panorama of doom, he had seen in her eyes.

The next day was a solemn one for Bambo. He arrived home from his fling with Eva about eight in the morning and immediately rolled himself a large joint that he inhaled slowly and reflectively. It was becoming obvious to him that he had made many serious mistakes and that Eva was the black flower that had grown out of them. That was the problem with having so much money--it had made him careless, and he had begun to think that he was immune from error. Look at the type of people he was hanging around with! Dennis was a humorous oddball but completely clueless and would go through his two million in four or five years, and then he would be knocking at his door and looking for a handout. Besides that, who wanted to be around a character who thought sentiment and love were halfway houses for sexual cripples?

Bambo wondered what had happened to himself. How had he strayed so far from his roots, which were the streets and alleys of Darwin City? How had he ever ended up in a place like the Captain's Cabin consorting with a woman who idolized Hitler? How had he forgotten that people never really lived unless they lived by their wits, their instincts, their savvy? He went back over it slowly because he wanted to find the answer, wanted to know how he had turned into such a disgraceful creature, a card-carrying member of the upper class.

It hadn't really started with Eva; it had started with the six million bucks, which had made him feel superior to everyone else. As if money marked the worth of a man! Maybe he should start calling himself Cretin Fleer, the man who was the picture-perfect embodiment of the Devil, the spirit that had become the King of the Demons. Bambo could see that he had naively thought money freed him from the machinations of Fleer, but instead, he had come groveling back to Cretin's world and was pounding at the door for admission to the realms of the rich. He had taken it for granted that his poverty had been a sign of inferiority, but he had merely succumbed to the widely held but worthless notion that money had real value when, in fact, it was nothing but an idiotic social convention invented by some ancient city slickers. Instead of taking the stairs, he had ridden the elevator to the top floor and then had the presumption to think that he could fly. In other words, he had become a hypocrite as he fawned his way upwards into the golden world of privilege and status. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting. It also ran completely counter to his well-established, hyper-vigilant paranoia, and when you ignore that, you might as well dig your own grave, douse yourself in gasoline, light yourself up, and jump into the tomb. Because that kind of paranoia was the stop sign at the railroad crossing, the last chance to avert disaster. How many times had he felt that paranoia when he was with Eva? Had he ever not felt it?

He should have been able to figure the whole thing out the day he bought those laughable contraptions, the hundred-dollar pair of jeans. Very pretentious and very sad--a beggar riding in a carriage, a gloating beggar who now despised his origins and rode roughshod through the streets and never saw the subtle warnings that were so clearly visible. In a way, the jeans were a small thing, but they were really the first step down the dreadful road that ended with Hitler's mistress. What would have come next, a suit and tie? Maybe a fedora? And then, unexpectedly but inevitably, the day would come when the malevolent black wave would catch up with him and hurl him relentlessly and spitefully down onto the beach and into extinction. Because that was the fate of hypocrites.

He had made countless mistakes. Look at the brainless house he had bought for four hundred grand, in cash. Nine rooms! One for his suit and another for his tie. The jeans were so ridiculous, so symbolically perfect, that he ought to cut them in half and give them two rooms. Maybe he should just light the place on fire and start all over again. If there was no mortgage was it illegal to burn down your house? Probably, which meant he had another problem--what was he going to do with this pitiful dump? Go through the stupid endless marathon of the real-estate trip and have a bunch of scoundrels called agents and buyers parading through his house with their arrogant airs and odious observations? He'd have to put on his one-hundred-dollar specials, hide the wacky weed, and make a strenuous effort to present himself respectably--exactly the things that he was trying to avoid. No way.

However, with the benefit of more drugs, he was able to come to some sensible decisions. After cutting up the Pont St. Jeans and flushing them down the toilet, he began a search for a new abode. He wanted something that was small and secluded, something beyond humble, perhaps a shack, although he doubted that there were any available in Darwin City. Sure enough, when he looked through the papers, all he could find were grandiose mansions or the overpriced hovels that proliferated suburbia. At least they were hovels, but who wanted to live that kind of life?

There were, in his opinion, so many problems with the suburban utopia. Major problems! Now that he was rich and had taken on the responsibilities that come with owning a home, it was becoming very apparent to him that there were many things in this world that pointed to, for lack of a better phrase, THE END. For Bambo, the suburban symbol of doom was the brazen lawn mower, the growling buzzard that prowled through the sterilized yards with its relentless endorsement of natural extermination. Sweeping triumphantly through virtually all levels of society, this gas-guzzling monstrosity was irrefutable proof of mass insanity as it relentlessly enforced the crackpot customs of obsessive conformity and the compulsive worship of order. Surely, there must be somebody somewhere who found pleasure and received enjoyment from watching their grass grow, but this natural feeling had been ruthlessly expunged from the community with a fanaticism that was utterly remarkable. It was all very military, of course--a tribute to the troops and a miniature memorial to murder. Keep it trim; give it a short haircut! Attention! Discipline! Ready, march! Hut, two, three, four! KEEP IN STEP! Shoulder arms! Be exactly like everyone else! Be better than everyone else! Wave the flag! RAH! RAH! RAH! Ready, aim, _FIRE_!

As he toked up on the mighty weed, Bambo had a laughing attack when he imagined an ancient Indian, one of Eva's ridiculous racial rejects, warily observing the mighty white man as he brought the obligatory carnage down onto his helpless lawn. Surely, the red man, unschooled in the wicked ways of our corrupt culture, would be scratching his head and pondering the meaning behind this outlandish behavior of the whites, the undisputed masters of the known universe. No wonder, Bambo thought, the reds were herded into concentration camps, which we were polite enough to call reservations--they didn't mow their lawns! There's a sure sign of a person who needs correction. Perhaps a perplexed Tonto would conclude that the Lone Ranger had become afraid of snakes and was making an effort to eliminate any possibility of an unpleasant surprise. But what was it with these people? Why were all the Lone Rangers out there attacking their grass in an apocalyptic do-or-die frenzy? Were they all afraid of snakes? And then, unfortunately, Tonto's meditations would be brought to a violent and abrupt halt as a car went roaring by. "YIKES! What was _THAT_?" Metal ponies for mental midgets.

Bambo was determined that he wouldn't be buying into this kind of mass-produced neo-fascist nonsense--no lawn mower would be permitted on his new ranch. He realized, of course, there could be no doubt that this decision was a sign he was tending towards racial inferiority, which could lead to serious consequences. He had once read about a man who had been arrested because he obstinately refused repeated requests by the proper authorities to employ his mower to effect the sacred sacrament of suburban militarism. He was only released from confinement, after some pathetically ineffective balking, when he promised to amend his backward ways and commit genocide on his grass which--can you believe it?--he claimed to love. Keep that kind of activity up and they'll put you on the special reservation called the Funny Farm, officially known as the House for the Terminally Insane.

But then, at this dire moment, Bambo caught a break. Picking up the real estate section of the paper, his eye was attracted to an advertisement for a small cabin located near Lake Bracken. And it was cheap, very cheap, which meant that it was probably small and maybe even run down; it might be just the ticket that would liberate him from the stifling straitjacket of his miserable castle.

The next week was somewhat painful for Bambo who had to deal with the absurdities of property transference, but he was able to cut through the red tape by offering to trade his swanky palace to the bewildered owner of the cabin who would be making a profit of well over two hundred grand. So that they wouldn't think he was insane and demand that he undergo a psychiatric examination, he explained that he thought the value of the land around Lake Bracken was about to escalate significantly due to speculation, and when that didn't quite satisfy the lawyers, who were afraid that such a suicidal transaction would not be upheld in court if Bambo later realized the error of his ways and appealed, he agreed to sign a paper that declared, in the monotonous and mangled litany of the legal profession, that he understood he was making an incompetent business decision, that as far as he knew, he was in full possession of his faculties, that he was not taking any medications that might impair his judgment, that he was fully aware the impending transaction was impractical, short-sighted, ill-advised and rash, that he had been repeatedly warned by competent experts as to the financial folly of his actions, and that by affixing his signature to the deed, he forswore any possibility of judicial remedy in the event that he finally came to his senses.

Once that messy and long-winded lecture from the highbrows had concluded, Bambo exultantly signed the documents, and before the day was over, he had taken possession of his shack, a tiny two-room semi-winterized cottage with a well and an outhouse. He decided that it needed a name, and just over the front door, he used his knife to carve out, THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

## "YOU HAVE TO FIND OUT WHAT HE KNOWS BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE."

After our early morning conversation about the black and the white, Miranda went into the station, while I began my week of bereavement leave by calling Gloria's sister, Maureen, who lived in the suburbs of Bleakfester Dump with her husband Melvin, an accountant at the famous--but now, of course, defunct--engineering firm of Hoover, Dreggs, and Drummond. Naturally, Gloria's family had to be informed of her death, but an equally compelling reason for calling Maureen was the hope that I could find someone to relieve me of the time-consuming practical obligations that inevitably surround burial rites. As it turned out, she had not heard the dreadful news and was rendered "prostrate" by the "untimely tragedy" but stood ready to assist me in my hour of need. So far, so good. Maureen was a classic loudmouth and busybody whom I had spent years avoiding, but these deep-rooted feelings were pushed ruthlessly aside as I explained to her that besides attempting to cope with the loss of my wife and daughter, I was having difficulty with Darnell, and if it was at all possible would she be able, with my financial assistance, to undertake the funeral arrangements? Falling into the trap aggressively, she announced that she would be delighted to do so and that I could expect the two of them to arrive sometime in the early afternoon.

Having fulfilled, in my own nefarious way, these familial obligations, I went to the Outpost to meet Jake. I arrived about eleven and found him sitting at a table with Larry and watching the large TV, which was perched conspicuously above the bar. After pouring myself a cup of Larry's rocket brew--mostly espresso with some coffee thrown in for good measure, I walked over and joined them. Preoccupied with my own thoughts, it was some time before I became aware that they were behaving oddly. I had expected and was prepared for the usual half-hearted condolences from two men who were wise enough to know that any words they might say at a time like this were meaningless but still felt compelled to genuflect before the prescribed protocols of verbal compassion. They appeared, however, to be oblivious to my presence, and I wondered if they were watching a demonstration of hypnotism and had become unwitting subjects. It was then that I heard Amanda Trane's voice, and turning my attention to the modern, Cyclopean master of mesmerism, I heard her say to Branklin, "You're propositioning me, aren't you?"

"I can't believe it," laughed Jake. "This guy is going to get fried alive."

I had no idea what was going on as I heard Branklin say, "It's certainly not in my interests for this to become public. No one will ever know."

"Not bad," chuckled Jake. "He got half of it exactly right."

"Look at this," said Larry with amazement; "he's going out to get another fifteen grand."

"Twenty five grand--for her?" roared Jake. "What kind of drugs is this guy on?"

The tape of Branklin's downfall had been edited, and it was only seconds later that I saw him return to the table and place the money in front of Amanda.

"Oops," said Jake as he began to laugh. "Talk about a slap in the kisser!"

"Wine in the face--even if it's a little trite, it makes for good theatre," said Larry. "Imagine how many times we're going to see replays of that."

There followed a short interview with a woman named Molly Fillmore who at one time had been known as Violet Rose. She was introduced as a former "first lady of the night" who had managed to escape from the rapacious clutches of the escort services and was now a bus driver in the suburban town of Gutfire Dump. She claimed that she had "entertained" the Mayor on many occasions but found him to be somewhat below par physically and had suggested to him that he should consider certain new medicines that would enhance his vigor and lead to a greater enjoyment of life's ultimate experience, but he had arrogantly refused this advice, which according to Molly's interviewer came from a woman with vast experience and unimpeachable credentials in the rapidly growing field of acute sexual dysfunction.

After this, there followed the obligatory sermon by Forrester Haggins who appeared live from the Channel Nine newsroom. "Ladies and Gentleman," he began in his stentorian drone, "I wish I could tell you that what you have just witnessed did not occur, but this is a nightmare that will not go away. Like every one of us in this proud and glorious city, I have been nauseated by the sexual depravity of our Mayor who attempted to seduce an innocent woman and would no doubt have gone on to use the power of his money to corrupt the news media. We can only be thankful that we are blessed to have in our employment a woman with the integrity and courage of our own Amanda Trane who fearlessly placed herself at great risk to expose a man who--"

Larry zapped the sound on the tube. "No sense in listening to that."

"No," said Jake mournfully, "when those bellowing windbags arrive on the scene, it's time to tune out. Have you heard about Branklin's escapades with the escort services?" he said, looking at me.

"Escort services? Branklin Fell?" I said in astonishment. To me, he didn't seem the type to go prowling around the dens of sexual iniquity.

"Our Mayor was a real stud, Jackson. They're saying that he spent almost four hundred grand on the prostitutes in Bleakfester Dump."

"Four hundred grand! That's impossible...he must be some kind of..."

"This what you're looking for?" said Larry as he held up a copy of the morning Sentinel. SEX FIEND blared the monster headline on page one, which also featured a large blown-up picture of Branklin with the wine dripping down his hapless, bespattered face.

"Anyways, Jackson," said Jake with a serious expression, "enough of these sex-starved politicians. You're still assuming that Darnell is innocent, right?"

"I think so--there are too many things that point in another direction."

"Like what?"

I noticed that Larry was listening intently as I described my conversation with Darnell the previous afternoon, and he was the one who broke the silence after I had finished. "He's in over his head, Jackson. What are his friends like?"

It was a good question although I found it embarrassing. "I don't have any idea, really. He hasn't brought anybody to the house in the last couple of years because he said we wouldn't approve of the people that he associated with."

"What about drugs?" asked Jake.

"A major pothead, that's for sure--and it changed him; he became withdrawn, antisocial, and sarcastic."

"That sounds just like you," said Jake with the typical humor of a jaded cop. "You haven't been stealing from your kid's stash, have you?"

"Let's say that maybe the weed accentuated his inherited tendencies."

"I think he probably knows the killer," said Larry. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know--I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."

"You," said Larry emphatically, "should get that kid off the streets before he does something or somebody does something to him."

"How am I going to do that, Larry?" I said.

"Have Davies do it as a precautionary measure but only for a couple of days. Tell him that you think he's innocent, but you're afraid he's going to panic and flee the state, which everyone will interpret as a sign of guilt. If you're lucky, he'll have drugs on him, and you can hold him on that. But whatever happens," he said looking at me earnestly, "you have to get the truth out of him--the whole truth and nothing but the truth because if he gets out of there without telling you that, the results will be really bad."

I didn't think there was much chance that this wild-west type of approach would be effective with Darnell who would undoubtedly go the sullen and uncooperative route. "But what for?" I said prevaricating. "Why should I have my own son arrested?"

"Not arrested, detained. Otherwise, he's out on the streets as an amateur vigilante, and the outcome of that won't be good, Jackson."

"I think Larry's right," said Jake. "No matter what his motive, he has no right to hide the truth--his mother and sister have just been murdered. If it were my kid, I would get the truth out of him--one way or another." Looking at Jake, I knew what that meant.

I remembered Miranda had said essentially the same thing, something about breaking him down. "Alright, I'll see what I can do," I said without much interest. Suddenly, something that Crystal had said occurred to me. "Have either of you ever heard of a drug dealer named Pavis Kran?"

If anybody knew about him, it would be Larry, but he appeared to be puzzled. "That might be his real name, and nowadays, all I'm familiar with are their street names. What does he look like? Why are you interested in him?"

"He's Crystal Shane's boyfriend, but other than that, I don't know anything about him." Looking at Jake, I said, "On the morning of Clayton's murder, when Sherry and I were about to leave the station, you said there was something that you wanted to tell me about Crystal. Remember?"

It took a moment before Jake realized what I was talking about and then he laughed. "You're not going to believe this one, Jackson--it's something that could only happen in Darwin City with Randall Prince at the helm. Sometime last fall, in October or November, Crystal started hanging out in her father's office--it was mostly at night and on the weekends when--"

Larry leaned forward in Jake's direction. "What was she doing down there?" he said with obvious interest.

"No idea. Clayton said that she was thinking of becoming a private eye and that he had let her read through some of his files--the cases that had been closed, he assured me."

"Come on, Jake--you're kidding me," said Larry. I was also shocked by this strange piece of information.

"That's right," said Jake, laughing sarcastically, "and Clayton's attitude seemed to be that this was something every cop did with his daughter. 'After all,' he told me, 'she's only aspiring to something better than working at the Emporium for the rest of her life.'"

"I wouldn't doubt that she was aspiring, but I doubt that it was to anything better," said Larry, whose expression was troubled. "How old is this Crystal Shane?"

"I don't know--what do you think, Jackson?" said Jake.

"According to her driver's license, she just turned twenty-three."

"Attractive?" asked Larry.

"More sexy than attractive," I said. "My impression of her was that she could be clever and conniving, maybe even aggressive sexually."

"Work? Go to school?"

"She's an order processor at the Bomb Emporium," I said.

"And on the weekends, she's in Pop's office reading his files," Larry said cynically. "What kind of cases was he working on in those days? This was before he was appointed Drug Czar, right?"

"About three months before," said Jake. "As far as I know, he didn't do much of anything except supervise the undercover guys. I guess that's why he was appointed Drug Czar--along, of course, with the much more important fact that he carried Randall's bags around like a faithful drunken caddie."

"Well, his office is a gold mine for a person who's looking to buy or sell drugs, isn't it?" said Larry. "Sooner or later, all the files end up in there, and eventually they fall into the hands of his gold-digging daughter who is free to peruse them at her leisure."

"What a setup," I said. "Within a week, she would have known the name of every narc on the force. How could you lose?"

"And then," said Jake, "the drug stash gets looted. What a surprise! But why would she kill Clayton beforehand?"

"To protect herself," said Larry. "She may have been afraid that he would eventually connect her to the theft of the drugs. That's just speculation, of course, but there's no doubt that she should be considered a prime suspect."

Laughing, I said, "Have you been talking to Mervin, Larry? He's had her pegged from day one."

"Once in a while," said Larry, "even a fool hits the bull's eye, but I don't see any link between the drugs and the murders in your family, Jackson. And the rampage at Darwin King is just some punk with a chip on his shoulder who's ready to take on the world."

"I'd still like to find Pavis Kran," I said. "It's just a hunch, that's all."

"Sure," said Larry, "I can ask around, but I don't think I'll discover much unless I have another name or a fairly good description."

Jake looked at me. "You know what, Jackson? I think we should pay a visit to Clayton's place tonight and take a look around--there could be some interesting things in Crystal's bedroom. The lab guys still have the place closed off, don't they?"

"No, Sherry told me they finished with it early Sunday night, but it doesn't matter because we found out that during the first week of June, Crystal moved into a condominium on Franklin Court--it belongs to a girlfriend of hers who went to Europe for the summer."

"And the murder of Clayton was when?" asked Larry.

"The morning of the tenth," I said.

Larry said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. Crystal's change of residence could have been taken straight from Chapter One of the unwritten but well-known criminal's handbook, "The Twelve Most Effective Ways to Establish an Alibi."

"Let's meet there about ten," said Jake.

"OK," I said as I looked at my watch. "I have to split--I'm supposed to meet Davies in about fifteen minutes."

Larry looked straight into my eyes. "Remember what I said, Jackson: You have to get that kid off the streets, and you have to find out what he knows before it's too late."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: RETURNING TO HIROSHIMA

"You're a lucky man," said Bryan Davies.

"Is that so?" I said skeptically.

He paused as he realized the absurdity of what he had said.

There was only one lucky thing that I could bring to mind. "You must have found the tape of the phone call."

His face brightened. "Sure did. Are you in the mood for some black humor?"

"What other kind is there around here?"

"Early this morning, Randall called me into his office. Looking very stalwart and officious, he said, 'Cracked the case yet, detective?' I started to explain to him that it might be complicated, but he waved me off disdainfully and said, 'That's the trouble with the so-called experts--they get so wrapped up in the details of a case that they can't even begin to see reality. Last evening, I took the time to study the case report, and the conclusion seemed so obvious that I was astounded Jackson James hadn't been hauled down here for a very serious interrogation. However, since I'm only an amateur with no special expertise in this area, I discussed it with Mervin who not only corroborated my feelings but also felt there was a high probability that Mr. James would attempt to flee the vicinity because the evidence pointing to his guilt was so utterly conclusive.'

"By this time, I was attempting to interrupt the Chief before he made a complete fool of himself, but he was having none of it. 'How much do you need to have on this sorry-looking guy before you charge him?' he said. 'Everyone knows he and his wife loathed each other; he just happens to be in the house at the time of the murders; and then he pulls that ridiculous stunt of tossing his gun on the lawn, and naturally, it's not the murder weapon--even he isn't that stupid. I'll bet you a hundred dollars that he's found another woman--a hot one, no doubt--and simply came to the decision that the best thing to do would be to bump off his worthless aging wife. Not only that, there was the twenty-five grand in life insurance on her stupid head. What more do you want? Is he a drinking buddy of yours? Is there something about you two that I don't know?'

"I brought the tape recorder into the room, put it on his desk, and hit the play button. After it was done, he stared at me with that stupid ornery expression for which he is so justly famous and said, 'What does that prove? Maybe she was having a panic attack because the clicker for the TV had malfunctioned, and he took advantage of the call from her to rush home and put some bullets into her head.' It took some time and effort before I was able to show him the significance of the facts that the tape recording revealed, particularly the reference to the gun, but when I left his office, he was not a happy man."

Already, my mind was reeling from Randall's words: "I'll bet you a hundred dollars that he's found another woman." I even wondered if Bryan had somehow discovered my sexual liaison with Miranda, but that couldn't be, could it? It was very strange to me that he had mentioned it, and I wondered if someone had followed us to Miranda's, someone with binoculars who had observed us through the window. Even if that fear was something out of a Barker Drule novel, I felt as if I were crashing through the floor and into a stone dungeon from which there would be no escape. Regardless of the taped call and regardless of my innocence, how was this going to look if it ever came to the light of day: Less than a dozen hours after my wife's murder, I'd fallen--some would say jumped--into the bed of another woman and not just any woman but a black woman that I had been closely associated with for three years. What I had done was so stupid that I felt like banging my head repeatedly against the wall. And yet, it had been so innocent in its own way; in fact, I felt that my intense sorrow at Gloria's death had made me vulnerable to that kind of experience. Miranda and I had done nothing wrong, far from it, but there wouldn't be many people who would agree with that, and the blame wouldn't stop with me but would spread with the speed of light to her. I could hear many voices, the voices of ignorance saying, "Couldn't they have at least waited until after the funeral?" It might even be viewed as too coincidental, and now, standing there in Bryan's office, I became really paranoid. A case could probably be made that I had hired a hit man and part of the plan was that just before he murdered Gloria, he would have her call me--something that would establish my innocence.

"Of course," said Bryan, "the tape doesn't absolutely prove your innocence."

I sat down in a chair and stared at him in a state of terrified silence. Operating as my own counsel, I advised myself not to say anything--it was obvious that Bryan might already be fishing around for something to use against me.

"About an hour ago, Randall called me back into his office for a conference with Mervin who had hit upon the brilliant idea that you must have had an accomplice, and the whole scenario was a crafty plot to establish an alibi."

If those two idiots ever found out about Miranda...

"Fortunately, I had thought that through already," continued Bryan, "or I probably would have lost my temper at yet another extravagant, over-the-top display of the outright stupidity that exists within this department. Of course, it's all based on cronyism--Mervin could be standing next to his dead wife with a smoking pistol in his hand, and Randall would be the first to proclaim his innocence. And then, even if Mervin confessed, Randall would still refuse to admit his guilt. They obviously despise you, Jackson, so they're working overtime to prove your guilt, and I'm certainly not going to win the Detective of the Year award for 'taking your side,' as they put it.

"I told them that in my experience, premeditated murders rarely proceeded according to plan, and although it might make for a good plot in a movie, in real life I thought it was very unlikely, if not absolutely improbable, that Gloria had been forced at gunpoint to make that call because I can't imagine that is what she would have said under those conditions."

Good point, I thought.

"Randall and Mervin needed a lot more than that, of course, before they would even begin to consider the possibility of your innocence. Are you aware, Jackson, that Darnell's room had been ransacked?"

"No, not at all," I said, surprised. "I never went up to the second floor."

"That's what I thought. Perhaps ransacked is too strong a word, but apparently someone besides Darnell had been in his room and was searching for something."

He handed me four photographs of Darnell's room. Some of the dresser drawers had been emptied and their contents strewn about the floor, while the bed had been moved away from the wall and was angled awkwardly into the middle of the room.

"There's something odd about that," I said slowly. "Do you suppose that occurred before or after the murders?"

Bryan stared at me. "What do you think? Was there enough time? How long would you estimate that it took you to get there?"

"Three minutes, four at the most--and the killer would have known that I was coming."

"So you think this occurred before the murders?"

"I guess so, but that doesn't seem possible--not with Gloria and Cassandra in the house. Perhaps if they'd been murdered upstairs, I could understand it."

"We'll talk about that later, but first, I'll finish with my adventure in the overseer's office. I explained to them that I thought the state of Darnell's room was incompatible with your involvement in the crime, but by this time, Mervin's obsession with your guilt had left him hopelessly confused--so much so that he had completely forgotten about the accomplice and even the phone call and seemed, almost incomprehensibly, to presume that after you arrived home and shot them, you had tried to frame Darnell by rummaging through his room in search of the address book. I told them, however, that Darnell had stated to me he kept the address book in plain view on a table next to his bed, and therefore the disorder in the room stands in clear contradiction to the possibility that Darnell was framed because it implies that he too was a victim, perhaps even the intended victim, since none of the other rooms in the house had been disturbed."

I had never thought of that, and I was struck by the fact that this could help to explain what he had said to me just after the murders.

"Nevertheless, Randall valiantly stuck to his guns and put forth the rather lame hypothesis that your accomplice, who had now reappeared, had struggled with Darnell in his bedroom, and--"

At this, I burst out laughing. I suppose I should have been furious, but these idiotic theories of Randall and Mervin were becoming quite comical to me--even if they were malicious and even if they were directed at me.

"Yes, Jackson," said Bryan with an ironic smile, "apparently the two of them fought in the hallway before they tumbled down the stairs, and after the terrified Darnell ran screaming out of the house, the intruder still had enough presence of mind to compel Gloria to make the phone call. It was at this point that I asked Randall whether it made any sense for you to dash out of the station and race back to your house. Because, at least to me, it seemed certain that a guilty man would have gladly followed the proper police procedures and called the dispatcher so that he would not be the first one to arrive at the murder scene.

"Randall was impressed by this argument but managed to persuade himself that you had panicked. 'Exactly!' shouted Mervin. 'He realized that something had gone wrong and went back to correct it. That's a very common error of criminals. Hamilton Head even wrote a monograph on that subject entitled "Returning to Hiroshima," and although it was suppressed for reasons of national security, I was able to read it before it became Top Secret and disappeared.'

"I could see that they assumed I was running low on ammunition, but that was far from the case. I had also discovered that at the time of the phone call, which was twelve forty-four, you were supposed to be at a meeting with Randall that had only been postponed around noon. Thus, it was only by luck that you happened to be at your desk, and the idea that an accomplice would be instructed to have Gloria call you and leave a message, one which you would conveniently find in a few hours, stretches my imagination well beyond the breaking point.

"And then, this morning, Sherry talked to me and felt it might be worthwhile to compare the ballistic tests from Clayton's murder with the ones from your house. We knew, of course, that it was the same caliber weapon, but I thought it highly unlikely that the two crimes were linked." Glancing at a document in front of him, Bryan said the lab had concluded with "over 99% certainty" that the bullets had been fired from the same gun.

The same person, I said to myself, stunned. How were Gloria and/or Cassandra connected to Clayton? Or was this person after Darnell? Or me?

"Although Mervin was not ready to concede his case against you, the combination of these last two facts was apparently more than Randall could bear. 'Fine, have it your way, Davies. I still think he wanted to kill his wife, but I suppose it's possible that somebody beat him to the punch. Very fortuitous, wouldn't you say?' After a pause, however, Mervin said, 'Wasn't James one of the first to arrive at the scene of Clayton's murder? Who's to say that he didn't pick the murder weapon up there and stuff it into his pocket? I know when I called up the evidence room this morning, they said that they hadn't received the gun. So where did it go? Aha! Wouldn't that be clever! I remember reading a story in the National Shocker about a priest who found a gun that had been tossed into a wheelbarrow by a serial murderer and used it to shoot an altar boy who was threatening to blow the lid off their unsavory sexual exploits.'

"I had, by this time, run out of patience with his nonsense and interrupted him with the unpleasant news that the first cops on the scene had found no gun and that you had not arrived until over two hours later. 'What are you talking about?' Mervin said with his voice rising. 'The gun was found next to the alarm clock--I remember that distinctly because I was, and am, very interested in that alarm clock. There's no doubt in my mind that someone tampered with it, and wouldn't it be something if that someone was James?'

"Can you believe this, Jackson?"

I certainly could. "Then what happened?"

"Mervin pulled the crime-scene report out of Randall's desk and began scanning it. 'Here it is,' he said. 'Wait a second--this is all wrong; someone has altered the report. The sentence about the gun has been deleted.' He continued reading, and it's only conjecture, but I assume it was when he read that the gun had not been found at the scene that he suddenly jumped up, ripped the report to shreds, hurled it in my general direction, and stormed out of the room.

"Randall was glaring at me. 'How many times do I have to tell you sorry excuses for detectives that Mervin is under a great deal of stress and that I resent'--here he slammed his hand down onto the desk emphatically--'I utterly resent your attempts to humiliate him in my presence. You're not half the man he is, and unlike yourself, he doesn't indulge in half-baked theories but is a stickler for the rigorous and scientific application of facts. Facts! I wonder if you have any concept of what that word means. Now, before I lose my temper, get out of here and don't come back until you're in possession of solid information that can be substantiated and won't fall apart into a million pieces when Mervin and I subject it to a proper and unbiased examination.'"

Bryan looked at me and smiled. "They're the best friends that you can possibly have, Jackson. You follow my meaning?"

I was beginning to enjoy Bryan's company. "Sure do," I said. "If they were saying I was innocent, everyone would be going 'My God, Jackson must have murdered his wife.' At least I don't have anything to worry about on that score--in a couple of hours, they'll have me crawling down the chimney with a machine gun. And if you're stupid enough to bring up the phone call, they'll figure out that I had a person who could impersonate my voice and was sitting at my desk just waiting for that once-in-a-lifetime call."

"I wish I had thought of that. Probably, if I run that one by the Chief, he'll congratulate me for finally demonstrating that I have an open mind."

We both sat there for a moment savoring the camaraderie of the oppressed. Then something came back to me, something that had stuck in my mind.

"Bryan, I've forgotten--where were the bullet wounds on Clayton?"

"That's what Sherry was talking about this morning--if I remember right, she said that he had been shot six times, all to the midsection."

"No shots to the head, no injuries to the head?"

"No," he said quizzically. "Why? What's the significance?"

I would have talked to him longer, but it was difficult, if not impossible, for me to forget about Miranda and the implications that could be drawn from our previous evening's "entertainment." I needed to talk to her before I said _anything_ else. "I have some ideas about this, Bryan, but first I'd like to listen to the tape of the phone call, if you don't mind."

"Sure, it's down in the lab. You can play it at any speed that you like, and we've also got two versions--the original and a cleaned-up version, which eliminates most of the background noise."

I left Bryan's office and walked casually, almost surreptitiously, by Miranda's desk, but she wasn't there. Leaving the building, I went over to Deadwood Park and called her on my cell.

"This is Sherry Green," I heard her say.

"Miranda, there's something that I need to talk to you about. Where are you?"

"I'm up here at Darwin King. What's the matter, Jackson?"

"Can you get to someplace where you can talk without being overheard?"

There was a short pause. "OK, give me a couple of minutes."

I went over and sat on a bench. I wondered if any of the potential ramifications of our actions had occurred to her, and I was reminded of our conversation earlier in the morning because, from that point of view, it was more of the same--the never ending worry about the opinions and superficial attitudes of others. What would people think? What would they say? In addition to the prejudices of race, how were we going to relate to the prejudices that surrounded death and especially the grieving process?

The phone rang, but it wasn't Miranda. "OK, Jackson, I've found out who Pavis Kran is," said Larry, "but I don't think you'll be able to interrogate him anytime soon."

"Murdered?" I said.

"No, it's a bit worse than that. Pavis Kran is an East Side joke--it was only a couple of weeks ago that some cop stumbled onto the fact he was an invention."

"An invention?" I said.

"Originally, Pavis Kran started out as a piece of graffiti and is simply an acronym: Place All Vengeance Into Snitches--Kops R Always Nasty. But over time, he became real and took on a life of his own--so much so that when an Eastsider was busted, they told the cops the drugs came from Pavis. As one might expect, he was very elusive, and for a while, the undercover boys were running around in circles trying to catch the biggest dealer in the history of Darwin City. It wasn't until someone finally squealed that they were able to report to Randall that they had solved the mystery and taken the wily Pavis off the streets."

"That's interesting, Larry--I wonder how Crystal knew about that kind of lingo?"

"Are you forgetting her criminal literature course, the one that she took in her Dad's office?"

My mind lost track of the conversation, which ended shortly afterwards. As I sat there considering what I now knew about Crystal Shane, I realized there could no longer be any doubt that she was rapidly becoming a "person of interest." Had she been the person who murdered my wife and daughter? Without doubt, it was premature to think that way, but if she had, how was I going to respond to that?

## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: "GET OUT OF HERE, EVIL WRONG."

This time, when the phone rang, it was Miranda.

"Alright, Jackson," she said with a soft chuckle, "I'm in a secluded area now."

"Miranda, listen--Bryan Davies told me that Randall and Mervin are convinced I shot Gloria."

"What? What are you talking about? That's impossible--there's a tape of you talking to Gloria just before the murder was committed; I listened to it this morning."

"Their theory, believe it or not, was that I hired a hit man who forced Gloria to call me."

"For the love of God," she said, "those two men have gone out of their senses. I wouldn't waste my time worrying about them. Bryan isn't a fool--he told me this morning that he thinks Darnell might have actually been the target."

"I know about that. Bryan showed me the photos of Darnell's room."

"Yes, I saw them too. You know what I think?"

"What?" I said nervously.

"I didn't say anything to Bryan about it, but I think the most likely explanation is that the murderer was looking for drugs."

"Why do you think that?"

"What else could it be? I'm not talking about an ounce of grass, Jackson--I'm talking about a large amount. If you look at the way the bed was pulled away from the wall, it's obvious that somebody was hoping they'd find something under there. As far as I could see, they didn't even look under the mattress. You understand what I'm talking about?"

"That they weren't looking for money."

"Right. And if that's not it, what's left for a murderer to look for in the room of a sixteen-year-old kid?"

Indeed. The clock was ticking but towards what I had no idea. Time, or actually the lack of it, began to seem important, and my concerns about the public perception and official interpretation of our amorous behavior had, at least for the moment, faded away. Sighing, I said, "Did you hear anything unusual when you listened to the tape of the call?"

"It was very chilling, but nothing stood out."

"Alright, I need to listen to it before I talk to Bryan again. Are you coming back here anytime soon?"

"I'll probably be there about four."

I looked at my watch--it was five past one. "OK, I'll meet you here."

"Take care, Jackson, that tape is heartbreaking."

As I was walking back towards the station, Maureen called--she and Melvin had arrived in town and established themselves at the Hotel Adams. Before leaving for Darwin City, she had placed calls to her geographically extended family, and I was the unhappy recipient of a tedious, judgmental monologue concerning these conversations. Although I paid very little attention to anything that she was saying, I gathered that her brother, Johnson, was a down-and-out, drug-addicted bartender in Australia who wouldn't, "thank goodness," be able to attend the funeral. On the other hand, her two sisters, the "filthy rich" Loretta and the "utterly depraved" Sara, would be arriving between three-thirty and four from the "far edge" of the west coast on a chartered jet that belonged to Loretta's husband, Malcolm.

Finally, by the time I was inside the building and had reached the lab, I was able to interrupt Maureen; thanking her for her efforts, I half-heartedly said that I would see her the following morning and adroitly hung up.

In real time, the tape was a ghastly reminder, and I couldn't help thinking that I was listening to the last words that two people would ever utter on this earth. However, I found that listening to it at half speed diminished my sensation of horror, and as my emotions faded away, I was able to concentrate intently.

In the background, I could hear Cassandra say, "Who do you think you are? Get out of here."

This was a very unpleasant surprise. I had thought that Cassandra said, "Who are you?" and I was hoping that she had meant it literally as a way of saying that she had never seen the person before. In my memory, I had heard her voice saying these three words many times, and eventually, I had become anxious as to whether she might have been speaking figuratively, sarcastically, and had really meant "who do you think you are?" Amazed, I sat there and realized my subconscious must have heard the actual words, which the hopes of my conscious mind had blotted out, because "who do you think you are?" was exactly the kind of thing Cassandra might have said to Darnell. I also thought that her second sentence, "Get out of here," fell into the same category.

Still, despite a feeling of dread, there was something that bothered me, something that didn't seem compatible with Darnell's guilt. Again and again, I replayed the tape as I became lost in a world of hidden nuances and intonations. At length, discouraged, I shut the tape off and stared blankly at the control panel in front of me. There was nothing that I had heard that was conclusive as to whether Darnell had or had not been the shooter. Suddenly, however, something obvious occurred to me, and I laughed grimly because I realized it exactly coincided with Mervin's favorite maxim about searching for what wasn't there. Not once had either Gloria or Cassandra used Darnell's name, and I thought that this was particularly unusual with Gloria's final words, " _NO_! _DON_ "T! _I_ _BEG_ _YOU_ \-- _PUT_ _DOWN_ _THE_ _GUN_!" It was her invariable habit that when she was upset with either of the kids, she would call them emphatically by name. She would almost to a virtual certainly have said, " _DARNELL_ , _NO_!" or " _DARNELL_ , _DON_ "T!" or failing that, most definitely, " _I_ _BEG_ _YOU_ , _DARNELL-_ - _PUT_ _DOWN_ _THE_ _GUN_!" And in line with that, I also felt that had she been familiar with the one who was holding the gun, she would have uttered that person's name.

After that pleasant revelation, I replayed the tape and returned to Cassandra's words because I still felt that there was something personal in the way that she had spoken to the intruder, and I began to wonder if she had known or recognized the person. Unless we had fallen deep into the nether realms of the twilight zone, it couldn't possibly have been one of her friends, but could it have been someone that she had seen with Darnell--someone that Gloria had never met? Or was it that Cassandra was simply reacting to the situation in a more emotional way, as an insult, while Gloria was perceiving it as a physical threat? But what was that??

I had thought her second sentence, "Get out of here," had ended after the word here, but I now realized that she had said something else, which had been obscured when I said to Gloria, "What's happening?" It was very difficult to make out the words since Cassandra had been somewhere between five and ten feet from the phone--based on the relative strength and distinctness of her voice in comparison to Gloria's. Slowing the tape down was useless as my voice, which sounded like an electronic growl, overwhelmed everything else, but by playing it repeatedly at regular speed with the treble maxed out and the bass eliminated, I was able to hazard a guess, even though it was seemingly nonsensical: "Who _are_ you? Get out of here, evil wrong." I tried to twist the last two words into evil witch or evil woman, which would unquestionably have been significant, but I began to realize that I had become swept up in my own prejudices and was rushing to pin the murder rap on Crystal. First of all, Cassandra would have said, "Get out of here, you evil witch," and there was clearly no you or any other word before evil, and furthermore, the second word had a very definite r sound within it. Crystal had many things to explain, but that didn't necessarily make her guilty.

(It would be much too late before I discovered how close I had come to discovering what Cassandra's final words had been, and there is no doubt in my mind that my failure to decipher those two words, "evil wrong," literally meant the difference between life and death because I am beyond certain that they would have led us almost immediately to the murderer. It is amazing to me how an extremely tragic event can occur as a result of a small and seemingly irrelevant detail.)

"What do you really think about Darnell?" I asked Bryan a few minutes later. Still slightly ambivalent myself, I was interested in his opinion. He paused before responding--it was obvious that he was hesitant to say what he really felt.

"I questioned him for three hours last night, Jackson, and I came away with a strong impression that he knows something about the murders. To be honest, I am not sure that I believe he is innocent. I keep asking myself if he is devious enough or clever enough to ransack his room to throw us off the scent. _And,"_ he said with very strong emphasis, "that would account for the mystery of when his room was torn apart--he would have had all morning to do that at his leisure."

The first thing I brought up was my linguistic analysis of the phone call and the improbability of his name not being mentioned by Gloria, but I was not surprised when he said he found that to be unconvincing. "I think," he said sympathetically, "that when a person is in a state of extreme panic, they may, in fact probably will, alter their normal speech patterns."

He had, however, quite a different reaction to my conversation with Darnell and the question that he had asked: "They were both shot in the head, weren't they?"

"That's strange," he said as he tapped a pencil slowly and reflectively on his desk.

"I don't think a guilty person would ever ask a question like that," I said.

"I don't think it's likely either, although it certainly shows some kind of knowledge. What is the significance of shooting to the head? Any idea?"

I remembered what Darnell had told me about the Nazis, but it seemed too absurd to bring that up now, too much like the desperate father pathetically attempting to shift the blame to a cult of killers. "None."

"No recent cases?"

"No, that's why I asked you if Clayton had been shot in the head."

Bryan picked up the phone and tapped out a number. "Bailey, this is Bryan. I've got a hypothetical for you," he said as he winked at me. "Suppose you had a murder victim who had been shot in the head, and when you went to question the likely suspect, before you could say a word, he asked you if the person had been shot in the head."

"No doubt," said Bryan laughing. Looking at me, he said, "Bailey says that he would read him his Miranda rights without a moment's delay." Returning to Bailey, he said, "I mean is there anything about being shot in the head that is significant to you? Is there some gang that does that, some drug dealer on the East Side who's knocking people off that way?

"That's it?...What's that?...No, Bailey, I don't think we'll be able to give you any of the reward money based on that information, but thanks for your time."

"What did he say?" I asked Bryan, who had a bemused smile on his face.

"Nothing that will help us--the only thing he could come up with was that the Nazis were famous for shooting people in the head."

"Bryan..." Too many thoughts were racing through my mind, and I stood up and walked over to the window. Somehow, Bailey's words seemed like a significant coincidence or corroboration, and Darnell's backyard rant about the Nazis had taken on, for me, a new and much more ominous meaning.

"What is it, Jackson?"

"The murders of Clayton and the Kaiser both have a Nazi connection. Crystal Shane said that her father's killer was wearing a shirt that had a swastika on it, and there were swastikas painted on virtually every wall at Darwin King. Besides that--and this is something I didn't tell you because it seemed so irrelevant--Darnell told me the same thing yesterday afternoon."

"What same thing?"

"That Nazis were known for shooting people in the head."

Before he could reply, Miranda entered the room and told us that the ballistic test on the bullets that had killed Kaiser Hess indicated they had been fired from the same gun that had killed Clayton, Cassandra, and Gloria.

Unexpectedly, Bryan laughed. "It looks like you had a busy weekend, Jackson." He turned towards Miranda who was glaring at him. "It's a joke, Sherry--Randall and Mervin are trying to railroad your partner."

"I heard about that, Bryan, and I don't think it's at all funny. I really don't. Murder is serious--the most serious thing on this earth."

"Sure," he said equably. After a reflective pause, he continued, "Look, I think we need to move faster on this before someone else is murdered. I'm going to bring Darnell back in here tonight, and I'd like Sherry to do the interrogation--I think we need to try a new approach with him. We'll do it in the room with the one-way mirror so that Jackson and I can watch. He knows something, or at least thinks that he knows something, and we have to find out what it is."

"And after that," I said, "Crystal Shane is next. I'm sure both of you will be interested to hear what I found out about her today. Last fall, she came into the station and made herself at home in her father's office where she amused herself by reading his case files."

Bryan appeared somewhat puzzled by this information--probably, he was wondering as to its relevance. Looking at him, I said, "I don't know of any relationship between Crystal Shane, my family, or Kaiser Hess, but there is absolutely no doubt that she is a suspect in Clayton's murder."

"She has an excellent alibi," said Miranda warily.

"Maybe so, but I am not at all satisfied with her story. Remember Pavis Kran?"

"That was her drug-dealing boyfriend, I believe."

When I told the two of them what the name stood for, Miranda abruptly changed course. "You're right, Jackson; there's too much about Ms. Shane that doesn't meet the eye."

"And then, who could be a better suspect than Crystal in the drug theft?" I said.

"How does that relate to the murders of Gloria and Cassandra?" asked Bryan.

"All these things are intertwined," said Miranda decisively. "Like Jackson, I have no idea what the connection is, but we do know two things for sure: First, the same gun was used in all these crimes, and secondly, Clayton's keys, including the ones to the drug safe, were never found."

"They weren't?" said Bryan.

"No," said Miranda," and in my opinion, it was the murderer who took them--it may even have been the motive for the murder and..." She stopped suddenly, and a look--was it fear?--passed across her face.

No one said anything for a few moments until Miranda, looking directly at me, said, "What I would like to know about Crystal is this: What was she trying to cover up when she used the name Pavis Kran? I don't think it was a drug dealer--I think, in a sense, that she was telling us the truth, and Pavis was used to disguise the name of her boyfriend. If she is involved in these murders, then that boyfriend could be the key to the solution of these crimes. Does that make sense to you?" she said as she continued to look at me with a penetrating expression that I found troubling and oddly out of place in relation to the words that she was saying. In fact, my instinctive reaction, which remained, of course, unspoken, was to say, "No matter what any of you think, I was not Crystal Shane's boyfriend."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE QUEEN OF THE SENSES

The questioning of Darnell was tentatively scheduled for seven o'clock; Miranda wanted to go and examine the crime scene at my house, especially Darnell's bedroom, and I would have gone with her except that I had received a call from Maureen who was embroiled in an idiotic dispute with one of her sisters over the timing of the funeral. Since, according to her, I had experience as a "conflict mediator," she had earnestly pleaded with me to intercede, and reluctantly, against my better judgment, I assented to her request.

The weather had turned cloudy and somewhat cooler, and there was an occasional light drizzle as I navigated unenthusiastically through the crowded back roads that led to Lake Bracken. Around five o'clock, I arrived at my destination, the ritzy, overpriced Hotel Adams, which lay on the crest of a steep hill that overlooked the lake. I was not allowed to park my car but had to undergo the affected mannerisms of the rich and hand my keys over to an official-looking character who was dressed in a preposterous uniform of hideous purple pants, a clashing green and yellow shirt, and an overly large black hat that sported a frayed white feather, which tilted back awkwardly from the band. To complete this bizarre ensemble, the poor fellow, who must have felt like a fool, was required to wear a gaudy but undersized blue windbreaker that had the word STAFF emblazoned in orange on the back, a wide floppy grey tie with numerous yellow butterflies, and _bright_ white shoes. Looking at this gent who had identified himself as Mr. Charles Higgins, I thought I detected a certain smirky and sinister seediness, and it was not hard for me to imagine that at the end of his onerous tour of duty, Sir Charles went into a phone booth, removed the Superman outfit, suited up in his grungy oil-stained jeans and tee shirt with the cut-off sleeves, hopped into his rambling wreck of a vehicle, and roared flamboyantly down Dogwire Drive until he reached the first bar that catered to his swillish tastes.

Maureen and the rest of the entourage were ensconced in a suite that was located on the top floor, the ninth. "My dear Jackson, it is so good to see you--especially at a time like this," she said incongruously as she gave me a most unpleasant kiss on the cheek. Her perfume, which was undoubtedly fabulously expensive, gave off an odor--stench is a better word--similar to a swimming pool that has been over-chlorinated and is badly in need of a water change. Sitting at a table in the far corner of the room was her husband, the bespectacled and erudite Melvin; absorbed with the financial section of the newspaper, he was not aware that I had entered until he reached for his calculator and caught me out of the corner of his eye. "Yes sir," he said standing up and approaching me to shake my hand, "this is a terrible misfortune, and I am sure that we all feel the immensity of your loss as well as the burden that comes--"

At this moment, a side door of the suite opened, and Loretta burst in with a considerable flutter. Dressed in a bathrobe and with her hair in curlers, she was apparently not aware of my presence. "I'm telling you, Maureen, the funeral must take place by tomorrow afternoon--and that's at the very latest. Malcolm has to be in the office by seven the next morning--without fail."

"Seven?" said Maureen.

"That's right, that's what I said," she said raising her voice. "Seven! Not five past seven--seven, seven at the latest. He has an extremely important meeting scheduled. As I understand it, they're rigging up a contract to switch the remainder of the redeemable assets overseas."

"Loretta, what are you talking about?" said her husband in a loud voice from the next room.

"Actually," said Loretta as she patted the curlers on her head nervously, "I really don't understand all of Malcolm's business dealings, but from what I can gather, his company seems to have collided with an iceberg."

Malcolm appeared dressed in black trousers, a starched white shirt, and a muted red tie that was held in place by a gold clasp. "She makes it sound as if Trafalgar Enterprises is a money-laundering machine for a bunch of foreigners."

"You always told me," Loretta said, sounding defensive and confused at the same time, "that your job was to shuffle accounts around between offshore banks, and I naturally assumed that was a euphemism for money laundering."

Everyone except Malcolm laughed--even Melvin, although it was a bit of a stretch to call the strange sound that came from him a laugh.

"What we do," said Malcolm ponderously, "is buy, sell, trade, and float convertible bonds. It's true that we've had a run of bad luck lately and are under investigation for multiple counts of security fraud, but," he said as he looked severely at his wife, "that has nothing to do with money laundering, which is a serious crime. You should be careful of the words that you use, Loretta, especially when we are in a public place and among people who we are not familiar with that may not have our best interests at heart."

"Yes, dear," was the obsequious reply from his chastened wife.

"However," said Malcolm, "on Thursday, I do have an important early morning meeting with the CEO, our corporate lawyers, and the prosecutors that cannot possibly be postponed."

"But--" said Maureen who was clearly dismayed.

"For the love of Saint Peter, what difference does it make when the funeral is?" said Loretta. "She's dead, isn't she? What are we supposed to do--sit around for days while we mumble out our pathetic prayers and drown ourselves in rancid holy water?"

"No," said Maureen, "but I was hoping that even if Malcolm had to leave, you could stay behind and help me lower our dear sister's remains into the ground of her final resting place. There are plenty of things that you could do here--Bleakfester Dump has some of the finest stores in the country. I saw an advertisement for a mink coat at Taft's Fur Gallery that was on sale for six thousand."

"Really?" said Loretta with sudden interest.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I don't think that is something--"

Maureen quickly interrupted her brother-in-law as she realized the direction in which he was heading. "Malcolm, if you would have the courtesy to listen to me, you would understand that the point I'm trying to make is that it just isn't proper to have a funeral two days after--"

"Why do we have to do what everybody else does?" said the final member of the family, Sara, who had entered from the opposite side of the room, stage right. The youngest of the sisters, single, blond, and quite attractive, she was wearing a tight low-cut red blouse and a short black skirt. She was an actress, but despite the fact that she had been the leading lady in many a film, it was a subject that all avoided due to the extremely uninhibited nature of the women that she portrayed. "To tell you the truth," said Sara, "I only came here because it will give me an opportunity for a photo shoot with Harvis Moore. I never cared for Gloria anyway, and--"

"Sara!" said Maureen futilely.

"I always thought of her as a cranky old horse because all she ever did was nag me, and the funny thing was that, in profile, she bore a remarkable resemblance to--"

"SARA!" boomed out Maureen.

"WHAT?" yelled Sara. "I'm not hard of hearing, Maureen."

Finally, in lieu of an introduction, Maureen turned slightly and began to look in my direction. Slowly, I felt the eyes of those present settling upon me.

"Who are you?" said Sara in a spunky, playful manner. It had been almost fifteen years since I had seen her and that had only been briefly and from a distance. Gloria had refused to introduce me to her because she was in the process of excommunicating Sara from our presence after the release of her first film, _The_ _Intimate_ _Confessions_ _of_ _a_ _Prom_ _Queen_ , which had been filmed when Sara was a very nubile seventeen.

"I'm--"

"That's Jackson--he's Gloria's husband, no ex-husband," said Maureen helpfully.

Appearing startled but without the least embarrassment, Sara came over to me and unabashedly gave me a warm hug, which felt far superior to the cold, antiseptic, and smelly kiss that Maureen had planted on me. "Well, what have we got here?" said Sara as she gripped my arms with her hands while moving slightly backwards. After appraising me frankly, she said, "You appear to be holding up rather well for a person in your situation." She was a striking woman with warm hazel eyes, a sultry smile, and wavy, luxuriant hair that fell past her shoulders. "I am truly sorry for saying those things about Gloria, but you have to understand that I wasn't aware that you were in the room, and she was extremely mean to me. I should forgive her, but when I was younger, she was a religious fruitcake who was always lecturing to me about the high road that led to Paradise. I can't tolerate people like that! She should have married Moses, and then everyone could have trotted off into the Promised Land with the trumpets blaring."

"Sara!" said Maureen imperiously.

"Do you think," said Loretta, "that we could talk about somebody else besides Gloria? I am so sick to death of the subject. Thanks be to God that it's a closed casket because enough is enough, and I think we will all be well-served if we save the bombastic orations for the funeral."

"Of course it's a closed casket," said Maureen; "she was shot in the face or the head, I'm not quite clear on that point--which was it, Jackson?"

Sara grabbed my arms again and shook me slightly. "Don't, don't say anything; I don't want to know." She took her hands from my arms and placed them over her face, and I could hear her say softly, "Oh, that is a horrible thing."

Seconds later, she placed her hand on my arm and said, "Would you like to go out to the kitchen, Jackson? I know it's getting late, but I'm in the mood for a cup of coffee." I was more than happy to get away from Maureen and Loretta, and I followed Sara out to a small kitchen where someone had made a pot of coffee. After we had filled our cups, Sara took a seat at a small table, while I stood across from her and casually leaned against a counter.

"Did Gloria ever talk about me?" she asked, without much emotion.

"No," I laughed, "not after--"

"I told her again and again not to watch that movie. Did you see it?" she asked, perhaps a bit nervously.

"No," I said laughing.

"If it makes any difference to you," she said with a subtle sense of merriment, "I've given up that kind of work and moved on to something else. That's not exactly true, however--it would be more accurate to say that I've been put out to pasture. Once you get past thirty, it's impossible to keep up with the younger bodies, and then your market value begins to plummet. Men don't buy those kind of movies to look at aging women--know what I mean?" she said, looking at me brightly. There was something quirky and gallant about her that I found appealing.

As for her question, I took the diplomatic approach and shrugged noncommittally. "Have you ever been married?" I said, changing the subject.

"Once, a long time ago. I don't think permanent relationships are worth pursuing because people usually get locked into their appointed roles, and it becomes monotonous to say the same trite lines night after endless night. Variety is the spice of life."

"But then," I said offhandedly, "what is the substance?"

"Sex, of course--that's what we're talking about, isn't it?"

As she stared at me openly but benignly with her vivid green eyes, I decided on another change of subject.

"So what are you doing now--now that you're not..."

"A prom queen anymore?" she said jovially. "I'm a regular on _Nation of Fools_ \--that's a soap opera. Can you believe it? I'm a schoolteacher named Victoria Queen, and I'm having an affair with...can you guess?"

"A student?"

"Oh, Jackson, what a mind you have," she said, shaking her finger at me in mock admonishment. "No, I'm playing mature roles now, thank goodness. I'm about halfway through the process of seducing the English teacher, Teddy Farber, who's about to have a child with his high-school sweetheart, Marissa. Being a soap, it's long and drawn out, but the basic plot is that he heroically tries to resist my advances by dousing himself in cold water every night, but finally, as is often the case in real life, he's unable to resist the charms of the evil seductress--me!" Sara smiled at me good-naturedly. "Of course, the end is inevitable: Teddy and I will become careless and be discovered in the act by Marissa who will be overwhelmed by jealousy and grief and have a miscarriage. That's the difference between what I used to do and the soaps--there it was funny, lustful, and bizarre, but in my new life, sexual transgressions must be punished, and unless I can develop a--what shall I call it?--relationship," she said winking at me, "with one of the directors or producers, I'll almost certainly be killed off."

"To atone for your sin."

"Just so--they're already beginning to receive a lot of hate mail about me, and the really nasty people are writing to the sponsors and threatening to boycott their products. The weirdest thing of all is that the actress who plays Marissa, Lora Knight, has become openly hostile to me in real life. She must be afraid that they're going to kill her off instead of me, but there's no chance of that because she's everybody's idea of the sweet girl who lives next door, while I'm the sophisticated prostitute from the big city. There was even an episode during my first week on the show where they used flashbacks to show scenes from my early career, which was supposedly in a brothel. Rather close to the truth, actually! One of the younger writers thinks I should experience a religious conversion with all of its sublime and sterile joys, but the other writers are in favor of me being murdered, and I think it's unlikely that I'll survive the season. A shame, isn't it? Meanwhile Teddy Farber will have to say his public act of contrition about forty times over until everyone gets bored with that theme, and then he'll be able to get on with his life and have another affair....Tell me," she said as she peered in an offbeat way into my eyes, "are you really a cop?"

"No," I said in an attempt to elude the stigma she seemed to attach to that word. "I've gone beyond that--nowadays, I'm a detective."

"Isn't that something? The true-blue version of going from a naked prom queen to an actress in the soaps! I suppose somebody has to keep the robbers under control, Jackson, but it's difficult for me to imagine anything much worse than working on that side of the line. How do you have any fun in life?"

It was a good question and one that I couldn't really answer. If it weren't for Miranda, what would I have to look forward to? As I gazed at Sara, I realized that I had lost, at least temporarily, the ability to enjoy life.

"What does a cop do," she said, "if a person like me pulls out a joint? Leave the room? Arrest them?"

Misunderstanding the question as something abstract, I said, "It would depend on where we were."

"Now what difference would it make where we were?"

"Well, for instance, if we were in the police station, I'd have to arrest you."

She laughed--a sensual but pleasant laugh. "You're evading the question, Jackson. What if I were to...you know, where I come from, everyone smokes ganja." She reached into a pocket in her blouse and removed a small thin object that she placed in the palm of her hand. "Voila! Do you happen to have a light for the beautiful lady, monsieur?"

By now, she was twirling it between her thumb and forefinger. "Well?" she said, staring at me with an innocent impish twinkle in her eyes. She was pointing to the counter where there was a pack of matches, and I reached over, picked them up, and would have handed them to her, but the joint was between her lips, and she had extended herself forward, so I struck the match and put it to the tip of her illegal cigarette. "Go ahead," she said, inhaling the smoke and waving her hand towards a chair that was near her, "have a seat and be sociable, Mr. Policeman." After I sat down, she offered me the joint, which I took from her.

I gazed at it doubtfully as an unpleasant memory entered my consciousness. Looking at her, I said, "Actually, Sara, I stopped smoking a few years ago because it made me so paranoid."

"Paranoid? You--a cop? Isn't that strange? What were you so paranoid about?"

"I felt like either my heart was going to seize up and stop, or sometimes, it seemed that I was about to black out, and if I did, I wouldn't be coming back."

She laughed. "Just take a little hit then, a teensy-weensy one...that's it...no... stop!" She put her hand on my arm as a caution and took the joint back from me.

"I would think," she said reflectively, "that a cop smoking dope would be like a priest having sex with a woman--a surefire way to end up in hell."

"You don't understand cops, Sara."

"Don't call me by that name, please. It reminds me of my family, and besides, it's not even my legal name anymore. When I went into the movies, I had to find something that was sexier than Sara Monroe, and so I changed my name to Tara Lake. And really, don't you think that fits me better?"

There was something quite different about Tara--a kind of aura, maybe sheen is a better word, of flippant, evasive, and fleeting eroticism. Quite beautiful and seemingly provocative, I felt very little attraction for her even though there was a strong sense of sexuality in her manner, her gestures, her tone of voice, her intimations. And while her clothes, which were so revealing, only served to accentuate this, there was about her a barrier, a kind of light or a force field that had a remarkable ability to distract my sexual impulses into another dimension so that in our conversation, what I was attracted to was her strange otherworldly charm that I felt had been consciously developed by a clever, original, and very experienced woman.

"Do you believe in God, Jackson?" she said with a soft but distinct tone of voice.

Exactly, I thought--she was constantly shifting the arena of contact between us. "Not really, I think it's something that humans invented to--"

"No, no--not that." She lowered her head and peered into my eyes mischievously. "For heaven's sake, Jackson--of course there's no Big Papa God up there handing out gold stars to the good students and sending the brats to detention. Don't you ever feel a force--something like the wind, only it's warmer?"

Laughing slightly, I took the joint from her fingers and allowed myself another small hit.

"I've been experimenting with my senses lately," she said. Although Tara acted as if that rather daffy statement somehow related to her discussion about God, it was hard for me not to laugh, and I remained silent while I wondered what she would say next.

"God can only be experienced through the senses," she said slowly, "but what happens is that we've been conditioned to shut our senses down, or maybe, at best, we let them out of the corral at sundown for a little trot around the ranch. Have you ever thought of what it would be like to unleash the senses and let them roam freely? Have you ever thought about how to make that happen?"

At this moment, Maureen, the Ironball Express, entered the room, and I took the joint, crunched the remainder of it into a small ball, and swallowed it--there was no doubt in my mind that this member of the family was a very straight arrow.

"Alright," she said decisively, "I've come to a decision; somebody has to and since I'm the oldest surviving member of the Monroe family, I think the duty rightly falls upon my shoulders--regardless of the fact that you were once her husband, Jackson. The funeral--but what is that smell? Have you two been cooking something out here? It smells like...wait, Sara, be quiet for once, will you, and let me think...I can't place it, but I don't like it. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was marijuana because I'm sure that's on your list of required indulgences," she said, looking at Sara bitterly. "Someday, when you finally grow up, you'll realize that there's more to life than living day to day and gratifying your over-stimulated senses. I still say that smells like marijuana, but I know that's impossible because Jackson's here, and he's a cop. I wouldn't try any funny stuff around him, Sara, because Gloria always told me that he doesn't care two bits about his family and would just as soon lock one of them up as look at them."

I gazed at Tara who was staring dreamily into space and had apparently become lost in the divine trance of her senses.

"At any rate," said Maureen firmly, "the funeral will be on Friday."

## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: RHINO QUISLER

I had neither the time nor the inclination to listen to any more of Maureen and departed the Hotel Adams about six-fifteen. Tara walked down the corridor with me to the elevator--barefoot and strolling leisurely along the carpet with her hands clasped behind her back and her head lowered, she reminded me of a beachcomber who has become lost in the tumultuous symphony of the waves. When we reached the elevator, she raised her head as if into the wind and said to me, "Do you smell something strange, Jackson?" We both laughed, and I stared at her fondly--a lovely woman who was a breath of fresh air in the fetid halls of the rich. Quaintly and formally, she held out her hand to me, and I found something unusually pleasurable in our ritualistic handshake. Looking at her, I sensed that she was passing into another phase of her life where she would move from hugs (and super hugs) to handshakes. And then gradually, over the next couple of decades, she would slowly change until one day, in her mid-fifties, there would arise a pleasant, wry, and entertaining woman who would inevitably develop an elegant veneer of propriety as an amusing way of avoiding her sexually exotic past. Rechristened as Sara Wells, I could see her somewhere, perhaps on a yacht and sipping wine on a sunny afternoon, as one of her friends complained about her rambunctious seventeen-year-old daughter. "You know, Sara, I think Ashley has gone off the deep end and is having sex with that disgusting jerk that she picked up at a bar about a month ago. If she doesn't watch out, she'll become pregnant, and her whole life will be ruined."

Sara, I suspected, would be apt to view Ashley rather indulgently and say, "Oh, I don't know, Doris--when I was that age, I did some strange things and--"

"Yes, we all do; I understand that. But surely, you're not going to tell me that you, you of all people, just hopped into bed for some casual sex with a character who was, as Ashley would say, gorgeous and muscular? If I hear that word muscular one more time, I am simply going to scream."

"No, of course not," Sara would say calmly, "but when I was much younger, I had a really dear friend named Lara Blake who had a wild streak and did some really crazy things for a few years, but then she recovered and found her footing. I can remember her telling me that the mistakes she made when she was young were really adventures of discovery and that if you didn't live when you were young, then you would end up never living at all."

"That's absolute nonsense, Sara, and you know it."

With that polite but surly chastisement from the respected voice of authority, Sara would once again realize that there was no possibility of explaining away the actions of rebellious youths like Ashley--at least to their concerned parents. (Ah! The vicissitudes, treacherous chasms, and death-defying plunges of those daring youths who attempt to break through the iron chains that their elders have forged for them as prisons that they can inhabit for the rest of their boring years.) Casually, but with a suppressed sigh, Sara would retreat back into herself, take a long sip of her wine, and enjoy the sun and the wind as the yacht scooted gaily across the bay.

The bell rang and the elevator door opened. "It was good to see you, Jackson. Give me a call if I can be of help to you over the next few days. You'll get better results from Maureen, of course, because she's much more practical than I am, but I like to think I have that certain something. Ta-ta," she said with a dazzling smile and small wave as she turned around to walk back towards her suite.

Retrieving my car from Sir Charles, I made my way out of the parking lot and turned on the radio to a rock station, WHAM. Following a commercial for liquid high-protein dog food manufactured from reprocessed pig parts, there was an amazing news bulletin, which I found difficult to comprehend because of a number of events that had occurred earlier in the day while I had been preoccupied with my own concerns. As I learned later, Branklin, upon the advice of his lawyer, who was hoping for a favorable plea bargain, had issued an abject apology and resigned as Mayor, effective immediately. Within an hour, around noon, the Chairman of the City Council, the elderly, bald, sour-looking plutocrat, Otto Van Bender, had arrived at the Mayor's office and taken what he assumed was his rightful seat on the empty throne. However, he had not been there for even ten minutes when Randall arrived waving an old piece of parchment that proved to be the original copy of the ancient City Charter, which had been written by Zeke Mulligan in 1791 when Darwin City (which at that time was called Dirtpile Dump) consisted of no more than thirty people. Article Six, Clause Three of the Charter stated that "the chief constable shall, at all times, retain the power to declare an emergency, and in that event, the powers of the Mayor will be deemed to be moot, that is to say defunct or nonexistent, and the aforementioned constable, or his designated representative, shall have the power to physically remove the Mayor from the seat of power and reside in his chair until the occurrence of the next election. Moreover, if the chief constable decides that the next election would bring disorder to the public peace and sanity, he may, at his sole discretion and without any citizen having the right to demand judicial redress, postpone the upcoming election for not more than four years unless he were to see fit to extend the specified emergency, but that this extension cannot be for more than another eight years."

The eviction of Otto from the Mayor's office proved to be rather more difficult than expected as he wielded his cane with the ferocity, if not the precision, of a samurai. But Randall, with years of police experience under his belt, was up to the task and with a mighty yank wrested the cane away from the obstreperous octogenarian. However, when Otto had the audacity to spit at him, an exasperated Randall had completely lost his temper and pummeled the old overgrown termite with a few "judicious" whacks from the confiscated cane. Having successfully quelled this feeble challenge to his constitutional authority, Randall then proceeded to call a press conference, which took place on the front steps of City Hall. Unfortunately, for the first couple of minutes, chaos reigned supreme as the press became hopelessly distracted by Otto, the man they now assumed was Mayor, who was cursing at Randall while he staggered around aimlessly with a bloody nose and black eye, but this perplexing scene proved to be of short duration when reinforcements from the police station arrived, and a flailing Otto was hustled ignominiously away from the scene in the back seat of a patrol car.

With order having been restored, Randall explained the key provision of the Charter to the press and publicly declared that because of the recent crime wave, there was indeed an emergency that fully met the requirements of the Charter. In a booming voice that admitted no interruption, he announced that besides removing the incompetent and belligerent Otto from the Mayor's chair, he had cancelled the upcoming election and appointed Mervin Pines as Mayor until the two of them jointly decided that the public peace and sanity could withstand the turmoil of an election campaign. Mervin then took his place behind the makeshift podium and gave an obnoxious, vainglorious speech that was littered with verbose pomposities of a patriotic and religious nature. (I suppose, for the sake of originality, it is a commendable policy to refrain from mocking those who are suffering from massive delusions of grandeur; nevertheless, I cannot help but say that Mervin's performance was _very_ presidential.) Upon the successful completion of his inaugural harangue, our new Mayor refused to take any questions from the press and immediately retired to his new office where he began the important business of ordering new wallpaper, rearranging the furniture, and polishing his shoes. Again, _very_ presidential.

Unfortunately, Randall and Mervin were unaware that Otto had funneled--illegally, of course--over two million dollars into Dodson Klopp's last campaign, and early in the afternoon, the Governor ordered the State Supreme Court in Bleakfester Dump to convene in emergency session and consider the thorny question of Branklin Fell's proper successor.

Strangely enough, this was not the first time that the Court had encountered the Charter of Darwin City--about a decade previously, it had been forced to mediate a case between a fifty-year-old woman, Robin Byrd, who had just been elected to the City Council and her defeated opponent, Myron "Nutboy" Tuttle, who claimed that Robin, a widow, was in violation of Article Nine, Clause Two, which stated explicitly that no woman could be elected to any office in the city without the written consent of her husband, or if she was unmarried, her father, or if he was dead, a male court-appointed legal guardian.

The Court's unanimous decision, written by the Chief Mafioso, Rhino Quisler, had resoundingly reaffirmed the important and longstanding legal principle of misogyny when it declared that "regardless of the supposed merits of the female petitioner's case, which are of absolutely no relevance to us here, the rule of law must at all times prevail against the passing fads of public opinion, and the venerable and revered Charter of Darwin City must remain in full force until such time as it is amended."

The day after that abysmal decision was handed down by Rhino and his band of quacking, disoriented ducks, there arose, within Darwin City, talk of a special vote in order to amend the Charter, which had, by this time, received numerous threats of death by fire from the usual mob of liberals who invariably rear their ugly heads at times such as these. The Court, ever-alert to the noxious odors of legal rebellion, had immediately issued an unsought advisory opinion stating that upon further consideration of the matter, the Charter could not be amended by the voters, since women were "presently" allowed to vote and that was obviously not the case in 1791 when Zeke had succumbed to what many were now calling his pretentious fit of scribbling. "We find," intoned the Court, "that the voter pool is now irretrievably contaminated by the presence of women and that, further, an attempt to amend the Charter by having only the males vote upon it would fail because it is now, for one 'reason' or another, considered discriminatory to hold a vote from which women are excluded, and thus there is no legal remedy to the current problem. We also feel compelled to remark that this so-called sexist requirement of the Charter is not unduly onerous to women and may, in fact, be quite beneficial to them because they are generally unable, if not constitutionally incapacitated, to understand the nature of political activity and would therefore be well-advised to seek the advice of a man."

The ensuing uproar over these sentiments had only abated when a National Appeals Court found that Article Nine, Clause Two had become void when women were granted the right to vote, since the "laws of the nation must always supersede those of the community." Myron, who by this time was under indictment on charges of disseminating child pornography along with three counts of attempted rape, was abruptly bounced out of his seat on the City Council, and Robin was sworn into office during a long-winded televised ceremony that was copiously decorated with speeches of righteous indignation from a flock of politicians who were not at all eager to incur the wrath of the woman voter.

However, in the present case that came before the Court different factors pertained. Rhino (his real name was Rheingold) had been appointed by the Kloppster to his position as Chief Justice, and because he felt that he owed Dodson a favor, the Court quickly came to a convoluted decision that managed to both uphold and overthrow the Charter. Rhino, who in his younger years had established his reputation (and, sadly, I kid you not) by declaring that slavery, segregation, and apartheid were legitimate expressions of a people's right to self-government, had once again written the decision, which had won the unanimous consent of his goose-stepping, God-fearing colleagues. He strays rather widely from the issues involved in the present case, but there can be no doubt that he makes his feelings insultingly clear.

"Although we have repeatedly stressed that the Charter of Darwin City should take precedence in any dispute that arises between the citizens of that city, we feel sure that if we were to affirm the obvious legality of Chief Prince's actions, we would be overturned by the Court of Appeals, which cannot seem to refrain from imposing the liberal political feelings of its activist judges upon the helpless citizens of this once-great nation. It should also, by now, be evident to everyone that the pandemic use of appeals has made a travesty of our legal system, as was made clear when our previous decision regarding the Charter was overturned through the specious reasoning of these neophytes. The Charter of Darwin City is no different from our own Constitution, which, as we all know, was written by noble, farsighted, dedicated slaveholders. No sane person can possibly argue that they would have approved of the emancipation of slaves, and the legislative attempts to amend one of the central tenets of this sacred document have not only brought about racial disharmony but also fundamentally destroyed the integrity of our Constitution, which must be interpreted literally to be effective. To accomplish this task, we merely require judges that can read and not those who insist upon using their brains. Although it must be said again and again, it should go without saying that the modern trend towards relativism and the rejection of absolute values has led those who have attempted to 'clarify and elucidate' our Constitution into the deadly waters of revisionism where they have drowned in the whirlpool of their ever-shifting 'ideals.' As history has shown many times, and as we reaffirmed in the case of Robin Byrd, women should at all times be subjugated to the will of a man--this has been true since time immemorial and is a fundamental tenet of our religious heritage.

"However, the members of this Court realize that, for the moment, there is no point in defying the political posturing of the Appeals Court, which would undoubtedly issue a judgment against Chief Prince on the grounds that we are not a nation that can tolerate a police state--even though it is obvious that we survive because we do live in a police state. Therefore, we will, reluctantly, in order to spare our overburdened courts the weighty load of yet another frivolous appeal, find in favor of Mr. Van Bender and, with a heavy heart, instruct Randall Prince or his designated representative to immediately vacate the seat of political power."

Shortly before the judges reached their decision, the Governor, relying on his political instincts, had dispatched two tanks and a company of heavily armed soldiers to Darwin City, and when Rhino delivered his verdict, the tanks came lumbering down Dogwire Drive until they reached City Hall. They were met by Otto Van Bender who had been much emboldened by the decision of the judges, which, although it could hardly be called a roaring endorsement, was good enough to send him into a paroxysm of rage. Foul tempered, spiteful, and hardly one to let bygones be bygones, he ordered the arrest of both Mervin and Randall, and the former was led out of City Hall blindfolded, handcuffed, and shackled. He was shoved into a jeep and carted off to Bleakfester Dump where it was expected that he would be tried, along with Randall, on a variety of charges including, but not limited to, conspiracy to overthrow an elected official during the rightful performance of his duties, unauthorized invasion of the Mayor's office, and domestic terrorism.

But as I returned for the interrogation of Darnell on this misty June night, I had no idea that these events had transpired, and you can imagine my amazement when I heard the actual bulletin from WHAM. "Updating you on the current situation at City Hall, we have now received a confirmed report from our reporter on the scene that although Otto Van Bender was seriously wounded during the heroic resistance that he offered to Randall Prince's vicious and premeditated assault this afternoon, he assures us that he is currently in full possession of his faculties and that not only has the coup failed but also, its perpetrators have been apprehended. Mervin Pines was arrested about fifteen minutes ago in the Mayor's office, and we are told that army regulars have stormed the police station and are in the process of apprehending Randall Prince who is expected to be tried before a military court on multiple charges including treason and the attempted assassination of a public official."

Say what? Grabbing my cell phone, I called both Miranda and Jake but received busy signals. No doubt! Everybody within a hundred-mile radius must be on the phone with this blockbuster. Thundering down the road, I flipped from station to station and heard rumor after rumor: Otto Van Bender had collapsed; Mervin had been seriously injured in a fistfight with an unknown assailant who had broken through the police lines and attacked him outside of City Hall; Randall had boarded himself up in his office and was threatening to blow himself up, along with the two secretaries that he was holding hostage; Governor Klopp had declared martial law in Darwin City; and finally, that there were unconfirmed reports of a large fire at Mile Square Mall, which may have been precipitated by a news helicopter that had exploded when it became ensnared in some nearby power lines. (For the sake of historical accuracy, I should note that although there was a small fire in a trash bin at the mall, only the first rumor proved to be accurate--Otto had, in fact, suffered a heart attack very shortly after Mervin's arrest and died two days later without regaining consciousness.)

Having by now reached the station, I swung precipitously into the back parking lot where I had to veer between a convoy of military vehicles. As I parked my car, I saw a man being led out of the building in shackles and handcuffs, but even stranger was the large brown paper bag that had been placed over his head. I heard someone shout, "That's him!" and I realized it must be Randall who was being led away rather roughly by his heavy-handed handlers. From a large horde of nearby onlookers who were being barely held in check by a group of soldiers, there came the righteous and clamorous cries of an assortment of aggressive opinions from people who had heard about the attack on Otto Van Bender and seemed to be suffering from advanced terminal distemper. "Beat him to a pulp!...Down with the tyrant!...Chop the beggar's head off!...Cane him!...Feed him to the rats in Bleakfester Dump!...Burn him at the stake!...Fry him in the chair!...No--torture him first!"

Although I understood and perhaps even shared in the sentiments of the crowd, I still think that if there is life after death and I am asked where I came from, I will blush with shame and mutter something indecipherable.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THIS COULD BE THE LAST TIME

Inside the station, pandemonium reigned. As I walked to the interrogation room, I passed Randall's office--Maureen would now be calling it his former office--which had been overrun by the military. Before I could proceed any further, I was stopped by a very young soldier who appeared to be, at best, eighteen, and I was forced to produce my identification, which the kid scrutinized with inordinate care. Gazing repeatedly from the card in his hand to my face and then back again, he finally asked me my name, and I was tempted (with my usual annoying arrogance) to ask him if had learned how to read yet. But pleasantly, after I was able to verbally replicate the name on my card and we had passed through the initial awkward moments of our official introduction, I found him to be likeable and, surprisingly, somewhat of a chatterbox.

"Yes sir," he said, "that was one really bad dude that we just hauled out of here. When we burst into his office, you should have seen the slimy bloke leap up from his desk and make a beeline for a computer that was hidden in a corner of the room under some old newspapers, but Colonel Churchill pounced on him and slammed his head into a wall. That's why we had to put the bag over his head--he had a nasty bruise down the side of his face, and that's not a good thing for our image. Anyways, we figured that the plans for the assassination plot were on this computer but, lo and behold, what do you suppose we discovered?" He leaned over and whispered loudly into my ear, "NAKED WOMEN!"

Poor Randall--he had been caught with his pants down, and now the wheels of justice, which never tolerated this kind of impropriety in a public figure, would slowly grind him into oblivion. Colonel Churchill, who was talking loudly on his cell phone, emerged from Randall's office. "That's right, Governor Klopp...I had a difficult time believing it myself, but we found an enormous list of pornographic web sites on his computer. I mean to tell you, Sir, these are sites that even I didn't know about...uh, that would be, of course, in my investigative capacities, which have exposed me to some of the worst offenders on the planet. But no, we haven't come across anything about the plot yet, and that's not surprising because all we've been able to pull up are pictures of naked women, but our computer experts will get to the bottom of it, Mr. Governor—don't you worry about that."

I had to leave these strange characters from another world before I succumbed to a monster laughing attack. It was hard, perhaps not that hard, to picture Randall, Mr. Law and Order, burrowing into the erotic electronic underworld of the modern age, but it was truly beyond the realm of possibility to imagine him hunched over his keyboard as he typed in the plot for his aborted coup. Step one, find the City Charter. Step two, invade the Mayor's office. Step three, clobber Otto on the head with his confiscated cane. Step four, install Mervin in the Mayor's chair.

Taking the elevator to the basement, I found Miranda who was standing near the interrogation room and did not appear to be happy. "Darnell's disappeared, Jackson."

"I thought Davies was having him followed," I said.

"You're right, he was," said Miranda ironically, "but that was before he took a taxi to a cheap restaurant on Dogwire Drive, crawled out a small window in the men's room, and disappeared down an alley. On top of that, there's something else that's surfaced, something that isn't good at all, but I'll tell you about it later. It's been a long, disappointing, and difficult day--let's get out of here, shall we?"

As we started down the corridor, Miranda's eyes met mine, and there was a look, or I received a sense of such intense compassion from her that I immediately felt fear. It was the type of gaze that is bestowed on those who are waiting for their relatives at the airport and are told that the plane carrying their loved ones has crashed and there are no survivors. Darnell's disappearance was obviously bad, and I was disturbed by the ominous hint of "something else that's surfaced," but that look--there was something almost fatal about it. And why did she _really_ want to get out of the station, and why was she not telling me what she so obviously wanted to tell me?

To avoid the commotion of the violent storm that was taking place above us at sea level, we used the back entrance, which brought us to a flight of steep stone steps that led to the parking lot. As soon as we opened the door, we could hear Jake laughing, and after we had reached the top of the stairs, I could see him leaning against a squad car and talking to Bailey Lane.

"Hey, you two!" Jake called out to us.

We joined them, and Jake offered me a shot from his ever-present flask, which I accepted as a kind of toast to the fall of the old order. "Can't you just hear that grand old windbag, Forrester Haggins, spouting off about this one?" he asked me.

"It's truly a sad day for our great city, Jake, sadder than you can possibly imagine. Take a guess as to what they've found on one of Randall's computers."

"Oh no," said Jake. "This is really too good to be true--you don't mean to tell me that he was...no, he couldn't be, not our beloved, holier-than-thou Randall."

Miranda and Bailey both appeared confused, and so I considerately shed some light upon the situation. "Apparently, the Chief was in possession of some very disgusting pictures--explicit pictures and ones that might be of use in distinguishing the differences between the sexes."

"My God," said Bailey with mock alarm, "they're not checking all the computers, are they?"

"Here you go, Bailey," said Jake holding out the flask to him. "A couple of belts from this and it won't seem so bad. Besides, you're just a minuscule piece of small fry--wait until this stuff about Randall hits the papers tomorrow. They won't care if you were running a brothel for midgets under your desk."

"To tell you the truth," said Miranda, "I almost feel sorry for Randall--in fact, if he had been a competent Police Chief, I would be outraged. I just do not understand the society that we live in. How is it that you can be completely corrupt, but as long as you conform sexually, no one will interfere with you? Or, on the other hand, you can be the best public servant in the world, but cross _that_ line and your career is over."

"Well, Miss Sherry," said Jake, "that may be a valid point, but when you hear what I heard this afternoon, there might come a moment when you'll want to amend or possibly even retract that statement. Tell them what you found out this afternoon, Bailey."

Before beginning his sordid tale, Bailey took another stiff belt from the flask. "About three o'clock, Tyler Grimes came into my office--"

"You're going to like this one, Jackson," said Jake as a bitter and fierce expression crossed his face.

"--and he told me that he'd been thinking about the notice that had been left on the bulletin board and how the rest of us must suspect him. 'I believe,' he said, 'that I know what happened because if none of us posted that thing, then about the only possibility left is that we were overheard.'

"I told him that was impossible because Larry was the only person close enough to hear what we were saying, and he is the last one on earth who would do anything like that. 'Come with me,' said Tyler.

"We walked over to Mervin's office--he was long gone, having by that time taken up his new duties in the Mayor's office. The door was locked, but that wasn't a problem for Tyler—being an undercover cop, he's an expert at breaking and entering. Once inside, he went over to a bookcase and removed a small audiotape, which he held up triumphantly. 'I'll bet you anything,' he said as we headed back to my office, 'that the solution to the mystery is on this tape.' We sat down, and before we began listening to it, Tyler said that the reason he had brought me with him was so I would know that he was telling the truth--the truth being that the cassette was in Mervin's office and that he had, in all probability, listened to it. As it began playing, Tyler said that shortly before we had all met at the Outpost, he had recorded a conversation with a drug dealer, but that he could distinctly remember switching the tape player off afterwards.

"Meanwhile, in my office, the tape was running, and I could hear the sounds of traffic, some music, and the slamming of a car door. A minute or so later, I recognized Larry's voice, and then, seconds later, came the conversation where we were all talking about Mervin's fluorescent crayons and Barker Drule's latest novel.

"What happened," continued Bailey, "was that Tyler had forgotten to turn the tape player on when he was with the drug dealer and that later, when he thought he was turning it off, he was actually turning it on--it's just a tiny switch that goes back and forth."

"So how did Mervin get his hands on it?" asked Miranda.

"Tyler had gone back to the station to write a report for Mervin who was interested in the case because he thought it might have some connection with Clayton Shane's murder--which, of course, it didn't. He was hardly in the door when he met Mervin who wanted to know if he had any new information, and Tyler, to save himself the trouble of writing up a report on a Friday night, handed him the tape."

A strange and menacing silence descended upon our little crowd of four. It's extremely rare, at least in my experience, to encounter such egregious malevolence, and I, for one, was stunned. Jake had cracked open a second flask that he kept for emergencies, and after pounding down a decisive gulp, he asked Miranda, "Still feeling pity for the Chief, Sherry?"

"But Randall couldn't have had anything to do with it, Jake--there's no way he would have ever written things like that about himself. What about the part where he was chasing Birdie Swanson around the desk?"

Jake stared at her--I was going to say soberly, but somberly is undoubtedly a better choice of word. "What do you think, Jackson?" he said to me.

"Sherry's right; I don't think the Chief had anything to do with it. Remember how, even though Mervin was supposedly fired, there were no accusations about him in the note? I think that he's more devious than we've ever given him credit for and that he's actually a fox pretending to be a loyal dog. I'd be willing to wager that he enjoyed writing those things about Randall because I don't think he likes him any more than anyone else does. And then, just think about this: The Chief calls him into his office Monday morning and asks him, 'Who could have written these terrible things?' And Mervin, smug as ever, would have said, 'I have a tape here that you might be interested in.'"

"Can you imagine," said Miranda, "what was going through Mervin's mind the first time he listened to the tape?"

We all laughed. "I'll bet you anything that he was half-bombed when he wrote the note," I said.

"Mervin drinks?" said Miranda, looking at me; despite the banter and buffoonery of the moment, I still noticed within her eyes the same eerie commiseration that I had seen earlier.

"Not that often," I said, "but when he does, he tends to get blasted. There was one legendary Christmas party where he became really abusive, and that was before he ended up barfing his dinner off a second-floor balcony."

"How would you like to have that land on your dear wife's head as you were strolling in for your obnoxious company obligation?" said Jake.

As we were laughing at that grotesque joke, Forrester Haggins, followed closely by a cameraman, walked over to us, and we were all forced to produce "serious and concerned" expressions. He thrust the microphone into my unlucky face--probably I was the only one in the group that he knew by name. "Ladies and gentleman, this is detective Jackson James, a longtime member of the police force who, like the rest of us, is standing here in a state of shock outside the police station. Mr. James, have you heard the news of what was found on the Mayor's personal computer?"

Off to the side, I could see Jake who was laughing silently as he pointed at Forrester and gave him a big double thumbs down. "To tell you the truth, Forrester, we are so busy here that--"

"I've been reliably informed," he said in his overbearing voice, "that it was crammed with salacious, I should say pornographic material, and I wonder if you might like to comment upon that."

He probably thought I had no idea what the word salacious meant. "Really? It does surprise me, although there was a recent rumor going around that he had engaged in inappropriate behavior with one of our female employees."

"You don't say?" said Forrester enthusiastically. I could feel Miranda squeeze my arm and say softly, "Jackson, don't." I immediately realized what a remarkably stupid thing I had just said, and backtracking as best as I could, I said, "I shouldn't mention it because there's probably no truth to it."

Naturally, it would be my first statement that received quality airtime, while my lackluster attempt at a retraction would fall by the wayside and be forgotten forevermore. However, on the plus side, that juicy tidbit seemed to satisfy the roving piranha with the microphone, and he scampered off.

"Really, Jackson," said Miranda who was obviously annoyed, "that's a nasty thing to do to a person, and not only that, if they discover that you were talking about Birdie Swanson, they'll descend on her with--"

"Come on, Sherry," said Jake boisterously, "lighten up--the boys are just having some fun at the Chief's expense. If you don't stop, I'll start calling you Randall's in-house defense attorney."

"I like it," said Bailey emphatically. "So what if Jackson just shot another torpedo into the buzzard's sinking ship. Say what you want but he deserves it, and he should never be permitted to hold that kind of power over people again."

"And there's our prosecuting attorney," said Jake pointing at Bailey. "I'll be the judge, and Jackson can be the jury. Court's in session, and I'm afraid, Ms. Green, that your only hope for an acquittal is a change of venue, but I'm going to have to deny that request as being an unreasonable aspersion upon the character and integrity of the fine citizen who sits on our jury."

"But let's bring Mervin Pines to trial first," I said. "I wouldn't think twice about convicting that character, even if I had to get on the stand and perjure myself into prison."

Miranda was shaking her head negatively. "Come on, Jackson, let's get out of here--I'm hungry." I knew she was attempting to divert me because she was tired of the malicious backbiting, and I couldn't blame her. Although it can be highly amusing and is often well-deserved, there is still something slightly pathetic about cheering the catastrophes of others.

As Miranda and I began to move towards my car, Jake said, "You haven't forgotten about our little escapade tonight, have you, Jackson?"

"Not on your life, but let's make it for ten-thirty, OK?"

"What are you two talking about?" Miranda asked me.

"Jake and I are going to conduct our own search of Clayton Shane's house tonight--maybe we'll find out who the real Pavis Kran is."

"Oh, I think I know the answer to that one," said Miranda, with a puzzling sigh.

Once we were inside the car, I began to speak, but Miranda, without looking at me, waved her hand dismissively and said, "No, not now, Jackson--later, after we've had something to eat."

"Alright," I said compliantly as I leaned over and turned on the radio. An old song by the Stones was playing, "This Could Be the Last Time."

Prophetic, as it turned out.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: SUNSET

Subdued and pensive, we drove back to Miranda's house, but since it was getting late, we decided to stop along the way for take-out pizza and a bottle of wine. By the time we arrived at her house, the skies had cleared, and Miranda suggested that we eat our dinner on her small porch that, amusingly, could only be reached by climbing through a window in her bedroom. She went out first, and I handed her the wine, the corkscrew, our glasses, the pizza, and two plates. "Well designed, wouldn't you say, Jackson? I think when they remodeled this old building into apartments, they were not porch conscious, or perhaps I should say they were porch challenged and probably said to themselves, 'What difference does it make whether there's a door? Nobody in their right mind will want to spend an evening outside battling the mosquitoes when they can remain safely indoors and discover the sweltering, sticky pleasures of a hot, humid night.'"

"And," I said as I settled into an old wicker chair, "they would have thought that it was absurd to be so far away from the phone and the TV. It's almost like being marooned."

"That's what I like about it--I don't even bring my cell out here. Oh! I forgot something—I'll be right back."

She returned inside through the open window, and I passed the time by uncorking the wine and observing the neighborhood. Across from me and slightly to the right was a church with a tall steeple that was undoubtedly the source of the bells that had rung so passionately the previous evening. Directly in front of me, lay a series of old rundown houses, mostly one story, and it was not hard to imagine that within a decade much of this area would be bulldozed into oblivion by some type of urban rehabilitation program. Beyond that, was the sprawling mess of roads that intersected with Dogwire Drive, which strangely, even at this hour, was clogged with traffic; probably there had been an accident since I could hear the maniacal braying of horns and the apocalyptic wails of a stampeding herd of sirens. It occurred to me that if a truly great artist (not, obviously, a successful one with many awards) had made a painting of this psychotic tableau, it could have been entitled _The_ _End_ _of_ _the_ _World_. Because, viewed objectively, our civilization was, as Miranda had said, too absurd to continue much longer. When some juvenile kid starts roaring down the road at eighty, that's bad enough; when he gets cocky, guzzles down a fifth of liquor, and hits one hundred and twenty, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the conclusion to that movie. The _perfect_ symbol of the totality of our culture, including _especially_ science, is the Young Offender: Naïve, arrogant, reckless, gun-crazy, obsessed with speed and metal, an accident waiting to happen--without doubt, it is much more accurate to say an accident in progress.

Miranda had reappeared and was carrying a book. "What a beautiful evening!" she said as she placed the book on a small table beside her, back cover up so that I was unable to read the title. It was a little past eight, and with the porch facing to the west, the sun, large and orange, lay placidly to our west in a sky that had suddenly cleared and was now completely free of clouds. Majestic, somber, and vital, it was slowly sinking to the horizon as it brought to a close another day on the planet. I was struck, perhaps assailed, by the thought that for each and every person there is a final sunset, the last one of their lives, and that is why, for me, they are often reminiscent of death. And yes, I know the poets and mystics are enchanted with dawn, but that is merely the cocky symbolism of youth, the flamboyant optimism of those who cannot conceive of their own deaths, the idealism of those who are positive that they will be alive in the morning.

Well! Wasn't I being gloomy? It must be that the fears and the pressures of the day were catching up with me and aggravating my not-so-latent tendency to become morbid when I am subjected to stress. It was amazing how many things had happened to me in the thirty-six hours since Randall had telephoned me and demanded my presence in his office.

The wine was warm and inviting, but the pizza tasted like tomato-flavored cardboard sprinkled with synthetic cheese, and my digestion was certainly not improved by the ominous implications of the bad news that Miranda said had "surfaced." I felt, as the moronic, mind-numbing commercials would say, tense and irritable, and the only question in my mind was whether this news was about Darnell, which seemed most probable, or whether it was about "us."

"What was it that you wanted to tell me?" I asked her.

I was made more nervous by her long, hesitant, and painful pause before she began. At last, she said, "You remember that while you were visiting Gloria's sisters, I went to your house?"

"Sure." So it was about Darnell.

"I went there to search Darnell's room because I was looking for something--it was just an educated guess, but unfortunately, I found what I was looking for. I wanted to show it to you first before I gave it to Bryan."

She handed me the book that she had brought out to the porch, and turning it over in my hand, I gazed at the title, _The_ _Idiot_. Shocked, my initial reaction was that Miranda was making a rather strong statement about my lack of intelligence. Then, like a fright in the night, I remembered that this was the book with the character named Ippolit who had put his signature to the blackboards at Darwin King.

"It was under Darnell's mattress, along with a biography of Stalin," said Sherry hesitantly, "and the really striking thing about _The_ _Idiot_ , from what the lawyers would call an evidentiary point of view, is that many of the things that Ippolit says in the book are underlined."

Suddenly, it was difficult for me not to feel like an idiot. I knew that for Miranda, this was virtually conclusive proof that Darnell had been the one who had created the destruction at Darwin King. How could it possibly be that Darnell was connected to these horrible events? One is always so sure that these things, like death, can only occur to other people. "And so," I said, "at the very least, you feel that he was at Darwin King."

"I would certainly say so, and I also think he was involved with the theft of the drugs from the station because I can't see why anyone else could or would have written the note that was left in the safe and signed with your name."

That was the note where the writer claimed I was sexually dysfunctional and wanted to join the astronaut program. "And the murders of Gloria and Cassandra?" I asked in what I realized was a pleading tone.

" _No,"_ she said with an emphasis that I thought was strange. "You don't mind if I come with you tonight, do you?"

"To Clayton's?"

"Yes...do you," she said very, very slowly, "think there is any possibility that Darnell was acquainted with, or knew, Crystal Shane?"

I looked at her in amazement. "Whatever makes you think that?"

She peered out in the direction of the sun, which cast, like the glowing embers of a midnight fire, a gentle light over her beautiful face. "This afternoon, I remembered that when we talked to Crystal on the morning of her father's murder, you asked her if her boyfriend was a Nazi, and she said something about having a Russian lover. And...My God--it just this second crossed my mind--do you remember how amazed Crystal was when I told her your name?"

I could remember the latter but not the former. However, these interpretations of Miranda were, to me, nothing but insinuations that could not stand up to one central fact: It was impossible for me to even imagine Darnell having any kind of relationship with Crystal Shane--absolutely impossible because they were as different as night and day. "Miranda...really...I don't think on the basis of this book and the off-the-wall ravings of Crystal Shane that there is any reason to suppose that the two of them knew each other."

"Look, Jackson, listen to me. Assuming Darnell was the one who shot the Kaiser, then it seems to me highly probable that he was also the one who shot Clayton."

"Why? What for?"

"It's obvious, Jackson, isn't it? If Crystal was his girlfriend, then--"

"You're wrong, Miranda--that's impossible. What are you saying? He would never have killed Clayton for the drugs. Never! And there is no chance whatsoever that he could have been Crystal Shane's boyfriend. I know him a lot better than you do, believe me."

For perhaps a minute, Miranda was silent. Then she turned slightly to face me more directly--her dark-brown eyes were both luminous and intense, but her voice was soft and agreeable. "Alright, let's forget about it for now and see what we discover at Crystal's tonight. I wouldn't be at all surprised if we found the equivalent of _Mein Kampf_ under her mattress," she said, with an attempt at humor.

It was obvious that she was convinced Darnell was guilty, and I really wasn't willing to drop the subject. "How do Gloria and Cassandra fit into this?" I asked her.

She stared passively at me before replying in a low voice: "I think they were just the victims of circumstance, and the most likely explanation is that the perpetrator of that crime was looking for drugs, probably the drugs from the station. For some reason, whoever shot them thought those drugs were in Darnell's room, and for all we know, they could have been."

"But," I said, "if they were all killed with the same gun and Darnell is innocent of those murders, why are you so sure that he killed the Kaiser and Clayton?"

"Because of his own words, Jackson. As soon as he asks you if Gloria and Cassandra were shot in the head, he establishes his innocence for those murders but also admits that he knows the killer--which is obvious. However, at the same time and not so obviously, he admits that this killer did not kill either Clayton or the Kaiser, since they were killed with shots to the body. It's not exactly a confession, but it's close to being one, if you think about it."

Unless, I joked to myself desperately, this killer had decided to amend his--or her--ways and told Darnell that shots to the body were too unreliable and that from now on, they would only be shooting people in the head. I was beginning to see Miranda's point: Because the same gun had been used in all the crimes and Darnell "had been at" (a pleasant euphemism for murdering Kaiser Hess) Darwin King, it was more than likely that he had also shot Clayton since he had been killed in the same way as the Kaiser. Of course, it was hypothetically possible that Darnell had been merely along for the ride at Darwin King and that while his accomplice had murdered and smashed everything to bits, he had busied himself with messages on the blackboard. Dream on, I told myself sarcastically; it was also at least conceivable--especially since I had, in fact, conceived it--that I might hit the jackpot in the lottery and, on the very same day, be elected President for Life of our ongoing, highly evolved, much-adored, never-ending Banana Republic. True, I didn't gamble, but somebody might buy me a ticket for my birthday, and while I thought there was only a one-in-a-quintillion chance that I would ever run for President, there was always the possibility that I could win as a write-in candidate. Gloomily, I realized that Miranda was almost certainly correct. "They were both shot in the head, weren't they?" was the same thing as saying "I shot the Kaiser and Clayton Shane." Or had my fears stampeded through my common sense so that I was simply overreacting to the fact that a single strange book had been discovered under Darnell's mattress?

Once again, we fell silent as we sipped the remainder of our wine and the sun slowly dropped to the horizon. It occurred to me that even under the weight of these awful but mighty subjects, the sun, that old evening sun, had a power that, at times, outweighed the heavy but ultimately trivial concerns of two anxious earthlings. Its lower edge was now only a few minutes from touching the horizon, and it was possible to stare at it for five or ten seconds before turning away. From somewhere in the distance, I heard the wild passionate cry of a bird as well as the persistent angry barking of a dog.

Miranda reached out to hold my hand, and her voice was a gentle murmur that floated on the waves of the warm summer breeze. "On a night like tonight, the universe is a lovely place." She was trying to divert me, to soften the blow.

But I found it too difficult to wander into another dimension, especially a pleasant one. Face to face with the ebbing tide of another day and trying to cope with the fact that my son, in all probability, had been involved in the murder of two people, it was difficult for me, at least tonight, not to be depressed and bitter. Perhaps, like many fathers, I was seeking to protect my son by diverting the blame onto things that I already detested, but I could not help thinking that if Darnell was guilty of the crime of murder, he had been another victim of our modern age where death, in the form of a gun, was a marketable product that was not difficult to obtain. "It's only an illusion of peace, Miranda--the guns of war and the war of guns are everywhere."

"It's because so many things have happened at once, Jackson," said Miranda sympathetically.

"No!" I said, standing up and moving evasively over to the railing of the balcony so that I could have time to think before I spoke. I despised these types of philosophical rationalizations, but I didn't want to argue with Miranda who was only trying to soothe me. As I sat back down, I deleted much that I felt and merely said, "Tell that to the victim, not the victim's relatives--tell that directly to the victim. I swear to you that there are times when I can hear the screams of the victims. I'm not talking about as they died--I mean _now_." Refraining from saying anything more, I thought to myself that a culture that had turned killing its inhabitants into an acrobatic form of scientific art wasn't of any use and was, in actual and absolute fact, nothing more than glorified trash and that the so-called accomplishments of science paled before the murderous triumph of the gun. What did Cassandra have to thank this culture for? The gun that fired the bullet into her brain? Was that worth the collection of peculiar toys that had been invented by these brutal monsters called scientists? Not to her, that's for sure, and I think those who are murdered have far more rights than the casual, blasé souls that are so presumptively called the living. I know that goes against the modern sociopathic mantra: "Why do you care? Get over it! They're dead!"

But it was unfair to drag Miranda down into the malicious quicksand of our "civilization," with all its rampant killing sprees and threats of universal annihilation. Gripping her hand tightly, I said, "I'm sorry, Miranda, it's--"

"I understand what you're saying, Jackson. Death is so final, so irreversible, and murder is a mistake that can never be corrected. I can't imagine what it would be like for my life to end at the hands of another--it is really the ultimate absurdity in this very absurd world."

Exactly, I thought. Now, as the sun touched the horizon, its color had changed from golden yellow to a deep orange, while the long shadows of the approaching twilight lengthened across the land. "Jackson, I think that in the end, one must learn to trust."

"Trust in what, for instance?"

"That for the most part, life is well worth the living, and for that which will forever trouble us--the great mystery of real injustice--we must be willing to admit to our own failings, our own inability to understand. The one who paints the canvas of the universe has a mysterious hand, and I don't think it's wise to turn against the mind that lies behind that hand. Yes, there are unspeakable horrors, but we must move into the future with faith--the faith that, in the end, love is the motivating force of this universe. Otherwise, it's impossible to remain sane."

It was the same old malarky, but it was heartfelt and well-spoken. I wasn't arguing with the Creator who, in my opinion, either didn't exist or didn't care. Maybe God painted His universes (based on the evidence, the Big Guy would have to be an extremely violent man), and once the painting was finished, He moved on to His next big, grandiose project and completely forgot about the previous one--somewhat similar to the process that unpublished writers are forced to endure. Hopefully, if such were the case, this dubious and somewhat diabolical Character had learned from His past mistakes and was currently producing works of art that were much more sublime than the latest repulsive bestseller from Barker Drule. But to give Barker his due, if our horror show of a world was actually created by the Supreme Being of the universe, I think that we could justifiably entitle this ghastly effort as _The_ _Emissions_ _of_ _an_ _Elderly_ _Madman_.

At any rate, my real argument and obviously a futile one, was not with God but with man--that preposterous creature who simply will not deal with the implements he has created to destroy himself, while he sanctimoniously fights things like germs with an insane ferocity. For those who have not as yet noticed, the real germ is the mind of man. There was no getting around the fact that if it were not for the gun, Gloria and Cassandra, along with hundreds of millions of others, would still be alive. Who had invented these monstrosities? A scientist, of course, someone with a deadly germ of an idea, and from that, the black plague of the gun had been unleashed upon the world, the blackest plague of them all. What had it been like when the first, the very first person had been murdered by the "peacemaker?" How had people reacted? That, as it turned out, was the last chance to contain the pestilence, the last chance to quarantine the scourge, the scourge of humanity. However, once the virus escaped, it became impossible to contain because it produced so much fear that the only apparent defense against the gun was yet another gun. More and more guns began to proliferate throughout the world and-- _surprise_ \--more and more killings, more and more paranoia. The bodies began to pile up, but what could anyone do? Renounce their weapon and become a defenseless soul subject to immediate execution? And then, of course, the politicians piled onto the bandwagon with their belligerent nationalism and employed the scientists who were happy, despite their self-serving, patriotic mea culpas, to invent a wide range of improvements in the art of murder. Machine guns!

Rat-a-tat-tat and fifty naïve kids are executed to satisfy the aging egomaniacs who have seized power. If _they_ love war, then _they_ can prove their sincerity by being the first ones out of the trenches. But that can't happen because they're too "valuable," too fantastically decrepit physically _and_ sexually, too historical, and it makes more sense to butcher a bunch of nobodies with their whole lives in front of them. But, so what? We will see to it that our children didn't die in vain and dutifully go through the mockeries of pretending that it was all for a noble cause as we walk gravely out to the burial ground and listen to the outrageous and psychotic twenty-one-gun salute. In replacement for the lives of our children, we are handed a flag, and after shedding a profusion of tears for the Johnnys who will not be marching triumphantly home, we can move on with the rest of our empty, desolate lives. _The signs are there for those who are willing to see._

Tanks! Grenades! Artillery! Fire bombings! Boom-boom-boom. Wave the flag around and make believe it all means something because it is just too horribly tragic if they really did die for nothing, if they were just the cannon fodder of another sick dream of conquest.

Mass exterminations! Hiroshima! Nagasaki! Fifty-megaton bazookas! _Without warning_ , _it_ _will_ _all come_ _to_ _an_ _end_.

From these rampaging nightmares, the sun, which had started to sink below the horizon, brought me back to my own little place in the universe. I was too small to make a difference against the vast and implacable forces that dominate the world. I might as well do what everyone else does--keep my mouth shut, pledge allegiance to the flag of death, and enjoy what little was left of the scenery, for as the sage selling LSD in the park on a cold December day once said, "You had better laugh because if you don't, then you are going to start to cry."

Out in the distance, the very last rays of the sun were disappearing behind a large hill that lay on the far shore of Lake Bracken. Only a faint orange-crimson beam remained, which suddenly vanished, and I was left with a feeling of emptiness and foreboding. This could be the last time, and once more, again for two people, it certainly would be the end of everything.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:

## "I DO HAVE A SHARP TONGUE, DON'T I?"

As the darkness gathered, the mood changed. I became less preoccupied, and a feeling of lethargy, enhanced by the alcohol, overwhelmed my attempts to remain conscious. As I began to roam the semi-dreamy avenues that inevitably lead to sleep, a strong memory came drifting back to me from my youth--twilight on another warm June evening when I had been only eleven or twelve. I was walking with a girl about my age, but now, from a distance of over three decades, I couldn't remember either her name or her face. Somehow, we had met for one evening in our young lives; she was, I believe, the daughter of some distant friends of my father who had unexpectedly visited us. It came rushing back to me now vividly--the night that my consciousness had opened up to the spirit of a woman. Bored with the grown-ups, she and I had gone out for a playful stroll through the dusky shadows of early evening that were sweeping through the suburban streets. I could still see the trees on that street, tall and majestic, and hear the wind as it rustled sensuously through the leaves, but strangely, I couldn't see her at all--in my memories, it was as if I were walking beside an invisible being that emitted a mild white light. And as we were talking on that mystical evening, I felt it, something in my chest or my head, something supremely enchanting, something that, looking back on it, I would call an expansion of consciousness, an exhilaration that was caused by--I knew this as I was experiencing it--the femininity of a woman. It wasn't sexual because I was too innocent for that, but then again, it was the same kind of amazing psychic arousal that only exists between the yin and the yang...

Miranda is shaking my shoulder. "Jackson, wake up. It's almost ten o'clock--time for us to go and meet Jake." Very groggy, I remained with my eyes closed, and the dream that I had been awakened from remained in my mind with a haunting intensity. There had been a small black girl, no more than five or six years old, standing alone in a room. Behind her is a blackboard on which is written, again and again, "I will remain here no more." I have the strong feeling that this girl is Miranda and that she has been punished by her teacher who has forced her to replicate this strange sentence. Suddenly, from the right side of the room, the thirty-year-old Tara appears--beautiful, elegant, inviting--and taking Miranda's tiny hand in hers, she bends down to kiss her gently on the forehead. Tara begins to lead her out of the room, but Miranda balks and begins sobbing loudly. "No, no, I don't want to go." Running her free hand through the child's hair, Tara says soothingly, "It's all for the best--your father is waiting for you, and we mustn't be late." Miranda grabs onto the leg of a table and screams, "But I don't have a father--he's dead!" Tara lets go of her hand and bestows upon her a long sympathetic look before she says, "Is that so? Alright then, I'll just wait in the other room until you're ready to leave, but please don't take too long because the longer you stay here, the more difficult it will become." Miranda is sobbing and holding onto the table for "dear life" as she says to Tara, "Go away. Can't you understand that I don't like you anymore?"

"Are you awake?" I hear Miranda say softly.

I open my eyes and look into her face. The dream, which strikes me as troubling, begins to dissipate like the morning mists in the sunny field of consciousness. But as we drive over to Clayton Shane's, parts of it reappear to me with intense clarity; I can see Tara very distinctly, lucidly--she is radiant, golden, and almost angelic, while Miranda is so small, almost inconsequential. I wonder if the dream means that I have secretly fallen in love with Tara and that there is no longer any "room" in my life for Miranda. Could it be? Inwardly, deeply, I was very dissatisfied, even fearful of this explanation, and I dismissed it from my mind as a unwanted reflection from my guilty conscience. Perhaps I had been infatuated with Tara, but the dream seemed to take place in another emotional dimension, and there was also a seemingly religious or spiritual quality to it that I found impossible to fathom.

We are nearing Clayton's apartment, when I ask her, "Your father isn't still alive, is he?"

"Oh no," said Miranda, "he died many years ago."

"How old were you when that happened?"

She looked at me curiously. "Fifteen or sixteen—why do you ask?"

"No reason, just wondering." Deflecting her, but at the same time still searching for some kind of answer, I said, "I remember his face from that large family photo you have on the wall. What was he like?"

"Now that he's gone, I think my mother is much happier," she said with uncharacteristic bitterness. "As for me, let me put it this way: I've finally stopped hating him, but that's only because he's been dead for so long, and it seems irrelevant, almost insane, to hate the dead. One day, a couple of years ago, I just started laughing about it, and I understood what the old expression 'beating a dead horse' means. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Quite the image, isn't it?"

"Actually," said Miranda, "I've found that most, if not all, anger falls into that category--there's something that's both so repetitive and useless about it. Might as well bury that horse, whoever it happens to be, say a prayer for forgetfulness, and move on."

In the night, the garish streets pass blankly before my eyes until we arrive at Clayton's duplex on Blackbriar Street, which lies on the outskirts of the East Side slums. We park on a small grimy side street and walk casually up towards the house where we meet Jake who is standing at the entrance to an alley that connects two streets and runs between four large, two-story apartment buildings--one of which is Clayton's. He leads us down the dark alley with a small pen-like flashlight--it is strangely quiet and dark around us, and I feel a sense of relief when we reach the back of the building and climb a set of rickety wooden steps to the second floor. Here, there is a small covered entranceway that is large enough to hold two rubbish barrels and an old table that is covered with potted plants--all of which, even in this dim light, appear to be dead. There is a window to the right of the door and Jake, using a chisel covered with a cloth that he taps with a hammer, is able to loosen it, and although it is only raised with difficulty because of its swelled wood, at last we are inside and find ourselves in the kitchen. He leads us out of the kitchen and down a hallway--on the right side is a bathroom, and a few feet further down the corridor, on the left side, is the door to Crystal's bedroom. Ahead of us, I can see that the hallway bends to the right and must lead into the living room, beyond which, I know, is Clayton's bedroom.

We enter Crystal's bedroom, and by the far side of the bed, Jake finds a small lamp on the floor, which has a tattered shade and gives off a stark glaring light. It is a surprisingly large room; standing near the entrance, I can see that to our left and running almost to the back wall is a long dresser with three drawers on each of the two lower levels and an assortment of smaller drawers on the upper level. Above that, hanging from the wall is a huge mirror that runs the full length of the dresser and reaches to within a foot of the ceiling. The headboard of her old-fashioned king-sized bed abuts the back wall, which is covered with a number of small strange abstract paintings. Facing the foot of the bed is a cheap plastic bookcase that holds hardly any books--besides a CD player and a vast assortment of CD's that take up two full shelves are an assortment of knickknacks--empty vases, rocks, photos, a plastic, repellent replica of a cobra, and, most memorably, a painting of someone who bears a distinct likeness to Hitler. It is unusual and striking and must have been done, if it is indeed him, when he was quite young, no more than twenty-five--perhaps it is an idealized self-portrait. Five feet to the side of the bed, along the right-hand wall of the room, is a large open closet, and directly opposite us, to the left and right of the bed, are two windows, which are almost completely shrouded with greenish-black drapes.

I am drawn to the picture of Adolf, and picking it up, I read the inscription that someone has written on the back of it. "To those who love, Killing is the Gift of the Gods." Hitler, I thought wearily, was such a charming man in his own peculiar way, but he undoubtedly would have had a happier time in his old age if he had learned to tame his resentments as a young man. A bullet to the brain with cyanide for dessert as Stalin's men invaded his bombed-out bunker is a miserable way to die and certainly nothing to brag about.

After looking under both Crystal's bed and mattress and finding nothing, Miranda begins by searching through the dresser, while Jake goes for a locked wooden box that he has found on a shelf above her bed. "Probably her drug stash," he says as I disappear with one of his flashlights into the closet. It is large but poorly designed with fully four feet extending to the left of the entrance and continuing behind the wall that runs along that side of the room. Her wardrobe is not overly large, or perhaps she has taken much of it with her to Franklin Court--there are a few pairs of black jeans, a couple of black vests, and a variety of blouses that are predominantly blue or black. The only other observable items are two pairs of black boots, and I am left with the impression of a person who is direct, austere, disciplined, and highly motivated. This is not the disorderly closet of a poet but that of an aspiring warrior.

I shine the light to the left and see nothing, but I notice that there is a recessed area just to the other side of a four-inch beam that runs from the floor to the top of the closet and forms the left side of the entrance. Reaching behind the beam with my hand, I discover a small book that, according to the words on its cover, is a diary, a diary for the current year. Returning to the room and sitting on the bed, I observe the precise and meticulous handwriting, which strikes me as harsh. There can be no doubt as to the intensity of the writer who has written with such physical force that she has left heavy indentations on the following pages. As I begin reading it, I become oblivious to everything else--so much so that I am not really conscious of Miranda when she eventually sits down next to me; only later, when she puts her finger on a page to draw my attention to something, do I realize that she has been beside me for some time.

I think the extremely violent emotions that I experienced as I read what Crystal had written will be obvious to the reader, and so I am presenting her diary with a minimum of commentary. Except for improving Crystal's punctuation, which was virtually nonexistent, what follows is a verbatim transcript.

It begins on February 14th where two small photos have been pasted onto the page--Hitler and a woman whom I do not recognize. Below them, Crystal has made a large heart, and inside of it, she has written, Adolph + Eva.

March 18th,

On Friday night, I met this weird spaced-out kid named Darnell at Roosters. He was a little different--maybe even intelligent, but that's not saying much for a man, is it? I have to be honest, however, and admit that there was something about him that I found attractive, but it certainly wasn't anything sexual. Later, when we went to an all-night bar and had a few more drinks, he was very talkative and told me that he hated his parents, especially his mother, and wanted to run away somewhere but didn't have any money. Tell me about it! His stupid father is a cop. Tell me about it!

Towards dawn, we were totally torched when we began to talk about politics and all the stupid politicians who are running this planet into the gutter, and as the conversation bounced back and forth from one idiot to another, both of us were in total agreement that the modern world is run by inept, corrupt losers (called men!) who will go down in history as utter fools. But then, when we somehow started talking about World War Two, his eyes suddenly lit up, and he began yapping fanatically about the Russians and how Stalin was some kind of misunderstood folk hero--of all the people who ever lived, he had to bring up his name and torture me with a history of that retarded creep: Stalin had been a heroic revolutionary who fought for years against the oppression of the Tsars; his first name had been Koba, which meant the never vanquished; he had become the "awesome" Man of Steel during his five-year imprisonment in Siberia; he had returned to Moscow where he slaughtered all the intellectuals because they were too intelligent for his tastes and couldn't understand the danger of the looming conflict with Hitler; and, at the beginning of the war, he had killed all his generals because they were supposedly bunglers and Nazi sympathizers. Isn't that an impressive resume! Mr. D must have been really bombed out of his sneakers to talk about somebody like that to a woman—there's a surefire way to make a good first impression! It was _very_ bizarre--almost as if he had sensed my feelings for Hitler and then decided to insult me. I mean, I said to myself, where is this coming from? Some freaked-out juvenile I meet in a bar starts raving about his idol who just happens to be the man who killed Hitler. And he's telling this to me, and I'm Eva Braun. On and on he went like somebody who was controlled by an evil spirit: Stalin was a savior because he had defeated the Nazis, and the battle of Stalingrad was the greatest moment in the history of man. What could I say? Stalin, the drunken runt, who had, of course, murdered his wife had won _that_ war. I was too angry for words, and I began to wish I owned a gun and had it in my hand, so I could put a bullet into his head. That's the way Hitler did things--he went straight for your head and blew your stupid brains out!

Finally, after I returned home and had calmed down a little bit, another idea came to me, a real brainstorm, as I remembered something that I had learned in the back seat of Johnny Newman's car during my sophomore year in high school--I can torment him sexually. We'll see who wins that war! Nothing hurts a man like that, and they are such easy prey for it, boys much more so. Once you get those vile beasts going, they can't stop until they fall flat on their disgusting faces. I'll bring the dirty little devil right to the edge and then deflate him--he'll be devastated! That's what I call stabbing a person in the heart!

I do have a temper, don't I?

March 25th,

Clayton went to Bleakfester Dump for the weekend. After partying at Roosters with Darnell, I invite him to come home with me. I can tell that he is aroused and ready to go to Bodickker's Paradise (I love the slang words for sex that they use at Roosters). I do nothing to discourage him, but once we are inside, I make up a crazy story that fits in with my plan of torturing him--it comes to me like a revelation from out of the heavens. I tell him that we have to be very careful because my father would kill me if he came home and caught me having sex with someone. Even though I let him kiss me, I keep pushing him away, and he begins to get angry. I say that I would gladly take him to Paradise except for Clayton, and he wants to know what it is with this dude. "Does he work for the Gestapo or something?" he asks me. Not a good choice of words by Mr. D, but to escape his anger and prolong his agony, I pretend to cry and tell him that Clayton has been doing some really horrible things to me. Actually, of course, it's--well, that's another story! "Like what?" Darnell wants to know. Men are so pathetic and easy to fool, and I amuse myself by concocting a lurid tale of nighttime gropings, forcible massages, and an aborted pregnancy. D is outraged, and I hold my hands over my face--hopefully, it appears I am sobbing. "And because of that, I don't think that I can ever...you know...commit myself to a man" (that last word was certainly a bit of a stretch) "while he is doing these things to me--it's too dangerous, not only for me but also for you." I am beginning to enjoy this conversation because it is leading me somewhere that I had never thought of going before.

D is prattling on about ratting him out, but I tell him that he doesn't understand what it's like to be molested. "If I did that and he found out about it--which he would--then he would murder me. And...I know it's a strange thing to say, but I don't suppose that you've ever contemplated killing your parents, have you?" He is properly shocked and rearing back from me, he says, "No, of course not." I begin sobbing again, and this time it is almost for real--maybe I should consider becoming an actress! "He's ruined my life," I blurt out hysterically, "and I don't think it's wrong to kill a man like my father who's done so many terrible things to me." I wonder if he is catching on to the idea: Do something for me, and I'll do something for you. Probably not--I'll have to figure out a way to make it clearer.

April 2nd,

Gradually, I am coming around to the idea that it would be a wonderful thing for me if my father were to die. Of course I haven't told him that! But seriously, he is no use to me while he is alive, and he made the mistake a few years ago of telling me that I would inherit this house if he were to kick the bucket. He claimed the mortgage was paid off, and if that's true, I would end up much better off than I am now. And then, about a week ago, he said something to me that made me just about fly out of my chair and crash into the ceiling. He was drunk and slurring his words when he began bragging to me about how important he had become now that he was the Drug Czar. According to him, outside of Randall Prince, he was the only one who had keys to the safe where they kept all the contraband drugs. Naturally, he winked at me when he said that--no doubt, he'll be snorting the stuff up as fast as they put it in there. I know that he keeps all his keys on a chain that is attached to his belt--maybe I could get my hands on them and break into the safe! How much money, I wondered, could I make selling all that stuff? Talk about nervy--but I should probably forget about that because it would be too dangerous and could connect me with his upcoming (I hope!) murder. On the other hand, during the time that I spent prowling around the station last fall, I discovered that at two o'clock in the morning, that place is a ghost town of four or five zonked-out derelicts who spend their time playing poker, drinking whisky, and watching dirty movies. Meanwhile, the drug safe sits unattended in the back part of the basement--in fact, the night I went down there, it was so dark and deserted that it gave me the creeps. I was possessed with a spooky feeling that the place was swarming with rats, and I'm not talking about the ones who wear uniforms! So, provided I can obtain Clayton's keys, it really shouldn't be a very difficult heist to pull off, and I would never have to work again. No more Emporium! And if I can get D to pull the trigger while I establish an alibi, then there would be no more Clayton, no more Mr. Yucko!

Friday night, we cannot go home because Clayton is there as he sleeps off another monster hangover, but it is very warm for this time of year, and we sit on a park bench. I am sporting a self-administered black eye that came about when I punched myself in the face a few times--it was a very strange experience! Since it didn't turn black right away, I overdid it somewhat and am looking very grotesque. I wonder if it's worth it because, after all, how likely is it that I can talk Darnell into something like murder? However, he is young, foolish, and probably a virgin, so there's definitely some hope, and I am rather thrilled with my new adventure. We kiss and I let him put his hands all over me until I can feel that he is about to explode in a gigantic gusher of gooey glory. At exactly the right moment, I suddenly draw back from him and say, "I can't...I'm too afraid...I just can't do these things--not while he is alive, not when he follows me around at night, not when he might come around the corner at any second. I'm telling you--he might very well kill me if he found us together like this, and I _know_ that he would beat me. You have no idea how many times he's done this to me," I said as I turned slightly so that my blackened eye was only inches from his.

There is a long silence before he says, "It's evil to do something like that to a woman."

"And I can't do anything about it because if I killed him, everyone would suspect that I was the one who had murdered him. I've told too many people about the abuse that I've taken from him, and even the moron cops would be able to figure out what happened."

Pointing at my eye, he says, "Why did he do that to you?"

"He was trying to...he wanted to, you know...and I tried to stop him, but..."

"He's _still_ doing _that_ to you?"

"I told you he was! I told you that--nobody listens to me, nobody cares what happens to me, nobody cares whether I live or die." Boo-hoo-hoo, woe is me!

He is staring off into space, and I can tell that he is thinking about it. It and _it,_ actually _._ I don't want to get my hopes up, but I think he might be hooked.

April 10th,

[Here follows a long entry concerning Crystal's employment at the Bomb Emporium, which I have condensed and also amended with some opinions of my own--it appears in this book as Chapter Fourteen, Nine to Five.]

April 22nd,

I woke up on the 20th and lay in bed for an hour while I made some heavy decisions. D has been wavering and saying stupid things like he could never take the life of another human being, but I am convinced that he can't make the commitment of killing without an equally serious commitment from myself. He doesn't consciously think that, but I can't expect a Platonic relationship to induce him to murder, which means, Dear Diary, that provided he is willing to consent to the "contract" in a way that I find believable, I am going to...I don't think I need to spell that one out! And why shouldn't I let him do what he wants to do?

For one thing, it goes against my principles. Remember the days when I wanted to torment the barbarian from Russia? What if I were to go to Bodickker's with him and he dumped me? It would be so much better if I could get him to kill Clayton without having to endure his gross adolescent passions, and then when it came time to pay the bill, I could ditch him. What could he do--go to the cops? But I have reluctantly come to realize that D will not fight or die or kill for a woman until he has gone to Paradise with her, and that means I am going to have to make a compromise, but what difference does that make? Was Hitler a man of principle? Give me a break! That's the whole point of Nazism, and Adolf was the courageous leader who was always ready to smash through any obstacle that stood in his path. Would he have sent Eva into the bed of a Russian if it furthered his aims? And if my whole plan fails, so be it, but I am doing the best I can to calculate it out carefully and, if possible, make the unbreakable promise of sexual love into a bargain for murder.

That night, Clayton departs for Bleakfester Dump--it will almost certainly be another one of his all-night drinking binges, and I know the Drug Czar will be stewed and pickled before he comes home around dawn--if then. Of course, it wouldn't really matter if Old Guzzlehead returned early because he wouldn't care if I was in bed with two guys, a lesbian, and a horse, but I would have to keep up appearances with D if he unexpectedly returned. It's about as likely as the moon flying off its orbit and disappearing into outer space, but wouldn't that be an unpleasant and awkward turn of events!

The two of us go out to Roosters and dance for a while--I am holding him close to me, _much_ closer than I have ever done before. Around eleven, I suggest we buy a couple of bottles of wine and go to my house where we can be "alone." We sit on the couch in the living room and make out until I tell him that it is too scary for me to be that close to the front door, and I would feel safer in my bedroom. The Promised Land! Once there, I take him to one of the windows and make him solemnly promise that if Clayton returns, he'll jump out--it's about twelve feet to the ground, but if he hangs by his hands before he jumps, it won't be so bad. "It shouldn't have to be this way," I say as I pull him towards me.

We fall onto the bed where he is trying to push me onto my back. "No, no," I say sliding away from him, "I don't think I can--I'm just too frightened, and you're too young. There's no way that you really want to commit yourself to me." The poor boy is panting and perspiring. "That's not true," he croaks out as he advances boorishly towards me. I can feel that his heart is pounding, and there is absolutely no doubt that his "blood" is throbbing. However, I remain true to my principles and hold him back by saying, "Why should I make a commitment to you, if you won't make one to me?"

"What are you talking about?" he says in a husky voice. "I'll do anything for you."

And they say that only women can become hysterical! If it hadn't been so important to me, I would have laughed in his face. I place my hand on his back under his shirt and begin to claw him erotically. Bringing my face closer to his, I say, "Anything? Anything at all?" He is beginning to realize what the question means, which makes him hesitate, and I remove my hand from his back but keep it under his shirt. "How much do you love me?" I ask, whispering "breathlessly" into his ear. He hasn't said anything, but I can see that he is giving in because what I offer him is too irresistible, and he has longed for it for so many nights, so many desire-drenched nights--God knows how many times he has satisfied himself on my account. Totally helpless before his urges, he assents to my desire with a groan, a grunt, and the promise that I want to hear as he realizes murder is nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasures and supreme gratifications that a woman can offer a man.

Afterwards, he is noble, just as I had expected. "Do you have a gun?" he asks me.

April 24th,

Clayton returns at 3 A.M. plastered out of his wits. He is talkative, and I entertain myself by pretending that I am interested in his new responsibilities. When I ask him what he thinks the street value of the confiscated drugs might be and he says three to four million, I almost fall off my chair and crash into the basement. I decided right then and there that, risk or not, I wasn't passing up a chance at that kind of payday. But how do I turn the drugs into money? The next day when I am with D, I tell him that I am looking to buy some coke and ask him if he knows any dealers.

I don't like to write down every single last idiotic detail because, after a while, my hand begins to ache, and I find myself getting bored, but to make a long story short, D directs me to this snooty place called the Captain's Cabin that is crawling with upper-class vermin where I "accidentally" encounter a drug dealer named, if you can believe it, Bestwick Deel. It is hard for me to take him seriously because, besides his ridiculous name, ugly face, and scrawny physique, he is undersexed to the point of being almost sexless. I want to tell him that he needs to get his battery charged and _recharged_ \--rev it up a little bit, baby!

However, I have heard some amazing stories about him from D--including the interesting fact that it is rumored he has inherited millions. After sizing him up, I decide that he might be worth the "effort," and having already paid off the bartender, I am able to coax Bestwick into a private room where I make him a proposition: If he is willing to give me a half-million dollars in cash, I'll furnish him with three million dollars' worth of drugs along with some very intense and immediate gratification. Incredibly, he starts to stammer and sweat as he falls into some kind of perverse sexual agony--you would have thought I was dragging him to the execution chamber instead of Paradise, but at last, I am able to entice him into the Abode of the Gods.

Perhaps, when all this is over, I will become a poet!

May 31st,

It has not been easy these last few weeks. The biggest problem, besides trying to keep Darnell the Dingdong on the reservation, was finding a gun. I certainly wasn't going to buy one, and Mr. D (for debatable) was too young--in this state, you can drive when you're sixteen, but you can't buy a gun until you're eighteen. How stupid is that? Finally, out of desperation, I asked Clayton because it occurred to me that if things went according to plan, he wouldn't be around to tell anyone that I had been inquiring about a gun. How smart is that? I told him that I felt scared walking the streets without some protection, and he was only too happy to offer me the first gun he had used when he joined the force--one of his old "six-shooters," as he called it. No way! I don't know that much about guns, but I thought it might be possible they could trace the bullets that would soon be in his body back to him and thence to me. Thinking quickly, I said I didn't want some old thing that might misfire when a rapist came charging down onto me from a dark alley but something that was new and state of the art--perhaps, I suggested hopefully, he could get it for me as a birthday present. So last Monday, the 23rd, what do you suppose I found outside my door? You guessed it, and he even included the bullets. I look at them now and wonder which one of the little fellows will put an end to the drunken bum's life. "You are charged," I say softly to them, "with a mighty task--please remain true to your purpose, and do not forsake me in my hour of need." Everyone else can pray to God, but I'll pray to my bullets, thank you!

The next day, when I gave the gun to D, I told him Clayton had become suspicious that I was having sex with someone _else_ (I say that word with very special emphasis) and that he had gone berserk and started to strangle me. As evidence, I showed Darnell the marks around my throat--the night before, I had found a rope, made it into a noose, tightened it around my neck, attached the other end to my bed, and after repeatedly attempting to leave the room, my neck was looking a little the worse for wear! Am I getting good at this or what? However, Darnell is not that impressed and has even become standoffish, but I realize it is only sexual frustration because I have been too concerned with my own troubles. He is complaining that he has _needs_ and I know what that means! It is feeding time and the baby, who is crying for his bottle, needs to be pacified.

When he has finished with his thrombulations, he is much more solicitous and agreeable. Clayton has been good enough to show me how to operate the gun, and I pass on this valuable information to D. We decide, depending on circumstances, that he will blow away the Drug Czar this weekend or the next one. Wish me luck!

June 13th, (It is here that Miranda placed her finger on the page beside the date, the 13th, which was yesterday, Monday.)

First of all, I had a major panic attack--what if someone found this little book? I raced back here about an hour before midnight and found it undisturbed where I had left it. I realized that I had been silly because the cops in this town are so brain dead that they would never have noticed it unless I had left it on my bed with a picture of a naked woman on the cover. Still, I should probably burn my words as they are rather incriminating! But I can't bring myself to do that because memory is often an unreliable witness, and I want there to be a written record of my feelings so that when I am older, I can read about these incredible events. They are ultra-bizarre and truly beyond belief, but as I unfortunately discovered, truth is stranger than fiction.

This is not going to be easy to write about because something happened to me that I am going to find _excruciating_ to relive. All of a sudden, in an instant, everything took an unforeseen turn, and I experienced the _ultimate_ terror, but at least I am alive, and that is more than some can say!

Clayton's murder went off without a hitch, which is a little surprising when you consider the immaturity of the shooter. I came back here early last Saturday morning, and after seeing that Clayton had officially become a carcass, I called the cops. To properly celebrate the expected arrival of my loony true-blue guests, I changed into some clothes that were very gross and repellent because I know for a fact that men are always more suspicious of beautiful, seductive women. How clever is that?

Eventually, there was a knock on the door, and I was greeted by a worthless old boozehound who was probably forty but looked sixty and a baby-faced kid who puked all over the place when he saw the body. The next act in the three-ring circus was a pair of detectives who obviously thought they were the living reincarnations of Sherlock Holmes although I found them to be more similar to Punch and Judy. I was a bit too sassy with them, but they were so incredibly inept and stupid that it was irresistible.

My Diary, I swear to you that I am not making this up--one of them must have been Darnell's father because he had the same last name and looked a lot like him, except seedier. Undoubtedly, like all the rest of the cops in this town, he hits the bottle morning, noon, and night. On top of that, it was obvious that he hadn't had sex with anyone else but himself in years--talk about a totally pathetic and worn-out character! And the woman! Maybe I should call her an overgrown girl with a seething but suppressed libido--was _black--_ and I do mean _black_. She was about the blackest person that I've ever seen, but I have to hand it to her--she was attractive, creepy but attractive. If Darnell's father is anything like him, I'll bet he's dying to rip her pants off. As we all know, sex between the races is vulgar and dangerous, but it can be quite a temptation! Even though I don't like to admit it, I know from my own experience with Barzon Ranes how incredibly erotic it can be--especially for the uninitiated. He is the only man that ever took me all the way to Bodickker's--I've never felt anything like that before or since. Too bad! That'll be the day when I'm caught in public with someone who looks like that. But you should have seen the way this James guy kept looking at the black beauty, and I'm not just talking about her face--he's obviously dying to get his hands on her, but I can tell that she thinks she's special, very special. Yes sir, she's a _detective_ now and can't be bothered with the urges of the animals—it's so ridiculous when racially inferior people start to take themselves seriously. Besides, when she comes down off her little cloud, she's going to go for someone _physical,_ someone with a real motor--not that shriveled up gasping mess of a man.

I do have a sharp tongue, don't I?

However, it is so plain to me that my words are only a desperate attempt to cover up the trauma that I am experiencing, which I am afraid--which I know--I will experience again and again. For sure, for absolutely certain, the memories I have of what happened to me will be worse than the worst part of the worst nightmare that I will ever have. Dear Diary, I am determined to write this down while it is still clear in my mind, but one thing is for sure: No one will be putting this on the recommended reading list for the faint of heart because if these weaklings were forced to endure what I _actually_ experienced, they would never have survived--not in a million years.

## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:

## "WHEN THE GUN'S POINTED AT YOUR HEAD..."

"What are you reading?" I heard Jake say. "Whatever it is, I doubt that it's as good as what I have in my hands."

Stunned, outraged, and totally transfixed by the words of Crystal Shane, I remained silent. This was definitely one of the times when the thoughts in my mind were better off being left unsaid. "What have you found?" said Miranda, looking at Jake.

"A collection of love letters that some sap wrote to her--he signs himself with a capital D. When I'm exposed to things like this, I feel fortunate to have reached the age where I'll never have to experience the privilege of being young again. These are much worse than the ones I wrote to my first wife, and I wouldn't have thought that to be possible."

Miranda glanced sideways at me and sighed; in a horrifying vision, I could see myself bashing Crystal Shane's head against a wall until there was nothing left but a few fragments. There was a rage within me that I hadn't felt since I was a teenager--I now knew that, somehow or other, one or both of these kids had killed Gloria and Cassandra, but I should have been aware of something else that was really rather obvious and potentially immediate, but I am, no doubt, too harsh with myself.

Vaguely, I could hear Miranda talking to Jake about what we had discovered in the diary, and it was not hard for him to realize that the D of the love letters was Darnell. Dejectedly, he walked around the bed, sat down beside me, and the three of us continued with our psychotic bedtime story, _The_ _Unexpurgated_ _Memoirs_ _of_ _Hitler's_ _Mistress_.

I had [she wrote] to go out to the kitchen and mix myself a strong drink. This will be almost impossible to write about, and I am afraid that I will have flashbacks and start screaming. Hitler was so brave! He was never afraid of death, and here I am quaking in my boots because I can't get the terror of that _final_ _instant_ out of my mind.

It is so difficult for me now to remember anything before last night which was, would have been Sunday--my hand is starting to shake again. But I'm already becoming irrational, and if I am going to write about this, and I am, then I need to be strong and not become hysterical-- _again_.

I know that it all began Saturday night, the night after the murder of Clayton, when Darnell and I met at Franklin Court. He arrived acting like a professional assassin--quite cool, even nonchalant, and I was impressed that he had followed my instructions and stolen the Drug Czar's keys. But that wasn't all that D had come back with--he had demonstrated real presence of mind and rifled through Clayton's pockets where he found a humongous bag of coke. We were, of course, unable to resist the temptation of the white stuff, and looking back on it, I think that was the start of our downfall.

He was expecting another payment on his "contract," and I was in no mood to object because the lure of much bigger prey had entered my mind, and I wanted to have Darnell by my side. For me, these were the giddy hours of triumph when I began to think that we might be the next Bonnie and Clyde.

Despite appearances and rumors, I am a woman of culture with refined tastes, but even so, during our time between the sheets that evening, I was much more unrestrained than usual, and the result was that we had a rollicking ride through the fields of Paradise--for once, panting profusely and completely losing all sense of my self-control, I entered the Abode of the Gods. Later, after we had arrived back on planet earth and wiped ourselves off, I explained to him that I needed to find an accomplice for a dangerous task.

"What is it this time?" he said gloomily.

I tickled "him" playfully. "How would you like to make fifty thousand dollars for a couple of hours work?"

That perked "the little fireman" right back up, and a couple of hours later, we were hot-rodding it down to the police station. I told D that if anyone inside the building noticed us, I would say that we were going to my father's office to collect (here I would make a brave attempt to hold back the tears) his personal effects, the things that I could (sob, sob, sob) remember him by. That would also be a good explanation for the four large plastic garbage bags we were carrying. Granted, it was a little odd to be there at 2 A.M., but (here would be the time for a mournful howl) I hadn't been able to sleep since his tragic death, which had left me deeply depressed. Blubbering uncontrollably, I would say that I desperately needed to retrieve my favorite keepsake from his office. That, of course, would be the teddy bear I had given my Dad on his last birthday, and how could I help myself if I yearned to hold it close to my breast so that I could smell the familiar smells and remember the times that we had shared, the times that were gone forever?

Nobody, and I mean nobody, can think on their feet as fast as I can.

But I needn't have worried. Using Clayton's precisely labeled keys (thank you, Daddy!) as well as my knowledge of the building, we went in the side entrance, walked down a flight of stairs, and proceeded down a long corridor without observing anyone. The door to the room that housed the safe had three padlocks on it, while the safe itself, which was nothing more than a large iron box with a door that swung open, had a profusion of confusing locks that took me at least twenty minutes to negotiate--it must have been designed by somebody on drugs! But at last, after breaking into Fort Knox, we exultantly grabbed bag after bag of the Holy Powders and Sacred Pills and threw them into our plastic satchels. Darnell, with my help, had written an insulting note to his father that I thought was hilarious--sexually, if that former man was a car, they'd haul him to the junkyard and crush him into scrap metal. _Spent_.

We left the room and tottered down the corridor towards the exit, but I hope that no one ever asks me what I would have said if we had encountered anyone on that trek because I have absolutely no idea--even a genius needs a little bit of luck to succeed! Nevertheless, it all came down without a hitch, but as we were driving off, I suddenly wondered what we were going to do with this colossal pile of drugs until I could find a way to unload them. Bestwick had suddenly disappeared--undoubtedly the sex had become too rough for his delicate tastes, and he was probably hiding in a hole somewhere and praying that I wouldn't stumble over him, grab his wallet, and yank his pants off.

It is difficult for me to describe how my mind was working at this--I mean that--point. I had never snorted so much coke in my life, and I was thinking or reacting to every instant of every second--bam, bam, bam. However, the sad truth was that I hadn't even thought of the most obvious fact--where, I wondered, are we going with our three-million-dollar cargo? I wasn't about to keep it at Franklin Court because the cops had made it clear that they were interested in me and had already warned me that they might be arriving with a search warrant. Why would you give someone advance notice of that? If they gave out prizes for stupidity, the Darwin City Police would have to buy an auditorium to hold all the trophies!

Yet I shouldn't brag _too_ much. Reluctantly, I have to admit that in the heat of battle, I made some serious errors because, when I look back on it, the solution Darnell and I arrived at was fantastically foolish, but my reason was so warped by all the coke I had done that I assumed it was the perfect finish to the perfect crime. According to D, we could hide the drugs at his house--there was an old unused tool shed behind the garage that no one went into anymore, and even if they did, the garbage bags wouldn't arouse any suspicion. I was more than happy to get them out of my car and onto someone else's property, but there was one very important fact that I neglected to consider. I think that in the future, if I decide to pursue a criminal career, I will refrain, at least at certain times, from the use of cocaine, which tends to make me overconfident and too reckless.

It was, by this time, nearly 4 A.M., and after disposing of our loot, we returned to the raptures of my bed, which sustained us in ways that I do not care to share--even with you, Eva. I can't believe that I just wrote her name down. I meant to say Dear Diary, but I know that tonight, tonight of all nights when I am faced with the unwelcome memories of that _final_ _instant_ , she is close to my heart and never far from my thoughts. Some can pray to the Virgin (and why would anyone want to pray to that concept?), but I will share my thoughts and feelings with Eva.

But when it comes to my sexual experiences, I do have to be realistic, and since it is always possible that someone else might read this, I need to be careful and not end up becoming the means of my own embarrassment. (Sometimes, when I read a sentence like the last one, I am amazed at my verbal skills. I have always considered writing to be an art, and that is why I think it's important for a real writer to show evidence of culture and employ words that are elegant and display good breeding. And then, when I consider the experiences I have had, I know I could write a novel that would make the things by a best-selling author look like a comic book for a catatonic baby.)

After our erotic enjoyments and endearments, I was ready to fall asleep, but Darnell, who seemed upset and was thrashing around, finally left the bed and staked out three lines of the white stuff, which rapidly disappeared up his nose. For a few minutes, he paced wildly around the room before he picked up the gun, said something about repaying a debt, and vanished without saying another word.

This is so exhausting to write about and my hand is cramping up again. I had better treat myself to a specialty of the house--a double dose of Big Daddy Shane's Nerve Tonic.

I am back after doing up two lines of coke and washing them down with two shots of vodka. That was my father's specialty, the infamous coketail, and I have to admit that he was sometimes more intelligent than I've ever given him credit for. My head is _zooming,_ and I feel like I could climb Mt. Everest naked. Wouldn't that be an amazing achievement? It would be a blurry photo, of course, but I'd be on the cover of every magazine in the world.

Where was I? Details, details, details--I hate details unless they're about something interesting, and then they're not details anymore. That's why I can't tolerate listening to people older than me talk--they invariably go off on these weird verbal benders and bludgeon you over the head with a mass of irrelevant details and then, for good measure, throw in details about the details. I feel like screaming at them, "Get on with it, will you?" but the sad truth is that they don't have the strength to get it on with anyone anymore. They would undoubtedly be much better off if they stopped blabbering about nothing, folded up their weather-beaten leaky tents and figured out a way to put an end to themselves. Since they're just taking up valuable space and gobbling up the earth's resources, I'm sure that Darwin would approve.

After Darnell left, I can't remember much of the rest of the day. I think I slept off and on until early evening and then went to the Captain's Cabin where I met Bestwick's brother--see, there I go--I'm starting to talk about these microscopically little things that don't make the least bit of difference, and that's a perfect description of Dennis Deel.

Realizing Bestwick was now a lost cause, I came back here where I found Darnell holding a picture of Hitler--it happened to be the one that I kept in a little book of quotes that I had written down from Mein Kampf. The things that I am writing about now are _not_ details. These are events, the first in a series of _traumatic_ events.

"What are you doing with a picture of this rabid baboon?" he yelled at me.

I'm just like everybody else, and I don't appreciate people screaming at me--especially juvenile boys who aren't even old enough to be in junior college. I was also in the middle of a major coke binge, and my temper, which I have always had a difficult time with, was ready to snap. I stared venomously at him and wondered if I was supposed to go through the rest of my life as a closet Nazi.

"So what?" I screamed at him. "Maybe I like to look at his face so that when we go to Bodickker's, I can imagine what it would be like to make love to a real man and not a classless mental midget who's infatuated with the Russians and can't stop drooling all over me when the big moment arrives." Actually, that last part wasn't true, but I thought it sounded cruel, even vicious, and I knew that he would have no way of knowing whether or not he drooled when he was in Paradise. Plus, whenever I get angry at a man, I find it irresistible to insult their sexuality. It drives them crazy, and they go into their comical purple rages--frothing and spluttering with their bulging eyes, flexing muscles, and suppressed orgasmic spasms. Except for teenage boys, there is nothing more stupid on this earth than a man, and that's a known fact!

But Darnell only laughed, which I found alarming. "How many times," he said, "do you suppose I shot our local Nazi, Kaiser Hess?"

"You did what?" I said slowly.

"It was fun," said D indifferently. "He was an evil man, a nationalist, and he deserved to die."

"You're crazy," I screeched. "Everybody on this earth is a nationalist, you dimwit. What are you going to do when the enemy arrives on our shores and announces on their bullhorns that they're going to exterminate you? Then you'll be waving the flag and kissing the boots of the soldiers because when the gun's pointed at your head, you'll start singing a different tune." I was furious and the fury seemed to feed on itself. I felt--knew--that I was bigger and stronger than the miserable piece of intellectual lowlife that was standing in front of me. A Stalinist! Talk about the absolute bottom of the barrel.

I had always admired the Kaiser, and since this is my diary, I think I can admit that there was a time in my life when my feelings for him, especially at night, were not at all Platonic. I blush with embarrassment when I think about it, but it was during my senior year at Darwin King that I had, with great difficulty, managed to place myself in a situation where I hoped that the Kaiser would realize that he could safely take full advantage of me, and I had also made it unmistakably clear to him that I would encourage any advance that he might make upon me, but unfortunately, he was a man of integrity, and although we did, or I should say he did indulge himself up to a certain point, there was never that total commitment that I had been longing for. However, these are really selfish feelings--what is important and what can never be denied is that I am a patriotic woman, one of Darnell's evil nationalists, and I thought that every citizen owed a debt of gratitude to the Kaiser. How many young men and women had he prepared for the military life, and how many enemies had they slaughtered in the defense of our homeland?

But all I could think of as I advanced towards Darnell while my head exploded with a crackling electric rage was that he had insulted Hitler, and to me, those are fighting words. This, Hitler the man, was the homeland of my heart, and when he called him a rabid baboon, that also included Eva, and as I spit full force into his face, I was screaming to myself the same words that He had used before going to war with the barbarians from Russia: "Is life more precious than honor?" At the same moment, I remembered what I had just said: "When the gun's pointed at your head, you'll start singing a different tune." My mind was racing, literally racing at a million miles per second, and when I saw the gun on the table, I instinctively grabbed it with the idea of frightening him, but suddenly, as I raised the gun, it came flashing across my mind that it would be an excellent idea to kill him. Any flickering inhibitions that I might have had were quickly swept away by the thoughts that not only would I avenge the Kaiser, but I would also eliminate the only person who could implicate me in my father's murder.

Darnell saw me raise the weapon but seemed strangely unconcerned and made no attempt to evade his doom as I pointed the death dealer directly at his head. If I were you, I thought, I would at least attempt to duck, but he was apparently suffering from the deer-in-the-headlight syndrome, and in the last split second before I pulled the trigger, I felt immensely powerful and I realized--this is what I felt then--that killing another person was no different than stepping on an ant. Any hesitation I felt was the mere remnant of an ancient morality that made no sense in this day and age. What difference did it make whether Darnell lived or died? Was the earth going to stop turning? Would God, that feeble fellow with the crazy suicidal son, come down from his eternal coma and strike me dead for my "sin?" And so, with a kind of exuberance I hadn't felt in years, I pulled the trigger on the defenseless rabbit, and my only regret was for the bloody mess that I expected I would have to clean up.

But nothing happened. No loud noise, no exploding head, nothing. Infuriated and alarmed, I pulled the trigger again, again, and again. Nothing. Thinking that maybe the stupid contraption had jammed, I shook it violently in the air to loosen any obstructions that might be present, but when, as before, I raised it to perform its lethal duty and my finger issued the deadly instruction, I was left with a hollow and very anticlimactic click.

"It doesn't work very well without bullets," said Darnell with a sneer on his face. Now, as he advanced towards me, I felt completely powerless and quite scared. For the first time, I realized why it might not be a good idea to attempt to kill a person--the gun might malfunction and then what? Maybe, I thought, I should try to run, but I realized that would only inspire him to chase me, and then, in his mind, I would turn into a piece of prey to be devoured. It was better, except as an extreme last resort, to stand my ground.

And it worked! It certainly had appeared that his intention was to strike me, perhaps even attempt to kill me, but now, as I glared fiercely into his eyes, he hesitated. Finally, before he spoke, I could see a cloud of indecision and cowardice pass across his face, and I knew that I had triumphed.

Pushing me away with his hand contemptuously, he said, "I won't ever forget that you tried to kill me, Crystal. Don't come near me again, or I will return the favor--only this time the gun will be loaded."

Did he really think he could frighten me with words like that? It was so pathetic--Darnell was trying to act like a real man, but he was still just a boy because if he had been Hitler, I would have been dead.

After he had left, however, I was suddenly aware of a very serious three-million-dollar problem: I had lost control of the drugs, and they were currently in the hands of someone who had threatened to kill me. This was a dilemma that seemed to have no solution, and I spent a difficult night wrestling with a bewildering variety of demons. To begin with, there was the massive amount of coke I had ingested that evening, which made me very angry--so much so that I went and found the box of bullets and reloaded the gun. Let's see if he'll laugh this time--POW! But, of course, he wasn't around, and I sank into a state of dejected frustration, which was only relieved by drinking myself into such a terrible stupor that I was forced to do another couple of lines of coke to revive myself.

That cleared out the cobwebs, and my thoughts finally began to make some sense. What good would it do to murder him, much as he deserved it? In fact, it might be important for me not to sign his execution warrant, at least not immediately, because it seemed likely, out of either spite or greed, that he would move the drugs somewhere else, so only if he were alive would I be able to recover them. But where else could he put them? He didn't have a car, so if he had moved them, there was a strong likelihood that they would still be at his house.

Finally, just before dawn, the plan became clear to me, and the best part about it was that if I did run into Darnell, I might still be able to kill him. I was having some difficulty with my temper, the nasty voice that arises in my head when I know that I have been wronged. I was very conflicted because if I had been given the choice of regaining the drugs or killing Darnell, I was not sure which one I would have chosen. Hopefully, I could do both, but the basic decision was to recover the drugs first, and once I had them safely in my possession, it would be easier to deal--POW--with Darnell.

I still wonder, however, why it was that everything went so wrong...

## CHAPTER THIRTY: A CLEAR CASE OF SELF-DEFENSE

After finally falling into a fitful, coked-out sleep where I suffered through a seemingly endless dream in which I was bleeding and falling down a long flight of stairs, I was awakened around nine by some fire trucks and their blaring horns. The first thing I did, besides going into the bathroom and throwing up, was to call Darnell. Begging him to meet me, I told him that the night before when I had picked up the gun, it was because the cocaine had made me crazy, and for all I know, that might even have been the truth.

"What do you really want, Crystal?" he said in a voice that was intended to be vicious but sounded more like that of a truculent nine-year-old who was being dragged into the dentist's chair. "By now, I'm sure that you've reloaded the gun and are just waiting for me to walk into the room so that you can blow me away."

"Darnell, listen, I made a terrible mistake last night, and--"

"Mistake?" Darnell yelled into my ear. "Who do you suppose would have been the one to pay for that mistake? I'm just lucky I hated the Kaiser so much that I kept pulling the trigger until the gun ran out of bullets. If I'd been more rational, I'd be dead now. I'll tell you what--the next time you have an urge to shoot someone, why don't you do the world a favor and put the gun to your own head?"

So that was the way it was going to be--now that I'd given him what he wanted sexually and he'd had his filthy way with my body, he was going to take the drugs and dump me. If I had tried to shoot him just before the first time we had gone to Paradise, does anyone really think that he would be saying these things to me now? If they do, they don't understand lust-crazed boys--which is also what all men really are. Only when most boys get older, they like to dress up their ugly urges with something that sounds a little bit better than a four-letter word, and so they get married, which is nothing but legalized prostitution minus, of course, the hassle of cruising the streets and searching for a diseased-free hooker who can satisfy their sick fantasies of sexual conquest.

I was so angry that I couldn't say a word.

"Get out of my life, Crystal. I'm leaving this house right now because I have to find a gun to defend myself, and if you're stupid enough to come near me, I will shoot you right through the heart."

With that gallant sentiment, he slammed down the phone, but for the first and last time on this awful day, I was able to smile because my purpose in calling had been to draw him away from his house, and although I had failed, I now knew that he would not be there. As for the words that he had spoken to me, they would never be forgiven. I think if he had accepted my apology, as insincere as it was, I might have relented--probably not, but nobody will ever talk to me in such a despicable way without paying a very heavy price. Despite what happened a few hours later, despite directly experiencing the extreme panic of that _final_ _instant,_ there is nothing on this earth that will ever prevent me from killing him.

But all that was far from my mind as I drove over to Darnell's house on Darson Road where I parked the car on a side street and waited about twenty minutes. For the time being, it was essential to avoid Darnell because he would never let me get my hands on the drugs--I could shoot him, but what good would that do? Even if I was able to locate the stash, everything would be ruined if I had to kill him, or anyone else, because then it would be imperative to flee the house as quickly and surreptitiously as possible, and in that case, I would never be able to get the garbage bags into my car. It was certainly not my intention to harm anyone, and the only reason I brought the gun with me in my purse was to give myself some authority and leverage since I really had no idea who would be there and what I would encounter.

As I got out of my car, I was glad to see that I was thinking rationally. Wisely, as it turned out, I had decided to wear a light pair of driving gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints, but no matter how it might appear to others later, I wasn't thinking about murder at all--I was thinking about drugs and money. And as far as the gun goes, it was also true that I needed one for self-defense as Darnell had now threatened my life twice, and it was obvious that our relationship had degenerated to the point where it was crucial to be the one to get off the first shot. Just because I eventually ended up firing the gun and killing two people doesn't mean that I am guilty of anything, and I think it is more than fair to say that what occurred in his house was an accident--a twist of fate that was precipitated by a very unwise remark, which was directed at me by a snotty, uneducated teenager.

I am getting ahead of myself, but I can't help it because I am still infuriated that I lost my ability to reason, which destroyed my carefully contrived scheme, and then if I am ever caught, I will be accused of murder. Wouldn't that be the ultimate travesty of justice? I mean, even when I shot the imbeciles, I had no real intention of murdering them. Some might doubt that because I shot them both in the head, but that was nothing but a defense mechanism and a subconscious reflex--something I learned from reading about Hitler and the Nazis. It is probably true, at least from one point of view, that I shouldn't have shot D's sister a second time as she was pathetically attempting to crawl out of the room, but I felt sorry for her and wanted to put her out of her misery--which I did. To be completely honest, I knew she could identify me so that entered into my thinking to some extent, but there is no doubt that what I did was an act of mercy because she was vomiting blood and within minutes would have died a horrible death. I have seen animals suffer, and nobody thinks that it's a crime to give them a "shot." And so, if there is a God--which seems highly doubtful--and I am called before Him to answer for these bloody events, I will say that while the final shot was an act of compassion, the first shots, the one to the old lady's stupid head and the other to the back of the obnoxious daughter as she tried to run out of the room, were a form of self-defense, an instinctive response to a threat, which, I might add, was preceded by an unprovoked insult. If He can't understand that, then I'll go live with Hitler in hell.

Walking away from where I had parked the car, I found a wide space between two houses that was covered with large lilac bushes and a variety of trees that offered far better possibilities of concealment than I had hoped for. After going a short distance, I turned in the direction of Darnell's house, which lay partially obscured behind a small hill. I was already very nervous--I felt as if my adrenal glands had swollen to the size of baseballs, and everything I encountered became distinctly etched in my mind. I can still actually hear the raucous screech of a blue jay that was perched on a bare branch of a tree, and I can still see before me now a lazy orange and black butterfly that floated along on the breeze.

What if, I wondered, there is a fence, a chain-link fence? There were so many things I had not thought of, so many things that I was unprepared for--except for the night we had disposed of our treasure, I had never been to Darnell's house and had no idea what to expect. However, when I reached the top of the hill, I saw that D's back yard ended with a small mucky rust-colored creek, which I hopped across before I darted behind a line of green shrubs that bordered one side of his yard. These led directly to the shed, which was still unlocked, but as I had suspected, when I opened the door, I saw that the garbage bags had been removed.

Now, as I stood there, my heart really began to pound--super-duper pounders that ended with a frightening thud. I was grateful that I had brought the gun with me because I felt very insecure, and at this point, I even considered turning around and going back to my car. It was unlikely that everyone was gone from the house, and although I could use the gun to force my way in, I couldn't very well conduct a search of the place unless I shot whoever was present. But having come this far, I realized that I needed to be brave, and even though I felt an enormous amount of fear and perplexity, I resolutely moved from the shed towards the garage, which was connected by a small entranceway to the kitchen. I had, in order to give myself some much-needed comfort and self-assurance, opened my purse and put my hand on the gun. As long as I had that on my side, the worst that could happen would be something that would happen to somebody else.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked lightly on the screen door and an older woman, undoubtedly his mother whom he despised and I could immediately see why, came to the door. "Hello," I said formally, "my name is Lynda Johnson--I'm Darnell's girlfriend. Is he home?"

She looked at me with a puzzled and annoyed expression, and I remember thinking to myself that if I had to, I wouldn't have any trouble shooting this decrepit witch. "Why no, no he isn't. I didn't know that he had a girlfriend," she said suspiciously. It was right here that I suddenly realized I would have to shoot her before I left--how could I possibly drag four large garbage bags out of there with this ugly overgrown insect standing in front of me looking like a sentinel on the watch? But if I didn't find the drugs, then there was no sense killing her, much as I might like to, because it made no sense to take a chance on murdering her unless I walked away with the drugs. Rapidly calculating all these factors into the complex situation that I was now facing, it became obvious to me that I would have to find the drugs first, then kill her, and finally race out of the house--most likely, I would only be able to carry two bags, but it was better than nothing. "May I come in?" I said pleasantly.

She hesitated before she said, "Why yes, of course," and opened the door for me. We sat at a small table near the front windows and chatted socially for a couple of minutes. She was very stuck up, priggish really, and I couldn't imagine that the world was a better place with her sucking up its oxygen. I had to restrain myself from pulling out my little metal monster and giving her the last unpleasant surprise of her useless life. But I kept these thoughts to myself while I conversed with Her Highness about Darnell since I understood that to effect my aim, I would need to convince her that I knew Darnell and knew him well. Meanwhile, through all the senseless chatter, my mind was spinning through the probabilities, and I decided that the first place I would have to search was Darnell's bedroom. So finally, when I was unable to stand the sight of her face any longer, I said, "I have a favor to ask of you: I'm already late for work, and I need my address book, which has an important number that I must have for my job. I gave it to Darnell a couple of days ago so that he could call a friend of mine" (as I said this, I wondered if the old bat would swallow such a completely senseless statement), "and when I called him this morning, he said he had to go out, but that it was right by his bed. Do you mind if I go get it?" Am I a wizard at improvisation or what?

"I...well...I don't..."

But I had already stood up, and as I quickly moved out of the kitchen, I said cheerfully, "Don't trouble yourself, ma'am, I'll only be a few seconds." She stood there irresolute and obviously disturbed while I vanished out of the kitchen and into an adjoining room where I looked for some stairs--all I knew was that he slept on the upper floor somewhere. To my left, I saw only chairs and a table, and by now, I could hear Mrs. Moronski walking authoritatively across the kitchen in my direction. Appearing in the doorway, she said in an abrasive nasal voice, "I really don't think--what did you say your name was, young lady?" I whirled around and followed her eyes, which led me straight to the stairs--they were partially hidden behind a large hideous couch that was upholstered in mock leather and had a strange greenish-lavender hue. She moved forward and attempted to block me by saying that she would go upstairs and look for the address book herself, but I was fed up haggling with the old dame's drivel, and I used my free hand, the one that wasn't clutching the gun, to push her rather roughly aside. As she grabbed a bookcase to prevent herself from falling, I said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm very pressed for time, and I know exactly where it is."

However, as I bounded up the stairs two at a time, I began to wonder why I was so obsessed with Darnell's bedroom. Was it at all likely that he had dragged our enormous booty up this winding, steep staircase? It suddenly hit me that he had probably placed the garbage bags in the garage or, even more likely, the cellar, assuming they had one. But having reached the top of the stairs, there was no sense turning back, and I hurried anxiously down a cluttered messy corridor where I soon found myself standing between two closed doors. Since my right hand was still gripping the gun, I tried the one on the left, which although it wasn't locked seemed to be stuck. With literally not a second to spare, I threw my body at the door, which sprang open suddenly and sent me stumbling into a room where I surprised a young woman wearing leotards who was engaged in oral sex with a ferocious man-eating leopard--how's that for a joke! Actually, it was something even more preposterous than that--I think they call it yoghurt or yogher or something like that. All I could think of as I gazed down on her contorted posture, besides the obvious fact that here was another person I would have to shoot, was that she was attempting to break her back. She—it must have been Darnell's sister--was so locked into her ridiculous pose that by the time she had finished uncoiling from her pent-up state, I had already muttered, "Sorry, wrong room," and hurtled into the one across the corridor. The first thing I saw there was an open pornographic magazine, which was lying on the floor near the bed, and I realized that this must be the nightly domicile of my former lover and ex-partner in crime.

Wasting no time, I opened his closet door and saw a large box but didn't even bother to open it since I realized that it couldn't possibly contain even a fraction of what I was looking for. For some reason, probably because I had seen it so many times in the movies, I pawed rapidly through the drawers in his dresser. "For God's sake," I said to myself, "there's no way that I'm going to find a large garbage bag stuffed with drugs in here." From there, I went over to his bed, which I yanked away from the wall--all to no avail, of course. As I was about to leave, I noticed, on a small table by the bed, something that looked like an address book. Could I really be that lucky? As I riffled through it and saw a bunch of names and numbers, all I could think of was that it opened a whole new world of possibilities. Now that I look back on it, I have no idea why I thought that, especially since it was his and not mine, but it seemed to me that somehow I could parlay this little item into an excuse to search their cellar, and I decided to take it with me because it was, after all, apparent proof of my truthfulness. But what reason could I give Madam Moronski to allow me to search through her cellar? And suppose there wasn't a cellar?

Just then, I was interrupted by his meddlesome sister, the contortionist, who had thrown some gawky clothes over her exercise outfit. "Who are you?" she said in an obnoxious tone.

"Who do you think I am?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," she said archly. It was clear to me that if the fates had been kind enough to bestow another couple of decades upon her life, which I now knew was something that was probably not in the cards, she would be another version of the middle-class monster that I had grappled with downstairs.

As I began to move past her towards the door, I said, "I'm Darnell's girlfriend, Eva Braun."

"Eva Braun! What is that supposed to mean? I know who she was."

I had never suspected that she would have enough culture within her to recognize Eva's name, but what difference did it make? I started back down the stairs with the Little Empress trotting right behind me like an imperious dog. It appeared to me that Miss Fido had taken on the role of chasing an unwelcome visitor out of the house--her feet were so close to mine as we went down the staircase that I was afraid she might trip me. I was itching to pull out the pistol and blow her bright little brains out, but it was still too soon--wait until after you come up from the cellar with the drugs, I told myself. But what excuse did I have to hunt through their cellar? It would have to be something that I had given Darnell, but my mind was a complete blank--all I could think of was tires, and he didn't even own a car.

However, by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I had completely changed my mind about everything. I felt that I would never find the drugs, and the best thing to do was to get out of the house--there was too much risk and too little reward in murdering these two misfits because it would only bring a heavy crime down on my head that I had no desire to deal with. Darnell would probably figure out who had shot them and squeal to his father, and I would eventually be hauled before the courts to face two charges of murder--I could even get the death penalty! The idea of a bunch of grubby leering men forcing my writhing desperate body into an electric chair, the leather straps forever binding me to my funeral pyre, the hood being dropped over my head, the switch being thrown--no thank you! As pleasurable as it would be to kill these two "people," it just wasn't worth exposing myself to that kind of peril--they'd probably die miserable deaths anyway.

But then, everything went wrong. I was storming out of the stupid place and had almost reached the kitchen when I heard the frightful old witch say something on the phone to Darnell's father. I remember her specifically saying, "Jackson, you have to get back here," and that was about enough for me. I stopped, turned around, and started walking back towards them. Who was she to call the cops? That's when the floodgates opened, and it came rushing into my mind like a tidal wave that the gun, the gun I had in my purse, was the same gun that had murdered Clayton. If I were ever caught carrying this weapon, I would be convicted of his murder in a second, and while I might escape the chair for killing these two nitwits, that would not be a possibility for killing a cop, my father, no less. It wasn't until afterwards, when I was racing out to the car and making my getaway, that I realized I could probably still have walked out of there without killing anyone and afterwards ditched the gun, but even so, when I went back to that moment and experienced it again in my mind, I could not argue with the decision that I had made _\--_ I saw that with Darnell's help these two people would shortly be able to identify me and that everyone would wonder what I was doing barging around his house. More than that, the fact remained that _if_ I were ever caught with this gun in my possession, my life was as good as over. And she was on the phone with the cops, and they were coming after me.

It was a desperate situation, and I felt panic. Besides everything else that I had to contend with, I suddenly remembered the lesson I had learned the previous evening--what if the gun didn't work? And murder! I was suddenly afraid of it--on the verge of an irreversible act, I hesitated, and I could feel that my nerve was slipping away.

"Who do you think you are?" said the Little Empress in a taunting tone. "Get out of here, Eva Braun." She was actually mocking me! She might as well have come up to me and spit in my face.

Suddenly enraged, I instinctively pulled the gun out of my purse, and when I did that, it was much more than symbolic or threatening--now that it was visible, I knew that because of its connection to Clayton, there was no longer any choice, no longer any possibility of changing my mind, and I was going to have to use it. But when I look back on my mind as it was at that moment, my intention was not to kill them--that never entered my mind--but to permanently incapacitate them and get them to SHUT UP so that they could not bear false witness against me, which means that the most I could ever be accused of is reckless endangerment or accidental manslaughter.

The mother was the first priority because she was on the phone, and as I advanced towards her, she began yelping at me to put the gun down. I think she saw the expression on my face and realized that her death was rapidly approaching. With a vicious swipe, I tore the phone line out of the wall and brought the gun to within a foot of her head. She began to open her mouth--I could see that she was going to scream and that had the effect of forcing me to pull the trigger immediately. There was a loud sharp metallic bang and her head snapped backwards surrounded by a whitish-orange mist as she crashed onto the floor.

I don't care what anyone says--killing her daughter was justified homicide. You would have to be insane to think otherwise. She was running out of the room, for God's sake! What was I supposed to do? Say to myself, "Oh well, it's no big deal if she goes to the cops and identifies me?" I will always fight for my life, and nobody is going to execute me without a violent struggle. It was her life or my life--a clear case of self-defense. I will never be the one who walks submissively to the horrors of the electric chair, and the Little Empress not only would have offered the evidence to convict me of her mother's murder, but she would also have been gloating while my agonized body thrashed helplessly in its death throes.

If that isn't self-defense, what is?

## CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE LAST MOMENT, THE FINAL INSTANT

"I think," said Miranda, "that if I were her lawyer, I would insist that she plead insanity. I knew when we talked to her on the morning of Clayton's murder that she was crazy, but I never suspected she was _this_ crazy."

"The trouble is," said Jake, "that although the diary is more than enough to convict her, it would also be Exhibit A in her defense."

For myself, my mind drifted out of their conversation, and I was wondering what they would charge me with if I murdered Crystal. At the very least, I ought to be able to plead diminished capacity. I couldn't believe that any normal human being would vote to send me to prison for sweeping something like this off the streets--you cannot possibly imagine the amount of rage that I felt, so I hope you can pardon what I am about to say next.

As for the justice and mercy of God, let those who believe in that absurd abstraction come face to bloody face with their murdered child so that they can have their turn at experiencing the _true_ realities that are dispensed from above and below. Oh, I know how it is for them: Their so-called faith (in _what_?) will carry them through any ordeal, and their drug-like chant about the mysterious ways of the Lord will serve as a crucial step in the process of learning to forget about the victims. They're gone, and we'll bury their spirits alive under the words of our pathetic, powerless God who, as usual, was conveniently absent when the time came to intervene and save a human life. "It was all a result of man's free will," the apologists for God howl desperately--as if that moronic statement answers the question. If your four-year-old child is running around with a loaded pistol, do you fall back on the absurdities of the free-will argument and let him take potshots at everybody in sight, or do you yank the vicious thing away from him? Regardless of what anyone says, and regardless of what Tara Lake told me later, the victims of violence are still screaming, screaming to be heard, and their graves are the authentic omens of the mass grave of our entire civilization. They have all died in vain, and God is simply the preposterous word that we have invented to philosophically justify murder--the murder of us all.

Nothing [Crystal wrote] could ever have prepared me for what followed the murder of Darnell's family--not even if I had graduated from college and gone on to receive a master's degree. I now know what it means to suffer from uncontrollable fear, and there are moments that stretch out to many seconds when my whole being shudders violently with something that is much worse than panic. It is a feeling for which no word has been invented because so very few people have ever experienced it and "lived to tell the tale."

After the murders, I ran back to the car and drove--I don't know why--to a park that was near Lake Bracken. Although it must have taken me at least fifteen minutes to reach there, I have no memory of the route I took or what I encountered during that time--I couldn't even say whether the sun was out or if it was raining.

Suddenly, as if awakening instantly, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of the car in a large parking lot that overlooked the lake. Immediately, I remembered everything that had occurred, and I became frightened and depressed--I hadn't wanted to kill them, and it was merely a crazy series of events that had spun out of control. Images of the old lady's head exploding in a cloud of brains and blood kept reoccurring to me. If only she hadn't picked up the phone and had just kept her mouth shut--and now, I was the one who had to deal with the consequences.

As the sun tilted to the west and its bright rays came into the car and hit my face, I wondered if I had left any evidence at the crime scene. It was certainly lucky that I hadn't found the drugs because then Darnell would have connected me to the "crime" at once--in fact, he was the only person who might possibly suspect me. But I had rummaged through his room--that was bad, very bad--I should have ripped open some other drawers somewhere. Everyone would wonder what the significance of his room had been--including, of course, Darnell. And what had happened to his address book? I knew I had taken it out of his room, but when I opened my purse, I saw that it wasn't there. I certainly didn't want to be caught with it in my possession, and the first thing I did, which seemed to calm me down, was conduct a very thorough search of my car--I even went through the trunk before I was satisfied that I must have dropped it somewhere.

I told myself that as long as I had committed what everyone would consider a crime, I might as well stop feeling sorry for myself and start covering up my tracks. Leaving the car, I took a small footpath that ran along some steep cliffs that bordered the lake, and after reaching a remote spot, I took the gun and hurled it as far as I could out into the lake. I also removed my gloves, filled them with stones, and tossed them into the waters that came swirling over the rocks, which lay far below me. As I did that, I realized I would have to get rid of all the clothes I was wearing--I had learned enough from my father to understand that I could be convicted on the basis of a single fiber from Darnell's house that might have attached itself to me.

It was past six o'clock before I had finished buying new clothes, returned to the vicinity of the lake, and buried my old clothes. By the time I finally arrived home, I felt there was nothing that could physically connect me to the murders, but as I walked from my car to the front door, I couldn't shake an eerie feeling that had crept over me: It was as if I were a small child, knew that I had done something wrong, and would eventually be punished for it. _I had not done anything wrong._ I firmly repeated that to myself over and over again, but the sensation, which had settled in my stomach, seemed to be strengthening. When I looked at it, I saw that at least it wasn't guilt but fear, the fear that I would be apprehended, tried, convicted, and executed. I saw myself as a small, lonely, and helpless person trapped in a cell on death row for a crime that I hadn't committed. And as I cowered in my tiny concrete cubicle, I saw faceless cruel men coming towards me and dragging my pathetic, panic-stricken body into a room and towards a ghastly chair where I would be wrestled into submission and put to an excruciating death in front of the Peeping Tom witnesses. This was the second time that I had gone through this horrible fantasy--a flashback into the future.

And now that I had thrown the gun away, how was I going to kill Darnell? Poison? No, wait a minute, I said to myself. What is the matter with you? All I have to do is find a gun store and tell them that I need a weapon to protect myself. Jeepers--that was pretty obvious. However, I would have to go there first thing in the morning because, now, after the murder of his mother and sister, D had to be killed immediately. But was it already too late--had he, by this time, gone to the cops and told them his suspicions, his knowledge, about me?

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and had flipped the light switch when I heard the door slam behind me. Before I could react, someone grabbed me around the neck with their forearm and placed their foot in front of mine, which caused me to lose my balance and tumble awkwardly onto the rug. With this unknown assailant now on top of me, I managed to twist around so that I was on my back and could see the face of my attacker.

"Darnell," I gasped. He was sitting on my stomach and leaning slightly forward as his knees pinned my arms to the floor. It was only then, when it was far too late, that I remembered the front door key that I had given him the night before Clayton's murder. We had been so happy then, but it was such a stupid thing to do, and now I knew, I just knew that it might cost me my life and that the execution I had been fearing was potentially very close at hand.

As if in a dream where the premonition becomes the reality, I watched in terror as he drew a large old-fashioned gun out of a pocket in his jacket. "Darnell," I said frantically. "No! What are you doing?"

"You killed them, didn't you?"

"Who? What are you talking about?"

Placing one hand around my throat while he put the barrel of the gun to my forehead, he said, "I am going to count to three, Crystal, and if you haven't told me the truth by then, I will do the same thing to you that you did to my mother and sister."

I couldn't breathe properly--it felt as if all I could do was exhale, and the hand he had around my throat was making even that difficult. With mounting panic, I could see that he was strung out on coke, and from the distorted look on his face--the twisted lips and the blazing eyes--I began to realize that he was totally out of control and that my life was hanging by a thread.

"One," I heard him say, and the word struck terror into my heart. What was I going to do? Did it even matter? While I struggled helplessly to move my head away from the horrifying weapon, I said, rather gagged out, "I didn't do it, Darnell."

"You're not telling me the truth, Crystal. This is your last chance. Two."

He increased the pressure of the gun against my head--it had cut the skin on my forehead, and I could feel blood dripping over one of my eyebrows and running into my eye. I had to stop him--it didn't matter what I said. All I could imagine was what I would look like after the bullet shattered my skull. "What if...what if I do tell you the truth?" I said while I struggled to breathe. "What will you do to me then?" I was panting so hard and gulping so desperately for air that my heart began to throb painfully--was it really possible for a heart to burst?

"It depends on what you tell me and whether I think it's the truth. I know you killed them Crystal--I just want you to admit it."

"Before you shoot me?" I screamed at him breathlessly.

"Your time is running out, Crystal. If the next words out of your mouth aren't the truth, I'm going to turn you into a corpse."

"OK, OK." It didn't matter what I said anymore-- _save yourself, save yourself--even if it's only for a few seconds._ "Yes, it's true...it's true that..." I was afraid to go on since the last thing in the world that I wanted to do was make an admission to him, but I realized it was far too risky to deny it. "Yes...I shot them, but there was nothing else that I could have done because I didn't have any choice," I said, desperately. But why? I had to think of a reason that might make sense to him, but it was the same thing as wondering what was in the cellar of his house--I couldn't come up with anything.

"No choice?" he said in a mocking tone. "That's not a very good line, Crystal--surely, somebody like you can come up with something better than that. Did you think they were Russians or something?"

I knew it was only the gun that made him so arrogant because without it, he was nothing but a cowardly jerk with a massive inferiority complex. If I could have tricked him and wrenched the gun out of his hand somehow, I would have blown his brains out in a second, but since that wasn't possible, I now found myself in the humiliating position of attempting to find an excuse that would justify my actions. But what could it possibly be?

Stalling for time, I said, "It wasn't what you think, Darnell. I had no intention of killing them. Why would I even want to? You always told me that you hated them, so if I was seeking revenge against you, that wouldn't make any sense."

"Just because I hated them doesn't give you the right to kill them. Who are you--God? So why did you murder them? Answer me!"

The moment that would decide my destiny had arrived. If I said the right thing, I might survive. They say necessity is the mother of invention--how much better then is a moment of the most extreme desperation? It was now that an idea occurred to me, and when it did, I felt like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "I went to your house because I was looking for the drugs--you believe that, don't you?"

"Go on," he said, "I'm listening."

Was there anything that I was missing? Be careful, I told myself--try not to be too specific. But now, I began to choke. "I can't breathe," I said hysterically. "Don't kill me...I didn't do anything, Darnell--I didn't do _anything_. Everything I did, I did for you."

"Stop spouting nonsense," he hissed into my face, "and tell me what really happened."

As I struggled to breathe, I said, "I...I couldn't find the drugs...they weren't in the shed. At least take your hand off my throat, will you? I can't breathe--I'm choking to death," I said sobbing, while my heart throbbed spasmodically.

"How does it feel to die, Crystal?"

Oh my God, I remember thinking--I don't want to die, not like this...please God, I'm begging you.

He relaxed his grip slightly, but I couldn't stop panting.

"And then what? You just went in and shot them--what for?"

"No! It wasn't like that at all. Listen to me, Darnell—I'm telling you the truth. What happened was that Cassandra saw me as I was coming out of the shed and wanted to know who I was, and when I told her that I was your girlfriend, she said, 'So you're the one! I know what you're looking for because I saw the two of you out here Saturday night when--'"

"She saw us?" said Darnell with shock but not disbelief. It was going to work!

"That's what she said, but what she said next was even worse. After we left that night, she told me that she came out and discovered what was in the garbage bags. 'It's obvious' she said to me, 'that you two stole the drugs from the police station, which probably means that you were the ones who killed the Drug Czar. I'm calling the cops.'" I paused and wondered if I had said too much--it didn't seem at all likely to me that Cassandra would have known about the theft of the drugs from the station.

But fortunately, Darnell was so obsessed with what I was saying that he didn't notice this little but potentially fatal flaw in my story. "Then what did you do?" he said.

"I looked at Cassandra and said, 'But what about Darnell? You'll be convicting your own brother of a terrible crime--he could go to jail for the rest of his life or even be executed.'

"'He deserves it!' she said as she stalked away from me and went inside the house. Put yourself in my position, Darnell. What was I supposed to do? If she told anyone about the drugs, we would almost certainly end up being convicted of murder, the murder of a cop. The death penalty, Darnell-- _the_ _death_ _penalty_! I didn't know what to do--all I could think of was that I had to stop her somehow, but I swear to you that I wasn't thinking of killing her until I went inside and heard your mother who was on the phone with your father and was telling him that something awful had happened and that he had to come home immediately."

"And so you shot them..."

"What else could I have done? Would you have wanted me to wait there with them for the cops to arrive so that when they came, I could say to them that it was all a big misunderstanding? You should be thanking me--have you ever thought of what it's like to be on death row? Can you imagine what it's like to be electrocuted?"

"They don't do that anymore, Crystal. Nowadays, they stick needles into your arm and inject you with poison."

"What difference does that make? Would you want that to happen to you?"

He stared at me impassively and said nothing; although the gun was still pressed against my head, I was beginning to feel some hope as his mood seemed to have softened.

"I think," he said, "that we should play an old game that was invented in a country that you despise--it's called Russian roulette."

" _What_? _What_ _are_ _you_ _talking_ _about_?" I couldn't endure any more of his spiteful nonsense--there is no torture in the world that is worse than having a loaded gun pointed at your head.

"We deserve it," he said, "and since I'm the one who's holding the gun, that makes me the judge, doesn't it? I've considered all the evidence and this is the verdict, Crystal: Justice demands that one of us should die to atone for my mother's and sister's deaths. Although I was not there and would never have done what you did, I feel responsible for what happened to them because it was me who unknowingly bargained away their innocent lives for the guilty sex that you offered up as a bribe for the murder of your father, and once we had his blood on our hands, we couldn't stop ourselves from killing. So you and I will take turns at the roulette table, but don't worry--I'll be the first one to spin the wheel and see if my number comes up."

"No!" I said. "You're crazy--I told you why I killed them. It was our lives or theirs. Why are you doing this to me when all I did was try and save you from the electric chair?"

He brought his face very close to mine and said, "I already told you, Crystal--it's lethal injection, which is supposed to be very painless, at least according to the people who administer it, and as far as I know, none of the people being executed made any complaints about it. So I'm not worried about the death penalty at all because the technique that the modern Gestapo has invented to murder their victims is very humane and compassionate." Staring at me coldly, he said, "But stop making objections, will you? I think a bullet to the head is by far the best way to go--it's guaranteed to be instantaneous, like flipping off a light switch. Sometimes..." and now, his voice suddenly began to tremble, and I wondered if he was cracking up, "it's better to just admit that you made a terrible mistake and pay the price for it, instead of running around like a scared rabbit for the rest of your life. Once you're dead, all of your troubles are over, and no one can blame you for anything, or if they do, they're just making a stupid spectacle of themselves. I don't know, Crystal--I don't know if either one of us has the right to live any longer."

"Why, Darnell, why? You don't have to go through with this. I told you the truth--why don't you believe me?" I was sobbing and could feel the tears running down my cheeks.

"What are you whining about, Crystal? It could be a lot worse--you have as good a chance of surviving this as I do because, unlike yourself, I am not going to be the one to play God. Actually, I think I'm being very magnanimous since what I should do is just shoot you and then do away with myself, but I think it's fairer to let fate make those decisions. How much of a chance did you actually give my family before you pulled the trigger? Knowing you, I'd say it was about zero, and so, for the sake of justice, I'm returning the favor to both of us, but as a compassionate judge, I'm splitting the risk down the middle, so it's not really an execution because you have a fifty-fifty chance of walking away from here. Just think how prisoners feel when they're led into the execution room, Crystal--even if all the machines designed specifically for their extermination fail, the authorities will still come in and strangle them.

"Now listen to me carefully--this is how we'll play the game: I'll go first, and if I'm lucky and the gun doesn't kill me, then it will be your turn. However, I've modified the game somewhat so that we can get it over with quickly and not have to go through a colossal amount of stress. There are six chambers in this gun, but only three of them are empty--it's the very dangerous Darnell James' version of Russian roulette. Also, as a special added feature, when I put the bullets into the chambers this afternoon, I alternated them, which means that if I do survive, you will certainly die because the gun will be going straight from my head to yours. You understand?"

Terrified, I couldn't even begin to think of anything to say and watched in amazement as he removed the gun from my forehead, quickly spun the cylinder around a couple of times, and then slowly and deliberately placed it to his head.

Suddenly, Miranda snatched the diary away from me. "No, Jackson, I'm not going to let you read this." She started to rise from the bed, but with one hand, I grabbed her by the forearm and forced her back onto the bed, while with the other hand, I reached over and wrested the diary away from her. From the other side of me, I heard Jake say, "Jackson, for the love of God—Sherry's right; don't do something that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

I knew what they were thinking, of course. By the process of elimination, it was obvious that Darnell had not survived this brutal variation of one of the world's nastiest games. "Stay out of this--both of you," I said with real animosity. "It's none of your business--Darnell is my son, and I have the right to know what happened to him. I found this diary, and it's mine until I let it out of my hands--if the two of you can't handle the truth, then get out of the room and go somewhere else." I looked defiantly at Miranda, and this time I was not imagining it when I saw the tears in her eyes.

"Darnell," I gasped, "stop!" He still had one hand around my throat, but he had closed his eyes and was starting to breathe in quick shallow gulps. "One," I heard him say, and after a pause of a couple of seconds, "Two." My God, I thought, he's actually going to go through with it. I started to cry and said, "No, no, no." What if the gun didn't go off, and he ended up without a bullet in his head? How was I supposed to feel then? If the imbecile was going psycho, then he could be the one to pay the price for it. Why should I be included in his weird sick fantasy of insane judgment and have to die because he was going through his suicidal middle-class guilt trip? I closed my eyes since I didn't want to see his brains flying out all over the place. Please God, I don't deserve this--he's the one who should die because of what he's done to me. I don't really want him to die, but--

"Three," and then I heard the click of the trigger and a horrifying silence. Gasping, I opened my eyes and felt the gun being placed against my forehead. I was drenched in sweat, dehydrated, nauseous, and struggling desperately for oxygen, while the weight of him sitting on top of me had become unbearable--he was squeezing the life out of me, suffocating me, and I felt as if I were drowning. Forgetting about the gun, I struggled with all my strength to throw him off, but I was so weak that he may not have even noticed. Frantically, in a state of the utmost terror, I attempted to free my hands, but he was far too strong for me. _I_ _was_ _going_ _to_ _die--I_ _was_ _being_ _put_ _to_ _death_.

"Darnell," I croaked out feebly.

"What?" He drew his hand back from my throat so that I could speak.

"Please don't do this to me--I don't want to die," I said sobbing--sobbing like I never have in my whole life. "I'll do anything that you want--anything, anything at all but please don't kill me, please--" Suddenly, the hand was there again strangling the life out of me, and I was unable to say anything more.

"The murderer is asking the judge for mercy."

"I'm not...I'm not..." But it was impossible for me to speak. I felt like I was about to vomit, and I knew if that happened, it would be all over. In a state of extreme fright, I began to swallow convulsively, which made it even more difficult to breathe. I was fighting for my life and losing. _These_ _were_ _the_ _last_ _seconds_ _of_ _my_ _consciousness_. I was far too weak to resist his deadly assault, and my life was being extinguished--there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it anymore. My vision had become very blurry--everything had merged into a smoky-grey color, and I could only vaguely distinguish Darnell as a charcoal outline, but his voice had become clearer and had a harsh, metallic, robotic quality to it.

"Three people have died now because of you, Crystal. I know that you would tell me--have told me--that there were good reasons for their murders, and although I doubt it, that could even be the truth. But maybe there's also a good reason for your murder--you know? Suppose everything you told me, including the things about Clayton, was a lie? Sometimes, I think you just say whatever you want so that you can get your own way. I don't know because I wasn't there when it happened, but I have this very strong feeling that no matter what you've told me to exonerate yourself, my mother and sister did not have to die. But regardless of that, I wasn't the one who made the decision about your life or death--I put the whole thing into the hands of fate, and we should both accept the verdict.

"There's no use talking about it anymore, Crystal--the time has come for you to die, and you're going to die the same way that my mother and sister did."

"No...please don't do this to me...you're not giving me any chance at all--I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" I started to scream but he choked it off.

"Like you, I really don't have any choice," he said, laughing spitefully.

My eyes suddenly focused with a strange intense clarity, and pleading for my life, I looked beseechingly into his eyes with all the power that I possessed, but all I saw was cruelty and malice--my appeal had failed, my fate was sealed, and the agony of my execution was about to begin.

"If you're stupid enough to believe in God, Crystal, now is the time to start praying. One."

_What was it going to feel like when the bullet fractured my skull and ripped through my brain?_ Would there be an instant when I knew? A growling roaring thunder of black noise? Would it be more painful than anyone has ever imagined? Suppose it didn't kill me but left me paralyzed or some kind of brain-dead ugly vegetable that couldn't even feed itself?

"Two."

My last moment--whatever I could do now, it would be too late. The final instant was passing. I felt myself succumbing to the evil of the inevitable, and in anguish, I tried to yield to it. Within me, there was a vast sense of crying, of unquenchable tears, that is nearly impossible to describe--almost as if my whole being had turned into a gigantic, relentless sob. In that final instant, I closed my eyes and let out a loud soundless scream. I can still hear the eerie echoes of that scream, the nightmare scream.

"BANG!" shouted Darnell. Reflexively, my whole body twitched and then, as he took his hand off my throat and removed the gun from my forehead, I writhed away from him. He stood up while I struggled to reach a sitting position, but it was very difficult for me because I felt extremely dizzy as the room was spinning wildly before my eyes, and in a few short seconds, I vomited violently--an endless, prolonged retching that left my heartbeat as a skittering irregular flutter.

Afterwards, as I was wiping my mouth on my blouse, I could hear Darnell laughing. "You're just like all the rest of the Nazis," he said. "You're real brave when you have a gun in your hands, aren't you? But when it's the other way around, you become a pathetic mess--the last word in cowardice and groveling. And here's the really funny part--there weren't any bullets in the gun!"

He pointed the thing at me and pulled the trigger repeatedly while he laughed in a sadistic way.

"Did you really think that I would kill myself and let you live? What a complete fool! The moment I put the gun to my own head, you should have known that there was nothing to fear. Anyways, after I killed the Kaiser, I made an oath to myself that I'd never murder another human being, and that includes even you," he said. "But I just had to find out what really happened, and besides that, I thought it would be therapeutic for you to feel what it's like to have a gun pointed at your head."

So he hadn't even meant to kill me--it was only some strange morality play that he had invented for his own entertainment. If only I had felt stronger, and if only I hadn't thrown my gun away. People who do what he did to me should be put to death. A party game! Something that he could laugh about when he became older and went out drinking with the boys. I could hear him saying, "You should have seen what I did to this wretched woman--I had her begging for her life, and all the time the gun was empty! She thought she was so brave, but when she realized that I was going to pull the trigger, she started whimpering." _Who_ _wouldn't_?

Exhausted and distraught, I stared at the sickly, smelly puddle of my vomit and suddenly burst into tears. This horrible degradation, this outrage, this rape of my whole being would never happen to me again--tomorrow morning, I would be buying a gun, and no matter where I went, I would have it with me. Now I understood why people slept with them under their pillows.

"Get out of here," I sputtered at him. "I'll deal with you later."

"Where's your gun, Crystal? You look so puny without it."

" _Get_ _out_ _of_ _here_!" I had risen from the floor, but I was still dizzy and had to clutch onto a table to maintain my balance. There was puke all over me, and the awful odor of it made me feel extremely nauseous again--I tried to hold it down but ended up heaving a hideous green mess all over the table in front of me. Feeling faint, I collapsed to my knees while he stood there above me like some heroic cowboy who had just slain the dragon outlaw.

I was totally out of my wits, and I was also overcome by a sudden fear that he might decide to strangle me to death, or perhaps he would once again "merely" bring me to the final moment before releasing his grip and laughing in my face. I had been terrorized, and reacting to that, I crawled awkwardly and as rapidly as I could across the floor until I reached an open window. Reaching up, I braced myself on the sill and feebly bawled out, "Murder! Help! Help! I'm being murdered." I thought I heard him rushing up behind me and filling my lungs with all the air I was able to muster, I tried to scream, but in my pathetic state, it came out as somewhere between a croak and a bleat. Although it was deep twilight, nearly dark, I was able to see that there were quite a few people on the street beneath me, but outside of a few curious stares, nobody seemed to be the least bit interested in my plight.

At that moment, I was sure that I felt him behind me, and then, petrified and unable to move, I could feel his cold, clammy hands on my neck, and as they began to tighten their deadly grip, a door suddenly slammed. Startled and perplexed, I whirled around and saw that I was alone and had, this time, been victimized by my own traumatized imagination.

I remained there shaking and shivering in the warm air of the summer night, and I vowed that never again would I be placed in a position where I would be at the mercy of others, and if--

## CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: SHOT THROUGH THE HEART

From the hall outside the bedroom, the phone rang with a loud jangling clarity. Startled, I felt as if I were being awakened from a deep, atrocious dream and had suddenly been returned to the third-rate world of ordinary reality where, perforce, I would be summoned to attention by the portentous and threatening alarm bells of modern life.

After the third ring, the answering machine came on, and we heard Clayton's recorded voice say, "You have reached the home of Crystal and Clayton Shane. Please leave a message, and one of us will get back to you."

"Hi, Darnell, this is Crystal. I saw a light on--are you there yet? I'm at the back door--I forgot my key. Wait until you hear who I sold the drugs to."

"Isn't that made to order?" said Jake.

Miranda frowned. "Why would Darnell be _here_? I don't think there's much chance that over the last twenty-four hours, they kissed and made up from that kind of quarrel," she said as she pointed at the diary.

Intent on revenge, my mind had drifted into an entirely different dimension. Crystal Shane had murdered my wife and child, and I was determined to do a lot more than apprehend her for the crimes that she had committed. Nobody else in the room was aware of it yet, but this arrest would not be by the book, not even remotely, and Crystal was about to become the victim of an extreme version of police brutality. By the time Miranda and Jake were able to react and pull me off of her, she might still be breathing, but if she was, it would be rapid, shallow, and fleeting. Blood lust is what that is called, and I think it is well-named, although--of necessity--I would have to be much more discreet with the ones who would be investigating the circumstances surrounding Crystal's death. Calmly and disdainfully, I would inform my fellow detectives that it was just another case of a violent criminal who had aggressively resisted their arrest. She had tried, unfortunately, to grab my gun away from me, and in the desperate life-or-death struggle that followed, the gun had exploded with a roar and, amazingly, put a bullet right between her eyes. Although it was certainly regrettable, no reasonable person could doubt that I had acted in self-defense. Jake would definitely back me up on that ugly fairy tale, and Miranda would probably decide to remain silent and say that she hadn't been able to observe what had actually happened. However, it didn't matter to me what they said or did because I considered the potential legal consequences to be a medal of honor and was convinced that Crystal's immediate demise would be a blessing for the entire universe. If only someone had been intuitive enough to think that way about Hitler before he stormed off and triumphantly murdered at least one hundred million innocent people.

"How about three million dollars in exchange for their pile of illicit drugs?" I said, in answer to Miranda's question. "There's a major incentive for their reconciliation--but what difference does it make?" It was now that we could hear the sound of someone knocking at the back door, and that was more than enough corroboration for me. "We shouldn't waste any more time talking," I said with annoyance. "We need to get to her before she turns around and disappears back into the night."

"Of course, Jackson," Miranda said staring at me coolly, "nobody's arguing about that."

In a low voice, Jake said, "I'll use the front entrance and go around to the back, in case she tries to escape. But be careful—there's no telling what she might do when she realizes who you are. I wouldn't even open the door--let her retreat down the stairs, and I'll take care of her when she gets to the bottom."

I said nothing to that irrelevant suggestion, and we filed cautiously out of the bedroom and separated; Jake turned to the left, while Miranda and I went towards the kitchen and the back door. The hallway was wide enough that she and I walked along it side by side, but we advanced somewhat slowly to give Jake as much time as possible. Our guns were drawn, and deliberately, I lightly banged mine against the wall to produce enough noise so that a person standing at the back door would know that someone was coming.

Because the corridor was not straight but bent to the left in roughly semicircular fashion, we could see nothing of the kitchen until we were only a few feet from the entrance. It was dark and quiet, nearly midnight, but there was enough light from the city that it was possible to discern objects fairly easily as our eyes became adjusted to the darker shades that we encountered.

Now, nearing the entrance to the kitchen, we saw--it was directly across from us--that the back door was open, wide open. At that _instant_ , what would you have thought? Even more importantly, what would you have done?

Today, as I write this, my instinctive reaction is still the same as it was that night: I assumed that Crystal had fled. Of course, this is contradictory to logic--supposedly, when she had left the phone message a minute before, she had been unable to gain entrance, so why would the door be open? There is, of course, no doubt that my judgment was affected by the fact that I had become a hunter who had become oblivious to everything except the prey. I was irresistibly drawn to the open door because I was determined to get my hands on Crystal and exact the ultimate measure of revenge for all that she had done to my family.

However, when I look back at that fateful moment, it was probably natural for any person to think that Crystal had somehow entered the kitchen--as, indeed, she had--but then, after hearing our voices or footsteps, had raced precipitously away. This would account for the door being open, and certainly, it would seem that if Crystal had been intending to set a trap for us in that room, she would have closed the back door so that when we went over to it, she could have shot us from behind--assuming she was armed.

Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty, and I never sensed any danger, never even considered that Crystal might be carrying a gun. Unlike Miranda, I believed, without quite realizing it, every word that she had said on the phone--she had forgotten her key and was exultant over her three-million-dollar drug deal. Again and again, I have replayed this in my own mind--I have watched, in heartbroken silence, the movement of my instincts, which led me and another into a terrible and fatal abyss. Yet I never perceived that I had any choice at all; in fact, I felt there was not a second to lose since Jake would only be, at best, halfway down the alley, and I knew that if Crystal had decided to make a run for it and seen him coming towards her, she would, by now, have reversed her course and gone in the opposite direction, which meant that she might easily escape from our grasp.

With Miranda following more slowly behind me, perhaps three or four feet, I went rapidly towards the open door, but when I was about halfway across the room, I stumbled against the leg of a table and was thrown slightly off balance.

At that moment, I heard a terrifying noise that was unmistakable to me--the sound of a gun being fired. Because I had unexpectedly changed direction, the bullet missed me but not by much--I could actually hear a metallic whirring or hiss as it passed by my head and smashed into something made of glass, which showered me with its tiny, powdery shards as they ricocheted off the wall in front of me. Beginning to duck and then dive as I turned slightly to view my attacker, I saw _her_ , saw the gun leveled and trained at my head from not more than three yards away, remember realizing that I could not possibly evade the killing shot, heard Miranda scream, "Jackson!" before I saw a blur pass between myself and the shooter that was simultaneous with another gunshot, and then felt or sensed a bloody spray pass over me before I hit the floor behind Miranda who fell with a loud crash and lay motionless just in front of me.

In rapid succession, I heard three more shots, which passed over me, before I was able to aim my gun and fire two rounds back at the dark but distinct figure of Crystal Shane who let out a harsh scream and began moving in the direction of the hallway. I could now hear Jake who had begun to race up the steps, but I would be waiting for no one. Even though I knew that Miranda had been hit, I was far too incensed for either caution or compassion, and I ran with a murderous ferocity down the corridor after the one who had brought so much pain, grief, and blood into my life.

When I reached the top of the front steps, I saw that I had wounded her; she had, although I wasn't consciously aware of it at the time, dropped her gun and was holding her leg, which was bleeding profusely. Not even halfway down the stairs, she turned to face me, and as I raised my gun, I saw the look of abject fear and desperate submission in her face. She raised her bloody hands as if to surrender, but it was far too late for that kind of pitiful appeal, and I fired another bullet into her--in the madness of the moment, I was aiming for her heart but "only" hit her in the lung. The force of the shot knocked her off her feet, and as she pitched backward, she clutched onto the banister but was falling far too fast to maintain her grip and tumbled grotesquely down the remaining stairs where she ended up face down at the far end of the landing near the front door.

In the rage of my life, I catapulted down the stairs and stood over Crystal Shane who was still alive and clawing at the floor as she made a pathetic attempt to crawl out through the doorway. I "put" my foot on the back of her neck so that she could no longer move, and placing my gun to the back of her head, I counted slowly, savagely, and dramatically to three--undoubtedly, I had picked that lousy habit up from my son. But then, when I had arrived at the fatal number, I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. I had the eerie feeling that if I killed her, deliberately and in cold blood, it would come back to haunt me someday. I suppose I won't be inducted into the Nazi Hall of Fame for that sentiment, but to be honest, as I looked at Crystal, I realized that it didn't matter what I did since she wasn't going to make it anyway. Had she shown more life, I might well have decided differently, but I could see that she was dying from her wounds--I must have hit an artery in her leg because the blood was gushing out into an enormous pool that was spreading rapidly and oozing across the entrance and onto the front steps where it would eventually trickle lifelessly onto the sidewalk--a fitting epitaph to her useless and degrading life.

But as for trying to save her, that was absolutely out of the question. I had wasted far too much time on her already, and with a feeling of increasing dread as my mind turned from the one I despised to the one I loved, I turned around and raced up the stairs.

Walking rapidly and fearfully down the hallway towards the kitchen, I longed and begged with all the willpower that I could summon to hear the sound of human voices, to hear Jake telling Miranda that it was nothing, that she would be alright, to hear her hearty, friendly laugh--Dear God, you can't let a piece of trash like Crystal Shane kill Miranda Black. Where is the mercy or the justice in that?

But all I heard was silence--long, loud, ominous, deafening. And somehow, when I came around the corner and was face to face with what had happened, it was far more traumatic than I had thought possible.

Sitting on the floor, rocking slowly back and forth, Jake was holding Miranda. Covered with blood, he was crying noiselessly but convulsively. To see a man like Jake weeping and to realize what it meant was worse than anything I could have ever imagined, by far the worst moment of my ill-fated, stupid, earth-infested life.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE ULTIMATE HIROSHIMA

In a corner of the kitchen, I sat in an old wooden chair that was near a window and stared bitterly into the midnight darkness of Darwin City. I was determined not to look at what was left of Miranda--I had absolutely no interest and was even defiantly averse to seeing the final expression on her face. I didn't want to remember her as a dead person because I had no wish for the awful image of death to stamp out the life that I would see in her face when I brought her back to my memory. God could take everything else away, but _that_ would not be taken away.

Strangely, almost ridiculously, I found myself thinking that it was extremely fortunate no one knew of my sexual relationship with Miranda, which was something that I had no desire to reveal to anyone--even Jake, and much less the likes of Bryan Davies, who might feel forced to delve into our intimate intricacies in order "to better understand" the series of crimes that had taken place. Probably not, but who could tell? After all, there was still the fact that a mere twelve hours after my wife's murder, I had "fallen into the arms" of another woman, and there is nothing like the hint of illicit sex to propel a public witch hunt. If our liaison were to be discovered, it wouldn't surprise me if a number of "souls" would secretly murmur to themselves that Miranda had simply gotten what she deserved, and there might even be a very subtle--or not so subtle--smear in the Sentinel, which would imply that if I hadn't been so distracted by my mistress and had been paying more attention to the duties that I was paid by the public to perform, the tragedy that resulted in Miranda's death would never have occurred. Ironically, of course, that sentiment would be the exact opposite of the truth.

It was true, would always be true, that by rushing forward like a fool, I had not only failed to protect Miranda but also directly caused her death as she fought to deflect the lethal shot that had been intended for me. But that wasn't all--adding yet another weight to my overburdened conscience was the fact that if my son had never become involved with Crystal Shane, Miranda would be alive now, and it was for this reason that I made the decision not to return Crystal's diary to the closet. Initially, I had been inclined to protect Darnell--Crystal could take the rap for her father's murder, and the Kaiser was the reincarnation of Hitler, at least metaphorically. Furthermore, Crystal had inspired Darnell to crime and used her sexuality to impel him to do something that he would never have done otherwise, but it was unlikely that the law would pay any attention to these extenuating circumstances, and I knew that, in all probability, he would be sent away for many, many years and could even be executed.

However, as the terrible truth of Miranda's death sank into my soul, I became determined not to spare him in any way. Even though he had not been responsible for the murders of those that I loved, he had still been the one who pulled the trigger that ended two people's lives, and as far as I was concerned, he would have to cope with the consequences of his actions and not remain concealed behind the ghost of Crystal Shane. And it was also possible, in a much smaller way, that the diary might even help him--with the death of its author, it would be easy to admit it as evidence in court, and who knew how a jury might react to her written ravings?

I was, by this time, somewhat astonished at my rationality and lack of intense emotion, but I knew that I was a doomed shipwrecked sailor who was clinging to the fragile life raft of reason as I deliberately evaded viewing the monstrous storm clouds that were gathering on the horizon--the inevitable hurricane of grief and rage that would sweep through my heart when I could no longer avoid the reality of Miranda's death. I was certain that I could never overcome it, and I felt that essentially my life was over--in thirty-six hours, I had lost nearly everyone who meant anything to me. They were forever irreplaceable, and the best I could hope for, maybe when I had wobbled into the dotage of my eighties, was that I could come to some sort of cosmic, probably senile, understanding of these murderous events, but what kind of an inspiration was that to live by?

It is always a dismal scene when a cop is shot to death, and this one was especially so. The victim had the respect of everyone on the force with the exception, I suppose, of Randall and Mervin, while the killer had died at the scene, which prevented any diversion of hostile energy into something as constructive as chasing the perpetrator. I was by no means wandering alone in the bitter morass of Miranda's senseless death that was made even more heartbreaking by her heroic and successful attempt to save my life. Carson Charles, a twenty-year veteran, completely lost it and began kicking Crystal Shane repeatedly in the face before he had been dragged away by two very sympathetic cops--he certainly wouldn't be receiving any criticism from me for that "outrageous" act. Jake was particularly distraught; we had a difficult time separating him from Miranda's body, and he was now beginning his long, painfully slow process of recovery by gulping down the medicine that we all resorted to at a time like this--alcohol, of course. Someone had found or bought or brought two fifths of vodka, which were placed on the kitchen table, and by the time Jake and I left a couple of hours later, they were both empty.

The two of us took a taxi to his house where we continued to assuage our grief with firewater specials--three or four ounces of vodka with a splash of ginger ale on the rocks. His wife was upstairs and slept through the entirety of our wretched post-mortem examination, which began with a grim silence as the mournful minutes passed through our weary, guilt-ridden minds.

At the scene of the shooting, we had been interviewed separately and had yet to discuss with each other what had occurred, but now, at first perfunctorily, as if it were an important but tedious part of our job, we began to dissect what had happened. It was not hard for us to surmise that Crystal must have used the back door for entrance, seen the reflection of light from her bedroom, and then crept quietly down the corridor until she heard us talking and realized that we had found her diary.

"But why didn't she just shoot us right then and there?" said Jake, with an exasperation that was obviously nonsensical.

"My guess is that she had no idea how we were positioned in the room and thought--"

"She could have shot us all in the back--boom, boom, boom," said Jake as he raised his index finger and pointed it at me.

"But she had no way of knowing that," I said, "and unless she had actually looked into the room, which apparently was a hazard that she was not willing to take, the logical thing would be to imagine that we were facing the open door. Can you believe the stupidity of three cops sitting with their backs to the door in the bedroom of a murderer?" (Although there is, of course, no way of knowing what went through Crystal's mind while she devised the trap that killed Miranda, it is my belief that because of the fact I did not say a single word from the time I discovered her diary until Miranda tried to take it away from me, Crystal probably assumed that there were only two people in her bedroom. It is an interesting but excruciating question: What if I had spoken and she had realized that there were three of us there? In her own mind, she couldn't possibly have hoped to outgun all of us in that small kitchen, and I think it is highly likely that without firing a shot, she would have attempted to flee from Darwin City.)

"We made a lot of mistakes, Jackson, terrible mistakes, and it cost Sherry her life!" _As_ _if_ _I_ _didn't_ _know_. Suddenly, with intense rage, Jake slammed the table in front of him vehemently with his open palm, which sent our drinks flying onto the floor. I had started to reach down to pick mine up when he said, rather shouted, "Forget it--who cares about the stupid rug--we can drink straight from the bottle."

I was beginning to become worried about where this conversation might be headed.

"So," said Jake, "she probably retreats down the corridor towards the kitchen, goes out onto the back porch, and after thinking it over calls us on her cell phone to leave the message. Then what?" he said, staring angrily at me.

I knew his fury, at least for the moment, was not directed at me, but I wondered whether I might become a legitimate scapegoat if I told him what really happened. "How come the back door was open?" he asked me. "Did you open it?"

"Jake, listen to me," I said, stalling for time as I wondered whether there was a way that I could shade my story to cover up, at least partially, the stupidity of my recklessness. "I think we all underestimated Crystal Shane; she had an enormous amount of cunning, and we were always one step behind her."

"Idiots!" said Jake. "Do you remember what Sherry said--something about how it made no sense for Crystal to be calling Darnell?"

I would remember that very well, would remember it for the rest of my life. "Yes, and I was General George Washington Custer leading the charge to the Little Big Horn: 'Forward Ho!' Anyways," I said with an inward, agonized sigh, "when we reached the kitchen, we saw that the door was open and--"

"Crystal opened it?"

"That's right."

He sat there for a few seconds before he said, "And so, naturally, you thought that she had escaped and began to pursue her, but as you were crossing the room, she opened fire from behind you."

"Exactly, but her first shot missed, and when she shot at me a second time, Miranda came between us--undoubtedly, she was trying to knock the gun out of her hand, but..."

"An ambush," said Jake slowly, almost respectfully. I was relieved, since I could see from his reaction that he felt he might have fallen into the same trap as I had.

After a long silence, he said, "I just can't get her face out of my mind, Jackson. I knew the second I saw her that she was dead--they said that the shot went right through her heart and that she died instantly."

Now, I felt anger but said nothing. I thought that for Miranda there had been a "flash" of recognition, an explosion of pain, a sense of overwhelming shock, _horror._ Inevitably _,_ I found myself struggling with an agonizing sequence of images of what it must have been like for her in those final moments--seeing the gun and reaching out for it with her hand, the searing, stabbing pain of the bullet's knife, the flicker of frightened understanding that one had been shot, the rapid and complete collapse of blood pressure, possibly a sense of choking, a feeling of rapidly spinning into a field where vision had failed, and the final dark split-second realization that preceded the fall into nothingness.

From my point of view, which will never change, these sudden descents into catastrophe and annihilation are the essence of the modern world. If the essence of music is sound, the essence of Western Culture is the science of murder, and we are all, every single one of us, passengers on a gigantic Titanic--that is the real meaning of nuclear weapons, which have placed all of humanity on the precipice of immediate and total extinction.

Yes, I know--I shouldn't talk about these things; rather, I should meekly memorialize the dead and not despise the things that killed them. God forbid! As I have been told many times by many people, I had better learn to move on, forget about the past, and faithfully practice the modern art of spitting on the graves of victims with a variety of patriotic inanities and religious insanities. However, for those who haven't realized it yet, this is a book by one who _refuses_ to forget what our "culture" has done to humanity. Until the day I die, I will not stop screaming:

The real and _only_ reality of modern life is the pandemic slaughter of the innocent by the maniacal inventions of our utterly useless, murder-mongering science. In exchange for all its ridiculous toys and bizarre machines of mobility, we are forced to live in a world where the Almighty Gun is God the Father--and the Mother was shot to death a long time ago. The pistol, however, is just a tiny psychotic replica of the fifty-megaton monsters that are pointed at all of our heads, and the hundreds of millions of victims from the feeble six-shooter stand as sorrowful, disembodied spirits along the road to the Ultimate Hiroshima. They have, _every_ _last_ _one_ _of_ _them_ , died in vain, and as we veer away from what they represent to prostitute ourselves before the weapons of our own annihilation, we become the suicidal whores of science who laugh in the face of its victims. Sad, but absolutely true.

Certainly, this was an exceptionally bitter reverie and nothing that one would ever want to talk about at the company picnic. Meanwhile, for Jake and I, it had become far too painful to talk about it anymore; anything that we said would only lead us back to the murder of our comrade, and for another hour, until the first light of dawn began to appear outside the eastern windows, we sat in a morose silence as we rapidly drank ourselves into the obligatory and much-needed stupor. Eventually, when we had reached the end of the bottle, Jake staggered upstairs, and I passed out on the couch.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR:

## "DEATH AND JUSTICE CANNOT COEXIST."

The next morning, I awoke surprisingly early, around eight o'clock, and after gulping down two large cups of coffee, I walked over to Miranda's--it was only about a mile away. I was irresistibly drawn to her home and felt--I don't know what I felt--I just wanted to be there.

In the early light of a very different kind of "morning after," I was immeasurably lonely and passionately yearned to hold Miranda in my arms and behold the dark, vibrant twinkle in her warm brown eyes. With her death, it was as if I had been torn in half--there was something missing inside me that should have been there, something that I had become accustomed to and whose presence was indispensable if I hoped to live as a happy being, but it had been ripped away from me and was now gone forever.

I was about halfway to Miranda's when my cell phone rang. How many times had it been Miranda who was calling me? Distraught and exhausted, I was on the verge of bursting into tears when I answered.

"Jackson! Is that you? Are you there?"

"Tara?" I said, not quite sure who it was.

"You bet. How are you, Jackson? My God, I've just read the morning paper--are you alright?"

For a moment, I couldn't say anything because I had started to cry. How many things would I encounter during the coming days that would remind me of Miranda? Just the simple ring of a phone and I was about to collapse.

I made an effort to be strong and had intended to say that I was fine, but mysteriously, it somehow came out as "I don't know..."

"Were you wounded? The article didn't really say anything about you--just that you were there and that the woman who was murdered was your partner."

"I'm OK, Tara, nothing happened to me," I said stoically.

"Where are you now?" she asked me.

"I'm walking down Dogwire Drive; I'm going over to her house now."

"Whose house?"

"Miranda's--that was her name. I don't know why--I just wanted to go over to where she lived." It was all too much for me, and putting my hand over the mouthpiece, I gave up and started sobbing.

"Jackson," I heard her say softly, "you've been through a lot lately. I don't want to interfere, but is there any way that I can help you? What do you say we get together for coffee?"

And maybe, with a little more bad luck, she could be the next woman to be shot--I wasn't exactly a good luck charm! But as I stood there in front of a rundown motel, a vision of Tara's face appeared before me, and I knew that I wanted to see her. In agony and without a soul to turn to, I needed the companionship of another human being.

"We were very close, Tara. She lived at 12 Darrow Boulevard, second floor--perhaps you can meet me there."

"Absolutely--I'll be there as soon as I can find a cab. Keep your chin up, you hear?" she said with a subtle cheerfulness that didn't bother me.

Until I reached the vicinity of Miranda's neighborhood, my mood lightened, but the sight of her house was very painful for me. Everything about it reminded me of her, and I could--I suppose I was imagining it--feel her heavy presence hovering pervasively in the air around me. Inexplicably, even the trees brought her to my mind, and as I slowly walked up the stone steps that led to the entrance of her apartment, I was startled into a very different kind of remembrance when the bells from the church began tolling nine, the number that the mystics have always associated with death.

Inside, after revving up the coffee brewer, I was alone with the remaining remnants of Miranda's life, the poignant reminders of a spirit that was gone. Soon her family would arrive, everything would be divided up and dispersed, and the spell that was Miranda would gradually vanish from the earth. Her few valuable or highly sentimental belongings would pass down through a limited number of generations until they finally found their way into the proverbial dustbin of history. This, the center of her empire, would soon be demolished by the massive wrecking ball of the Grim Reaper. There is nothing quite like death to make one intensely conscious of the fact that nothing lasts forever, and I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that the habit of collecting objects for the sake of posterity is another version of the Egyptian approach--peculiar and much smaller personal pyramids that are erected to endure after the death of their creator. This uninspiring attempt to transcend mortality is, of course, doomed to failure, for what memento is left of those who died a thousand years ago? And for those who clutch onto the very faint residue remaining from the Middle Ages, how much has survived from those who died ten thousand years ago or, even better, a hundred thousand years ago? We deify the ancient relics in our pathetic efforts to defy the awesome power of death, but even the supposedly immortal entities (including, but not limited to, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost) will all be swept away into eternal oblivion--no matter how strident, how righteous, how violent the faith of the follower. "Death be not proud," says the poet gallantly, but there is no more powerful, frightening, or impersonal force within the field of matter.

Thankfully, I was interrupted from these decidedly desolate musings by the sound of someone knocking, and walking over to the door, I admitted Tara who, after putting her hands firmly on my shoulders and gazing sympathetically into my eyes, gave me one of her affectionate, otherworldly hugs. All I could think of as I led her into the living room and then went to the kitchen to pour out the coffee was that she seemed to be a supernatural intervention. My eccentric mind became momentarily rejuvenated and produced the first sentence of a risque but wildly sensational novel: One dark night, while I was groping uselessly through the murky waters of death, an angel, who at one time had been the leading actress in a number of pornographic films, appeared in my room and offered me the sweet gift of salvation.

Wait a minute, I said to myself. In a state of mock alarm, I wondered what was happening to me. My God! I couldn't believe that I had reached the point where an idiotic word like salvation had crept into my mind. But why should I be bothered about a verbal technicality like that? Laughing to myself, I imagined not only the fame and glory but also the hypocritical millions that I would be receiving when my book was made into a movie with the tempting and invigorating title of _The Erotic Angel Who Haunts My Bedroom and Grants Me Eternal Redemption._

What was it about Tara, I wondered, that elevated my mood from the depths of dejection and propelled me into a peculiar kind of divine giddiness?

But then, just when all seemed well, I became distracted and annoyed by the mighty aura of the world-famous Barker Drule whose latest literary disaster of short, imbecilic, plodding declarative sentences was currently at the top of the bestseller list. Unfortunately, he had graced the world with a sequel to his previous monstrosity and had entitled it, appropriately enough, _The Further Emissions of an Elderly Madman._ It was so barbaric and gross that I lost my temper and went flying off the rails as I began to imagine what would happen if my sensuous and artistic inspiration at the coffeepot had been placed into his grimy hands for commercial revision. My short, poignant masterpiece would have been far too poetic for Barker who would have written:

It was a dark night in December. I couldn't shake my fear of death, and my bed was drenched with sweat. Suddenly, an angel dressed in a black negligee appeared before me. She leaned over and whispered an erotic word into my ear. (If I hadn't understood French, I wouldn't have known what she was talking about.) I knew then that I had become her sexual playmate on planet earth. I remembered my mother, God bless her soul, but I couldn't help myself. Afterwards, I felt better, but I realized that I must have been dreaming or at least fantasizing. Feeling somewhat nervous and definitely drained, I turned on the light to have a smoke and belt down some booze. But what was that on the bed? _The_ _black_ _negligee_!!

Reading this grotesque mess over, I can see that my offbeat humor has seeped into the boring dump-truck style of Barker, and I hope the reader can be sympathetic to the fact that in attempting to imitate him, I may have discovered something that requires the maximum extension of my capabilities. Inherently, I have always been appalled by his short, tasteless sentences, and it does not surprise me that I endeavored to spruce up his gawky and ghastly writing style with an occasional clause and a few commas--an article of punctuation that is not really part of Barker's very limited repertoire.

Here, upon further reflection, is a much better example of what I am talking about. Where I would write: With its vacant driveway and bleak appearance, the old decaying house was a forbidding sight, and as I remembered the horrors of what I had experienced there, I felt that I had no other choice but to turn around, forget about the past, and return to my wife and family; Barker would write: My old home was incredibly spooky. It appeared to be completely uninhabited. No cars were in the driveway. I became obsessed with my memories. It was a place of _horror_. I felt terrified and raced away.

Although this still seems rather eloquent for Barker, I have at least managed to construct six consecutive sentences without a single mark of punctuation except for the ever-present period, which appears periodically after every six words. Very classy! (Perhaps on Barker's tombstone can be written: Here lies a truly terrible author. His writing was repulsive and trashy. All of his books have vanished. We should be thankful for that. They were taking up valuable space. Now we can read something intelligent.) Of course, who am I to talk? The literary professors claim that Barker has "a simple style that is profound in its depth," but I think it is safe to say that only a simpleton could find any depth in his books. Unfortunately, however, Barker has now sold over a hundred million books, and the modern reader has been spoon-fed this nauseating fare for so long that it is now generally considered to be the modern equivalent of the Sermon on the Mount.

Returning--at last!--from the kitchen with the java, I sat on the couch as Tara strolled casually around the room and studied the photographs on the wall. Today, she was the legendary farm girl from the heartland who was dressed casually in (very!) tight-fitting blue jeans and an elegant white blouse, while her golden hair was tied in a single braid, which fell halfway down her back. I swear to you that even if this woman had been put into an astronaut's suit, she still would have won the first prize in a beauty contest. Dazzling!

She turned from the pictures to face me and said softly, "You were lovers, weren't you?"

That was rather quick! I didn't know how to answer her because the way she had phrased the question seemed to imply that I had been unfaithful to Gloria. Yet I knew Tara would not be offended by that, and I also noticed the alteration in her tone of voice when she had used the word lovers, which seemed to hint at a deep admiration for the mysterious passion that exists at the beginning of a love affair. Being a sensualist, her attitude was probably that marriage was an earthly mistake, while lovers were admitted, at least temporarily, into the raptures of the divine.

Even so, the bonds of ancient morality made me cautious. "We were," I said slowly, "but not for long."

She gazed at me with an inquiring expression.

There was no reason not to be honest with her. "We had been partners for about three years, and I think, perhaps, we had subconsciously developed feelings for each other, but they were hidden beneath the roles that we were forced to play." How trite, I thought to myself--how utterly trite. "She was," I continued gamely but still a little lamely, "an honest person who had grown up in the ghetto and wanted to succeed professionally, so she was determined to keep a certain amount of distance between us. Meanwhile, I was a married man whose life had gradually fallen into ruins."

I paused--it was hard for me to talk about Miranda or even mention her name without becoming emotional. Something about that word honest affected me powerfully--there was no one I had ever met who was as truthful as Miranda, and I am not talking about her words--I am talking about her being. Among many other things, truth had vanished from my life.

"And?" said Tara with something that went well beyond sympathy.

"Then the day before yesterday, Monday, we came back here after Gloria and Cassandra had been murdered, and--"

"Oh, Jackson," she said as she came over and sat next to me, "it's alright; you don't have to say anything more--I understand."

"Have you ever had anyone that was close to you murdered?" I asked her.

"I...no...I'm not sure how to answer that." I could see that, for once, she was perplexed and didn't know what to say--I wondered why. There seemed to be a look of distress, or perhaps it was anger, upon her face.

"It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me in my life," I said.

"You resent it, don't you?"

"Of course I do--who wouldn't?" I wanted to say more--much more--but being with someone who had so much _presence_ and a beauty that was breathtaking, a perfect 10 as the boys would say, I was extremely reluctant to express my feelings, which seemed to be about as tasteful as a collection of smelly socks. I was not at all interested in repelling or shocking her, and I knew from experience that many women, as well as more than a few men, were often offended by those who gave voice to their animosities.

"What is it that you actually resent, Jackson?"

I paused before replying as I felt my shaky self-control crumbling before a question that I felt was completely ludicrous. "Everything," I said with annoyance. If someone had challenged me to be exactly accurate, I would have said that I resented the totality of Western Culture. Or, in other words, everything.

She laughed in a disarming way. "Be a little more specific if you can--it will help you to talk about your feelings. Don't worry about me--I'm a lot tougher than I look."

"To tell you the truth, Tara, it makes me hate this whole universe." I was beginning to realize that my resentments extended well beyond this pitiful planet that was ruled and populated by psychotic, gun-toting, aspiring warmongers. "Your lover is here today, and then, BOOM--some lunatic with a gun puts a bullet through her heart. Deep down, everyone believes or at least hopes that there's justice, and that's why they worship God, but a single event--just one," I said with my voice rising, "totally disproves the concept of justice. It's the same thing as our number system: You can't have a rational system of calculation that contains within it a massive error."

"Mathematics," she said waving her hand lightly but dubiously.

I was going to have to go through it step by step and explain everything because one of the kids in the class had a problem with the multiplication tables. "Logically, Tara, it's the same thing as having a pile of white blocks that contains one black block and then asserting that all the blocks are white. Murder is the black block amongst all the virtues that we adore in God, and the true believers close their eyes to the fact that justice must be total, or it doesn't exist at all. If a teacher has a hundred students and murders one of them would anyone call that person just? What difference would it make if every other act of his life had been an act of supreme justice? Murder is more than the absence of justice; it's the negation of justice--all justice."

"But it's the same thing the other way around, isn't it, Jackson? Don't the pile of black blocks contain within them white blocks? Using your reasoning wouldn't that prove that the universe was not unjust because, after all, injustice would have to be total to exist, wouldn't it? And by the way," she said, pointing toward the pictures on the wall, "I think your choice of colors to demonstrate the conflict between good and evil is a bit odd. Wasn't Miranda's murderer a white person?"

Women were forever presenting me with this kind of oddball irrelevant logic; however, I couldn't help but wonder at the absurdity of the symbolism that I had used, which had been so embarrassingly stereotypical.

"So you see," she said with an air of cheer, "it may be a sign that you're thinking superficially."

It was useless for me to discuss these questions directly with anyone, and so I changed the subject slightly. "But Tara, while we talk here a wonderful woman who had every right to live out her life has been murdered, and it's impossible for me not to ask why. How is it that things like this can happen?"

"You're asking me?" she said with a smile. "You'll have to visit the oracle at Delphi for the answer to that mighty question."

Staring at her, I was struck by the expression life affirming--not, I noted sympathetically, an enviable occupation in a world that promiscuously dealt out random death at a rapid-fire rate.

"Suppose," Tara said in her dreamy, sultry way, "that there is life after death. You don't know that there isn't, do you?" she said with a sudden, humorous, feigned alarm.

"There isn't a shred of evidence that there is."

"You're ignoring your feelings, Jackson, which are telling you something much different. As someone who seeks for evidence that there is justice in the universe, don't you realize that life after death would satisfy all of your complaints and be the answer to all of your questions?"

I was becoming disconcerted by Tara's philosophical agility, which--much as I regret to say it--seemed oddly out of place and unrealistically intelligent beside her astonishing beauty. Without doubt, she shattered the unwritten rule that the spiritual arts were the private domain of the old, the ugly, and the sexually repressed. Cantankerous, semi-abstinent men--yes! Beautiful, seductive women--no! At the same time, I realized it was difficult to take Tara's question about life after death seriously because I knew she was merely trying to counter the logic of my negativity with her own brand of free-spirited spirituality. Whatever her rationalization might be, the fact would always remain that Miranda was dead, and there wasn't a word or an idea that could lessen the impact of _that_. But neither would I reject outright what this woman was trying to offer me. "How would it do that?" I asked her dutifully.

Tara sipped her coffee carefully before replying. "Well," she said with a pleasant and interesting laugh, "I'm certainly not a professor, except for possibly bedroom politics, but I would think that since eternal life obviously negates death, we would then have to come to a different perception of justice. If Miranda didn't die, if her spirit or being lives eternally, then the unfortunate incidents of one lifetime fade away into insignificance, and injustice disappears forever into nonexistence. Death would then be nothing more than a very minor event--like stubbing your toe in the middle of the night."

It was difficult for me not to respond to the callousness of that statement; Miranda's death would always mean much more than that to me. How about breaking your toe, your leg, your heart, and your spirit? "But Tara--"

She put out her hand to stop me. "No, I know what you're going to say, but that's not what I mean. _You're_ _a_ _spurned_ _lover_ , _Jackson_ ," she said with a sudden and dramatic change in emphasis. "You always felt there was justice, but it went far beyond that--you and justice were _lovers_ , you know? Open up your heart now, Jackson, and hear what I am saying to you. Love, in itself, often doesn't mean that much because it can be one-sided and an illusion, but lovers in their union are forever real. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Stop! Don't try to tear it apart with your logic--look at it. It wasn't an idea or a theory that you had about justice--it was a feeling that came from deep within you. It wasn't something that you were taught or learned; it was a sense. You _sensed_ justice, sensed it as a force in the universe, but then, Miranda, your physical lover, was murdered, and you came to the conclusion that your metaphysical lover, justice, was an illusion. Now listen to me, Jackson-- _listen_! Death and justice cannot coexist--they completely contradict each other, and so one of them must be an illusion. Because of Miranda's murder, the scales have tipped for you, and you've lost your balance for a while because you've discarded your sense of justice, which is eternal, and sided with the transient mirage of death.

"These things used to puzzle me too, Jackson, but then one morning, I was walking along the beach, and something happened to me that changed my life."

## CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE HAPPY UNIVERSE

Waving her hand in front of her as if it were a fan, Tara said, "It's so stuffy in here, Jackson. I feel like a flower that's beginning to wilt, and that can't be good for my complexion. I understand that's not an important consideration for you in your line of work, but the patrons of the soaps are quite demanding in the standards that they set, and I can't afford even the slightest hint of a blotch or blemish."

Saying the first thing that came to my mind, I suggested the porch that Miranda and I had sat on the previous evening, but I had forgotten that we would have to pass through her bedroom to reach it. Suddenly, as we entered the room and I saw her bed, which seemed to be looming suggestively before my eyes, it became difficult for me not to be worried about the world of appearances, explanations, and consequences; I had no idea when Miranda's family might arrive, and wouldn't that be the height of outrageous absurdity if they found me just outside her bedroom with a gorgeous actress whose previous history could not under any circumstances be discussed in front of their children? "I...well, you see," I would stammer, "it's not how it appears, not at all. Actually I was...Miranda and I were partners, partners on the force, and I thought that she might have an important document that related to a current case, and _this_ " (what a bizarre way to refer to Tara) "is my sister-in-law, Tara Lake. The two of us were driving to the...uh...minister to make arrangements for my dear wife's funeral, and since we happened to be in the neighborhood, it was only natural that..." Hopefully, they wouldn't ask me to explain what we were doing on the porch, because I would need much more time than was available to come up with a satisfactory explanation for that. The best concoction of reasonable nonsense that I could contrive on short notice was that I suffered from a rare but serious disease that manifested itself in severe bouts of vertigo. These alarming, unexpected, and dire episodes required me to step outside immediately for the fresh air that the doctors had informed me was the only effective treatment when I found myself unable to reach my pills, which I had unfortunately forgotten to bring with me, and it was certainly lucky that my sister-in-law had accompanied me as, otherwise, I would have undoubtedly keeled over.

Meanwhile, peering out the window, Tara appeared dubious. "This porch looks like it should be condemned."

I laughed--she was probably accustomed to million-dollar porches that were supported by fourteen Roman pillars. "It's perfectly safe, Tara--Miranda and I were out here last night and she's...she was heavier than you."

"OK, show me the way," she said lightheartedly.

Once outside, I quickly turned around to help her through the window. She hardly needed my help, but besides being a common courtesy, it was an innocuous way, perhaps I should say semi-innocuous way, of coming into physical contact with her--a temptation that had swept through my mind so quickly and innocently that my sleepy conscience had been unable to perceive any danger. Tara had not been expecting me to be moving towards her, and her back foot caught on the top of the sill, which caused her to fall awkwardly into my arms. Because she had lost her balance somewhat, we were, for a few moments, quite close, and I could feel, sense is the word that she would have used, a very vibrant and athletic body. Our faces--I don't want to say our lips--were close, but I could see within her eyes--just for an instant, but it was an important instant--a coldness that seemed to have within it the sparks of hostility, maybe even rage.

I stepped back from her and watched as she moved to the side and sat in the chair that Miranda had used the night before. I had the definite impression that she was using this time to regain her composure, and I wondered what it was within her that had produced such an antagonistic reaction or whether everything I had perceived was simply a product of my guilty imagination. It was all very complicated and obscure; I had wanted to touch her, but I was expecting that it would only be her hand as I helped her through the window--a perfectly natural act of chivalry and nothing that was at all remarkable. However, when we had been unexpectedly thrown together for a few seconds, I felt fate was affirming a much deeper wish within me, but this longing was completely negated by the fury that had spontaneously arisen in her eyes. In that case, it was merely the usual frustrating dance of the sexes as the man says yes and the woman says no. I was, I realized, pathetically vulnerable to a beautiful woman, and on this account, it was hard for me to hold myself accountable for my actions, which were essentially beyond my control.

As I sat down beside her, I could feel that she was maintaining a distinct distance between us. Feeling somewhat chagrined, I made an effort to place myself in her shoes and found myself wandering through the labyrinth of what she might have experienced in her life, along with the feelings that those experiences would have aroused.

She was probably a woman who had suffered through countless failed relationships that had all--unquestionably--been based on sex. She was not a doctor, professor, or scientist; rather, she was a physical woman with a fabulous figure who had an engaging, intelligent presence and a face that radiated sexual passion. What would it be like to be a woman like that? How many times, in how many ways, did she have to say no? So that's where _that_ look had come from...

Musing at a tangent as I often do, I wondered whether the thoughts of a person were created by the perception that they had of themselves, especially physically, or did the thoughts themselves create the image, the form of the body? Because, to me, Tara seemed innately sensual, and what she was now had not been developed as she grew out of childhood but had been there from the moment of her birth. It was ridiculous for me to look at Tara and feel that her exquisite beauty was an acquired taste or a product of biology because it seemed to me that what she was now had been resonating in her mind from the day that she had been born. I knew as I sat there that this was a theoretically ridiculous assumption and one that the scientists would be determined to disprove with their modern slide rules and idiotic statistical studies, but as you may have noticed, I had long since fallen out of love with that crackpot crowd. Is there, and I ask this seriously, anyone more fundamentally ignorant about the true facts of life than a scientist--except, perhaps, a priest?

Come on, I told myself--you're wandering off the track. Which was what? I couldn't quite remember--something about Tara, obviously--her beauty, ah yes, her beauty. But by now, I was becoming disenchanted and disoriented with my thoughts, which seemed to exist in an irrelevant universe of mostly negative abstractions, and I turned from them to the theatre of the real.

"Life must be difficult for you sometimes," I said.

She had put her feet up on the railing and had returned to her confident, carefree persona. "I'll say! What if you hadn't been there to catch me? I would have gone sailing off into outer space and crash-landed on a car, which definitely wouldn't have been good for my complexion."

Her flight off the porch wouldn't have been very healthy for me either. How would I have explained that one to the investigators? Immediately, if not much sooner, everyone would have come to the obvious conclusion that after forcing the voluptuous movie star into a bedroom, the bedroom, no less, of my recently slain partner with whom I had been having an affair on the very same day that my wife was murdered, Tara, in desperation, had attempted to flee from my depraved advances, and preferring suicide to the surrender of her virtue, she had virtuously plunged to her doom. As soon as anyone with eyes saw a picture of Tara, they would know beyond a shadow of a doubt what I was after--even the _most_ intelligent scientist could figure that one out!

Dragged into court in shackles, I could hear myself saying, "Your Honor, I truly had the best intentions when I took the former porn star into the bedroom--we were, in fact, simply going to step out onto the porch for some much-needed fresh air. But then, without any warning, she made an advance upon me, specifically a sexual advance, and in an heroic effort to avoid committing an improper act, I quickly stepped aside, which caused her to lose her balance and directly led to her unfortunate and catastrophic demise."

I marveled at the powers that beautiful women held over me--one long second in Tara's arms and I was swimming in an ocean of bizarre fantasies. But, in the middle of all this seemingly irrelevant mental chatter, where was Miranda? How could she so easily be swept out of my consciousness?

"Would you like to know the secret of life, Jackson?" said Tara unexpectedly.

"I certainly would," I said with great inner amusement. If I had been alone, I would have laughed out loud at the combination of my ugly comedy of thoughts and Tara's ridiculous question. Maybe it was all a dream, and I would be informed in a stately, godlike voice that the next time I had a hangover, it would be an excellent idea to take some aspirins, which would have the happy effect of diminishing the severity of my sexual fascinations and hallucinations.

"Alright then," said Tara, "let's take a walk along the beach. Imagine that you're there on a beautiful summer morning--the sound of the waves, the gentle breeze from the ocean, the seagulls wandering around on the sand. Are you there yet, Jackson? Close your eyes and visualize it."

"OK," I said, "I think I'm about as close to it as I'm going to get." I didn't want to tell her that with my eyes closed, I couldn't visualize anything except the embarrassment I would feel if someone like Jake suddenly appeared and caught me doing something like this.

"Now," she said softly, "you're walking along, barefoot I hope, and what are you thinking about? Take some time before you answer me, and let your thoughts wander a bit before they settle on something. Don't say you're thinking about me," she said seriously. "Assume it's a month from today, and I'm far away. You're lost in your thoughts, and you're alone on a deserted, windswept beach."

I wasn't very adept at these New Age games from the Enlightenment Academy, so I took the obvious shortcut of observing the thoughts that were currently in my mind and said, "I'm thinking about Miranda."

"What kind of thoughts do you have about her?"

Free psychotherapy! Unfortunately, psychologists were just another bunch of would-be scientists that I had dropped off my list of remotely sane people. Of course, if they had the looks of the woman I was sitting next to, there was a certain enticement to be had in stringing them along, and so I said, "I miss her, I long for her, and I know that I'll never see her again."

"Go on. Keep walking--it's a long beach, and the shore stretches out beyond the range of your sight. What else? Your thoughts are changing because that's what thoughts do."

Now what? I swear to God, and I am certainly ashamed to admit it, but I suddenly wondered if Tara's old movies were still available. It wasn't that I was really interested, but sometimes when I find myself in certain situations--and this apparently was one of them--my mind becomes irrepressibly and irretrievably irreverent. I also noticed, once again, that Tara produced within me a sense of exhilaration that sent my mind spinning wildly off the course of its usual track.

Since I certainly didn't want to annoy her, I returned to the task at hand and obediently provided my new therapist with some information that she might find pertinent as she attempted to analyze my peculiar difficulties. "I am there," I said slowly, "in the room where Miranda was murdered. I can hear the shot, can feel myself being spattered with her blood, can hear her fall to the floor in front of me."

Tara did not reply for what seemed like a very long time, and out of curiosity, I opened my eyes to find her gazing at me compassionately. "I'm so sorry, Jackson--I didn't mean to upset you. Perhaps I should try to explain this in a different way." After a few moments, she waved her hand expansively in front of her and said, "There's only one world out there, but inside the mind, each person can choose from an infinite variety of possibilities--universes is what I call them. However, when all is said and done, the only important question is whether the universe that one chooses to inhabit is a happy universe. Right now, it must seem to you that happiness is impossible."

It had been so long since I had experienced that quaint and outmoded feeling that I felt like laughing. In fact, from everything I had seen over the last couple of decades, happiness appeared to be something that was exclusively reserved for those in childhood and perhaps, for a few delirious moments, drunken juveniles as they thundered down the road in their jalopies. For everyone else, it was an idealistic mirage that wasn't worth a passing thought. Maybe, at best, there were a few seconds of it scattered across the years, but the only thing that I could dredge up from my past was the fantastic feeling that swept over me after I had downed a shot of vodka and a rousing rock song came floating, one way or another, into my consciousness.

There were also the hombres at the station to consider--those stalwart cohorts who manned the gates with me against the ever-encroaching barbarians. For sure, I'd be put on emergency medical leave if I started discussing the ludicrous concept of happiness.

Looking concerned, Tara leaned towards me and said, "What are you laughing about, Jackson?"

"Tara, if I were asked to describe what I thought happiness was, I would probably say that, in my experience, it was limited to alcohol and sex." Despite having the best intentions, I seemed to be returning to a banned theme that my troublesome subconscious continually interjected into my more than receptive mind.

She smiled at me warily. "That's not quite what I mean. I'm talking about a state of mind, a happy mind."

I could see Jake now as I asked him whether he was happy or had fallen into one of his sour, grumpy moods. That would be a marvelous excuse for him to pull out his flask, belt down a whopper, and make an antisocial, sarcastic remark. Looking at Tara, I said, "I'm afraid happiness is frowned upon at the station since it goes against the secret protocols that we were forced to utter when we were sworn into the force."

"Come on, Jackson, be serious. If you wanted to, you could live in a different universe, a happy one."

"How?" Maybe, when I retired and became semi-senile, I could wander down Dogwire Drive and inform some irritable dope who was staggering into the Emporium with his gargantuan work-hating hangover that I was, indeed, a very happy man. By then, I would undoubtedly have my own flask, and I could see myself chugging down a shot to emphasize my newfound elation to the sorry, dejected soul standing in front of me. Obviously, Monday morning would be an excellent time for me, Pastor James, to patrol the Drive in my search for a congregation, but alas, my powerful sermon on the hidden glories that exist within the bottle would probably turn out to be the high point of my rather pointless week.

"What's so funny?" Tara said.

It was hard for me to conceal my amusement. Tara was so humorless, almost grim, and I felt like a wayward student in the back of the classroom. It was time to buckle down and pay attention or else the teacher, the beautiful teacher, might lose her temper. "I think," I said earnestly, "that happiness is something for women to enjoy; men have seen too much of the world, and for kicks, they always have lust and alcohol to fall back on. But it's impossible to be happy when you're standing over the body of a murder victim--even if you aren't related to them. And you know what?"

I was becoming irked with what seemed to me to be another version of escapism--the usual "happy" ideas of the survivors once the victims have been buried. "I don't care what anyone says, Tara-- _I can hear the screams of the victims._ I don't mean before they died--I'm talking about _now_. Everybody else is deaf to that, apparently. Personally, I think the concept of happiness is an insane but perhaps understandable reaction to the exploding carnage that is sweeping through the world. It reminds me of a movie that I saw where a soldier is standing in the midst of his fallen comrades and bursts into nonsensical laughter--anything to escape the butchered bodies that lie forever silent around him. Would you be happy if you were standing in his shoes?"

Tara sighed. "I wouldn't be standing there because I would never participate in a war."

Typical escapism--not me, it couldn't happen to me because I believe in God (or happiness), and I'm above or beyond all the nasty things that the rest of humanity encounters. "But Tara, the war, the war of guns is all around us, and some people are more sensitive to it than others."

"You're sensitive to it because you walked into that universe. Listen, will you please just listen to me and think about what I'm going to tell you."

"Sure," I said with the attitude of a grumpy child who is about to be stupidly reprimanded by one of the Big People--those aging, dimwitted clowns who are forever chomping at the bit to pronounce one of their preposterous, time-honored judgments--almost all of which are so fundamentally stupid that they should only be used as guidelines in nursing homes to decide the winners of contested bingo games.

"Years ago, my heart was filled with similar things. Only, as a woman, it was a bitterness that arose from different experiences. What use was it to seek the love of a man? The ones I met only craved sex, power, thrills, and drugs, and I was always going to be seen as their conquest, their possession--I could never be a person, someone to genuinely love. From my point of view, to be absolutely honest with you, the world has poisoned the minds of men, and they are, almost every one of them, locked into a violent universe that disdains everything that a woman could offer them."

Exactly, I thought to myself. Look at the universe Tara had walked into. Glamorous men! Complaining about their callous attitudes was not much different than complaining about death in war. Comes with the territory, baby. Except sexual partners were a choice, while murder and war were enforced realities. Still...interestingly, for the first time, I began to understand what she might be talking about.

"But then, from out of nowhere, it happened!" she said enthusiastically. "There I was on _that_ beach, on _that_ morning, and the truth came to me. I had spent, just like everyone else does, years wallowing in my resentments, and I asked myself: _Was_ _this the day that I wanted to live?_ Were my resentments that important, important enough to ruin another day? Because every day--every day, Jackson--that you spend living in the universe of resentment is a wasted, unhappy day. You probably don't agree with that, do you?"

"I don't know whether it's wasted or not; I just think it's inevitable to feel resentment."

"That's not true--in fact, it's absolutely false. Resentment is a choice, a decision that the mind makes, and because it eventually becomes a mental habit, it seems unavoidable, even justifiable. There is nothing, _absolutely_ _nothing_ , that is more harmful to a person's emotional or physical health than resentment. And can you imagine what this world would be like if even half of us gave up our resentments?"

"That's been said since the beginning of time, Tara, and nothing has ever come of it. For the human being, hatred is as natural, perhaps more natural, than love."

"Not hatred, Jackson, resentment. Stick to that word because that's where it all starts--that's the cancer of the heart that has destroyed humanity. Someone once said that giving in to resentment is the same as swallowing a cup of poison and then hoping that the other person dies. That is basically what I understood very directly as I walked along the seashore that morning, but for me, it was a very powerful, sensual vision. I _felt_ resentment, felt it as a dark, venomous shadow that was casting a plague into my heart. I felt it the same way that one would respond to a vicious animal--I could sense the danger of it, and I immediately moved away. But above all--and I think this is extremely easy to see--I saw that resentment would ruin the rest of the day that I was living, and as long as I welcomed this messenger of malice into my heart, I would forever be caught up in a universe of fear and retaliation and be burdened by a conflict that could never be resolved. _Resentment_ _has_ _never_ _solved_ _anything_! It's an insane mirage, the mirage of justice and the insanity of retribution, but in actuality, it's the poison that ruins the day. You wouldn't drink poison would you? Why, why is everyone so ready to destroy their days and their lives over this deadly emotion?"

I took some time to reply--if she hadn't been so beautiful, I would have passed her thoughts off as hopeless idealism, but I thought the sentiment she expressed mirrored her image, which would always have a profound effect upon me.

Finally, somewhat confused, I said, "But Tara, what does this have to do with me? My lover, my wife, and my daughter have all just been murdered, and while I obviously have some resentment about it, what I really feel most intensely is extreme loneliness because none of these people can ever be replaced."

She looked at me as if I were crazy and said, "You--not resentful? Are you serious? Jackson, when you begin to use another word, like loneliness, to describe what you feel, you've merely transferred your emotions by renaming them, but it all amounts to the same thing."

"Tara, I'm not a genius--what in the world does that mean?"

"I'm not sure you want to understand this, but what I am telling you could completely change your life. For resentment to be effective, it _must_ cause pain to the mind from which it originates because the only way that resentment can justify itself is to produce that pain, and the more pain that it produces, the more the resentment appears to be based on fact--jealousy is a good example of that. If it didn't create the hurt, then on what could it feed? How could you resent a person who hadn't caused you any pain? If resentment didn't have an effect who would bother with it? What would be its reason for existence? _It_ _wouldn't_ _have_ _any_ _existence_! Resentment is not a response to pain; it _is_ the pain, the root of the pain--like sticking a knife into your own heart with your own hand and then blaming someone else for it. There's hardly a disease in this world, physical or psychological, that doesn't spring _directly_ from resentment."

I can still remember Tara as she sat there and stared passionately into my eyes with her breathtaking, transcendent beauty--it was almost enough to make me believe, once again, in God.

"What if you had no resentments, Jackson? Wouldn't you be a happy man? The reason we are unhappy creatures is because we cannot free ourselves from the grip of our resentments, which also wound, sometimes fatally, the body that harbors them. And incredibly, despite all the evil that is created from this single emotion, the human mind seems to be forever ensnared within the web of this ancient and evil trickster who masquerades under so many different names. Sorrow, depression, loneliness, anger, grief--they are all the same thing--they are all manifestations of resentment."

"Tara, really...that's too simplistic."

"You think what you're feeling has nothing to do with resentment, don't you? That's because you're not aware of what you actually resent. You see only the outward appearances of your resentment--murderers, guns, wars, the stupidity of society. Your problem is that you don't understand the source of your resentment."

What you think is the source of my resentment. Who knew what she would say next?

"You resent death," Tara said decisively. "That's why you're so obsessed with victims. What difference does it make if they're screaming? They're dead, and anyways, I think what you're really hearing are your own screams as you're brought face to face with your own mortality. You're terrified of death, Jackson, and the reason you're terrified of it is because you resent it. You've convinced yourself, without any real evidence, that it's the ultimate end of consciousness, and so, naturally, you resent the thing that brings this about, which means that you also resent the nature of existence. And certainly, if you believed in God, you would resent God. Is it any wonder then that you feel sorrow and loneliness?"

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE INVINCIBLE ONES

Even though I was affected by the depth and sincerity of Tara's convictions, I doubted that a month later, when I was roaming down the deserted beach of the rest of my life, her words would seem significant to me because Miranda's death would always be too real for me to ignore or bury under a cloud of words--however heartfelt and spiritual they might be.

But as time passed, it became obvious that my conversation with Tara had been an important turning point for me, because from that day forward, I never had quite the same belief in the truth of anger and began to view it as a hostile wave of thoughts that came into being when an ego was thwarted. My state of mind changed, and I became somewhat more carefree and, at times, even lackadaisical in my approach to life. Occasionally, remarkably, there were moments when I wondered if it would be better to bury the dreadful memories of the night that Miranda had been murdered and just forget about the rampaging insanities of the world. Although what I felt wasn't exactly happiness, I could understand that such a thing might exist.

However, there was one thing that stood in the way--one thought or emotion that I could never completely reconcile with the words of Tara. If my sympathy for victims was, as she had said, only my own fear of death manifesting itself, then wouldn't that very same fear have also been existent during the last seconds of _their_ lives? And now that these beings had been victimized into eternity, was that, as the sociopathic Darwinists would profess and proclaim, the end of them? Or, at the moment of death, had their fear been transformed into a spiritual scream?--the same scream that I had been hearing for years, the scream that took the form of a relentless voice in my mind, a voice that translated itself into an _intense_ premonition of universal annihilation. Listen: the feeling that comes to those who are murdered may be something much more profound than "mere" fear; because it is so unnatural to have one's life ended by the instantaneous action of a weapon, the perception of overwhelming panic before the moment of violent extinction (which does not occur in a natural death) may represent a presentiment of a much deeper agony, and it seems to me that these spirit/beings are now actually warning us of a magnified version of their own fate, an imminent peril that is rapidly approaching this brutal bloodbath called Western Culture. Supposedly, of course, we're the new, improved, and highly evolved version of the Titanic, which means that God can't possibly sink our ship--especially since He, She, or It doesn't exist anymore. _But_ _that_ _is_ _not_ _what_ _I_ _am_ _hearing_.

(For those good and faithful Darwinists who find the preceding paragraph repulsive because it grants existence to things that science cannot prove and therefore, by definition, have no existence, I will rephrase it for you very simply: When you see or hear of a victim, doesn't it ever occur to you that _you_ might be the next one? Or are you one of the invincible ones?)

When I was much younger, I read a vivid account of reincarnation concerning a German-American woman who had been hypnotized and claimed that in her last life, she had been an Irish woman named Bridey Murphy. Speaking in a brogue, she claimed that for about five years after she died, she remained in her house and tried to communicate with her brother who she had been close to and living with at the time of her death. When the hypnotist asked whether he had responded to her in any way, Bridey, who had been lying down, suddenly sat bolt upright and said in a very loud voice, " _He_ _wouldn't_ _listen_!"

Although science disparages all aspects of mysticism, including reincarnation, as remnants of the nonsense of organized religions, it should be obvious that it arose in rebellion to the old religious order and has simply substituted twentieth-century counter-absurdities for the ancient ones. There they crucified, here we murder; there they believed in God, here we believe in evolution; there they threatened the apocalypse as an event that would take place in the future, here we have it as a daily possibility. In other words, the seed of religion gave birth to the flower of science, and the supposed dichotomy between the two is nothing but an illusion. We are, without any doubt, every bit as irrational as our ancestors were and considerably more lethal--it is entirely true to say that the only _significant_ thing that has evolved over the last two thousand years is our ability to kill one another.

Still, because of the spiritual influence that Tara had upon me, I reflected for some time upon the following obvious philosophical dilemma: How is it possible to live without resentment in a world that is based on murder and the preposterous Nazi notion of the survival of the fittest? What do you suppose the great, almighty, hopelessly ineffective Christ would have said about guns and nuclear weapons? Love thy neighbor is one thing; love the gun that is about to kill you is quite another and too absurd to contemplate seriously, except as an abstract, silly question in a sophomoric collegiate debate between bamboozled gun fanatics.

At last, one dreary day while I was walking through the woods, I realized that I needed to focus my considerable negative energies entirely upon weapons. I could, by this time, easily understand the spiritual and practical necessity of living a life that contained no resentment for others, but I saw no reason to apply this precept to things that did not possess a consciousness and were not living beings--especially when they were the tools of murder. However, the people who had invented or used the weapons to commit acts of violence were merely innocent pawns in the gruesome game of Darwinism, which is nothing more than a blueprint for our own extermination. The theory of evolution is a tragic, _wholly_ false idea, which is based in its _entirety_ on the hatred of nature as a hostile force that must be conquered, so one should hardly be surprised that this malevolent creed has become the justification--subtle though it may be--by which nations have waged their righteous, interminable wars and are now stockpiling astronomical amounts of nuclear weapons. Are we really living in a world where there are people who are so brainwashed that they will defend, or even praise, nuclear weapons? The answer to that is a resounding yes.

While it may appear, at least superficially, that _The Voice of the Victim_ is a long list of resentments directed at various people or groups of people, I should point out that it is, for the most part, a history of events that occurred over six years ago and is, in that respect, an accurate description of what I felt _then;_ furthermore, and much more importantly, my resentment, really hatred, of weapons must logically include the intellectual culture from which they have originated. Nuclear weapons didn't just happen to arrive from outer space--they were, obviously, the physical manifestation of highly sophisticated ideas, which came from a scientific culture where the ultimate in mass murder is glorified as an art form. But when I speak of scientists, what I actually mean is science itself and the power that scientific ideas now have on the human mind, which has made all of us, in one way or another, mad little scientists. "We can," we say with a pride that is both guilty and bizarre, "blow up the whole world." There's an unusual achievement that shouldn't be overlooked! And in spite of all its colossal wickedness, we devoutly respect science, hold it in reverence, and obsequiously fawn ourselves before it. For sheer stupidity, there is absolutely nothing to equal the modern world.

That is why both education and science are essentially, as they exist today, murderous, but the educators and scientists themselves are no different than anyone else because they have simply been swept up in the modern metallic age of speed, power, and death and have no conception of the monster that has been created, which has the capacity to destroy us all. We always assumed that we were the master race and that the survival of the fittest applied to humanity in its endless battle with everything else on the earth, but in actuality, we are the ones who are on the verge of extinction. We completely fail to realize that we are a part of nature, while God and science are merely the sick fantasies of preposterous and malicious egos that have run amok and gone berserk.

The sad fact is that we don't deserve to survive, and we won't, unless there is a tremendous revolution in human consciousness. Somehow or other, the day of reckoning is coming and coming soon. That is why the deepest respect must always be for the victims--nothing will ever change my mind about that because if we can realize what they represent, we _might_ still be able to save ourselves. I am not talking about the pathetic futility of a funeral, and the awful sight of a mother weeping over her murdered child; I am talking about taking revenge on all the weapons-- _not_ _the_ _people_ \--whose only purpose is to kill. That would surely be a fitting memorial to those who have been murdered. Yet given the extreme dominance of guns and bombs as a means to enforce not only the various whims of an ever-increasing psychotic horde of individuals but also the more apocalyptic ambitions of our patriotically insane nationalisms, this remains an extreme improbability, and one that is hardly even worth noting as a realistic possibility. For instance: Has anyone seriously considered not just destroying the particular gun that killed the particular person, which seems elementary, but also wiping _all_ guns off the face of the earth, which seems mandatory? Why, after hundreds of millions of human beings have been sacrificed to the God who is called Gun, is this so difficult to comprehend? Or is it a subject that all consider irrelevant, since as humans they are members of the master race, and thus one of Darwin's invincible ones?

(Assuming that anyone reads this and bothers to consider my attitude towards science fairly, I will be met with various versions of the following three arguments: First, who am I to talk? Since I have no degrees [which, to me, are nothing but expensive certificates of conformity to ignorance], how can I possibly be taken seriously? The brainwashed collegiate chorus of aspiring world-beating Darwinists, who have been expertly trained to defend the intellectual status quo by their highly paid professorial peers, will snidely say, "Look at the great minds of our culture who stand unalterably opposed to your uneducated babblings--Newton, Darwin, and Einstein--just to name a few of the millions who have struggled so valiantly to advance the knowledge of man." Granted, I am not a member of this not-so-innocent club of Murder Incorporated, but I have, not surprisingly, a querulous question for those who believe implicitly and explicitly in our modern religion of scientific knowledge: Are you at all familiar with the revealed teachings of Saint Peter, Saint Augustine, or Saint Aquinas? Whatever happened to those exalted figures? Weren't they held to be all-knowing? Weren't they sanctioned as the last word on everything by all the social forces of their times? While, admittedly, Al Einstein's crackpot crowd knows more about the lunatic domain of quarks, particle accelerators, and atom smashers than Tommy Aquinas's band of Bible-thumping disciples, I don't think it proves much since the latter were the self-anointed experts on heaven, hell, and sin, which seem slightly less insane to me than string theory and quantum mechanics. But I certainly don't want to be accused of taking sides in this battle of mad- _men_ , and my final verdict, when I compare Al to Tommy, is that they were equally crazy and would be excellent subjects for statues that could be placed at the entrance to a mental asylum.

I think, in all seriousness, that as a matter of principle, one should reject anything that is presumed to be invincible because that is invariably the sign of an infallible, Titanic error. [It would help if, for once, people would be willing to consider the possibility that Western Culture has been based on a single line of thought that has evolved menacingly through the preposterous fairy tale of religion and turned into the monstrous wave of mass murder that goes by the name of science. The altar has been moved, the icons have been transubstantiated, and the priests have discarded hell for the more realistic threat of nuclear annihilation, but nothing has really changed, and we are all at the mercy of a very bizarre wave of incredible folly; Hiroshima and Nagasaki are just the tip of the iceberg for this gang of universally adored serial murderers.]

Secondly, it will be said that science does not bear any culpability for its "misuse" by man. [What, pray tell, was the gun invented for?] Amazingly, despite its blatant absurdity, this argument is accepted with a fervency that makes it the Neville Chamberlain of our shockingly idiotic age where the lust to murder is considered the golden rule of the modern evolutionary Bible. [Do unto others before they would do unto you--Boom! Boom! Boom!] "Guns, bombs, and nuclear weapons," say the Darwinists with their pompous, pigheaded, chauvinistic authoritarianism, "are not the problem because they do not have minds of their own and are simply neutral instruments, which can, of course, be abused by criminals." Come on!! How stupid can people possibly be? What kind of a nuthouse am I living in? No wonder we're on the verge of extinction! How many people have been murdered by these weapons of science--five hundred million, a billion? That's a lot of criminals! And what do we do with our murderers when we convict them? Hand them a gun? _The_ _invention_ _of_ _weapons, from the gun to the nuclear bomb,_ _was_ _criminal; the minds and the knowledge from which they originated_ _were_ _criminal_. _They're_ _all_ _murderers_!

This criminality infected our culture, and we all became, if not actual murderers, complicit accomplices--in a legal sense--to the crime of murder. To put it humorously, the ordinary citizen, who has probably never shot a gun in his or her life, is driving the getaway car. We do not, as a matter of common sense and self-preservation, hand murderers or their accomplices guns. Thus, all guns, along with their bomb-monster surrogates, should be taken out of _everyone's_ hands, including governments, because we are not capable of using them "correctly" and never will be. If we were stupid enough to invent these things, then it stands to reason that we're too stupid to use them. Talk about obvious! Infantile children--and we certainly deserve to be called that--should not be allowed to carry guns. Imagine--it took a genius like me to figure that one out! Where's my prize? Sometimes, a single, solitary soul, even a degree-deprived commoner, can be considerably more intelligent than the Queen and all her nobles or even, for that matter, an entire civilization--which, in this case, isn't saying much. [My apologies for the last few sentences, but I sometimes feel a need to counter the universal, bombastic, never ending, supreme arrogance of our times with a spicy, outrageous remark of my own.]

Thirdly, I must briefly, in all fairness, address a complicated issue that can be summed up as follows: What if the lights were to go out? [Please be sympathetic to me and be willing to wade through this nonsensical debate, which is not of my own making but is, unfortunately, necessary because if I do not effectively counter the objections of the intelligentsia beforehand, they will literally leap out of their chairs to castigate me, and the docile public will murmur, "You see, he didn't think of that--it turns out his stupid book was based on false logic and peculiar obsessions."] "Electricity," according to the frayed and belligerent nerves of those whose jobs, homes, and sustenance depend upon an electric current, "was a creation of science, and without it, our civilization would completely collapse within a few days; millions upon millions, if not billions would die, and the world would be thrown into mass chaos." Ergo, science is the savior.

So to ensure our survival, we must subscribe to our doom--the God of Science appears before us with a light bulb in one hand and a nuclear bomb in the other. Here is the deadly contradiction of Darwinism, and a conflict that has never been resolved. Nevertheless, there is another way to live besides the--literally--dead-end alleys of religion and science, which are merely speculative attempts to assert our dominance in the everlasting and extremely peculiar war we have proclaimed against nature. Without getting lost in a quagmire of details, objections and theories, it should be obvious that our survival depends on parting ways with the murderous mistakes of science. Imperatively, we must begin--first, last, and always--by eliminating the most unnatural and dangerous thing of all--weapons--because it is not possible to come to sane environmental solutions when some form of a gun is pointed at all of our heads. Would you be able to continue working on your important, exhaustive, much-anticipated five-thousand-page report on reducing the amount of lead in wooden pencils if your cranky next-door neighbor was threatening to detonate a hydrogen bomb? This is why the political arena is obsessed, emotionally, financially, and militarily, with terror--what no one seems willing to admit is that the terror does not emanate from people and ideologies but from the wonder weapons of science. Are we afraid of foreigners, or are we afraid of being blown up by a nuclear bomb? Thus, it stands to reason that we would be better off eliminating the bombs instead of the foreigners. [For those who feel this is impractical and utopian, I see a person in a burning house who, for one reason or another, refuses to move and is martyred for their stupidity. _This_ _world_ _is_ _on_ _fire,_ _and_ _the_ _fire_ _is_ _weapons_.]

If we could ever--miracle of miracles--reach the delightful day when the humble stone was considered to be the ultimate in aggression, we would then, among many other positive things, be able to focus on reality. It is _only_ when the real enemy of humanity--weapons—have been exterminated that we will be able to sort through the rubble and make some sensible compromises with the inventions of science. Certainly, electricity has been beneficial to humanity, but I am considerably more reluctant to endorse the rampaging metal cockroach called the car. However, it's probably true that if we could reduce traffic by eighty to ninety percent, we could live with all the trouble that cars create—pollution, congestion of the roads, depletion of the earth's resources, etc. As for the plane, that is just a monstrosity that should be completely eliminated. Isn't it amazing how many people love the concept of flying? And yet, about all the plane does is fly the jet set around and deliver various products to consumers. Of course, one of the products that the plane has delivered for the last hundred years are bombs—the A bombs that landed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were not delivered by trains, and I think the evidence clearly shows that the plane is not a beneficial invention when it is placed in the hands of governments.

However, for those exasperated souls who are still annoyed with the ominous implications of my untoward, recalcitrant ideas, I want to assure you that there is absolutely nothing to fear from my writings. I thoroughly realize that I'm merely another unhappy and luckless passenger on the Titanic who would like, futilely, to be taken back to shore immediately and that my plaintive cries of "Iceberg--dead ahead!" will be met with howls of laughter. In fact, from my imperious perch high above the fray, I can see that the passengers on our unsinkable ship are enthusiastically chopping up the lifeboats for firewood--the fourth of July has arrived, and we absolutely _must_ have a bonfire to celebrate the occasion. It's a grand world that we live in, isn't it?

I think--dare I say it?--that from off in the distance, I can hear the melancholy strains of "Nearer My God To Thee." Don't worry--at this point in time, the band is merely practicing so that when the big event arrives, there won't be any sour notes to ruin the show. That's especially important since, obviously, it will be impossible to reprise the performance--in fact, there won't even be time for the briefest of encores, and sadly, even the enthusiastic applause will be cut abruptly short due to a massive fireball that will incinerate everyone in a jiffy.

I also understand that it can be a bit alarming to listen to these gloomy prognostications from an unlicensed psychic. There is no doubt that I should learn some humility and contemplate becoming a productive citizen, but that's extremely difficult for me since I find myself trapped on the ship that God couldn't sink, and I can't help remembering and proclaiming--it's just the agonized voice of another victim, which propels my mind, once again, into the depths of tragedy--the indisputable fact that the Titanic vanished in three short hours and that thanks to science, we are living in a much larger world that could also vanish-- _without_ _any_ _warning_ _whatsoever_ \--in three short hours. In my mind, there's no question that the well-known Japanese bands, the Hiroshima Holocaust and the Nagasaki Nightmare, were just the tepid warm-up acts for the world-famous Extinction Express--that fabulous new group of scientific rock stars who worship, appropriately enough, the disgusting sexual idiocy of the Big Bang Theory. [I think it is obvious that Alice Einstein and Irene Newton would have come up with something much better than this lunatic joke from the drooling sex-starved boys. Perhaps they would have had the sagacity to postulate my Soft Birth Theory--which is actually, if you've ever bothered to observe nature, an excellent representation of the observable facts. Why can't anyone open their minds and see that the gross cult of science is nothing but a massive extrapolation of male chauvinism? Does anyone really think that a woman would have invented a gun? Do I have to get phalligraphically pornographic and explain even that? Remember: According to divine law, the priests must be men, and science is just another run-of-the-mill religion.])

I have never spoken about these things to Tara because I doubt, perhaps unreasonably, that she would agree with me, and I have compromised myself as much as I care to. I have no doubt, however, that my life has dramatically changed for the better since the day that I met her, and because of her I know, absolutely know, that it is wrong and fantastically self-destructive, especially physically, to hate another human being--no matter what the provocation.

It is still, despite all appearances, an open question for me as to whether any resentment—even towards inanimate objects--is healthy, and regardless of everything that I have ever thought, I believe in my heart that Tara is at least-- _at_ _least_ \--half right. When I am distressed, I bring her to my mind, and I can see a beauty, both physical and metaphysical, that has been resonating within her since the day of her birth and speaks of realities that I do not perfectly understand. Perhaps, miraculously (and only a miracle can save us now, for according to my sources, a disaster of apocalyptic proportions is virtually inevitable given our attitudes towards weapons), we--she and you and I--can create a world where there is no resentment and there are no weapons. A beautiful world from which the bride and groom of evil have been banished forevermore, and the catastrophic marriage of resentment and guns is consigned back to the hell from whence it was born.

For verily, it was said: One dark day, while we were drowning in the murky waters of death, an angel appeared in our world and bestowed upon us the sweet gift of salvation.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: TAPS

As far as I am concerned, the funerals for Gloria, Cassandra, and Miranda are not worth writing about except in passing. Besides being emotionally trite and relentlessly boring, the obligatory performance that society demands from the bereaved reduces them to the status of actors in a play who are obviously expected to keep their real feelings entirely hidden behind the camouflage of their appointed roles. Imagine an actor who instead of reciting the words of the playwright announces that "this story makes absolutely no sense to me, which is not surprising since I have long found the author of this feeble farce to be a suitable candidate for immediate induction into the nuthouse." Such unruly and inappropriate behavior would undoubtedly be met (except in certain exceptional circumstances, which I will leave to the reader's taste and imagination) with a loud chorus of boos, and it is highly unlikely that the offender would ever be permitted to take the stage again, even though many of those in attendance might find the actor's outrageous declaration to be alarmingly relevant. Nevertheless, the defenders of propriety and the social order would be quick to render their judgments with decisive authority: Obstreperous brute! Obstinate bigot! Obnoxious barbarian!

Funerals are, of course, traditionally stereotyped, and the platitudes that the parrot-like actors recite have been engraved into their minds since time immemorial. Who, for instance, would have the nerve, the rank audacity to state that "for the most part, if not entirely, Fred was a particularly crass man with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, and to tell you the truth, I am delighted that he has left us. It almost seemed too good to be true when I heard the news that he had fallen headfirst from the ninth story of the Hotel Blue during one of his violent drinking bouts."

Silent hisses would be emanating from the shocked audience who had never expected anything but the usual carefully choreographed script of high-octane malarkey: "My dear friend Fred was not only a devoted father and husband but also a noble, hard-working soul who, against all odds, toiled courageously through his life of tragedy and triumph." (The tragedies were many--most notable was the felony charge for aggravated sexual assault on a minor; as for the triumph(s), the only one worth mentioning was that Fred had been shrewd enough to hire one of Darwin City's most astute and well-connected lawyers, Arthur Van Buren, who had successfully plea-bargained his client's sordid case down to an obscure charge of unlawful mischief while under the influence of a formerly controlled substance. Happily, at least for his client, the end result was that Fred had only served three months in the county prison for a crime that usually carried a far harsher sentence.)

I suppose, out of respect for the accepted rites of passage, I should apologize to the reader for sarcastically interrupting the eulogy of a man who, although he has yet to be canonized, was apparently a saint. It is, I realize, a time for reverence and respect, and we return, mournfully and with our heads bowed, to this woeful and macabre comedy of manners. "Over the years, Fred had become my guiding star" (how they do pour it on!) "as I observed his steady, unyielding heroism, which I knew was wrought from the love for his beloved, his cherished partner, the beautiful woman of his dreams, the lucky lady of his life." Everybody would know that this verbal flight of fancy was wholly inaccurate in every particular and that Fred could best be described as a vile bum--it was not for nothing that he had been the recipient of more than a few restraining orders during his nefarious career. Nevertheless, in the Chapel of the Lost, there would be sustained murmurs of approval arising from the congregation of the confused. As if on cue, the "lucky lady" would begin sobbing, and someone would inevitably blurt out, "That was wonderful, wasn't it?"

It will be said, _as_ _usual_ , that I exaggerate, and indeed it is rare for a man to fall nine stories to his death, and probably there are many people who, unlike Freddy boy, are not vile bums, but other than those minor details, which are obviously tangential to the present funereal discussion, I think the hyperbole that I occasionally use is simply a necessary stage prop in my peculiar traveling circus of irreverent and irascible clowns. In today's fast-paced world of go-getters on the run to nowhere, it's exceedingly important, even crucial, to entertain the ever-growing throng of easily distracted cell-phone-addicted readers with an occasional jolt of the extreme so that their minds can remain engaged or--even better--fixated on the difficult subjects that we are attempting to plod through in our little symposium that focuses on the generally unrecognized but truly frightening realities that might unexpectedly vaporize all of us at any moment. Talk about funerals!

Also, in order to maintain a subtle hypnotic trance in the reader, I feel it is highly important to be occasionally humorous and witty, and for that exalted task, science has been kind enough to provide me with some excellent material of a truly outlandish nature. For example: Is there anything funnier or loonier than being born into a world where it is taken as the gospel truth that one's great grandfather (a few million times removed) was a frog? For those who can step back from all the pompous "proofs" of the weird boys with the science degrees, this should cause much merriment as well as some interesting speculation. It's a shame that birth records don't go back very far because now we're forced to make some strange guesses concerning our development as creatures. I think it's particularly amusing after a few cocktails (or any other drug of your choosing) to consider the probable line of our evolutionary succession: Amoeba, tadpole, frog, mouse, rat (another inspiration from the textbook of science), Chihuahua, beagle, cocker spaniel, bulldog, wolf, stunted bear, full-blown bear, mutant chimp, gorilla, YOU, and there you have it--the complete biological history of man!

But, contrarian that I am, I do have an annoying question for Mr. Darwin and his peculiar disciples: Why are there still so many frogs trotting ostentatiously around the earth? What happened? Did the ancestors of the ones I see in my back yard opt out of their supposedly mandatory evolution class? If, according to theory, they mutated into something else in order to adapt to the environment, why have so many survived? Are they, perhaps, a retarded strain who haven't yet seen the error of their ways? Did they, so to speak, miss the bus? Or are they the Adam and Eve of one of our future Presidents? There's an interesting genealogy chart! (For those of you who can't stop grumbling about the current Commander In Chief, Napoleon Ferret or whoever it happens to be, I think it might provide you with some much-needed comfort if you were to realize that according to the best minds of our time, this unfortunate individual is just the descendent of a frog. That's why you should listen very carefully to me--my pedigree is impeccable, and I can assure you that based on my own rather extensive research, I am totally frog-free.)

Quite truthfully, when I see the type of "evolved" intellects that I'm living in the same world with, I often begin to feel like a gigantic intellect of galactic King Kong proportions, but that's an improper and revolting thing to say because only scientists and mathematicians are presumed to have the intelligence necessary to be declared geniuses. However, since I am nothing but a bizarre, thoroughly discredited naturalist, it has been relatively easy for me to rise majestically above the ephemeral nonsense of fame, and I merely long for those legendary, halcyon days of yore--the ones that ended so abruptly when the white man came roaring onto the scene in his gas-guzzling, fuming, honking pony and shot down all the perplexed naturals with his six-shooter. The frog, apparently, has evolved after all, evolved into a voracious man-eating monster. Maybe, if we're lucky and somehow come to our senses, we'll find ourselves yapping excitedly about the glories of devolution, while the politicians, seeing which way the wind is blowing, will trip frantically over themselves to rhapsodize upon the peace and quiet that has descended upon the earth with the long overdue, merciful demise of the plane, the gun, and the bomb. There's a funeral that I would be delighted to attend! I'll even condescend and permit myself to speak a couple of (choice) words at the ceremony. GOOD RIDDANCE.

But as one might expect, I would generally prefer to skip these maudlin, ghoulish shows that attempt to glamorize the memory of the departed with the same endless litany of unpleasant, counterfeit emotions, which are magnified literally a thousand times over. Sorrow and grief are mandatory spectacles at these dead-body extravaganzas, and woe to the person who defies convention and is caught giggling in one of the back pews. Certainly, there is more than enough material for a serious laughing attack--the kind that only gets worse as the feeble inner voice of social suppression remonstrates balefully but futilely for the appropriate decorum, which has been handed down to us ad nauseam by our ancestors. According to this ancient and much-revered script, we can expect, except from the social malcontents such as myself, long faces, trembling lips, a poetic tear, a muffled sob, and with luck, a complete breakdown and collapse into hysteria.

Despite my love for Miranda and the feelings I had for my family, I would not be pushed into this public charade. Remaining on the sidelines, I did my best to remain invisible and made no speeches of any kind. I found that, for the most part, people left me alone if I projected an obscure but deep sadness, and to be safely on the antisocial side, I maintained a somewhat comical but extremely strict policy of physically moving away from those who were approaching me with their condolences or commiserations--the only exceptions to that being Jake and Tara.

Jake was a real man of the streets, and I do not know of a greater compliment that I could bestow upon a person. He was not an upper-class robber, middle-class robot, or lower-class ruffian. Even though I moved far away from Darwin City shortly after the murders, I remained close to Jake. Every other year, he would take his family on a two-week vacation to a national forest that was close to where I was living, and I would meet him there. Late at night, we would sit around the campfire drinking beers and shots of vodka--a grand life for a couple of depressed guys who were well past their prime.

Tara, who stayed an extra day for Miranda's funeral, was much different than I would have expected. She dressed very plainly and was remarkably subdued; saying little but remaining near me, I found her presence to be comforting. I had the distinct impression that she felt she had talked too much or too forcibly when we had been sitting on Miranda's porch, but although she had _perhaps_ been too extreme, I thought her advice was sensible, well meant, and obviously harmless. Out of respect for her, I placed a moratorium on everything that I felt while I was in her presence. I suspected many of the things that she had said to me were an instinctive reaction of repulsion to something within my nature and that her unique perception of existence had been presented to me, as befit the more than physical beauty of this woman, with a sophisticated intellectual and spiritual elegance. I viewed it, on a personal level, as a kind of warning from her to me, and I was extremely cautious not to express my outraged feelings in front of her (as you can see, the reader has been exempted from these qualms). I would spare her all that misery and attempt to decipher the residue of my life when I was alone and did not have to worry about the impression I was creating on others, especially her.

Nowadays, every so often, I receive a letter from her--it is usually long and warm and brimming with a subtle, sometimes not so subtle, enthusiasm for life. In my replies, I mostly maintain an optimism that I do not always feel except when--it seems to happen during the long rainy spells in the fall--I become depressed. I don't enjoy talking about my troubles and fears, but on the other hand, I would not denigrate her intelligence or wisdom by constantly writing something that amounted to a pack of polite lies. She seems, if I understand her correctly, to feel that there will be some kind of miraculous intervention that will save the world from what might well be called the Biblical fires of the damned. But to this idea, I have one very clear question: Why have so many people, on an individual level, been gunned down? Where was the miracle for them? I think it should be apparent by now that God, like Darwinism, only helps those who help themselves, and if we sit around stupidly waiting for the Character from Beyond to save us, we'll all be roasting in our own nuclear vapors before Mr. Almighty God has the time or inclination to arrive on His broken-down antique trolley.

I knew that for me, going forward, there would be no simple answers. It was not until five years after the murders, when I met Bambo Deel, that things began to fall into place, and I was able to find an acceptable accommodation or compromise with life. To put it another way, I finally learned how I could coexist with this rotten, good-for-nothing, about-to-become-extinct culture.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: JUSTICE IS SERVED

My return to Darwin City was precipitated by the arrest of Darnell who had disappeared after the murder of Miranda. Now twenty-one and living under the assumed name of Brady Trent, he had been busted for selling drugs in Bleakfester Dump, and when his prints were entered into the criminal database and found to match those of Darnell James, the charges against him underwent considerable inflation--from dealing more than four ounces of marijuana to two counts of first-degree murder. Since he had killed a cop, he fell under one of the aggravating circumstances of the death penalty law and was eligible for the special privilege of being strapped to a gurney and injected with a lethal dose of chemicals.

Neither was the murder of Kaiser Hess anything to brag about, as this modern luminary was now considered to be a "trailblazer without peer" in the educational field. The posthumous publication of his teaching manuals, which stressed the necessity of discipline and patriotism, had brought the message of the Kaiser to a worldwide audience where he had, in absentia, of course, met with nearly universal praise. There followed, inevitably, the recognition of his immense insight into the problems of educating the young, and his grave had been decorated with award after obnoxious award, including the much-coveted dynamite prize from Mr. Nobel.

However, within a week of Darnell's arrest, another terrible sex scandal had exploded in the nation's capitol that, fortuitously, would have the practical effect of eliminating one of the murder charges against Darnell. Senator Victor Harshman, an ex-military hero who was famous for his bombastic pro-war speeches, had collapsed and died during one of his militant in-your-face tirades. It can never be a digression in our culture to pay tribute to the military, and I feel especially privileged to place before you his last words.

"I know," said Victor with a weak attempt to be conciliatory toward those he viewed as being a bit wishy-washy about the current two-hundred-year war that will last until doomsday, "that although we may have disputes about policy, there is one thing about which we are all in agreement: Each and every one of us supports the troops. This is our creed, and we have sworn to it with our blood. Is there any man or woman here who would dare to stand up before us and say that they didn't support the troops? If so, let that foul beggar rise so that we can see for ourselves the true manifestation of evil, the traitor that lurks in our midst." Victor had begun to froth at the mouth as he shouted apoplectically at the compliant crowd of citizen-patriots who were gathered at the national war memorial to pay tribute to our fallen soldiers. Around him, on all sides, one could see the jingoistic signs and banners that were being proudly held aloft by people of every political persuasion. (Based on my own personal experience and observation, the best response to war is to _absolutely_ avoid stepping onto the battlefield and taking part in the gory festivities. Those who are young enough to become cannon fodder should resolve that they will never succumb to the guilt trip that their tradition-addicted elders are inclined to place upon them. So if one of those antiquated warlike characters waves a flag in front of your face and asks you to sacrifice your life for the cause, I would immediately--no matter what the relationship--depart from their presence; if they then start chasing after you with their God, mother, and apple-pie routine, I would _race_ away from them--they are nothing but patriotic octopuses searching for prey. You'll _never_ regret it, and there are about a billion victims who would tell you that you made the correct decision--if only they could talk.)

"However, there are those," continued Victor, "who want to pick and choose their wars and say that although they support the troops, they are against this war or that war. If you support the troops, then you support not only all their wars but also war itself!" screamed Victor, as he pounded the lectern with his fist. It was just at this point that the fates mercifully caught up with the General, and despite his heartfelt support for the troops, he was rendered forever speechless by a massive stroke and carted off the battlefield of public life to be transported, at state expense, to the morgue. Because of his medals, badges, and stars, he was, of course, the recipient of a massive funeral at which anyone who was anything rabidly proclaimed that this man of valor was not only a national hero (as, unfortunately, he was) but also a national treasure. Talk arose that there should be a special monument erected in his honor, which would tower five hundred feet into the air (provided, it should go without saying, that it didn't interfere with air traffic). This gargantuan obelisk would be an exact replica of the Senator/General and would show him with a monstrous machine gun in one hand and a small three-foot statue of our Lord and Savior in the other.

However, this inspiring proposal came to a screeching halt when it was discovered that the Senator's imposing legacy also included a number of videotapes that showed him "cavorting," over a period of years, with a vast bevy of young girls who could not have been more than ten or eleven years old. Further investigation revealed that because of a serious physical condition, which had rendered the General impotent, his transgressions, glory be to God, had ceased about five years previously. However, there was one more toxic bombshell that had come reeking forth from the General's remains, and it had left the public, especially those in the "educational" community, prostrate with revulsion.

Most unfortunately, despite some initial attempts to bury the story, the revolting fact was revealed that the ill-fated girls had been supplied to Victor by Kaiser Hess, who over the years had firmly established himself as a leader in the rapidly growing trade of sexual slavery. As the nasty joke went, he was the schoolmaster who schooled the girls. Within a few short and dismal days, it was discovered that for over twenty years, he had been importing his victims from Asia and after personally availing himself of their services had passed them on, for a substantial fee, to others that were interested in this type of extracurricular activity.

But then things went from very bad to _very_ much worse. Suddenly, a number of young women appeared on the national networks and graphically described exactly what they had endured at the hands of the Kaiser. The world learned that not only was he a pedophile of historic proportions, but also and even worse, he had often tortured his victims and that many of them had not survived the experience. To the horror of all, a woman who had been mutilated by the Kaiser was able to lead the authorities to a mass grave on the grounds of Darwin King, which yielded the bodies of thirty-six victims.

Not surprisingly, Darnell's murder of the Kaiser was now viewed in an entirely different light, and my son was considered by some to be a hero. It would have been better, I noted ironically to myself, if the murder of Markle Hess had been after the discovery of these facts and not before--still, I had to admit that my son's instincts had certainly been on target and that he had, in all probability, saved the lives of a number of young women. The prosecutor, Randy Lincoln, at first took the public stance that murder was murder, but after fully reviewing all the relevant facts pertaining to the Kaiser, he had, as one would expect, suffered a serious attack of indigestion, and at a crowded press conference, he stated that there was insufficient evidence to bring Darnell to trial for the murder of the Kaiser. His investigators had, regrettably, not been able to find independent corroboration for the statements in Crystal's diary--the ones, that is, which linked Darnell to the murder of the Kaiser. The same held true for Clayton, of course, but Randy hinted darkly that he was in possession of a mountain of evidence that he could use to convict Darnell for the murder of the Drug Czar. (The "mountain" turned out to be a low hill but it was, nevertheless, quite damning. About a year previous to his arrest, Darnell had bragged to two of his drug-dealing acquaintances that he had murdered Clayton, and since these characters were facing years in prison for selling cocaine, they were eager to cooperate with the prosecutor. Combined with the diary and his sudden disappearance after the murder, I felt that Darnell was certain to be convicted.)

More than anything else, it was out of a sense of curiosity that I went to the prison and had two long conversations with Darnell. He was a good example of the impossibility of creating reasonable penalties for criminal acts—there are many cases that come to mind, but one deserves special mention. This incident involved the well-known psycho, Chester Cleveland, who was zigzagging erratically through Oilpit Park on a sunny summer day and, without even a how do you do, yanked out his trusty hammer and beat a mother and her young son to death. They had decided that it might be pleasant to have a picnic, but sadly, God had other plans for them that day. I can still remember reading about the awful scene in court the day they had sentenced Chester to an "indefinite stay" in the asylum, after which the woman's husband had gone off the deep end and attempted to attack him with a hammer of his own. He had only been able to land one glancing blow before he had been restrained and arrested for attempted murder. The case had created a huge uproar with the prosecutor mouthing off about the necessity of maintaining a lawful society and saying that those who saw fit to resort to vigilante justice would be punished to the full extent of the law, which in this case was a ten-year all-expenses-paid trip to an eight-foot-square cell. However, when the public began to complain about the absurdity of the situation, the politicians seized the opportunity to obtain a few free votes and jumped righteously into the fray. The end result was that after a "discussion" between the concerned parties and Governor Klopp, the ex-husband and ex-father was let off with three years of supervised probation. ("Perhaps," declared the Sentinel sarcastically, "he should have been enrolled in a carpentry class and taught the proper uses of a hammer.")

Darnell's case, with its theme of justified vengeance, was somewhat similar to the Cleveland case, and also, as another mitigating factor, Darnell was clearly not the person now that he was when he murdered Clayton Shane. At first, when I met him, he was aloof and diffident, but after a few minutes, he cautiously opened up and, to my surprise, asked me to help him. Randy, the backtracking prosecutor who was running full speed from the evil ghost of Kaiser Hess, had decided against the death penalty because of Darnell's age at the time of the crime (left unsaid was his status as an underground folk hero who had slain the evil dragon) but was adamant that he would be seeking a life sentence without the possibility of parole for the murder of Clayton. I knew that since he had now taken a public stand on the issue, it would be difficult for him to reverse course, but I told Darnell that I would talk to him, even though I doubted that it would have any effect.

At one point during our first discussion, Darnell attempted to bring up the murders of Gloria and Cassandra, but at the last second, he became evasive and changed the subject--no doubt, he was worried about my reaction. He had no real friends, no one to turn to, and was obviously depressed and frightened. I suppose anyone reading this will assume, despite what I say, that I was motivated to help him by the fact I was his father, but I think that had very little to do with it. If he had been a milder variation of Chester Cleveland, I would have casually walked out on him without a second thought, but in an unspoken way, he pleaded with me to accept his abject apology, and I could understand that he just didn't dare to utter the words. Who knew, including myself, what I would say to that? However, the truth was that I felt this was a kid who had already learned his lesson and one for whom punishment was going to be redundant. The only rationale for his incarceration was the famous eye-for-an-eye proposition, which certainly has its merits since society can't very well afford to pat a murderer like Darnell on the back and say, "Good boy! Now that you've learned your lesson, you're free to go." If that were the case, we would have a parade of thugs beating their breasts with violent mea culpas that would easily surpass anything that we have recently seen from our elected officials.

But in my opinion, it was far too severe to sentence Darnell to jail for the rest of his life. Enough damage had been done, there were certainly extenuating circumstances, and although it was essentially a thankless and probably futile task, I resolved to make a real effort on his behalf. It just didn't make sense to me to have another life ruined; plenty of people had walked out of prison in their thirties and forties and contributed far more to society than the rabble of misfits called bosses and CEO's who spent their days robbing corporations while they simultaneously tormented their "inferiors" for no other reason than their idiosyncratic prejudices.

"I never thought you'd come here," Darnell said to me during my second visit.

"I wanted to see if you had changed."

He looked briefly into my eyes before he glanced away and said, "I have but I know that it's too late. The damage has been done, and there's nothing that I can do to change it. I can apologize, but it's so phony--just a few words in exchange for the lives of my mother and sister. They were two absolutely innocent people who never should have died, and that is something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life." His face took on a bitter expression, and with intense exasperation, he said, "It was such an amazing run of bad luck for everybody--one quirky twist of fate after another that perversely ended the lives of three people who should never have died."

No doubt! "Such as?" I asked him.

"For one thing, even though I know it sounds totally stupid, nothing would have happened at our house if I hadn't moved the drugs."

"What did you do with them?" I asked out of curiosity.

"I was so angry with Crystal the night she tried to shoot me that I took them all down to the little creek that runs behind the house and dumped them into it. But here's something else that's even more strange and which haunts me to this day: It would have been much better if I had shot Crystal to death when we were playing Russian roulette, and then that other woman wouldn't have been murdered...I forget her name, but she was your partner, wasn't she?"

I had also thought of this, and it was truly a supreme irony--once again Darnell's instincts had been accurate, but this time, he had been too merciful. I thought again of Hitler and what wouldn't have happened if he had been assassinated in 1938--in a world where guns were like a plague of locusts swarming across the land and devouring everything in sight, it became impossible for anyone to be sane. Murder could be a capital crime or the sacrament of redemption, and it was because of this legitimate confusion that people argued guns were necessary, but the weapons of technology would always be the cause of the problem and not the solution. Had there been no guns whatsoever, Hitler would have been nothing but an eccentric rock-throwing maniac in need of some strong medication, preferably fifth-like doses of alcohol.

Even though I could sympathize with what Darnell was saying because I knew that he was trying to relate to me and gain my support, none of this concerned what he was on trial for, which had the potential to put him into a jail cell for the rest of his life. "What about Clayton? He's the one that you actually murdered."

"I don't regret it," he said with quiet defiance. "I think he molested Crystal--it may not have been recently, but I think it happened. I know that's not really a sufficient justification for murder, but--"

"Darnell, can't you understand that she just duped you for her own ends? You've read her diary, haven't you?"

"That thing," he said contemptuously. "Don't tell me that you believe everything she wrote."

"Darnell--what would be the point of writing lies in her diary?"

"I wouldn't call them lies--they're more like aggressive exaggerations from a person who worshipped Hitler. Her words are like an unspoken double entendre--on the one hand, she gloats in her ability to sexually manipulate me, while on the other hand, she _pretends_ to invent a story that vilifies her father."

"You must mean written double entendre," I said. I wasn't a professor of literature, thank God, but I couldn't imagine an unspoken double entendre.

For the first time, he smiled. "No, actually, it is unspoken, or perhaps implied is a better word, since only someone who understands her can see the illusion. Crystal says one thing but means another because she is determined to present herself as the Master Manipulator, and if Clayton did abuse her sometime in the past, her tale loses a lot of its impact, doesn't it? To say it another way, she thought she was an actress who had fallen in love with her role as Eva Braun, but the actual fact was that the script she was following was merely a murderous version of her twisted autobiography.

"Now," he said as he leaned toward me and spoke intently, "I know she implies again and again that Clayton never molested her, but I think that at some point in her life, it actually happened, and what Crystal did was to bring, perhaps semi-subconsciously, the memory of the past into the present to extract her own kind of revenge. It might," he said slowly, "be interesting to see if Clayton has anything on his record. I wonder if Crystal's mother is still alive? Strange, she never once mentioned her to me."

I didn't say anything, but I realized that was well worth looking into. Although Darnell's theory seemed far-fetched to me, we had to save the living, and since Clayton was dead, we might as well smear him. Cynical as that sounded, smear wouldn't be quite the right word if he had molested her, and besides, it was just a ploy to use in the legal game. If we could prove that Clayton had fooled around with his daughter and was just one more foul odor that existed in the wider and more noxious vapor trail of Kaiser Hess, no sane prosecutor would be eager to go before a jury if he could avoid it, and in that case, after some hasty negotiations with the defense attorney, everything would be hushed up, and Darnell might be able to walk the streets before he was an old man.

In the end, after some Machiavellian maneuvers, Darnell pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter as well as one count of aggravated mischief for the vandalism at Darwin King. Working with his very capable public defender, a young and aspiring buck just out of law school named Vincent Moreno, we were able to find not only Clayton's ex-wife, the mother of Crystal, but also another woman he had lived with for three years. Although I did not think, strictly speaking, the testimony that the latter gave under oath in the prosecutor's office was very relevant, it was certainly exceptionally lurid and cast a smelly pall over and around the halo of our departed Drug Czar. I couldn't help but notice that Randy appeared to become quite depressed as he listened to an extensive list of some very unusual sins that Clayton had supposedly committed.

Crystal's mother was an attractive, intense woman, and even though she was not able to definitively corroborate the accusations of molestation, she left no doubt that it would have been well within the scope of her ex-husband's character, which she despised with a venom that we all found extremely peculiar--even in this day and age. During a break in her deposition, she told Vincent and me that if it came to a trial, she would be willing to take the stand and say anything that we wanted, which caused Vincent to blanch and become somewhat perturbed, since he clearly wasn't the type of lawyer who had any wish to be charged with suborning perjury. "Ma'am, really, I don't think that's wise, and it's certainly nothing that I could condone."

"Then you can go back into the room, and I'll talk it over with his father," she spat out, "because whoever murdered him did the world a favor and doesn't deserve to go to jail."

From our point of view, this was all very good news, and now that the gloves had come off and Randy was aware that we were not a defenseless bunch of legal flyweights, we were able to reach a deal that left everyone "smiling." At his sentencing, Darnell read slowly, haltingly, and humbly from a speech that had been written by Vincent and myself. It had also been carefully vetted by the prosecutor who inserted a plethora of groveling flagellations, which were so extreme that some wondered why Darnell had not, as yet, committed suicide. Ordinarily, nobody, and especially not Darnell, could have been coaxed into uttering such self-abasing absurdities, but he was understandably ecstatic about the sentence he was receiving and without any coaching from Vincent or myself took the very rational view that fifteen minutes of public embarrassment was a very small sacrifice for the reward that he would be receiving. I knew he had really matured when he told me that he was afraid he would burst out laughing while he was giving his enforced speech because, as he put it, "How can anyone possibly believe that a person would say this about himself? Even an insane person having a bad day couldn't dream this nonsense up."

Darnell had been rigidly prohibited from even the slightest allusion as to his true motives for the crime, and in order for Randy to save face, what was put forward for public consumption was that Darnell had suffered, according to a panel of nonexistent psychologists, a psychotic breakdown, which was so traumatic that he had mistaken Clayton for the devil. The state, after carefully considering the case, had determined the expense that would be entailed by prosecuting an insanity defense was an unnecessary extravagance during this time of severe budgetary constraints. Further, the bargain that had been hammered out demonstrated the acumen of a sagacious prosecutor who knew how to choose his fights because if Darnell had taken his case to court, he might have actually (in your dreams, buddy!) walked out as a free man, which meant that the defense had been quite foolish to accept the proffered offer. There's some justice for you, I laughed to myself.

With all these shenanigans out of the way, the judge, who had, of course, been informed by the prosecutor of all the relevant facts, sentenced Darnell to eight years in the slammer, which meant that in a little over four years (with credit for time served and assuming that he participated in various drug-counseling programs), when he was twenty-six, he would be a free man again. The gavel then came thundering down to close the proceedings, and I walked out of the courtroom reflecting on the bitter irony of life. My wife, daughter, and lover had all been murdered, and to offset this, there was the spectacular triumph that my son would only be doing four years in a rathole at the state prison in Bleakfester Dump. There was so much I had to thank God for that I didn't know where to begin.

## CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: "I DON'T BELIEVE IN CROWDS."

Two years before Darnell's arrest, I had written Jake and asked him whether he could send me a copy of Crystal's diary as well as anything else that pertained to the crimes that she and my son had committed. For some time, the idea of writing a book about my experiences in Darwin City had been circulating and percolating through my mind. Besides the dramatic nature of the events that would be described, I felt that the current state of the literary market was so abysmal that an unpracticed and unpublished author, such as myself, might be able to break into the field with more than a minor splash. However, I must say that after my experiences with agents and publishers, I quickly came to understand that the book business has become one of the most, if not the most, intellectually corrupt enterprises on the face of the earth. I suppose somewhere in that vast morass of commercialism, snobbery, and rampant favoritism there is someone-- _hello_ , _are_ _you_ _there_?--who is motivated by the old-fashioned idea of a great work of art, but I think it is highly likely that this shipwrecked sailor has been relegated to a back room on the top floor as a hopeless anachronism in our glorious age of the quick buck and the phony award. If such a being does actually exist, we can assume that he or she is probably a relative of the owner's wife and is being allowed to serve out their days by languishing in something that is much greater than relative obscurity--total oblivion.

Be that as it may, within a week, I had received a large packet from Jake, which contained not only a copy of Crystal's diary but also some detailed notes that Miranda had made of our interrogation of Crystal, and it was from these that I was able to reconstruct the conversation that takes place in Chapter One. Much to my amusement, Jake had also included a long six-part article that had run in the Sentinel the previous fall and covered, in rather minute detail, the pathetic downfalls, legal dispositions, and eventual careers of Randall, Mervin, and Branklin.

The fates had been relatively kind to both the Chief and his Profiler; once the silly, overblown uproar that came with their arrests had subsided, cooler heads prevailed. Although they were, as a matter of political necessity, dismissed from the force, they received no jail time, and after being placed on probation, they were funneled into a court-ordered rehabilitation program that focused on the grungier, less glamorous side of community-service work. It was here that they eventually found their new occupations--Randall started a trash-hauling business, Prince Rubbish Incorporated, which has become relatively successful, while Mervin took up the noble, greasy trade of plumbing and is now making eighty-five dollars an hour--except on the weekends when he rakes in double that amount.

Branklin has not been anywhere near so lucky, and he is still receiving free room and board at the state prison in Bleakfester Dump. Now sixty-three, gaunt, with bulging eyes and a scraggly, ill-kempt ponytail, he flunked his last parole hearing when he threw a major tantrum, which the Sentinel described as "worthy of a cantankerous mule on steroids."

"How long," he yelled at the startled members of the board who usually only encountered the meek and the obsequious, "am I expected to endure the deplorable conditions that exist within the wretched confines of my putrid cell? Have any one of you overfed, pompous mice from the suburbs ever even seen a cockroach? Do you know what it's like to have one crawl over you when you're trying to go to sleep?"

"Mr. Fell," said the very stern Cecilia Coolidge, a prim old bat who was the President of the Parole Board, "I am sure that we all appreciate your concerns, but regretfully, I have to tell you that the fumigators are currently on strike and probably will be for quite some time, since the last checks that they received from the state have all met with severe resistance at the banks. Furthermore, I think it would behoove you to pay attention to your language and show a little more respect for those honest, dedicated, God-fearing citizens who are sitting in front of you. Although there is one person in this room who does bear some resemblance to a rodent," she said cuttingly, "I find your ill-tempered remark to be completely out of bounds and highly offensive."

That was enough for Branklin; much to the chagrin of his lawyer, he had tipped over the table they were sitting at, unleashed a barrage of very vulgar prison-enhanced profanities at the members of the Board, and stormed out of the room. His application was, of course, summarily rejected, and it is safe to assume that he has no hope of being released until his ten-year sentence expires in another three years.

Recently, there have been some fears as to the state of his mental health. This concern arose after he had written a letter to the editor of the Sentinel that, unfortunately and possibly spitefully, was published without any alterations. In it, he claimed that the members of the Parole Board, which he continuously referred to as the firing squad, were all Martians who were suffering from an intergalactic virus that had permanently impaired their already feeble intellects. Doctors were rushed to Branklin's cell, but eventually, after a battery of tests, they concluded that he was merely attempting to deceive the authorities in hopes that he would be transferred from his disgusting cell of rampaging vermin to the more accommodating conditions at the State Asylum for the Mentally Challenged and Socially Deranged. (The official verdict of the doctors, which was released with a great deal of public fanfare, was that our former Mayor appeared to be a borderline schizophrenic who was presently sane but deeply depressed due to, they hypothesized, acute sexual frustration.)

Upon reading and rereading Crystal's diary, I began to wonder who Bambo Deel might be and what kind of light he might be able to shine on Crystal Shane. However, I was too lazy and too far away to track him down, and it was not until I was in Darwin City and awaiting the start of Darnell's expected trial that I had a sudden inspiration to find him. After using the internet and encountering one dead end after another, I was able to locate him through the housing records of a small town called Watersludge Dump, which was about fifteen miles away and lay along the near shore of Lake Bracken.

On a clear, pleasant morning in late August, I drove out in the direction of the lake and followed a winding, paved, tree-lined road that eventually became a bumpy dirt lane until it abruptly ended in a deserted parking lot, which was apparently intended for sightseers. Fortunately, I had been given a handwritten map by the feisty eighty-year-old town clerk of Watersludge Dump who had told me that Bambo's house was in a rather remote area. "Can't get there by car, sonny--if I were you, I'd wear hiking boots." Parking my vehicle, I proceeded to walk down an old cart path that was closely lined with tall grass and high bushes until, about two miles later, I came to a wide boisterous brook that was spanned by a fallen log. Successfully traversing this ancient rite of passage, I continued to follow the path as it rose onto a ridge from where I could see the sparkling, sunlit waters of Lake Bracken. Turning to the left, I came to an open field on the opposite side of which was a small cabin that, according to my information, was the home of the enigmatic Bambo.

I approached quietly as it was obvious that visitors were probably as rare as elephants, and I had no wish to startle anyone. When, at long last, I reached Bambo's "house," I found him sitting on the front porch, which was a dilapidated structure that had obviously been neglected for many years and was in need of major repairs, if not demolition. On the left hand side, the roof was mostly gone and the post that supported the front side had buckled, so what was left of the roof tilted down at a precipitous angle--one more windstorm and half the porch would be brought down to ground level.

Before I had a chance to observe anything further, he spotted me and said good-naturedly, "You must have taken a wrong turn--the path ends in about a quarter of a mile--if you keep going, you'll fall off a one-hundred-foot cliff."

"Actually, I'm looking for someone named Bambo Deel."

He tilted back in his rickety chair and looked at me suspiciously. "Are you a tax collector or something? My lawyer takes care of all that crazy stuff that the world cares so much about. He hasn't skipped town and run off with the money I left him, has he?"

"No," I said disarmingly, "it's nothing like that. Do you mind if I take a seat? I've been on my feet for a while."

"I'll bet you have," he said with a chuckle. "That's what I like about this place; if you want to see me, you've got a major trek in front of you--a regular safari without the lions and tigers. One of these days, if I can ever find the time to get around to it, I'd like to hire some construction addicts and have them build a moat around my little castle. Nothing personal, but I have an aversion to wolves, and somebody once told me that they're not particularly fond of swimming."

He pointed to a chair that was placed a few feet from him, and after cautiously climbing the stairs of the porch, which swayed under my feet, I sat down next to him.

"I just don't receive much company out here," he said lackadaisically. "Not counting my trips to Puptown Falls every other Wednesday night, I see far more thunderstorms in a year than I do people, although I still have to go into Watersludge Dump every couple of months to lay in some supplies."

"How do you get them up here?" I said.

"Aren't you inquisitive? You're not a cop are you?"

"Far from it. My name is Jackson James; the reason I'm here is that I'm writing a book about some incidents that happened five years ago, and I feel fairly certain that you once knew someone that I now have a great deal of interest in."

"Who in the world would that be?" said Bambo, with a puzzled expression. "I don't know anyone, really. I hope it's not that stupid donkey of a father of mine. If it is, I can't help you because I'm not going to waste a pleasant morning talking about somebody like that. I know he was rich and famous, but as far as my feelings go, I buried him a long time ago and would prefer to leave it at that."

At least he wasn't rah-rah family, which can be a tedious emotion for an outsider to deal with. "Does the name Crystal Shane mean anything to you?" I said.

"Nope--never heard of her."

It might be that he didn't want to talk about her, or maybe he had forgotten about it all, and so I approached it from a different angle. "How about the Captain's Cabin?"

"That place! Ever been in there?"

"It's a real high-end place, isn't it?" I said.

"Some people might call it that, but for me, I think it's as low as I've ever sunk. All I can say about the people I met there is that I hope to God I never see them again."

That sounded like _her_. "It's possible that this woman I'm writing about, Crystal Shane, used another name when she met you."

"What did she look like?"

"Fairly good looking, early twenties, black hair, probably wore black clothes."

"That sounds like Eva," said Bambo who looked at me cautiously. "Nothing would surprise me about that woman."

"I'll bet I can tell you her last name--it was Eva Braun, wasn't it?"

Bambo stared at me for some time before replying, "How did you know that?"

"A short time after you met her, I found her diary, which--"

"Found her diary?" he said incredulously.

I could see that he was getting edgy, and I could hardly blame him. A mysterious stranger arrives at his doorstep in the middle of the wilderness and claims to have found the diary of a woman who, for all he knew, might have said--well, who knew what she might have said? "It's nothing to do with you, Bambo. Don't worry about me--I'm just the guy whose wife and daughter were murdered by Crystal Shane, and all I'm trying to do is--"

Suddenly he became quite animated. "Why? Why did she do that? Who were they to her?"

"It's a long story, Bambo, but I think you might find it interesting."

"In that case," he said after a moment's reflection, "how would you like a cold brew? It's a little early to slurp down the sauce, but I'm in the mood." As he stood up to go inside for the beer, he said, "She was a fascinating creature to me, very tempting, but after a while--and I never felt anything like this with anybody else--I began to sense a feeling of intense evil when I was near her. My old boss at the Emporium was evil, but it was more direct and obvious, and he certainly wasn't trying to seduce me. With Eva, it was super-subtle--almost like a black _thing_ that seeped into you, and if you didn't expel it, then it would devour you. After I met her, I knew what it meant to sell your soul to the devil." Without doubt, Darnell would agree with that sentiment.

Bambo disappeared for a minute and returned with two beers, which could hardly be described as cold or even cool, but as we settled into our chairs, I knew that he had decided to trust me, and during the next couple of hours, we traded stories about our experiences with the woman who had wrecked my life.

"Oh man," he said after I had finished with my synopsis of Crystal's diary, "I knew she was wicked but...they caught her, didn't they?"

I hadn't reached the night when Miranda was murdered. I don't enjoy talking about her with anyone, much less the experiences of that dreadful night. It becomes too ordinary--for the listener, it's just another murder, and there are so many of them nowadays that it has become passé, embarrassing, and rather pathetic. And so, as usual, when I was talking about it with others, I skittered through an unbalanced version of the catastrophe, and the result was that Miranda was virtually ignored as I focused on Crystal and her ignominious demise.

"When I hear about things like that," said Bambo, "I realize, for probably the millionth time, that I did the right thing when I moved out of Darwin City and came here."

We had now reached our fourth or fifth beers, and there was a certain amount of camaraderie swirling between us.

Speaking each word distinctly, which was unusual for him, Bambo said, "I don't believe in crowds. Never have and never will."

I wasn't quite sure what he was referring to and whether he was speaking of something specific, like me, or if it was a general philosophical statement. "I don't suppose you have much trouble with that out here," I said to continue the conversation.

"You'd be surprised," he said shaking his head negatively. "This spring there were two squirrels that started coming up onto the porch about an hour before sunset. I've always loved those critters--from my point of view, they're supernatural acrobats who are as shrewd and funny as anything this planet has ever produced. Geniuses really, but the sacred cows who prowl around in cars find them a nuisance." Bambo laughed sarcastically. "Talk about the planet's ultimate, rip-roaring nuisance--it does take one to know one, doesn't it? Somehow, I doubt that humans would rate very high on a squirrel's list of favorite creatures. The nimble fellows who swing through the trees must look down at us as a very barbaric bunch of drunken baboons who haven't accomplished anything worthwhile since the time of the pyramids." He paused and looked confused. "Where was I?" he asked me.

"I believe you were talking about crowds," I said with some amusement.

"But what did that have to do with squirrels? Oh--now I remember; I had started feeding a couple of them a few nuts from time to time, but they must have spread the news around that free dinner was being handed out by one of the weirder monkeys, and before long, I was faced with a crowd of at least a dozen squirrels, which forced me to put a stop to my charity work for the homeless because crowds are the one thing that I will not under any circumstances tolerate."

It was not hard for me to figure out why he had fled the ugly mess of urban life and escaped to the hinterlands, but I wondered about his isolation and whether he ever became lonely. "Don't you miss being around people?"

Unexpectedly, he let out a loud guffaw. "That's really funny," he finally said. "The way it is now, people are so brainwashed that when they're alone, they begin to feel lonely. That is just so fantastically strange to me because all I feel out here in the middle of nowhere is relief and freedom. Of course, once in a great while, God only knows why, I do crave human companionship, and so about twice a month, I walk over to Puptown Falls, which is six miles from here. That's a little community of certified failures and misfits who reside in their homemade ramshackle shacks. Neither cars nor guns are allowed within the city limits, and banks have been forever outlawed. In the summer, we sit around a campfire, drink booze, and trade stories about our escape from the world and how delighted we feel about it. In the winter, we do exactly the same thing except that we go inside and sit by a fireplace. Sometimes we play cards, and it's actually enjoyable since gambling with all its stupid thrills and spills is prohibited--that's kind of an inside joke because no one over there has any money to speak of unless you consider penny jars to be a significant source of capital. They believe that money is the root of all evil, so on Christmas Day, instead of giving each other gifts, they gather together, and everyone is required to throw five dollars, provided they have it, into what is called the Fire of Enlightenment.

"Even so, I have to admit that by the time I get back here, I'm happy to be free of the pressures that human beings seem to place upon me. Somehow or other, everyone I meet ends up telling me that I just don't measure up to their standards and should take some immediate steps to improve myself. And this is from the people in Puptown Falls!"

After finishing his beer with a long hearty chug, he continued, "I feel depressed when I see people like you because for me, there are no more bosses, deadlines, or alarm clocks. The madness is over--I've permanently retired from the insanity called society, and I don't have the slightest regret. No more going into the snake pit of the Emporium and dealing with some ugly warthog like Cretin Fleer who's pushing and shoving people around from dawn to dusk. And sexual relationships! They're the mirage of salvation, but in reality, everybody ends up struggling for control, battling for their rights, and fighting for their space. No thank you, I'll pass on that one."

"Go on," I said suddenly interested. In my semi-drunken euphoria, it seemed to me that Bambo and I might be birds of a feather.

"Crowds are the ugly trademark of the two-footed monster," said Bambo in his lazy drawl. "It starts with the family, of course, as everyone crowds around the dinner table and bludgeons each other over the head with their ludicrous commandments of love while they secretly enforce their own private version of the Mafia's code of honor. I, for one, do not think it's wise to underestimate the contribution of the family to the creation of nationalism and the relentless surge of the modern crowd. But whatever has created it, the insane compulsion of humanity to band together in crowds has destroyed the earth."

I remembered something that I had seen in a magazine. "Here's something that you might find interesting, Bambo. Last month, I saw a photograph of some workers in the Far East--it's certainly a good example of the old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words. Within a huge building, there were at least a thousand people all dressed in blue smocks who were crowded into their little individual cubicles where they worked for twelve monotonous hours a day assembling phones. I don't think a sadistic madman could have invented a better system for turning a person into a robot and destroying their consciousness."

"If you look at it," said Bambo nodding his head in agreement somewhat sadly, "you'll see that the fundamental principle of crowds and _the_ _reason_ _for_ _their_ _existence_ is coercion. Just about everyone is now forced into submission to some sort of crowd, whether it be the family, the company, the country, or the religion. Those who are not obedient to these creepy conformist concepts are ostracized, fired, purged, or excommunicated. Crowds are nothing but mass hysteria, but in order to sell themselves, they are dressed up in the macho patriotic propaganda of duty, honor, and sacrifice."

"Then," I said slowly, "as the crowds become bigger, they become more menacing, and before long, one crowd is fighting another."

"And those who die in the wars of these ugly dinosaurs are glorified. And you know why?" he said to me challengingly.

That one was easy, even for me. "Because they sacrificed their lives for the sake of the crowd."

"And it's getting worse and worse, but," said Bambo, with a sudden burst of offbeat cheerfulness, "I've actually been lucky enough to develop a mathematical formula that perfectly describes the situation." I could see the pleasant, sarcastic twinkle in his eyes, and it occurred to me that there was something mischievous and squirrel-like about him.

"We can," he said mocking the authoritative air of a college professor, "determine the exact amount of stupidity that exists in any human gathering by the equation 4x squared equals S divided by 100. X is the number of people present and S stands for the level of stupidity. This means that when a person is alone, we have one squared, which equals one, and after multiplying that by four, we have, of course, four. So four percent of the time when a person is alone, they will suffer from a serious bout of stupidity. After that, unfortunately, the numbers begin to rapidly rise: For two people it is sixteen percent, for three it is thirty-six percent, for four it is sixty-four percent, and for all gatherings above four, it is well over one hundred percent. This means that there is no possibility of a conversation between a group of five or more people avoiding a fall into a state of total stupidity--unless and until they break into groups of four or less. If you experiment with these numbers in your life, you'll see that they're absolutely true--frighteningly so, in fact. You may think I'm joking, but I'm not. In the event that I ever reappear in the world, which at this point has only occurred in my nightmares, I intend to submit my groundbreaking equation to the National Academy of Science. Although it's a long shot, I'm hoping that they'll be delighted to receive my Theory of Relative Stupidity since it's a far more useful guide to behavior than anything else that the academics have managed to come up with in the last five thousand years. While it is possible to take Einstein's vaunted theory and use it as part of a program to construct a nuclear bomb, his numbers don't help you at all if you're trying to decide something practical. Just think: With my theorem, if you see four people engaged in a conversation, you'll know that if you join them, all hope for intelligent discourse will immediately cease--it's been mathematically proven by the world-renowned Professor of Abstract Studies, Bambo Deel."

"How," I said amused, "did you arrive at the number four in your equation?"

"This is something that I wouldn't tell the Academy who tend to rely on rigorous absurdities to justify their irrelevant snobberies, but the method I used was a careful backwards extrapolation of the empirical data. That is, through observation, I had seen that the conversational level and probable thought processes that existed in groups that held more than four people were _invariably_ idiotic--and that's putting it charitably. As I grew older, I was able to quantify the "stupid" data for groups of four or less, and then it was merely a process of finding a formula that fit the facts. Of course, like any good mathematician, my equation would have to contain a square, and from there, it was a very easy matter to plug in the proper numbers."

I thought of what it was like when I was alone and I didn't have to deal with anyone else; next, I thought of my conversations with Miranda and then compared them to those with Miranda and Jake; finally, I examined what it had been like when Gloria, Darnell, Cassandra, and I had been together. Although it was an extremely small data base and I had, admittedly, very different feelings towards all of these people, I sensed that, all equational joking aside, Bambo might be correct. Based on my experience, the more people there were in a gathering, the less I enjoyed it, and as he had predicted, when the number of participants increased, the more it seemed that there were long periods of conversational inanities that were not at all representative of the intelligences of the people who were involved.

As I write this, I have become more convinced of the _absolute_ truth of his _revolutionary_ equation and can offer the following challenge to anyone who disputes the absurdities of the crowd--a crowd being defined as more than four people. Take any group of six people and listen quietly from a far corner of the room to their conversation; observe the strange superficiality of it, and the way that it is continuously and carefully monitored by someone or other so that serious and interesting subjects are quickly banished. "Oh, let's not talk about that! By the way, did you hear what happened when we went to the mall?" Now, suppose that someone in this group has just read a fascinating book about, for instance, near-death experiences--a genuinely amazing phenomenon that science has desperately attempted to bury under their pile of depressing, elitist rubbish of enforced Darwinistic extinction. If anyone is foolish enough to bring a ridiculous subject like that up, you'll see that they will be met, at first and only very briefly, with a stunned silence, since this is clearly one of the millions of topics that has been deemed to be inappropriate by the invisible censor who lurks in the crowd and is obsessed with keeping the level of discourse down to something that is far below the lowest common denominator of intelligence. After the initial shock from this ugly breach of decorum has passed, someone will step up to the plate and slap the book reader's ludicrous pitch out of the ballpark. "You're always reading the strangest books, Jasper--I'm sure it's very interesting, but I think, perhaps, that it's a subject for another time and place. Which reminds me--you'll never believe what happened when I took Flossie into the dog parlor to get her groomed."

Now that we understand that scenario, we can move on to a more intimate setting. Abstract any two people from this group of six and pretend that you are listening, unbeknownst to them, to their conversation. _Wouldn't_ _that_ _be_ _interesting_? Case closed.

"The ordinary individual," said Bambo, "has not discovered what lies inside themselves because they are so wrapped up in the trivialities and burdens of the crowd. Everybody, except those in solitary confinement, would be much happier if they spent more time, much more time being alone. It isn't natural to be under the constant bombardment that comes from the pressures that are placed upon you by other people. Can you imagine what it would be like to live without a boss?"

"But folks have to work, Bambo; they have to make money."

"I'm not just talking about work, which is nothing but a socially approved concentration camp; there are mothers and fathers, boyfriends and girlfriends, and almost everybody is fighting to gain the upper hand in those relationships. Boss or be bossed--it's the terrible fate of the human! That shouldn't be surprising, however, since the crowd was invented as a mechanism to boss people around, and for those caught in its swarm, the meaning of life is the struggle for power and the futile attempt to control one's destiny. The passive decide to give up, make an assortment of adjustments and compromises, and try to sink below the stupid mess, while the active ones develop their nasty ambitions through 'education' and go after the presidencies of the cheese factories like hungry, ornery mice.

"This, along with money, which was a clever controlling invention of the crowd, has created the infamous rat-on-the-treadmill syndrome, and once you're caught on that, it's almost impossible to get off. Even the rich, the ones who could escape if they wanted to, are like pit bulls. They can't seem to get away from it--no matter what, they won't give up on being a part of the crowd."

"It's herd instinct," I said. "The sheep are much more comfortable in a crowd."

"And the herd is stampeding towards the cliff," said Bambo.

It was now about seven, and Bambo offered to walk back with me for a while. It was fortunate that he did because as sloshed as I was, it would have been impossible for me to have found the way--twice I went stumbling off the narrow path and crash-landed in the brush. When we reached the brook, we parted, and I followed the accepted formalities and wished him well but didn't bother myself with the niceties of the log and waded through the water with sarcastic aplomb.

After I reached my car, I sat on the hood in the gathering darkness and "gathered my thoughts" before venturing back into the demonic city. It wasn't all that complicated, I observed to myself. Since Miranda's death, I had still been hoping for some sort of philosophical rapprochement with society--everything that I loved had been taken away from me, but maybe I had just been unlucky, and as the psychologists would say, my best option was to put the past behind me and start all over again. Join the crowd, so to speak.

But I had been ready for a contrary realization, and I had lapped up Bambo's backward philosophy like a kitten at the milk bowl. Society, the crowd, had nothing to offer me, and that would never change. In my mind, Miranda would never die, but that would not be true for what had brought about her death. It was going to be easy for me to completely withdraw from this bloodthirsty, doomed world. Essentially, the cornerstones of our rotten culture are guns, wars, murders, and nonsense. In the court of my own mind, I brought Western Civilization to trial for every murder that had ever been committed with the guns and bombs of its invention. It was, of course, a capital case because there were so many aggravating circumstances, and after due reflection, I found it guilty, rejected all its flimsy scientific appeals, and executed it.
This is one of many books of mine that can be purchased on various web sites--currently, as of June 2020, there are 24 novels, 4 novellas, 9 anthologies, and 6 non-fiction books, so there is plenty to choose from!

I would like to emphasize that my novels are _very_ dissimilar from one another and have all sorts of different plots, themes, and attitudes. I've written a number of murder mysteries, four love stories, a gothic tale, a trial of a police officer for murder, a couple of unusual fantasies, a story about a homeless guy, a trial of a young guy who thinks that he's discovered the secret to life, a locked-room mystery, a book about a psychiatrist and a troubled woman, a tale about a student/teacher relationship, two satires, an unreliable narrator mystery, and three novels that are essentially political, sexual, and social commentaries.
