 
### THE STRANGER

### AND OTHER STORIES

By

Glen Robinson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Prevail Publications on Smashwords

The Stranger and Other Stories

Copyright © 2012 by Glendal P. Robinson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. Although some of the characters in this story are actual historical figures, they are used fictitiously for the purposes of this story.

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Author's Foreword

2. The Stranger

3. Infinity's Reach

4. This Crazy Thing Called Love

5. The Well of Souls

6. "Vaja Con Dios, Pancho Villa"

7. Extreme Measures

8. Never Say Die

9. Buried Alive

10. Crazy Man

11. Wolf Among Sheep

12. The Bridge of Sighs

13. Ten Minutes to Midnight

*****

### THE STRANGER

### AND OTHER STORIES

*****

### 1. AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

I recently completed teaching a class called Narrative Writing. One of the first things we studied was the difference between short stories and the novel. Our conclusion? Short stories are shorter. Nothing more profound than that.

But the implications go well beyond that short definition. Because short stories are shorter, they demand that the plots be more direct, that no time be spent leading up to the issue at hand, and that characters be introduced in the very first sentence, if possible.

I wrote a few short stories in my past before spending the past 20 or so years writing novels. I have recently returned to short stories for several reasons. One, because I had so many ideas for future novels and so little time to do something with them that I opted to introducing them to the short format to see if they had any future. Two, I started teaching short stories and felt like I needed to reintroduce myself to them. Three, some stories automatically lend themselves better to the short story format. Finally, my newswriting background finds a certain _rightness_ in the idea of wrapping a complete story up in 1,000-5,000 words.

Some of the stories here have gone on to grow into full novels. Some will sometime in the future. And others were never intended to be more than they are.

I offer them to you, free of charge, because I enjoy writing and want to share them with you. If you like what you see, come check out my other books at Smashwords, or come visit me at my website or follow me on Twitter.

\--Glen Robinson, April 30, 2012

(back to Table of Contents)

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### 2. THE STRANGER

_The following is the introduction to my upcoming novel entitled_ Infinity's Reach _, which is intended to revisit the classic_ Pilgrim's Progress _, but in a post-apocalyptic setting. Just as the original, this story, and the one that follows it, can be taken as individual stories, as part of a larger whole, as allegory, or as just plain fun._

The sun baked our brown, supple bikinied bodies, and we reveled in it. Four of us—Marcie, Kimmy, Infinity and me, Ellie—were on permanent spring break. School was out, and we had no plans to ever return—ever.

The resort that Kimmy had found was just yummy. The pool boys brought us towels when we got too warm or too cold—which was like, never, but we loved the attention anyway. The bartender brought us champagne— _champagne_ , mind you—and we nibbled on crab cakes, lobster bisque and sampled fruit cups that wandered our way on trays carried by the most handsome young college boys imaginable.

But the best part was the sun. We lay in it for hours and hours each day, and the amazing thing is that we never got sunburned. Marcie thought it was because of the special cocoa butter that the resort provided. Kimmy said it was that the sun was different here, wherever it was we were. I didn't worry about it, but just enjoyed it.

At night we danced under the full moon with a long line of hot guys waiting for each of us. Marcie and Kimmy disappeared every once in a while, and I would hear them giggling in the bushes or up on the veranda or not hear them at all. But they always returned, a small smile on their lips.

Right now, the two of them were whispering and pointing at the buff hunk of man meat that was cleaning the pool and smiling at them. He was tall, dark and Hispanic, and I knew that was Marcie's weakness. Me? I was more into the Nordic look.

I turned and looked at Infinity, who was staring off in the distance, and shook my head. We had been friends for a long time, and even though Infinity was always a part of our little escapades and adventures, I could tell her heart and mind wasn't in it. She sat with her floppy hat pulled down over her gorgeous blonde head and stared off to the west, a slight frown on her lips.

"What is it, Finn?" I asked her.

She didn't answer right away, but kept staring off into the distance. Then:

"Do you see that man standing over there?"

"Where?"

She didn't point, but raised her chin slightly. "Across the ravine. Over on that rise of ground."

I exhaled and pulled myself up to a sitting position, turning as I did so, and looked where she was indicating. It was quite a ways away, but I did see a figure standing on the rise.

"Yeah, so?"

She frowned again. "I think he's trying to get my attention."

I giggled. "You have half the resort after you, and you're worried about one guy half a mile away? Must be some guy."

Infinity didn't respond to my joke. Instead, she turned to the other two.

"Anyone have a pair of binoculars?"

Marcie smiled and Kimmy laughed out loud.

"Sure," Kimmy said. "Let me reach down into my bikini top and pull a pair out."

"I've seen what you have in that bikini top, Kimmy," said Marcie. "They're not binoculars." The two girls giggled, and Infinity shook her head.

"Maybe the bartender has a pair of binoculars," I suggested. Infinity nodded, and got up from her chaise lounge and wandered over to the bar. I watched her ask the bartender, who nodded and reached down under the bar, producing a pair of small opera glasses. Infinity smiled and nodded to him, then brought them back. She stood next to me, adjusted the glasses and looked at the figure so far away.

"So? I asked finally. "What do you see?"

In response, she handed me the opera glasses. I raised them to my eyes—funny, I remembered a time when I had worn glasses constantly and was blind as a bat without them, but here I didn't need or even have them. I looked through the eyepiece and waited for my eyes to adjust to the brightness.

There on the ridge stood an ordinary looking man—very plain looking in contrast to all the eye candy around the resort—standing in military fatigues and looking at us. He was obviously trying to get our attention. As I looked at him, I got the feeling that he could see me just as well as I was looking at him. He had a stubbly beard, a dirty face and soulful eyes. I looked at those eyes and found myself wanting to know him better.

"What's he doing?" Marcie asked, suddenly interested.

"Nothing," I said. "Just standing there. Wait...." I paused as I saw him turn and reach behind him. He lifted up a large white pad and held it up for me to see. Written on the page I could read: ITS NOT A RESORT.

"He has a sign that says 'It's not a resort,'" I told them.

"What's not a resort?" Kimmy asked.

"What do you mean, 'what's not a resort.' He's talking about this place, stupid," said Marcie.

"That's ridiculous," Kimmy said.

"Wait," I said. "He's writing something else. It says 'Don't drink the champagne.'"

The man held up the white pad across his chest so I could see it, and looked at his words, then back at me. The mournful eyes looked into my soul.

"Guys, I think he's serious," I said.

"This is stupid," said Marcie. "He's just some ugly guy trying to get a rise out of us."

"Well, he got my attention," said Infinity. "Ellie, let me see those glasses." I gave her the binoculars and she started to lift them to her eyes. I saw her hesitate and watched as still another young gorgeous boy came to us with another tray of champagne. We each took a glass, and the boy smiled back at us.

"Salsa dancing tonight at 9, ladies," he said, flashing very white teeth at each of us in turn.

We waited for him to leave, then Marcie raised her glass to take a drink, but Infinity pulled her arm down and stopped her.

"What?" Marcie asked.

"What if he's right?" Infinity said.

"Right about what?"

"What if there's something wrong with the champagne? What if this place really isn't a resort?"

Kimmy laughed out loud. "Now you're really trippin'. That guy is just some crazy man up there on the hill. And you're going to believe him?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Infinity said, the frown returning to her face. "Tell me, Kim. You paid for our rooms, right?"

"Um, yeah?"

"How much did you pay? And did you pay cash or credit card?"

"I...I don't remember."

"Marcie, how long have we been here?"

Now Marcie frowned. "Weeks?"

"Isn't a spring break only supposed to last a week?" She turned to me.

"Ellie, do you remember how we got here? Did we take the train? Fly? Drive?"

I couldn't answer her.

"Something is definitely wrong here," she continued. "It's all exactly right. I've been worried about it for several days now. Nothing is this perfect. Nothing."

I turned and saw that Kimmy was already drinking the champagne, and as I watched I saw Marcie raise her glass as if to drink too.

"Sweetie, you worry too much," said Marcie, the drink poised an inch from her mouth. "The boys are gorgeous, the sun is wonderful, the pool is clean...and the champagne is the most tasty I have ever had. Even if something is wrong, I don't want to know about it." And then she joined Kimmy in drinking the rest of her champagne.

Kimmy and Marcie wandered off in search of escorts for the evening, but I stayed with Infinity, who continued looking off into the distance at the stranger. I watched her for a long time, the two champagne glasses still held in my hands. Finally she handed the opera glasses back to me. I looked at the man on the hill and read his message:

I CAN HELP YOU ESCAPE.

That evening we went to the dance, but Infinity and I were not in the mood to participate. I had a lot of respect for Infinity, and even though I was confused by what she said versus what I saw around me, I trusted her. We sat on the edge of the crowd, watching others dance and saying no to boy after gorgeous boy who wanted to salsa with us. Marcie and Kimmy were having their usual fun, flirting and dancing with guy after guy, and occasionally disappearing with a particularly sexy one. Kimmy spent most of the night with the bronzed Hispanic pool boy she had been ogling all day. After a while, we both grew bored in watching the others having fun, and we went back to our bungalow.

I had restless dreams that night. Nightmares, in fact. There wasn't any particular theme to them. Just jumbled images of grotesque people, brutal men and scary places. But they were nothing compared to the nightmare that confronted me when I woke up.

I had gone to sleep in a white bungalow overlooking a pool and decorated in white rattan and bamboo furniture. My bed was covered by silk sheets and a delicate lace-edged comforter. I had thought the room dreamy over the time we had spent there, with each of the four of us having our own rooms.

When I woke up, I lay on a stained mattress with a brown Army blanket with holes in it. I looked around me and didn't recognize the room. I gasped as a rat scurried across the edge of the room. Sunlight filtered in from a hole in the roof. Bare, rough boards made up our floor, and the door to my room was simply a heavy sheet of plywood.

And my vision was blurred. Startled, I found a dusty set of eyeglasses beside my bed and put them on. They seemed oddly familiar.

I heard noises from the other rooms. In one direction, from Kimmy's room, I heard snoring. I had never heard her snore before. I tiptoed to the door and peeked in the partly opened door. She lay in bed with a heavy Hispanic man who I realized vaguely resembled the pool boy. But this man was at least 40, with a week's growth of beard, a pot belly and scars on one side of his face. I cringed and stepped back in the hallway.

Then I heard crying coming from Infinity's room. I pushed her door open and almost didn't recognize the girl sitting on the cot. Her hair was matted, her skin was gray, and she was underweight by at least 30 pounds.

"Finn?" I asked weakly. The girl took her tear-stained face out of her hands and looked up at me. It was her, but Infinity was no longer the healthy, gorgeous college girl that I had always envied. She was a skeleton.

I watched the look on her face as she looked at me, then I realized that she was not the only one who had changed. I looked down at my stick-like arms, my bony legs, and felt the ribs that stuck out from my sides. I quickly wished for a mirror, then just as quickly was glad I didn't have one.

Infinity stood up and together we walked to the front door of what we had called a bungalow. Now we realized that it was merely a shack. We looked out at what we had thought was a pool and the area where we had spent our days sunning.

Instead we saw a pool of stinky green water covered with scum, surrounded by dirt. What we had seen as handsome college boys we now saw as plain, and often ugly, soldiers in uniform. They walked across a dirt area that we had seen as tile covered, and above us in the distance I could see both a guard tower and a barbed wire fence surrounding the compound.

"It must have been the champagne," Infinity muttered, and as she said it, I saw one of the uniformed men passing out Dixie cups of something to other women who looked just as emaciated as we were.

I stared up at the sun. A day ago it has seemed warm and inviting. Now it was hot and scorching. My eyes traveled from the sun down to the tower and then to the distant rise beyond the ravine. The stranger stood there, waiting for us.

"I'm ready," I said. "Let's get out of here."

(back to Table of Contents)

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3. INFINITY'S REACH

Flash forward a couple of months—or years—and we catch a very different view of Infinity and the world she lives in. All of it is part of the larger puzzle that helps us understand what has happened, what will happen, and what it all means.

People used to ask me how I ended up in Wycliffe. Years ago, it used to be a little Podunk town just downstream from Cairo, Illinois. Not much came through there. Most of the rail and freeway traffic was on the north side of the Ohio or the west side of the Mississippi. And the only people who ended up in Wycliffe, Kentucky were people trying to escape the scrutiny of everyone else.

Then they stopped asking. These days, no one pays attention to state lines. You're either in the Federal Zone or over with the Eastern Alliance. That is, if you're not in demon territory, or stuck in a hot zone, in which case, you're plain out of luck.

It's hard to believe it's only been two years since the Event. Actually, it's funny that they refer to it that way. The EMP was the first event, sure, but we could have survived that on our own. It was the anthrax, the mini-nukes and then the actual invasion that did us all in. Nowadays, you had a hard time knowing where the lines were, and an even harder time knowing who you could trust.

I'd been a trucker when it all happened, but that was only the last career in a series. My old lady back in Joliet used to tell me I was bound for nowhere. She was probably right, but it's a lot prettier sight looking at the Ohio from Wycliffe than looking up from the bottom of a nuclear grave, which is where most everyone in north Illinois was these days, including her. I still dreamed about her though. The dreams took turns; one night she would scream at me, the next she would be tender and loving. But they're just dreams.

Everyone has dreams.

My dream today was to set myself up with a small general store, somewhere off the beaten track. Nothing special. Maybe just a store with a walkup apartment above to live in. I actually had a place in mind here in town. Wycliffe was growing now that more people were trying to escape the fighting up north. I could make a decent life for myself.

The only problem, of course, was money. Old Man Hatfield was willing to sell his store and attached apartment and let me take over. But there was the buyout price, and then startup costs. I had put aside about 500 caps, but I figured I needed another 200 to be sure. That's why I did the occasional odd job, including the one that no one else would do, and yet was more lucrative than any other.

The moment I saw the kid talking to Hatfield, I knew what he wanted. I also knew that the kid was wasting my time. The boy looked about 14, and was skinny as a rail. He wore an overcoat two sizes too big for him, beat up boots and a brown wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his head. I was sitting in the back of Hatfield's store, nursing a bottle of Grape Nehi when Hatfield pointed to me.

The boy looked at me, then back at Hatfield and nodded. Then he headed my way.

_Thanks, old man_ , I thought. _You're about to get a kid killed, and maybe me in the process_.

"You Mack Hawley?" the kid asked, sidling up to the table, his hands in his pants.

I nodded. I was about to deny it, but Hatfield had already pointed me out, and I suspected that the kid was the sort that didn't give up too easily. Better to talk him out of it up front.

"I'm Johnny...John Pilgrim." He fidgeted nervously and stuck a slender hand out for me to shake. I ignored it.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pilgrim?" I didn't look up from my Nehi.

"I need a guide. I need someone to get me across the river."

"Fighting's north of the river. You'd be better off staying in Kentucky. We have our fill of refugees from Illinois."

"I don't plan on crossing the Ohio," he said quietly. "I need to cross the Muddy."

I stopped what I was doing and looked at the kid. I could tell he was serious. He shot me a look that told me he wasn't used to taking no for an answer.

I shook my head. "Too dangerous. That's demon territory."

He nodded. "I know what's over there. I just need you to get me to the other side."

I sighed and took another sip of my Nehi.

"I can pay," he said. "I've got caps."

I shifted my glance from the Nehi to him. "It'll take a lot of caps."

"I have 'em," he said. He started to shift a backpack around to open it, and I could hear the metallic clink of hundreds of caps in the pack. I reached out and stopped him.

"Best not be opening that here in public," I said. "That's a good way to get your throat cut."

"I can hold my own," he said, a grimness coming into his face.

"How old are you, kid?" I asked. "Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Nineteen."

_And I'm Abe Lincoln_ , I thought.. I eyed him again.

"So what's west of the Muddy?" I asked, more curious than anything else.

"My father."

"Why doesn't he come and get you?"

"He's...he's busy."

"More likely he has more common sense than his son does." I sat up and put my empty Nehi bottle down on the table. "Look, kid. There are ways to get across. Legal ways. Easier ways. Go north to St. Louis or south to Memphis...."

"I already did," he said. "Been to Memphis, Baton Rouge, St. Louis, all of the big cities," he said. "The guides who took me got shot."

"And you survived?"

"I was lucky," he said. "Dad always said I was lucky."

"Sounds like your luck didn't carry over to your guides," I said. The thought didn't make me comfortable.

"They all left me halfway across and ran," he said. "I shot them."

I stared at the kid. He was telling the truth, I could tell. And I had a new respect for him.

"Look," I said to him, finally talking to him as an adult. "I won't run, and I won't strand you. I will get you across. Whatever you do when you get to the other side is up to you."

A faint smile broke out on the kid's face, and I continued before he could say anything.

"But we do it my way, or not it all. We do it at night. Tonight. And it will cost you 200 caps. All up front."

Johnny shook his head. "Half up front, half when we get to the other side."

I nodded. "Smart kid."

We waited until three a.m. I would have gone earlier but the moon was too bright. I got out my old orange Coleman canoe that I had spray painted a dull green. With the moon down, we pushed off from the eastern shore. I put Johnny in the front and told him how to paddle and steer. He knew more about it than I suspected, and we were moving out quickly before more than a few minutes.

I started to tell Johnny about the dangers we faced; floating mines that drifted down from upstream that didn't care who they killed, unmanned Gatling guns that were activated by motion detectors, and alligators. Funny how the gators profited from the insanity of the past two years and how they were this far north. Half the time you saw a floating log it had teeth attached.

But Johnny seemed to know about all of this stuff, and so after rambling on for a while, I shut my mouth. It was better we were quiet on the river anyway. The usual runoff of May and June was over with, and the river had dropped significantly. The good news was that it wasn't running so swift and strong. The bad was that more sandbars were there to slow us down, which could be a problem if someone started shooting at you.

We were just about halfway across, and I was counting my blessings, when the world ended. The first warning we got was a faint pop, and then a shooting star rose from the mortar that was hidden on the other side. I watched the faint light go up in the sky and knew what was coming. Without a word, I leaned over and rolled the canoe upside down.

I didn't look back to see if Johnny was okay; in this day and age, you either had survival skills or you were dead. The water was deep enough that I couldn't touch bottom, and I grasped the edge of the rolling canoe, trying to use it as a flotation device. I looked upstream and saw what had caused the ruckus to begin with.

In the darkness, I had believed that we were alone. Instead, in the brightness of the flare that drifted down, I saw that the Muddy was filled with other boats. A dozen square-nosed wooden skiffs were filled with soldiers, headed west just as we were. Around them, other heads bobbed in the water, soldiers unlucky—or lucky—enough to not find a ride. As I watched, the chain guns opened up on the far side, and the slaughter began.

I didn't stay and watch. I'd seen it too many times before. Instead I ducked down and put my head under the overturned canoe. To my surprise, Johnny was inside already. I pulled out my one luxury—a waterproof flashlight—and flicked it on.  
"I lost my backpack," Johnny gasped. "It had all the caps in it."

I had no thought about the money. What I saw in the light of the flashlight took that thought out of my mind.

"You're a girl!" I spat out.

Johnny had lost his— _her_ —hat and overcoat, and it became a lot more obvious that my passenger was not a scrawny boy but an adequately equipped female. She continued to splutter in the water, but shot words back at me.

"You say that as if you never seen a girl before."

"You lied to me," I said.

"I didn't lie," she said. "Johnny Pilgrim is my traveling name. My real name is Infinity Richards."

"That's harder to believe than Johnny Pilgrim," I said. "What were you trying to pull?"

"Trying to stay alive," she shouted back. "It's not easy living out here as a girl on your own."

I nodded, still paddling and holding the canoe edge as the river took us further south.

"I'll have to reconsider our arrangement," I said, my words chosen carefully. "Meanwhile I suggest we stay put and get some distance between us and those chain guns."

We held onto the bottom of the canoe for another half hour, and then I felt sand and mud beneath my feet. I took the risk of dipping my head beneath the edge of the canoe and popping it out on the other side.

It was still dark, but a hint of light was showing in the east, and I knew it would be morning soon. We had come up against a sandbar not too far from the Missouri shore, and so I figured now was as good a time as any to get out. We turned the canoe over and left it on the sandbar, then Johnny—Infinity, ack, what a name—followed me for a short swim over into the trees that lined the shoreline.

We lay there at the edge of the shoreline, upper bodies on the beach, legs still in the water, and I pondered what to do. I looked at the young girl, and knew I was looking at a disaster in the making. Finally, I made a decision.

"OK, here's the deal. I will take you wherever it is your going, and you can pay me when we get there. I will do my best to keep you alive and in one piece, but if you die before we get there, don't blame me. Deal?"

Infinity stared at me for a long moment. "But you don't know where I'm going."

"I do know that if I leave you out here by yourself, you're not going to last the day." I held out my hand, and the young girl shook it. Her heavy clothes had covered up features that I knew would get her in trouble soon enough, so I took off my own coat and put around her.

Then I took off my Peterbilt cap and put it on her as well. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than what she'd been wearing.

I pulled her to her feet as the morning light broke through from the opposite shore. "Come on," I said. "Maybe we'll get lucky and will be able to find some breakfast."

She followed me into the bushes that lined the river and headed west.

(back to Table of Contents)

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### 4. THIS CRAZY THING CALLED LOVE

Love is one of the most powerful, yet least understood, forces in the universe. No one knows what causes it, or where it will leave them. Sometimes it makes all the sense in the world, and then other times, well....

What is love? Poets, philosophers, painters and pundits have tried for countless generations to help us understand the human condition, the crux of which in most people's lives is centered on the concept of love. We are born to love our mother. We learn to love our father, and our siblings. In a perfect world, we grow up surrounded by love. From this base, we learn that the word "love" is used more broadly and generously than just to make references to familial relationships. We love our dogs. We love coffee. We love the sunset. And so it goes. As we broaden our concepts, our original understanding of the word becomes shallower.

And thus it is that we lose our original, pure understanding of love. Even when we talk of relationships with people, we are too quick to apply that label—love—to a relationship that might actually only be infatuation. And the difference between infatuation and love is the difference between a flash flood and the continual flow of the mighty Mississippi River.

My twenty years as a journalist have left me jaded. I have seen too many things that reveal the tragic, desperate side of life. But once in a while, a story—or an encounter—gives me hope.

Such was the situation on the morning of July 20, 1888 in Virginia City, Nevada. I had just finished printing out that week's edition of the _Herald_. News was slow. The silver mines were tapped out, and I knew that within two years, Virginia City would be lucky to boast of one tenth the number of residents that it did today. What that would do to the Herald's circulation was like the writing on the wall at Belshazzar's feast: _Mene, mene, tekel upharsin._ The days of the Herald and this editor were numbered.

I was mulling over my plight and that of the newspaper while sitting behind my heavy oaken desk. I watched the traffic go by as I considered walking across the street for another cup of coffee at Josie's when suddenly a very large cowboy came to the door. I saw his figure pass by the glass window and push on the door. He was very large, a muscular, tanned specimen of what the West produces best—weathered, magnificent men. As he stepped quickly through my front door, the little bell rang above the door. He turned to look at it, then turned back to me.

I raised myself from my wooden chair and held out my hand.

"Horatio Asperger, at your service," I said. He took my hand and shook it. I could feel years of range work in the calluses on his mighty hands. His faded red shirt sleeve was rolled up, showing a slight scar running up his arm, and I fantasized that he had received it while fighting Comanches, although it was more likely he had gotten it from barbed wire or something else a little more mundane, and therefore practicable.

"Gilroy Jones, sir." I motioned for him to take a seat and he quickly took off his weathered 10-gallon Stetson, holding it in his lap. The act of taking it off caused a fine sheen of dust to rise from the hat and I watched a cloud of particles rise in the sunlight that shone through the glass of the window behind him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?" I asked. "Are you interested in taking out an advertisement, or perhaps an obituary? Maybe you have a story you would like my fine newspaper to recount for you?"

I looked at his worn face with the light brown mustache that swelled and dipped above his upper lip like some hairy Venetian gondola. His mouth was a slight horizontal cut into his chiseled face, and I watched as he took a breath to answer my question.

He opened his mouth and then closed it, and I quickly surmised that he was at a loss for words. He looked at some indeterminate place behind me, his mind more on the words he wanted to say, than on what he was looking at.

"I find on occasion that when words escape me, it is better to begin with an anecdote. Perhaps the story of how you came to be where you are," I said. I smiled at him courteously. He nodded nervously in reply.

"My name is Gilroy Jones," he said again.

"I believe that we have already established that fact, Mr. Jones. Please proceed."

"I'm a hard man, and I've lived a hard life," he said. "I grew up on the Rio Grande in south Texas. When I was sixteen, I done come out West seeking my fortune. Hell, I learn't soon enough that there ain't no fortune to be made.

"But I fell in love with the West. Learned to make a living in Colorado on a cattle ranch, and spent plenty of hours in the saddle punching doggies. Got in trouble with a man about a paycheck and shot my first man at the age of 19. Since then, I figure I put my share of men in the ground. More than I can count, I reckon."

I looked at the man and realized that he was very likely telling the truth. I have heard the truth told and I have heard countless lies. And one of the things you learn early on as a journalist is the difference between the two. This rang true, and it chilled me.

"Go...go on," I stammered.

"Bout three years ago, I found her. And she changed my life. I put away the gun and became an honest, decent man once again."

"You found her?" I echoed.

"The girl of my dreams." His grey eyes bore into mine for a moment before he smiled slightly. I relaxed with the slight motion.

"Ahh, true love. So now you are ready to announce your nuptials?" I said.

"Nup...what?"

"You're ready to be wed? Married?"

The smile faded from his lips. "I'd like that. Hell's bells, I would like that."

"But I sense there is some complication."

"Complication? I'd say so." He reached quickly for the top pocket for his shirt and unbuttoned it. Then he fished out a piece of paper and a small chunk of gold. He threw the chunk of metal in front of me.

"That's a $20 gold piece there. It's yours. All you have to do is help me find her."

I looked at the coin and then back at the man. The smile had disappeared from his lips and I could see this man was serious and not someone to trifle with.

"OK, all right. I am, after all, a newspaper man. We can try putting an advertisement in the paper, or maybe an article."

He shook his head. "Tried that. In Saint Louis, Abilene and in Tombstone. No luck. I want you to find her."

"Well, do you at least have a name? Somewhere to start?"

"I don't have a name," he said. "All I have is this picture from a newspaper." The picture that he referred to was a calotype, a new technology that I had heard of but not seen before. It was far superior to the heliograph and the daguerreotype that I had seen, and I was surprised that it was already being used by publications. This one, I assumed, was from either New York City or from Europe.

I took a look at the picture and paused. I looked up at him, who waited expectantly on the other side of the desk. I realized that what I said in the next few minutes would not only be important to him, but might spell life or death to me.

"This is her?" I asked, and he nodded.

"I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. That's not a very good likeness, I would imagine, but it's all I got."

"Have you ever seen her in person?"

He shook his head. "I figure that she probably lives far off somewhere, like Philadelphia or thereabouts. But money's no object to me. I need to find her."

I looked at the tall, strong man, and tried to determine whether it would be more prudent to be honest or somewhat discreet. I sighed and determined that honesty was my best, if not safest, course.

"Well, Mr. Jones, I have good news and bad news for you. The good news is that I know who this woman is—or was."

"Was?" he repeated. "Is she dead? Who killed her?"

"Actually, Mr. Jones, this calotype was taken recently, but the image is of a painting. The painting is quite old, perhaps more than two centuries old."

He shook his head. "That's not possible. She came to me in a dream. I know she is waiting for me. I just don't know her name yet."

"I can tell you her name, Mr. Jones. Her name is Mona Lisa."

"Mona...Lisa," he repeated. "So you know this woman?"

"Well, yes," I said, surprised. "She is, after all, one of the most famous women ever to be painted by the famed Leonardo DaVinci. I have had the privilege of traveling to Paris, France and seeing her painting hanging in the Louvre Museum."

"You've seen her?" he asked, threatening to rise from his seat.

"I've seen all there is to see of her," I clarified.

"Then I have to see her too," he said.

"Sir, we are talking about Paris, France, you do realize," I said to him.

"Don't matter," he said. "If that's all there is, then I want to see it too. Will you take me there?"

I looked at the dusty relic of a dying West, and realized that I had an opportunity. East meets West, so to speak. I would teach him the ways of Europe, and he would teach me, well, he would teach me what cowboys teach.

And thus it is that the two of us are now standing in a very large gallery, surrounded by people who don't speak English, looking at the most famous painting in the world. The man I have the privilege of accompanying on this year-long expedition has come here, not for the admiration of art, not for respect for the great painter DaVinci, but for one simple thing.

Love.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 5. THE WELL OF SOULS

What is a soul? Furthermore, what is the essence of a human being? Are we simply biological machines attached to computers called brains? Some would like to think so, especially those whose goal is to control others to their own ends. Others recognize that humans are greater than the sum of their parts. All of this makes for fascinating discussion, as Professors Mainbridge and McFeather are to discover.

Professor Mason Mainbridge worked long into the night, as was his custom, even though his was the only light on in Hazard Hall. He found that he got his best work down after everyone else went home to their wives and husbands, their pets and their children.

Mainbridge didn't have a wife, and he certainly didn't have a dog. His work was his life. He had one graduate level class in Modern Hegelian Philosophy that he taught each fall, and a class in the spring entitled Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates, which was universally feared by underclassmen as being one of the classes _not_ to take.

The short, chubby man had a reputation as being a tough teacher, but students who got to know him learned that he was actually a very caring professor, and that he often worried more about students' grades than they did. He loved the classroom, but the emphasis at Weatherford University, like most research institutions, was on publication. Right now, he was working on a paper on Martin Heidegger he hoped to publish in _Philos_ , a professional journal located in Great Britain. The room was dark, except for a cone of white light falling from the desk lamp he used to eliminate distractions so he could concentrate.

He was so absorbed in his studies that he didn't see the tall, angular form standing in the doorway, light streaming into the room from the hall behind him. It took the sound of the man clearing his throat before Mainbridge realized he wasn't alone. He looked up and smiled.

"Jordan!" he said. "It's been a while since you graced my office. Come in, have some coffee. I think there's some still in the pot." He gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and the small table that stood before it. A coffeemaker stood with half a dozen paper cups to one side.

"A little late for coffee," Professor Jordan McFeather replied. "Don't you have a class tomorrow morning? I would think you would want to get home and to bed."

"I just had some thoughts I wanted to add to that paper on Heidegger I am working on."

"Isn't that finished yet? Seems like you have been working on it forever."

"Well, you know what they say, Jordan. A professor's job is never done."

McFeather shrugged. "Well, you have Heidegger on your mind. I have something else. A philosophical exercise, so to speak. You remember Schroedinger's cat? Let's call this one McFeather's Muse."

"It seems a bit odd to hear a philosophical argument coming from a computer science professor, but all right," Mainbridge said, putting his pen down and turning in his chair. "This sounds intriguing. Go ahead."

"Say you were able to capture a person for all time and put them in a box. The purpose being to have access to their abilities—mental and otherwise—whenever you needed them."

"That would presume that whoever you 'captured' was someone of either significance or someone with special abilities, but go on."

"Now, having an actual person in a box has its own set of problems. Things like feeding and some facility for relieving themselves are necessary. Not to mention difficulties with the authorities due to slavery laws. So instead, you perfect a method of preserving their essence, what makes them who they really are."

"You're talking about their soul."

"Excuse me?" McFeather said, surprised. He paused, then chuckled. "Yes, I guess you could say so, if you believed in such things."

"What, you don't believe people have souls?" Mainbridge asked, shaking his head. "Even if you don't believe in any form of hereafter, the soul is the essence of what makes us who we are. Take away the body and that's what's left."

"If you say so," McFeather said, shrugging. "To me, man is just another machine. The brain is a hard drive and serial processor. We are a product of genetics and what we experience. But that is a different discussion."

"Right," said Mainbridge. "So you have this 'soul' captured in a box. What will you do with it?"

"What will I do with it? Well, say it was _your_ soul. I could access it whenever I needed to. Have the person work on problems—perhaps even philosophical problems, such as we have here today—and get the benefit of their experience, education, training and wisdom whenever I wanted to."

McFeather went to the coffee pot and finally poured himself a cup, talking as he went. Mainbridge watched him for a long while before finally speaking.

"So that's it? That's the philosophical question?"

McFeather nodded. "I am a man of logistics. But I can't help thinking that there are some philosophical and perhaps even ethical issues here. On an academic level, of course."

"Sure," Mainbridge said. He leaned back in his overstuffed desk chair and looked up at the ceiling before answering. "OK, a few questions to begin. First, let me ask this. What makes a human being a person?"

McFeather frowned. "Hmm, that's a good one. I'm not really sure."

"Separate a person from his arms and legs, and he is still a person, isn't he?"

Mainbridge held his hands out to his sides as if appealing his case. McFeather nodded.

"I suppose."

"All right, how much of his body does he need? Do we need our stomach, liver and spleen to be a person? What about our tongue? What if we were a disembodied brain that was able to think and feel? Would we still be a person?"

"And your point is?"

"My point being, if these 'souls' you have captured are still able to function in order to solve problems and interact with you, then you are dealing with human beings. And if they are, indeed, people, you have to consider that what you are suggesting is no less than a form of slavery."

"Slavery?"

Mainbridge nodded. "You use them as you see fit. You don't pay them. They aren't free to come and go as they please. How is that different than slavery?"

McFeather chuckled again. "So this recording of the person should have the same rights as the person you recorded. Is that what you're saying?"

"If they are independent thinkers, able to act creatively and solve problems on their own, then yes. That's what I am saying. They need the same considerations as your flesh and blood brothers."

"That seems a bit of a stretch. But what other implications do you see?"

Mainbridge picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, thinking as he did so.

"Well, on the positive side, it would be an alternative to the concept of heaven. More like a purgatory, I would suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"A recorded soul—I suspect you are talking about a _digitized_ soul here—would never wear out. No replacing parts, no worrying about what you eat or getting enough exercise. But then, you _are_ stuck in a box."

McFeather shrugged. "Give me web access and enough coffee and I would be set for the duration."

Mainbridge was the one to shrug this time. "I doubt it would be that simple. I would need something meaningful to do to pass the time. Either that, or some sort of short-term memory loss.

"I would suspect that these captured souls would work best—most true to themselves—if they weren't aware of their situation. You'd have to trick them into believing that they were living a normal existence. Otherwise, they would either refuse to cooperate or would give a biased response. They wouldn't be themselves."

McFeather nodded. "Sounds reasonable."

"Finally," Mainbridge said. "There's the question of how much access you would have to the memories of your captured souls. Would they be able to say no when you asked them for information?"

McFeather shook his head. "We're really just talking about a database here. A sophisticated database that can also problem solve, mind you, but still just a repository of information. It would defeat my purposes if the computer would refuse to answer me."

"I see," said Mainbridge. "Then you raise the question of privacy. Everyone has things in their lives and in their minds that they share with only a select few or perhaps with no one else at all. I am sure you have such thoughts and memories in your own life. Would you want to be forced to make all your past sins and secrets public?"

McFeather didn't answer, but stared at Mainbridge, who could see he was considering his last question. After a long pause, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Well, this discussion has been very enlightening. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

Mainbridge nodded and stood to shake McFeather's hand.

"My pleasure, Jordan. It's always a privilege to discuss such ethical issues with a colleague." Mainbridge watched as McFeather put his coffee cup down and pulled the front door open and let light stream into the room once again.

"Don't be a stranger, Jordan," Mainbridge said, and McFeather paused to nod, perhaps a little self consciously before closing the door behind him.

Mainbridge stood in the middle of the room, staring off into the dark corners for a long moment before a thought came to him. He took a couple of steps and pulled the door open.

"Oh, Jordan, just one more thought—," he said, but he opened the door to blackness. He could see no walls, ceiling or floor. He paused, looking out into the void before pursing his lips and closing the door slowly.

He took the few steps back to his desk and sat down, once again pulling up his notes on Heidegger and continued.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 6. "VAJA CON DIOS, PANCHO VILLA"

Ever since I moved to Texas 14 years ago I have developed an affinity for the western. Most people burned out on them when they became so plentiful and hackneyed that even the name "western" became a cliché. Science fiction is headed the same direction unless it is careful. To me, what the western has needed was a fresh perspective, and in this book I have adopted the steampunk genre, alternate history and some literary license to put a fun spin on real, historical characters. Following is the opening chapter of my western steampunk novel, Tom Horn vs. The Warlords of Krupp. You can find the complete novel under my penname Jackson Paul at Smashwords and many other online retailers.

He wasn't the biggest man that Tom Horn had ever seen. Heaven knows, Tiny Angulfssen back in Saint Louis stood a hair's breath short of seven feet and had shoulders like a Brahma bull. He once carried two full-grown women, one on each shoulder. Of course, a lump of lead smaller than the tip of his little finger had put him in his grave, just like so many other men.

No this, man was big, but far from the biggest. Nevertheless, the minute he stepped into the bar, every eye was upon him. He wore a blue coat that wrapped around him as if made two sizes too big—if that were possible—and then form fitted by wrapping the extra material around him. And he wore baggy grey pants over some black rounded boots with thick hobnail soles and shiny black toes covered in metal.

But the way that he dressed—odd that it was for this part of Texas—was nothing compared to one additional feature that drew everyone's attention. As big as the man was—and he was big, mind you—two beats after he stepped through the swinging doors of the Javelina Cantina, the place burst into laughter. The big man paused as if he were expecting the outburst, but didn't crack a smile. Instead, he stood at the entrance and scanned the occupants of the room, apparently looking for someone special.

As the laughter continued, he stepped forward to the bartender, who chuckled as well, but sobered up as the man stepped up to the bar.

"Pardon me," the dark skinned man said in a clipped accent. "I am seeking someone. A Tom Horn."

The bartender stared at him, a smile threatening to break through his lips. "Don't know anyone by that name here," the bartender said. "But would he be wearing a diaper on his head like you?" At this the bartender burst into laughter, followed by the rest of the cantina. For the man who spoke to him wore a flowing white cloth wrapped around the top of his head.

"Hey, maybe he just washed his hair, and can't do a thing with it," someone shouted from the back, which was followed by more laughter.

In response, the big man reached out quickly and snatched the lapel of the bartender with one massive hand and lifted the man off the ground several inches, at the same time dragging him up to his eye level. He held the bartender effortlessly with one arm and stared into his eyes, no hint of amusement in his face. And the bartender—and most of the bar—stopped laughing.

"I—am a Punjabi, born of the high country of my native country of India. I am the son of a warlord and grandson of a king. I have killed a tiger—a maneater—when I was eight with my bare hands. And I have killed more men since then than I care to think about, or tell you about. Now my question was a simple one. Is there a Tom Horn in this fine establishment?"

"He ain't here." The words came clear and loudly from the back of the room, and the Punjabi let go of the bartender, letting the small man drop to his feet behind the bar. The big man turned to look at a smaller man, wiry, of about 40, who sat with his feet propped up on another wooden chair in the corner of the room. He was totally nondescript in the western saloon, dirty jeans and faded shirt over a worn pair of black cowboy boots. He was of average height, with a frame that appeared to have seen a lot of abuse, yet still moved smoothly and with the potential for great speed, like a rattlesnake. Steel grey eyes peered from beneath a ten-gallon Stetson with no hint of emotion in them but the sense that they were taking measure of everyone and everything they surveyed. Behind the smaller man, propped against the wall in the corner was a customized Winchester 30-30 with a brass inlay and the initials "T.T.H." etched in script across the side.

The Punjabi stepped forward, the bar now grown quiet as everyone watched him cross the room, each step he took a heavy stride across the oak flooring. He crossed the distance in three steps and faced the smaller man, who looked up without emotion, at the same time reaching into a shirt pocket and pulling out papers to roll a cigarette. The Punjabi watched as his fingers flew across the paper in a drill that they obviously had gone through thousands of times, and now completed without a casual thought. The cigarette rolled, the smaller man flicked it to his lips in an effortless motion, then left it dangling from his lips. He looked up slowly at the Punjabi, who still stood in front of the table like a massive oak in a forest of smaller scrubs.

"Something else I can help you with, pardner?" the smaller man asked, one eyebrow coming up.

"You would not be this Tom Horn I seek?" the Punjab asked.

The smaller man shook his head slightly.

"Tole you, he left here for New Mexico Territory about two days ago. Said he had a date with some cattle rustlers."

The Punjab eyed the smaller man warily, his eyes flashing back to the Winchester propped against the corner, then back to the man's face.

"I suppose someone with a reputation like that of Tom Horn must be careful with whom he associates," the Punjab said.

"S'pose," the smaller man agreed.

"There might be danger for a man who has been known to kill as many men as he."

The smaller man nodded. "Might be."

"Perhaps you can pass along a message to Mr. Horn if you come upon him in the near future," the Punjab said. "Tell him that I have a proposal for him, a task of great import."

The smaller man chuckled.

"Tasks of great import are the very thing that Tom Horn don't need these days," he said. "That's what got him in trouble in the first place."

"Tell him that I, Bashu, will wait for him two days. After that, I must leave, for the task I speak of will wait for no man. Not even the infamous Tom Horn."

The smaller man, clucked his tongue and winked.

"Now that's a shame, 'cuz you know Tom Horn won't be back this way anytime soon, I imagine." He pulled his booted feet off the chair and onto the wood floor, reached behind him for the Winchester and pulled it to him, standing.

"Right nice to meet you, Bashu," the smaller man said to the Punjab, reaching up and touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. "I'll be sure to pass the word along."

Bashu stood and watched as the smaller man walked across the floor to the bar and threw two small silver coins to the bartender, thanked him and walked out the front door.

The twilight had turned to darkness outside, and the man with the Winchester on his shoulder paused for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He took the time to strike a match and light his rolled cigarette, which still hung limp from his lower lip. A moment later, a man with a bowler hat and a badge on his lapel stepped up on his right.

"Sure hope you and your buddies aren't planning any trouble tonight, Tom," the lawman said, making a show of pulling his coattail free from his gun holster on the right side. Tom glanced down at the move by the lawman, then looked back into his eyes.

"Oh, you know me, Sheriff. I don't like trouble any more than you."

"That's good, because I have strict orders from Austin that we don't stir up anything with the Mexicans or the Germans across the border. Let them stick to their business, and we will stick to ours. We don't need any more border skirmishes."

"War's coming, Sheriff."

"Not if I can help it," the sheriff said. "Not in my town."

As if in reply, guns went off at the far edge of town, and Tom heard voices shouting in Spanish.

"What about those who come into Presidio from across the border?" asked Tom. "Some of them is just looking for fun, but some are looking for trouble too."

"I'll take care of the trouble," the sheriff said quietly. "You just steer clear of all of 'em, hear me?"

Tom nodded slightly, and the sheriff left him, walking quickly in the direction of the gunfire.

"Don't mind me, Sheriff," Tom said under his breath. "I just got to take care of a little business. Real quiet like." He stood in the dark of the wood walkway and stared across the street into a black alley. A few minutes later, he saw movement there, and heard a low whistle.

Tom strode across the dirt street toward the alley, which was next to the Presidio bank. He turned his back to the alley and leaned against the bank, looking out over the street. With the gathering darkness, the town had become more active. Lights came on down the street, and the gunfire continued at the edge of town. Tom was thankful that Sheriff Wicker would have his hands full with them, leaving Tom and his boys available for their own project.

"Everyone ready?" Tom muttered under his breath.

_"Si, Senor Horn_ ," came a man's voice with a heavy accent. "We be ready when you are."

"OK, Pablo, you and Lupe go join the rest of those Mexes headed back to the base. Kid and I will tag along, back about a quarter mile or so. You know the signal. We'll be ready when you give it. _Andele, muchachos_."

He felt rather than heard the two men in sombreros slink off into the darkness, ready to join those who were returning across the border to the barracks in Ojinaga, Mexico. Tensions ran high between ranchers here in the Big Bend area of the Rio Grande Valley and the new escalation of military in Mexico along the border. Tom had no idea what had led the Mexicans to start the military build-up, but the Germans were quick to take advantage of their insecurity, and had turned a small adobe fort into a state-of-the-art Army garrison.

And then there were those big grey things in the sky. Zeppelins, they called them. Tom thought they were the biggest tomfoolery he had ever seen. They were as huge as a mountain, and yet he still had seen no practical use for them. So far all he had seen they were good for was scaring the cattle.

"And horses," Tom muttered to himself as he left his spot by the bank and headed south down the street. Horses. That was the business for tonight. He stopped for a long minute outside the livery stable, and watched as a barefoot, skinny, strawberry-haired kid of 14 in bib overalls gestured with a man in a German uniform over a contraption with two wheels and metal handlebars. Tom saw that it had started off as a bicycle, but steam came from vents on its side, and a bulbous canister rested beneath the seat.

_"Nein, nein_ ," the German said to the young boy. " _Ist kaput. Kann nicht reparieren_."

The kid gestured palm out for the man to wait, then pushed the German's insistent hands back and reached into his back pocket for a giant end wrench. He adjusted the nut at the top of the canister, tapped it with the side of the wrench, then pushed a lever forward. The bike chugged into life.

"Unmöglich!" the German said. "Vielen dank!" He reached over and grasped the hand of the kid and shook it vigorously, before mounting the metal bike with steam coming from its sides and putting into the street and off to the south.

"Another happy Heinie," Tom said quietly, following the uniformed man with his eyes. "We can all sleep more soundly tonight." The kid looked over when he heard Tom's voice and ran out to join him. He glanced up at him and tried to stand just like Tom.

"You got the uniform?" Tom asked the boy quietly. The kid nodded and tilted his head to gesture back toward the livery stable. Tom followed him back inside and put on a German uniform that the kid had stashed behind some bales of hay. It was long enough, but tight across the chest and shoulders. Tom grimaced.

"Don't these Germans eat anything? Oh, well, I don't have to wear it long."

Tom looked down at the kid and raised an eyebrow. "Now listen to me, Kid. You're 14 years old, and if it were up to me, you'd still be home. But you're not; you're with me. So if you want to live to be 15, you have got to learn to mind. You got me?"

The boy paused, smiling up at Tom, then nodded.

"None of this daredevil stuff, hear me? You do what I say, when I say it. Got it?"

The kid nodded again.

"OK, we got to be on foot tonight, but just for the first part. Now let's go get our horses."

Kid reached out, waiting for Tom to give him something, but Tom shook his head.

"You get the gun when we get there. No sense blowing your foot off until we're at a point where you can use it."

Kid's shoulders slumped, then he nodded. The boy followed a few steps behind as Tom continued south and to the bridge that spanned the Rio Grande River.

The two of them could see the three massive, grey airships in the distance to the northwest, and they cut away from the road to Ojinaga and across country toward the base. Tom led the way, with Kid following close behind, as they wandered through the barren rocks and sagebrush that surrounded them. They climbed an embankment, and soon they looked out over the base.

Tom had spent a year in the Army when they were storming San Juan Hill in Cuba, and so he was used to the look of a military base. This had some of the same trappings, but with some major changes. Tom was used to see a darkened base, perhaps lighted by campfires or a kerosene lantern here and there. This one was brightly lit by electric lights throughout. A large steam engine near the river puffed, its heavy metal arm visibly churning out the needed electricity for the base. This side of the power generator, the three airships floated in air as if held up by invisible wires.

Tom continued to scan for his goal until he saw what he wanted. On the far side of the camp were the horses, corralled along with the many others that the base needed. The military base was a mixture of about 100 German officers, advisors and airship specialists. Beyond that, the base was occupied by about 1,000 Mexican troops. And while the Germans were equally comfortable on horses as well as their mechanical contraptions Tom had seen once or twice—the things they called motor-sickels—, the Mexes still hadn't mastered the mechanics of the wheeled dervishes. They were strictly hands on horses.

And Tom's Parker Ranch had the best horses in all of south Texas and north Mexico. Actually it was Mary, Tom's sister's, ranch, but after he returned from Cuba, she had enlisted him as foreman and unofficial ranch manager. The Kid kinda came with the package. Mary's husband Horace Parker died when the Rio Grande overflowed two years ago. Since that time, the Kid hadn't spoken a word, but had latched onto Tom like he was the Second Coming. Tom shrugged to himself. Could be worse, he thought. But not much.

When Mary had refused to sell her horses to the Mexican General Pancho Villa, who Tom realized had designs on being president not too far in the future, the Generallisimo had sent his troops to take them by force. Mary told the local sheriff, but the sheriff had more common sense than bravery, and told Mary to claim that renegade Comanches had taken them, and to file with the Bureau of Indian Affairs for redress of grievances.

"Shoot," Tom muttered, and Kid looked over at him curiously. Tom had never had much trust in the government. In fact, every experience he had had taught him to avoid government types like he was back on the Plains avoiding Sioux. That was his first reaction when he saw that rag-headed giant back in the cantina. The big man had government written all over him.

_Back to work_ , Tom told himself, and focused on the business at hand. He took one more long look at the lay of the land before him, then turned to Kid.

"Look, here's where we split up," Tom said. "I can fit in as one of those German officers—thanks to this borrowed uniform—but you'd stand out. The best thing you can do is stay right here and cover us when we come out. We'll be traveling fast, so you'll have to catch anyone who is on our tail. Got it?"

Kid nodded quickly, then used the hand signals Tom had taught him from Indian sign language.

_"I stay—shoot those who chase—meet you after_."

Tom nodded. "Pretty good, Kid. Here—." He handed him his Winchester and a bandolier of shells. "Your mama would skin us both if we knew what we were doing out here. And I'll skin you myself if anything happens to my baby there." He gestured at his Winchester. "That gun means more to me than your sorry butt ever will, so take good care of her."

Kid grinned and nodded again. He took his sleeve and wiped dust from the brass magazine.

"OK, remember. Don't shoot till we are coming out. Cover us until we are away, then hightail it across the river. I'll meet you back at the ranch."

Tom slid back down the embankment and then dusted himself off before walking back to the street that headed into town and toward the base. A line of Mexicans and Germans was spread out on the road, some headed back into Presidio, others headed south to Ojinaga and the base. Tom joined the line headed south, wondering whether Pablo and Lupe were ahead of behind him.

Tom had spent eight months in the Army when they fought the Spanish in Cuba, during which he had gotten a sense of military uniforms and protocol. But it had been five years, and he had never put much effort into remembering that part of his life. Nevertheless, he watched the other German soldiers and noticed how they walked more erect and stiffly than their Mexican counterparts. At one point, a German soldier passed him in the other direction and saluted him. He hesitated before saluting in return, a second after the other man had passed.

The road to the base trailed off to the right, and Tom followed it. Two Mexicans and a German stood at the entrance. All three saluted him as he came in the gate, and this time Tom saluted promptly in response.

_"Alles in ordnung, Herr Major_ ," he heard the German guard say, and Tom grunted in response. He didn't know what the other words meant, but he figured out that _Ma-yore_ in German probably meant _Major_ in American. He shook his head and cursed under his breath. He'd asked Kid to get him a uniform. He didn't expect a major's uniform. That would make it harder to blend in.

He marched down the main street between tent rows, and had to put up with soldier after soldier saluting him. Finally, he saw that the tents had given way to more rustic surroundings, including a large corral area with about 200 horses in it. A dozen Mexicans, some with uniforms but many with bandoleros and sombreros, stood around the outside of the corral. All had bolt-action rifles. He glanced to the right and saw Lupe talking in Spanish to one of the soldiers there. He didn't know for sure where Pablo was, but he hoped that he would know in a minute.

As if in response, he heard firecrackers going off not too far away. The noise spooked the horses, and many of the man as well. The horses whinnied and screamed and began to run around the corral.

_"Placido! Placido!"_ one of the guards shouted by the corral. Suddenly he saw Lupe hit the man over the head and quickly pull the gate to the corral open. Men rushed into the corral, trying to keep the horses from rushing out the gate. Tom responded by letting out a shrill whistle.

A stallion in the back of the pack responded with a loud whinny and by rearing up on its hind legs. The others took up the call, and all of the horses bolted for the entrance.

Tom waded deftly through the charging horses, while the men around him ran in panic. Lupe stood on the fence and leaped onto the back of a brown mare that passed by. A beat later, the palomino stallion that had started the panic bolted by. Without missing a step, Tom grabbed hold of the big stallion's mane and vaulted onto its back.

Tom and the line of running horses charged down the main walkway in the middle of the base. Occasionally a man would hold up his hands and try to stop them, but most ran in panic. They were used to riding horses into battle; they weren't used to standing in front of a stampeding herd of 200 beasts. And they weren't getting paid enough to risk their life to do so.

Then one or two saw that Lupe, Tom and now Pablo rode among the herd. Tom heard order shouted in German and Spanish, then a gunshot. Instinctively, he ducked low on the side of the stallion and urged him onward. He glanced down as they rushed through the main gate to see the soldier that had called him major staring up in surprise.

"See ya later, Pardner," Tom muttered, and the eyes of the German grew wide.

The roar of the thundering hooves was met a second later by a different sound. Tom heard the roar of the steam cycles revving behind him, and then glanced up to see that one of the zeppelins was rising above its moorings.

"The big airship," Pablo said from a few feet away. "They are coming after their horses."

"Let 'em come!" Tom roared. "What are they going to do? And they're my horses, dang it!"

Tom heard the cycles coming up behind them, and glanced back to see that at least one of them had a sidecar. A German in a pointed helmet held a strange looking gun in his hands. Tom didn't like the look of that. Just as the man aimed his awkward looking gun at him, the front tire of the bike blew out, and the vehicle went careening off to the side. Tom looked up at the darkened hillside, where he knew that Kid lay with his Winchester.

"Good shooting, Kid," he muttered.

But other steam cycles were pulling forward. Instead of trying to catch the horses, they decided the best strategy was to go to the bridge and block the way into the United States. Unfortunately for them, Tom had a completely different strategy in mind from the beginning. Tom and his stallion led the herd off an embankment and onto the sandy banks of the Rio Grande, which was running low as it always did this time of the year. He suspected that the cycles would have a harder time following them on the soft sand. And he was right. Tom looked back to see that the steam cycles and their armed riders had paused at the edge of the road, and they argued about which direction to go with the vehicles.

"Yee-haw!" Tom shouted, and Pablo and Lupe yipped in response. He drew in a breath and relaxed, their path ahead apparently assured.

It was then that a dark shadow came between Tom and the full moon above. He looked up to see the sinister grey shape of the zeppelin creeping across the sky above him. Above the sound of the horses, he heard a tinny sound of a steam engine running the propellers that drove the airship forward.

_What could they do?_ Tom asked himself, but a cold fear came over him. A few second later, a Gatling gun opened up above him.

_Wham-wham-wham_ came the sound, and Tom saw the water spray off to their left. The moving airship combined with the moving horses made it hard to be accurate with any kind of gun, but Tom knew that time would help them find that accuracy. He needed to get them under cover—and quickly.

Tom whistled shrilly and he and the stallion charged across the shallow river. The other horses followed quickly across. The airship moved ahead of them to the north side—the American side—of the river, anticipating them coming up the embankment and once again into open range of its Gatling gun. Instead, Tom stayed in the river bottom, hugging the lower edge of the embankment and keeping out of sight of the airship. He followed the river for another mile, occasionally hearing the airship's engine whining in the sky.

Then the embankment broke open and Tom and the horses were once again exposed to the open sky. He glanced around him to see where the airship was and saw that it lingered to the northeast, still believing that they would double back to the road headed into town. Instead, Tom led the horses into a narrow ravine that opened up before them and headed straight east.

The sheer walls of the ravine were a comfort to Tom, and once again he was glad for Kid, who had scouted out the hidden trail earlier that day. In rainy weather, it was a wash from the higher ground to the Rio Grande. Today it was a windy—but hidden—trail that led them away from town and directly to the Parker Ranch.

When they got deep into the ravine, Tom got the horses to slow and then to stop. They had left in a panic, and even though he knew the stallion could take the abuse, he didn't want to jeopardize any of the horses. Pancho Villa and his men had stolen 50 horses from Parker Ranch. Now they had stolen back 200 in return. He doubted that anyone could identify him to the authorities—German, Mexican or American—but he knew Sheriff Wicker would have a pretty good idea who was stirring up trouble. At least he knew that the sheriff sympathized with the Parker Ranch. Relations with Mexico were strained, and this didn't help matters, but what was fair for the Mexes ought to be fair for everybody else. He'd have to have a talk with the sheriff tomorrow. He'd understand. _Sure he would._

They stayed in the ravine for another three hours. Occasionally they heard steam bikes pass by somewhere in the distance, or heard the airship buzz past somewhere above. But in the ravine, the horses began to calm down as well as Tom and his men. After everyone was rested and Tom thought enough time had passed, they led the herd quietly through the rest of the ravine and out to the open range of Parker Ranch.

Despite it being January, Tom was sweating by the time they had the horses penned up in the box canyon and headed back to the bunkhouse. Tomorrow Tom would treat all the men to a big dinner with all the frijoles and tortillas they could eat. But tonight everyone was satisfied to held back to and empty quiet bunk and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Tom said goodnight to Lupe and Pablo, then walked over to the main house. He started to reach for the door, then heard the whinny of a horse nearby. His senses once again heightened, he stepped quietly north around the house and saw that four horses were tied to a tree on that side of the house. Someone stood in the darkness nearby, watching to make sure that no one took them or spooked them. He also saw that that someone wore a fancy, two-gun rig, a bowler cap and a shiny badge on his lapel that gleamed in the moonlight.

Tom stood there for a minute, trying to decide what to do. Then he sighed.

"I'm just too tired to care," he muttered to himself, and turned to enter the door.

The living room of the adobe and log house was lit with a fire in the fireplace and a couple of oil lanterns. It was bright enough, in any case, to see that Sheriff Wicker stood in the center of the room with two other men, talking to his sister Mary. They turned toward the door when Tom entered. One of the men, big and burly, who looked somewhat familiar, reached for his sidearm when he saw Tom. Tom resisted responding in kind: there were three of them to his one, and Mary would likely be shot in the process. To his relief, Tom saw another lawman, also somewhat familiar, reach out and restrain the man pulling the gun.

"There's no need for gunplay here," the lawman said. "He's not going to be any trouble, are you?" He turned to Tom, who raised an eyebrow without responding.

"Tom Horn, I don't know if you remember me, but I am Deputy Marshal Joe Lefors from Gunnison County, Colorado. I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Willie Nickells."

When the lawman opened his mouth, Tom instantly recognized both the men.

"Long time, Joe," Tom said. "Didn't you use to be a Pinkerton?"

"Nope," the lawman said. "Never left Gunnison County before this trip. Good to see you, Tom."

"Well, Joe, you know me. You know my record. I've been a lawman, a Pinkerton, a range detective, and an Indian scout. My job has called for me to kill more than my share of men, and even more because they came gunning for me. But I honestly can't recall any of them named Willie Nickells."

The big man roared. "That's my son, you lying bastard." He stepped forward, but Lefors stepped in his way.

"Calm down, Mr. Nickells," he said. "We're going to do this, and you'll get justice. But we're going to do this my way."

"I remember you," Tom said to Nickells. "You ran that sheep ranch out near the foothills. You got into that trouble with the railroad men." He paused thinking, then the reality dawned on him. "The kid...outside the saloon...that was yours?"

"That was my Willie," the man spat. "And you gunned him down like a dog."

Tom looked toward the corner, speaking more to himself than to the others in the room. "It was dark. The kid came at me sudden like. I fired before I realized that he was only...only what, fifteen?"

"Fourteen," the man moaned. "Fourteen years old."

_The same age as Kid_ , Tom thought. _Old enough to get in trouble; young enough not to know any better._

"Not to repeat myself or anything, but I have a warrant here to take you back to Gunnison County for trial," Lefors said.

"And execution," Nickells added.

"If need be," Lefors added.

Tom scratched his chin and once again considered the odds.

"Well, you aren't making my options very attractive, Joe," Tom said. "I don't like trouble, but it sounds like you have a heap of it waiting for me up north."

"Sounds that way, Tom. But I reckon you don't have much choice, lessun you want to pull down on the three of us with your six gun and put your sister here at risk."

Tom paused. "No, no, I don't want that. Hmm."

The three visitors, Tom and Mary stood staring at each other for a long minute. Suddenly the door behind Tom opened and Kid stepped in, the Winchester held barrel-first, pointed toward the three men. Both Lefors and Nickells drew their sidearms. Tom knew that Lefors would pause long enough to consider the risk, but he didn't know what Nickells would do. He stepped in front of Kid and threw him to the floor. A gun boomed behind him and a bullet twanged against the door jamb. Kid looked up and fired the rifle as he fell. The gun boomed and the third man, up to this minute unidentified, folded in half and collapsed to the floor.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Tom yelled, falling full against his nephew. He raised his hands in surrender, then reached down and loosened his gunbelt and threw it across the floor. Then he grabbed the Winchester and slid it across the floor to Lefors.

Mary bent over the injured man, while Lefors picked up the Winchester and stepped toward Tom, who still lay on the floor.

"Don't hurt the Kid," Tom said urgently as Lefors approached.

In response, Tom saw the butt of the Winchester smash into his face, and everything went dark.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

_7. EXTREME MEASURES_

_When you think about it, the only thing that separates our acceptance of sleep from our fear of dying is the trust that just as surely as we fall asleep we will reawaken in the morning. Take that assurance away and you have a fresh opportunity to reexamine our views on death and dying. The following is the original short story that my new book_ _The Kiss of Night_ _is based on. If you like it, you can find the book_ here, once again under my pen name Jackson Paul.

A jolt of electricity slapped the dozing student between the shoulder blades, and he jerked in his seat. He shook himself, turned his head and looked up with bleary eyes at the uniformed man standing in the aisle next to him.

"Thanks," he rasped to the guard, and smiled faintly.

"Almost lost you there," the guard responded, then they both looked back at me standing in the front of the auditorium.

"Lost too many students," I said. "We can't afford to lose you too, Dennis. Why don't you stand up for a while? That might keep you from dozing."

Dennis nodded and shuffled sideways out of his seat and stood in the aisle, still obviously groggy from his sleepiness. I continued with my lecture for a few more minutes. Finally, I stopped, throwing up my hands in surrender.

"Well, I know that all of you are totally enraptured by William Brandeis and right of privacy versus right of publicity, but I think that's probably all of the lecture we'll attempt tonight. There are other things you could be doing that are a lot more interesting. Things more likely to keep your mind clear and focused. So keep busy and stay awake. I hope to see you all tomorrow night."

I looked out at the nearly empty amphitheater. Dennis and a girl two rows behind him stood and groggily waved at me, then walked up and out the back door of the classroom. I noticed the third student, the only other one in his audience, on the far side. The student didn't move.

"Jules," I called out to the hallway, and the burly security guard poked his head in. I motioned to the still form, and headed toward it just as Jules rumbled down the stairs.

"Becca, wake up!" I shouted, quickly walking her direction. It was Becca Simpson, a top student, and she was sound asleep. Jules pulled out his cattle prod and zapped her between the shoulder blades. She didn't respond.

Jules cranked up the amperage and zapped her again. When she didn't respond, he unsnapped his radio. "This is Jules over in Hagen Hall, Room 212. We have a sleeper."

The radio crackled back, letting them know that help was coming. We lay her out on the aisle and I checked her pulse and respiration.

"Is she in REM yet?" Jules asked. I didn't respond, but pulled away slowly as the EMT team came forward. The man in front pulled out a syringe of adrenaline and proceeded to inject the student directly into the heart.

I pulled back and watched them futilely work on her for a long moment before walking back down to my briefcase, shaking my head. I didn't even watch as they loaded her on the stretcher and took the still sleeping form out the doorway. Jules got up and started to follow them, but paused at the door.

"Too, too many," Jules said. "When will it stop?"

I finished loading up my briefcase, my face set in stone. Finally I looked back at Jules. "Good night, Jules. Stay awake."

Even at 9 p.m. the campus was usually bustling, and I had a hard time getting used to fewer and fewer students surging through the halls each day. Tonight it seemed awfully lonely. One or two students crossed the mall between Hagen Hall and library. In the distance, I could see the lights of the University Medical Center, its heliport busy with comings and goings.

I stood in the mall, trying to decide whether I should head to my office or head for home, when a voice called to me from behind.

"Dr. Grady," the voice said. I turned to see a young Hispanic coed approaching.

"Hi, Anna."

"Dr. Grady, I have an appointment to see you tomorrow at 2, but considering all that's been going on, and not knowing if—."

"—not knowing if you or I would be here tomorrow," I completed her thought.

"Right," she said. "Anyway, I was wondering if you had a minute."

"Sure," I led her to some concrete tables and benches nearby. "How is your senior thesis coming, by the way?"

"Well, that's just it. I've decided to drop out. I mean, what's the point, anyway? Less than ten percent of the students I started the year with are still in class. Most of them are in there, or places just like it." She nodded to the Pulsar Arena, where white uniformed medical personnel came in and out as they spoke.

I stared at her. "Anna, this—this _condition_ —is going to go away. CDC says they hope to have a handle on it any day. And when it does—."

"When it does, college life will make a lot more sense," she said. "In the meantime, I need to do whatever I can to help."

"Do you have a medical background?"

Anna shook her head. "I don't even know how to put a band aid on right. But I can make deliveries, donate blood, or even serve as a guinea pig if they can use me."

I continued to stare at the brave young woman. "You've probably got a better head on your shoulders than I do," he said. "But teaching is all I know. It's all I've have ever known."

"And what does a teacher do when he doesn't have any more students?"

I stared at her, realizing that I would be confronted by that question very soon.

Still undecided as to whether I should head home, I walked slowly over to the Arena. Then I remembered that Melissa had borrowed my car to drive to Benton Harbor and check on her mom. The massive building, built for basketball games, concerts and other special events, was filled wall to wall with what seemed like thousands of cots and a sleeping student in each cot. On the far end, I could see that about a third had IVs dangling above their prone forms, and realized that they were the first who had been brought in. After a week of sleep, the medical team had become concerned with their fluid and nutrition intake, and had started IVs. I wondered how soon the others would join them, then wondered who would maintain them all when The Great Sleep hit the medical team.

The university had set up tables by the entrance where volunteers distributed caffeine pills. Two days ago the line had stretched a hundred meters outside the Arena as the pills were distributed. Now it was only the occasional student who came to the table. Most of those who had asked for pills days ago were either asleep here on in their dorm rooms.

They were losing the battle, and losing it quickly.

I had purposely avoided thinking about the rest of the city. But I did know that cab service, bus service and schedule trains were suffering. Traffic in the city, even during rush hour, was beginning to look like 4 a.m.

Radios and TVs in the Arena continued to broadcast the latest information from the Centers for Disease Control. Their reports, he realized, didn't include anything new and were obviously directed at keeping the public as calm as possible. Six weeks after the insanity had started, the virus had spread throughout the western hemisphere. Europe, Asia and Africa had embargoed traffic from the infected countries as soon as possible, and so far had been successful in containing it. Not that it mattered to the estimated millions who had fallen victim to this epidemic.

Interestingly enough, the only fatalities were those who fell asleep while operating equipment, traveling, such as flying or driving, drowned while bathing, or died because they had no one to take care of their bodily needs while asleep. The unspoken question that kept coming up was: If everyone is asleep, who will take care of them?

Watching the medical teams work, having promising students drop out because they saw no future, and having an empty classroom to lecture to left me feeling depressed and discouraged. I walked out to 61st Street and tried to hail a cab, but after fifteen minutes without a single car driving by, I gave up. Instinctively, I pulled out my cell phone and called Sara, my wife, at home, but no one picked up. Then I remembered that she was my ex-wife. I started walking north along King Drive, then cut across to Lakeshore Drive, where I thought I would find more traffic. It was 10 p.m. and usually Lakeshore was bustling this time of night, but I felt more and more alone. The one consolation I felt was that in normal times this would be a dangerous place to walk alone at night. Now I wondered if I was the only person in South Chicago not sleeping.

It was late when I found an L-station that was not chained and locked. I bought a ticket at the kiosk and waited for the train. It appeared, miraculously, in ten minutes.

It was after 11 when I arrived at an empty house. I regretted letting Melissa take the drive to Benton Harbor all alone, but in this day and age, driving was one of the least dangerous things you could do. There were hardly any other cars on the streets, and so far Melissa had shown no symptoms of the virus. I wondered if somehow she had actually inherited some of my genes.

I looked at my own home, then down the street at the other brick houses. It was close to midnight and lights blasted out of each house in 100-watt glory; every TV and radio blared at full volume. Curfew, peace and quiet and the dark, still night had become a thing of the past.

I thought of Melissa again, then of Sara. I saw Sara standing next to me on the front porch, a loose red satin housecoat wrapped around her, an iced tea in her hand, a smirk on her lips.

"Dale, why _didn't_ you pass on your genes to your children?" I heard her say.

I shrugged. "I wish I _knew_. I wish I _had_. I wish I had studied genetics instead of media law."

I got some tomato soup and warmed it up in the kitchen while Sara took a bath. I insisted on a cold bath, much to Sara's objections, knowing that a warm bath always put Sara to sleep. As I sat in the living room watching the news and eating my soup, I heard Sara head into the bedroom to change. A minute later, there was a knock at the front door.

Instinctively, I looked at the clock. 1:15. I started to become indignant that someone would be knocking this late, then realized that bedtimes had become a thing of the past. If you slept, the doorbell or the phone wouldn't interrupt you. It was safe in this day and age that you were awake at any hour, or you weren't.

I answered the door and found two young men in dark suits facing me.

"Dr. Dale Grady?" the one in front said. "I'm Dr. Bill Hodgins from the Center for Disease Control. Mind if we come in?"

I hesitated, then stepped back and let the two come in. I picked up the remote and switched off the TV.

"How goes the war?" I asked, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

"Not good," Hodgins said. "If the public knew how bad, there'd be panic. But we are trying something new." He looked in my eyes. "That is, we will if you are willing to help us."

"Me?" I echoed. "I lecture on media law. What can I do to help?"

Hodgins opened a manila folder he was carrying. I noticed a photo of me stapled on the front panel, and realized it was a dossier.

"I understand you suffer from Chronic Familial Insomnia."

"I did. I had CFI when I was 8."

"CFI is extremely rare; it affects one person in 100 million. It's also genetic, which means you still have it.

"I understand, Dr. Grady, that you went for quite a while without sleep when you were 8. In fact, you were written up in the local paper. How long was that?"

I blinked. "Three—three and a half months," I stammered.

"It must have been fascinating, not needing to sleep."

"It was the longest 14 weeks of my life. Do you know what happens when you don't sleep? Hallucinations, tremors of the extremities, extreme pain in the fingers and toes." I shook my head. "Fascinating was not the word."

"Nevertheless, it is a genetic disorder. Are you saying you don't have any problems sleeping now?"

I looked up the stairs toward my bedroom. "I sleep about one to two hours a night. Any less than that and the hallucinations come back."

"And how do you accomplish this?"

"I've taken a strong tranquilizer since I was 8. Actually, a variety of them."

Hodgins closed the dossier and looked at me. "You have a family, Dr. Grady. Don't you want to help them?"

I stared back at Hodgins. "If it's genetic, why doesn't my daughter have it? Why didn't she get the gene that would save her?"

Hodgins stood up and looked at me. "To tell you the truth, Dr. Grady, I haven't a clue. But with your help, I'd like to find out.

"Please help us."

I looked at the two men standing above him, and then looked again back at the bedroom. Sara had been very quiet for several minutes. I had a moment of panic: was she okay? Then I remembered that I was experiencing another hallucination, that my ex-wife and daughter were safe in Benton Harbor. But for how long?

Hodgins cleared his throat. "We'll make sure that your wife and daughter get the best of care."

I stared at the men, thinking about Melissa and Sara. After a moment, I nodded.

"I'll give you whatever you need."

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

_8. NEVER SAY DIE_

_The following is a short story I recently wrote in anticipation of a screenplay I will be working on this summer. Enjoy._

The ballroom at the Top of the Mark was filled with the romantic sound of Artie Shaw and his big band playing "Begin the Beguine." It was pretty busy for a Thursday night, and the manager watched as waiters were kept busy filling and refilling drinks among all the tables. Next week they would celebrate the New Year, and he hoped that 1939 would be kinder to them financially than 1938 had been. Fear of a world war coming was having a mixed effect; some were saving money and staying home. Others were living their life while they could, never sure when or where they would be in days to come.

In the corner was a booth that the manager made sure his best waiter paid special attention to. The large booth featured red leather cushions in the shape of a clamshell, a polished marble tabletop, and the best view of the dance floor that money could buy. At it sat a young man in his 20s with a beautiful blonde woman. The man was smiling and joking with the two big men who stood on either side of the table; the woman was not. She was dressed in a white satin dress, appropriate for the evening out at San Francisco's swankiest night spot, but she was obviously uncomfortable with her surroundings. The young man, hair slicked back and exuding charm—and obvious wealth—sat as if he were holding court. The men on either side of him, both standing as if constantly on guard, even though they were laughing at his jokes, were built like young bulls. Finally, one of them nudged the young man in the middle.

"Hey Mr. Ferguson, that strange guy over there's staring at you," he said with a New Jersey accent. "You want I should punch his lights out?" He started toward the other table, but the man in the middle put his arm out and grasped the big man's forearm.

"No, Ike, that's no strange guy," he said, his voice coming out unnaturally high. "That's The Hammer." He looked up at Ike, who didn't seem to recognize the name or the face. He shrugged.

Ferguson stared back at the man sitting at the table 20 feet away. The Hammer was broad shouldered, had a crooked nose, and big meaty hands. He wore a suit that looked a size too small for him, and sat as if he was uncomfortable. But he stared at Ferguson's table unforgivingly.

"Three years ago, the guy could have put you out in one punch. Hence the name, The Hammer." Ferguson looked up at the big man, who scoffed to himself. "Believe me, Ike. He was a dangerous man."

"And now?" Ike asked.

Ferguson shrugged. "Three years can be a long time. Things change. People change." He raised a glass of champagne in salute to the man he called The Hammer, who nodded in response. Then The Hammer got up from his chair and started walking toward the booth.

"So why's he staring at you?" Ike asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

"Oh, we go way back," Ferguson said as he watched the man approach. "But I suspect that he's not looking at me." Ferguson turned and looked at the young woman next to him. The white satin dress she wore made her look even paler than Ferguson thought possible with her porcelain skin. "Rose, are you all right?"

Without waiting for a response from her, Ferguson turned and spoke to the approaching man in a loud voice. "Well if it isn't Hammering Hank Hudson, the pride of Stanford University." He stood and held out his hand.

"Hello, Broderick," Hudson said. "Looks like life's been good to you." He turned and looked at the young woman. "Hello, Rosey." She smiled mutely back at him, but said nothing.

"Oh it has, it has," Ferguson said. "Life's been very good." He paused when he noticed that Hudson had refused to shake his hand. "Oh come on, Hank. Let bygones be bygones."

Hudson paused, then sighed and shook Ferguson's hand. Ferguson grinned, then turned Hudson's big hand and looked at it.

"I see your hands have healed up quite nicely," he said. "Any pain?"

Hudson shrugged slightly. "Some. I don't box anymore."

Ferguson nodded. "That's understandable, with the accident and then the trouble with the boxing commission." He turned to Ike. "The poor man had his hands broken in an alleyway in Oakland. It was only through the help of friends that he survived." He turned back to Hank. "Speaking of friends, how was Spain? It was terrible to hear about Antonio."

Hudson's mouth became a thin line. "Spain was...it was war."

"Of course, of course," Ferguson said. "Say, why don't you join us? Rose, move over there and make room for Hank."

Hudson shook his head. "I don't plan on staying. But I wanted to come over and ask Rose for a dance. For old time's sake."

Ferguson looked over at Rose, who looked like she had been slapped across the face. She slowly shook her head. "I don't...I can't."

Ferguson smiled. "Of course you can, darling. Have one last dance with your old boyfriend. Hank's been through some rough times and it looks like they're not over yet. Give the old boy a dance, for old time's sake."

Rose stared at Ferguson as if he had asked her to do something obscene. Then she looked up at Hudson, and her face went from its natural pale color to a rosy glow. She paused, looking up at Hudson's outstretched hand, then nodded. She slid out from the seat and took his hand. She turned to Ferguson before entering the dance floor.

"I am only doing this because you asked me to, Broderick," she said quietly. Then she turned to Hudson and walked with him out to the dance floor.

As if on cue, the band began playing "Thanks for the Memories." Rose leaned into Hank and went into his arms as they began to dance. They said nothing for a long moment, and there was an icy chill between them.

"How's your mother?" Hank finally said.

"She died a year ago," Rose said. "Pneumonia."

"Sorry to hear that," Hank said. "How about your sister?"

"We don't talk much. Look, Henry," Rose said, then pushed away from him and looked in his face. "This isn't going to work."

"What are you talking about," Hank said. "I just wanted a dance with you."

"I know you too well, Henry," she said. "You never just want one thing."

"You know, you're the only person that I let call me Henry."

"That's what your mother calls you," she said, a softness coming back into your eyes. "I started calling you that when we were kids, because that's what your family called you."

"We're not kids anymore, Rosey," he said, pulling her back into his arms.

"No, we're not," she said. "I stopped being a kid the day you left me."

"I didn't leave you," Hank said. "I thought you understood that. I owed Antonio my life. He saved me. He took care of me after the accident. It was my chance to pay him back."

"And did you pay him back? Was it worth it?"

A hard edge came into Hank's eyes. "You know the answer to that."

"Well, we've all made mistakes," Rose said. "Being an adult means learning to live with those mistakes. Sometimes for the rest of your life."

Hank shook his head. "This is one mistake that I intend to make up for. I messed up, and now I want to make up for it." He pulled Rose away and looked into her face. His eyes searched her face for a long moment, then he looked over at Ferguson, who sat watching them.

"Marry me, Rosey," he said. "Let me take you away from this place."

Rose's eyes grew wide, and Hank saw a light of joy come into them. Then just as quickly, the joy disappeared.

"I can't," she said quietly. "I'm with Broderick now."

"Broderick's a crook. His family makes their money selling scrap iron to the Japanese. They are making money by helping the Japs kill thousands of Chinese every day."

"I know," she said quietly. "Look, Henry, there are things you don't understand."

"What?" he said, his voice getting louder. "What don't I understand? Make me understand!"

"Shh, Henry, not here. Not now." She looked deeply into his eyes. "You need to understand that I will always love you. And that's why I have to do this...."

As Ferguson watched from a distance, Rose leaned forward and kissed Hank for a long moment. Then just as suddenly, she jerked away and slapped him, hard, across the face.

A grin came over Ferguson's face as he heard her say, "Goodbye, Henry," then stomped back to their booth. Her face was red, her head was down and tears flowed from her eyes. She took her seat next to Ferguson without another word while Hank stood in the middle of the dance floor, his hand on his cheek, still apparently in shock. A long moment later, he strode forward to the table.

Ferguson only needed a glance at his goons to signal them to step in front of Hank before he reached the table.

"This isn't over," he growled at Ferguson.

"No, Hank," Ferguson said. "I'm afraid it is. One of the advantages of having employees who haven't heard of you is that they're not afraid of you. To quote my beloved Rose: 'Goodbye Henry.'"

The two goons grabbed Hank by either arm and escorted them by either arm. Hank went voluntarily, realizing that Rose's words "not here, not now," were more appropriate than she knew. But what made Hank stop from challenging Ferguson more than anything was the look that Rose had given him before he had left the table. Something is definitely going on, he thought. And I am going to get to the bottom of it.

Hank was silent as the three of them took the elevator down to the street level and they walked him out through the kitchen. The two goons then shoved him out the door into the alleyway behind the Mark Hopkins Hotel. Hank sprawled into a puddle there, then got up, his anger rising in him as he stood looking back at the closed door. Patience, he told himself.

He started to count, "One, two, three...." And then the anger burst forth from him. He turned to the brick wall facing him. He slammed his right fist into the brick wall facing him, then his left. Pain washed through him, and he saw the blood appear on his fists. But he also saw something strange. His fists, unused in boxing for three years, were cracking the red bricks on the wall as he slammed into them. When he stopped a few minutes later, his hands were a bloody mess. But he also saw that the brick where he had been hitting had turned into a fine powder.

And thus the answer came to him. It would be painful, he thought, more painful than you could possibly imagine. But in the end, Ferguson was like that brick wall.

Hank smiled to himself and walked down the alleyway, blood dripping from his hands.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 9. BURIED ALIVE

_I have long planned on writing a book about a man whose daughter is kidnapped because of what he did years before, and center it all on the rise and fall of the Berlin Wall. This story is just a brief view into what that project would look like._

Harald was alarmed to see a cluster of fellow college students standing outside the old bookstore. It was thirty minutes until curfew, and to see four young men standing in the cold, facing each other, their breath puffing smoke in the frigid air, looked to him fairly suspicious. He locked wary eyes with Sigi from ten meters away, nodded slightly, then kept walking past them.

The small street one block from the Wall had a smattering of people, most of them customers leaving stores or merchants locking up their shops. One old man and woman across the cobblestone street struggled with the iron grate they pulled over the entrance, and Harald hurried his step and helped them close the collapsible metal curtain.

"Vielen dank," the old man said, and Harald nodded. He watched the two of them scurry down the lane toward home and then turned back toward his friends. They had realized their mistake, and had either scattered or gone inside. In any case, Freedom University was no longer represented in the streets of East Berlin.

_What was he doing?_ He thought to himself. His mother would have turned white—were she still alive—and he knew what Paps would say. _Never stick your neck_ out was his motto, a carry-over from his time in the U.S. Army. He thought of his mother, all she had suffered through the war years here in Berlin, her trauma at the hands of the Russians, starvation, disease, humiliation. He knew nothing of these things. Now it was his time to do something for those who still suffered. Especially for Elise.

"This is for you, Mom," he muttered to himself, knowing as he said it that his concerns were more for a beautiful 17-year-old girl than for a dead mother. He let out a frosty sigh, then looked down and strode across the darkening street into the bookstore.

Herr Frauschein, the proprietor, was nowhere to be seen, but his son Hans was standing in the back of the bookstore between the aisles. He waved Harald to come join them and held the trap door open as Harald followed the old wooden stairs down into the basement. Inside the small space, Harald couldn't feel the cold, which he was surprised at. The old basement was filled with boxes, stacks of papers, and an old overstuffed chair that smelled faintly of dust, old books and cat piss.

"This basement is very sturdy," Hans told the other four. "It survived through countless bombings by the Allies, and my parents lived down here for the last two months while the Russians invaded. While they were down here, my Pap got afraid that they might get trapped in the rubble, so he started a tunnel for such an emergency. He saved us a lot of work."

Hans and Sigi pulled back an old standing bookcase to reveal a hole in the concrete wall of the basement. Hans held up a kerosene lamp and Sigi chuckled as they all bent to look down the hole. It was about 15 inches square and traveled straight as far as Harald could see until the tunnel faded into blackness.

"We really were fortunate," Sigi said. "He decided to dig west, toward the Wall."

"Well, the Russians were coming from the east, so I think it was an unconscious decision on his part."

"How far does it go?"

"To tell you the truth, I have never gone down it," Hans said. "I am a little afraid of small places. And Papi always warned me that the soil is pretty soft with a lot of ash from the burned buildings. He was always concerned about it falling in on me."

"Well, it may not be safe, but it will sure make the work a lot faster."

Harald's heart beat faster as he looked down the tunnel. It seemed to stretch forever. He had known that their escape attempt would involve a tunnel, but the reality of being underground, being surrounded by so much soft dirt, dirt that could collapse on him and smother him, dirt and ash that could fill his nose and mouth and eyes—. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

"Who goes first?" Hans said.

"Draw straws?" Sigi asked.

The tunnel seems alive, the entrance yawning toward him as if it waited to swallow him. He gulped. _If I'm going to do this...._

"I'll go," Harald blurted. As the others stared at him, he reached for the small trenching tool, ducked his head, and climbed into the small opening in the wall.

"Wait," said Sigi, grabbing his shoulder. Half in the entrance, Harald turned to see Sigi handing him a small penlight flashlight. The beam on it didn't seem to go farther than a half a meter or so, but Harald was glad for it.

"Thanks," Harald said quietly, smiling. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Good old Harald," Sigi said. "Always running ahead of your brain." Then Sigi produced a hemp rope from a wooden box near the opening of the tunnel and tied it around Harald's waist.

"Just in case," he said awkwardly.

Harald smiled and said nothing, nodded softly and turned back to the tunnel.

The fear that had made his heart want to jump out of his chest diminished to a dull thud behind his ribs, and he took a deep breath through his nose to try and quiet it even more. The old tunnel was half a meter in width where he lay on his stomach, but Harald could see that the width grew larger and smaller as he slithered forward. Dust exploded up from the surface beneath him, and his nose tickled. He involuntarily thought of the thousands who had died here in Berlin just 17 years before, many whose bodies were never found. _Would his be added to the others?_

His heart leaped again at the thought, and he tasted bile in his throat. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then put the thought out of his mind and slithered forward more. As he pushed his spade and flashlight ahead of him, the small penlight shining just a meter ahead, the darkness yawning beyond, he wondered how far below the surface he was. As if in reply, he felt rough stone to his left and realized that the tunnel was passing the foundation of another building.

Sigi and one of the others shouted behind him, but their voices were muffled and he couldn't understand them. He tried to turn in the narrow tunnel to see them and realized that he couldn't. Then a panicky thought went through his mind, the possibility threatening to overwhelm him. _If he couldn't turn around, how would he get back out?_

_Du blӧde,_ he told himself. He would just have to back out the tunnel. He would take it easy and slow. The rope around his waist meant not only that his friends would help him in case of a cave-in. They could help him as he backed out as well.

He heard his friends shouting again behind him, and again couldn't understand what was being said. A moment later, he felt, rather than heard, a rumble from above, and dust began to fall from the tunnel's ceiling. Someone must be using heavy equipment up there, he thought. It seemed odd that they would do so this late in the evening, but the East German government was eager for the Wall to be finished. Chances were that they were working on it, clearing old buildings, or something of the sort.

Sigi yelled at him once again, and he felt a pull on the rope attached to his waist. He started to turn to look around to look behind him. In that moment, the rumbling above him increased, and dirt began to fall. Harald realized that was what Sigi had been yelling about. The tunnel was collapsing.

Harald's heart went into his throat as loose dirt and rocks began to fall all around him. He frantically began to crawl backwards down the tunnel, dropping the penlight in the process. Five seconds after starting his crawl, he realized he would never make it.

Instinctively he curled into a ball, his back arched above him and his head covered by his hands. He had let go of the trenching tool, but thought of it at the last second as the dirt, dust and rocks flew around him. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it toward him. A second later, he was entombed in loose dirt.

Harald held his breath, the dust filling his nose, his eyes and his ears. He thought he heard Sigi's voice in the distance, but more than anything heart his heart pounding in his chest and in his ears. Tears formed in his eyes as he gritted his eyes closed and held his breath. _Was this how he was to die?_

His father had never talked about God, but his mother believed in Him. He remembered her praying with him at his bedside as a little boy. They had kneeled together, regardless of how cold it was, and prayed the same prayer each night: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake...." Harald had learned the prayer in English. His mother had said it was because she wanted him to practice English as much as possible, but Harald had always wondered if it was to somehow influence his non-believing American father.

Harald didn't dare open his mouth to pray now, but he did so in his mind. It was all he had, that and the edge of panic that now came at him like a thundering waterfall. He was buried beneath tons of soft dirt.

He found his arms becoming wedged more and more tightly around his body by the dirt that surrounded him. Instinctively, he pulled his hands over his face, curved his back and shoved out in all directions, seeking as much space as he could find. He realized that it had been less than 30 seconds since the cave-in occurred, but it seemed like an eternity. He could not see, he could not breathe, and he felt the soft press of a meter of dirt on his entire body.

The panic began to come back, and he was rapidly losing touch with rational thought. Then he realized that his back was against something solid. He remembered that the tunnel had passed the stone foundation of a local shop a few meters back. He realized that he must be pressed up against a basement space, perhaps a cellar for a building that had been destroyed in the war.

He pushed with his feet against the soft dirt, trying to get leverage and somehow push the stones out of position. He didn't dare think at how foolish the idea sounded; it was the only thing he could think of. He was surprised when he felt one of the stones move a little bit. His face still cupped with hands in front of them, he pushed again with his hips against the stone wall. It moved again, ever so slightly.

He realized that he was rapidly running out of air. The heavy stone was moving, but slowly, and at the rate he was going, he would suffocate before he got the stones loose. But if there were loose stones, perhaps there was air as well....

The dirt around his was still loose, but he knew that every move he made would pack the dirt more solidly around his body. He also found that the rope still attached to his waist was keeping him from turning over. He slid his hands from his face down his chest to his waist and quickly tried to untie the rope. He fumbled, but was successful in untying the rope. Immediately it slithered away, and he knew that his friends were probably pulling on it, hoping to bring him back.

With the rope gone, he wiggled and squirmed until he turned completely around, his face now facing the rocks of the old basement. He had kept his eyes closed, trying to keep the dirt out of them, but as he faced the stone wall, he felt stale air against them. He opened his eyes and saw faint cracks of light coming from between the stones.

Where there was light, there was air. He exhaled vigorously, then pressed his mouth to one of the cracks, sucking in fetid air. It was stale and foul smelling, and it was more precious to him right now than anything else in life.

He lay still for a long while, breathing in the stale air and regaining his strength. Then he took his hands and feet and began pushing on the stones in front of him. Ten minutes later, the stone in front of him fell free and a space half a meter across appeared in front of him.

Coughing, wheezing, and shaking dirt from his hair and face, Harald pulled himself into the dark cellar and fell face first into the space and toward the floor a meter below.

He landed with a smack on what felt like old cloth, papers and brittle, dried wood or leather. He had lost his penlight somewhere in the tunnel, so it was impossible to see clearly. A faint light shone from between the heavy beams above his head. It was dusk, and he knew that another day would bring light that would help him find his way around. But he also knew that he was likely to freeze where he was. He needed to get out of there.

He stood and realized that the heavy beams were low and that he could not stand erect without hitting his head. He also saw that the massive beams prevented him from escaping that way. His eyes grew more and more accustomed to the dark. It was when a passing car's headlights shone through the cracks of the beams that he realized that he was not alone in the cellar.

The yellow rays of light shone across the small room, revealing to Harald that the cellar was used at one time as a bomb shelter. What he had thought was wood were the broken bones of Nazi soldiers, trapped in the shelter, as he was. What he had thought was leather was their skin.

He took another look at the desiccated face of a corpse in SS uniform, staring back at him from across the cellar.

It was going to be a long night.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 10. CRAZY MAN

As a Christian, I have long believed that things happen around us that we are not aware of. A spiritual battle is being fought that most of us can't even see. Beings exist—angels and demons—that we are, for the most part, unconscious of. This is an examination of that world, and one man's brief and unwanted contact with that reality.

I never really thought I was crazy. That's despite the fact that a panel of three psychiatrists, a judge and jury of my peers, and an ongoing evaluation by a state-certified mental institution said that I was. Three years in the Hillsboro Institute for the Criminally Insane was like thirty years anywhere else. Screaming at night, crying and shouting during the day, and very few people you can carry on a reasonable conversation with.

In the back of my mind, I knew that if they ever changed their opinions, they would put me in a real prison: one where you got brutalized every day of the week, where your bunkmate requires more of you than just telling him a bedtime story, where every meal is another opportunity to get a shank jabbed between your ribs. A mental hospital, taken in that context, really isn't so bad. Get past the mind-numbing medications, and it could be okay.

But I missed having intelligent conversations. Having a PhD in relativistic physics doesn't help you much when you have no books, no white board, and no access to colleagues you can speak to. Even the orderlies ignore me, probably because most of them are lucky to have a high-school education, and the most challenge their minds ever had was in figuring how to get the top off of child-proof bottles.

The closest thing to a conversation I can have is with Dr. Henry Iggleston, a fellow inmate. They call them patients here, but I know we are all really inmates. Henry was a physician in another life, a surgeon actually. That is, until he killed a child patient on the operating table and later tried to kill himself with a loaded handgun. The 22-caliber bullet did just enough damage to his brain to get him a ticket into this Wonderland without doing the job he had intended. Now Henry is locked in here, reliving his one spectacular failure in an otherwise stellar career.

Henry and I talk daily. He tells me about brain surgery, and I talk to him about wormholes. The bullet that struck his brain affected his short-term memory, and an hour later, he doesn't remember having the conversation. So our discussions usually don't last very long, or go very deep. One day I told him the same joke six times, and he laughed just as heartily all six times. The last time, I did it just as an experiment, and finally came to the conclusion that both of us needed to be in here.

But that was just for one day. All in all, I am convinced that I am a sane person, a victim of circumstances. What happened on that day in question is something I can't explain. It was a twisted experience in an otherwise happy but mundane existence. I revisit now and again in my mind. But I am sane enough that sharing the story would just convince most people that I belong in there after all. After all, being honest with a judge and jury was what got me in here.

Looking back, I should have stuck with that philosophy. It had served me well for three years, and even if no one else believed that I was sane and whole, I could at least believe it of myself. But the one day that I broke my own code was the day when I started to slide down that slippery slope toward insanity.

I was sitting in the day room, playing a game of checkers with Edna, the woman who though she was Joan of Arc, when I first saw him. He stood at the locked entrance, talking to one of the doctors, who pointed me out. The new guy was tall and thin, not bad looking, about 30, with dark, slicked-back hair. He carried a Fedora and wore a tan trench coat over a blue pinstriped suit. He turned and looked at me, and I could see a thin, hawkish face that looked like it had its share of laughter and tears, with an open expression. He had struck me as a cop at first, but the openness of the face told me this guy was something else. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was an eager graduate student, but the clothes didn't fit.

I watched him take long strides across the room past the tables filled with inmates doing jigsaw puzzles, drawing pictures and just staring into the distance. He wasted no time but stuck out his hand for me to shake.

"Dr. Reed?" he asked. His voice was a high baritone, and he sounded like he had used it to entrance more than one woman over the years. "I'm Jacob Astrid, from the Center for Concerned Studies." It was then that I realized that his outstretched hand was not held out for me to shake, but held a business card. I took it and looked at it. It was a simple white card stating exactly what he had said: "Jacob Astrid. Center for Concerned Studies."

I looked at him and smiled thinly. "You guys must be having budget problems. Seems like they could have included a bit more information. So what is your firm concerned with?"

Astrid shrugged. "Actually, we're concerned with everything. It's just a name. We had to call ourselves something." He looked around. "Is there somewhere we can talk?'

I nodded. "Joan, the English are coming! Time to warn the others!" Edna's head snapped upright and she leaped to her feet. She shouted something in French and ran to the other side of the room, shouting to the others until the orderlies came to settle her down. I winked at Astrid and shook his head.

"That wasn't very nice," he said, taking the chair next to mine.

"Ah, Edna gets a rush out of it, and the rest of the room appreciates a little excitement now and then. Now...how can I help you?"

"We've been reviewing the transcripts of your court case, and we've become very interested in what happened. But there seems to be a few discrepancies." As he spoke, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out two folded sheets of paper and opened them to look at them.

"Look, Mr. Astrid...."

"Call me Jacob."

"Jacob, I'm really not interested in going over a story that I presented a dozen times to the police, the psychiatrists and the courtroom. It's all in there."

"Is it?" he asked.

"Yes, it is," I said, sighing. "I've learned that every time I tell my story, the people who hear it quickly join the ranks of those who think I am crazy."

"I don't think you are crazy."

I smiled. "Sure you do. If you don't, then you must not have read the transcripts."

"Dr. Reed, the Center for Concerned Studies believes that you may be innocent. How would you like to walk out of here a free man?"

I hesitated. "That's not going to happen. If I walk out of here, it will be to enter a maximum security penitentiary. No thank you, I prefer to sleep alone."

Astrid leaned forward. "Dr. Reed," he said quietly. "You're a theoretical physicist, right?"

"Relativistic physics," I corrected him. "Close, but not quite the same. My specialty is wormholes."

"Wormholes," Astrid repeated. "Interesting. Dr. Reed, have you ever seen a wormhole?"

I shook my head. This conversation was actually starting to become interesting.

"No one has seen a wormhole. But I have proven their probability mathematically."

"So they probably exist."

"I know they exist," I said. "Statistically speaking, they are just as likely as quasars. It's just a matter of finding one."

"So you believe in the existence of something that you have never seen. Something no one in the world has ever seen."

I shrugged and nodded.

"Dr. Reed, do you believe in life beyond earth?"

I smiled knowingly.

"The likelihood of life being limited to this planet out of vast multitude of universes is statistically improbable," I said. "But what does this have to do with my wife's death?"

Astrid held up a finger. "One more question, Dr. Reed."

I reluctantly nodded. Where was he going with all this?

"Dr. Reed, did you kill your wife?"

I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and I inhaled through my nostrils, deep and long, trying to keep calm.

"No, I did not."

"But the forensics team that studied the crime scene identified the body as that of Elizabeth Reed, your wife of 26 years. Both dental records and fingerprints show that it was her. The police who came to your door found a gun belonging to you. It had been fired once. Your fingerprints were on the gun. The bullet they pulled from your wife's chest came from your gun."

"That's correct," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"How can you then say that you didn't kill that woman?"

"I didn't claim to have not killed that woman. I said I didn't kill my wife."

He hesitated. "So let me make sure I understand this clearly. You did kill that woman, but you didn't kill your wife?"

"That's correct," I said.

Another pause. "So you're saying that woman was not your wife?"

Now it my turn to stop and think. I wanted to say it right the first time.

"The woman that I killed was not the woman that I married. The woman, unfortunately, that died on that floor, was." Even now, saying it as rationally as I could, it sounded insane.

I expected Jacob Astrid to shake his head and throw me in with the rest of the crazies. But he stared at me, as if trying to read my mind, a thin smile faint on his lips. Finally, he spoke:

"I believe you." He continued staring at me as if trying to establish some unspoken bond, as if inviting me into a secret brotherhood of believers. I had my secret reality that I had tried to share with the world. He had accepted it, and now we were brothers. And somehow I knew that he was going to share secrets of his own.

"Dr. Reed, the Center for Concerned Studies has been following an entity for quite a long time. This entity has the ability to take the form of anyone it sees fit to emulate. It has been evading us for some time. But we have reason to believe that what you saw with your wife was actually this entity emulating your wife."

I frowned at him. "Entity? What sort of entity?"

"Dr. Reed, earlier you said that you were willing to believe that in things no one had ever seen, as mathematical probabilities. You said you believed in life forms beyond earth's experience. Is it so hard to believe that one of those life forms could visit us here?"

The scientist in me was laughing hard, having a hard time believing anything this man was placing before me. But the one who had found a brother who believed my story wanted to give him a chance. I waved for him to go on.

"When did you first notice a difference in your wife?"

"We took a trip to Hong Kong about six months before the...you know," I said. "All the way back, my wife was strangely quiet. Then there was gradually more and more erratic behavior. We were never intimate after that vacation. She would disappear at night and refuse to tell me where she had gone. One time she didn't come home from work for three days. I was frantic and had the police looking for her. She returned one Sunday morning and acted as if nothing had happened.

"I thought something was wrong for quite a while. I begged her to go in for psychiatric evaluation. I even had a psychiatrist friend and his wife come over for dinner. He talked to her for a few minutes over dinner, and told me that he thought she might have multiple personality disorder. That's as far as I got with helping her.

"Then, stranger things began to happen. I found her diary. She had written in it in some obscure language. I took to a linguistics expert at the school, and he said that it was an early form of Sanskrit. She doesn't know Sanskrit. She's an interior decorator.

"Finally, pets began disappearing from the neighborhood. After neighbors complained, I began to look around. One day when I was at home alone, I went down to check the basement. As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. I'd recognize that dead smell anywhere. And whatever it was, it was huge and had been dead for quite a while."

My hands were shaking now. I looked up at Jacob Astrid, and saw compassion in his eyes. I really needed a drink of water, but more than anything, I needed to finish my story. I took a deep breath and continued.

"When she got home that night, I confronted her with it. As usual, she didn't even want to talk to me. It was if we were two strangers living in the same house. And this was a stranger I didn't want to live with. She had become cold, indifferent, almost savage. I asked her what had happened to her. She responded by telling me that she was through with me. I told her once again that she needed psychiatric help. She responded by doing something I didn't expect."

I paused, and Astrid urged me on.

"Dr. Reed, what did she do?"

"She turned into me," I whispered. "Right in front of my eyes, she turned into me. She said that she was moving on, that she— _it_ —could travel farther and do more things as a university physics professor than as an interior decorator. And so this thing would continue on as me."

I really needed that drink of water now. I cleared my throat and continued.

"I had been fearing for my life for quite a while. Without her knowing it, I had stored a .38 revolver in my bedside table. Now I knew this thing was definitely not my wife. In fact, I was looking at a creature that mirrored me. So I took my gun and shot it."

Astrid paused. "When did it become your wife again?"

"When I pulled out the gun, it laughed and said that I wouldn't dare shoot my loving wife. And then it took my wife's form. By that time, I knew that it wasn't my wife. It wasn't until she was lying, dead on the floor, blood all over everything, that I realized that she was, indeed, my wife."

Astrid pursed his lips and spoke.

"Dr. Reed, what you saw has been called by many things over the years. Changeling. Mesomorph. We call them simply Demons. They are in spirit form, but like to occupy the bodies of humans to do their dirty work. You did, indeed, kill your wife, but the Demon wouldn't have left her body voluntarily any other way. Chances are, it was planning on taking you over next. The only thing that probably saved you was your resistance to what it represented."

I blinked and listened to his story.

"A few years ago, I would have thought that story preposterous and believed you belonged in here," I said. "Now it makes sense—in a strange sort of way." I sighed and thought of Elizabeth.

"So how does a crazy story like that get me out of this crazy house?" I asked.

Jacob Astrid cleared his throat and stood.

"The Center has significant resources and quite a few important connections in high places. We'll be in touch with you. In the meantime, we ask that you refrain from sharing your story with anyone else."

I nodded. "I learned that a long time ago. I will wait for your call."

He shook my hand and started away from the table. It took me a minute to realize that he wasn't walking toward the door, but toward a storage closet in a quiet part of the room.

"Don't you want to go that direction, Jacob?" I asked.

He smiled broadly. "Like I said, we have significant resources. We'll be in touch."

As I watched, his form folded from side to side into a thin vertical line, then the line collapsed into nothing. And I was once again alone in the day room.

A minute later, I still sat there, wondering if I had imagined the whole conversation, It wasn't later that I realized that I still held a white business card in my hand which read simply:

"Jacob Astrid, Center for Concerned Studies."

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 11. WOLF AMONG SHEEP

"I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves." Matthew 10:16, NIV

The concept of a story about vampires vs. Amish was used as a humorous illustration in one of my writing classes several years ago, and has since grown into a short story. Someday it might make the leap to novel, but I will rely on you to tell me whether it merits such consideration.

The monthly church board meeting started without any undue fanfare, the most unusual thing being the location where they met. Two dozen others sat on wooden chairs arranged facing a small platform, where a tall, thin man in bib overalls stood facing them behind a simple podium. Brother Andrew banged his wooden hammer and called for order from the room full of church leaders. The entire scene was lit by a row of kerosene lanterns.

"Silence please," he said in a soft, commanding voice. "I know that we are not accustomed to having our church board meeting in a barn, but the agenda calls for a bit of accommodation. Let's begin with prayer." The others quieted down and bowed their heads as Brother Andrew's voice took on a fervent, almost sing-song tone.

"Unser Gott," he began. "Thou knowest all, and canst seeth our hearts and minds. Forgive us our trespasses. Lead us in thine way. Deliver us from evil. Amen."

The others echoed his last word, and Brother Andrew opened his eyes, raised his head, and took on a businesslike tone again.

"Now, I know that we have an important agenda to discuss tonight, but we need to observe established process. The first order of business is to review the minutes from last month's meeting. Sister Hannah, will you be so kind as to hand out copies of the minutes to the rest of the board members."

Brother Andrew paused as a young woman, clad in a long dress and bonnet, handed out the single sheet of paper to each member seated before him. After a long period, he cleared his throat and said quietly, "Are there any questions? No? Then I would entertain a motion to accept the minutes as read."

"So moved," came the words from Brother Matthew in the front row.

"Is there a second?"

"Second."

"All in favor, please raise your right hand." Brother Andrew looked out over the board as almost everyone raised their hand. "All opposed? No? Then the motion is carried.

"Now, is there any old business...."

Brother Andrew was interrupted by a young man, barely out of his teens, who stood in the back row.

"Excuse me, Brother Andrew, but it is pretty important that we get on to the issue of discussion tonight. Can we skip over the old business?"

"Brother Michael," Brother Andrew said, a disapproving tone coming into his voice. "There is plenty of time to get to the business at hand. And there is much to be said for propriety and order. The good book says, 'A place for everything and everything in its place.'"

"Actually, that particular phrase comes from Charles Goodrich, a minister much like yourself," said a voice coming from a young woman standing in the shadows at the back. "It's not the Bible, but pretty close. Written about 1827, I believe." The young woman stepped forward and a hush went over the room as they saw her. She was as much out of place here as these homespun churchgoers would have been at a cocktail party. She was dressed head to toe in mottled grey leather, with a utility belt on her hips and knee-high black boots. She held a small black box in her hand in front of her as she addressed the crowd.

"Young woman, you are invited here as a courtesy," Brother Andrew said curtly. "The time to discuss your item of business has not come yet. I would encourage you to hold your tongue until you are called upon."

"My order of business is a matter of life and death," the woman said. "Surely you can put aside other agenda items for tonight."

"Whether this item is life and death is still to be determined by this church board," Brother Andrew said. "But if you do not observe proper decorum I will have you removed from this meeting."

"Pardon me once again, Brother Andrew," Michael said from the back row again. "But Margot is right. We can't wait to deal with this threat. It IS a matter of life and death."

Brother Andrew sighed. He was a man of order, and when order broke down, he felt out of control. He was rarely out of control, but this, apparently, was going to be one of those nights.

"Very well," he said finally. "With the board's indulgence, we will move directly to item number three on the agenda."

Brother Andrew had all rise from their seats and walk back to the rear of the barn, where something very large was covered by a heavy tarpaulin. Michael and the young woman known as Margot untied each end and dropped the tarp, revealing a large recreational vehicle beneath it. A couple of the women in the crowd gasped as they saw the big bus-like RV. It was painted a mottled grey, the same color that Margot was dressed. Brother Andrew had seen similar sports vehicles on the road, and recognized that this one was different. Instead of large windows on the front, back and sides, it had metal bars covering the glass area. The walls looked like they were armored. He noticed also that the tires were made of some kind of thick, highly durable material that looked like it could withstand the impact of a charging bull. All in all, he recognized that this vehicle was not used for vacation purposes. It was meant for battle.

"I realize that having one of the English's vehicles here in our community is unorthodox," Brother Andrew said. "But these people need our help."

"Actually, Margot is the one offering help to us," Matthew said. He turned and watched as Margot climbed into the driver's seat of the RV and started the engine. A puff of smoke came from the exhaust, and one or two men coughed in the group. A few seconds later, she drove the vehicle forward. Brother Andrew watched the predictable look of disapproval wash across the faces of the board members.

The door slammed and Margot reappeared from the driver's compartment. "We parked the wagon here as a precaution," she said. "Both so it wouldn't be seen by prying eyes, and to help keep the vamp contained."

"Excuse me, but did you say _vamp_?" Sister Hannah asked, raising her hand meekly. "What is a vamp?"

Margot and Matthew looked at each other, then nodded. While Margot explained, Matthew went to the corner where a block and tackle was attached to the wall. He began pulling on the ropes and a large heavy metal door began sliding across the floor, revealing a dark pit beneath.

"Matthew was the one who suggested the old threshing pit as a holding cell," Margot said. "The thick concrete walls and the heavy metal door looked like the best place to keep the beast. Of course, being the skeptic that I am, I decided to park the wagon on top of the door as well, just to be safe."

As she spoke, the opening to the pit grew wider and the church board members looked down into darkness. A low growl could be heard from the darkness. Finally, Margot reached into her utility belt and pulled out a glo-stick. She cracked it between her hands, shook it up, then dropped it the 15 feet down into the pit. The church board members peered over the darkness into what looked like the subject of a nightmare.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Margot said. "I give you _vampirus americanus_ , the North American vampire."

Gasps escaped from several mouths as they looked down into the pit. The beast they saw below them was dressed in what looked like a shredded military uniform. That was the only semblance to a human that could be seen. Pallid skin, long nails and vicious teeth made it look more like a beast than a human. It stood on two legs, staring up at the church board members. Suddenly it leaped toward them. It was then that Brother Andrew noticed that a shackle was around one ankle and held it chained to the floor of the threshing pit.

"What...what is it?" Sister Hannah asked.

"It used to be my father," Margot said. "We've been hunting vamps a long time. He was the strategist, I was the techie, and we had a team of military types that were second to none. We were the best. We hunted and killed vamps all over the Western Hemisphere. But now our team is gone. All that's left is old Dad and me. And as you can see..." She gestured down at the raging beast below her. "Dad's had better days."

"Your poor father," an older woman said. "He looks like he needs proper medical care. We need to get him out of there."

"I wouldn't advise it," Margot said. "The lot of you—of us—wouldn't last five minutes with that thing up here."

"Show some proper respect, young woman," the woman said. "He may be sick, but he is still your father."

"You don't understand," Matthew said. "These things aren't human. They aren't even alive."

"Not alive?" Brother Andrew said, scoffing. "What are you talking about?"

Matthew opened up his mouth to explain, but paused as he saw Margot reach into her utility belt and pull out an automatic pistol. Without another word, she aimed at the vampire and fired three shots into its chest. Women shrieked, and even Brother Andrew jumped at the sudden noise of the gunfire.

"Young lady!" he shouted after a pause. "This is blasphemy! How dare you shoot your weapon off in our meeting. In our community! We are a people of peace. We do not believe in violence, in bloodshed, and especially in the call for weapons of any sort under any circumstances!"

Margot eyed him levelly, then gestured down at the still-standing vampire. Three red marks showed where the bullets had entered its chest, but other than that, it showed no indication of damage. Its teeth gleamed yellow in the light of the glo-stick.

"Well, you might want to rethink all of those beliefs," she said bluntly.

"What are you talking about?" Brother Andrew said loudly, still upset by the gunfire. "Your father is safe and confined. What are you so concerned about?"

Margot rolled her eyes and then glanced over at Matthew. She then turned back to Brother Andrew.

"No one has asked how my father got this way," she said.

Brother Andrew stared at her, then down at the vampire.

"There was a firefight," she said finally. "A big one. We had cornered what we thought was the Source, the original vampire for all of North America. We had scoped it out and researched it. We knew that it would be tough, but this was an opportunity to set back vampires here in the States for years to come.

"But he knew we were coming. No matter how much you plan, this one always seemed to be one step ahead. We moved in and everyone got slaughtered. We took down our share of vamps, mind you, but it came down to the Source and Dad. And Dad got bitten."

She looked down at what remained of her father in the pit and paused. "Dad always told me to leave the fighting to the professionals. My job was computers and communications. When things went south, I loaded up my wounded Dad and just drove—as far and as fast as I could. Until I came to your little valley out here in the middle of nowhere. Even now, I doubt I have a gallon of gas left in the wagon."

She turned and looked out the dark that surrounded them.

"But one thing about vampires you learn is this: they have a long memory. You hurt them, they won't rest until they hurt you even more. The Source is out there, and Dad and I hurt him. And it won't be long before he follows us here."

The board members stared at her without speaking, waiting for her to continue. She continued to stare out at the darkness and then finally looked back at them.

"I'm sorry I have brought this here to your peaceful valley. I know you came here to get away from the world. Unfortunately, the world has found you."

Brother Andrew looked at the others, unsure of what to make of this strange turn of events. Finally, he spoke.

"I...I think we will forgo the usual closing song and just dismiss for tonight. There is a lot for us to think about. I will ask that Brother Moses and Brother Nathaniel stay by, as well as our guest and Brother Matthew. We will reconvene tomorrow morning in the chapel."

The group silently left the barn and headed for their homes, most of them unsure how safe their homes would ever be again.

In the meantime, Brother Andrew stood at the edge of the threshing pit, looking down at the nightmarish creature the young woman had called a vampire. He felt, rather than saw, Brother Matthew come and stand next to him.

"It's an abomination," he muttered to himself, loud enough for the others to hear.

"Abomination. Demon. Creature," Matthew said. "Whatever it is, Brother, we dare not let it destroy our homes and our way of life."

Brother Andrew turned and looked at the young man who stood beside him. Somehow he knew that the peaceful community would never be the same again.

(back to Table of Contents)

* * *

### 12. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

_What if World War I never happened? This is the speculative exercise that my friend Edward Cheever and I toyed with last year. The result was a world where the European Union was organized early in the 20_ th _Century, preventing Archduke Ferdinand's assassination and leading to further colonization and imperialism throughout the rest of the world. The United States never really came into its own. The following takes place in the late 1930s in this alternate world, and raises, I think, some interesting questions as to who our friends really are, or would be, considering different circumstances._

In another world, another universe, it might be called something cheerful, like the International Bridge of Peace. The long span arched over the white mist that incessantly billowed from the falls called Niagara. Edgar Winter had never been here before and he was surprised that Niagara Falls was actually a system of waterfalls, with enough water to flood his native state of Iowa within a matter of hours.

In another world, he thought, this could be a romantic place. People—young couples, even, perhaps those wanting to honeymoon—would gather here to make or renew their vows, look into each other's eyes, stare that the thundering mist for a while, then wander off to consummate their love and begin or continue meaningless lives together.

Without meaning to, Edgar Winter began reciting under his breath a poem he had learned years before while in grammar school:

"Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,  
On the shining Big-Sea-Water,  
With his fishing-line of cedar,  
Of the twisted bark of cedar,  
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,  
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,  
In his birch canoe exulting  
All alone went Hiawatha...."

And for a moment, Edgar was lost in those days of long ago; carefree days as a kid in rural Iowa. Long before mandatory military service took him to training in Georgia, then Hawaii, then Alaska, then more training in the swamps of Florida. And then he was snatched up for other duties....

The guards on his left jerked the chains running from his shackles, and he was unceremoniously ripped back into the present.

"Here now," the Brit growled. "You'll keep your trap shut, if you know what's good for you."

Edgar looked up at the big man, then at the other at his right...Sieg, something. _Siegfried? Siegwulf?_ Some Heinie, he suspected from Austria, considering his accent. Then he turned back to the Brit. He smiled slightly.

"It's pretty obvious that I don't know what's good for me, John. Otherwise I would have never visited jolly old London in the first place."

"That's the first smart thing I've heard this Yank say," said the Brit. "But what's got you thinking my name is John?"

"You're all John to me," said Edgar. "John Bull. Even the Heinie looks like John Bull."

The Brit shrugged and cast a look at his silent partner, who nodded slightly. Simultaneously, they jerked on their lead chains. The lines leading from his shackled legs to his arms shortened suddenly, and Edgar was jerked off his feet. His body collapsed as his hands drew down to meet his feet. A spasm of pain ran through his back. He groaned, and the two guards chuckled. Edgar bit his lip and struggled back to his feet.

The three of them stood silently watching the last of the workers from the Royal Canadian hydroelectric dam shuffle across the long bridge beneath the guard towers. The work day was over with. They were going home to their shanties.

Canadian industrialists loved to save money by hiring Americans to do their menial labor, saving the well-paying jobs for the educated Canucks who lived north of the border. The exchange rate was so good that even when they were paid a pittance, what Canadians might even think illegal, the Americans were happy. They had money for food and a little coal to keep their children warm. They were the lucky ones. Millions more struggled with unemployment. Overworked and underpaid, they were still happy.

Edgar watched the line of workers follow the walkway over the natural arch of the bridge and disappear. Behind him was Canada, a part of the mighty British Empire, which in turn was part of even mightier United Europe. Europe, which had the rest of the world trembling, lest they turn eyes of conquest in their direction. Ahead of him, be it ever so humble, was the United States of America. America, which right now stood alone in defiance. The three of them continued to wait.

Finally, the Brit looked up at the guard tower above them and they seemed to get a signal. He nodded to the other guard, and they each pulled out a large iron key. They unlocked the shackles around his ankles and then ran the heavy chains that ran to his ankles through the iron loops on his waist. They then unlocked his metal waist band, then the ones around his wrists.  
Edgar stretched his back, rubbed his wrist and twisted his neck, trying to work the kinks out of his cramping body. He looked at one guard, then the other, and a faint smile broke out onto his lips.

"Go on, then," the Brit. "Get back to your pig sty, where you belong. And stay out of my Empire."

Edgar looked up at the big British guard and winked.

"See ya around, John," he said. He then stepped forward and began walking toward the American border. He dragged one foot behind him slightly, a souvenir from an overzealous interrogator. Halfway across the curve of the arch, he came across three soldiers—two French and one British—walking toward him and Canada.

"Enjoy your stay?" the British soldier asked sarcastically.

"I'd have to say the hospitality was a bit lacking. Food was terrible," Edgar responded. "But your mother was quite entertaining."

The soldier jerked in response, and started to throw himself on Edgar, but the others restrained him. As hard a time as Edgar had had in a British prison, on a boat across the Atlantic, and again in a Canadian prison, he knew that American prisons—he suspected Sing Sing for these three if they were caught in New York City—was no picnic either.

"That's it, boys," said Edgar to the French soldiers. "Show the Brit what common sense is like." Edgar smiled at the three of them. "Of course, when you say 'common sense' in France, you have to hold your hands up like this." He raised his hands up as if surrendering. This time, it was the Brit who held back the French soldiers.

"Take care," Edgar said to the three soldiers, and continued on. His back hurt, his leg throbbed, his wrists were rubbed raw from the shackles. But he was headed back to the United States.

A few minutes later, a man in a brown trench coat stood alone on the bridge, just below the guard tower. Behind him a few feet, two men with Thompson machine guns stood waiting. As he approached he recognized Ben Wainwright. He reached his hand out and shook the hand of the man who had been his partner for 12 years.

"Welcome back, Edgar," Ben said. "Everything OK?"

"Nothing that a nice steak dinner wouldn't fix. And you're buying."

"Sure, but technically the Agency is buying."

They turned to walk the remaining 50 feet to a waiting black Packard sedan, its back door standing open.

"So," Ben said. "Is it the way we thought?" He gestured for Edgar to get into the car.

"Even more so," Edgar said. "As bad as Jews are viewed here, they are definitely second-rate citizens over there. It's amazing they have stayed in business for so long. In fact, my visit to Germany told me that something major could happen any day now. The Europeans have been on top of the world for so long, they are primed to shoot themselves in the foot. And it starts with how they treat their own scientists."

" _Jewish_ scientists," Ben corrected him. "So tell me, did you find him?"

Edgar nodded. "Talked to him the day before I was captured. A little luck and we could have Dr. Einstein in the U.S. by spring."

"Einstein...Leo Szilárd, Edward Teller, Eugene Wigner," Ben nodded to himself. "This thing could really happen."

"And Oppenheimer?"

"He's on board, just waiting on the others," said Ben.

"You know, I kinda feel sorry for those cocky Europeans," says Edgar. "America has always rooted for the underdog. Looks like this dog just might have its day."

"Yeah, unless they wait up in the meantime and sic some dogs of their own our direction."

Edgar shrugged. "Let's hope that they're otherwise distracted. We'll need talent, time and a lot of money for this Project Manhattan to succeed. But it may just turn this thing around."

"Or it could end up in a war," Ben said. "One that would put every war before it to shame."

"A world war?" Edgar said, laughing. "That'll be the day."

* * *

### 13. TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT

_What are the limits of revenge? If you had your enemy in front of you with a loaded gun in your hand, would you use it, even if the world was ending in 20 minutes? That's the question raised in this, my final short story of this collection._

The big sign on the wall which read: "Ten Minutes to Midnight" was more symbolic than real. Across the dance floor, on the opposite wall, hung a giant digital clock. As Adam watched, the clock ticked down in seconds and minutes, right now showing 22 minutes left until it reached zero.

Four flat-screened television sets hugged the wall above the bar, and each was turned to a different news channel, the news anchors sitting with somber faces staring at the television viewers, their lips moving noiselessly. A bottle flew through the air and smashed one of the TV screens, followed quickly by a harsh epithet, and the white-haired bartender moved to shut the other three off.

Adam raised an eyebrow and the bartender shrugged. "Nothing good on anyways," he said. _He looked tired_ , Adam thought.

"So can I ask why you would spend the last few minutes tending bar? Don't you have a family?" He looked at the bartender's nametag, and added his name as an afterthought. "Stan."

The bartender shrugged again. "Kids are grown. When all this came down, wife ran off with her gynecologist." A small smile came on his lips. "Perks, I guess.

"Besides, this is where I belong. I consider myself a spectator for the greatest show of all time."

Adam nodded, his mind on other things. Other people. He flipped his wallet open subconsciously and looked for the umpteenth time at the photo of Lara. If it were up to him, this photo would be the very last thing he saw....

He looked across the dance floor, and smirked. Dance floor. That was a loose definition. Few people were dancing. Some were drunk out of their minds, others had found dark corners in which to copulate, while still others didn't even bother covering up their indiscretions. The room smelled of alcohol and vomit, and in some cases, blood. Adam imagined that the room had been a pretty hot club once upon a time. Now he saw it as a crypt for the walking dead.

He took one more look at the big man who sat at the table on the far side of the room. Adam had watched him for the past hour, drinking hard liquor and pawing girl after working girl. Now he saw the man's head nod forward as if it were too heavy for his neck. _Properly soused for the apocalypse. About time_.

Adam looked at the clock and sighed, then turned back to Stan, pushing his ginger ale away. "What do I owe you?"

Stan grinned. "What? Are you kidding me? Get out of here. Have a great 20 minutes."

Adam nodded. "You too, Stan."

Adam pulled his five and half feet up from the barstool and slowly strode across the room toward the man. A couple kissed as they slow danced in front of him, and Adam pushed through them to the other side. He subconsciously reached behind him into his waistline under the coat and felt the pistol there. He had checked it and rechecked it. Two years of preparation for one second of use. But after following this man for two years, he couldn't afford any mistakes. And there wouldn't be any. There couldn't be.

_Expect the unexpected_ , his trainer had drilled into him. And if in response, the man—his prey—stood up and shrugged off the girls that were draped over him. _Man, he's big_ , Adam thought, then shook himself. In two years of seeking this man, this was the closest he had ever been to him. _Just remember that one ounce of lead, properly placed, can bring the biggest man down._

He stopped in the middle of the dance floor, waiting to see what the big man would do. A woman was crying, kneeling not too far away, praying aloud in what sounded like Spanish or Portuguese, while a man pulled on her in an attempt to get her into a dark corner. Opposite her, two men sat facing each other with a large sharp knife taking turns stabbing their splayed hands on the surface of the table.

Adam noticed none of this. Instead, he focused on the man who pushed himself groggily away from the table and stumbled toward the door marked Restrooms. Adam patiently waited as the man staggered through the dark entrance and disappeared. He waited as his heart beat five times, then followed.

The dark hallway on the other side of the door wasn't much better than the dance floor, but it wasn't any worse either. Adam paused to watch the man he followed enter the men's restroom, a one-holer, shoving a smaller man out of the way as he entered. Adam heard the door close, and then the bolt click shut.

_Should I enter, or wait for him?_ Adam asked himself, then reasoned that there was always the chance that he couldn't get the door opened. Instead, he parked himself opposite the door and pulled out the large silver automatic pistol he carried with him and raised it in front of him.

A couple started to enter the hallway, but hesitated when he saw the light from the dance room gleam off the silver barrel of his gun. He jerked his chin, and they retreated back to the bigger room.

Adam checked his watch. _Less than ten minutes left. At last the sign was correct. Ten minutes to midnight._

He stood, surprised that he wasn't afraid, or even nervous. He held out his left hand and it held steady. _Time to die. Time to make this man pay._

He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later, the door opened. The big man who had entered came out not looking ahead of him, but pulled up short when he saw Adam pointing a 9 mm Glock in his face.

"What? What is this?"

"You know exactly what this is, Mr. Burrows," Adam said, his voice coming out smooth and deep. He had worried that when the moment came, his voice would break. But his worries were unfounded. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"Remember her?" He thrust the wallet with the photo of his teenaged daughter into the face of the man.

Burrows stared at the photo in the darkened hallway. Adam watched his eyes to see if there was any recognition. Either the man was a good actor, or he didn't remember. That infuriated Adam even more.

"Do you remember her?" he repeated.

"Should I?' Burrows finally said. "It's a teenaged girl. Pretty."

"She was, until you raped her and mutilated her with your knife. I saw what you did to my daughter. No one should have to endure what she did. No one should have to endure what I have gone through. Two years! I have been looking for you for two years."

"So now you've found me," Burrows said defiantly, but with a hint of fear in his voice. "What are you going to do?"

In response, Adam struck Burrows across the side of his face with the gun. Burrows' head jerked back, then he turned to look at Adam, the fear more evident in his eyes this time. He raised his hands in surrender.

Adam's hands began to shake slightly as he realized that he had a decision to make.

"I haven't decided what I am going to do," Adam said, his voice wavering. "Turn you over to the police? That's not going to happen? Shoot you? Hmm."

Burrows licked his lips and looked at Adam's face and then at his gun.

"Why shoot me?" he asked. "We'll all be gone in what, five minutes? What's the point of shooting me?"

"I owe it to her, Mr. Burrows. I owe it to my daughter who lost the last two years of her life. I know it will all be over in less than five minutes. But she would want you to pay for what you did."

Burrows blinked, his face registering confusion and his attempt to make up his mind about something. Then his face took on the look of someone on the edge of begging.

"Look, I know we have only a few minutes left," he said. "But I want those few minutes. You've always heard that the only thing a billionaire wants on his death bed is another breath of life, another beat of his heart. That's me. I'm the billionaire."

Adam smirked at that. "Billionaire," he repeated under his breath. "Well, Mr. Billionaire. What's another—" He turned his left hand and looked at his wrist watch. "Two minutes--."

He never finished the sentence. As soon as he took his eyes off Burrows, the big man threw himself across the space at Adam. Adam felt Burrows' left hand shove the pistol up and away from his face, and his right hand clutched at Adam's throat, lifting off the ground and pinning him against the far wall. Adam had the presence of mind to drop his chin, and the right hand scraped across his lower face, his nails carving deep scratches on his chin.

_Expect the unexpected_ , Adam remembered, and then remembered a few tricks he had practiced in anticipation of such an occasion. First, he kicked out with his foot, nailing Burrows in the crotch. Burrows grunted, but didn't loosen his grip on Adam or his gun. Then Adam reached down for the knife he kept strapped along his left calf.

Halfway down his leg, Adam's arm stopped as he was thrown down the hall, landing hard on his right side. Adam felt and then heard the gun clatter on the floor behind him. He turned and reached for the gun, but Burrows was fast for a large man. Burrows' foot came down on the gun and Adam grabbed it. In the meantime, Adams had found his knife and pulled it from its holster. He looked up at Burrows, and swung the knife to slice at Burrows' hamstring, but Burrows saw it coming and kicked the left arm and the knife clattered away.

Adam lay on the floor, unarmed, his right hand crushed beneath the foot of the man who had raped and murdered his daughter. He had spent the last two years searching for this man, preparing for the day when they would meet. And now he could do nothing. He had failed.

"Forgive me, Lara," he whispered, knowing that Burrows would crush him in an instant.

He lay there, surrendered to the inevitable, looking up at his captor, waiting. Burrows looked down at Adam, his face furrowed. Then just as suddenly as he had attacked, he lifted his foot and released Adam. He stepped back and recovered the knife and gun while Adam sat up.

"I'm sorry about your daughter," Burrows said, reaching down and helping Adam to his feet. "If I could, I would take it back. I would take back most of my life, in fact. But that doesn't matter now."

"Why...why didn't you kill me?" Adam asked.

Burrows smirked. "Does it matter? Does anything matter? Let's just say that none of us know for sure where we will be a minute from now. Do you want the last thing you do on earth to be the murder of another person? Regardless of whether they deserve it or not?"

"Yes," Adam said, then thought. "No."

Burrows looked at the small man for a long moment, the shrugged.

"In any case, it's out of our hands," he said. "It's all out of our hands."

Burrows reached out with a massive hand and took Adam's hand in a shake, something Adam felt strange about.

"See you on the other side," Burrows said.

Those were the last words Adam ever heard. _Until_ ....

(back to Table of Contents)

# # #

**I hope you have enjoyed this electronic book. If you would like information on Prevail Publications, or other books by Glen Robinson or my pen name Jackson Paul, visit us at** http://prevailpublications.com **. You can also find me at my** website **or on** Twitter **.**

