 
### HEAVENLY HOBOES

By Bob Brewer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2004 by Bob Brewer

Smashwords Edition, License notes:

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

Your respect and support of this author's property is sincerely appreciated.

The characters, locals and names included in this work are purely fictional and have no known counterparts in the real world. The entire work is simply the invention of the author and is not meant to defame or belittle any office or personal beliefs.

To Margaret, my right hand

Now enjoy meeting Abe and Shorty, the Heavenly Hoboes

### INCEPTION

In due course God summoned His heavenly host.

"It is time for another reminder," said God upon the arrival of Host.

Host opened the Book of Miracles and placed it before God whereupon two names were emblazoned by Scribe: Abraham Lincoln Douglas and Thomas (no initial) McDougal.

"You seem surprised," God observed from Host's expression.

"I am," said Host. "Are they not slated for arrival?"

"They were," God agreed, "until a moment ago."

"Of course." Host accepted the Word without further question. "And of what nature shall the miracle be?"

"Something simple," God replied. "They are, as you know, simple men."

"Lights?" Host suggested.

"Lights," God approved, and Scribe so noted next to the two names.

Host closed the book and placed it back upon its pedestal. "I'll begin the arrangements immediately," he said, and forthwith departed God's presence.

### CHAPTER 1

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: It does make it difficult when you know my every thought, but what I wish to tell you (just for the record) is that I have checked the schedules of Gabriel and Michael and am confident they can handle the everyday routine by themselves for the time being. So, with your permission, I would like to oversee the Douglas/McDougal matter personally. It's been a good long while between assignments. Host.

P.S. The subjects have been located and can be on site shortly.

To: Host. You have my blessings and my utmost support. God, cc etc. etc.

Abraham and Ramon sat cross-legged in the shade of the tractor, their backs resting against the tall, thick tire. The mid-morning sun had brought the temperature into the nineties. That was unusually warm for this time of year even for Phoenix and in the close confines of the grapefruit orchard the heat was stifling; much too hot for Abe's liking. The weather had been pleasantly cool, balmy, and a bit breezy up until today. Then overnight the heat had shown up. Here it was barely lunchtime and every inch of Abe was soaking wet. He took his hat off and tossed it out into the sunshine to dry.

Ramon, an itinerant laborer with the whitest teeth imaginable smiled and handed Abe one of the brown paper bags that contained their lunches. Abe nodded a 'thank you' and set the bag on his lap. "I'll swear, Ramon, I don't know how you do it," he said, opening the bag to check out the lunch. "You're dry as a bone." Two hours earlier, Abe had stripped away his outerwear, but the Mexican still wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt with the cuffs double-buttoned. A little cape of bandanna material draped from under the back of his hat. Ramon continued to unfold the cornhusk off his tamale and flashed Abe another bright smile. Abe had learned that Ramon smiled a lot but didn't sweat much, if any at all.

The rest of the pickers had found their own forms of shade and were busy eating the lunches the field boss provided as part of their pay. The brown bags, brought to the workers everyday in a pickup truck contained nothing special, and mostly of a Mexican flavor, but it was enough to keep a body going. The free lunch and the daily pay made working in the orchards a decent job for a hobo like Abe, and up until today he had rather enjoyed it. But this morning he was ready for the lunch break an hour before it got there. Ramon mimed a drinking motion and pointed to the water can then back to Abe. "Agua," he said flatly.

Abe sucked down a dipper of water from the cooler they shared and took a bite of his burrito. He chewed the bread and bean mixture and gave some thoughtful attention to the long row of trees. "I figure it'll take another week to box 'em all up," he said a few minutes later. "What do you think, Ramon?" He didn't expect an answer because Ramon never answered, he was just being polite. He laid the hot pepper that came with his burritos off to the side of his paper-sack plate. He had made the mistake of taking a bite out of one of the jalapenos the day before. He had spit it out in a hurry but the burning on his lips and tongue was still hanging on at quitting time. He looked back at the trees and continued his thoughts out loud, "I ain't too sure I can make it another whole week if this heat spell lasts." He grimaced at the pepper before taking another bite of burrito.

"Pretty soon is time to move on, eh Senor?" the Mexican said, balling up the last of his tamale into a bite-size.

Abe stopped chewing. A look of astonishment swept over his face. "You speak English?" he said around the mouthful of burrito. They had worked the grapefruit trees side by side for three days now and this was the first time the Mexican had said anything that Abe came close to understanding. His name was Ramon; that's all Abe knew about him.

The Mexican raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then stuck the ball of tamale into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed quickly. "Is better sometimes to be a little stupid." He made the universal loco gesture at his temple. "You going to eat that Jalapeno?"

"Huh-uh," Abe answered, still a bit shaken by the Mexican's ability to communicate in English.

Ramon nodded and opened another tamale. "You follow the crops, Senor?"

Abe got his voice back. "Not as a usual thing, I don't," he answered. "I just happened to come by here at the right time, I guess. I did try picking lettuce over in California once. Never could get the hang of it, though. Kept cutting myself." He held out a hand to show Ramon the scars.

"Yeah, I know, man. You got to learn how to hold the knife." He lowered his gaze to the pepper.

Abe shook his head and handed the pod to him. "You actually going to eat that?"

Ramon grinned. "You know us Mexicans, we thrive on heat." He popped the whole pepper into his mouth, and almost immediately a bunch of little beads of sweat formed on the bridge of his nose. So he did sweat, just not profusely. He swallowed then wiped a sleeve across his forehead. "Where you heading from here, Senor?"

"I don't know," Abe answered, then cocked his head to one side like a brainstorm had just flashed. It passed quickly. "East, I guess. I've got a feeling I ought to head east." Ramon nodded, and Abe began to busy himself rewiring the sole of one of his shoes to its scuffed-up top while he ate. It was quiet time now, time to reflect and let the beans digest a little.

The lunch break was nearly over when Ramon asked Abe if he had a car.

"Not anymore. I did once, but now I usually take the train."

"Ah, first class, eh man?" Ramon gave him an understanding smile. It was apparent by Abe's attire and demeanor that he was not the paying-passenger type. "I'll have to try that someday," Ramon continued. "Take the train. Get some fresh air, you know. Trains are okay, man."

"I can't argue with that," Abe agreed. "They've been good to me so far."

Ramon looked beyond Abe then made a flicking motion with his head. The field boss was walking toward them.

"Guess we ought to get to picking," Abe said, and stood to stretch the cramps out of his long legs. "Been real nice talking with you, Ramon. You should have let me know about the English, though. We could have swapped stories."

"Shhh," the Mexican quieted him, and made the loco sign again. Abe winked at him and the conversation was over, but the thought of traveling east hung in Abe's mind throughout the afternoon. When he and Ramon said their good byes for the day, instead of the usual 'Hasta manana' the Mexican shook his hand and said, "Via con Dios, Senor." Abe wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded familiar in a strange sort of way.

Abe packed his rucksack of belongings early the next morning and struck out under a cloudy sky for the railroad switchyard a couple of miles from the orchard. It appeared the weather was going to change back to cool, but the urge to move on had gotten the better of him sometime during the night.

The train Abe chose to hitch a ride on took a circuitous route that landed him in a Denver switchyard two days later. Not really the direction he wanted to go, but the weather was cooler. Cold, actually. Snow still blanketed the ground and a light drizzling rain froze it in place. When the train stopped, he waited until he thought it was safe then crunched his way to the neon-lit buildings across the jungle of tracks. Food, drink, and a restroom were on his mind.

On a full stomach and carrying two bottles of wine, he crawled back into the empty boxcar under a sky that had grown considerably darker. He bundled up in his blanket, opened one of the bottles and waited for the train to start moving again. He was snoring loudly with half a quart of wine circulating through his system when the banging and lurching of the car roused him.

The train pulled out of Denver a little after midnight, laden with freight and destined for points east. Abraham Douglas, a lifelong hobo by both choice and circumstance, had hitched a ride like this countless other times. But this time was different. It was now storming outside. Not just a spring shower, he didn't mind those, but a torrential downpour; a real gully-washer with blinding fingers of lightning that clawed at his nerves and claps of thunder that rattled his bones. It scared him to the core. The picture of an entire train, engine and all, blown off the tracks and toppled like toy pick-up-sticks stuck in his mind. It was a terrible sight of scattered freight and twisted steel he had personally witnessed a few years back. He had promised himself then to never again head east when it was anything near tornado season. But here he was, breaking that promise and trying to figure out why he didn't run when he had the chance at the switchyard. The answer to that was beyond him. He took another long swallow from his bottle of wine and prayed with his limited knowledge of how God works that he would be spared such a tragic end.

Seemingly in answer to his prayers, the main force of the fury passed over them in a few minutes leaving the train intact, but like them, it too had taken an easterly course. Abe closed his eyes, prayed again that the storm would outrun them, then tried in vain to go back to sleep. Still fretful and a little drunker an hour later, he rummaged through his rucksack and found his rag-eared copy of 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer'. He re-lit the stub of a candle he had stuck to the floor with its own wax and carefully opened the tattered pages he had read a hundred times before.

The train clattered on through the night as it dropped out of the mountains and crossed the vast prairie lands of the Midwest under the tail end of the storm.

The washed-out clouds began to breakup just after dawn and give way to the rising sun. Abe woke with a start and squinted against the thin sliver of light that entered the cracked door of the boxcar. It surprised him that he had fallen asleep, but he could see that the little candle had long since burned itself out. He felt a sudden relief knowing that the storm was over and that the train had sometime during the night made its jog northward. Midvale, a destination he had randomly chosen before leaving the orchards of Arizona, would be the next stop. He figured it was still a few hours away. Without bothering to get up he scooted his rucksack pillow out of the light's path, adjusted it then drifted off again. It was mid-morning before he was rousted the second time.

The train was within a few miles of Midvale when the rhythmic click-clacking of its iron wheels changed to a slower cadence. The subtle change registered quickly in Abe's mind. He pushed himself up from the makeshift pallet and inched the door open a bit. A blurry glimpse of red caught his eye. He laid his weight against the sliding door and opened it a few inches further to get a clearer view of what was happening.

A series of red flags tied to metal stakes were spaced down the tracks for what he guessed to be a quarter of a mile or better. A group of orange-jacketed people, workmen he supposed, gathered at the far end of the flags. They waved as the engine approached them. Abe allowed a glance beyond the grassy field through which the railway had carved its signature and rested his attention on what appeared to be a small settlement; a large central building of brick and ivy, and a handful of outlying cottages scattered among a sparse stand of shade trees. An American flag gently fanned its pole in front of the larger building.

He was thinking about his empty stomach when the squealing of the train's brakes sounded an alarm. The floor of the boxcar slipped an inch or two beneath his feet. He instinctively tightened his grip on the inside door handle, but the sudden jerk had robbed his sense of balance. He was still trying to get his footing when the door flew wide open on its rollers. He yelled and let go of the handle to make a half-running, half-falling scramble towards the front wall of the car. It seemed the streak of good fortune he had enjoyed over the past several days was on its way out. He closed his eyes and dove for the floor.

Six feet shy of what could have been a disastrous collision with the wall, his luck returned. He fell face-first onto the pillow he had made by folding up his jacket and placing it on top of his rucksack of belongings. He barely felt the bump when his head and the rucksack slid into the wall. Seconds later he wrapped up his bedroll, grabbed his hat and belongings and jumped out of the door on the opposite side of the car. He slid down the track's shoulder and hid under a growth of brush to wait and watch for what would happen next. He expected the train to come to a complete stop, but instead it began to pick up speed and was quickly moving too fast for him to re-board.

Abe waited for the last car to roll by before crawling out of his hiding place. He gave the departing train and the workmen a final check then crossed the tracks with the intentions of walking to the settlement and asking for a bite to eat.

### CHAPTER 2

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: Thank you for granting me the unencumbered use of your working staff and for approving my storm request. The timing and intensity fit perfectly. I must say it's exciting to be in the field once again. Perhaps we could do it more often. Host

To: Host. I understand your fervor but first things first. God, cc etc. etc.

Abe was just stepping over the rails when he saw that he had company. The short figure of a man wearing a red baseball cap was walking towards him while dusting off his black and white checkered pants. The little man, a foot and a half shorter than the six-foot Abe, was clownish in appearance with a reddish complexion and a bulbous nose. He was mumbling to himself as he swatted at the clots of mud that stuck to his pants. Abe waved a hello as he drew near. "Missed your train?"

"Oh, it's me legs don't ya see," the little fellow answered in an unmistakable Irish brogue. "They're just not long enough to do what I want 'em to."

Abe gave him a broad smile. "I can see where that might be a problem. Mine are too long sometimes. Hard to find pants that fit." He reached out a hand. "Abraham Douglas. People call me Abe."

"Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Mr. Douglas," the minuscule fellow said while looking up at Abe and taking his offered hand. "Thomas McDougal. Most people call me Shorty."

Abe knew that in their circle of society, anyone of McDougal's stature would without question be called Shorty. That sort of irreverence was simply a part their lives and not usually meant to deride an individual. Like Slim or Red or Tubs, the name-tagging was merely a statement of fact based on one's outward appearance. But Abe did not believe in assigning such names. In his younger days he had taken a lot of flak because he couldn't pick up on things as quickly as the other kids his age. And having a name like Abraham Lincoln certainly hadn't helped. On his sixteenth birthday he walked out of Mrs. Burke's seventh grade class and never went back. So calling the man Shorty wasn't a viable option with him.

Letting his thoughts idle, he gave the little man a pleasant smile. "Nice to meet you, Mr. McDougal." He shifted his rucksack back into his right hand and started to walk away. "Hope you have better luck with the next train," he said over his shoulder. "I might be seeing you later."

"Where ya off to?" the little man asked.

"Up there." Abe pointed to the settlement. "Thought I'd try to get something to eat."

The Irishman raised one of his brushy eyebrows and squirreled up his oversized nose. "Oh, I'm not too certain ya'd want to be goin' up there just now," he warned as he finished brushing off his pant-legs.

Abe stopped, turned, and gave him a quizzical look. "Why not?"

"Well, ya see, I just came from there meself, and the old girl who runs the place is in a bit of a hissy."

Abe nodded that he understood. "She shooed you off, huh?"

"No, not right off, she didn't," Shorty said thoughtfully. "Actually, she was quite nice 'til after we'd had a drink."

"A drink?"

"Oh, it's not what yer thinkin'," the Irishman said quickly. "She wasn't the one I was drinkin' with. It was Laferty, the handyman sort of."

"Ah," Abe mumbled. It was apparent that the little guy was one to stretch a story. Abe lowered his rucksack to the ground and prepared himself to listen. Although he didn't talk much until his blood-alcohol level was beyond measurement, Abe prided himself in being a good listener. McDougal fidgeted a tennis-shoed foot around in a small circle then hitched up his checkerboard pants before continuing. "It's like this, ya see. After eatin', I offered Laferty a drink out of me travelin' bottle. I had no idea at the time that the kids were spyin' on us. Well, one of them tattled and the next thing I knew, Laferty was bein' told to leave and never come back. Oh, she was fit to be tied, she was."

Abe chuckled. "So, she chased you off, too?"

"There's no doubt in me mind that she would've if she'd seen me. But at the time I was in the loo, don't ya see? When all the shoutin' was over, I snuck out and headed here straight away to catch the train."

Abe took his hat off and ran a hand through his unruly hair. "Sounds like lunch'll have to wait." The disappointment was clear.

"Not if ya don't mind peanut-butter and jelly," the little man offered while pushing a hand into his pants-pocket. He brought out a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, flashed a toothy grin at Abe and handed the sandwich to him. "I always try to take one fer the road," he said as an explanation of how he came to have the sandwich. "I'd be offerin' ya a wee drop to go with it, but Laferty took what was remainin' in me bottle with him."

Abe thanked him for the kindness and picked up his sack of belongings. Together they walked to the edge of the shoulder. They spread their jackets on the grass and sat down. Abe riffled through his rucksack and pulled out his unopened bottle of California wine. He twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to the Irishman.

"Don't mind if I do." The little man's eyes twinkled with delight. "Just a bit to settle me nerves." He took a quick draw from the bottle and looked his new acquaintance over. Abe's hands were thick and rawboned and so dirty that he ate the sandwich off the back of one of them. His face was thin featured, high-cheeked and skinned with the leathery look of years in the sun. He hadn't bothered to shave in a week or two. It was a friendly face, though, with honesty written in the eyes. McDougal put a lot of stock in the way a man's eyes looked to him. He took another swig of the wine and handed the bottle back to Abe. "So what is it that brings ya here?" he asked.

Abe swallowed the last of the sandwich and had a small drink himself before replying. "That's hard to answer, Mr. McDougal. I really don't know." He was being perfectly honest. He hadn't planned to come east, it just sort of slipped into his schedule somehow. He couldn't explain it. Actually, even with the intense heat, he had hoped to work in the orchard for a while longer to build up his bankroll. But for some strange reason that wasn't to be. "I guess I'm just a born wanderer," he continued his thoughts aloud. "Been pretty much all over the states in the last twenty years. How about you? You from around here?"

"Not by a long shot," the little man said with a shake of his head. "No. I was raised in an orphanage like the one up there." He pointed towards what Abe had thought was a settlement. "Only it was in Ireland," Shorty went on. "I stowed meself away on a freighter when I was fifteen and woke up a month later in a hospital in New York City. I fergot to bring any food with me, ya see. That's when I started me policy of takin' somethin' fer the road."

Abe laughed. He wasn't sure if the man was telling him a story or being truthful, but either way he felt a growing liking for the little fellow. "So, you've been traveling ever since?" he asked.

"Off and on all me life. Ya see, I've never been one to settle down. Like yerself, it's in me bones I suppose. And I could never hold down a proper job because of me status of not bein' a citizen and all."

"Oh." Abe nodded. "Well, I won't tell on you. Where you off to from here?"

The Irishman leaned back on his elbows. A puzzled look flashed across his face. "To tell ya the truth, Mr. Douglas, I ain't so sure why I'm here in the first place. I'd intended to spend me summer up on the Columbia in Washington. It's cool up there, ya see. How I managed to get this far off track, I'll never know."

The two chatted for a couple of hours learning about each other's travels and travails, and between them they finished off the small supply of wine from Abe's bottle. It was growing late into the afternoon when the muted blast of a diesel engine announced the coming of another northbound train.

"Well, Mr. McDougal, it looks like we'll be traveling together for a while." Abe pointed to where they had met. "You left your packings over there." They put their jackets on, and Shorty shuffled over to pick up his kit and bedroll. Together they crossed the tracks and crawled under the brush to wait for the engine to pass and slow for the warning flags. Down the tracks, the workmen were still busy.

"The rain washed out part of the track beddin' last night," McDougal explained over the heavy screeching sounds of the braking train. "Laferty spotted it on his way into town and called it in. A good thing he did, too. I was on the first train through this mornin', dear Saints protect us. There's no tellin' what might've happened if it'd gone barrelin' past."

As the train slowed to a manageable speed, Abe and his new traveling companion scurried out of the brush and tossed their gear aboard a flatcar loaded with huge concrete pipes. In a deft move, Abe reached up and grabbed a ladder riser. He threw his left leg up as if mounting a horse and planted his foot firmly on the lower rung. A second later he was onboard looking back to see if the little man had followed him.

McDougal had a different way of boarding that, in all his years of riding the rails, Abe had never witnessed. Because of his dwarf-sized legs he couldn't swing them up like the taller Abe had done. He had to make up for the inability by running as fast as he could then jumping up as high as he could and hoping that the ladder was still there. Abe could see why he had missed the last train. It was a tricky move; not much room for error in judgment. This time however, the Irishman was in luck. Abe reached out and caught the little fellow's jacket sleeve as he made his jump, then pulled him onboard.

"May the Lord bless ya," McDougal panted as he flopped down on the oak flooring of the car. Abe shrugged off the remark and began picking up their belongings and stuffing them inside one of the big pipes. He motioned for McDougal to follow then pushed the sundry gear ahead of himself as he crawled through the tube to a point where a gap was left between the sections of pipe.

The red flags and repairmen were a half-mile behind them when Shorty pulled himself into a sitting position next to Abe. "I thought I'd never hear meself sayin' it, Mr. Douglas. But I'm thinkin' I'm getting' too old fer this anymore."

Abe gave him a good hard look. "Why, I don't think you're a day over forty, are you?"

"Close enough," McDougal puffed. "I'll be thirty-eight me next birthday."

"You don't have me beat by much," Abe said. "I'm thirty-five."

"Are ya, now," Shorty said noncommittally as he returned Abe's stare. The hard life had given Abe the appearance of being much older. "You'd have made a fine doctor, Mr. Douglas. You've got a lot of warmth and honesty in yer eyes, ya see."

The observation was somewhat embarrassing to Abe. He lowered his gaze. "You've got to be awful smart to be a doctor, Mr. McDougal. I thought about becoming a veterinarian once though, when I was a kid. That's close to being a doctor isn't it?" It was more a statement than a question.

McDougal started to reply but quickly put a hand up to cover his mouth and sneezed loudly.

"Bless you," Abe said as a reflex, and automatically checked to see if he had been splattered.

"It's me nose," Shorty apologized for having sneezed in such close proximity. "Some things I'm allergic to." He pulled a handkerchief from a jacket pocket, buried his large nose in it and gave a strong, reverberating blow.

Abe scooted back a bit and stuck his head out through the gap in the pipe sections. The train was just passing a long string of poultry sheds that started near the tracks and stretched several hundred yards into the grassland. "There's the biggest chicken ranch I ever saw out there, Mr. McDougal," he called back over his shoulder.

The little man blew his nose again. "I might've known what it was," he said through a sniffle.

Abe turned his head and shifted back inside the pipe. "You allergic to chickens?"

"Love 'em dearly." Shorty wheezed and shook his head. "It's not the chickens that'd be affectin' me, it's the feedin' machines. Me nose is sensitive to the dust, don't ya see?"

Abe sniffed the air. "Yeah, I can smell it, I think." He scooted backwards. "Here, stick your head outside. Maybe it won't be so overpowering out there." The Irishman gladly obliged by poking his head through the gap. He took a couple of long, deep breaths then sneezed three or four times in a row.

"Oh, me everlovin' mother," he gasped just before the sneezing started again. This time it didn't appear that it was going to stop.

Abe began to worry that the little fellow was going to pass out or, worse yet, die. He dragged him back inside the pipe and began blowing in his face. Fighting off another sneeze, Shorty pushed him aside and raced on his knees to the front end of the pipe where he collapsed. "Oh, God, don't let him die," Abe prayed aloud, then crawled to the downed man to see if the prayer had been answered. Shorty's nose was flat on the floor but the back of his jacket was rising up and down which meant to Abe that at least he was still breathing. "Thank you," Abe whispered, then took a quick look around. The train was slowing again, and the chicken sheds were nearly out of sight. He reached over and shook McDougal's shoulder. The little man moaned something Abe couldn't catch so he shook him a second time. "You're not dead, Mr. McDougal, if that's what you're thinking," he shouted.

"I'm not?" Shorty replied like it came as a surprise to him.

"No," Abe assured him.

McDougal raised his head slowly and turned his face upward to make certain. When he saw it was Abe looking back at him, he put the handkerchief, which he had held onto through the entire ordeal, up to his nose and gave it a final clearing of his sinuses. "I was thinkin' I was a goner fer sure that time," he confessed.

"You had me convinced. You think you're okay now?" When Shorty nodded, Abe went on, "Looks like the train's going to stop soon."

McDougal sat up, and along with Abe, checked out the scenery on both sides of the flatcar. By the look of it they were coming into a town. Houses had sprung up where a short time before there had been only grasslands and farms and chicken ranches. A highway now ran parallel to the tracks, and a huge billboard on the side of it proclaimed they were entering Midvale, the chicken processing capital of the world, R.C. (Junior) Williams, Mayor. Under that, in print nearly as bold, were listed the names of nine local churches.

A slight sideways jerking of the flatcar told them that the train was veering off onto a spur. Abe bent down and entered the pipe to gather their belongings while Shorty tightened the laces on his black tennis shoes--a ritual with him in preparation for the de-boarding. He didn't want them to fall off when his feet hit the gravel like they did once in Missoula during the winter.

When it became obvious that the train was about to come to a complete stop, Mr. McDougal took his flying leap off the bottom rung of the ladder. His tennis shoes barely touched the loose gravel then continued on, hauling his legs out in front of the rest of his body. The seat of his checkered pants thumped against the gravel and dribbled him to a stop three-quarters of the way down the track's shoulder.

Abe was still laughing at the peculiar dismount when his own feet gave way to the slippery rocks. His long legs splayed awkwardly and he bounced down the shoulder in much the same way as Shorty had. The Irishman guffawed. "Let that be a lesson fer ya," the little man teased, then rolled over and laughed some more.

Abe got to his feet and walked over to give McDougal a hand up. "You're right, I shouldn't have laughed at you." He gave the little man a hand and pulled him to his feet. "But it was funny. Is that the way you always get off a train?"

McDougal shrugged his shoulders. "It's me legs, don't ya see...?"

"I know, I know," Abe answered, then changed the subject. "You hungry?"

"That I am," the Irishman said with a quick bobbing nod.

Abe shook his head and chuckled. "It was funny, you know," he said as a final remark.

The Irishman's eyes twinkled impishly, but he didn't say anything. Instead he started over to pick up his kit of belongings. Abe followed suit and together they crossed over the low, dirt berm of the highway. The main part of town was still a half-mile away.

### CHAPTER 3

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: In as much as I have not heard to the contrary, I am taking it for granted that the relocation of Laferty, the handyman, met with your approval. Moving the chicken ranches nearer the railway was a nice touch and gave me the opportunity to determine the degree of sympathy we can expect from Abraham. In the future, however, I would appreciate your asking Gabriel to butt out. Host

To: Host. I have spoken to Gabriel. God, cc etc. etc.

Midvale was founded in 1869 as a stage-line stop according to the historical marker that Abe was reading at the entrance arch of the town park. He read on. The town was so named because it was located about halfway between the larger city of Windsor and the state-line (each being twenty-five miles equidistant from the exact spot where Abe and Shorty now stood). Abe was obviously intent on reading the entire plaque with the picture of a stagecoach emblazoned across the top of it.

"That's all interestin' enough, Mr. Douglas," McDougal interrupted Abe's concentration after he had read only half the lengthy history. "But I'm thinkin' we ought to be moseyin' on into town and findin' us a place to eat." Abe wrapped up his reading then glanced skyward and judged the time to be six o'clock or a bit later. Dinnertime. He bowed, and with an exaggerated flourish said, "Lead on, Mr. McDougal."

The little man returned Abe's gesture with a mock curtsey and took on the job of finding them an eatery of some sort. Abe ambled along behind him taking in the sights as the residential streets slowly melded into the business district; a relic of the past with redbrick buildings and glass-front, green-awninged stores. Everything had the look of being weathered, windblown and neglected for a very long time.

The town had two main streets running east and west and block apart, both crossing the railroad tracks and both intersecting the two-lane highway the men had taken into town. Shorty stopped at the first street and looked down it in both directions. A variety of stores, shops and other business establishments, all of which were closed for the day, lined the treeless drive. Shrugging it off, McDougal crossed to the north side of the tracks and led Abe to the second main street that was aptly named 'Main Street'. As they reached the intersection, the little man let out a sigh of relief. "I was beginnin' to think the whole town had gone to sleep." He pointed to a red and white sign a half-block away on the opposite side of the street. It stated that Carson's Old Tyme Tavern and Chili House was open for business.

"Sounds good to me," Abe said, taking the lead.

The little man had to quickstep to try to keep up with the hungry, long-legged Abe. The panting Irishman was a full three car-lengths behind by the time Abe reached the place where he decided to cross the street. Abe checked the traffic. There was only one moving vehicle and it was far enough away that he had plenty of time to cross in front of it.

Shorty, on the other hand, because he was so far behind, didn't have that much time but it was evident he was not aware of it. When he reached the crossing point he stepped off the curb and started to shuffle on across.

"Stop!" Abe yelled at the top of his voice.

McDougal, who had been concentrating on where his feet were going, looked up and saw the car just in time to stop his forward movement before the machine ran him down.

Abe threw his hands up to cover his face and waited to hear the thud of the impact. When the sound didn't happen quickly, he spread his fingers and peeked through the slits. He saw an aging, yellow station wagon puttering down the street as if nothing had happened and the panicked Shorty running full out towards him. Abe let the rucksack slide off his shoulder. When Shorty reached him, he grabbed the Irishman's upper arms in a death hold. "You're a lucky man, Thomas McDougal!" he shouted as he pulled the trembling little man to him and gave him a tight, quick hug.

"Ya saved me wretched life there, Mr. Douglas," McDougal breathed out tearfully when Abe let go of the bear hug. "I'll not be fergettin' that, ya know?" Water welled up in both their eyes as they sat down on the curb to calm down a bit. "I'll ferever be in yer debt," Shorty stated as they tried to regroup their nerves in the nearing darkness.

A few minutes of solitude passed before the phosphorescent glow of neon beer lights began to lay claim to the black windows and dusty sidewalk in front of Carson's Tavern. An under-wattage street lamp sizzled on above them. In the dim light it cast, they saw the form of a rather large, longhaired dog plodding across the street toward them. "Get yer flea-bitten body out of the street, ya mangy mutt!" Shorty yelled. The unsuspecting dog stopped dead in its tracks in the middle of the street.

Abe elbowed the little man. "You didn't have to scream at him," he scolded, then blew a whistling sound and held out a hand. "Come here, boy."

The dog, which was now showing the intent to run the other way, broke into a body-wagging acceptance of the call and took a cautious step forward.

"Come on, fella," Abe coaxed. "We're not going to hurt you. Come on."

With that encouragement the dog lowered its body somewhat and approached Abe's hand. He sniffed it then rolled his droopy eyes up to look directly into Abe's. "Sorry, old fella but I don't have anything for you," Abe apologized. "But if you'll wait right here, I'll get you something."

The dog shifted his gaze to McDougal who was still seated next to Abe. Although the dog was mostly long red hair and very little meat, he stood half the height of the little man. Shorty scooted back then shot to his feet and shook a finger at him. "Don't ya be lookin' at me with them hungry eyes!" he warned. To show their was a mutual understanding here, the dog let out a short, soft 'woof' then returned his attention to the man who didn't seem to want to harm him.

Abe repeated his promise about getting the dog some food as he and McDougal entered the door of Carson's establishment. The door had been partially blocked open by a bucket of sand, but it was still nearly as dark inside as it had been on the street. Dark and not too busy. The tinny sound of an ancient country song drifted out of the jukebox and the yeasty smell of beer mixed with hot peppers wafted through the place. To Abe and Shorty it was like walking through the gates of heaven.

"Two of the largest lagers ya've got," Shorty ordered when the barkeeper cut short his conversation with the only other customer in the place and asked what he could do for them.

The barman leaned his elbows on the counter and gazed hard at the two lowly looking newcomers. "You got money?" he asked gruffly like he didn't believe they did.

McDougal stuck a hand inside the neck of his plaid shirt. He fished around for a second then pulled out a brown snap-purse that he had tied to a string and safety-pinned to the underside of his collar. He opened it, found a twenty-dollar bill and waved it in front of the bartender.

"Two drafts coming up," the barman said with a changed attitude.

"And two raw hamburger patties," Abe added.

"Raw?" the barman double-checked to make sure he had heard right.

Abe nodded a yes.

The man shook his head. "Thought I'd heard everything." He mumbled the words as he turned to fill the odd request. He was still shaking his head when he set the two paper plates of red meat on the counter, one in front of Abe, the other in front of McDougal.

Abe picked up both plates and emptied one on top of the other. "For my dog," he clarified, and started to take them outside.

"Your dog?" the barman said, and began to laugh.

"Had you going there, didn't he, Bill?" the other customer butted in on the joke, and began to breakup with laughter as well.

Abe and Shorty snickered and the place began to liven up.

The old dog had sat down in the doorway with his graying nose stuck inside. When he saw Abe coming toward him with something in his hand, he stood and started his body-wiggle again.

"Here you go, boy." Before Abe could set the plate down, the dog snapped up both patties and swallowed them whole. "Gees!" Abe screeched, and jumped back. The old dog quivered then sat on his haunches and 'woofed' lightly. "Could I have two more?" Abe called to Bill who was still chuckling about mistaking the first order.

Bill contained himself enough to say, "Sure."

The starving old dog was more civil during the second course. This time he waited for Abe to set the plate on the floor and slide it over to him with a foot before gulping it down. "That's it, fella. There's no more," Abe said when the dog looked back up at him and cocked his head. "That's all you're going to get. It's my turn now."

Shorty was downing his second glass of beer when Abe rejoined him at the counter and took a long draw from his own mug. "Here's to a long and lasting friendship, Mr. McDougal."

The Irishman touched his glass to Abe's. "And here's to the bottle without a bottom." With a twinkling in his eyes he finished off the last half in his glass.

"Give 'em another round on me, Bill," the man at the far end of the counter said.

"No, no, no," Bill said, raising a hand and shaking his head. "It's on the house. It's been a long time since I had a laugh like that." He slapped himself on the thigh. "For my dog!" he repeated, and started chuckling again. He drew two more glasses and set them in front of Abe and Thomas. "How about a bowl of the finest chili this side of Juarez?"

Abe took his hat off and set it on the stool next to him. "I'm ready," he said heartily.

"And plenty of crackers and butter, if ya don't mind," added McDougal.

CHAPTER 4

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: While it may not appear to certain parties that I have a handle on things down here, you can assure him that I do. I'll allow that using a tavern for our purposes may seem counter-productive, given our subjects' proclivity to over indulge, but Gabe has to realize that I am also dealing with the free will clause. By the way, bringing in the dog was a stroke of genius. High five on that one. Host

To: Host. Hmmm. God, cc etc etc.

Bill punched in a few more numbers on the jukebox while the two men wolfed down their dinner and the other customer racked up the balls on the billiard table. In the midst of the twangy strums of country music and the ceramic clicking of pool balls, another customer sidestepped the old dog and joined the small party. He was a young man, twenty-two or three. He wore pleated-front slacks and a short-sleeved shirt with the top three buttons undone to display his array of gold neck-chains. His head was in a constant little nod as he sauntered past the counter. In one hand he carried a long, thin, zippered case. He headed straight for the billiard table where he snapped a quarter on its mahogany railing. "Ten bucks says I can beat you," he said testily to the man who still had four balls on the table.

"Make it five, and we play eight ball," the man answered.

"You've got it," the young man said. With a thin smirk on his lips he stepped over to the counter, opened the case and took out the two parts of a pearl-inlayed cue stick. He sat on a stool and screwed the two sections together while the man re-racked the balls. Bill, the bartender, didn't bother to ask if he wanted a drink.

McDougal leaned over the bar and whispered to Bill, "The lad's got a lot to learn about hustlin' a table."

"I don't know," Bill answered. "He'd better be awfully good. I've seen Hank play many a game and he wins 'em mostly."

Abe was listening in. "What do you know about hustling?" he asked McDougal, but the little man shrugged the question off and swiveled around to watch the action. Hank won the lag and lined up to break the triangle of balls. He shot and a scattered array of color blitzed across the green felt top. Two balls rolled haphazardly into pockets at the same instant, the fifteen and the two ball, one large number, one small. Hank's choice.

The cocky kid glared at Hank. "Which will it be?" Hank looked over the table. "Small," he said, and proceeded to shoot the next two balls in. His third effort missed, and the kid took over.

"Left me pretty good," the kid said in his thin-lipped manner as he walked around the entire table once. He chose his first target and bent over the expensive cue stick. That ball and the next four balls dropped effortlessly, but his fifth ball tapped the cushion just before the pocket and careened back into the middle of the table. The cue ball spun into a pocket and Abe laughed. The punky young fellow turned and gave him an icy stare for a second then turned back to Hank. "Your shot," he said just as icily as was his stare.

Hank didn't have a good open shot anywhere on the table. He tried a two-cushion bank and missed.

"Tough luck," the kid said, then cleaned the table of his balls and sank the eight into the pocket he called. "Five bucks," he snarled, and Hank paid him. "Want another one?"

Hank shook his head and stuck his cue stick back into the rack on the wall.

The brash young fellow strolled over to Abe. "Thought that was funny, huh? Why don't you show me how it's done, old timer."

"No," Abe passed the challenge. "You're way too good for me."

The kid looked over at Thomas with a silly little smile on his face. "How about you, Shorty? You feel lucky?"

McDougal smiled back at him. "Oh, luck has nothin' to do with it, me boy." His voice was slurred which prompted Bill and Abe to exchange puzzled looks. "It's all in the mind, don't ya see?"

The kid grunted a sound of disgust. "Big talk for a little drunk. You want to shoot me or not?"

Bill held up a finger. "Give us a minute, here." The kid gave them all an egotistical smirk and sauntered back to the table.

"You're hustling him, ain't you?" Bill said quietly, to which McDougal gave a little nod and a wink to Abe. "Just how good are you?" Bill continued.

"He deserves to be knocked down a few pegs," Abe said. "It'd do him a world of good in the long run. Do you think you can do it?"

Bill jumped back in. "Well, what do you say, Shorty, can you whip him?"

"Not fer five dollars," McDougal said, and winked at both of them.

Bill reached into his pocket. "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I can't stand a smart aleck." He handed McDougal a twenty-dollar bill. "Here, take this. If you beat him, we'll go fifty-fifty."

The Irishman palmed the bill, adjusted his cap so the visor part was in the back and jumped down from the stool. He staggered a bit on his way to the billiard table where the kid was waiting. Very methodically he removed his jacket, folded it nicely then let it fall to the floor. In his slurred voice he said, "I prefer nine-ball meself. A faster game, don't ya see?" He dropped two quarters in the slide-slot, pushed it in and listened for the balls to fall into the rack under the table.

"Where's your money?" the kid ordered more than asked.

"Well, let's see. Five dollars a game ya say?"

"No. I said ten."

"Oh, did ya now? Well, that's different." McDougal turned and selected a stick from the wall rack. In a quick sequence that took only seconds, he held it out to peer down its length to see if it was straight, butted its handle on the floor to see if the counterweight was loose, and checked its leather tip. Satisfied that it was a decent stick, he looked back at the kid. "Why don't we make it an even twenty?"

The kid smiled and gave him a quick nod. While Shorty was racking up the balls, Abe and Bill moved down next to Hank to watch the game from a front row seat. Bill brought both of them another glass of beer and had one for himself. He set an extra glassful on the counter for Shorty and motioned to him that it was there. "I'll be right with ya," the Irishman said to Bill, then turned to the kid. "Seein' as how it's yer game and since me lager's waitin' fer me, I'm thinkin' yer the one who ought to be breakin' 'em up." He started to walk away but stopped abruptly. "Oh, by the way, what do ya say we let the keeper of the inn hold on to the wagers?"

"Fine," the kid agreed, and the game was on.

In a matter of two or three minutes at most the game was over. The kid had broken up the diamond shape, made the three on the break and shot five of the eight remaining balls in before missing. McDougal stepped up to the table and shot his first ball, the seven. The seven-ball screamed down the length of the table, missed the corner pocket and came screaming back up the table where it glanced off the eight, hit the cushion and spun hopelessly out into the middle of the table. It would have been a disastrous shot had it not been for the lucky hit on the eight, which rolled back down the table and barely nudged the nine-ball into a side pocket. "Would ya look at that?" the Irishman blurted out when it happened.

A look of utter disbelief crossed the kid's face. There was no way the combination of hits could have occurred. In one wild, lucky shot, he had lost the game. "Double or nothing," was his only comment.

The Irishman took off his cap and scratched his sandy hair. "Oh, it'd pain me somethin' awful to be takin' any more of yer money. Let's see that'd be forty dollars wouldn't it?"

"Yeah. Forty bucks, if you win. You in or out?"

"I wouldn't want to be hurtin' yer feelin's, so I suppose it'd only be fair to be givin' ya a chance to come out even, wouldn't it?" He wobbled over to the counter and downed the rest of his beer, then winked again at his audience.

The punk kid had racked up the balls and was showing his loss of patience. "You going to think about it all night, Shorty?" he hissed.

Thomas made it back over to the table without falling down. "Out of me way, lad," he commanded with the thick tongue of someone much drunker that he actually was. He set the cue ball on the table, moved it to three different locations, steadied his stick, then gave such a tremendous hit to the cue ball that it caused his feet to rise up off the floor. The neatly formed diamond burst so rapidly that the eye could not follow the various paths of the playing balls. As if by some miracle, the winning nine-ball emerged all on its own and rolled in slow motion towards the unobstructed pocket at the far end of the table from where Shorty had just landed.

"No, no, no!" the kid was yelling and slamming the butt end of his precious cue stick against the floor.

When the ball did finally drop out of sight, McDougal threw his baseball cap onto the table and did a little circular jig. "Forty dollars! Forty dollars!" he sang out. "Can ya believe it?"

Bill slapped Abe on the shoulder, and in a loud voice said he for one couldn't believe it. "The luck of the Irish. Boy you've got it tonight, Shorty."

"His name is McDougal," Abe spoke up on Shorty's behalf. "Mr. McDougal."

Hank caught on to the game Bill was playing with the kid's mind. "That makes you the big winner, Mr. McDougal. I think he's had enough." He teased the awestruck punk and held his hand out. "You owe the pot forty dollars, loser."

The young man pulled a roll of money from his pocket and peeled off two twenty-dollar bills. "It ain't going to end like this," he swore as he roughly slammed the money into Hank's hand. He counted out the balance of the roll, five more twenties, and threw them onto the table. "One more game," he said. "You'll be a hundred and sixty ahead or twenty behind. You got any guts, shrimp?"

Abe rose off his stool and started over to get in the middle if something drastic happened, but Shorty waved him back. "Me name's McDougal, lad. Mr. McDougal to you. Now, if it's another game you'd be lookin' fer, I'll oblige ya, but there's somethin' ya need to know. Yer probably lookin' at the best billiards player you've ever had the displeasure of runnin' into. Knowin' that, would ya still be wantin' to wager such a large amount?"

The arrogant look of self-importance flashed in the kid's eyes. "You're chicken, ain't you?" he said, pointing to the table. "That's probably more money than you've ever had at one time. You going to let it sit there? All you have to do is beat me one more game. I don't think you've got it in you, have you, shrimp?"

Shorty picked his cap up off the table to make room for the balls. "Hand yer money to the barkeep then rack 'em me boy, and make it tight," he said in a very sober voice.

Abe motioned for Bill to fill the glasses again, then with an apology, bummed a cigarette from Hank. "Don't smoke as a rule," he explained. Hank obliged and passed him a box of stick matches and told him to keep them.

Just as McDougal lined up to start the final game, Bill returned with the glasses of beer. "Sure hope his luck holds out," he said.

Hank leaned his head to one side and muted his voice. "Is he really a pro?"

Abe shook his head. "I couldn't say. I just met him this morning. But seeing him in action the way I have today, if I was a betting man, I don't think I'd put my money on him."

Bill let out a deep breath. "Oh, well, it's been a good show anyhow. Worth the twenty bucks just to see the frustration on the kid's face."

A new record settled down on the jukebox turntable, and to the words of 'Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys', Mr. McDougal fired the cue ball down the table. By the time Willie got to the part about 'Smokey old pool rooms', the game was over.

The way in which the little man surgically worked the table was an absolute marvel. With each deliberate stroke of his stick, a ball would drop and the cue ball would twist and turn its way to line up perfectly with the next ball in sequence. McDougal never bothered to look up. He would stroke the cue then without waiting to see the reaction he would position his body for the following shot. Without fail, the cue ball would wind up directly in front of him. When it came time to sink the nine, he shot it hard. The ball zigzagged across the table, hit the rail cushions four times and dropped out of sight in the pocket not six inches from where it began its tour. Only then did McDougal raise his brushy eyebrows to catch the expression on his would-be adversary's face.

Without a word, the young show-off let his cue stick fall to the floor. He started to pick it up, then changed his mind and ran for the door leaving his beautiful stick and its zippered case behind. The old dog 'woofed' rather loudly when the punk exited the bar.

Abe headed for the doorway to check on the dog while Hank and Bill came over to congratulate and admire Mr. McDougal.

"Boy, I've seen some shooters in my time," Bill said with a whistle to punctuate his remark. "But you're the doggondest player I've ever watched." He threw an arm around the short man and patted him hard on the back.

Hank reached out and grabbed Thomas's hand. "I'm sure glad I didn't try to hustle you," he said mixed with a chuckling laugh.

"Well." Shorty brushed the compliments aside with a shrugg. "I'm thinkin' this calls fer a wee celebration. Right after we divvy up the loot, that is."

"Bring the dog on in," Bill called to Abe. "It's party time."

Abe opened the door and patted his pants-leg to let the old dog know it was all right to enter then he rushed back to the counter. "Where'd you ever learn to play like that?" he asked Shorty in total astonishment.

"Oh, it's a throwback from me younger days," McDougal answered, giving his shirt collar where he kept his purse a couple of taps. "Comes in handy at times, don't ya see?"

Abe smiled. "Now, I can understand how you've managed all these years without a proper job as you called it." He patted Shorty's back then turned to Bill. " Where's the drinks?"

"Coming right up," said Bill. He handed the Irishman a handful of money. "I took out my twenty, you take the rest of it. You earned every penny."

"Oh, I couldn't be doin' that," Shorty replied. "As I recall, the deal was fifty-fifty of the winnin's. If I'm figgurin' correctly, that'd be seventy fer you and seventy fer me. I couldn't have done it without yer backin'."

"Okay," Bill agreed. "But you keep the cue stick he left."

"He could change his mind and come back for it," said Abe.

Bill chuckled. "I kind of doubt he'll ever show his face in here again."

"Mr. Douglas has a point," McDougal said. "There's a slim possibility. Maybe you ought to be keepin' it fer a day or two just in case."

The deal was settled at that. Bill poured them all another tall glass of draft, and they each toasted their good fortune and the come-uppance of the smart-mouthed hoodlum who tried to ruin their evening.

Within the hour they were all singing hit tunes of the fifties. Bill, at Abe's request, had found a bowl in which he poured a substantial amount of beer for the old dog. Reluctant at first, as the evening wore on and his thirst overtook him, the old boy began lapping it up. He was on his third bowl when Bill sorrowfully announced that it was one a.m.; time to close shop before the law did it for him.

Abe bought a bottle of port wine that Bill didn't charge him for, and they all said their good-byes, except for Hank. He had passed out an hour earlier and was sleeping it off atop the pool table. Bill locked up behind them as Abe, Shorty, and the old red dog staggered out into the night air to find a bed of some description.

"I think, Mr. McDougal, that we ought to go this way," Abe slurred, and pointed in the general direction of the railroad tracks.

McDougal took hold of Abe's arm. "Yer the boss."

Abe turned around in a small elliptical circle to find out where the dog was, and McDougal, by necessity, followed him. "Oh, there you are," he said when he focused his eyes on the dog which seemed to be under a lamp of some sort. "Which way do you think we ought to go?"

The old dog's chin was nearly dragging on the sidewalk. He was wavering back and forth at some fairly drastic angles but he appeared to be facing the same general direction that Abe had suggested.

"All right." He turned himself and McDougal around. "That's the way we'll go."

Arm in arm they began their short journey to the west side of town with the old dog trying hard in a strange sort of sideways gait to keep up with them. A half-block west of the railroad tracks they veered off into an alley that seemed appropriate and settled down behind a huge garbage bin. The dog followed them in but did not seem that fond of their choice. When the two men sat down he began a low, mournful howling.

"Shhh," Abe blew through his lips. When that didn't curb the noise he held out the bottle of wine. "You want another drink?"

"Oh, I really couldn't," the Irishman mumbled.

Abe thought the dog answered him. "Well, what do you want?"

The dog 'woofed' lightly then turned and began to sidesaddle back out of the alley.

Abe peered around the bin and tried to watch him, but he couldn't lean far enough out to see where the dog had gone. He reached behind himself and felt for something to hold on to as an aid to get him to his feet. He found a rain down-spout, grabbed on to it and gave a push. The metal tube slipped and he fell back and rolled into the Irishman's lap.

"Ah, that's warmer," the little man breathed.

Abe shifted off him. "The dog has left us, Mr. McDougal," he said in a hurt voice.

Shorty raised an arm a little in an effort to point. "No he hasn't, Mr. Douglas. That's him standin' in front of ya."

Abe turned to look into the dog's face and felt the wind as the dog 'woofed', then watched as the old boy left again. Curious as to what the dog was doing, he shoved his bottle of wine into the bottom of the downspout and got to his feet. "Now you stay right there," he warned the bottle. "I'm going to see what the dog wants."

Shorty looked up at him. "I'm thinkin' I'll just be goin' with ya, if ya don't mind, Mr. Douglas. It's a wee bit cold down here."

Abe managed to get the Irishman to his feet, and with slow, methodical steps they began to follow as the old dog led them down the deserted street towards the two-lane highway.

"What did ya lose?" McDougal asked when Abe stopped in front of the Sunrise Doughnut Shop to check his pockets. The lights were on inside the shop and the backs of two uniformed policemen were visible through the pink and white curtained windows.

"I thought I had a bottle of wine," Abe answered. He searched every pocket he had then held out his empty hands to inspect them. "Nope. It's not here, Mr. McDougal. It has vanished."

The old dog stopped his forward travel to look back at them. He had walked right by the police car but it had evidently not registered with him. When he saw it this time, it must have come into focus. He 'woofed' twice.

"We're coming," Abe said, and put a hand back under Shorty's arm. "Tell him we're coming, Mr. McDougal."

A crackling of static noise came from the parked police cruiser, and the old dog 'woofed' again, somewhat louder, then took off at a much faster pace than before. Abe tugged at the Irishman's arm and the two of them wobbled on down the sidewalk to catch up with the dog. They were no more than fifty feet from the doughnut shop when officer Robins called out to them. "Hey you..." he started, but the noise of the car's radio interrupted him.

"Abe looked down at the Irishman. "What did you say, Mr. McDougal?"

"I don't remember sayin' anything," Shorty replied, then moaned. "But me feet are killin' me. That's probably what I said."

Robins stopped his pursuit of the possible vagrants and turned around to see if his partner was going to answer the radio. Officer Clements had yet to exit the shop. "For crying out loud," Robins cursed as he went back to the car to answer to call himself.

The call had evidently been of an urgent nature. Almost instantly the emergency lights were whirling on top of the car, the siren was blasting, and Robins was laying on the horn. Clements came trotting out of the shop holding his trousers up with one hand and carrying his belt of weaponry in the other. He bolted into the car headfirst and was still trying to finish his entry when Robins backed away from the curb and screeched a u-turn. There was a loud pop when one of the back tires blew out. The rear end sagged and the car fishtailed for a second, but somehow Robins managed to save everything except the door on Clement's side. It snapped off and showered a flurry of sparks across the concrete. It was still spinning as the rest of the car thumped its way down the street and out of sight.

Abe and Shorty had stopped to find out what the ruckus was about, but when the police car headed off in the opposite direction they returned their attention to the dog. He led them another block and a half to the highway.

"Me old legs'll take me no further," the fatigued, sleepy Irishman complained as he shifted the bulk of his weight onto Abe's arm. They were standing in front of the park entrance where the bronze plaque was gathering in the last glints of moonlight.

Abe puffed a grunt into the chilly night air and pointed their intertwined bodies towards the bandstand where the old dog was sitting and 'woofing' in a low, beckoning staccato. He stopped the noise and ducked under the lattice trim of the bandstand when he saw that he had Abe's attention.

"I think this is the end of the road, Mr. McDougal," Abe comforted his exhausted comrade. He took the few steps to the raised platform with the Irishman in tow then sat him down. "I'll just get us a bed ready." He dragged their belongings and bedrolls under the lattice. In a couple of minutes he reached out and pulled the unconscious McDougal into their lodgings for the night.

### CHAPTER 5

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: I apologize for the slang terminology in my last post. I do realize the seriousness of the event and will refrain from such lapses in the future. Your choice of participants is to be commended. The three of them are extremely compatible, and aside from the drinking, which I am preparing to work on, they will do wonders for us.

To: Host. I have every faith in your abilities and theirs. God, cc etc. ect.

The morning dew had disappeared from the grass around the bandstand long before the trio of odd bedfellows showed any sign of awakening.

During the night Abe and Shorty had wrapped themselves cocoon-like in their blankets to ward off the chill, and the old dog had wedged himself in between them to capture any escaping body heat. Impromptu as it was, the sleeping arrangement had been acceptable to all concerned until it came time to wake up.

Abe's loud snoring rather than the time of day woke the dog out of his hard, stuporous sleep. He edged his muzzle over and sniffed at Abe's exposed ear.

"Give me some room," Abe complained, and moved his head out of the dog's reach.

The dog rolled over to inspect his other companion. Seeing the top of a baseball cap sticking out of Shorty's king-size blanket was not enough to satisfy his curiosity. He stretched his neck and nosed the cap up to get a better view. The sight of McDougal's brushy eyebrows and over-sized nose must have been sufficient to jar his recollection. The 'woof', slobber, foul breath and all, was an automatic response that caught Shorty squarely in the face, and completely by surprise.

The Irishman snorted and huffed in an effort to clear the air and his face of whatever had happened. He tried to reach up and wipe the dampness off but his hands were tucked under the blanket so tightly he couldn't move them. The old dog hadn't had time to react and was still breathing in his face. McDougal snorted again and blew a puff of breath from the corner of his mouth trying to direct its force to clear his left eye. When that didn't straighten out his vision he bolted to a sitting position, his arms furiously trying to throw the blanket off. The dog, scrambling to get to his feet, panicked and let out an earsplitting bark.

"Mother of Mercy!" the struggling Irishman cried out in desperation. He was hopelessly bound up in the over-sized blanket.

"What's happening?" Abe yelled, busily trying to shed his own bedding. He couldn't see what was going on with McDougal and the dog. He started to raise up, but the dog, in his stumbling effort to get away from the bedlam, trampled him back down then fell on him.

"Get off!" Abe shouted. All the yelling and thrashing about had the poor old dog in turmoil. His mind must have been as fuzzy as the men's were. Seeing no route of escape, he crawled up onto Abe's face and began to howl.

McDougal, who had cleared one hand of the stubborn blanket, decided to stand in order to finish the job. He pivoted around on his free hand and got his knees under him so he could get into a kneeling position. Then up he went. Instantly his head thumped into one of the floor joists of the platform. A muffled grunt escaped his lips and back down he came.

Abe managed to get the dog off his head in time to see McDougal's blanket come tumbling towards him, but McDougal, himself was nowhere in sight. Abe screeched. The only thing he could do was duck back into his own bedding and hope he was safe. He scrunched down just as the blanket with McDougal buried inside slammed into his back. The dog yelped. Everything went quiet for a long moment then the Irishman moaned. Abe stuck his head out of the blanket.

"Mr. Douglas?" Shorty asked.

"Yeah," Abe answered.

"Could ya get me covers off?"

With the dog out of the way, Abe easily climbed out of his own bedding, and found a loose edge on the Irishman's blanket. He got a firm grip on it and pulled. Shorty rolled over twice and spilled out three feet away. He lay as he landed for a moment squinting up at the floor joists of the platform, then briskly rubbed a sleeve back and forth over his eyes. "Where are we?" he asked in a dazed voice.

"I'm not too sure," Abe answered, peering into the patchwork of light and shadow being cast through the lattice of the bandstand. "Are you okay?"

McDougal rubbed the top of his head. "Ohhh...I've got an awful headache," he said slowly. "And I'm thinkin' I ought to be off to the loo."

The old dog had crawled as far to the rear of the platform as he could, but now that the two men sounded normal he started snaking back towards them. McDougal saw the movement. He narrowed his eyelids against the darkness and recognized the form of the dog. "Ya mangy bags of bones," he scolded. "Ya could've caused me sudden death. Where's yer manners?"

The dog stopped and laid his head on the ground.

"Oh, don't be lookin' so down in the dumps," Shorty said in a softer tone. "Just don't be wakin' me up like that anymore." Turning to Abe, he added, "I've really got to be gettin' to the loo."

"I think I'll just stay here a little longer if you don't mind," Abe said, resting his head back on his rucksack. Shorty said okay, and Abe put his hat over his eyes. He was sound asleep again when Shorty came back a little later with two cups of coffee and a white paper bag in his hands.

"Top of the mornin' to ya," McDougal said cheerily as he shook Abe awake. "Look what I brought ya." He took the lid off one of the cups and held its steaming top over for Abe to get a whiff of the fresh black coffee it contained.

Abe raised his hat brim to look at the offering. "Thanks," he said, then let the hat settle back over his face.

"Would ya rather be havin' somethin' with a bit more punch to it?" The Irishman asked. Abe nodded he would, and McDougal saw the hat move a little. "Well, I'll just have me coffee then I'll run out and get ya somethin'."

"No. No. Don't do that. I'll just drink the coffee," Abe replied. He moaned and pushed himself into a sitting position.

The old dog had edged his way up next to Abe and was eyeing the bag. He lifted his nose and sniffed the air.

"Did you bring him something?"

"I was afraid not to," the Irishman said in a jovial voice. He reached into the bag, took out two glazed doughnuts and tossed them on the ground in front of the dog. "Would ya like one yerself, Mr. Douglas?"

After their continental breakfast, which they finished around noon, the two men decided to part ways and scout out the town.

"Where should we meet up later?" Abe asked when he came out of the doughnut shop. McDougal had told him the people there were very nice and they had an excellent restroom. Shorty and the dog were waiting for him.

"Carson's place was nice enough," Shorty suggested. He pulled his snap purse out, patted it and gave Abe a wink.

"I don't know, Mr. McDougal," Abe answered, scratching his whiskers in thought as they ambled down the street. "Maybe we'd better stay away from there for a couple of days. I didn't like the look of that kid you beat."

"Yer right there," McDougal agreed. "Kinda spooky, wasn't he?"

"Scary," Abe said. "Let's just stay together for a while. We'll find a meeting place then we'll split up." He turned to the dog. "Come on, boy, let's see what your town looks like."

A few steps past the corner of the first main street and the highway, Abe stopped abruptly. "Does this look familiar to you?" he asked McDougal.

The little man turned all the way around very slowly, his eyes peeled for any clue they might gather. The circle completed, he said, "No. I can't say that it does."

"Over there," Abe said, pointing across the street. "I'm pretty sure that's where I left my bottle of wine last night."

"Yer bottle, ya say?"

"Yeah. I bought a bottle from Bill. Don't you recall? And I think I left it in the alley right there."

McDougal seemed at a loss. "What did ya do that fer?"

"We were following the dog, Mr. McDougal. Don't you remember?"

Shorty pushed the bill of his cap up and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh, me mind's a vapor, Mr. Douglas. To be perfectly honest with ya, no, I don't recall followin' the dog."

Abe started across the street. "Watch yourself," he warned then made sure there were no cars coming within a block of them. Satisfied, he led them to the safety of the sidewalk on the other side. The old dog passed them and headed straight for the alley entrance between the Guthrie Mercantile building and Fast Albert's Motorcycle Repair Shop.

Neither of the businesses looked to be overly successful. A sign in the motorcycle shop window advised that it was only open on Tuesdays. Anyone needing repairs could leave their bike at Guthrie's providing it was before noon during the week, or ten a.m. on Saturday.

"Yer the worst one fer readin'," the Irishman complained as they stood in front of the cycle shop while Abe rattled off the wording of the sign.

Abe finished his reading and turned with a smile on his face. "It's me mind, don't ya see?" he mimicked the little man. "How would ya suppose I got to be so smart?"

Shorty thought on it for a moment. "Well," he said finally. "If ya had a motorbike, then I might be thinkin' ya had reason to read the sign. But, Mr. Douglas, ya ain't got one."

"No, I haven't, but I had a car once," Abe boasted.

"Ya didn't?"

"Oh, yes I did." Abe reached for his billfold. He found and opened it. "Here, Mr. McDougal, look at this. It's a driver's license. You see that? That's me, Abraham Lincoln Douglas. That's my picture."

Shorty looked the ragged card over. It had been transported around for twenty-odd years and showed it. He shifted his eyes between the card and Abe several times before commenting. "I'm proud that ya know how to drive an automobile and ya got yer license and all, Mr. Douglas. But do ya think we could be movin' along now?"

"I'll tell you what. Why don't we call this alley our meeting place? You can go on and check things out, and I'll just take my time and do some more reading. I like to read about places and things. We'll join up back here later this afternoon. What do you think?"

Shorty handed him back his billfold. "That's the plan then," he agreed. "I'm thinkin' of goin' back to the other side of the tracks."

"To Carson's?" Abe asked with a frown.

"Oh, no. No, I'll just sort of mosey around to see what else's over there."

Abe nodded. "Okay. I'll look around this side and see you later, huh?"

"That's the plan," Shorty repeated, and he was off.

### CHAPTER 6

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Should Gabriel inquire, Re: the tavern, despite his concerns, our three subjects not only subsisted throughout the night they shared a closeness which I am sure will serve to strengthen their bond. Also, my checklist is coming together and site preparations are well underway. Host

To: Host. I am well aware that you are aware that Gabriel is privy to your posts. On the more relevant matter, I am pleased with your progress. God, cc etc. etc.

Following the dog's lead, Abe walked down the alley to the huge garbage bin they had found the night before. "Find anything in there?" he asked when the dog stuck his muzzle out of the top of the bin. The dog answered with a soft 'woof'. "You should have asked me first. I could have told you there wasn't any food in there. Come on, get out. We've got some searching to do."

The dog climbed out of the bin and sniffed around to see what Abe had in mind by getting down on his knees and looking under the big container. The only thing under there was long forgotten debris, no lost bottle of wine.

"Guess it's not here anymore," Abe said with a good deal of disappointment in his voice. The old dog was staring at him hopefully. Abe gave him a serious look. "You know, I've been thinking, fella. If you're of a mind to stick around with me, you ought to have a name. Or, maybe you already do. Do you have a name, boy?"

The dog wagged his tail a bit and continued the stare.

Abe thought about the idea for a minute. "What do you think of Horatio?" he said. He rolled it over in his mind then tried it aloud. "Horatio. Come here, Horatio. No. That's no good. It needs to be shorter. How about Horace? Horace." He repeated the name to get the feel of it.

The dog raised his nose and took in a whiff of air to see if there were any telltale signs of what the man was referring to. He let out his little 'woof' sound.

Abe took that as a positive. "Okay. It's settled. From now on, you're Horace." He reached down and patted the dog's head with an empty hand. Horace laid down on the pavement and intentionally looked away from the man. But when Abe started walking away the dejection passed and he got to his feet and tagged along a few paces behind.

While Abe and Horace meandered down the streets and alleyways of the west side, McDougal was busy getting to know the east side of town and a select few of its permanent residents.

"Ya say there's a place fer sleepin' as well?" Shorty was talking to Charlie Belew. Charlie Belew was a moose of a man with a face that looked like it could have been formed in a cement mixer.

Charlie glanced up from his card game with Stub Wilson. Stub had only one leg. The two scruffy looking men were sitting on a wooden bench in front of the 'Last Hope Rescue Mission' on River Street. They were playing five-card draw poker to determine which of them would get the last drink from the bottle of wine they shared. "You hard of hearing?" the big guy asked Shorty sarcastically. He reached under the bench then handed a crumpled brown sack to Stub along with a warning. "You didn't cheat me again, did you?"

Wilson shoved the sack into an inside pocket of his coat. "I'd never do that, Charlie," he said, and promptly hobbled on his wooden leg around the corner of the mission to drink his winnings.

"I'd say that was a bit of bad luck," McDougal said, trying to soothe the anger Charlie Belew's face was broadcasting.

Belew rose to his feet. He was huge, towering over the runt of an Irishman by a full two feet and weighing in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. "If I ever catch him at it, I'll wring his scrawny little neck and rip off his good leg."

McDougal took a step backwards. "If he's got any sense a'tall, he'll not be messin' with ya, Mr. Belew."

Charlie grunted a curse under his breath. "Yeah, well, if I had any sense, I wouldn't play poker with him." He threw his cards down on the bench then sat down to pick them all up and insert them into their ragged box.

McDougal took the opportunity to ask again about the mission's accommodations. "What is it you were sayin' about the place, here?"

Sliding the pack of cards into a shirt pocket, Charlie Belew answered. "It's run by Brother Elkins. He likes to be called that. Preaches a lot, but the food's good if you're on time. He closes up during supper. That's the rule. If you ain't in, you're out of luck."

"And ya say you can get a bed, too?"

"Two nights a week. That's all Elkins allows. Pretty strict about his rules, Elkins is."

McDougal picked up his bedroll and belongings and offered his hand. "Pleased to have made yer acquaintance, Mr. Belew. I'll be runnin' along now, but it's possible I'll be seein' ya at supper time."

Belew shook his hand brusquely. "Wouldn't happen to have anything to drink, would you?"

Shorty shrugged. "If I did, ya'd certainly be welcome to it, but no, I'm sorry to say, I don't."

The hulk of a man slumped back onto the bench. "That's the kind of day I've been having. Should've known better than to give Stub the chance to get the last drink. Should've just drunk it myself and kept my big mouth shut."

McDougal gave him a sympathetic look. "Tomorrow'll be better fer ya," he said, and waved a brief goodbye.

Stub Wilson had enough sense to stay away. He wasn't around the corner when Shorty rounded it to find out a little more about Midvale.

On the other side of the tracks, Abe and Horace had stopped to gaze into the front window of Farenstien's Menswear and Haberdashery where a man was getting fitted for a gray tweed suit.

"Do you see that, Horace?" Abe said with a nod. "I could use one of those." He pushed his chest out. "Couldn't you just see me in a brand new suit of clothes?" He turned slowly to his left and watched his reflection in the window glass. Halfway into the slow-motion pirouette, he stopped to watch a different reflection. A heavyset woman with a purse the size of a suitcase was bustling across the street behind him. She wore a white, narrow-brimmed hat that had a collage of bright flowers strewn around it. The flowers seemed to sprout from her graying, close-cropped hair. Her wide-set eyes hung over a pair of rounded jowls that gave her the determined look of a bulldog. She stomped onto the sidewalk and brushed by Abe without the slightest hint that she even noticed him. At the door of the men's shop she hesitated briefly, hitched up her girdle, straightened the angle of her hat, then slammed the door open. Abe could see through the window that she bellied directly up to the man getting fitted for the suit. Her mouth was opening and closing to the timing of her hand motions. It was obvious to Abe that she was as outspoken as she was bullish.

"That's one reason why I'm single," he whispered to Horace. "How would you like to face someone like that everyday?" He stepped back from the window and looked down at the dog. Horace was asleep. "Seen enough, huh? I have too. Come on, Horace, let's go." He slapped his thigh to wake the dog and started to walk away, but was stopped when the shop door flew open right in front of him. The gentleman who was buying the new suit hurried out of the store with the awful looking woman close on his heels. Her gruff voice perfectly matched her appearance.

"I'm telling you, Reverend, if we don't make this march on the Capital, the whole chicken business is going down the drain. Then, where will we be? I ask you, Reverend, where will we be then?"

The reverend was trying to get to a car at the curb. "Whatever you say, Sister Allecia," he said as he reached for the car-door handle.

Sister Allecia grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her. "What I say is not the point," she growled. "I can get the whole Women's Guild to go. I'll just tell them they have to, but it's you I'm concerned about. If you and all those other ministers, if you can call them that, won't go with us, we might as well fold up shop right now. Now, are you going or not? I want to know right now. Right here."

Abe could see that the reverend was trying to shake her thick fingers off his new jacket, but she had a solid grip on it. "I...I...I'm going to have to take it up with the committee," he stammered.

"The committee!" Allecia shouted, her well-fed jowls flushing an unhealthy shade of red. But before she could carry on with her tirade a young man came running up the sidewalk shouting for the reverend's attention.

Abe and Horace flattened themselves against the window to get out of the boy's way.

"Reverend Atchinson," the boy panted then put his hands on his knees while he caught a breath. "I'm glad I found you," he said, taking in another deep breath. "There's a fire in the church basement! You've got to come right now!"

Sister Allecia loosened her grip and the reverend took advantage of the freedom. He jumped into the passenger side of the black Buick, pulled the boy in beside him and sped off to fight a different kind of fire. He paid absolutely no attention to the yelling of the big Sister as she screamed for them to wait for her. Seeing it was useless to pursue it further, she turned to Abe. "Where's a phone?" she demanded, to which Abe shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. She gave him a mean, disgusted look then straight-armed him out of her path and stormed back into the shop.

Abe got his balance and took off down the street in a much faster manner than that to which the old dog was becoming accustomed. While Horace was trying to catch up, Abe rounded a corner and bumped into Ezra Taft who was having a difficult time staying upright.

"Would you m-m-mind wa-wa-watching where I'm going?" Ezra complained, and rubbed his arm where Abe had hit him.

"Sorry, buddy. I didn't see you," Abe apologized. "Here, let me help you." He took a hold on Ezra's arm to stabilize him. "Where are you going, anyhow?"

Ezra drew in a deep breath and moved his lips around to get them in working order. That done, he pointed up the street. "To the Sal...Sal...Salvation Ah...Ah...Ahrmy," he said as best he could. Abe looked up the street for a sign or something to give him an idea where the Salvation Army might be. He didn't see anything.

Horace laid down to rest while the men talked. He knew Ezra Taft, had known him for a long time, and Taft had never given the old dog anything, so he wasn't too interested. He closed his eyes for the nap he would have been taking if it were not for tagging along behind a man who was looking all over town for something he hadn't yet found.

"Well," Abe told Ezra, "I'm going that way anyhow. If you don't mind I'll just walk along with you."

"O...O...Okay by me," Ezra slurred. "Just ho...hold on and I'll take you there."

Abe tightened his grip on Ezra's arm and turned around to see if the dog was still with them. "Come on, Horace."

Ezra waved a shaky finger in the air. "The name's Eh-Eh-Ezra T..T...hic...Taft," he corrected Abe.

Abe smiled. "Okay, Ezra. Let's go."

Across the tracks, McDougal had found a liquor store not too far from the Mission. He made a purchase and planned to take it back to the alley and drink it while he waited for Abe to show up. Instead, his return path led him back to where Charlie Belew was still sitting on the bench at the Mission. "It appears yer friend has departed fer good," he said, and sat down beside the big guy.

Belew nodded. "Ain't got no guts. He knows he cheated me."

Shorty's eyes lit up. "Well, I've got a cure fer that," he said with a smile, and patted his jacket front. "Would ya still be needin' a wee drop?"

Belew's forlorn look changed immediately. His eyes opened wide. "I'd about kill for one right now."

McDougal got to his feet and led the big fellow around the corner where Stub Wilson had disappeared earlier. Between the two heavy drinkers the quart of wine lasted less than ten minutes. "Well, now. I'm thinkin' I ought to be goin' while I can still find me way," Shorty said after taking the last few drops from the bottle.

Charlie reached over and put one of his mitt-sized hands on the Irishman's shoulder. "Shorty," he said. "You're a fine human being. Yes, you are. I know you'd never cheat old Charlie Belew, would you?"

McDougal shook his head rapidly. "Not if me life depended on it." The bulky Belew pulled him over and put his face very close to the Irishman's. "It might, if you ever tried to put one over on me." The tone and timbre of his voice was as serious as McDougal had ever heard.

Shorty couldn't miss seeing the wildness dancing in the giant Belew's eyes. He pushed back, and Belew let him go. "I've really got to be movin' on, now, Mr. Belew. I'll be lookin' ya up later." He grabbed up his belongings and quickly bobbled down the street towards the tracks.

The brickwork of the old Guthrie Mercantile building was blocking the warming rays of the late afternoon sun when Abe and Horace returned to the alley. Thanks to Ezra Taft, Abe had learned about the new program Captain Arthur Hedges was trying out at the Salvation Army Center.

Hedges had opened a multi-bed sleeping room on the second floor above the dining hall just the week before. His plan was to offer the room to those men who were willing to give up their use of alcohol and work in the Thrift Store when he needed them. If all went according to plan, Hedges would also include a small salary as an incentive for the men to overcome their problems and start a new beginning for themselves.

Ezra hadn't given Abe enough time to read the entire bulletin stapled to the wall at the Center's entrance, but at least he had found a place to eat free and possibly a free bed. That would be far superior to lodging again under Horace's bandstand. He was anxious to get back to the alley to tell McDougal of their good fortune. But first he had to backtrack with Taft to find the cart of personal property the fellow had forgotten somewhere along the way.

A slight chill had already bitten into the air as Abe set his rucksack on the alley pavement beside the big garbage bin and sat on it to wait for Mr. McDougal's return. His back bumped into the rain downspout and he heard the tinkling of glass as his lost bottle of wine slipped out of the bottom of the tube and touched the macadam. "What do you know, Horace? Looks like we found it after all." He held the bottle up to see if it was broken. "Good as new," he said. "What do you say to a drink, boy?"

Horace wagged his tail, and Abe got up to riffle through the bin for some kind of doggie dish. He found a plastic casing that had once been part of a motorcycle and set it in front of the old dog. "Here's to you, Horace." He poured a fair amount of the wine into the casing. "You're a good pal. Drink up, boy." He toasted his new comrade with a clink of the bottle on the casing then took a long swig and gulped it down.

Horace lapped the wine up like it was water then 'woofed' for more. In twenty minutes the bottle was dry, Horace was drunk, and Abe wasn't too far behind.

"I was just thinking about that new suit of clothes, Horace," Abe said after a few minutes of contemplation. "It'd be awful nice to own a suit like that, wouldn't it?" He glanced down only to find that the old dog had gone to sleep. "Wake up, Horace, and talk to me."

The old dog opened his glassy eyes, but didn't bother to raise his stare from Abe's shoes. Here was a man talking about a new suit when his shoes were wired together to keep the soles from flopping when he walked. Had Horace known what Abe was talking about, he probably wouldn't have bothered to open his eyes at all.

Abe noticed the eye movement. "That's better," he said as an approval of the dog's show of interest. "Now, let's take you for instance, Horace. You're a mess if I ever saw one. You need a bath. That'd be like me getting' that new suit, sort of." He reached over and raised a tuft of Horace's matted red hair. "You'd be a fine looking dog if you got cleaned up a little." He tugged at the wad of hair a time or two. "Yes-shur, you'd be a fine looker." The alcohol was gaining momentum and taking control of his tongue.

Horace didn't much like what the man was doing with his hair and scooted back on his stomach to put a little distance between them. Abe dropped the tuft of hair and put his hand up to his own face. "I could use a bath too, couldn't I? And cut these whiskers off. You know, Horace, I'm a pretty good-looking fellow when I'm all cleaned up. No, you wouldn't know that. But I am." He lost himself in thought for a moment. When he looked back at Horace, the old dog had gone back to sleep. "Will you wake up and listen to me?"

Horace's allotment of wine had evidently taken away any desire to listen or even stay conscious. Abe tried to jostle him awake with his foot but failed. So he rattled on about how things could be with only himself to listen.

As Abe talked on, the sun buried itself somewhere far to the west and was pulling a deep purple blanket over the alley. It was nearing total darkness when the familiar accent of McDougal's voice interrupted Abe's thoughts and the one-sided conversation.

The Irishman had stealthily entered the alley. He stuck his head around the side of the bin and took notice of the bottle beside Abe. "Would ya be havin' a wee drop fer a good friend?" he asked spiritedly.

Abe looked up. "We were just now talking of that very thing."

"Oh, were ya, now?" McDougal held a hand out to retrieve the bottle from Abe.

"Yep. And we've decided to change our ways." Abe took the liberty of including Horace in his plans. "Tomorrow we're turning over a new leaf. That's what we're going to do."

Puzzlement showed in McDougal's face. "Yer what?"

"A new leaf, Mr. McDougal. We're going to get a job and buy some new clothes."

McDougal looked at him with a serious stare. "It's fer certain ya could use a new outfit, Mr. Douglas. But that's tomorrow, ya say? That gives us just enough time fer a wee celebration. Could ya be passin' the bottle, please?"

Abe tipped his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. He picked up the bottle, turned it upside down and shook it. "As you can see, Mr. McDougal, there's not a wee drop left for you."

"OOOhh," Shorty drew out his acknowledgment. He shrugged and beamed Abe a wide smile. "Well, in that event I suppose we'll have to put the party off temporarily. I found us a place to eat if we're not too late to get in."

"I did too," Abe said. "I was just going to tell you about that."

"It'll wait," Shorty said, helping Abe to his feet. "We need to be hurryin' along or they'll be shutin' the doors on us."

Abe nodded, took a solid grip on Shorty's arm and steadied himself. "Lead on, Mr. McDougal and don't spare the horses." The two of them snickered as they staggered out of the alley.

McDougal provided support and led the way as they zigzagged toward the Rescue Mission. Old Horace wobbled behind them in his strange sideways gait. Neither the men nor the old dog took notice of the soft, shimmering glow that surrounded them as they exited the alley and made their way to the intersection of River and First streets.

### CHAPTER 7

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: I really should get out more often. I had forgotten how similar field work is to a game of chess. As you can see, I have given Douglas and McDougal free rein for the time being and have concentrated my attention to occurrences several moves ahead. To date all is on schedule, however, I could use your help on one small matter. Would you mind keeping an eye on them while I attend to future arrangements? Host

To: Host. Consider it done. God, cc etc. etc.

Brother James T. Elkins' mission took the shape of an ancient building that could have been a bank at one time. Iron bars, rusty and twisted apart in places, still clung to the cracked mortar around its wooden framed windows. What was left of the paint on the walls was split and curled from neglect, and the glass in the front door was loose. It wasn't so different from the countless other missions Abe and Shorty had frequented over the years. But still it represented an angel in the night for two almost drunk and very hungry men.

A tiny bell, dangling over the door, tinkled the presence of the new guests as they entered onto the worn-out linoleum floor of the sanctuary. The rotund, balding Brother Elkins was there in his black preaching frock to invite them in. "Welcome, Brothers, welcome," his high-pitched voice rang out. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting." He reached a pudgy hand towards Abe then he spied Horace crouching behind Shorty's legs. His voice shot up an octave. "Outside! Outside! Shoo!" he screamed while flailing his arms at the poor old dog.

Horace dropped to the floor and started to inch around on his stomach.

"No dogs!" Elkins yelled. "That's the rule."

Horace picked up speed and crawled out of the door that Shorty was still holding open.

"I beg your pardon, good fellow," Abe injected on Horace's behalf. "That's not just a dog. He's my companion, just as Mr. McDougal here is."

The Irishman nodded his already bobbing head in agreement.

Brother Elkins narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "That," he said very slowly, "is a dog. And I don't allow dogs in here. So, it seems you two have a great decision befallen you." He spread his short, fat fingers and swung his arm to encompass the roomful of expectant diners. "You can join us in fellowship, or," he pointed to the still open door, "you can join your companion out there."

Both Abe and McDougal followed the preacher's arm movement with their bleary eyes and sniffed the air at the same time.

McDougal took his cap off and held it up to shield his face from Elkins' view. "Methinks 'tis chicken soup we're smellin'" he whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear.

"Home made," Elkins confirmed. "So, which will it be? In or out?"

Abe took one last smell of the aroma then pushed the door closed.

"Good," Elkins said with a nod. He stepped around them and hung a 'Closed' sign on the door. "This way, gentlemen," he said, and walking behind them, he ushered them past the empty chairs in the back and sat them down directly in front of his speaking podium. "We'll have a short session of prayer before eating the Lord's food," he told them before taking his place on the raised platform.

Abe and Shorty would have preferred sitting in the back, but since they were not given that choice, they removed their head coverings and watched silently while Elkins opened his tattered bible.

Elkins cleared his throat, put his reading glasses on and raised a hand into the air. Then he stopped in mid-breath. A loud, reverberating snore arose from somewhere in the back of the room with sufficient force to cause the loose glass in the front door to rattle. With a force of equal strength, Elkins slammed his bible closed. A thunderous boom shot through the room and a long splinter of wood flew off the pulpit stand. "Brothers!" the furious Elkins yelled, ending the snoring immediately. He continued in a more civil tone, "We are gathered here in the Lord's house to listen to his word."

"And to have a wee bite of supper," Shorty added with a broad smile, his head nodding up and down in response to the 'Amens' from behind him. Elkins glared down at him. In turn, the Irishman held up his right hand and measured out a small distance between his thumb and index finger, "Just a wee bite," he whispered directly to the preacher.

Elkins puffy cheeks reddened. "After the word, Brother. After the word."

"That's what I meant to say," McDougal agreed. He nodded again and turned to face Abe. "Directly after the word," he said, as if Abe hadn't been listening.

Abe winked at him with both eyes, and looked up at Elkins. "On with the word, Brother Elkins. We're ready."

Elkins steadied himself and reopened the bible. For the next five minutes he worked up a good sweat on the virtues of repentance and the damnable consequences awaiting those who did not listen to him. When he reached a point in 'Revelations' referring to the gnashing of teeth, Abe stood and loudly proposed an end to the preaching. "Amen, Brother Elkins. Let there be gnashing of teeth. Bring on the chicken soup."

A look of absolute disgust swam in the sweat on Brother Elkins' face. He once again slammed the bible shut, glared at Abe then let out a long, huffing sigh. "Bless this food, Lord," he said in conclusion.

The blessing was lost in the din as the several lost souls scrambled to the chow-line to grab a tin cup and a spoon. Elkins pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it at his brow. "I said, bless this food, Lord!" he shouted at the crusty crew that was swarming past his podium, but he could see it was to no avail. With one last blotting of his balding head, he disappeared through the doorway behind his makeshift altar. No one seemed to miss him as they filled their cups then sipped and slurped their way through the huge pot of soup.

"That was an excellent suggestion, Mr. McDougal," Abe complimented the Irishman on his choice of eateries as he finished the last of his dinner and pushed back from the table.

"It was indeed," Shorty agreed, but his attention seemed to be more on eyeballing the other diners. He was looking around the room. "There was someone I was wantin' to point out to ya," he said. "But I've not seen him."

While Shorty was searching the hall for Charlie Belew, Abe made a final trip to the soup pot. He dredged out a handful of chicken pieces, put them on top of a stack of bread and wrapped the whole thing in a napkin and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

"I was thinkin," Shorty said on their way to the door, "we ought to find us a bottle with which to celebrate yer new position, whatever it might be."

Abe shook his head. "I don't know, Mr. McDougal. I kind of had my mind set on not drinking anymore. You know, if I'm getting a job and everything?"

"But that's not 'til tomorrow ya said," Shorty reasoned.

"That's right," Abe answered. "I guess it wouldn't be right if we didn't have a little party, would it?"

"It'd never do." Shorty patted his chest. "There's plenty left in me purse to be doin' it up right. And I know just the place to be spendin' it."

Horace was waiting for them in the recessed foyer of the Mission's doorway. "Come on, Horace," Abe said as they stepped out, but the old dog didn't seem to want to move. "I've got you something in my pocket," Abe coaxed. Horace rolled his doleful eyes up and twitched an ear. "Come on," Abe said again, and started to walk away with Shorty. Still, Horace didn't move.

Shorty patted Abe's arm. "I'll just be poppin' off to the store. When ya get him sorted out, I'll see ya back at the meetin' place."

Abe gave him a nod and a little wave, and Shorty headed the opposite direction towards the Pick-And-Pack-It liquor store he had patronized earlier in the day. "Okay, Horace," Abe said. "If you decide to come to the party, we'll be waiting in the alley for you." He turned and started away again.

Seeing the man was serious about leaving, Horace struggled to his feet and side-saddled down the walk a few paces behind him.

Horace caught up with Abe just as he was sitting down on his rucksack next to the big trash bin. He nudged Abe's pocket. "Oh, yeah," Abe said as he remembered the packet of food. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolded the napkin and set it in front of the old dog. Horace eyed it, sniffed it, then in one huge gulp he downed the whole thing, napkin and all. "Good grief, Horace," Abe gasped. It was a very large pile of food. He petted the old dog's head. "You sure don't waste any time chewing, do you?"

Horace's eyes watered up, he stretched his neck out and stood spraddle-legged while the knot of food and paper settled into some kind of order in his stomach. Abe felt sorry for him. "Next time I'll break it up into smaller bites," he promised. Horace swallowed one last time then laid down and put his head on Abe's outstretched leg.

For a brief time the old dog watched as Abe busied himself tearing apart some cigarette butts and pouring their sparse contents into a roll-your-own paper. Since smoking was a vice Horace was not yet addicted to, he repositioned his muzzle and closed his eyes.

Abe fired up his smoke and ruffled the hair on Horace's head. "You know, Horace, I wanted to be a veterinarian once. It'd be kind of nice to take care of old dogs like yourself. You need someone to take care of you when you get old." He took a draw off the cigarette then flicked it away and watched as the fire splattered when it hit the pavement. He exhaled the smoke quickly. "If I keep going the way I have been, I won't have to worry about getting old, will I? Well, we promised Mr. McDougal we'd have a going away drink with him tonight, but tomorrow, or maybe the day after, we're going to make something of our lives. I've been thinking a lot about it, Horace. You and me and Mr. McDougal, if he wants to. We're going to start all over again. What do you say, Horace? Are you with me on this?"

Horace moaned in his sleep as his head slipped off Abe's leg and landed on the hard macadam. Abe started to repeat his question but muted it when he heard McDougal's voice echo down the alley.

"Are ya here, Mr. Douglas?"

"Yep," Abe answered. "Come on in."

The Irishman's voice drew nearer. "Did ya get the dog to come along, then?"

"I did. We're both here waiting for you."

"So ya are," McDougal said, sticking his head around the big bin. He held up two tall bottles of wine. "I couldn't be lettin' ya down seein' as how it's yer eve of departure and all, so I brought one fer each of us."

Abe reached a hand up to him and Shorty promptly filled it with one of the bottles then sat down beside him. Together they twisted the caps off and tilted a toast. "Wait a minute," Abe interrupted the ceremony, and pointed to the plastic casing. "Would you pass me that thing?"

"Fer the dog, I'd wager."

"Yep."

Each of them poured a measure into the casing, then lifted their bottles to resume the toast.

"To a relatively new but very dear friend," McDougal proposed. "It's fer certain I'll be missin' yer company."

A look of consternation crossed Abe's face. "Just because I'm changing my ways, it doesn't mean we can't still get together." He placed a hand on Shorty's forearm. "But I'll drink to the friendship part."

They each took a long swig, and Horace wrapped his paws around the casing and began a very careful lapping of his share. Like a small, three-ring circus, they partied until the bottles were empty and the casing shined from the thorough tongue of the alcoholic Horace. The sobriety brought on by the chicken soup was quickly falling to the wayside as each of them soaked up the new supply of alcohol. Their words began to take on that familiar, thick-tongued slur.

"So, what ish it yer thinkin' of doin' when ya pack up and leave us behind?" Shorty wanted to know after a few minutes of contemplation.

Abe draped an arm over the Irishman's shoulder. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere, Mr. McDougal," he said slowly. "But if I do, I'll tell you and you can come with me. How's that?"

Shorty shook his head. "What I meant was, when ya go to work, like ya said."

"Oh," Abe remembered. "Well, Mr. McDougal, I haven't decided that yet." He paused to gather his thoughts. "But when I do, there'll be a place right there for you."

McDougal sniffled and ran a coat sleeve over his eyes. "That's the nicest thing anyone ever said to me."

"Well, I mean it. I'd find something for you to do, too."

McDougal gave him a very serious gaze. "Maybe somethin' in a supervisory sort of position, if you could swing it."

As Abe was considering McDougal's proposal, Horace threw his ears up and whimpered a little cry. His eyes were fixedly staring at the opposite side of the alley. Both men turned as fast as their reflexes would allow to see what had stirred the dog'attention. It took a moment for them to focus. By then Horace was standing upright, the hairs on his back were bristling and his whimpering had increased to a drawn out kind of howl. Then they saw it; a small, shimmering light, creeping out of the mortar of the brick wall of Fast Albert's Motorcycle Shop; a strange light, wavy like heat rising from a desert highway in the summertime, and growing in short bursts of brilliance. Horace squeezed in between them and tried to bury his head in Abe's jacket.

Abe leaned into the Irishman. "Do you shee that, Mr. McDougal?"

"I was hopin' it was me old eyes givin' out," Shorty whispered.

As if they both had the same idea, they leaned against each other and tried to stand. The light burst forth with a sudden flare of white surrounded by a blinding halo of efflorescent color that blossomed to the size of a searchlight. Abe and Shorty dropped back to the pavement and huddled around Horace.

"Abraham Douglas?" a deep, resounding voice came from the light. "Abraham Lincoln Douglas?"

Abe blinked his eyes several times, but continued to sit very still and silent. Patiently, the light pulsated in the form of a beautiful rainbow that seemed to bubble off into the darkness like a newly opened bottle of champagne. The stillness was eerie. After a few seconds, McDougal could stand no more of the anxiety. He tapped Abe's back to get his attention. "Tell him, man, that it's you he'd be callin' fer," he said as softly as he could. "Methinks I'll just be runnin' along now."

"Stay!" the light rumbled.

"Right!" McDougal answered.

Abe swallowed hard and removed his hat. "I'm Abraham," he finally owned up in a small shaky voice.

The light diminished in brilliance somewhat. "Abraham," it said in a much-reduced volume, "we don't like what's going on here."

Abe nervously balled his hat up into a wad. "Oh, the Lord knows I don't either," he agreed with the light. "We were just discussing that very thing, and what we're going to do about the situation."

"Believe me, the Lord knows," the light said. "And the 'situation' as you call it, must be changed. Uplift yourself, Abraham."

Following what he thought was the command, Abe started to get to his feet, and Horace, who had been hiding his head under Abe's armpit, fell to the pavement when his prop was so suddenly removed.

"Sit down!" came a real command from the light.

"Yes Sir," Abe snapped, and dropped down on Horace's tail. Horace yelped. The light abruptly vanished. Abe moved, Horace moved, and the light flashed back on.

"I meant uplift your thoughts, Abraham, not your body."

"Oh," Abe said apologetically.

The light then continued, "Go cleanse yourself and prepare to do the good you were brought here to do."

Afraid to make another move, Abe asked first, "Now?"

"Yes, now. I should think that would be appropriate," the light beamed in an almost jovial tone. Quickly, it changed back to its giant-like authority. "Thomas, I suggest you prepare yourself along with Abraham."

"Me exact thoughts," the wide-eyed Irishman said. "I'll be doin' that very thing."

"We will be watching you very closely," the light said as a final remark.

In a magnificent swirling aurora of color, the great light dissolved into a tiny glowing ball. It pulsated twice then vanished as if it had drilled itself back into the wall from whence it came. Abe, Shorty, and the tired old dog, still somewhat intoxicated and frightened to the bone were left on their own to figure out all by themselves what had just transpired.

"What are we supposed to do?" Abe asked after his body chemistry balanced a little.

"If yer askin' me," McDougal answered. "I'm thinkin' we ought to be getting' out of here."

"You can't run from the Lord," Abe shot. "That's who it was, you know?"

"Oh, me ever lovin..." Shorty started to say something, but Abe slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Shhh!" Do you want Him to hear that?" The Irishman shook his head from side to side, and Abe took his hand away. "We need some help," Abe went on while rolling his wadded up hat into an even smaller ball. "We've got to tell someone about this. Someone's got to help us."

"What we're needin' is a priest," McDougal blurted out. "One of them that talks to the Lord all the time."

"I saw a preacher today," Abe said excitedly. "He was buying a new suit of clothes. Don't remember his name, though. His church caught on fire."

"A lot of good he'd be," the Irishman said. "I'm tellin' ya, we need a real priest. Did ya see any of them today?"

Before Abe could answer, Horace barked loudly, sprang out from between them and sprinted for the alley's entrance.

"I'm thinkin' yer dog's got the right idea," McDougal said, getting to his feet. "Are ya comin' with us?" He stuck a hand down, but Abe was concentrating on his own thoughts. "Well, are ya comin' or stayin'?"

Abe took the offered hand and raised himself up. McDougal grabbed up their belongings and raced off after Horace leaving Abe to set his own pace.

Just around the corner from the alley entrance, Horace had stopped to get a drink of water from a leaking spigot in front of Guthrie's store. McDougal shuffled up to the iron bench next to the spigot and set his load of paraphernalia on the sidewalk. He pushed Horace out of the way and put his own mouth under the small stream of droplets to quench the sudden dryness in his throat. He was still trying to get a proper drink when Abe came running up to him.

"Brother Elkins!" Abe shouted.

McDougal looked up. "Elkins!" he repeated. "Yer right. I'd fergotten about him."

"He'll know what to do," Abe said. "Come on." He gathered up his belongings from the pile and turned towards the mission. Shorty hurried to get his own gear then he and Horace fell into pace with the long-legged Abe as he headed back to River Street.

### CHAPTER 8

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: A quick note to let the record show that I relieved you prior to the face-to-face encounter with our subjects. In hindsight, perhaps the meeting was a bit too early based upon the collateral preparations yet outstanding. However, I am obliged to say that I rather enjoyed it although I am presently feeling a tinge of guilt for being so blunt with them. I am open to any advice you may wish to impart. Host

To: Host. Do not second guess your actions. God, cc etc etc.

To: Host. You're doing well for the most part. Just saying. Gabriel no c/c

Abe reached the mission first. The lights were still on and the front door was unlocked but he didn't want to go in by himself. "Hurry up," he called, waving both arms and nervously dancing from foot to foot as he waited for his backup to get there.

"I'm doin' the best I can," Shorty called back between breaths. "Me old legs won't move any faster."

Hearing Abe's voice, Horace picked up the pace and ran up to Abe, sat down at his feet and 'woofed'. A moment later, Shorty caught up panting for air. He took a deep breath. "Is he in there?" he asked, blowing the air back out.

"I didn't see him," Abe said, pushing the door open. "But he's got to be here."

Two hours had passed since dinnertime, but by the sound of it Brother Elkins was still hard at work. The soprano pitch of his voice carried a sense of utter frustration as it echoed out into the dining hall. "That is not the way I showed you, Brother Kippler. Hold this mop and give me that pad."

"He's back there." Abe pointed to the swinging door behind Elkins' pulpit, the door where Elkins had made his escape earlier. He grabbed McDougal's arm and dragged him along. "Brother Elkins!" he shouted as he and Shorty and Horace barged into the room.

Elkins was attacking some boiled-over food on the kitchen range with a vengeance. Bits and pieces of food scattered off the stovetop as his elbow reciprocated across the range like a mechanical device had been unleashed on it. He didn't answer. Brother Kippler, a gray-haired man with no teeth, stood to one side with his hands capped over the end of a mop handle. His chin nearly touched the tip of his nose as he rested it on top of his hands. His hollow eyes drooped to the half-closed position. "Brother Elkins!" Abe shouted again.

Elkins looked over his shoulder. Perspiration flowed from his forehead and streamed down his rounded, pink cheeks. "Just a minute!" he said in a loud, irritated voice. He turned to Brother Kippler, delicately raised his head, lifted a hand off the mop handle and dropped the scouring pad into it. "That, Brother Kippler, is the last time I'll show you how to clean the stove."

Unable to contain his excitement any longer, Abe shouted again, "Brother Elkins, we just saw the Lord!"

"What?" Elkins said as he took the mop away from Kippler. He spied Horace and started pounding the air with his free hand. "Get—that—dog—out—of—my—kitchen!" he screamed, stressing each word.

Horace tucked his tail between his hind legs and pushed himself through the swinging door.

Having dealt with the dog, Elkins turned his attention to the two men. "You're too late to get a bed," he said sourly. "So, get out and close the door behind you."

Abe rapidly shook his head from side to side. "The Lord's out there and we need your help."

Elkins looked over the top of his glasses at them and studied their faces for a second. "All right, all right," he said, sliding his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. "But no matter what you say, you're not sleeping here tonight."

"It's not about a bed," Abe spurted, and turned to get McDougal's support. The Irishman's mouth was opening and closing but nothing was coming out of it, so he turned back to the preacher. "We just seen the Lord! We actually saw Him! Right out there in the alley!" Elkins batted his eyes. "We were there and He came out of the wall in a great, beautiful light!"

The preacher rubbed a hand over his brow and wiped the sweat off on a pant leg. He pursed his lips and gave the concoction a moment's thought. "Let me get this straight. You saw the light?"

Abe nodded quickly. "It was just like you said, Brother Elkins. It was a relavation."

"Revelation, Brother, revelation," Elkins corrected him and added a thin smile that said he understood the situation. "You mean that through my words of the Gospel, you have seen the light? Is that about right?"

McDougal finally found his voice and broke into the conversation. "Yer not understandin' what he's tellin' ya, man. We actually saw the Light of the Lord. It was big and it was like bein' in front of a train engine with nowhere to run."

"Not only that. We talked to Him, too," Abe added.

Elkins smirked. "You talked to Him?"

"Yes, Sir," Abe said. "We were sitting there discussing the events of the day, and He came and talked to the three of us."

"The three of you?" He let out a little chuckle and shook his head. "Okay, okay," he said, throwing his arms into the air. "Wait right here and I'll go see if I can find room for you to sleep it off."

"But...but..." Abe started shaking his head again, but Elkins had already returned his attention to the old man who was slowly moving the scouring pad down the side of the stove. "Good grief!" Elkins cried as he trotted the few steps over to the tired Brother Kippler.

McDougal squeezed Abe's arm. "I'm tellin' ya, man, were needin' a priest," he said with a little jerk of his head in Elkins' direction. "It's fer certain he's never seen what we saw."

Abe was noticeably crushed by Elkins' attitude. "He doesn't believe us. He just don't understand."

McDougal turned them both around. "There'll be another time fer his enlightenment, Mr. Douglas. Let's be getting' outta here."

Abe stopped just before they exited the Mission. "I wonder if anyone will listen to us?" he asked. The disappointment was clear.

"If yer askin' me." Shorty looked him directly in the eyes. "I can't think of a soul who'd give us the time of day , much less believe us."

A look of complete puzzlement shone in Abe's face. "Well, why would He take time out of His busy schedule to come down here and talk to us if no one's going to listen when we tell them about it?"

Shorty shrugged and gave it some thought. "I suppose it's possible that He didn't mean fer us to tell anyone in the first place," he said. "Do ya think that's possible?"

Horace, who had been waiting patiently at the entry foyer, whimpered a 'hello' that went unnoticed in the deep discussion.

"I don't know," Abe said, scratching his head. "Maybe He did want us to keep it ourselves. Maybe we should find a place to sleep and think on it some more."

Shorty waved a hand in front of Abe's face. "Are ya fergettin' that He told us to clean up a bit?"

Abe leaned against the door casing, his shoulders slouching with the heavy burden the Lord had placed on them. "Why me, Lord?" he asked, looking skyward. "Why us? I've never even read the bible." He lowered his gaze to Shorty. "Have you?"

The Irishman grimaced like he had just tasted a lemon for the first time. "Not the whole thing," he admitted, shaking his head.

"Well, what part did you read?"

"If yer wantin' to know the exact part, I don't recall. But I was practically raised in the church, and I can tell ya the parts I heard about weren't all that good. There was eyes bein' poked out and cities blasted to smithereens and people bein' turned into salt and..."

Abe slapped a hand over Shorty's mouth. "I don't want to hear anymore. Lordy, lordy, how did we get into this mess?"

McDougal muffled something through Abe's fingers.

"What?" Abe asked, then took his hand away.

"I said, don't ya think we oughta be findin' a place to clean ourselves up? I wouldn't want Him comin' back here and findin' us in the same condition we was in when He left."

Horace 'woofed' another hello. This time Abe acknowledged him. "You're in this, too," he said to the dog. "Do you think you could find the Salvation Army for us?"

Mc Dougal answered for the old dog. "I'm thinkin' they'll be closed this time of night."

"I know how we can get in."

Shorty shook his head at the idea. "Oh, I couldn't be doin' somethin' like that to the Salvation Army," he stated, bringing a look of bewilderment to Abe's face. "Don't ya think it'd be better if we went there tomorrow and bought the clothes."

"We're not going there for clothes. Didn't I tell you they've got a sleeping room?"

Shorty let out a sigh of relief. "No, Mr. Douglas, ya didn't tell me that. But if they do, let's be findin' it."

With the Salvation Army's 'Home for Wayward Souls' as their destination, the three unlikely apostles began their five-block trek to the other side of the railroad tracks. From their forthright movements it was evident that their sobering experience with the Lord had cleared away a good deal of the cobwebs from their habitually fuzzy minds. Even the old dog padded along beside them in a much straighter manner than was his normal lopsided gait.

At the corner of First Street and the two-lane highway Horace started across the intersection, a course that would have taken them to the city park and his bed under the bandstand. Abe stopped him. "We went this way, Horace," he said, pointing to his right. The Guthrie Building and the alley were that way.

McDougal exaggerated a shudder. "Yer not thinkin' of goin' back through the alley, are ya?"

"No," Abe answered positively. "I'm just trying to get my bearings straight. We came out of the alley and walked a couple, two or three blocks up the street. We went by a feed store. They had baby chickens for sale. I remember that. And we passed a bowling alley, but it was boarded up. That's where we turned."

"But ya can't recall where the Salvation Army was?" Shorty asked in an anxious tone.

Abe disregarded the little dig and continued to jog his memory. "Then, there was the men's store where the preacher was buying a suit. It was his church that was on fire. Did I tell you that?" McDougal nodded a yes, and Abe picked up the account again. "And there was this big woman with flowers in her hair, or were they in a hat..."

"Would ya just get on with it, man?" Shorty interrupted.

Abe made up his mind. "Yep, the flowers were in her hat. And the preacher drove up the street and we went the same way." He finished his train of thought and looked down at the nervous Irishman. "I know where it is, now. Let's go."

"Can we at least be crossin' over to the other side of the street?" McDougal pleaded, not wanting to go anywhere near the alley.

Abe agreed and they took a diagonal approach to the street which kept them clear of the alley but put them on course if Abe's memory served him correctly.

Horace hesitated at the street curb until he was sure the men were not going to the park then he loped up beside them and fell into stride.

They stopped for a quick rest near Farenstien's store. "Let's not tell anyone about the Lord when we get there," Abe suggested.

Shorty put his bedroll and belongings kit on the sidewalk and sat on them. "Are we getting' close to bein' there?" he asked between gulps of air. The strain of the long and strenuous evening was catching up with him.

"One more block, I think," Abe answered. "We're not going to tell anyone, right?"

McDougal took in a long breath. "I'll not breathe a word of it," he promised.

"At least not 'til tomorrow," Abe added. "You ready?" McDougal picked himself and his belongings up.

"Come on, Horace," Abe called.

### CHAPTER 9

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: Could you run my light show intentions by Michael? I am not sure how flexible he is on the weather schedule since it is the rainy season. I would handle it myself but there seems to be a small glitch that requires my urgent attention. As you can see, I am allowing Douglas and McDougal to use their own initiative and am quite sure they will get it all sorted out shortly. Host

To: Host. Michael will work with you. God, cc etc etc.

To: Host. Not to be a nosy body, but have you given proper consideration to the fact that your subjects have a horrible track record when left on their own? Gabriel c/c Scribe

The Salvation Army Center was made up of two buildings separated by an alleyway. The first building housed the Thrift Store and repair shop while the second contained the dining facilities and offices. It was in this second structure that Captain Hedges was trying out his new plan. Abe passed up the Thrift Store, crossed the alleyway and stopped at the door that Ezra Taft had pointed out to him earlier in the day.

A resounding, brassy vibrato resembling a form of music escaped the door's weather-stripping and broke the silence of the empty street. Abe pressed his face against the door-glass, but a window shade had been pulled down making it impossible to see inside. "The sleeping room is upstairs to the right," he whispered, filling McDougal in on what Ezra had told him. "But we've got to get by Peon Titus first. He's supposed to sign everybody in, but I can't see if he's at his desk."

McDougal reached past him and tried the doorknob. "It's not locked." He pushed the door open so a thin slit of light fell on Abe's face.

"That's far enough," Abe said, stopping him from opening it further. He put his face against the glass again. He still couldn't see the assistant's desk, but the small group of musicians was facing the opposite way and seemed very busy trying to follow their bandleader's directions. Taking a chance, he slowly pushed the door open a little further and popped his head around its edge to get a clear view of Peon's work area. "He's not there," he whispered back to McDougal. "Follow me." He opened the door just enough to squeeze through, put his back to the wall and tiptoed over to the stairwell.

Before McDougal could get through the opening, Horace slipped past his legs and bounded over to Abe. "Shhh!" Abe warned him as loud as he dared, but it wasn't enough. Horace sat down and 'woofed'. "Oh, gees!" Abe gasped, and started up the stairs. "Come on," he called lightly, and waved McDougal onward.

A few steps into the dark sleeping room Shorty bumped into Abe. "I'm sorry but I can't see a thing. Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," Abe whispered. "Just give your eyes a minute to clear up. Is Horace back there?"

"I told ya I'm blind as a bat. I don't feel him, though."

"Horace?" Abe called lightly. "Where are you?"

Horace, taking advantage of his superior night vision, had promptly struck out to find a likely place to sleep. While the men were trying to refocus he was sniffing around in the darkness where the legitimate guests were already tucked in for the night.

"What are you doing, Horace?" Abe called again when Horace didn't respond. He turned back to Shorty. "Where is he?"

McDougal tugged at Abe's arm. "Is that a light down there?" he asked, and stepped around Abe. A faint glow of bluish light shone from a doorway at the opposite end of the long room. "I'm thinkin' it must be the loo. Do ya think we ought to ferget about the dog and begin with the cleansin' right away?"

"You're right, Mr. McDougal. He didn't say we could wait 'til tomorrow, did He?"

"No, it's fer certain He didn't. His exact words were 'Right away' I believe."

"That's what He said," Abe agreed. "Let's go while we still can."

"Good," Shorty said, and led the way to the communal bathroom and shower at the far end of the long row of beds.

The nightlight in the bathroom was so tiny its luminescence was barely perceptible, but not wanting to disturb the other occupants of the room, Abe and Shorty decided to prepare for their showers without turning on the main light. There were no seats other than the toilets for them to sit on so they stood and leaned against the shower wall as they undressed. Abe began by removing his jacket, shirt and under-vest while McDougal started just the opposite by taking off his pants.

"How many pairs of trousers do you wear at the same time?" Abe asked when McDougal removed the second pair.

"Three as a normal rule," Shorty stated. "It keeps 'em from gettin' so wrinkled in me bag, don't ya see?"

Abe nodded and loosened his belt. Just as he started pulling a leg out of his pants, a horrifying scream broke the tranquility of the sleeping room. "Horace!" Abe yelled.

McDougal jerked upright from his bent over position where he had been tugging at the leg of his thermal underwear. The knitted fabric around the ankle had gotten hung up on his tennis shoe. He couldn't stand all the way up, and the out-of-kilter underwear wouldn't allow his foot to contact the floor. He bent back down to rectify the situation at the same time Abe bent over to grab onto his own pants so he could go out and check on Horace. Their heads collided. Abe fell to the floor and Shorty stumbled backwards and wound up sitting on the toilet.

From somewhere in the darkened room, Horace barked and the bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence again.

"Ya'd better be gettin' yer dog!" Shorty warned.

"I'm trying to," Abe said, grasping at his pant-leg. "It's stuck to my shoe."

McDougal shoved his foot back through the cuff of his underwear and tried to give Abe a hand getting the wire from his shoe-sole untangled from his pant-leg. They just about had the problem solved when every light in the sleeping room clicked on.

"What in the world is going on up here?" the worried voice of Captain Hedges rang out, bringing a halt to all the chaos. Hedges stood at the top of the stairwell, appearing almost as tall as Abe but much huskier in build. His square jaw-line and thin lips were set as if he expected more trouble than was really there.

"There's a huge, hairy creature in my bed, Capt'n!" a man cried out. The distressed George was sitting in the middle of his cot with all his dirty clothes on and only his feet under the green army blanket.

Hedges walked over to the cot. "Now, George," he soothed. "There's nothing in your bed except you. Just turn around and take a look."

George's face gave every indication he was going to cry. "I know he's there, Capt'n. Big and hairy and stinkin'!" He crossed his arms in front as a protection against the monster.

"Go on, George, turn around. There's nothing there but your pillow."

"And his eyes were this big." George described the creature by holding his thumbs and fingers in exaggerated circles.

As Hedges was reaching to pat George on the shoulder, Abe saw Horace's tail sticking out from under the cot next to George's. He touched McDougal's arm and nodded towards the giveaway trail of red hair. "You've got to do something," he begged. "I can't stand up 'til I get my shoe loose."

Shorty quickly got to his feet, and pulling his long-johns up as he went, he staggered out of the bathroom and down the row of cots, hiccupping and acting very much drunk. "I tell ya, Capt'n, the man's as honest as the black of night," he slurred. "I was on me way to the loo, there, when it jumped right out in front of me." He brought up his fists and struck a Marquis of Queensbury pose. "Oh, it was an awful fight we had. Big as a house and mean as a bull, he was."

At the familiar sound of McDougal's voice, Horace peeked out from his hiding place. McDougal stumbled toward him and threw a foot at his protruding nose. Horace plowed back under the cot, and McDougal continued with his monstrous lie about the harmless old dog. "Ya couldn't imagine the awfulness of it, Capt'n."

Hedges laid an arm over the Irishman's shoulder. "Why don't you both just go back to sleep? I'm sure everything will look much brighter in the morning," he said, in an effort to console them. Then he walked to the stairwell and put his hand up to the light switch.

"Oh, Capt'n?" McDougal called. "Could ya be leavin' the light on fer just a wee bit?"

Hedges nodded. "For a while. Go on back to bed."

When the Captain disappeared into the stairwell, McDougal turned to George and helped him lie back down. "Ya ought not to drink so much before goin' to bed," he advised the trembling man. "It raises a terrible ruckus with yer mind."

"He stunk something awful," George said.

"I know, but it's gone now. I threw him out of the window there meself."

George looked up at the tiny window above his cot and shook his head.

Seeing that George wasn't convinced, Shorty added, "If it was still here, wouldn't ya think it'd be botherin' everyone else?" He pointed to the other three men who had slept through the entire episode. "Now, why don't ya just close yer eyes and I'll take the cot next to ya and keep an eye out fer it."

Shorty sat down on the cot next to George's and watched him for a few minutes to make certain he had fallen back to sleep before he pulled Horace out from under the cot. "What did ya have in mind by doin' that?" he scolded the old dog. "Come on, now." He led the cowering Horace to a cot near the bathroom doorway, pushed him onto the mattress and pulled the army blanket up to cover his head. "You stay there," he ordered in as harsh a voice as he could muster. Horace didn't move.

Having satisfied himself that Horace and George would cause no further trouble, Shorty switched off the lights and rejoined Abe who was repairing the shoe he had unwired to clear it of his pant-leg.

"That was a nice bit of work you did, Mr. McDougal. But you know we shouldn't be doing that kind of thing anymore."

"True enough. But until we get ourselves cleaned up, I'm thinkin' the Lord might be overlookin' a few small indiscretions. At any rate, it was yer dog that caused me to do it."

Abe didn't answer. Instead, he finished getting undressed and got into the shower. He turned on the warm water and they lathered up better than either of them had in several weeks.

With the initial phase of their cleansing done they crawled into bed for the first time in a long time cleaner than the covers they pulled up around themselves. Seconds later the mothering hand of exhaustion lulled them into the same sound sleep Horace had found twenty minutes earlier.

One of Captain Hedges' rules during the trial run of his new program was a mandatory six a.m. wake-up call. Not relishing the thought of facing the sometimes rancid smell of the sleeping room at that time of day, Hedges assigned the reveille duty to his assistant, Leroy Titus, Peon as he was better known. Hedges, himself, took the liberty of sleeping in until seven.

Peon, a sliver of a man with a hawkbill nose and a chin that receded nearly to his Adam's apple, was running late the following morning. In his haste, he didn't bother to turn on the lights before going about his chore of rousting out the sleepers. "Wake up, wake up," he ordered as he moved down the aisle stopping at each cot to jostle the men awake.

When he reached the cot occupied by Horace he, by necessity, had to go to the head of the bed to shake out the still sleeping guest. All the other men had been tall enough to waken them by jogging a foot, but this little fellow was not that tall. In order to complete his mission of emptying every bed, Peon had to shake the midget awake by grabbing a shoulder.

Titus moved up to the head of the cot, reached down and with a loud voice and a firm grip, he ordered, "Wake up."

The green army blanket, covering Horace from head to tail, rose up like a wire from the ceiling had jerked it. Then Horace's head shot out from under it, his teeth snapping at whatever got in their way. In an instant the left sleeve of Peon's pretty gray jacket was hanging in ribbons. His mouth dropped open but the scream of horror never came. He backed up, fell over the cot behind him then scrambled on all fours to the stairwell and out of sight. The petrified Horace tore out of the room right behind him.

"Did you see it? Did you see it?" George was yelling and flogging the air as Peon and Horace scrambled out of the room. "I told you there was a big, hairy thing in here last night!" He jumped off his cot and ran to the stairwell for a closer look but Horace had already disappeared.

When George came back shaking his head and scratching his chest through a hole in his shirt the other men were awake, sitting on the edges of their cots holding their heads and staring at the floor. "What was it?" he asked them, but none of the three answered him.

Shorty helped George sit back down on his cot. "Maybe ya ought to consider takin' it a bit easier on the booze. If yer not careful, they'll be haulin' ya off, lad."

Abe nodded his agreement when George looked up at him.

"Well, it's time fer us to be runnin' along," McDougal said, and laid George down. "You just stay here and think about it fer a while and we'll be seein' ya later."

With the counseling session over, Abe and Shorty gathered up their belongings and went downstairs for breakfast.

Unlike at the Mission, where a twenty-minute sermon delayed every meal, Captain Hedges normally delivered a simple blessing and the food was served. But, because of the illegitimate entries and the incident involving Horace, this was not a run-of-the-mill day.

Peon was standing at the right of Captain Hedges with his shredded jacket still on. He was looking rather pale when the master of the house began to speak. "It seems we had an unregistered, unwelcome guest in our midst last night," Hedges began. "In fact, we had actually three unregistered guests." He stopped and pointed at Abe and Shorty. "I'd like to see you two gentlemen immediately after breakfast." He took a sip of water, glanced at Peon, then let out a deep breath. "Let it suffice to say that from now on we'll be policing and enforcing the house rules with much greater precaution. Now, let us pray."

Abe and Shorty ate their breakfasts in silence and each of them filled a pocket with scraps before leaving the table to face whatever punishment the Captain had in store for them. At the door to Hedges' office they removed their hats, and Abe knocked lightly.

"Come in," Hedges' voice carried through the paneling of the door. Abe opened it.

Hedges was sitting at a desk behind a tall stack of papers. He laid the sheet he was reading aside, took off his glasses and looked up at the pitiful sight of the two bedraggled men. One rather tall, one definitely short, both with filthy clothes on and both looking extremely guilty. "Come in, gentlemen," he asked rather than ordered.

Shoulder to elbow, Abe and McDougal entered the room in unison. They stopped in front of the desk and lowered their eyes.

Hedges put his pencil down. "About this secretive entrance in the middle of the night," he started.

Abe glanced up. "I want to apologize for that, Captain Hedges," he started but McDougal interrupted him.

"Well, ya see," the little man explained, "we noticed you was pretty involved with the orchestra and all."

Hedges nodded. "That's right, I was, wasn't I?"

"You were," said Abe.

"Well," Hedges said with a sigh. "I guess I'll have to watch my door a little better in the future. But..." he started to say something else then changed his mind. "That'll be all, gentlemen," he finished.

McDougal breathed out a deep sigh and started to turn, but Abe stopped him. "Captain Hedges?" Abe asked, and Hedges acknowledged him. "About your sign, Mr. McDougal and I would like to work for you if you have something we could do. We'd like to clean ourselves up and change our ways like your sign says."

Hedges rested his reading glasses on the desk and put on a pair with extremely thick lenses. "I don't know," he said after a moment spent studying them.

"It wouldn't have to be anything permanent ya understand," McDougal said. "Just a little somethin' to tide us over, ya see?"

"I see," the Captain said with a smile. "And what kind of wages would you be willing to accept?"

"Oh, three, four..." Shorty started, but Abe shut him up with a quick jab in the ribs.

"Actually, Captain, what we had in mind was getting some decent clothes to wear."

"And maybe just a wee bit of cash to sort of cover the necessities," McDougal added.

Captain Hedges' expression changed to one of doubt. "You mean you're out of money and out of drink?" he said in a somber tone.

"Oh, no, Capt'n." McDougal said. "We've sworn off the stuff."

"Really?"

"That's the truth, Captain," said Abe. "You see, me and Mr. McDougal were at this celebra..." He stopped short when Shorty jabbed him this time and gave him a look that said 'shut up'. But, Hedges was curious now. He asked Abe to go on.

"Well," Abe confessed. "We made a promise, sort of, between those of us at the celebration that we wouldn't drink anymore."

"And I can guarantee ya that we'll be keepin' the promise," McDougal said.

Captain Hedges squeezed his lips together in thought. "I don't know whether to believe you or not," he said. "But I'm tempted to give you a chance."

"Thank you, Captain," Abe said. "We won't let you down."

"Just don't let yourselves down," Hedges said. "Okay, you've got the jobs. Go out and tell Leroy to come in, would you?"

Abe gave him a puzzled look. "Tell who?"

"Leroy," Hedges repeated. "Ah, er, Peon."

"Oh," Abe replied, and nodded. "We'll send him right in. Thank you, Captain."

Hedges smiled at them. "You can thank me by keeping your word."

"We will," McDougal said, and they marched out to find Peon.

"Ya almost spilt the beans to the Capt'n in there," McDougal said when they sat down at a table to wait for Peon to come out of Hedge's office.

"I thought he might believe us," Abe answered. "Maybe if we'd come here first instead of going to Brother Elkins we'd know what to do now."

Shorty ran his fingers over the side of his face. "Ya might be right, ya know. The Capt'n does seem to be an understandin' sort. Maybe we oughtta just come right out and tell him the whole story."

Abe shrugged. "Maybe we should get finished with the cleaning up first. You know, get the clothes and everything."

A brightness shone in the Irishman's eyes. "Yer right again, Mr. Douglas. After we get our new clothes and all, we can be askin' the Lord sort of directly what we oughtta be doin'." He paused and took out his snap purse to look inside it.

"What are you thinking of doing?" Abe puzzled.

"I was just wonderin' if we had enough money left to buy the clothes instead of havin' to work fer 'em. But we ain't, unless ya've got some put away yerself."

Abe shook his head. "I've got a few dollars."

"If ya recall," McDougal said, tapping the purse. "I could be getting' us what we're needin' in a hurry. That beautiful stick is probably still over at Carson's place."

"Shorty!" Abe shouted before he realized the name he had used. "Oh, gees, I'm sorry, Mr. McDougal. I don't know why I called you that. I'm really sorry."

"That's all right, Mr. Douglas," McDougal said, shrugging it off. "I know ya meant it in a friendly way."

"It's just that you can't do that anymore. I think we'd better take whatever job the Captain has and earn the money to buy them."

Shorty shoved his purse back under his collar. "I suppose that'd be best," he admitted halfheartedly. "I'm just hopin' the work's not too tryin'."

"I guess we'll find out soon enough," Abe said, and nodded in the direction of Hedges' office.

Leroy was walking towards them, his hawkbill nose in the air, his chicken lips tightly closed. He had cut both sleeves of his pretty jacket off at the elbows and he didn't look too happy about it. "Follow me," he said flatly when he reached the table. "You'll be working in the warehouse."

Abe and Shorty followed his lead as he took them across the alleyway and through the garage-type doors into the receiving room of the Thrift Store. Bypassing the stacks of donated furniture and household items Titus directed them to a huge mound of clothing. "This is your work station," he said with as much authority as he could muster. "You go through these items and separate them. Ladies over here, men's over there, boys over there, girls over there, and babies over here. Got it?"

"Oh, me everlovin' mother," McDougal moaned.

"Will some of the other guys be helping us?" Abe asked.

"Nope," Titus answered with a beaming smile that brought his chin up into an almost normal place. "You two are the first ones in the new program, and there's no volunteers scheduled today. So, it's all yours. Ladies over here, men's over there..."

"We've got it," said Abe, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

"Well," Peon huffed. He straightened what was left of his jacket. "I'll be back later to check on you," he said, and swaggered off to tend to his other duties. At the door he turned. "By the way, Captain Hedges said to tell you that...that..." he stammered, searching for the right word. "That beast of yours doesn't have any tags."

Horace had crouched out of sight near the garage door to wait for the dreaded Peon to leave. When Titus did depart, the old dog came slinking in and stopped behind a bank of mattresses. He sat there and whimpered to attract some attention.

Abe had walked around to the far side of the huge pile of clothing to see how big it actually was, and McDougal had bent over to retie the long strings of his tennis shoes. Neither of them saw the dog.

When the men took no notice of him he crept a bit closer and 'woofed'.

"Well, top of the mornin' to ya, me boy," McDougal said with a chuckle as he remembered the fiasco in the sleeping room. "I was thinkin' ya'd left the country."

Horace lifted his muzzle and sniffed the aroma emanating from McDougal's pocket. He broke into his body wagging show of friendliness and wriggled closer.

"Would ya be interested in a fine new wardrobe," Shorty jested as he held up a purple and orange colored sweater. "Or perhaps it's a nightie that'd be strikin' yer fancy," he said, dropping the sweater and picking up a piece of ladies' lingerie.

"It's probably your coat pocket he's interested in," Abe said as he walked back around the pile. He dug into his own pocket and took out the breakfast scraps of toast and bacon. "Is this what you want, Horace?" He held the handful of breakfast out to the old dog.

Horace leapt over the edge of the pile, and Abe dropped the food. The old dog snapped most of it up before it hit the floor, then turned quickly to the Irishman and 'woofed' again. McDougal quickly grabbed the morsels out of his own pocket and threw them on the floor. "George may not have been all that wrong about him," he said, jumping backwards to get out of Horace's way as the starving dog charged at the scattering bits of toast.

Horace flashed around the floor like a vacuum cleaner until he was satisfied that he had routed out the last tiny piece. Then he looked up at McDougal and curled his lips into a grin.

"You'd better be good to him. Mr. McDougal," Abe joked. "Just look at the size of those teeth."

McDougal backed up a bit more. "Ya know, I'm thinkin' he's a fine dog, Mr. Douglas." He bent over and picked up a garment. "Now was that ladies stuff over here, or over there?" he asked reluctantly.

### CHAPTER 10

To: God, eyes only

Supreme Being: This thing with Gabriel is getting out of hand. Did you take notice of the fact that he is now copying his comments to Scribe? It's bad enough that he can't control his natural enthusiasm to be involved in everything, but making it a part of the Everlasting Record does not bode well with me. Furthermore, perhaps you would relay the message that I am fully conscious of my charge's history and am handling the situation accordingly. As a last request, if at all possible, is there any way you could quarantine the Record Room just until I get this mission completed? Host

To: Host. The answers to your inquiries are yes, I noticed and yes, I informed Gabriel and no, the Hall of Records has a strict open-door policy. You and Gabriel should talk. God

Abe and Shorty had been working on the huge pile of donations for six days when Captain Hedges sent Peon to get them.

"I'm very proud of you both," Hedges said as he shook their hands and offered them a seat in his office. He shuffled some papers around on his desk to make room for his cup of coffee. "I think this is going to work out well for all of us. You've shown me you're trying hard to put the past behind you. That's what my program's all about, you know; giving people a second chance." He hesitated and gave them a broad smile to which Abe and Shorty beamed back like a couple of school kids. "Well," Hedges continued. "You've done your part, now it's time I held up my end of the bargain." He handed them each an envelope. "I told Leroy to let you off an hour early today so you could pick out your new clothes."

Hedges had put thirty dollars in each of their envelopes and permission slips to choose three outfits apiece from the Thrift Store.

At four o'clock sharp Peon came bustling around the clothing pile to officially release them from their toils. "The Captain says you can go now, but you'd better make it quick. We're still closing at five." He made sure they saw him looking at his watch before spinning around on his heels to return to his other pressing duties. As soon as he left, Abe and Shorty dropped the garments they were sorting and headed for the retail part of the Thrift Store.

"My, but yer a fine sight to me tired old eyes," Shorty said later as he walked around Abe to inspect his new outfit.

It had taken them the better part of the hour to select their first ensembles from the various racks in the Thrift Store, and Abe was proud of his choices, a gray pinstriped suit and a blue shirt. He let a big smile wash over his face. "Yessir," McDougal continued. "The Lord'll be pleased with yer upliftin'."

Abe took his mind off himself and gazed at the little man. "You're a picture yourself," he said without actually committing to anything. Shorty had been forced to make his own selections out of the boys department because all the menswear items were miles too big for him. He had on a gaudy floral-print shirt, a denim jacket and a pair of black painter's pants. Abe smiled and eyed him a moment longer, letting his gaze rest on Shorty's new footwear, a pair of canvas shoes that couldn't be washed clean. "Maybe you could pick out a more substantial pair of shoes," he advised as nicely as he could.

Shorty looked down at the low-cut tennies. He had tied the laces with over-sized bows and double knotted them but their ends still streamed onto the floor. "It's me feet, don't ya see?" he explained. "They're in an awful mess. I couldn't be wearin' somethin' that'd tend to be bindin' 'em up."

"I can understand that," said Abe, slowly shaking his head. "But couldn't you find a regular pair of shoes? You know, a size or two too big that'd let your toes move around a little?"

"I see nothin' wrong with 'em, meself," McDougal said, lifting one foot at a time and looking his new sneakers over. "And they're about the same shade of black as me trousers." They were, but only because of the ground in stains.

"Okay," Abe said with a shrug. "I was just thinking that it might make the Lord happier if we show Him we've put ourselves out a little getting ready for Him, that's all."

Shorty threw his hands in the air. "Ya've said enough. I'll see what I can find."

While Abe sorted through a table of socks, Shorty trudged off to the shoe racks again, mumbling to himself and still admiring his first choice. He pulled the tennis shoes off without bothering to undo the laces when he got to the shoe section and set them back for some other lucky fellow to find. His eyes fell on a pair of high-top dress shoes three sizes too large. With a thoroughly disgusted look he stepped into them and plodded back to interrupt Abe. He tugged on Abe's arm. "Do ya think the Lord'll be findin' these more to his likin'?"

Abe smiled when he saw the oversize brown brogans. "Couldn't you find a black pair?"

"No, I couldn't," the exasperated McDougal fired back. Abe stared at him and raised his eyebrows. "But I'm thinkin' I'd better be lookin' some more," the little man added with a questioning look at Abe.

"Well, I suppose you could dye them, if they feel good," Abe soothed his ruffled feathers.

Shorty gave a quick nod. "Mind ya I'm not sayin' they're comfortable, but if ya think they'd pass inspection, I'll just be dyin' 'em."

Abe returned his nod, and Shorty clogged away towards the cash counter to get a bottle of black polish.

Peon ushered the smartly outfitted twosome into the alleyway at five o'clock. They wanted to show off their fancy appearance to Horace. Being clean-shaven with clean bodies and clean clothes, they were actually quite presentable. But the old dog was about the only living creature, except for Captain Hedges, that would appreciate the remarkable transformation they had undergone.

Horace had dragged up a pile of discarded rags in the alleyway behind a permanently parked trailer and made himself at home when it seemed the two men were going to stay on in the big building,. He had not attempted to sneak back into the sleeping room, and whenever Peon showed up he hightailed to his bed and stayed out of sight. With Abe and Shorty bringing him three regular meals a day, and no alcohol, he was putting on some weight and gaining energy enough to do a little wee hour gallivanting. He was enjoying one of his long afternoon siestas when Abe's voice destroyed whatever dream he was having.

"What do you think, Horace?"

Horace rose quickly to see what was prodding him in the ribs. He glared at the intruder. The matted hair on his back tried to bristle up, and a guttural growl sounded from his throat.

"Hey there," McDougal called out, and backed away. "Would ya not be knowin' who yer friends are?"

Abe stooped down to gaze into Horace's eyes. "That's a fine compliment, Horace," he said.

The old dog burst into his body wagging welcome. Flicking a wet tongue out in a lapping motion, he washed Abe's face from chin to forehead. "Oh, gees!" Abe said, and threw both arms up to keep Horace's tongue at bay.

McDougal started laughing, and Horace changed partners. Taking two giant steps he pounced on the little Irishman, toppled him to the pavement and started licking him with a great show of affection.

"Get yer awful, stinkin' body off me new suit!" McDougal shouted, pushing against the loving Horace. "Get off or I'll tell the Lord to glue yer lips together!"

At the threatening tone of Shorty's voice Horace stopped his playfulness and backed away whimpering.

"Oh, come on, Horace," Abe said. "He wouldn't really tell the Lord to do that." But Horace continued his retreat until he reached the safety of his bed, where he curled up and glared at the little man.

"Now look what you've done," Abe scolded McDougal who was just getting to his feet.

"I know," Shorty said in a remorseful voice, and walked over to Horace. "Would ya be of a mind to fergive me," he asked the old dog in a much kinder tone. "Ya know, the Lord wouldn't be takin' me orders anyway."

Horace shoved his nose under his tail and closed his eyes to the apology.

"You could be standin' a bath yerself, ya know," Shorty added. "Just look at Mr. Douglas and meself. Ya didn't even know us at first, did ya?"

"That's a good idea, Horace," Abe agreed. "Why don't we go down to the park and clean you up a bit?"

Horace opened his eyes and rolled them up at the sound of Abe's voice. After a moment's time he sat up and grinned.

"There now," Shorty said. "It's all fergotten, right?" Horace stood and stepped off his mound of bedding. "Good," Shorty continued. "I'll just run in and get us a towel and some soap."

Horace didn't have to be coaxed to let the men bathe him when they reached thepark pond. He jumped in on his own and swam back and forth across the small pond several times before he climbed out and ran up to the men. He was still soaking wet.

"Oh, no!" Abe shrieked as the old dog spraddled his legs in preparation to shed the excess water. Abe raised the towel to save being drenched but he could do nothing to protect McDougal. Horace shook, and Shorty got the full brunt of the splash.

McDougal stood seething in silence while the water soaked into his new outfit and dripped from the bill of his cap. Abe handed the towel toward him and shrugged an 'I'm sorry", but then he giggled.

"Give me the towel," McDougal grated, and snatched it away from Abe. "I knew I should've changed me clothes." He wiped at his face with the towel then ran it down over the front of his shirt. The big flowers on the shirt had melted into a glob of indistinguishable color. He shot a glare at Abe who was trying hard to hold back his giggling. "I don't see where it's all that funny, Mr. Douglas. Of course you ain't the one that's soaked to the bone." He slid a hand into his pants pocket, took out the bar of soap and tossed it to Abe. "Here, ya might as well be finishin' the job."

Abe had to jump to catch the soap, and Horace must have thought it was food of some kind. He jumped too, and they met in mid air. Horace slammed his still wet belly against Abe's and grabbed onto Abe in a bear hug. It was now Shorty's turn to laugh. "Hang onto him, Mr. Douglas and I'll get him soaped up!" In a moment, between spurts of laughter, a rich, thick lather bubbled up all over the dog and both men as well.

Realizing what Shorty was doing to him, Horace skidded out from between them and raced back to the pond to get the foul smelling stuff out of his coat. Abe and Shorty were left in a terrible mess of wetness, soap bubbles and dog hair. Had it not been for their big meeting with the Lord later, the whole affair would have been laughable. As it was, the decision to give the reluctant Horace a bath had thrown a hitch in their plans. Now they had another decision to make.

"Do ya think the Lord'll be noticin' the wrinkles?" Shorty posed, trying to flatten out the front of his shirt.

Abe looked at his own shirt. "I don't know. If we keep the buttons done up on our jackets maybe He won't. Who's idea was it anyway to wash the dog?"

"Yers," Shorty said, like he had nothing to do with it.

"Was it?"

"It was."

"Oh, well," Abe said, picking up his jacket. "I still think we ought to go see the Lord tonight, even if He does notice."

They were standing in front of the Salvation Army building wondering if they should ask Captain Hedges if they could go into the Thrift store and pick out another outfit. "He's going to want to know why we need 'em tonight," said Abe. "What are we going to tell him?"

McDougal shook his head. "Do ya think we could sneak up and put our clothes on the heatin' register to dry 'em out a bit?"

"That'd mean we miss dinner," Abe said. "But it might work."

Shorty shivered. "At least we could warm up a bit. And I could put me thermals on."

"They're still dirty, aren't they," Abe said with a frown.

"I haven't washed 'em if that's what ya mean."

"I just meant we ought to be as clean as we can be. I'll tell you what. I've got an extra pair of shorts in my sack. You can wear those."

"Are they clean?" Shorty wanted to know.

"Yes, they're clean!"

McDougal nodded his approval. "We'd better be gettin' a move on, then. It's gettin' late, don't ya see?"

It was going on eight o'clock when Abe and Shorty tiptoed back down the stairwell on their way to the Lord's alley. Still damp and smelling strongly of disinfectant soap they stopped in the alleyway behind the Thrift store to pick up Horace. Sometime during their absence the old dog had found some dirt to roll in. "Good Lord, Horace," Abe gasped when he saw the clumps of dirt hanging off the old fellow's hair.

McDougal bent down to get a closer look. "Oh, me everlovin'..." he trailed off. "Mr. Douglas, we can't have the Lord seein' him like this!"

"Horace, Horace, Horace," Abe said repetitively. "What are you trying to do to us?"

Horace, who had been his usual ecstatic self when the men walked up, dropped his head and stared at their feet.

"We don't have time to clean you up again," Abe said, pointing a finger at him. "You'll just have to stay here. You understand me, Horace? Stay!" Horace laid down and buried his head under his tail.

Greatly disappointed that their friend and moral support wasn't going with them, the very nervous pair started off to the alley by themselves. Abe stopped in front of Miller's Liquor-To-Go store and peered into the window at the tempting display of bottles. "What're ya doin'?" McDougal asked in a voice that said he couldn't believe what he thought Abe had in mind.

"I need a little something real bad, Mr. McDougal. You know it's been nearly a week?"

"I've been tryin' to ferget it, Mr. Douglas. But I know just how yer feelin'. Do ya think a small bottle'd hurt any. You know, just to clear the edges up a bit?"

"We are clean," Abe reasoned, as much to himself as to the Irishman. "If I remember right, that's all the Lord asked us to do, really. Isn't it? Cleanse yourself, He said. Right?"

"Well," McDougal thought on it. "As I recall, yer right. That's what He said. I'm thinkin' it was you that said we'd better swear off the stuff."

Abe gave him a nod. "Then maybe a little drink or two would be okay. Do you think?" He didn't want to be the one who made the final decision just in case it was the wrong one. As they were discussing the pros of the problem, someone in the store hung a 'Closed' sign in the window.

Shorty handed him the newspaper he brought for them to sit on, and took out his purse. "That's the plan, then," he said as he started counting out some coins. He finished sorting out his money and turned to enter the store. "I can't believe it!" he said when he saw the sign. "They're closed!"

Abe spun around. "What?" He looked at the clock on a neon beer sign in the window. "It's not even nine yet!"

"Yer the one that likes to read," McDougal told him. "Just look at the sign on the door. It says they're closed, Mr. Douglas."

"I can't believe it!" Abe shouted. He rapped on the window to get the shopkeeper's attention. In return, the man inside reached over and turned off the lights. The shop was definitely closed for the day.

"Would ya be wantin' to go down by the Mission?" the disheartened McDougal said. "I know of a place over there."

Abe took another glance at the beer clock. "The Captain'll be locking up at eleven. Unless you want to put off seeing the Lord tonight."

"No." Shorty shook his head. "I'm thinkin' we'd better not. I'm certain He knows we're goin' to be there." The thought that they were keeping the Lord on hold while they made up their minds was something that hadn't occurred to either of them until Shorty suggested it as a possibility.

"Oh, Lord!" Abe exclaimed. "He's probably waiting on us right now!" McDougal's mouth dropped open. "We'd better get going," Abe said. He grabbed Shorty's collar and started at a run towards Guthrie's store.

Abe slowed the pace to a snail's crawl at the alley's entrance not knowing what to expect. He tightened his grip on Shorty's shoulder, and together like two frightened lambs they crept down the alley to the big garbage bin. "Ya won't be mentioning me shoes, will ya?" McDougal whispered.

Abe shot an eye to the little man's feet. Somehow he had managed to dispose of the ill-fitting brogans and was now standing in his stockinged feet. His big toes twitched a 'Hello'. "I don't believe I'll have to say anything about them," Abe whispered back. "Give me the newspaper."

Abe spread the paper out for them to sit on, but before they could sit down Horace ran up and claimed squatter's rights on the center section. He looked up at them and did his 'woof'.

"I thought I told you to stay put," the surprised Abe said. "Just look at you. Move over," he said, and sat down on the paper beside him.

McDougal reached down and started brushing some of the dirt off Horace's flanks. "Don't ya be getting' any of that on me new jacket, ya filthy scoundrel," he warned after flicking away most of the clods and whisking the debris off his side of the newspaper.

Horace edged over to make room for Shorty and leaned against Abe who had already accepted the fact that it was too late to do anything about his condition.

They sat in the silence of their breathing for a long while, counting the bricks and blinking at every shadow of movement that caught their eyes. Finally Shorty leaned over towards Abe and whispered, "Do ya think we ought to tell Him we're ready?"

Abe closed his eyes and thought about the suggestion for a moment or two. Not able to come up with anything better, he said, "Maybe we should. Seeing as how we didn't have an appointment and all."

"How do ya think we ought to do it?" Shorty asked.

"I guess we just call out," Abe answered. "What do you think?"

"It oughtta work," Shorty agreed.

Having decided on the approach, in unison they called out, "Oh, Lord, we're here." When that didn't bring the Lord, they raised their voices and yelled it out again. "We're here, Lord!" The sounds boomed off the walls of the buildings. Then a light shone from somewhere near the alley entrance, then two lights, then two policemen came running up to the bin.

"Now that the Lord knows where you are," came a loud voice from behind the blinding lights. "I'd like to know just what you think you're doing here."

McDougal left it up to Abe to answer him. Abe gulped. "We...we...we-e-e were just having a prayer meeting of sorts," he stuttered.

"Oh you were?" the officer returned. "Come out of there, both of you. Clements," he referred to his partner, "check that dog for tags."

Abe and Shorty slowly got to their feet, and Horace, in a surprising move to everyone, streaked out past the policemen in a flash of red hair and particles of dust.

Without taking any sort of aim, Clements drew back and threw a whistling nightstick in the direction of the old dog's flight. Luckily, Horace scampered around the corner of the Mercantile building just in time to miss the impact meant for him. The deadly club twanged off the side of the police car instead leaving in its wake a deep, foot-long dent in the door panel.

"Not my car!" Clements screamed, and ran to the cruiser to see what kind of damage it had done. "Robins, get them over here," he yelled back into the alley. "Look at my car!" he cried when Robins herded the now handcuffed Abe and Shorty to the vehicle.

"It's not your car!" Robins reminded him. "It's my car!" He ran a hand over the damage then opened the door.

McDougal twisted his head back and forth. "It's a sad sight fer certain," he said, thinking a few consolatory words were in order.

"You did it," Abe spoke up, nodding to Officer Clements.

The cop glared at him. "Was that your dog?"

"Well..." Abe began, but Clements didn't give him a chance to complete his thoughts.

"Get in the car," he ordered in a voice that said he wished they would make a run for it so he could shoot them instead. He bent and picked up his scarred nightstick and started smacking it against the palm of his hand. "Well?" he snarled.

"Yes, sir," Abe said, keeping his eyes glued to the menacing movements of the stick.

"Right away," McDougal chimed.

Clements, with a harsh push to each of their heads, shoved them into the backseat while Robins climbed behind the wheel and flipped the siren on to clear a path to the city jail. It was a loud, two-block ride. Once there, the officers were having a hard time trying to make their arrest stick.

"But, Sarge, they were yelling their fool heads off." Clements was re-explaining his case to the desk sergeant who was resting his cheek on one of his palms in total disinterest.

Abe and Shorty were sitting on a bench twenty feet away wondering what was going to happen to them next and hoping that God would forgive them for calling out so loudly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we've been over this three times now and it still don't matter," the sergeant said in a low voice. He leaned over the desktop to make sure Clements could hear him this time. "They passed the test, Clements. I can't book them on a drunk and disorderly, or a drunk and anything for that matter. They're not drunk. And get those cuffs off them. It'd be a sad day for the force if you couldn't outrun 'em."

"But what about my car?" Robins blurted as Clements trudged over to take the handcuffs off. "It's their fault, and that dog's, that Clements crumpled it all up." He stood on his tiptoes and whispered to the sergeant. "Listen, Sarge, the Chief's gonna fire us if we don't come up with an awful good reason for tearing up the car again. You've got to help us out here, Sarge."

"You ain't gonna cry are you, Robins?" the sergeant whispered back.

Officer Clements, back from undoing the handcuffs, pushed his head into the hush-hush conversation. "Couldn't you just stretch it a little and go ahead and book 'em for disturbing the peace?" he pleaded.

The sergeant puffed his cheeks then blew it out. "Who were they disturbing? You said they were behind Guthrie's place, didn't you? There ain't a soul within ten blocks of there at night."

"Please, Sarge," Robins begged. "Just this once. I'll never ask you for another favor."

The sergeant let out a big sigh. "Never?" he asked himself more than Robins. Then he gave in. "Okay, okay. Now get off my desk. Both of you."

Clements and Robins turned and smiled at Abe and Shorty who were nervously waiting to see what kind of punishment they were going to be handed for trying to talk to the Lord.

"Mr. Douglas and Mr. McDougal," the weary sergeant addressed them. "We're going to have to hold you for the night at least for harboring an unleashed, unlicensed dog and for disturbing the peace of our fair city."

"But, Officer, we were just..."Abe started, then he saw the fire shooting out of Clements eyes, and cut it off with a shrug. "Nothing," he finished, and held his hands out in front to be handcuffed again. McDougal followed his lead by holding his hands out as well.

Robins brushed them both aside. "Aw, come on. Let's get you booked in for the night."

The cell was a double-bunked affair with an open-air toilet somewhere in the depths of the chilly jail. A tiny window set so high it would require a stepladder to see out of it was the only other accouterment. From what Abe and Shorty could see, they were the only criminals incarcerated for the night.

"If you need anything," the burly guard said as he banged the steel gate of a door shut on them, "don't bother to call. Me and the Lord'll be sleeping." He chuckled at his own wit as he walked away to let the two men begin their sentence.

"I knew I should've worn me thermals," Shorty complained when the guard closed the iron door at the end of the hallway.

Instead of answering him, Abe said, "I wonder what could've happened to the Lord? We worked so hard getting all ready and here we are in jail. I just don't understand it at all, Mr. McDougal. Do you?"

"It's a puzzlement fer certain." McDougal swung his head back and forth then stretched out on the lower bunk. He put his arms up and yawned long and loudly.

"Don't sleep in your clothes," Abe told him.

"The thought never entered me mind," the little man fibbed. "I was just tryin' it on fer size, don't ya see?"

McDougal's nonchalance dismayed Abe. "Aren't you even a little bit concerned that we didn't get to see the Lord?"

McDougal sat up on the edge of the bed. "As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Douglas. But, I'm not plannin' on losin' a night's sleep over it. And, like ya said earlier, we didn't actually have an appointment."

"No, you're right, we didn't," Abe had to agree. "But you never know, He might've just been running a little late. If we'd have kept our mouths shut, We'd probably be talking to Him right now."

"Well, Mr. Douglas, if me mind serves me correctly, it was you that suggested we call out fer Him."

"I know," Abe sighed. "That's the last time I'll do that." He climbed up onto the upper bunk and let his feet dangle over the side.

"Don't be sleepin' in yer clothes," McDougal teased, but Abe didn't take notice.

"Maybe He'll visit us yet tonight," he mused as he thought aloud.

"What an awful thought!" McDougal said. He stood to look at Abe. "Can ya imagine His disgust at findin' us in the pokie?"

"The Lord's everywhere, Mr. McDougal," Abe said without truly realizing the profundity of his statement.

"I know that," Shorty professed. "But if ya don't see Him and He don't actually talk to ya, you can sort of overlook it without feelin' so bad."

Abe climbed down from his upper berth and began to undress. "He knows what happened to us," he said absently as he folded his jacket and set it on the floor in the corner of the cell. "I think we ought to get ready for bed and wait for Him for a while. He might just get us out of here."

In the eerie silence of the small cell they prepared themselves for bed and for the later possible appearance of the shimmering light. Tucked into their sheetless, rock-hard beds they waited and watched for a sign of rescue to come stealing in through the bare concrete walls surrounding them. Somewhere around midnight the burly guard rattled by to look in on the two snoring misfits that the Lord had overlooked.

Rescue finally came in the form of Captain Hedges at eight o'clock the next morning.

"They tell me you were disturbing the peace," the Captain said, glaring at Abe through the cell bars. His eyes behind the thick glasses looked twice the normal size, and they didn't look a bit happy. He shifted his eyes to Shorty. "I thought that was all in the past."

"It's not what yer thinkin' Capt'n," Shorty offered in an effort to explain. "Mr. Douglas and meself were havin' a bit of a prayer meetin', ya see..."

"That's true, Captain," Abe broke in. "We hadn't had a drop to drink. They tested us for that and we passed."

Shorty nodded his head quickly. "Sober as the officers that hauled us in," he confirmed what Abe had said, but seeing that Hedges wasn't quite convinced, he added, "But it's also true that we were bein' a bit too loud in callin' out the name of the Lord."

With that, Hedges turned his glare to the jailer who was busy trying to get the door unlocked. "I don't think anyone can be too loud in praising the Lord, do you?" he said to the guard.Caught in the middle of something he had nothing to do with, the guard shrugged. That was a mistake in Hedges' eyes. "Well, do you?" he asked again.

The lock clicked open. "No, Sir," the jailer answered in a very low tone, then mumbled something about not being the arresting officer as he quickly ushered them down the hall.

Hedges directed them to wait outside the jail while he took care of the paperwork at the sergeant's desk. "You can sit in the car," he said, pointing to an old yellow station wagon parked in a 'No Parking' zone across the street.

"This is the car that almost killed you the other night!" Abe exclaimed as they walked up to it. "It was the Captain that nearly ran over you!"

McDougal looked amazed. "Are ya certain?" he asked.

"Sure I am. I don't think I'll ever forget how close you came to being a memory. I still don't see how he missed you."

The Irishman scratched his head. "For some reason I don't recall what the car looked like. But if ya say this is it, I'd tend to be believin' ya."

"I don't think he even knew you were there. "You've seen how thick his glasses are. He just kept on going. Course he was going slow, that's probably what saved you."

"Maybe it was," Shorty said, then pointed and nodded upwards. "Or, maybe it was Him."

Abe glanced at the sky. "Might have been, Mr. McDougal. You never know."

"Well, whichever, I'm thinkin' I'm a pretty lucky man to be here. And about the car, Mr. Douglas, I don't think we ought to mention it to the Capt'n, do you?"

Abe shook his head 'No' and left it at that. He could see that Hedges was coming towards them carrying a small case and a wide smile.

"Get in, fellows," the Captain greeted them, opening the passenger side doors. "She's not much to look at but she's never let me down."

"We was just sayin' what a beautiful car it is," McDougal replied.

"That's a fact," Abe agreed sliding onto the plastic seat cover. "You hardly ever see one like this anymore."

"None around here that I know of," Hedges said as he got into the driver's seat and fired the old machine to life. He waited patiently as the coughing and sputtering of the engine settled down, then put it in gear, bent over the steering wheel and pulled slowly away from the curb. Luckily no other cars were in view.

Abe had taken the front seat beside Hedges. The windshield was so loaded with dust and grime that he had to strain to see the street ahead of them. "If you want to stop at the service station, I'll clean the windows for you," he offered, not wanting to be too forward about the lack of visibility.

"That's the one bad thing about Midvale," Hedges said as an answer. "It gets awfully dusty here at times. But, you get used to it and pretty soon you don't even think about it anymore."

McDougal leaned over the back of the front seat to try to get some idea of where they were. "How can ya see where yer goin?" he asked, more to the point than Abe had been.

Hedges looked around at him and the old wagon swerved in the same direction.

"Ferget I asked!" Shorty said quickly and loudly. He pushed back into his seat and braced himself for the accident that was sure to happen very soon.

Abe's survival instinct took over. He reached over to turn the steering wheel, but Hedges got it under control before he actually had to help him. They were just passing by a food and drug market. Abe saw it through the side window which wasn't quite as dirty as the windshield. "Do you think we could stop in here for a minute?" he asked, and pointed quickly to the store.

"Sure," Captain Hedges answered, and spun the wheel hard to his left. The old wagon creaked and groaned and screeched across the street's centerline and up and over the curb. "I thought there was a drive there," Hedges said as the car rocked to a stop. "I must have missed it," he added, looking in the rearview mirror to see where he had gone wrong. "Oh, well, no harm done. Is this where you wanted to go?"

Abe loosened his white-knuckled grip on the door handle and picked his hat up off the floor. "Yes. Thank you, Captain," he replied breathlessly low. "I'll just be a minute."

"I'll just get out and sort of wipe off the window," McDougal stated as Abe was trotting across the parking lot. "Would ya be havin' a rag, Capt'n?"

Hedges started running a hand around the floor and under the seat. "There's one in here somewhere. I use it to check her oil."

Shorty waved through the side window. "Never mind, Capt'n," he shouted, pointing to his chest. "I'll just be usin' me shirt. It's sort of in a mess anyhow."

Abe could at least see the outline of the Captain's face through the windshield when he returned from the store. He opened the rear door and dumped a large sack of dogfood in beside McDougal, then got back in the front seat. "That's some better," he said, pointing to the glass McDougal had tried to dry-clean. "There's some cars parked right in front of you, Captain."

Hedges smiled at him. "Are you ready to go now?"

Both Abe and Shorty grabbed onto their door handles and seat cushions. "We're ready, Captain," Abe said. "But we're not in any big hurry. Just take your time."

"Is that for Leroy's nemesis?" Hedges joked, flicking his head in a motion towards the dogfood bag.

"Fer what?" McDougal piped up.

"The red dog that tore up Leroy's jacket," Hedges clarified. "By the way, I noticed he wasn't wearing any tags. That's against the law, you know?" He twisted the key and the old wagon sputtered to life.

Abe shot a glance back at Shorty then returned his eyes to Hedges. "How did you know he was our dog, Captain?"

Hedges laughed. "About the only thing I miss is driveways," he said without really answering. He rolled his window down and stuck an arm out to let everyone know he was coming, then without breaking or looking he pulled the car back out into the traffic. "You did a good job, there, Mr. McDougal," he praised the Irishman for giving him back the view he never really missed.

Horace wagged every muscle in his body in a fit of welcome as his long lost friends stepped onto the sidewalk from the Captain's car. He ran up to Abe and nuzzled each of his jacket pockets. "Nothing there, Horace," Abe said, smiling at the sight of the old dog. He patted Horace's head. "It's a good thing you had some spirit about you last night, boy. Too bad you didn't stick around to see the big dent you caused in the car."

Horace sat down, looked up at him and licked his lips. "I know," Abe said. He opened the rear car door, got out the sack of dogfood and held it up for Horace to inspect. "This is for you."

Horace tilted his head to one side and eyed the colorful label for a moment, but not seeing anything of interest he walked over to McDougal to check his pockets. "Out of me way, lad," McDougal said, pushing Horace's wet nose away from his jacket. "Yer breakfast'll be served up in a jiffy." He took the sack out of Abe's hands and jogged around the building to Horace's campsite. The old dog loped along behind him still trying to get a whiff of what the little man was going to give him.

"Did you have any breakfast this morning?" Hedges asked Abe after he had secured his car for the day.

"A cup of coffee," Abe said. "But it was too strong to drink."

"Well, when Mr. McDougal gets back we'll see what we can do about that."

"Captain?" Abe stopped Hedge's departure. "Thanks for getting us out of jail."

Hedges nodded. "I'm really glad you weren't in any bad kind of trouble. I might not have been able to help you. Remember that."

"Not us, Captain," Abe said, shaking his head. "No, Sir. You won't find us causing anybody trouble ever again."

Abe and Shorty went back to work on their enormous mountain of clothing after breakfast while Horace napped off his gluttony in the warmth of his own pile of rags. And after dinner that evening they retired to the sleeping room for a serious discussion about their lives among the employed workmen of America.

"Every bone in me body is cryin' out fer relief," Shorty started the conversation with a deep, despairing breath.

"I know exactly what you mean," Abe said, massaging a stockinged foot.

Shorty sat up on the edge of his cot. "Then why in the world are we still workin'? We've got clothes aplenty to show the Lord how well we've done and we've still got a few dollars between us. I'm thinkin' it's time we quit."

"Where are we going to stay if we quit, Mr. McDougal? Back under the stage at the park?"

"I hadn't thought that far ahead," McDougal answered. "But ya've got a point."

"Yes, and I really don't want to go back to the Mission. Brother Elkins thinks we're crazy or something and I don't want to face him again, do you?""

"Not if I don't have to," McDougal agreed. "He gets pretty riled up pretty easily."

"Well," Abe said, then paused to mull it over. "You got any other ideas?"

Shorty put his cheeks in his hands and stared at the floor. "I suppose we oughta stay here fer a while longer," he said with a sigh. "Do ya think the Capt'n could find us somethin' a bit less exhaustin' to do?"

Abe changed feet and started rubbing the other one. "I was just wondering, Mr. McDougal, if we might be going about this all wrong."

Shorty leaned over and gave him a quizzical look. "Could ya be clearin' that up a bit?" he asked.

"You know," Abe began, making a little face of uncertainty. "We have been working awfully hard, and we're not used to that without something to keep us going, you know? Maybe we should've tapered off instead of quitting all of a sudden like we did. You know, kind of gradual like."

Sensing what Abe was telling him, Shorty furrowed his brow and raised his brushy eyebrows. "Would ya be referrin' to a bottle again?" he asked slowly.

Well yes, I guess I sort of was."

"Are ya out of yer everlovin' mind?" McDougal almost shouted. "Don't ya recall the last time ya mentioned it? The store closed and we landed in jail. Don't ya recall that, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe shuddered and leaned back at the show of temper. He hadn't seen that side of the Irishman before.

"And furthermore," McDougal went on. "Hasn't it occurred to ya yet that the Lord probably knows what yer thinkin'?"

"I know that, Mr. McDougal. You don't have to shout. I was just thinking of it as a medicine of sorts. Just look at us, we're a mess. I'll bet the Lord can see we need something to build us back up." He finished his argument, and Shorty got up and started walking around in a tiny circle to give the idea some considerable thought.

"Fer medicinal purposes, ya say?" he said in the middle of a turn. With a nod of his head he walked another couple of circles. "Ya know, it's true," he reasoned aloud. "A dose or two would tend to relax the fatigue that's overtaken us."

"Uh-huh," Abe said. "A dose every now and then. That's what I mean. I can't see where that'd hurt anything."

"Just a small bottle," Shorty suggested.

"Oh, yes, very small," Abe agreed as he put his shoes back on.

Horace had no idea of their intentions but he was happy to plod along for the evening walk as his friends hurried down the street. He sniffed around from tire to hydrant until they reached Miller's store where he pressed his nose against the window and waited for them to come back out.

"There's a boarded up building a couple blocks over," Abe was saying when the exited the store. "That'd probably be better than the alley, don't you think?"

"Just lead the way, Mr. Douglas," the Irishman said with a big smile.

Horace followed along keeping an eye on the top of the brown paper sack sticking out of Abe's jacket pocket. Once they gained entrance to the old bowling alley through a loose board on one of its doors he whimpered a plea to be noticed.

"Do ya think we oughta be givin' him a taste?" McDougal asked halfheartedly as he twisted the cap off the bottle.

"We probably should," Abe said, looking down at Horace's begging eyes and half-standing ears. "I imagine this new life's been hard on him too, in his own way." He scrounged around amongst the clutter of papers and tin cans for something to use as a dish and found an aluminum pie plate.

"There ya go," Shorty said as he poured a little of the precious liquid into the plate. "Ya'd better be goin' easy on it 'cause that's all yer gettin'." Horace plunged his nose into the plate, lapped three or four times and it was clean. He looked up and barked. The unexpected loudness drummed down the empty lanes like a clap of thunder, and Shorty dropped the bottle. It clanked and started spilling out over the floor.

"Gees!" Abe cried, and attempted to grab Horace before he barked again, but he needn't have bothered. Horace was already lapping at the spilled sherry.

"Outta me way!" Shorty yelled, and pushed Horace's snout away from the bottle. He managed to snatch up the container before it emptied itself completely. "Mr. Douglas, yer dog's goin' to be the death of us yet. Ya know that, don't ya?" He held the bottle up and shook it. "There's not much left," he said holding it out to Abe. "You want the first drink?"

Abe held his hands up. "No," he said shaking his head. "I think you ought to, since it was your money that bought it. That'd only be fair. I'll just go see if anybody's coming to check on the noise."

Horace didn't have any such reservations. He finished licking the floor and whimpered for more.

"Will you be quiet?" Abe said as he moved the loose board and peeked out. "No one out there." He shifted his eyes back to McDougal. "Did you have your drink?"

"I was waitin' fer you," Shorty answered.

"Oh, just give it to me," Abe said, and grabbed the bottle. He downed half its contents in one huge swig then let out a deep sigh as he blew some of the fire out of his throat. Without another word Shorty took the bottle and finished it off.

They sat silently waiting for the Lord's reaction while the warm glow of the alcohol seeped into their bloodstreams. When nothing happened in a short time, they exited the building and made their way back to the sleeping room. Once again, neither of them took notice of the shimmering light that engulfed the staggering Horace as he trailed them home.

### CHAPTER 11

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records, last entry

Supreme Being: The checklist I have included in this post as an attachment for your eyes only is really more for my benefit than yours. As you will recall in a previous entry there was a matter of some urgency that required my immediate attention. I know now that had I started a checklist earlier, the matter wouldn't have arisen, ergo: the list. By the way, the matter referenced is number 4068*B. We are getting close to the end of the to-dos and looking forward with much excitement to working hand in hand with you again. On that Record's issue previously discussed, I fully understand your position. Host

To: Host. I see you have not yet taken my palaver advice to heart. On the list, you might want to take a second look at number 5437, re: Alley meeting. God, cc etc etc.

To: Host. Eyes only? Speaking of eyes, have you seen what your boys are up to recently while you're out making up lists? Naughty, naughty. Gabriel cc Scribe and Michael

Since the Lord had not shown any indication that the medicinal use of wine was against His wishes, Abe and Shorty rationalized that everything must be copasetic. So, for the next three evenings they made their nightly visits to Miller's store and the abandoned bowling alley where the three of them shared a pint. Meager rations for men who were used to putting that much away in two or three swallows. Splitting it with Horace made it even worse. By the time they got back to the sleeping room each night they had already walked off any benefit the alcohol may have brought to their systems. Things just weren't working out, but they were afraid to increase their allotment without getting a direct approval from the Lord.

"Maybe we should've got His okay first," Shorty said as they exited Miller's with two pints instead of one.

Abe shrugged. "If He says it's too much we just won't drink both of them tonight. We'll save one for tomorrow."

"That'd probably work," Shorty said with a nod of approval.

"Let's go ask Him," Abe said, stuffing his bottle into a jacket pocket.

Having finalized their plan they turned at the corner and headed in the opposite direction of the boarded-up bowling alley.

"Ya know, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said as they walked down the street towards Guthrie's Mercantile. "It seems kind of strange doesn't it. I mean us being together like this and talkin' to the Lord, and everything. It's kind of like a fairy tale."

"I hadn't thought of it like that, Mr. McDougal, but I guess you're right. I don't ever remember getting along with anybody like me and you have. As far as talking to the Lord, well, it ain't natural, if you know what I mean."

"That's what I was tryin' to say," Shorty said. He looked back over his shoulder. "Where's yer dog?"

Abe glanced around. "I thought he was with us." He called Horace a couple of times then shrugged it off. "Oh, he'll be along. Let's hurry it up."

After four days of repetition Horace knew the routine. When the men stopped in the liquor store he headed straight for the bowling alley. But when Abe and Shorty didn't show up after a few minutes he started backtracking and caught up with them just as they were opening the first bottle in the Lord's alley.

"I was hopin' ya'd given up on us," Shorty said when Horace sat down at their feet. "I suppose yer wantin' some of this." He motioned to Abe that the motorcycle casing Horace had used before was under the trash bin. "Here's to ya," he said, and poured a small measure into the casing. Then he and Abe passed the bottle back and forth, each taking small mouthfuls and letting their tongues absorb the alcohol slowly. Still, in a matter of minutes the bottle was empty and the Lord hadn't shown up. They took that as a good sign. Abe held up the second bottle and Shorty nodded an okay. In another few minutes that one was gone as well and the Lord still hadn't come to see them.

They settled back against the wall and let the wine warm their innards.

"Mr. Douglas?" Shorty asked a little while later.

"Huh?"

"Do ya think He's fergotten us?"

"I was kind of wondering about that myself, Mr. McDougal."

"Ya know it's been over a week since we've seen Him."

"Yeah, I know," said Abe, absently twisting the cap on and off the bottle. "Maybe we've done all He wanted us to do."

Shorty stared at the brick wall across from them. "It's sort of strange, isn't it? Him comin' like that? Tellin' us to get cleaned up then just leavin' without another word?"

"Maybe He doesn't care anymore," Abe said after a moment's thought. "Or maybe He's just too busy. I don't know, Mr. McDougal. Maybe it wasn't the Lord in the first place. Have you wondered about that?"

"That thought's crossed me mind more than once, Mr. Douglas. But whatever the case, ya know we're bein' awful hard on ourselves with the rationin' and all."

Horace nudged his casing over to Abe's foot. "Sorry, boy. It's all gone," Abe said. "And I guess the Lord is too." He got up and tossed the bottle into the big bin. "Come on, Mr. McDougal. Let's go home."

With Horace lagging far behind them they moped along until they reached Miller's Store which was still open. As if they had one mind between them they both stopped at the same time and stared longingly through the window. The temptation was overpowering. "Supposing I was right about the Lord being through with us, Mr. McDougal," Abe said, after a moment of watching three other customers walk out with their brown bags. He didn't wait for Shorty to answer him. "You wait here for Horace, I'm going in to get some more and we'll go over to the bowling alley."

Shorty bobbed his head. "Yer a man after me own heart," he said as Abe opened the door. "Make it a couple of big ones."

Horace had yet to show up when Abe came out of the store and asked about him. "We'd better go check on him, " Abe said, although that meant they would be heading away from the bowling alley and back towards the Lord's alley. They were almost back to Guthrie's Mercantile when they spotted the old dog plodding around the corner of Fast Albert's cycle shop. "He must have gone to sleep," Abe reckoned aloud.

Shorty stopped and started to turn. "It's gettin' late, Mr. Douglas," he said. "Seein' as he's okay, I'm thinkin' we'd better be gettin' on over to the bowlin' alley."

"As slow as he's walking," Abe argued, pointing to Horace, "it'd take him an hour to get there. And I don't want to wait that long, do you? We're here, we might as well stay."

Shorty eyed the alley entrance then the dog then Abe. "Oh, I suppose it really doesn't matter," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Let's go."

Horace was just meeting them. "Come on, boy," Abe said. The old dog slowly reversed his course and followed them back into the alley.

"Just like old times, huh, Mr. McDougal?" Abe said after they had gulped down a couple of long draws from their bottles.

Shorty wiped a dribble off his chin with a coat sleeve. "Mighty tasty, Mr. Douglas. Here's to ya." He tipped his bottle again and drank down another hearty amount.

Horace padded up a few swigs later, laid down, wrapped his forepaws around the casing and waited silently for his share.

"Do you like it here, Mr. McDougal?" Abe asked as he poured the old dog a drink.

"It's some better than the bowlin' alley," McDougal replied. "At least I can see who I'm talkin' to here."

Abe shook his head. "No, I didn't mean the alley, here. I meant Midvale. Do you like it here in Midvale?"

Shorty set his bottle down near the rain-spout. "Oh, it's all right, I suppose. What're you drivin' at?"

"I was just wondering if it's about time to hit the road again. Washington, maybe. That's where you said you were going this summer, isn't it?"

"That was me plan 'til I met up with you. Then things got kind of skiwiffy with the Lord and all."

"You think this is all my fault, don't you?" Abe asked, giving Shorty a stern look.

Shorty lowered his eyes from Abe's glare. "Well, no. That is I couldn't say fer certain that it was all yer doin'. But it's never happened to me before."

"Me neither," Abe flashed. "I didn't ask Him to look us up."

"That's me point, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said, raising his eyebrows. "He didn't come down here to find us. He came lookin' fer Abraham, if ya recall. I don't know why, and I'm not faultin' ya, but the thought has crossed me mind that if I'd not been with ya, it's possible that He still wouldn't be knowing me whereabouts."

"So, you're sorry we ever met?"

"I didn't say that, Mr. Douglas." Shorty laid a hand on Abe's shoulder. "Puttin' the Lord aside fer a minute, yer the best friend I've ever had. As long as ya'll have me around, I'll be here fer ya."

"Even if the Lord decides to come back?" Abe asked.

"To be honest with ya, I'm thinkin' He ain't comin' back. But even if He..." he trailed off. "What's that?" He pointed across the alley to a tiny green ball that seemed to be bouncing in and out of the bricks a foot off the pavement. It looked as though someone was dribbling a phosphorescent ping-pong ball against the wall, but no one was there.

Abe strained to watch the movement. "Beats me," he said. "Maybe it's time we got out of here."

Shorty leaned over at the waist. "It looks like a torchlight of some kind but I've never seen one that color. Kinda fascinatin', ain't it?"

Abe set his bottle down next to Shorty's, got on his knees and motioned to Shorty that he was going to crawl over to get a better idea of what it might be. But before he could move, the dot of light mushroomed to the size of a baseball. He slammed back against the Irishman and huddled into him. For a moment the ball hung motionless in mid air as its color changed to a brilliant laser red. It pulsed twice then suddenly dissolved, leaving the alley so dark that none of them could see what the others were doing.

Trying to save himself from being trampled by the two frantic men, Horace kicked his casing dish out of the way and scrambled to get his feet under him. The casing ricocheted off the garbage bin and Horace kicked it again. This time Abe could hear it spinning down the alley "This way," he yelled. All three of them dashed out of the alley as fast and as straight as they could under the circumstances and huffed their way to the Salvation Army Center. Horace hid under his pile of rags while Abe and Shorty bypassed Peon's empty desk and headed for the stairwell.

It was early yet and the sleeping room was unoccupied. Abe flicked the lights on and ran down the row of beds to the shower room where he doused himself with several splashes of cold water. McDougal took a more direct approach and stepped into the shower stall, clothes and all, and turned the cold tap all the way on. It was twenty minutes before either of them felt they were sober enough to talk about it.

"He must be awful angry with us," Shorty spoke first, after they had dried off and changed their clothes.

"Yeah," Abe said, agreeing with Shorty's intuition on the matter. "I wonder why He didn't say anything?"

"Awful, awful angry," Shorty said, shaking his head.

Abe sat down on his cot and put his face in his hands. "I sure wish we hadn't been talking about Him like we were. He could have done us in right there for that, Mr. McDougal. Do you know that? Just zapped us and we'd have been gone. I wonder why He didn't?"

Shorty had a blank look on his face. "That's a tough one, Mr. Douglas. From what I've heard of Him, He'd do it without so much as blinkin' an eye."

Abe stared off into the emptiness of the room to collect his thoughts. "Maybe, Mr. McDougal, that wasn't Him tonight," he finally spoke his mind and Shorty let out a gasp at the remark. "Well, it didn't look like Him, really," Abe went on to finish his train of thought. "And not speaking to us, that's not like Him either, is it?"

The idea that what they saw may not have been the Lord sparked the Irishman's curiosity. "Fer the sake of argument, let's say it wasn't Him after all. What is it ya'd be proposin' it was, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe narrowed his eyes and gave Shorty a very serious look. "I don't know yet, Mr. McDougal, but tomorrow we ought to go back over there in the daylight and see if we can figure it out."

"Are ya thinkin' someone could be trickin' us?"

"That's possible don't you think? Or maybe we're just imagining the whole thing. If you think about it, it only happens when we've drank a little too much."

"Well, as fer me," McDougal said, shifting nervously around on his cot, "I know what I saw and I know I saw it. I just don't know what it was I saw, don't ya see? It wasn't just in me mind."

Abe's brow furrowed as he tried to keep up with Shorty's sputtering. "Does that mean you'll go with me tomorrow and look around, or not?" he asked.

"Wouldn't be missin' it," Shorty said with a nod of his head.

Immediately after breakfast Abe and Shorty approached Captain Hedges to ask his permission to take a couple of hours off to check on a friend they hadn't heard from in a while.

"I hope everything's okay," Hedges said as he approved their absence.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure He's doing fine, it's just that we'd like to see for ourselves," Abe answered. "We shouldn't be too long."

"So we'll just be off then, Capt'n," Shorty said to close the conversation, then ushered Abe out of the office.

Horace tagged along until they started to enter the alley to do their detecting. He stopped short, whimpered once then turned tail and left at a trot. He was well on his way back to his bed when Abe and Shorty sat down beside the big trash bin to start their investigation.

"Now, we were sitting right here," Abe said, holding up the two nearly full wine bottles they had left by the rainspout. Shorty nodded a 'yes'. "And the light came from right over there." He pointed a bottle at the bottom of the opposite wall.

"That's the exact spot," Shorty agreed as he etched the spot in his mind. They got onto their knees to keep a level sighting of the spot and crawled over the rough pavement to the wall.

"Right here," Abe said, touching the tip of a finger to the bricks.

"Ah, ha!" McDougal exclaimed a find. "Would ya have a look at this, Mr. Douglas?" He bent over to eye the end of a small diameter pipe that was embedded in a mortar joint between two bricks. It was eight or nine inches to the right of their reckoning point but close enough to have been the source of the light.

"What'd you find?" Abe said excitedly, almost in the Irishman's ear. He pushed Shorty out of his line of vision and put his own eye in position to peer into the tiny hole.

"Can ya see through it?" Shorty asked, pushing his face up next to Abe's.

"No, I can't. Will you give me some room, here?"

McDougal cowered back. "I just wanted a wee look meself," he said.

Abe pulled back. "Go ahead, but I just told you there's nothing there to see."

Shorty held a hand up to shield the light and pushed his nose against the brick. "Yer absolutely right, Mr. Douglas. I can't see a thing. But that doesn't necessarily mean our thinkin's all that wrong."

"What do you mean?" Abe said, giving him an odd look.

Shorty sat back on his haunches and rolled his eyebrows as he deduced his thoughts. "If it was me on the other side of the wall wantin' to put the fear of the Lord into someone, I'd be pluggin' me hole up when I was done. Isn't that what you'd be doin' if ya didn't want to get caught in the act, so to speak?"

Abe's face lit up in a wide smile. "Mr. McDougal, that's exactly what I'd do," he said, giving Shorty a firm pat on the back.

The little man bobbled his head and chuckled at his accomplishment in figuring out the great puzzle. He picked up a piece of paper and started wadding it into a little ball. "Well, we'll just be fixin' that," he said with a snicker, and attempted to stuff the wad into the end of the pipe.

Abe grabbed his hand. "Wait a minute. Let's just leave it like it is and come back tonight and have some fun with it."

"Ya mean to backfire the joke on him?" Shorty asked with a laugh in his voice.

Abe winked at him. "Come on," he said, walking to the trash bin. "We'll figure out something at work." He put the caps back on the two bottles, hid them away in the rainspout and sent Shorty for Horace's casing dish to put under them to hold them in place.

Under a steely blue sky that evening Abe and Shorty giggled their way back to the alley to pull their big surprise on the culprit behind the hole in the wall. Horace joined them in the walk but as they neared the alley it was apparent that he had had enough of the place. He did not want to go in. When they got to the alley's entrance he sat down and whimpered.

"Come on, Horace. Come on, boy," Abe called, trying his best to coax Horace into joining them but the old dog was adamant.

"Shhh! Just leave him," Shorty said quickly. "Do ya want the law comin' down on us again? Let's just begin without him. He'll be along in a minute or two." Abe nodded, and Shorty walked over to the rainspout. "I'll just get the bottles and we'll sit over there closer to the wall." He retrieved the bottles and they guzzled down a big swig each, after which Abe dug a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pint of Kentucky bourbon.

"Where'd ya get that?" Shorty said in a surprised tone.

"I've been saving it for a special occasion," Abe said, looking at the bottle. "It's my birthday tomorrow, but now's as good a time as any to celebrate it. Here," he said, handing the bottle to Shorty, "have a real drink."

"Don't mind if I do," McDougal said, taking the bottle. "So it's yer birthday? I didn't know that." He uncapped the bottle and tilted it to Abe. "Well, here's wishin' ya all the best in the New Year and flushin' away all the bad in the last." He toasted, then poured a slug into his mouth, closed his eyes and swallowed. "Waaaahah..." he coughed as the heavy liquid burned its way to his stomach.

Abe took a hefty amount for himself. "Goo...oo...ood stuff," he wheezed then swallowed a drink of wine to kill the fire in his throat.

They passed the whisky back and forth until it and their wine was gone, and they were drunker than they had been since their first night in town at Carson's place. So occupied were they with their drinking that neither of them noticed the orb of green light until Abe put a hand up to see if he was still wearing his hat. His eyes caught the glimmer as it danced a little circle on the wall in front of them. He slapped Shorty on the arm. "It sheems to me, Mishter McDougal, that the time ish at hand," he slurred, and winked both eyes at the Irishman.

As they had planned, this was the signal for McDougal to put the scheme into action. He gave Abe the double-eyed returning wink, opened his jacket front and fished around for the piece of tree branch he had stowed away earlier. He found it then took out a sock and wrapped it tightly around his right hand. The light intensified. "That's mussh better," Shorty said, now that he could clearly see the pipe. He positioned his stick just under the hole and waved two fingers in the air to let Abe know that he was ready for phase two.

Seeing that McDougal was ready, Abe set his attention on the bouncing of the light. When he figured it was about to land on the end of the pipe he clinked the bottom of a bottle on the pavement. That was Shorty's cue to ram the stick down the pipe and destroy someone's very expensive flashlight at the other end.

When Shorty heard the clinking sound he moved as quickly as he could to line the stick up with the pipe. When he thought it was in the right place he drew back his right hand and slammed it against the end of the stick. The stick sped like a rocket down the pipe for four inches, then came to a dead stop and broke into three pieces. Shorty yelped and started shaking his hand. Had the stick not been so rotten it would have surely penetrated the sock and attached itself to his palm.

Abe hurriedly crawled over to him to see why he yelped and to check on the outcome of their plan. The light obliged by blossoming into a cloud-like ball that lit up the entire alley around them. Abe scooted up to McDougal who was rubbing the palm of his hand vigorously on his pants-leg. "What happened?" he asked, and looked down to check the pipe.

"Me damned shtick broke!" Shorty wailed.

At this remark the light flared and rumbled in a deep voice. "The twig was not damned, Thomas. But you two are coming very close to that possibility yourselves."

Still too drunk to realize the true extent of what was happening Abe swung around to see where the voice was coming from. Just as quickly, he turned back to look at the pipe which was partially filled with the remains of the tree branch. "Was that you?" he asked Shorty.

Shorty edged over to whisper in his ear. "I'm thinkin' ya made a terrible mishtake in yer judgment of the shituashun, Mr. Douglas."

"What do you mean, I made a mishtake?" Abe said. "You were in charge of gettin' a proper shtick."

"I ain't talkin' about me shtick."

"Then what are you talkin' about?"

Shorty made a thumbs-up motion and rolled his eyes upwards.

Abe's eyes followed the two movements until he was looking straight above them and into the bright light. "Oh, Lord!" he gasped, and dropped his gaze to the pavement.

"If you are quite finished," the light said. Heads down, they both nodded, and the light continued. "In our opinion you are equally at fault, and that is not pleasing to us. To answer your questions, you have not been forgotten, but our patience is growing thin."

The strong words from the light brought a sudden and total sobering to their minds, as if the party had never occurred. Abe raised his head for a second then looked back down. "You had something you wanted to say, Abraham?" the light asked. Abe shook his head, but McDougal raised a hand. "Yes, Thomas?"

"Is it true, Lord," Shorty said, squinting into the light, "all those awful things they say about ya?"

The brightness of the light ebbed a bit. "Everything has some truth in it, Thomas," the light said without really answering his question, but it made sense to McDougal. He drew his knees into his chest and tried to shrivel up.

"I'm thinkin' we're in a lot of trouble," he whispered to Abe, and closed his eyes.

"You are not in that much trouble yet," the light said in a solemn but threatening tone. "But if you do not take action to change your habits very soon we will be sorely tempted to change them for you. Now, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The top of Shorty's baseball cap moved back and forth in several quick little jerks

"Would we?" the light blared.

"No," Abe finally answered for both of them.

"Good," the light said, in a more civil tone. "Now, just to make absolutely sure that we have an understanding this time, when you were told to cleanse yourselves, we were not referring to your clothing."

Abe inspected his hands, turning them over twice to check his palms and fingernails then he held them up and looked back into the light. "We tried, Lord, honestly we did, but some of this dirt's going to take a while to wear off."

The light flickered briefly. "Let us rephrase it, Abraham. We want all the drinking stopped now!"

Abe turned to Shorty who was still sitting in the tucked position with his head between his knees. "Did you hear that, Mr. McDougal? No more drinking." McDougal's cap bobbed up and down. "He heard you, Lord," Abe said on Shorty's behalf. "And I promise I'll never touch another drop. We've learned our lesson, Lord. From now on we won't drink anything stronger than coffee. Isn't that right, Mr. McDougal?" When Shorty didn't respond, Abe elbowed him. The little man flinched like he had been hit with a hammer. "The Lord's waiting for you to tell Him you're through with the drinking," Abe said, pointing above them.

McDougal slowly raised his head. "You can be certain of it, Lord. Ya've got me word on it. Now, what're ya goin' to do to us?" he said in a shaky little voice.

"Thomas?" The light softened as it spoke his name. "Stand up."

"Yes, Sir," McDougal snapped, and quickly got to his feet.

"This is not a schoolroom, Thomas. I am not your teacher, and regardless of what you have heard, we are here to help you, not to destroy you."

The little man's face reflected the deep relief he felt. He took off his cap. "Ya'll never have a more loyal supporter than Thomas McDougal," he said, putting his arm around Abe's waist. "And that goes fer Mr. Douglas, here, as well." The distant wail of a siren seemed to affirm the Irishman's oath.

"Good," the light said as a final remark. "We will be holding you both accountable to that." With a great burst of brilliance, it was gone.

"Lord?" Abe called out too late. He turned to Shorty. "I wanted to ask Him what we're supposed to do. Or did He tell us and I missed it?"

"I ain't the right one to be askin'," Shorty said, sitting back down next to Abe. "I was so busy recountin' me life and worrin' about where I'd be spendin' me next one that the only part I recall is about us not bein' destroyed."

They sat silently for a long while letting the experience roll over in their minds. "We can't keep this to ourselves," Abe said at long last, echoing the workings of his heavily laden mind. "He must want us to tell someone."

McDougal looked as though he was at a total loss. "Do ya have anyone in mind?"

"Captain Hedges, I guess," Abe said, but it sounded like he was already having second thoughts.

"What if he takes it like Brother Elkins did?" Shorty said.

"I know," Abe answered. "But who else do we know?" He paused for a second then his face lit up. "I've got an idea," he said, standing and pulling Shorty to his feet. "Let's get out of here."

Shorty held onto Abe's hand and balked. "Where're we goin'?" he asked, trying to keep Abe at bay. "What've ya got in mind?"

"Just follow me, Mr. McDougal," Abe said as he moved towards the alley entrance towing the confused little man along. "Oh, no!" he gasped when they exited the alley and he saw the police car with Robins and Clements in it. Robins screeched the repaired cruiser to a stop after jumping it over the curb right in front of Abe and Shorty.

"Top of the evenin' to ya, Officer," Shorty said, and politely tipped his cap as Clements came bumbling out of the car.

"Up against the wall," Clements fired at them, and pulled his nightstick out to reinforce his order if necessary. It wasn't necessary. Abe and Shorty faced the wall and put their hands over their heads. With total disregard for their comfort, Clements slapped his hands roughly up and down their pant legs. The frisking done, he spun them around to face him. "Okay," he growled, "where's the dog?"

"The dog?" Abe asked, surprised by the question.

Clements contorted his face into a most frightening visage. "Yeah, I said the dog. You know, woof-woof, red hair?"

Not wanting to lie and not having the quick answer Clements was demanding, Abe flashed a 'Help me' look at McDougal.

Shorty jumped in. "Ya realize, don't ya, that the Lord's got his eye on ya this very minute?"

The officer's distorted face twisted up even more. "You realize that I'm the law, don't you?"

Abe jerked back when he said it. "There's no doubt in our minds of that, Officer," he said quickly.

"And yer doin' a wonderful job," added Shorty.

"So, where's the dog?" Clements repeated his original question.

The brief exchange had given Abe time to fathom an answer. "We honestly don't know where he is right now," he said.

"It was an awful fright ya put in him with yer stick," Shorty added. "It's possible he's gone ferever."

Clements glared at them. "Uh-huh," he grunted his disbelief of their stories then slammed his night-stick against the wall between them.

"Clem?" Robins leaned over the car seat and called. "We gotta be going."

"Just a second," Clements answered, holding up a hand. "You got lucky this time," he said, turning back to Abe and Shorty. "But if we should happen to see that sorry excuse of a dog," he paused to smack the stick against his palm. "Well, you get the picture, don't you?"

"Get a move on!" Robins yelled over the static of his radio.

"Remember what I said," Clements called back over his shoulder as he opened the car door and got one foot inside. At the same time Horace came wagging around the opposite corner of the Mercantile building.

"Get yerself outta here!" McDougal warned.

Horace stopped dead in his tracks, and Clements started climbing back out of the car, his face glowing red. "What did you say?" he screamed.

"I said, God bless yer mother dear," Shorty quickly lied, and sent a little wave to the fuming officer.

Clements mumbled some unintelligible curse and threw an arm in the air to accent his frustration, then forgetting to duck his head he slid into the car. His fancy blue cap with the gold braid and the silver shield on it hit the top of the door's frame, fell off and plopped into the puddle of dirty water from the leaky spigot in front of the store.

To Robins it looked like Clements had finally got into the car. He hit the accelerator. Clements still had the door open and was reaching to pick up his hat. "Stop! Stop!" he yelled, but he wasn't fast enough with his hand or his shouting. The front tire dropped off the curb onto his hat and splashed the muddy water all over his outstretched arm. Robins reacted as fast as he could and slammed on the brakes.

"No! No!" Clements yelled again as the front wheels locked up and drug his hat out of the water.

"What do you want me to do?" Robins yelled back at him.

"Just stop," Clements said. "Don't move, okay?" Robins nodded, and Clements got out of the car and looked down at his hat under the tire. He gave Robins a hand motion to back up, and Robins hit the accelerator again. "Easy!" Clements screamed, then bent down to pick up what was left of his hat. He shook his head as he carried the mess back to the car with the reverence one might show a stricken animal. "Look what you did!" he blamed Robins as he slumped back into the cruiser.

Leaving the two officers to sort out who was at fault, Abe and Shorty hurried to get out of their sight and find Horace before they did. They scurried around the corner where they had last seen the old dog and found him crouched behind a small bush that concealed only his head. "They're after you for sure," Abe said as he and Shorty slowed just long enough to warn the old dog. "You'd better never let them see you." Horace rose up and fell in behind them.

"Keep low, me lad, they're right on our tails," McDougal cautioned when Robins touched off his siren and fishtailed around the corner on his way to a more important call. Fearful that the officers would return they quickened their pace and headed home.

Ezra Taft and two other men were entering the door to the Salvation Army Center when Abe and Shorty arrived. "It looks like we're not going to be able to talk up there," Abe said referring to the sleeping room. "But we do need to talk. Let's go around to Horace's place."

Horace had already settled in. "So what's yer plan?" Shorty asked after they moved the old dog out and sat on his bed.

"I might be wrong in this, Mr. McDougal. But it seems to me that the only people who might listen to us is people like us. You know, guys like Ezra Taft and, who was that fellow you were telling me about?"

"Ya mean Charlie Belew?"

"Yeah, him. Those guys might believe us."

"I wouldn't be countin' on it, Mr. Douglas. Mr. Belew ain't no one to be messin' with. That's why I told ya about him. He's a mean one and I'm thinkin' he might be a little crazy, too."

"Well, maybe not him, but you know what I mean."

Shorty took his cap off and twisted it around as he thought on the idea.

"That's the only thing I can think to do," Abe said.

"Well, if ya think it'd work let's go up there and try it out on Mr. Taft and his friends," McDougal said, and started to get up.

Abe held a hand up to stop him. "Not just yet," he said. "I was thinking more along the lines of a meeting. You know, get a bunch of them together and tell them all at the same time."

"How do you suppose we could be doin' that?" McDougal asked like it was an impossible feat.

Abe patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to leave that up to you, Mr. McDougal. I've got some studying to do."

Shorty did a double-take with his eyes. "Yer askin' me to round 'em all up?" he asked in a loud voice.

"No," Abe answered. "I'm telling you. Get as many as you can together and we'll have our meeting in the Lord's alley tomorrow night at eight o'clock."

Shorty shook his head. "I'm thinkin' yer as crazy as Charlie Belew. Do you know what yer doin'? When this is all over tomorrow night we'll fer certain be leavin' town and it won't be because we want to..." He stopped short of making his whole point and a look of deep understanding shone on his face. "Oh, now I see what yer up to," he continued. "Ya know we'll be laughed outta town don't ya? That way we can leave without getting' the Lord's permission. I knew ya should've been a doctor. That's a smart move, Mr. Douglas."

Abe stared at him blankly. "I don't know what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, Mr. McDougal. I just think I've got to do it this way. You just get everyone you can to come to the alley. Now I've got to go see the Captain before he goes to bed."

"Ya goin' to tell him?"

"No, I'm going to borrow a bible."

### Chapter 12

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Hurray! Forgive my gusto but knowing that we are so close to fulfilling your mission is fanning the flames of my internal fire. Unless you (I do not mean Gabriel) have knowledge of an area that begs further attention I believe we are ready to start the countdown. Re: the weather, Michael and I are on the same page. More than I can say for certain other parties. I am looking into #5037 on my list. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Host

To: Host In all fairness, Gabriel means well and is just as excited about this as are the rest of us. You two really should get together. God, cc etc. etc

The ragtag group of down-and-outers who came to participate in Abe's meeting filled the breadth of the Lord's alley. Numbering better than twenty, they had begun to drift in around seven to make sure they didn't miss out on the party that the little Irishman had promised would take place at eight. Congregated in such cramped quarters the anxious group of men presented an intimidating sight.

McDougal showed up at seven-thirty. Upon seeing the size of the crowd he immediately sought refuge behind the big trash bin. He had no idea that his little ploy would have such a far-reaching response. He had only told five or six guys about the free drinks, and that was at five-thirty or so, but it was evident that the word got out in a hurry. Even Charlie Belew, the last person he wanted to see, was there towering above the rest of the group. The little man shuddered at the thought of what such a mob could do to him when they found that he hadn't been completely honest with them. He squeezed himself as tightly as he could between the wall and the trash bin and prayed for the Lord to hurry up and send Abe to his rescue.

By the time Abe reached the alley the crowd had stopped its idle chatter and had begun to mill around like restless cattle before a thunderstorm. Standing shoulder to shoulder for an hour or so in such close proximity was stretching the limits of their patience almost to the breaking point.

"Get the show on the road," Charlie Belew shouted before Abe managed to get himself up to the big bin. The menagerie of winos, vagrants, hoboes and bums making up the audience joined in Belew's raucous call to action, and very quickly the alley became a bedlam of nervous energy.

Abe was carrying a regular size garbage can to stand on and was having difficulty getting it through all the people. "Can you guys let me get in here?'" he asked, but he had to shout. "Just move out of the way a little bit. Come on, fellows, let me through."

Shorty edged his wide-eyed face around the corner of the bin and searched for a sign of Abe. He didn't see him but he heard him asking everyone to make room. "Out of me way, lads," he called out as he jumped from behind the bin to give Abe a hand. "One side. Make a path." He pushed and pawed until the men moved and Abe came into sight. He reached out a got a grip on the garbage can Abe was now using as a bulldozer. "Where do ya want me to put this?" he shouted over the din.

"Right here's okay," Abe said, and helped Shorty turn it upside down. Before climbing onto the can to present his message he bent over and whispered to Shorty. "How'd you get so many to come?"

Shorty twisted his face into a guilty looking grimace. "Well, I sort of promised 'em a bit more than ya've got the authority or the wherewithal to be deliverin'," he said in such a low voice that Abe had trouble hearing him.

"What did you tell them, Mr. McDougal?" Abe shot back.

"Well," Shorty said with a tiny shrug, "I told 'em they'd be getting' some spirits when the meetin' was over. But there was only four or five of 'em then," he quickly added.

"Oh, Lord!" Abe gasped, looking out over the throng of thirsty men who were getting louder and more restless with each passing second. "How could you tell them that?"

"How else did ya think I'd be getting' their attention? That's all they understand."

Abe raised his eyes upwards. "Lord, I'm really going to need some help here," he prayed aloud, then put a hand on the Irishman's shoulder and climbed up on the can.

Just as Abe was raising his hands to quiet the mob, Horace edged up to McDougal and nudged at his pocket. "I ain't got time fer ya, now," Shorty hissed, and brushed him away. The old dog moved back until he bumped into someone's leg then he sat down and looked up at Abe.

"Can you guys hold it down for a minute?" Abe shouted to be heard. The men fell somewhat silent and turned their attention to the tall man in the front. "Now I know you boys want to get this over real quick, so if you'll just be quiet and listen for a couple of minutes we'll get on with it."

"Go ahead," Charlie Belew shouted. "And the rest of you shut up."

While the crowd was settling down McDougal gave Abe's pant-leg a tug. Abe bent down to see what he wanted. "That's the mean one," Shorty whispered, holding his hand in front of his mouth and rolling his eyes in Charlie Belew's direction. "Ya'd do well to keep a sharp eye peeled on him."

Abe nodded then straightened up to start the meeting. "First off I'd like to thank you all for coming down here," he began. Charlie Belew turned around and held a fist in the air. The last of the chatter ended and Abe went on with his speech. "Now, I ain't no preacher and I don't want you to think I am. I'm just a guy like you guys. Been on the road all my life and drank whiskey everywhere you have. And I loved it, too. But sometimes things happen in a man's life that changes everything for him. Well, I'm here to tell you that one of those things happened about a week ago, right here in this alley. Right where you're standing."

"What happened to ya?" someone called out.

"I told you to shut up." Charlie Belew yelled then looked straight up at Abe. "What happened?" he asked.

Abe took a deep breath. "I know you guys are going to find this hard to believe. But I'm just asking you all to try real hard." He paused and sucked in another deep breath. "A few days ago we were just sitting here, Mr. McDougal, Horace and myself, sharing a drink and talking about things. You know, just normal like, when all of a sudden the whole alley lit up like a Christmas tree. Well, it scared us to death. We didn't know where the light was coming from and there wasn't another soul around except us three." He stopped and pointed out the Irishman and the old dog.

Everyone in the crowd was fixedly staring at him, intent on hearing the rest of the story.

Abe swallowed hard then continued, "Now here's where you're going to have a hard time believing me, but I swear it's the God's honest truth. You see, this wasn't an ordinary light that was shining on us; it was the light of the Lord. He came out of nowhere and talked to us. He knew who we were and called us by our names. Like I said, it liked to have given us a heart attack. I've never been so scared in all my life. But then, last night He came back to see us again and He told us that He was here to help us not hurt us. And that's why we wanted you guys to come here tonight. We just wanted to tell you that there really is a Lord. He knows each and everyone of you and He wants to help you. So, that's why we asked you here. And I sure hope you believe me." Abe finished his talk and started to get off the garbage can, but Charlie Belew's voice stopped him.

"That's it?" the big man said more than asked.

Abe nodded. "That's all I wanted to tell you. I just thought you ought to know."

Charlie Belew gave him a quizzical look and shook his head. "Okay, then, that's it," he said. "Which one of you's got the bottles?"

"Yeah, where's the drinks?" someone else yelled. Then general pandemonium broke out.

"Hey?" a voice from the back called. The noise stopped. "Where's that little short feller?"

"Right here," Charlie Belew said, and pointed to McDougal.

"He said there'd be spirits flowin' like wine. That's why I come all the way down here."

"Just a minute," Abe said and raised back up. "I know this ain't what you had in mind, but right now the spirit of the Lord is filling each and everyone of you."

"You mean there ain't no hooch?" the voice said.

"What I'm saying is that if you'll believe me you won't ever need another drink again." Abe's words caused a rumble of emotions. Every face in the group took on a funny look of total disbelief.

McDougal pressed up close to Abe's legs. "I'm thinkin' they're not buyin' yer story. Could ya be comin' out with somethin' a bit more threatenin' to hold 'em off?"

Before Abe could think of anything one of the dumfounded men found his voice. "If the Lord's here, He can see all we want is what Shorty, there, promised us." With that the group led by Charlie Belew took a step forward en masse.

Abe held up his arms again. "Let me ask you," he shouted at them. "What would you do if the Lord showed up right now?"

"If He had a bottle, I wouldn't mind," one of the hopeless bums answered with a laugh.

"A real big bottle," Stub Wilson added, and the whole crowd laughed as it restarted its forward move.

Trembling so bad his chin was quivering, and still clinging to Abe's pant-leg, McDougal took a step to the rear. The garbage can wobbled and Abe lost his balance. Like a spinning quarter taking its last turn, Abe leaned first to the right then to the left then slowly toppled forward directly into Charlie Belew's arms. Charlie Belew dropped his arms to his side as if he were playing 'Hot potato', and let Abe and Shorty finish their journey to the pavement.

Horace leaped over the garbage can and bounced back and forth between his fallen pals licking their invisible wounds, and in general making a big to-do over nothing.

"What a sight for the Lord to see," one of the men said amongst the guffawing at Abe and Shorty's attempts to get Horace out of their faces.

"Yeah, too bad He ain't here," another fellow said laughingly.

Stub Wilson, seeing that nothing more was to come of the would-be party, patted Charlie Belew's arm. "Come on, Charlie. They're not worth messin' with," he said, trying to coax the big man to leave before he got too angry.

Charlie Belew stood his ground and glared down looking mean and fierce.

The rest of the crowd, calling it a lost cause, backed off and started to turn towards the alley entrance. But before any of them could make their turn, the dark alley suddenly took on a soft greenish glow. The group stopped dead and instinctively looked up. Above them, spread out umbrella fashion, they saw a dome of what seemed to be translucent panels of jade. Hypnotic swirls of darker green swam in the panels, and curtains of sparkling light fell from its edges to surround them.

An absolute hush replaced the once raucous behavior as all the men stood in awe of the inexplicable beauty they were witnessing. In this silent reverie the panels and the curtains of the dome faded and the great silvery light Abe and Shorty had seen before flared its brilliance. But, rather than be an individual light, this brilliance had no apparent source. It emanated from every object in the alley. To each man his fellow appeared as a projector of the blinding whiteness that instead of canceling their vision, enhanced it so that each of them saw the other as a glorious apparition of unending light.

After half a minute Abe stood. "This is the Lord, fellows," he announced simply. As if in confirmation, the light pulsated twice before it vanished, leaving a bewildered group of new believers standing again in the dark, dry alley behind Guthrie's old building.

Stone cold sober and wrapped in tumultuous thought, none of them took notice or paid any attention to the red and blue flashes coming from the alley's entrance.

"All right, all right, let's break it up," Officer Clements' gritty voice preceded him down the alley. "What's going on here?" he demanded when he got nearer.

At the familiar sound of Clements' voice, Horace crawled into Abe's overturned garbage can and curled up.

"We just seen the Lord!" one of the men exclaimed and grabbed onto Clements' jacket sleeve.

"Oh, you did, did you?" Clements chided. "Well, if you don't want to be seeing him through a set of steel bars, you'd better get your hands off me!" The man started to plead for an audience, but Clements shoved him aside. "Break it up!" he yelled as he started bullying his way through the crowded alley. When the resistance continued, he bellowed, "Disperse!"

Clements worked his way to the front repeating the 'Disperse' order until he spotted Abe and the Irishman standing near the big trash bin. "Well, if it's not the wonderful team of Douglas and McDougal," he called out, and strong-armed a path to them. "Would I be lucky enough to guess that you two are the leaders of this little parade?"

McDougal refused to be intimidated this time. "If that'd be yer guess, ya'd be wrong," he replied defiantly.

Abe didn't like the sound of Shorty's brashness. Seeing that his buddy was about to overstep his bounds with the short fused Clements, he jumped in. "What he means, Officer," Abe snapped, "is that the Lord is our leader."

Clements pushed up the bill of his new cap with the ever-present nightstick so they could see the meanness in his eyes. "Be that as it may, I don't ever, I mean never ever, I don't ever want to catch either one of you in, or even near this alley ever again. Is that understood?" Both Abe and McDougal nodded. "I don't imagine you've seen that dog lately, have you?" Clements added.

"The last time I saw him," Abe said in a quivering voice, "he was in a garbage can waiting to be hauled away to the dump or somewhere."

"I hope he made it," Clements snarled. He turned and pointed his stick at the alley entrance. "Off limits!" he screamed, making a hand motion for them to scat. Horace popped his head out of the can and watched as his two buddies and the officer hurried down the alley and out onto the sidewalk. "Go on, get out of here," Clements said as a farewell remark. Then he and Officer Robins zipped away in their cruiser towards the Sunrise Doughnut Shop.

When Horace caught up with them, Abe and Shorty were sitting on the bench in front of the Mercantile building discussing the major turn of events brought on by Clements' order to permanently evacuate the alley.

"What're we goin' to do now?" McDougal asked, his voice choked with anxiety.

Abe rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't know, Mr. McDougal. Maybe we'd better go back in there and ask the Lord."

Shorty motioned a thumb towards the departed police car. "Ya know they're probably out there waitin' fer us to do just that. As soon as we go in they'll drive up and grab us."

"But this is where the Lord comes to see us," Abe said.

"We know that but they don't, and they're the law, and they told us to stay out. I'm thinkin' ya'd better be comin' up with another plan."

Abe lowered his eyes and stared at the sidewalk for a few minutes. "You know, Mr. McDougal," he said finally. "I was just thinking that maybe it was the Lord's doings that got us kicked out of the alley. When you think about it, it's really not much of a place to be meeting in, is it?"

"I couldn't be arguin' with that, Mr. Douglas," Shorty agreed. "So do ya think He might follow us if we were to find a more suitable place?"

Abe sighed. "I guess the best we can do is try," he answered. "Let's get back to the Center and think on it some more."

Shorty nodded. "I'm with ya on that, Mr. Douglas. Me old body's had about all it'll take fer one day."

As Abe and Shorty were trying to sort things out with the relocation problem, the word of the Lord's visit was being spread all over town by His new apostles. The score of newly initiated messengers armed with an exhilarating excitement hit the streets right after Officer Clements boosted them out of the alley. Frantically they searched the near deserted town for anyone who would listen to their version of what had transpired behind Guthrie's old building. Much to their dismay, there weren't many people to be cornered, and those they did run into wouldn't let them get the story out. In desperation, Ezra Taft and many of the other witnesses began to hit the bars in order to find an audience at this time of night.

Bill Carson stood behind the counter with his arms folded across his chest and a full smile on his face while the fumbling Ezra Taft tried to find the right words to explain what he thought had happened. Bill let him go on for a few sentences before blowing the whole thing off as another hallucination. He knew Ezra pretty well. "Oh, come on, Ezra," he said, stopping Taft's ranting in mid-sentence. "Why would the Lord be bothering with the likes of you, anyhow?"

Ezra blinked his wide-open eyes then stared at the lights above the bar mirror for a second before shaking his head and returning his gaze to Bill. "I tell you, Mr. Carson, it's the God's honest truth. Like a big ball of fire, it was," he persisted, holding his arms over his head to form an arch. He peered at Bill through the hole he had made then shook his head again. "No," he thought deeper. "It was more like a giant sun. Well, no, it wasn't like that either," he stammered.

Bill leaned over the counter and put his face in the picture frame of Ezra's arched arms. "You'll have to do better than that Ezra if you want a free drink," he joked.

Ezra dropped his arms. "I don't want your whisky," he stated, backing away from the counter.

"You don't?" Bill puzzled.

Ezra shook his head vigorously. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Bill. The Lord's done put a stop to it!"

"I wish He'd have asked me first," Bill said, then smiled.

Ezra raised his hands then threw them down in frustration. "Oh, forget it," he said, spinning around to face the exit door. "Better watch yourself," he warned as he fairly ran out of the door.

Bill kept his smile and turned to the freckle-faced young man he was training. "You'll see everything in here after a while," he said.

The trainee nodded. "You've got to admit it, though. That was a pretty good tale."

"Yeah, well, before you know it some other drunk'll be in here talking about the devil or some other fool thing."

The kid laughed. "At least that wouldn't hurt the business."

"Hey, Bill?" one of the several customers called out. "The Lord hasn't been to our table yet. How's about another round?"

"Coming right up," Bill said, and everyone had a good laugh.

They were still having fun rehashing Ezra's tale when Charlie Belew slammed the door wide open and came barging in. "Hey Bill!" he blurted out. "And all you other soppin' misfits, lend me your ears!"

A quick hush fell over the bar, and Bill nearly dropped his tray of glasses as he spun around to face the biggest drunk in town. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Belew?" Bill fired at the big man.

Charlie Belew, all six feet four inches and three hundred pounds of him, stood in the middle of the floor with his hands propped firmly on his hips. "Each and everyone of you hear me out," he blared, letting his eyes survey the crowd. "The Lord sent me in here to tell you He's watching you. You'd better listen to me. He's watching you and you'd better show Him you're worth saving."

As the big man was spewing, Bill picked up a bottle of whisky, hid it behind his back and walked over to the giant. "I don't know what's going on out there, Belew, but you're the second nut that's come in here babbling about the wrath of God, and I don't like it. Now, I want you to get out. Now!"

"You'd be wise to listen to me, Bill," the big man said gruffly. "The Lord ain't got no mercy for them that don't."

Bill repositioned his grip on the bottle, readying it for a quick blow. "This is a bar, Belew. You want a drink, or not?"

"No," Charlie Belew shot back.

"Well, clear out. You're upsetting my customers."

"You'll think upset when the Lord asks you why you didn't pay heed," the big man cautioned, shaking a finger in front of Bill.

"Out!" Bill yelled, and brandished the bottle in Charlie Belew's face.

Charlie Belew shook his head, turned and stormed out through the still open doorway.

"I wonder what in the world's going on with these guys?" the trainee asked Bill after he peeked outside and closed the door.

"It's beyond me, kid," the confused barman answered. "But whatever happened, it had to be pretty powerful to get Charlie Belew worked up like that. He's always been crazy, though. Maybe he just blew a fuse, or something."

"Could be," the kid said. He held a glass that he had been cleaning up to the light to check it for spots. The glare was extraordinarily bright. He quickly lowered it and rubbed his drying towel across his eyes. "That's funny," he said.

"What's that?" Bill asked absently as he rang up a sale.

"I think I just saw the Lord!"

Bill swung around from the cash register to look at him.

"Gottcha!" the kid said, followed by a light laugh. But when Bill returned to the register, the kid held the glass up to the light again. This time, in the dim light from over the mirror he could now see several splotches of watermarks he had missed before.

### CHAPTER 13

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Just prior to the meeting (item number 5437on my to-do list) I recalled your suggesting that I take a second look at it. A double check of my calculations indeed showed a three minute error in timing. I am so glad you were there to save the day. Lest I forget, the lighting you provided for the meeting was absolutely awesome. Host

To: Host. Actually, it was Gabriel who delayed the officer's arrival. I was busy doing my awesome work. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. You're welcome. Guess who no c/c

Abe and Shorty went directly to Captain Hedges' office upon their arrival at the Salvation Army Center. They had decided to ask the Captain for permission to use one of his rooms for a meeting hall. But just as the evening hadn't progressed well for the somewhat misled initiates, it also held a great disappointment for its leaders. Peon met them at the door to the Captain's office. "You can't see him tonight," the orderly told them while holding out a scratch pad. "See right there? It says he's in a meeting."

Abe looked over Titus' shoulder. Hedges' door was open. "But he's right there in the office," Abe pleaded. "We only need to see him for a minute or two."

"You can't go in there," Peon answered, pursing his thin lips to emphasize the finality of his statement.

"Can I write him a note?" Abe asked.

At first Peon held the note pad to his chest, but when Abe said 'Please' he turned it over and took a pencil out of his pocket liner. "Okay, but make it short. He's very busy."

Abe took the pad. "Can I use that pencil?" he asked. Peon rolled his eyes. "Please?" Abe said, and Titus gave it to him.

Hedges looked up when Peon went back into his office. He saw Abe and Shorty and motioned them to come in.

"Captain Hedges," Abe said as he and McDougal walked up behind Peon and startled him. Peon dropped the container of pens and pencils he was rearranging and its contents scattered like cockroaches over the desktop and floor.

"I told you he couldn't see you now!" Titus snapped after he caught his breath.

"It's all right, Leroy," Hedges said.

"Well!" Peon breathed then got to his knees to retrieve the still rolling writing instruments.

"What can I do for you?" Hedges said, looking at Abe.

"Captain Hedges, we sure could use your help."

Hedges let a little frown cross his brow. "Are you two in trouble again?"

"Oh, no, Capt'n," Shorty answered. "We're just needin' to borrow the dinin' room fer a while."

"Certainly, go ahead. But you'll have to be out in about fifteen minutes. We've got band practice, you know."

Abe took his hat off and started rolling it nervously around in his hands. "Actually, Captain, we were hoping to borrow it on a more permanent basis. Say two or three times a week."

"Before ya answer, Capt'n," Shorty said quickly. "We've got somethin' to tell ya."

The Captain looked confused and curious. He rocked back in his chair. "What is it?"

McDougal nudged Abe with an elbow. "Go ahead, Mr. Douglas. Tell him."

Abe wiped a hand over his mouth and chin. "You know that bible you gave me?" he said. The Captain nodded. "Well, I needed it because we've been talking to the Lord and I didn't know too much about Him before. I kind of thought it might come in handy."

"Did it?" Hedges asked.

"Well, I can't say for sure yet, Captain. I haven't had a chance to talk to Him since I started reading it."

The Captain made a humming noise and nodded. "You know, Mr. Douglas, you can talk to the Lord anytime you want to. So I guess I'm a little confused. Why do you need the dining room?"

Abe looked at Shorty who spoke up. "I'm thinkin' ya don't quite understand what Mr. Douglas, here, is tryin' to tell ya, Capt'n."

"Oh?" said Hedges. "Well, Mr. McDougal, perhaps you could help him out a little. What is he trying to tell me?"

The question caught Shorty off guard. "Well, ya see, Capt'n, that's not really me job," he begged off. "That's more in Mr. Douglas' line."

Leroy Titus looked up from his pencil gathering. "I think you've used up enough of the Captain's time. Why don't you just leave and write him a letter? Here's a pencil you can keep." He reached up holding broken yellow stub.

"It's got no lead in it," Shorty snapped, then looked at Abe. "Are ya goin' to tell him, or not, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe laid his hat on the Captain's desk then leaned over it out of Peon's sight. "Captain, we actually talked to the Lord in person, and He talked to us. It's not like we were praying or anything. He just showed up one night in the alley."

Hedges let his chair spring back and he sat up straight. "Are you sure it was the Lord?"

"Oh, we're certain of it, Capt'n," Shorty chimed in now that Abe had cleared the way.

"That's when we asked you for a job," Abe explained. "You see, the Lord told us to get ourselves cleaned up."

"And to put a stop to the drinkin'," Shorty said.

"So you were drinking at the time?" Hedges said.

Abe straightened up. "We were at the time, Captain, yes we were. But the Lord was real. And we've seen Him since then, too. We saw Him tonight. Us and a whole bunch of other guys."

"Oh, for goodness sakes," Peon piped up from under the desk. "Captain Hedges knows better than that. Don't you, Captain Hedges?"

Hedges looked over the pile of papers on his desk at the top of Peon's head. "Just get the pencils picked up, Leroy. Then maybe you should go out and watch the sign-in book."

"It's all true, Captain," Abe pleaded. "That's why we need the room. The police won't let us go back to the alley anymore."

"So you want to use the dining room to meet with the Lord when he decides to come back and see you?" Hedges asked.

"There's not a doubt in me mind that he'll be comin' back, Capt'n," Shorty said. "Like He did tonight. And if you'll be lettin' us use the room, you'll be seein' Him fer yerself along with all the others."

Hedges lowered his eyes from their anxious gazes. "Gee, fellows, I'd really like to help you with this but I'm afraid I can't. The dining room is the only place where the band can practice, and as you know, we need a lot of practice. I'm sorry but I'm going to have to say no."

Peon, who had finished gathering up the writing paraphernalia even before Hedges tried to hurry him out, now stood and ushered them out before they had a chance to appeal their case. In the hallway outside the office he pointed to his register. "You'd better sign in if you want to stay tonight," he said with a self-important smirk.

Abe and Shorty signed their names in the book then walked out onto the sidewalk instead of going to the sleeping room. They felt the need to be alone for a while. Heads down, feet moving slowly they ambled and thought about their predicament in the silence of the deserted street. At the corner of the Center building Shorty stopped and stepped in front of Abe. "Well, Mr. Douglas, what have ya got in mind to do now?" he asked as though the entire matter was Abe's to figure out.

Abe gazed hard at him. "Mr. McDougal, what did you mean in there when you told the Captain this wasn't your job?" There was more than a little irritation in his voice. "You might not want to think so, but you're in this as deep as I am. And I can't think of everything."

"I said that 'cause yer the one that said we oughta tell the whole world about it," Shorty came back.

"I still think we should. I think we're supposed to," Abe said.

"Sayin' yer right about that, Mr. Douglas. Where do ya suppose we're goin' to be tellin' 'em from?"

"Well," Abe said, laying a hand on the Irishman's shoulder. "Since you did such a good job getting everyone to the alley tonight, from now on I'm putting you in charge of lining everything up."

McDougal coughed his surprise. "Yer what?"

"I said from now on that's your job," Abe said flatly, and started back to the sleeping room door.

"Yer orderin' me around again, huh?"

"No. I just think that's the way it's got to be."

"Well, I'm thinkin' I don't like yer plan."

Abe glanced at the starlit sky. "It's not my plan that ought to concern you, Mr. McDougal," he whispered.

"I'll be getting' right on it first thing in the morning," Shorty whispered back.

"That'll be good," Abe said. He reached for the doorknob but stopped short of opening it when Horace came running up to them. "Oh, gees, we forgot to feed you tonight, didn't we, boy?" Abe said, and patted the old dog's head. "Just wait here and I'll go up and get you something." Horace sat down and 'woofed'.

Mc Dougal let out a long, airy sigh. "I'm leavin' it to you two," he said with a yawn. "As fer meself, I'm goin' straight to bed. I'll be seein' ya bright and early."

Captain Hedges had graciously given them the following day off, and right after breakfast Shorty kept his word and struck off to find them a meeting place. "I'll catch up with ya later on in the day and let ya know what I've done," he said in leaving.

"Don't be promising anyone anything," Abe warned him. "I'm going to take Horace down to get his shots and tags and everything, so I'll be somewhere between the veterinarian's and here."

"That's the plan, then," Shorty said. He gave Abe and Horace a little wave and took off at a fairly fast pace.

Horace was just finishing his bowl of food. "I'm afraid you're not going to like this much," Abe said, and patted his head. "But come on, boy, we've got some errands to do."

It was a bright, spring morning. The silky blue sky still hung on to a bite of winter's chill but the air was plump with the crisp sounds of a town coming back to life after a good night's sleep.

Abe and Horace walked along at a leisurely pace taking in the sights and watching as the people went about preparing for the new day. Shopkeepers were beginning to open their doors and cars were starting to fill in the empty spaces along the curbs.

"I didn't realize the town was so busy," Abe said aloud. "I guess I've never really taken a good look during the day. How about you, Horace? Did you know there was this many people around here?"

As they walked on Abe noticed that some of the people rushing into and out of the stores were men he had seen at the meeting the previous night. Ezra Taft was one of them. "There's Ezra, Horace," Abe said. He raised a hand and called across the street, "'Morning, Ezra." But Taft didn't return the greeting, instead he ran into another store next door to the one he had just exited. "Ezra's a strange fellow, Horace, but I like him, don't you?" He looked back to see if Horace was still with him. He was, and they kept on walking.

At the veterinarian's Abe had to help hold the squirming old dog on the table while the doctor administered his several injections. Each shot brought a pitiful little cry of discomfort from the old boy, and that brought tears to Abe's eyes. "I wanted to be a veterinarian once, Doc," Abe said with a sniffle when it was all over. "I guess it's a good thing I didn't."

"Aw, you get used to it, Mr. Douglas," the doctor answered, handing Abe a tissue. "You've just got to think about the good it's doing them. By the way, Arthur Hedges called me this morning and said you work for him."

"Uh-huh," Abe said with a nod as he blew his nose.

"Well, the shots are free, then. But I have to charge you for the tags. That okay?"

Abe paid the fee and dragged Horace out from under the table. "Come on, boy. You're a good dog, Horace. Come on, now, let's go home."

Horace quivered and whimpered, but when the doctor opened the front door, he shot out and jumped over the gate. In a flash of red he was gone.

Abe ran out and tried to call him back but it was a wasted effort. Horace was already out of sight and hearing distance. Abe opened the gate to follow him. "Well, at least you've got your tags now. Maybe the police'll leave you alone," he said aloud, then waved a goodbye to the veterinarian and started back to the Salvation Army Center.

Abe was a couple of blocks from the Center when a man he didn't think he knew ran up to him. His face was flushed a bright red and his bulged eyes held a look of fright in them. He grabbed Abe's arm and forcefully stopped his forward movement. "You're not going to believe this," the fellow said, panting to catch his breath. "But the Lord is going to end the world, today or maybe tomorrow. I don't know, but real soon it's going to be poof! We're all going to be gone. I saw Him just last night, myself."

"My God, man," Abe said, and shook himself loose of the fellows tight grip. "Get a hold of yourself. Have you been telling everyone that?"

"Absolutely, everyone I can," the man said. "And it's the God's honest truth, so help me." He looked up quickly, his eyes in motion as he searched the heavens like he expected some terrible catastrophe to come crashing down as they spoke.

"No. No. No!" Abe shouted at him, and closed his eyes for a long moment.

The man grabbed his arm again. "It ain't going to do no good to say no, Mister. His mind's made up."

Abe opened his eyes again and took the man's hand off his sleeve. "Now, listen to me," Abe said, staring directly into the man's fretful eyes. "The Lord's not about to destroy you or anyone else. You've got it all wrong. I was there last night and I saw Him too. So don't be telling folks that."

Tears were beginning to show as the man's face fell into the somber look of total depression. He let his arms free-fall to his sides. "Why won't anybody listen to me?" he cried out, but before Abe could try to help him more he dashed away yelling, "The end is coming. The end is coming."

Abe looked into the cloudless sky. "Lord, we've got a lot of explaining to do tonight," he said as he put his thoughts into words. "I sure hope you've helped Mr. McDougal find us a place to do it in."

### CHAPTER 14

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: I don't have time at present to personally thank Gabriel for his useful intervention, but it was a great help and I am sure when he reads this he will know that I do appreciate his looking out for me. Let the record show that I am parsing the data input on my list to eliminate both translation errors and the necessity of any subsequent actions on his part. I know how busy he is with his normal duties. Also, I have found myself leaning more toward allowing Douglas and McDougal to handle a goodly portion of the preliminaries. Host

To: Host. I am anxious to see how that turns out for you. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. Me too. And don't fret over my work load. I'm younger than you, remember? Gabriel no cc

Since Abe didn't have a shot record for Horace, the old dog had to suffer every known injection all at one time. One of them, the Veterinarian had warned, was going to hurt for a good long while. In an effort to make amends, Abe stopped at the Lickity-Split Pet Store on his way to the Center and bought a bag of doggie treats. But before going to the alley to see if Horace had come home he made a quick detour to pick up the bible that Captain Hedges had loaned him.

In the alleyway, Horace had pushed his whole body under his rag bed. At first Abe didn't see him and would have probably overlooked him completely if the frightened old dog hadn't been quivering so much. Abe edged over to him. "Horace," he said in a pleasant voice, "is that you under there?"

The rag-pile quaked a little more and the tip of Horace's tail popped out and began to twitch ever so slightly back and forth.

Abe sat down beside the bed and patted the top of the pile. "I brought you something," he said. "When you're ready for it, I'll be right here." He patted the pile again, then opened the bible and began to read. In a few minutes he was asleep. Before he realized it, the afternoon had slipped away and Horace was licking him awake.

The old dog was happier now, seeming to have forgotten the morning ordeal. Abe gave him one of the rawhide bones he had purchased earlier, then closed the bible on page three. If it hadn't been so late he would have read on, but it was nearing five o'clock and he was anxious to see if McDougal had returned yet. He walked around the building and went into the dining room, but McDougal wasn't there.

Shorty had been gone all day and had never once checked in with Abe to let him know how his meeting arrangements were going. Being busy with Horace, the bible reading, and the siesta, Abe hadn't worried about McDougal's progress until now. He sat down at one of the tables and nervously drummed his fingers against the pine boards.

It was two minutes after five when the Irishman, beaming with excitement, rushed into the dining room. Fortunately, Captain Hedges didn't lock the front door like Brother Elkins did during the dinner hour. Shorty arrived just in time to hear Captain Hedges deliver the last words of his blessing. "Amen," Shorty said with a nod to the Captain, then sat down beside Abe. Abraham was noticeably on edge. Shorty gave him a grin but didn't seem in any hurry to explain his tardiness.

"Well?" Abe finally had to ask. "Did you find us a place?"

"Were ya thinkin' I'd be lettin' ya down?" Shorty answered. He patted the upper front of his jacket.

Abe opened his mouth to reply, but Shorty cut him off. "Don't ya be frettin'. Thomas McDougal ain't one to take his work lightly." He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and waved it in front of Abe for a moment then stuck it back into his pocket. "It's all properly signed by them in authority and the meetin's set fer seven-thirty tonight."

Abe breathed out a sigh of relief. "Where?" he asked.

"The Park," Shorty answered rather hurriedly as he rose from the table. "I'll be runnin' along now to finish gettin' the word out as to the new location, and I'll meet up with ya there." Before Abe could question him further, the little man spun around and almost ran to the entry hall. At the door he stopped and gave Abe a finger wave.

"What..." Abe started to say, but he was too late. Shorty darted through the door.

"I don't mean to pry," Captain Hedges interrupted Abe's thoughts. "Is Mr. McDougal feeling ill? I mean, he didn't stay for dinner."

Abe looked up then pushed his chair back from the table. "I—I don't think so, but I have the feeling maybe I ought to go check on him."

"If I can be of any help," Hedges offered with a nod.

Abe scooted his chair back to the table and folded his hands in front of himself. "You know, Captain, now that you mention it, there is something I've been meaning to ask you about."

Hedges sat down across from Abe. "Yes?"

"Well, I was just thinking," Abe started, but as though he may have changed his mind, he paused for a long time.

Hedges cleared his throat. "And?"

"Well," Abe began slowly, "you being a religious man and all, I was just wondering. Well, if you were the Lord and living in heaven where you had everything you ever wanted or needed, what would make you want to come down here and let yourself be seen?"

It was apparent the question came as a surprise to the Captain. He took in a deep breath and chewed his lower lip in thought for a moment before answering. "That's a good question," he said with a look of puzzlement on his face. "I've never given it any thought to be honest. I suppose the only answer is that He loves us and He worries about us. Worries about how we treat other people and ourselves. I wouldn't presume to answer for God, but if you read the Bible you'll find that He's shown Himself many times to people. People like Adam and Abraham and Moses and others. Why do you ask?"

Abe's face reddened.

"Oh, yes, I recall now," Hedges said with a nod. "Are you and Mr. McDougal still talking with the Lord? Is that what this is all about?"

"We haven't actually talked to him anymore," Abe clarified. "That is to say, He hasn't been talking back like he did before. But He still shows up, and I haven't figured out why yet."

Hedges smiled and patted Abe's shirtsleeve. "I'm sure it will all work out. You know God has His own reasons for doing the things He does. It's not really our job to second-guess Him. It'll no doubt all come to you someday." He stopped and looked around the room. "Well," he changed the subject with a hand gesture that said it was handled as far as he was concerned. "Shall we eat?"

After a quick dinner, Abe showered and put on his best suit of clothes then sat down on his cot to read a bit more. Had it not been for Leroy Titus' evening room-check he would have been terribly late for the meeting.

"You haven't signed in," Peon snapped when he saw Abe. "Where's your friend? He hasn't signed in either."

"Oh, my God!" Abe gasped. "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirteen," Peon said, looking at his over-sized wristwatch.

Abe jumped to his feet and ran toward the stairwell.

"Sign my book!" Peon yelled after him.

Outside, darkness had begun to steal away the sky. Abe was praying aloud that Peon's watch was wrong as he left the Salvation Army Building and half-ran the few blocks to the Park. It was quite dark when he got there, and his sudden appearance startled a young couple that thought they were alone on the raised, multi-purpose platform. The young man was softly serenading the girl with a tune on his harmonica, but stopped abruptly when Abe joined them on the bandstand.

"Sorry," Abe said just as the streetlights around the walkway came on. He motioned for the lad to continue. "Do you know something a little more lively?" he asked, and when the young man nodded, he asked him to play it as loud as he could. The boy was happy to oblige and began to fill the air with "Oh, Susanna." He was a pretty good harmonica player, and as Abe turned to look out over the park he was pleased to see a small crowd beginning to gather at the base of the bandstand to listen to the boy. Just beyond this crowd he saw several of the men he recognized as being at the previous night's awakening. Among this second group he spotted McDougal pushing his way to the front.

"What did you promise them this time?" He asked when Shorty came trotting up and joined him on the platform stage.

"Not a thing," Shorty panted. "I just reminded them to come to the convention tonight."

"Convention? You told them we were having a convention?"

Shorty squinted at him. "Well, wouldn't ya say it is sort of a convention? It really ain't supposed to start tonight but the permit is legal and all."

"Mr. McDougal, if you get us in trouble again...what kind of convention is it anyway?"

"Oh, just a little one," the Irishman mumbled. "We're star-gazers don't ya see? Mostly we gather to look at the sky and such."

The young man with the harmonica had changed tunes and was now standing behind Abe and Shorty stomping his foot to the beat of "Turkey In The Straw". The small crowd of eighteen or twenty adults and children was bobbing in time to the fast rhythm when Abe turned to address them. "Folks, I'm sure glad you're here tonight and the Lord'll be happy too."

The boy stopped playing and the crowd looked inquisitively at Abe. He pointed to the heavens. "Have you ever looked up into the night sky at all the stars and everything and wondered if there was someone or something up there looking back at you?"

To a person, everyone automatically looked up. It was a clear, cool evening with millions of stars visible. Some of the people began to point out the bigger stars and the different constellations.

"It just seems there's no end to it," Abe said over the buzz of the crowd. When the talk settled down, he continued, "You know, folks, I've been a hobo most of my life. Rode the rails through every state pretty much. I guess I'm what you'd call a rambler, moving around from place to place, never calling anyplace home." He paused and studied the faces of the people in the crowd. They were focused on him. "I've slept on the ground more than I've ever slept in a bed," he went on. "And I've looked up at those same stars from a lot of places. They've been a wonderment to me from the swamps of Georgia to the highest mountains of the Rockies. There's not too many things that'll compare to the beauty of them. At least that's what I thought up until a couple of days ago."

Abe took his hat off and rolled it up in his hands. He lowered his eyes as if he didn't know what to say next. "Go on, young man," an older lady said. She was smiling and nodding her head slightly, encouraging him to finish. "Tell us what happened to change your mind."

Shorty nudged him with a quick tap on his arm. "I'm thinkin' this'd be the right time to spill what ya know."

"I'm getting to it," said Abe. He raised his voice so the people in his audience could hear him, "You folks don't know me and I don't know you and it's kind of embarrassing telling you this. But I feel like that's what the Lord wants me to do. You see, up until a few days ago I was a real heavy drinker, but not anymore, I'm not. That's because the Lord Himself came down and told me to quit."

This new twist on what Abe was saying didn't seem to set well with the crowd. In the behavior of a school of fish or a flock of birds they began to turn in unison to make their getaway. The only thing that stopped them from departing was the ring of winos, bums and assorted ill-dressed tramps that surrounded them. Abe's reformed followers from the evening before had locked their arms together forming a chain which none of the townsfolk appeared to be inclined to break. The nervous tension was evident on their faces as they again turned to face Abe.

"Now, I'm not going to preach to you, if that's what's worrying you," Abe informed them. "To be real honest, I ain't ever read the whole bible, and the part I did read didn't make much sense to me. I just want to tell you that the Lord is right here with us and he worries about us. That's all I wanted to say. He knows each and everyone of us by name and He'd sure like for us to be better people, and to listen to Him. I think that's all He really wants from us." Abe stopped and again pointed skyward.

In the same instant, the walkway lamps extinguished and a magnificent, shimmering light engulfed the small crowd. It poured down on them as though a rainbow had been flung into a waterfall and had shattered into a billion bits of color. It radiated back and forth from person to person for a few seconds, and then disappeared as quickly as it had come forth. In awe and speechless, every person in the crowd gazed up at Abe. There was the look of complete reverence in each of the faces.

"That was the Lord," Abe said. "And I'm sure glad He came. Isn't He something?"

"Amen!" someone shouted.

"Amen, amen, amen. Hallelujah!" the crowd responded loudly.

As the crowd was praising the occurrence, one of its members, a distinguished looking man in white golf slacks and a blue blazer, squeezed through the other people and stood at the edge of the platform. "Brother...ah?"

"Abraham," Abe supplied.

"Brother Abraham, I don't know how else I can show you my appreciation." He reached up and took Abe's hat out of his hand and dropped two hundred-dollar bills into it. "It's a marvelous thing you're doing."

The generous fellow's contribution started a chain reaction among the regular citizens who were there. In turn, all of the adults and a couple of youngsters put money in Abe's hat. Then, as if the cops had shown up again and yelled "Disperse", the whole crowd rushed away leaving Abe and Shorty alone on the platform.

The Irishman picked up Abe's hat and held it between them with both hands. "I'm thinkin' the only fair thing to do would be to split it right down the middle," he said in a very low voice. He curled his brushy eyebrows and waited to see what Abe's reaction to the idea might be.

"What?" Abe answered, which was really a courtesy more than an answer, but Shorty heard it differently.

"Well," the little man offered, "when ya get right down to it, I do suppose your share ought to be a bit more. Let's say sixty-forty. Would that be strikin' ya more favorably?"

Abe finally turned his attention away from the course of events and looked at McDougal. "What are you mumbling about?" he asked.

Shorty put the hat into one of Abe's hands. "Oh, just ferget it. It's not important anyhow."

"Whatever you say," Abe agreed, then handed him back the hat. "Here, go do something good with this."

"That I can do," said McDougal. He stuffed the money into a pants pocket. "Would ya be havin' any needs fer yerself?"

"No, I can't think of anything," Abe said in a distant, drawn out tone. He hesitated for a second, then ask, " Mr. McDougal?"

"Huh?"

"What do you think the Lord really has in mind?"

"In me own mind, Mr. Douglas, I haven't got a clue. But I can tell ya, it 's nothin' like the Sisters use to preach about. So, I figure He ain't plannin' on doin' us in or anything. In fact, as ya saw tonight, He's bein' awful good to us. I'm thinkin' the best way fer us to handle this is by not askin' too many questions, don't ya see?"

"You mean just keep doing what we're doing and see how it works out?"

"That's precisely what I mean."

Abe nodded. "You're probably right, Mr. McDougal. How long do we have the okay to use the park?"

Shorty pulled the paper out of his jacket pocket. "Fer a week," he said, handing the paper to Abe. They started walking. "I just wanted to tell ya, Mr. Douglas, that was a nice speech ya gave tonight. How'd ya come up with it so fast?"

Abe shook his head. "Mr. McDougal, I don't have a clue either. It just came to me as I talked. To tell you the truth, it kind of surprised me too."

Horace came out from under the bandstand and loped up beside them, and the three of them, each immersed in their own thoughts, walked slowly towards the Salvation Army Center.

### CHAPTER 15

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Once again, I am so amazed by your power and willingness to share your visions with us all. I pray I did not overstep my boundaries by giving Douglas' mind a little nudge in the right direction. All in all, I believe we have gotten off to a great start; a feeling I hope you share. The second phase is now underway. Talley ho. Host

P.S. My revised list is on its way.

To: Host. As you might say, things are beginning to look up. As you are pleased with me so am I of you. Your handling of the matter is to be commended. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. I can see that affairs are about to get complicated. Remember, I'm just a thought away. F.Y.I. Gabriel no cc

Even as Abraham and Thomas ambled toward the Center, report of the heavenly occurrence fanned across town like a brushfire. Those who saw and felt God's presence in the park were ecstatically circulating the word of the Lord's visit. Hattie Scott was one of the persons doing the fanning. She rushed home to tell her husband, Ray, then got busy on the phone. Hattie knew a lot of people and the information she had to share with them couldn't wait for morning. But the good news message she was trying to deliver was turning out to be more like a bombshell. "Gladys, this is Hattie. You'd better sit down..." "Irma Jean, this is Hattie. You'd better sit on the floor..." "Charlene, Hattie. Will your cord reach to the bed?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'll tell you in a second. Just get on the bed, in the middle of it. Tell me when you're there."

"Have you been drinking, Hattie?"

"No. Are you on the bed yet?"

"Okay. Now I am. What's going on, Hattie?"

"Charlene, I just told Gladys this and I think she fell off her chair, and Irma Jean is passed out I think."

"Hattie!"

"Okay! Here goes. Charlene, God is in Midvale!"

"Now, I know you've been drinking. You want me to come over?"

"I mean it, Charlene. God is here! I saw Him tonight. And, Charlene, He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You know how they say you see a light when you die?"

"Yeeess."

"Well, honey, you don't have to die to see it. God is the light. He's a glorious light. Every color you could ever imagine all wrapped together and still separate. Oh, Charlene, it's so hard to explain, but this part you'll understand. You know my bum knee?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's not bum anymore!"

"What?"

"It's perfect! I can walk as straight as you can!"

"What?"

"It's just like I never got hurt. It's perfect!"

"..."

"Charlene? Charlene?"

Similar calls and visits were being made all over town, this time by emissaries whose statements were being heard in an entirely different light from that of the poor fellows who had tried the night before.

By late afternoon of the next day a good percentage of the town's folk had been informed by one version or the other of the remarkable heavenly visit. Some scoffed at the idea but many of them made their way to the park to see if any sign was left, and to gawk and to pray. With each passing hour as evening drew nearer more and more people showed up and began to congregate around the bandstand, hoping they weren't too late to witness the miracle for themselves.

Abe had spent the day holed up in the sleeping room with Captain Hedges' bible while Shorty was out spending the money they collected the night before.

As the little man wove his way through the spectators at seven-fifteen he looked every bit the part of a sawed-off gangster in his white suit, black shirt and wide-brimmed Panama hat. Earlier he had surprised Abe with a blue tweed suit that turned out to be too long in the legs but was passable when the cuffs were rolled up. He climbed the steps of the bandstand and joined Abe who was sitting on the circular bench watching the crowd grow. Horace, who had elected to sit with Abe, gave Shorty a grin. "Yer lookin' a mite sporty yerself," Shorty said to the old dog, and ran a hand under Horace's new studded collar; a thick, black strap adorned with silver colored spikes; the kind one might see on a bad junkyard dog. "Fits like a glove, I'd say." He patted Horace's head then looked at Abe. "Do ya think He'll be comin' tonight?" he said, referring to the Lord.

"I sure hope so," said Abe, sounding a bit weary and nodding at the gathering horde. "That's a lot of people, Mr. McDougal."

"A couple hundred at least," the little man answered. He pointed unobtrusively at the crowd. "There's a bunch of preachers out there, too. Did ya see 'em?"

Shorty was off on his estimation, there were over five hundred people in the park, but he was right about the clergy. The four ordained ministers didn't try to hide who they were. Two of them wore their white, stiff collars and they all stood together impatiently thumping their thumbs against their bibles just behind the front row of ordinary people.

"I see them," Abe said, getting to his feet. "Maybe they need this, too." It was seven-thirty. He walked out to the front of the bandstand and raised his hands. A calm settled over the camp. Abe took off his hat and laid it at his feet then looked to the heavens. The sky was rapidly becoming overcast with some heavier clouds pushing up to the west of them. "Please, Lord, no tornadoes," he prayed, then lowered his eyes to the people below him. His sight fell on the innocent looking face of a young girl. She winked at him; he winked back, and then began. "Folks, I guess you've all heard that the Lord was here last night."

"Amen!" someone called.

"Well, I don't know if He's coming back tonight or not. I hope He's planning on it, but if He don't, I just want you to know that He's thinking about you. I used to wonder about that. You know, if there was a Lord. And if there was, did He really care about me and what I did? But I don't have to worry about that anymore 'cause now I know the truth."

"And the truth shall set you free!" a voice shouted.

"Hallelujah!" another person added.

Abe shook his head and held his hands up again to stop the spread of the emotional outpour. "No, no, no. I mean I really know the truth, not just something I read about or heard somewhere. You see I talked to the Lord and He talked to me. He knew my name was Abraham." He paused and pointed to Shorty. "He knew Mr. McDougal's name, too."

At that, one of the preachers laughed sarcastically starting a chain reaction among the other clergy.

Abe singled them out and pointed a finger towards the group. "And that tells me that He knows each one of you, too. He knows you and He worries about you."

Having been put on the spot the ministers ceased their mock laughter, and Abe returned his gaze to the crowd. "He worries about all of us," he continued. "That's all I wanted to tell you. I didn't come here to preach to you, but I guess I did a little." He shrugged his shoulders and started to turn towards the steps. In that instant all the lights in the park died and a slight tremor shook the ground.

Without a sound, an explosion of various colored lights streaked out from a central point and formed a cartwheel above the park. Its brilliance filled the sky and danced off the low hanging clouds for a full five seconds. It was as if a huge skyrocket had burst and failed to extinguish. Then it was gone, melted into nothingness, and the park lights switched back on.

Awestruck and motionless the people stood for several long moments staring at the sky, then as one they moved. In absolute silence they moved, no shrieks, no screams, no shouts of joy, just pure silence as they filed past the clergy to the bandstand and laid money on the platform at Abe's feet.

Two minutes of this was all Reverend Atchinson could stand. He stepped forward and pushed open a path to the bandstand. The rest of the ministry followed his lead. "What kind of parody are you trying to pull off, here?" he asked in a raised voice to make sure everyone heard him. The people who were bringing up money backed off. Sensing that trouble was afoot, Shorty hurried over to stand by Abe. Horace squeezed in between them and stared curiously at the men on the ground

The sudden assault by the minister took Abe by surprise. "What?" he returned innocently.

"Don't play dumb with us," another clergyman spoke up. "You know exactly what Reverend Atchinson meant. Don't think we didn't see that wink when you started. That was telling one of your cohorts to get ready to set off the fireworks, wasn't it?"

"Fireworks?" Abe said, still confused by the accusations being thrown at him.

"We felt the ground shake. Didn't think about that did you? Oh, you're smart, but not that smart," the preacher said haughtily.

A third minister jumped in. "Just look what those poor souls have done," he said, pointing to the pile of bills on the platform floor.

Abe glanced at the sizable amount of money lying at his feet. "We didn't ask them for it," he said.

"Oh, didn't you? That's your hat in the middle of it," the preacher said, then turned to Atchinson. "They didn't ask for it! Can you believe these two?"

Shorty glared at the preacher. "No, we didn't ask fer it," he said impudently. "And I'm thinkin' we've heard about enough outta all of you."

"Well, what do you know," one of the clergyman with a white collar spoke up, "an Irish member of the Mafia."

Horace gave the priest one of his toothy grins that looked to the uninitiated like a snarl. Shorty took advantage of it. "Git him, boy!" he snapped, and pushed the timid Horace to the edge of the platform. The preachers gasped in unison and scattered into the night.

Now in turmoil, the rest of the people at the gathering slowly exited the park. Not knowing what to believe, they went their respective ways to ponder and wonder what really happened in the night sky.

Abe sat down on the edge of the bandstand while Shorty gathered up the donations. "How do you think they figured it was a fireworks show?" he asked. "Fireworks make a lot of noise."

"All I've ever seen do," Shorty agreed, as he stuffed his pockets."It's hard to say what they were thinkin', Mr. Douglas. None of it made much sense if ya ask me. You'd think them of all people would be showin' a bit more respect fer the Lord, wouldn't ya?"

"I thought they'd be happy," Abe said as he helped Shorty pick up the last of the money.

"Maybe if the Lord had stayed a bit longer," Shorty suggested.

"Maybe," Abe said. "But I talked to the Captain yesterday and he says the Lord's got a reason for everything He does. Maybe they weren't supposed to believe it was Him tonight."

Shorty patted his Jacket pockets. "Not to change the subject, Mr. Douglas, but there's an awful wad of green stuff here. What would ya be proposin' we do with it?"

Abe slid his bottom off the platform and eased himself to the grass. "I thought about that today," he said as he walked along the edge of the bandstand to the steps. Shorty and Horace met him there. "What I'd like to do is buy up a bunch of toys and clothes and stuff and take it out to the orphanage."

Shorty came down the steps smiling. "I'm thinkin' that'd be a fine idea, Mr. Douglas," he said. "It'd sorta be like Christmas fer the kids, wouldn't it?"

"That's what I thought," Abe said, putting an arm around the Irishman's shoulders. "We'll go shopping tomorrow, if the Captain'll let us off again. I'll ask him first thing in the morning." He looked over his shoulder. "Come on, Horace, let's go home."

### CHAPTER 16

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: I take it since I have heard no comment on my revised list that the inclusion of ministers in this first really big show was satisfactory. As you review the upcoming events, you will see the necessity of such action. I was careful not to be terribly condescending. Host

To: Host. In the beginning there was a plan. So far it appears you are following it, albeit in a rather unique way. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. I hope you know what you're doing, because you lost me. Gabe

Where were you when the lights went out in Midvale?" was the leading headline of the Midvale Monitor the following morning. "Thespian trickery or theomorphic testament?" the article read on as it broke every rule of journalism. It was plain the reporter had no first-hand information, but the fact that the story left the question of the event's authenticity open was enough to set a potentially devastating plan in motion. The newspaper was on the streets at six a.m. At seven-thirty a.m. the Organized Ministry Against Abraham was clandestinely formed in the fire-scorched basement of the Free Gospel Church: Reverend Garth P. Atchinson presiding.

"Brothers," Atchinson addressed the nine mixed-denominational members, "we've got to put the quietus to this heresy before it goes any further."

"Amen to that," said Deacon Collingsworth. "I don't have the training you guys have, but you don't have to have a degree in theology to see that we're dealing with a couple of professional hucksters here." He shook his head. "I don't know how they did it, but then I don't know how a guy can make an airplane disappear on stage either."

"Oh, they're good all right," pastor Elroy said in agreement. "Straight out of hell, if you ask me. I mean that was some kind of display, wasn't it? Even had me going there for a minute."

"You, too?" Collingsworth said.

"Oh yeah, brother," Elroy said in his preaching voice then took a sip from his glass of water. He raised his voice an octave higher. "I'll tell you, I had to dig deep to stop it from overtaking me." He pounded a fist hard on the table, and amid the rattling of glasses he stood and raised a hand. "Get thee behind me Satan!" he called in a loud tremolo that would scare the life out of an ordinary person. "Somebody give me an amen!"

The rest of the ministers weren't impressed. Father Coombs waved him off. "Just sit down Leon and save it for your congregation. They're going to need it. By the look on those people's faces last night, they were completely taken in."

Deacon Collingsworth bobbed his head up and down. "I'll say. Did you get a good look at the collection they made? Must have been a thousand dollars laying there."

"And you know who's going to be hurting next Sunday, don't you?" Atchinson answered.

"We need to be a little cautious about that, fellows," Father Coombs said. "It shouldn't be necessary to let any of our parishioners know that the loss of income is a concern."

"Oh, no," Atchinson quickly agreed. "But whatever we decide on doing about these guys, we've all got to stick together and handle it in the same way. If any of us vary, the whole shebang could be lost and we'd might as well kiss our jobs goodbye."

"But what if they're right? What if God did have His hand in it?" the mousy looking preacher from an outlying tabernacle asked. Every eye in the room burned through him at once.

"In that case, Brother Michael, you can still kiss it goodbye," Reverend Meade said sarcastically.

Brother Michael shrank down in his chair. "Sorry, it was just a thought."

There was a harsh knock on the door at the end of the room. "Reverend, we need to talk," Sister Allecia's voice preceded her into the room as the door swung wide open. She picked out Atchinson and heavy-footed it over to him. "So what's the verdict?" she demanded.

Atchinson shook his head. "Not now, Sister," he said, but the big sister wasn't to be that easily dismissed.

"Have you even put it to a vote yet?" she said. "Isn't that what this meeting's all about? We've got to know if you're going to back us in this march or not, and time's running out."

Atchinson shook his head again. "You're worried about the price of chicken feed, Sister. We've got bigger problems than that right now. Where have you been the past couple of days? Haven't you seen this morning's paper?"

Allecia's face turned a bright red. The reverend had never been so blunt with her. "I was in Windsor talking to the guild up there, and no, I haven't read the paper, I came straight here. Why?"

"Go find yourself a paper," Atchinson said. "And close the door behind you, please."

Allecia's jowls puffed out then she blew the word 'Well' as if she had just suffered the greatest blow of her life. She angled her body around and clomped through the doorway, purposely leaving it ajar.

Deacon Collingsworth raised his eyebrows. "Glad she's one of yours," he said to Atchinson. "What did she want anyway? Vote on what?"

"Oh, this taxation thing on poultry feed," Atchinson said, dismissing its importance. "Doesn't amount to anything, but she's got to have her hand in it. She wants us all to go to the capital next week and make some kind of protest, but we can talk about that later. So, where were we?"

"Does anybody know who this Abraham guy is?" Reverend Meade asked, but no one answered him. "The gall of the guy to call himself by that name. How long do you think he'll stay around? I mean if it's a one-shot deal, maybe we're getting stirred up about nothing."

"You weren't there last night, Meade," Father Coombs said, taking the helm. "And there's two of them. I don't know who they are but they've got too much going to leave on their own. I mean they really know how to work a crowd. If you ask me, we'd better not pussyfoot around. We need to get rid of them in a hurry. Now, do any of you have any ideas short of crucifixion?"

Deacon Collingsworth spoke up. "I don't agree with you often, Coombs, but I'm like you on this. We've got to get our people to church today."

"In the middle of the week?" Atchinson said. "I'm having a hard enough time getting them here on Sundays. How do you propose we get that to happen?" Collingsworth looked blank, but Brother Michael raised a timid hand. "What?" Atchinson fired at him.

"We could have a church dinner, maybe," Brother Michael suggested, and darted his bespectacled eyes around the table.

"Feed them!" Atchinson yelled. "My God, man, do you realize how much that would cost?"

"It was just a thought," Brother Michael said, and lowered his head amongst the coughs and harumphs of the other members.

"Hold on," Father Coombs said after a moments thought. "It might actually be worth the cost when you stop to think about it. We offer up a free meal then hold a special service afterwards. We'll have a captive audience, if you know what I mean. And if these guys are planning on another park show, we'll beat them to the draw."

"I hate to say it, Coombs, but you're right again," Deacon Collingsworth said. "Free food's about the best way to drag them in. How about the rest of you? You for it?" The other members nodded their approval. "Good. Now, all we've got to do is get the word out."

"Allecia's good at that," Atchinson said. "You guys probably have someone like her, or a women's guild or whatever you call it. Get them on the phones and start burning up the lines."

"My nephew works over at KROP," Reverend Meade said. "I'll get him to put the message out every half hour. And he can probably get the other two stations to give us the same courtesy."

Father Coombs racked back in his chair. "Good," he said with an air of accomplishment. "Now, I think we'd better close shop and get the food part lined up. Let's see," he glanced at his watch. "It's eight-twenty-three. Let's meet back here at nine-thirty and set up some sermon notes. We all want to be saying the same thing tonight."

"Meeting adjourned," Atchinson said, and amid the clatter of moving chairs and shuffling feet the preachers emptied the basement to set their plan in motion.

Neither Abe nor Shorty nor Captain Hedges had seen the morning paper when they sat down to breakfast. "Sorry about the cold cereal," Hedges apologized, "but it seems when it rains, it pours, doesn't it? The gas company can't get out until late today to fix the range, and I've got to go to Windsor. I was wondering if you guys would mind watching the store for me."

"Actually, Capt'n, we was going to ask ya..." Shorty started, but Abe stopped him.

"Sure we can, Captain," Abe said. "We can put our plans off 'til tomorrow."

Hedges gave him a weak smile. "I was going to ask if you could be here tomorrow as well. I won't get back until probably midday. Do you think you could swing that? It would be a big help to me."

Shorty folded up his cereal box. "I don't see how we could be sayin' no to that. We'd be glad to stay, Capt'n. Who else's goin' to be here?"

"No one I'm afraid," Hedges said. "Except Leroy, but he'll be busy taking care of the office. You knew Ezra and George left yesterday, didn't you?" Abe and Shorty shook their heads. "It seems Ezra has a daughter he hasn't seen in nearly fifteen years and George is married. They both decided to go back and try to fix things. By the way, fellows, whatever you did to help these men is very commendable. I don't know how you managed it, but you certainly changed them for the better. I hope my old bible had something to do with it."

Abe gave him a wide smile. "It was the Lord, Captain," he said. "Didn't they tell you?"

Hedges nodded. "That's what they said, and I think it's wonderful." He glanced down at his wristwatch. "Goodness! I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I've got to get going. Thanks for your help," he said, handing a ring of keys to Abe. "I'll repay you somehow. These will open the Thrift Store, but there hasn't been much business the last couple of days, so it'll probably be easy on you." He rose from the table and offered a hand to Abe.

"We'll be fine, Captain," Abe said, and shook his hand.

"Mr. McDougal." Hedges acknowledged the Irishman, and gripped his hand. "Thanks again. I've really got go now. I'll see you fellows tomorrow before noon." Abe walked him to his car and Shorty opened up the store.

While Abe and Shorty were passing the day straightening and rearranging the Thrift Store, the Organized Ministry was frantically trying to get set up. Cooks and chefs and caterers all over town were pulling hair in an effort to put together a good spread on such incredulously short notice. Telephone banks were established and regiments of guild members were cross-calling everyone they could think of to get the word out. The ministers buried themselves in Atchinson's basement to correlate their sermons as the radio stations fairly hummed with the invitation to everyone, church member or not, to the free dinner at the church of their choice at six o'clock.

Not one customer came into the Thrift store all day. At four-thirty Abe had had enough of the stock-work and decided to lock the doors. The gas repairman's truck was still parked in the alleyway. That meant the range was still unusable and that dinner would have to be an eat-out affair.

A bit after five Abe and Shorty stepped out of the Salvation Army bathed and wearing a clean change of clothes: ready to meet the Lord right after dinner. "I'm thinkin' a big, thick steak would be in order," Shorty proposed. Having missed lunch and with only a bowl of cereal for breakfast, he was anxious to get some solid food in his stomach.

"Sounds good to me," Abe said, closing the door behind them.

Before they reached the corner of the building, an unreformed drunk staggered into them. He grabbed at his hat as he tottered backward. "Exchewse, me," he slurred, and pointed to the sidewalk. "There's a big crack down there. I've been trying to step over it, but it keeps moving. Could you help me?"

Abe took his arm. "Sure. You going in here?" he asked, pointing to the Salvation Army Building.

"Nope," the man said. "I'm going to supper. Would you care to join me?"

Abe looked at Shorty and asked with a look if he wanted to. "It'd be our pleasure," Shorty answered. "Where is it ya'd be goin'?"

"That way," the man said, pointing up the street, "if I can get over that crack."

Shorty took his other arm and between himself and Abe they helped the fellow steady himself enough to regain his footing. He took a small step. "That's mush better," he said with a broad smile. He reached up and pulled the brim of his hat tightly over either side of his head. "You jush follow me."

Abe and Shorty took his arms again and walked with him up the street, down two alleys and across an empty lot before they realized his destination was a church. The sign out front read 'Calvary Church of the Valley', Rev. Lewis Meade, Pastor. Under that, in removable lettering, it welcomed all comers to the Lord's free dinner. Abe and Shorty exchanged glances and shrugged. "We've come this far," the little man said. "And ya can't beat the price."

A happy looking young man approached them at the huge double-doorway where the drunken fellow blurted out, "Where's the victuals?"

The young man's expression went sour. He stepped back and pointed to his right. "In the meeting hall," he said quickly. "Just around the corner to your left."

The meeting hall was teeming with diners and alive with the clatter and chatter of such a get-together. The three newcomers filled their plates from the buffet tables and found themselves a seat.

"Do they do this often?" Abe asked their host when they had all three finished their second plates of fried chicken.

The man wiped his face on his coat sleeve. "I couldn't tell you that. I just got here today," he answered, his enunciation a little clearer now. "Heard about it on the radio, I think."

"Well," Abe said, patting him on the back. "I'm glad we ran into you. We're going to have to leave you now, unless you want to come with us. We're going to go talk to the Lord."

The man held up a finger while he burped. "Excuse me. No, I think I'll just stay here and see what they've got for desert."

"Okay, but if you change your mind we'd like to see you at the city park in a little while."

Another young man in white shirt and tie stopped them just outside the door. "How was your dinner?" he asked pleasantly.

"It was really good, thanks," Abe said. "We'll have to come here again."

The young man nodded. "The service is in fifteen minutes. If you'll just go around to the front someone will direct you to your seat."

"Oh, we're not staying," Abe said. "We've got a meeting to go to."

The young man was noticeably disturbed by Abe's words.

"That's all right, lad," Shorty said. "Maybe we'll join ya another time."

"Thanks again for the nice supper. We'll see you at the park," Abe said, finishing the conversation. With that they walked away leaving the poor boy speechless.

"Must be that a lot of people stayed on at the church," Shorty said as they entered the sparsely populated park.

"Yeah, it looks kind of empty, doesn't it. But we're a little early." Abe spotted Horace under the edge of the bandstand chewing on a bone he had found somewhere. "I forgot all about you, Horace," he apologized as he bent down to say hello. He saw that the old dog wasn't worrying over a bone at all; it was a rather large piece of round-steak. Horace looked up at him and grinned then went back to his elegant dinner. "Well, would you look at that," Abe was saying when an elderly woman interrupted him.

"I think it's just dreadful." She spoke in a loud voice as she leaned towards the stooping Abe.

Abe turned his face to hers. He recognized her as the woman who had urged him to tell his story during the first service in the park. "Why do you say that?" he asked, confused about her statement.

"You mean it doesn't bother you?" the woman said in a tone of disbelief.

"Why should it," Abe said, glancing back at Horace.

The woman put her hands on her cheeks. "Oh, of course!" she said. "You'd feel that way. You're much closer to Him than we are."

"Yeah, Horace and me have been friends for a while now. I guess you could say we're pretty close."

"What?" the woman said as if she hadn't heard correctly. Then she bent to peer under the stand. "Oh, hello there. Are you enjoying my little present?"

"I thought you said it was dreadful," Abe said.

The woman put a hand to her lips and chuckled. "You thought I was referring to your dog, didn't you? What I meant was the way the churches are treating you."

Abe was still at a loss. "What are they doing to me?"

"Well, I think it's just awful," she began, and continued to tell them what she knew of the churches attempts to discredit him and Mr. McDougal. "So I just got up and walked out right in the middle of it," she said. "I was hoping you would be here so I could tell you in case you didn't know about it."

Abe shook his head throughout her report. "I can't understand it," he said when she finished.

"Well, I can," Shorty said. "It's plain to see they're jealous that the Lord chose us and not them. But you'd think they'd be gatherin' their marbles in before the Lord scatters 'em ferever."

"They're wrong," Abe said.

"They are wrong, young man," the woman said. "But just look around you. There's not a tenth as many people here as there was last night."

Abe nodded his agreement. "That's true, but those who are here will be blessed for showing up."

The woman's face showed concern. "But what about those who are still at the churches? What's going to happen to them?"

Shorty touched her arm. "Don't ya be worrin' about them," he comforted her. "The Lord'll be blessin' them too. They just won't know about it." Her smile returned.

"Mr. McDougal's right, you know," Abe said. "He blesses us all the same. I think the whole purpose for the Lord being here is to remind us of the awful ways we've been behaving."

"What about the ministers," she asked.

Abe nodded. "I don't know, but I expect their hearts are in the right place."

"It's just that their minds haven't caught up yet," Shorty added. "Thanks fer tellin' us."

"I thought you should know," she said, and bent to wave a goodbye to Horace. "God bless you both, and don't let this stop you. What you're doing means so much to us."

Abe stepped up onto the platform when she walked into the small crowd. "Folks," he said in a raised voice. When he had their attention he said, "The Lord blesses you for taking the time to come down here this evening." He hesitated for a long moment staring at the upturned faces. "I'm really sorry to tell you this, but there won't be a meeting tonight." He could see the immediate effect of his statement as the people seemed to wilt. "I am really sorry, but I need your help. I'm going to ask you to go home and promise yourselves that you'll try hard to be better people. We'll be back tomorrow night and I'd sure like to see you all here." He lowered his gaze and slowly came down the steps.

"What did ya do that fer?" Shorty asked, completely surprised by the speech.

"I don't know," Abe said, just as puzzled. "I didn't mean to call it off when I got up there."

Shorty shook his head. "Did the Lord tell ya to?"

"I don't think so. I didn't hear Him."

"Well, if ya did it on yer own, I'm thinkin' someone's goin' to be pretty sore," the little man said, rolling his eyes upward.

"If I did it on my own, I sure don't have any knowledge of it. Feel my head," Abe said holding one of Shorty's hands against his forehead.

"Cold as a cucumber," Shorty diagnosed. "Must be somethin' gone awry inside. Come on, we'd better be getting' ya to bed."

"I am tired," Abe said. "Come on, Horace. It's time to go home."

### CHAPTER 17

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: I have the feeling that Gabriel had a hand in selecting the auxiliary staff for this mission. If that is the case, it should be noted that he did a fine job. I have found each of them a pleasure to work with. Host

To: Host. Both Gabriel and Michael were involved, and I to a lesser degree. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. You're welcome again. Can't wait for the future to unfold. Gabe no cc

The Organized Ministry reconvened at eight-o-clock that evening in Atchinson's basement. After a brief comparison of notes, Atchinson stood to address his fellow preachers. "Brothers, it looks to me like we've accomplished the feat, and that's no small accomplishment if you ask me." The happy fellowship applauded themselves with a long round of handclapping.

"You know, I'd forgotten the thrill of really pouring out the brimstone," Father Coombs said, followed by a chuckle. "I believe I'll do it more often. Good for the parishioner's spirit."

Deacon Collingsworth laughed. "Not to mention your own, eh, Coombs?" he said, bringing snickers from the rest of the group.

"We do it every Saturday," said Brother Michael, edging into the fun.

Reverend Meade cleared his throat, and Michael dipped his eyes to the tabletop. "I certainly hope the message hit home," Meade said. "I don't know about the rest of you but that dinner cost me half of last month's tithes."

"I know," Pastor Elroy voiced. "We fed over three hundred and I only have a hundred and sixty-two paying members."

"Well, it's done and over," Father Coombs said. "I don't think we have anything to worry about now. The trickery has been exposed for what it is. I have faith in that. There won't be anymore trouble out of them." He finished his statement and leaned back in his chair with all the confidence of his forty years of crisis handling showing on his face. The chair creaked, snapped and collapsed.

For the first time since the inception of the meetings, Brother Michael laughed. Father Coombs' head popped up from the splintered remains of the chair, looking wide-eyed and bewildered, and Michael's laughter increased. He was still trying to contain himself when Deacon Collingsworth slammed a bible into his belly. "Here," the Deacon blared. "Read something appropriate to close the meeting."

When Michael caught his breath, he reached up to take his glasses off so he could wipe the tears out of his eyes, but he was so shaky he fumbled and dropped the glasses. Without his spectacles he couldn't read a word. He bent quickly to find them and was halfway under the table when Collingsworth reached down and picked them up. "I've got 'em," the Deacon said, and Michael rose up, table and all, to retrieve them. Atchinson's chair came unglued and sent him to the floor.

Nine cups of coffee, three glasses of water and a bottle of club-soda slid off the opposite side of the table where, a second before, six preachers sat and Father Coombs was just getting to his knees. All seven of them got soaked with one liquid or the other and the club- soda bottle cold-cocked Atchinson.

Brother Michael grabbed his gold-framed glasses from Collingsworth's hand and ran for the stairs. He and Deacon Collingsworth were the only two to escape with their dignity in tact.

The meeting was adjourned quickly without the benefit of prayer, leaving Atchinson, who was just getting to his feet, to clean up the mess.

The big plan of the Organized Ministry did meet with some measure of success, however, but not anywhere near what the clergy had hoped for. The fact that the light displays held such fascination for those who had witnessed them, and those who had experienced some form of healing, made it impossible to write it off so easily. The word on the street the next day was still abuzz with talk of the miracle and of the possibility that it was not over. Midvale Park had quickly become the center of attention for hundreds of people.

But there were those who were utterly opposed to the shameful acts of the man who dared to call himself Abraham. Big Sister Allecia was among this second group. The taxation protest was immediately put on hold and she set her sights on finishing the job the mealy-mouthed ministers had only started. She spent most of the morning lining up an army from the Unity of Women's Guilds, and just before noon, backed by sixty-odd warriors, she marched on Captain Hedges' bastion of deviltry to rout out the culprits.

"Leave it right there," Allecia told her bucket brigade, "and you four stand watch on it." The tar carriers set their pails down. Allecia waved an arm over her head and ended the arc by pointing to the door of the dining room. "Forward!" she commanded.

Arthur Hedges had returned from Windsor only an hour before. He had gone straight to his office and was poring over his mail when the guild burst into the hall. Sister Allecia's strong voice rattled the walls with a vibrato equal to that of the Captain's band. "We want Abraham!" she roared.

Peon jerked up from his dusting. A hundred-and-thirty fierce-looking eyes were blazing at him. He dropped the dust cloth and stood frozen at the piano he had been cleaning.

"Where is he?" Allecia roared again in a giant-like voice. She stood, hands on hips, hat cocked to one side over a crop of graying hair and face screwed up into a ferocious snarl.

"He's n...n...n...not h...h...he..." Peon stuttered in misery. He just couldn't get the sentence out.

"Well!" the big woman yelled impatiently, and stamped her size ten shoe hard against the floor.

Peon pointed a very shaky arm in the direction of the exit door at the other end of the room. Then he opened his mouth to try again, but the vocal cords weren't cooperating. Allecia began tapping her foot. Peon finally found the courage to run. Like a shot he headed towards Hedges' office.

Allecia's loudness had startled Arthur and he was hurrying down the hallway when Peon came sliding around the corner. The orderly's eyes blossomed widely just before he passed out at Hedges' feet. "Leroy!" Hedges gasped, and knelt down to be of some kind of help.

Allecia's big frame darkened the hallway. "Where's Abraham?" she demanded again.

Hedges looked up at the big woman, then ignored her and checked to see if Peon was breathing.

"Are you going to answer me?" Allecia said gruffly.

Seeing that Leroy was okay, Hedges stood to face her and saw the regiment of women behind her. "You mean Abe Douglas?" he asked politely.

"Where is the worm?" Allecia growled, and took a step forward, not letting his superior height bother her.

In turn Hedges took a step to the rear. Peon groaned, and the Captain quickly moved his foot off the orderly's hand. Peon sat up and put his fingers in his mouth, then seeing Allecia towering over him he plopped back down. "He's not in here," Hedges said, then stooped again to comfort his fallen aide.

Allecia turned to her army. "Hit it ladies," she ordered, and the women fanned out to search the premises.

"What are you doing?" Hedges said in a raised voice as he started to rise.

Allecia placed a pudgy hand on the top of his head and pushed him back to the floor. "We figured you'd try to hide him," she said. "And we came prepared to handle it, so just sit there and ask God to forgive you."

Hedges shook his head in confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about, lady. Abe's a kind and decent man."

"Just shut up," Allecia hissed.

Technically the captain hadn't lied when he failed to tell Sister Allecia that Abe and Shorty were working across the alley in the Thrift store. He had planned to send Leroy over to relieve them as soon as he finished going through the mail. Then Allecia showed up.

The fruitless search ended in a few minutes when a squadron of Allecia's women high-stepped down from the sleeping room holding their noses. "Not a trace," one of them reported. Allecia gave out a deep, disgusted growl. Without another word she wheeled around, and roughly pushing her troops aside, marched to the entry door.

Hedges quickly patted Peon's face. When Peon opened an eye, Hedges said, "Their gone. I'll be right back." He raced to the kitchen and through the door to the alleyway. "You guys have got to get out of here, now!" he shouted as soon as he got inside the receiving room.

Abe and Shorty came running from the front of the store. "Is the place on fire?" Shorty asked.

"Worse than that," Hedges answered, pulling at Abe's arm and leading him to the back door. "I think you fellows are in some kind of trouble with a bunch of irate women. They're going to be here any minute." He unlocked the door and pushed them outside. "Stay out of sight and don't come back for a couple of hours. I'll try to get to the bottom of this for you," he said, and closed the door.

The Captain's words and actions had Abe and Shorty at a complete loss. "What's he talking about?" Abe said. "You know something I don't?"

"Me?" Shorty exclaimed.

"Well, I don't know any women," Abe said.

"And ya think I do? We haven't been outta each others sight in two weeks or more," Shorty said, uncomfortably. "Let's be gettin' ourselves outta here and talk about it somewheres else."

The only place they knew that might be safe was the old bowling alley. With Horace right behind them, they headed there at a run then ducked under the loose board to hole up while they tried to figure out what was going on.

News of the controversial Midvale Miracle had telegraphed quickly to the nearby towns. Whether real or hoax the story had an air of mystery about it that was sure to captivate an audience. Rayford Manson, owner and editor-in-chief of the Windsor Chronograph, recognized the opportunity of a lifetime and grabbed onto it. He called his nephew, Roland Thompson, into the office. Roland wasn't the best of reporters, but he was family. Rayford sat him down and hovered over him like a pugnacious bantam hen. "Now, Roland, I'm putting this in your hands. I want you to get over there quick, and don't get scooped this time, you hear me? This is Pulitzer stuff, boy, nothing to mess around with, and I don't mean for anybody beat us to it. Now get out of here and go make your mama proud."

Along with hundreds of devout pilgrims, curiosity seekers and sightseers in general, Roland hit the road to Midvale, armed with a pocketful of pencils and a mind swimming with ideas of how to phrase his prize acceptance speech. Little did he or any of his fellow travelers know that they were entering the battle zone of a small-scale rebellion; mostly of a verbal nature, but nevertheless a heated war of differences between the backers of the Organized Ministry and the followers of Abraham, as they now called themselves. Although the outsiders may have started their trek innocently enough, that situation was promptly altered as soon as they crossed into Midvale's city limits.

The two opposing camps of believers had set up separate information booths, one on either side of the city park's archway, and had decorated them with hastily printed banners proclaiming their stance. "God Is Here," read one banner while the other stated, "Free Ministry, Hear the Truth." People were everywhere.

Munroe Washington had torn down a fence and turned his cow pasture across the highway into a $10.00 a day parking lot. Munroe was eighty-two years old and normally a crotchety old cuss but today he was all smiles as he collected his rewards and directed traffic around the side of his dilapidated hay barn. Down the road, others had followed Munroe's lead, and all of them were prospering by the sudden improvement in tourism.

While having so many people in town at one time was a Godsend to the local entrepreneurs, it was rapidly becoming a deep source of torment for Mayor Junior Williams. He was trapped in the position of having to make a choice, a situation he had spent the better part of his adult life trying to avoid. He was, after all, a politician, and he was doing his best not to sweat as Father Coombs sat across from him pointedly asking for his support of the ministry's stand. He wanted Junior to revoke the park-use permit his people had issued to Abraham Douglas and Thomas McDougal. "I just don't know how I can do that, Father," Junior said. "It'd look bad for the city if we went back now and told 'em we changed our minds. And really, Father, they haven't broken any laws that I know of."

"They're criminals, Junior!" Coombs said emphatically.

"Now, Roy, I mean Father," Junior said, holding up a hand, "how do you know that?"

Coombs squinted then raised an eyebrow. "The way you're talking, Junior, sounds to me like maybe you believe all this trash about the Lord making personal appearances. Do you?"

Junior wiggled in his chair and reached for a tissue. "I didn't say that, Roy, I mean Father."

"Oh, just cut the malarkey, Junior," Coombs said. "Just call me Roy and get on with it."

Junior blew his nose. "Okay, Roy. You know my niece, Hattie?"

"Of course I do," Coombs said, lowering his gaze. He knew Hattie, and he knew it was his fault she had banged up her knee on the church bus. If he had listened to her and had the door fixed when she told him it was broken she would have never fallen trying to open it. She stopped going to his church right after that and he hadn't seen her since. "How is she?" he asked.

"That's my point, Roy, she's fine. Walks as good as you or me, and she says the Lord healed her."

Coombs looked back up and gave the Mayor a thin smile. "That doesn't surprise me, Junior. She's been on our prayer list for three months now. Sometimes these things take a while. So, listen, are you with us or not?"

Junior shrugged slightly. "Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Roy, I'm going to have to try to stay neutral on this. You know, the phone's been ringing off the hook all morning. We've got a lot of merchants wanting to set up at the park, and people wondering if it'd be okay to rent out rooms and such. And you know as well as I do that the town's not all that well off right now. I guess what I'm saying, Roy, is that we need this income, and it couldn't have come at a better time."

Father Coombs stood. "So, you're going to stand with them?"

"No, Roy, I'm not. I'm just trying to save my town. I figure if they're thieves like you say they are, they'll slip up and be their own downfall. On the other hand, if they're really on the level then we've all been blessed beyond our wildest imaginations."

"They're robbing the people blind, Junior!" said Coombs, leaning over the front of the Mayor's desk. "And where do you think all that money's going? In our merchant's pockets, in the town treasury? We've got to stop them now or all that cash is gone. Where's that going to leave the town? So, you can sit there and play the politician if you want to, but I'm going to put a halt to it. Rest assured of that, Junior." On that note, Father Coombs left to go to his own office to call in some reinforcements. He was surprised when he got there that the Archdeacon from Windsor had already left three urgent messages for him. "Don't do anything," the last message ordered. "The Bishops and I will be there late this afternoon."

As Big Sister Allecia was conducting a house-to-house search and Father Coombs was making arrangements for the visiting dignitaries, Abe and Shorty were sitting in the dark bowling alley discussing the possibility of calling on the Lord to let them off the hook. They had seen the sister and her tar-bucket brigade march by the deserted building twice and had finally put the puzzle of Hedges' warning together. "They mean to tar and feather us!" Abe said, hardly able to believe what he saw the second time the group passed. "I thought that was just something you read about in comic books!"

Shorty edged up to him and moved the board out a little to see for himself. "I wish me old eyes were a little better," he said, straining to get a glimpse of the tar buckets. "Are ya certain that's what it is?"

Abe closed the board with a quick hand. "Sure, I'm sure."

Shorty frowned. "Oh, they wouldn't be doin' that. The Lord'd never stand fer it. Would He?"

"It's all those preacher's doings, you know?" Abe answered. "We ought to go have a talk with them. Tell them that we didn't ask for this, and maybe the Lord would show them that we're telling the truth."

Shorty scooted away from the opening. "Ya know, Mr. Douglas, I've never been much on fightin', but I ain't one fer backin' down either. Maybe that's why the Lord put us two together in the first place. And right now I'm thinkin' if the Lord had wanted us to give in to them preachers He would have seen to it the other night on His own."

"You're right, Mr. McDougal," Abe said, after a moment's reflection. "That's what He would have done." He stopped to scratch his head and put the idea to thought. "I guess since He didn't take care of it, Mr. McDougal, that means it's all up to us, now."

"Are ya sayin' we oughta go out there and face the music?"

"I suppose I am," Abe said. "We can't stay hiding out forever, can we? And I promised those people we'd be there tonight."

Shorty slapped him lightly on the back. "Well, Mr. Douglas, if I have anything to do with it, ya won't be lettin' 'em down. Come on, let's be gettin' outta this dungeon."

Abe nodded, and they cautiously slid back the loose board and crawled out of the old building. There was no one in sight. "We're going to need a change of clothes before the meeting," said Abe as he took the lead and put them on course to the Salvation Army Center.

Roland Thompson had just finished a late lunch at Mama Mia's café and was sipping a final cup of coffee when one of the locals seated next to him shouted, "That's him!" It was going on five o'clock, and Thompson had been following Sister Allecia ever since he got into town hoping to find and talk to Abraham. He swung around on his stool and looked through the window. Across the street he saw a tallish fellow, a shortish fellow and a reddish mongrel, all of them looking weary and bedraggled as they plodded up the street. "That's Abraham?" he asked the local. The guy nodded. Thompson threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter and ran out of the café.

Holding his hat down with one hand and steadying a camera in the other, he dashed out into the street without looking. Amid a maelstrom of honking horns, screeching tires and blue smoke he somehow escaped being killed and panted up to the unlikely looking prophets. "Mr. Douglas?" he breathed hard into Shorty's face.

The little man stepped back and fanned the air. "Whew!," he gasped. "Ya've got yerself a real problem there, lad."

"Sorry," the reporter mouthed as he fumbled through his jacket pocket. He took out a package of breath mints and popped a couple of them into his mouth. "Sorry. I just had a hamburger." He sucked on the mints just long enough to get them good and wet, then he continued. "Now, Mr. Douglas..."

"That's much better," Shorty interrupted him. "But I'm McDougal." He motioned a thumb towards Abe. "He's yer man."

"How do you do," Abe said, and held out a grimy hand. Crawling around in the dust of the old bowling alley all day had left its residue all over him.

Thompson eyed the offered hand for a moment then looked at his own. A splotch of mustard covered its palm. He shrugged slightly then grasped Abe's hand and shook it. "I'm Roland Thompson of the Windsor Chronograph, Mr. Douglas."

Shorty's eyebrows rose. "All the way up from Windsor, are ya?"

Roland gave them a nod. "We heard about your miracle yesterday," he said. Then he leaned over and asked Abe in a confidential tone, "Is this thing with God on the level?" Abe dropped his hand and glared at him. "No offense, Mr. Douglas," Thompson said quickly. "It's just that it seems to me that the town's pretty much convinced that you're trying to pull off a scam of some sort. I'd just like to get your side of the story."

Shorty lowered his brushy eyebrows and shot a look at Thompson that made the reporter flinch. "Fer one thing, it ain't no story, and fer another, if yer as smart as yer dressed, you'll be askin' the Lord to fergive ya fer what ya just said."

Thompson looked around at the audience that had gathered. They were silent, staring at him, waiting for his retort if there was going to be one. He shrugged. "I was only passing on what I've heard since I got to town. It's not my personal opinion. I mean, I don't know one way or the other."

Abe gave him a quick lip-smile. "Then maybe you ought to come down to the park about seven-thirty tonight and see for yourself," he said, taking Shorty's arm. "We've got to be going, Mr. McDougal."

Roland opened his mouth, but the Irishman shushed him. "Huh-uh, remember the Lord's listen' in." With that the little man and Abe continued their walk towards the Salvation Army Center.

But the walk was short-lived. The wrath of Big Sister Allecia and her band of marauders awaited them half a block away. They came face to face in front of the engine-four fire station.

During the strenuous all day march Allecia had lost, for one reason or the other, the bulk of her army. The nine die-hards left was a frizzled image of when they began; down to one pail of roofing cement, no feathers, hair limp and scraggly, and carrying their shoes, the gusto gone. Only the big sister had the hungry look of vengeance in her eyes. When she spied Abe and Shorty she bellowed like a hurt heifer. "You sniveling, lowlife, lily-hearted snakes! It's about time you showed yourselves."

Roland Thompson ran the last several yards with pencil and pad in hand to record the massacre. He had waited all day for the inevitable confrontation that was sure to put the Pulitzer in his pocket, and as if fate was on his side, not one other reporter was there.

Abe simply stared at her, but the Irishman bristled. He had to tilt his head up to look at her face. "That's an awful set of fangs ya have. And yer pipes could use some cleanin'," he said, defiantly.

"Fasten your lip, runt," she said, furling her face into a scowl.

"You might do well to fasten your own," said Abe in a calm voice that caused the heavy woman to hesitate and eye him.

"You tell him, Sister," one of her group called halfheartedly. But it was enough to egg her on.

Allecia jerked her nerve back. "Douglas, we want you and this hoodlum out of our town. We're not going to stand for another minute of it. Right, ladies?" Her team agreed with a bit of light chatter.

Abe shook his head. "What you all want isn't any concern of mine," he said, speaking slowly and positively. "I take orders from the Lord, and He wants me here."

"Ha!" Allecia laughed and threw her head back. "What would you know about the Lord, Satan?"

Shorty's eyes widened. "Ya'd better be askin' fer fergiveness fer that one," he said quickly, and shook a finger at her. "The Lord'll only allow a certain amount of blasphemy, ya know?"

"That's right," Abe agreed. "And I think you might have just passed the limit. So, why don't you all just go on about your business and let us get on with ours?" Abe took a step to go around her, but she threw her hands up to block him.

"You aren't hearing me, Douglas. Our business is to remove you, bodily if necessary. And we mean to do it." She got some 'amens' from her band that prompted her to reach a hand towards Abe.

"You lay a bloody hand on him," Shorty yelled at her, "and the Lord'll ..." His threat was cut short by the loud, grating sound of the fire station's door rolling open. The red light above the door switched on and the massive front bumper of a fire engine started inching out. The driver touched off the siren and Allecia's followers screamed. In seconds, Allecia was left alone and dazed by everything going wrong.

Roland Thompson put his pad away and aimed his camera at Abe. "Could you look this way for a second, Mr. Douglas?" he asked, but Abe held up a hand.

"We need to get cleaned up," Abe said. "Maybe tonight." Bypassing the stunned Sister Allecia, he called Horace, and the three of them resumed their walk.

"You know, Mr. McDougal," Abe said as they got beyond Thompson's and Allecia's earshot, "you really shouldn't be using our position with the Lord to threaten people."

"Ya mean what I was about to say to that awful lookin' witch back there?"

"Yep."

"Well, bein' honest, it wasn't really what ya'd call a threat, Mr. Douglas. What I was goin' to say was the Lord'd not take kindly to her if she did ya any harm. That's not what I wanted to be sayin' to her, mind ya. If I had had me own way I'da told her to..."

Abe stopped him. "I don't want to know, Mr. McDougal," he said quickly, and picked up the pace. "We need to hurry up and get ready for the meeting."

### CHAPTER 18

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Isn't this exciting? With each passing moment I am more and more convinced that choosing Midvale for this revelation came directly from you. It is the perfect setting. But regardless of how it came about, being here on the front lines so to speak and witnessing such stirrings of passion is truly a Godsend and I thank you for the privilege. Host

To: Host. I had only a small hand in steering your course. The destination was pretty much of your own choosing. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. If I promise not to butt in, can I have a peek at your itinerary? You know, the list you sent as "Eyes Only" to you know who? Gabe, cc Scribe

P.S. I am copying this to Scribe so you can be assured that I'll keep the promise.

Munroe Washington had brought out a rocking chair and had planted a huge umbrella to sit under while he directed traffic away from his parking lot. The pasture was packed with motorhomes, pickups and cars of every vintage. Munroe had crayoned 'Full' on the side of a cardboard box that sat beside him, but people were still trying to get in. He was busy making another sign when Abe and Shorty along with Horace headed to the park. Munroe's wrinkled face came aglow and broke out in a wide smile that said he was the happiest man alive when he saw Abe and Shorty coming down the highway toward him. For a man his age he was surprisingly quick on his feet. He jumped up and met them before they got to the arch at the park entrance. "'Scuse me, Mistah," he said to Abe in his thick drawl. "You's Abraham ain't yuh?"

Abe nodded and said, "I am."

Munroe held out a shriveled hand, and Abe shook it. "I'm sho nuff glad to meet yuh, and you, too," he said, looking at Shorty. He patted Horace's head then pulled Abe aside and turned them away from the park. "You boys needin' to be careful," he said in a whisper voice. "Come on ovuh here and talk with me fuh a spell." He took a firm grasp on Abe's arm and led them to a trailer behind his hay barn. "I been listenin'," he said, pointing towards the park. "And some of dem folks'd like nothin' better than to strang you two up. They a rough bunch ovuh there." He opened the trailer door and ushered them inside.

"How come you're trying to help us," Abe asked, perplexed by the warning and Munroe's evident concern.

"You seen my pasture," Munroe answered. "It's sho nuff a miracle. We's 'bout ready to lose the farm 'til you boys come down the pike and brung the Lawd with yuh. Yes suh, it's a miracle, all right."

"Then you believe us, huh?" said Abe.

"Ain't no doubt," Munroe said, shaking his head adamantly. "I ain't seen Him myself, but I knows He's here." He opened a paper sack that was lying on the table and took out a handful of stuff that looked like matted hair. "I sent my boy, Jesse, to the sto this mornin' to get these fuh yuh. He been out lookin' fuh yuh all day. I was sho prayin' I'd ketch yuh befo yuh got all tangled up in that mess ovuh there. Here take these, they fake but they sho nuff look real. Go ahead, try 'em on."

Shorty took one of the balls of hair and shook it out. It was a beard, gray in color and well over a foot long. "You expectin' us to be wearin' these?" he said then chuckled at the thought of how he and Abe would look in them. Munroe grinned and Shorty grinned back at him. "Well, I suppose they would be concealin' us a bit," the little man added with a questioning look at Abe. "What do ya think, Mr. Douglas?" He held the beard up to his chin, and Abe laughed.

"You actually went out and got these for us, Mr..."

"Munroe, jes plain old Munroe," the old man answered with a nod. He reached over and patted Abe's hand. "I sho wouldn't want nothin' to be happenin' to you boys if there was somethin' I could do about it. Yuh know, some folks might think differently, Mistah Douglas, but Munroe Washington is a God fearin' man."

Abe returned the pat. "If that means you love Him, Mister Munroe, I'm sure the Lord already knows that. And it was mighty good of you to get these for us." He turned to Shorty. "Let's try them on, Mr. McDougal."

Munroe helped them glue the beards in place then brought out another package and took off the lid. "Now these'll put the final touches on yuh," he said, taking out a pair of long, black frocks and handing one to each of them. While they were holding them up for inspection, the old man dug deeper in the box and pulled out two wide-brimmed, black hats. He stuck them on Abe and Shorty's heads then laughed with a rich, robust laugh as though it had been bottled up inside him for thirty years. "I swear, Mistahs, ain't nobody gonna recognize yuh now!" He slapped a hand on his thigh and laughed some more. "I sho wish Jesse was here to see yuh. You's a sight to behold." They all had a good laugh at how ridiculous they looked before Abe opened the trailer door and stepped onto the rickety box Munroe used for a step.

"You come over and join us in a little while, Mister Munroe. And bring your son with you," Abe said as they thanked him and bid him goodbye. "I'm pretty sure the Lord'll be there."

The old man gave them each a hug. "The Devil hiself couldn't keep me away. You jes leave yuh jackets and yuh dog with me. I'll take good care of 'em, and I'll be ovuh in a little bit to keep an eye out fuh yuh."

Abe and Shorty entered the park looking like two forlorn refugees from a different part of the world. Everyone they came close to stared at them but no one from either group of picketers at the archway stopped them or even bothered to try to talk to them. Neither Abe nor Shorty had given any thought to what might be awaiting them there, and the size and attitudes of the crowd astonished them both.

"I'm thinkin' it's a good thing that fella caught us, Mister Douglas," Shorty said, referring to Munroe. "Did ya take notice of how them people back there was throwin' eye daggers at each other?"

Abe nodded then shook his head. "This can't be what the Lord had in mind, Mr. McDougal," he said in a disappointed tone. "I expect a lot of those people are friends and neighbors, don't you?"

"Neighbors, maybe," the Irishman said.

"I meant before we got here. They were probably friends then."

Shorty stopped him. "Yer sayin' we caused all this, Mr. Douglas, but we didn't, so, don't be layin' the blame on us. It's the Lord that brought it all on. And like ya said, the Lord has a reason fer everything he does. Isn't that what ya told me?"

"Yeah, that's what the Captain said," Abe agreed. "It just seems a shame, you know. All these people ought to be happy and dancing and hugging each other and everything. They shouldn't be fighting and feuding like they are. That's what I don't understand."

"Well," Shorty started, but stopped to scratch under his nose. "This thing's driving me nose to ruin," he said, and began a search of his pockets for a handkerchief.

"It's in your jacket over at Mister Munroe's," Abe said, and managed a small chuckle. Then changing the subject and answering to the unmistakable aroma of freshly popped corn he said, "I'm awful hungry, how about you?"

Shorty looked around them. There was food and drink stands set up everywhere. "Looks like the Lord knew it was gonna be a lean day fer us. Ya know, we haven't had a bite since breakfast?"

They bought some hotdogs and colas and took them over to the bandstand. There, they sat on the low platform to have their dinner and watch the crowd, and try to make some sense of the whole thing. How the simple act of introducing the Lord to people could turn out to be such a complicated affair was beyond their comprehension.

People by the hundreds had gathered for what should have been a glorious celebration, but all Abe and Shorty saw were a multitude of solemn faces, some drawn with anxiety, others slack with boredom. Only the children, it seemed, were somewhat happy. They were chasing each other and climbing all over the bandstand, letting loose with a freedom the older folks couldn't show. Midvale by nature was a quiet town and there wasn't really much for the older folks to do except stand around.

Once the visitors had seen the chicken ranches and processing plants, they had pretty much seen all that Midvale had to offer; so most of them passed the time milling around the park, eating fast-foods and buying knickknacks from the makeshift stands. Amazingly, the local entrepreneurs had turned the place into a mini flea-market of sundry items. One resourceful fellow had even somehow managed to get a bunch of tee shirts screenprinted for the occasion. 'I SAW THE LIGHT' blazed like fire across the chest portion of the shirts. From the number of people wearing them, it didn't seem to matter that the new wording was placed over the fat sausage logo of Chelsey's Deli.

Abe and Shorty stopped their game of counting tee shirts while they ate, and lent their attention to two middle-aged women coming toward them. "I was right over there, Charlene," one of the ladies said and pointed to her left as they walked in front of Abe and Shorty. They stopped beside Abe where the lady laid a single long-stemmed rose on the platform then knelt on her knees. "Come on, Charlene," she said and held a hand up to her companion.

The second lady looked embarrassed. "Hattie, people are watching," she said in a low voice without moving her lips.

People were watching. And, as if they had been waiting for someone like Hattie to make the first move, several of those nearby dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. Seeing this, Charlene joined them, and Abe and Shorty lowered their heads. "Our Father," Hattie began, and the small group followed along as they all recited the Lord's Prayer.

"I thought I'd forgotten that," Shorty remarked at the conclusion of the prayer. "I haven't said it in years."

"I never did learn it, Mr. McDougal," Abe answered. "But those are sure some beautiful words. That'd be a nice way to pray."

Hattie looked up at them. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing you. You know it really doesn't matter how you pray as long as you do it and mean it in your heart." She got to her feet and turned to face the group of fellow kneelers. "God healed me the other night right where you're kneeling, and to be very honest with you, I wasn't even praying for it at the time. You know what I was praying for?" She paused and most of the kneelers nodded. "I was praying to get away. I had brought my grandson to the park to feed the ducks and was getting ready to leave. My knee, that I hurt a few months ago, was giving me fits. It was hurting so bad. Anyway, we stopped here to listen to a young man playing the harmonica..." The beep of a horn interrupted her story. A pickup truck on the paved road from the archway was inching up through the throng of people. "Looks like we'll have to move," Hattie said, and started away. The people who were still kneeling got to their feet and followed her.

"Now that was more like what oughtta be goin' on," Shorty said as the pickup came to a stop in front of them. "I hadn't thought of it, but I suppose it was sort of frighten' to 'em. Ya know, when Charlie Belew and the lads had 'em all hemmed in like they were. Interestin', though, that the Lord healed whatever was troublin' her."

"I think it was her knee," Abe said absently, as he watched the men pile out of the pickup truck. "I wonder what they're doing?"

Each of the three men grabbed an armful of colored fabric materials out of the truck's bed and hurried up to the stand. They had 'Jay-Cees' embroidered on their denim vests. The first man stopped in front of Abe and stared at him for a second. "You speak English?" he asked, and Abe nodded. "You gentlemen are going to have to move," the man said. "We're going to be working here for a while."

"Will ya, now?" said Shorty. "What is it ya'll be doin'?"

"Got a big show tonight," the man answered as he set his load down and began to unfurl it. "Now, please move, will you?" The rest of the crew joined him and started hammering up their streamers.

Abe winked at Shorty and together they walked a few paces away to watch their stage take shape. In a few minutes the bandstand was festooned with red, white and blue bows, streamers and banners, and a microphone had been set up and tested. The stage looked like it was ready for a fourth-of-July picnic.

"The Lord'll be pleased with yer work," Shorty called to the men in the pickup as it backed away from them.

"And so will the visitors," Abe said to Shorty.

The Irishman took his big hat off so he could look into Abe's face. "Ya are goin' to hold a meetin', ain't ya?" he asked, as if he expected Abe to say 'No'.

"As far as I know," Abe answered, looking out over the crowd. He noticed a little girl with curly golden hair edging her way towards them. She was coming from the archway that was now being deserted by the opposing groups who had manned their stations all day. A small bevy of older playmates behind the girl was urging her forward with giggles and hand motions. "Hi, there," Abe said as she stopped three feet away and stared up at him, her green eyes radiant in the last rays of the sun.

"Can I feel yowa beerwd? " she asked hesitantly. She spoke with a slight lisp and had real difficulty with her 'Rs'; they sounded more like they had a 'W' attached them.

Abe hunkered down to be more her size. She was, he guessed about four years old, and she looked as though part of her would have rather not ventured this far. "Sure," Abe answered, and held an end of his long beard out for her. She touched it.

"That feels wieurd," she said, then smiled at him. She smiled with her entire face, deep dimples punching into her rounded cheeks. "My name's Victowia and I'm a cow guwrl." She pointed behind Abe and nodded at Shorty. "They said he's God but I think theywre wong. You know what?" she said, shaking a finger at Abe. "I think yowa God." Her eyes widened and sparkled as though she had just surprised herself. Her smile captivated him.

Abe leaned forward. "Why would you think that?" he asked.

"'Cause yowa tallewr," she said, sincerely.

Abe and Shorty both laughed. "No," said Abe with a slight shake of his head. "I mean why do you think I'm God, and not just a man like your father?"

"'Cause yowa vewry old."

"Oh," Abe said. He smiled but she couldn't see it. "Well, I am old, but I'm not God," he said, then pointed to Shorty. "He isn't either. But the real Lord will be here in a little while. And you know what?" She shook her head. "When you see Him you'll know who He is. You won't have to ask. You can tell your friends that, too."

The Jaycee's truck was back, beeping and snailing its way again to the bandstand. Hurrying just in front of the truck was the frantic figure of a lost mom. "Victoria? Victoria?" she was yelling in a high-pitched voice.

Shorty raised a hand and motioned to her. "Would ya be lookin' fer this one?" he called. The mom set her sights on him and came running over.

"God bless you, Rabbi," she said panting, when she saw her daughter.

"Thank you," Shorty said. "But we're not who yer thinkin' we are."

The lady put a hand to her mouth. "Ooh, I'm sorry Father," she excused her mistake.

Abe stood. "We're not priests either," he said.

"His whiskewrs awr wieurd, Mom. You want to feel them?" said the little girl. Her mother looked down at her then grabbed her hand.

"How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers, Victoria?" She pulled the little one to her and picked her up. "I've been looking all over for you. You're in big trouble, child."

Abe stood. "Don't be too hard on her, Ma'am," he said, taking his hat off. "She was just curious." He ran a hand down the length of his beard and chuckled. "I guess I can't say I blame her."

"Coming through, coming through," the Jay-Cee's voice interrupted them. "You folks are going to have to move out of the way." He was carrying an armful of chairs this time.

"What is it ya'd be up to now?" Shorty asked.

"No time to talk," the man said, and jerked his head to one side. "Just move out of the way, old timer."

Shorty stood his ground. "I ask ya a simple question," he said. "This bein' a public park and me bein' the public, I'm thinkin' it's me right to know. Now, what are ya doin'?"

Victoria's mom took the opportunity to melt into the crowd. In leaving, Victoria smiled once more at Abe and gave him a wave. "Bye," she called over her mother's shoulder, and they were gone.

The Jaycee set his chairs down and squinted his eyes at the determined little man. "There's several dignitaries from out of town on their way here, if you must know. Most of them are elderly, so we're fixing them up with seats. Is that okay with you?"

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Shorty said, stepping to one side. "Carry on, young fella."

"Who do you suppose is coming?" Abe asked Shorty as the Jaycees went about getting the row of chairs lined up and cordoned off.

"I don't have the slightest inklin'," Shorty answered. "But me bones are tellin' me it ain't gonna be all that good fer ya. Ya know, we could be sneakin' out if ya've a mind to."

"We can't do that, Mr. McDougal," Abe said, shaking his head. "I just made up my mind. We are going to have a meeting and the Lord is going to be here."

Shorty rolled his eyebrows up. "I ain't doubtin' ya, Mr. Douglas, but how is it ya figured that out?"

"I didn't, Mr. McDougal. It was that little girl," Abe said. "The Lord's not going to let her down. Did you see her face?"

"I did, Mr. Douglas. She's an angel if I ever saw one. Not that I have, mind ya. It's just an expression, you see?"

"That's all right, Mr. McDougal. I understand what you're saying. But He'll be here for her and for everyone else. Let's just stand off to the side and wait for them. I expect whoever's coming will be here pretty soon."

### CHAPTER 19

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: This brief posting is basically for Gabriel's enlightenment. Since he doesn't have any knowledge of my overall plan, he is feeling a bit on the outskirts of this mission. So, Gabriel, in light of your recent promise (which is valid for eternity you understand?), I am giving you a heads-up here. Pay close attention to Douglas' words from this date onward. Host

To: Host. I'm turning this post over in its entirety to Gabriel. God cc, etc. etc

To: Host. That's it??? You know who. And Scribe, you don't have to cc this

With the Jay-Cees gone, the crowd began to move in behind the row of chairs in front of the bandstand as if in a countdown mode anticipating the appearance of the Lord. Everyone seemed to know that seven-thirty was the appointed time of His arrival, and that hour was now drawing very near.

Hattie was standing a few feet behind the row of chairs still talking about her wondrous healing. She had built a considerable audience. Her listeners had formed an arc sitting on the grass in front of her, and as new people came up they sat in and gave her their full attention.

As the onlookers began to gather in front of Hattie, their movement opened the paved road that led along the bush-line from the archway to the bandstand. Abe and Shorty found a place to stand at the far end of the platform near the steps and waited along with everyone else to see whom the dignitaries would be. Whoever they were, they could now drive almost directly to their waiting chairs. But for now, the road was a clear path for Roland Thompson.

The reporter came at a jog and stopped in front of the two black-frocked men. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you were part of the ministry." Both Abe and Shorty shook their heads. "Good, I was worried they had beaten me here." He got out his pad and pencil. "Which side are you gentlemen on?"

Abe lowered his voice. "The Lord's," he said simply.

"Yeah, well," Thompson said, letting his eyes survey the crowd. "You haven't seen Abraham Douglas, have you?"

Abe shrugged and Shorty dipped the brim of his hat to cover his eyes and coughed.

"I doubt he'll show up," Roland continued as if he hadn't expected an answer. "I think the real story here lies with the clergy." He started to walk towards Hattie and her group but stopped when Reverend Atchinson's black Buick rolled through the archway. "Ah, they're here," he said, backing up a couple of steps to get out of the way. Three more equally auspicious looking sedans pulled up behind the Buick.

Camera in hand, Roland hurried over to capture the unloading ceremony. It began with Atchinson and five other members of the Organized Ministry getting out of the Buick and standing alongside it.

"Oh me everlovin' mother!" Shorty exclaimed when he recognized three of the ministers as being the ones who gave them a bad time the night before. "It's them we've been waitin' on?"

Abe leaned over and shushed him. "That's all right, Mr. McDougal," he said, confidentially. "I've got the feeling it'll be different this time. I know the Lord's coming tonight. Maybe He's just been waiting to get them all together to show them that He's really here."

The flash of Roland's camera strobed three or four times as the occupants of the other cars unloaded and joined Atchinson for the few steps to the row of chairs.

A hush fell over the park as eight members of the Organized Ministry, two bishops, and an archdeacon from Windsor straightened their clothing and lined up for their entrance. Brother Michael had not been invited.

Most of the people in the audience by this time had followed Hattie Scott's group and had sat on the grass to give their tired legs and burning feet a rest from the long hours of standing. From this sitting position everyone had a fairly clear view of the bandstand. And for the moment all eyes were drawn to the row of ministers. Their impressive presence seemed to have charged the air with renewed anticipation.

Wasting no time, the clergy filed quail-like to their reserved seats and in unison sat down. A moment passed before the sound of a single person clapping broke the silence; then two people, then three, then a general applause erupted. All the men of the cloth stood, and turning to face the crowd, they began shaking their heads and waving their arms. The applause subsided. The ministers nodded a 'thank you' and resumed their seated positions. Roland Thompson crouched in front of the bandstand and snapped another half-dozen pictures.

Shorty nudged Abe's side. "I'm thinkin' its time fer ya to make yer speech." When Abe didn't answer, the little man raised the brim of his hat and looked up at him. "What are ya doin'?"

Abe was tugging at his beard. "It won't come off!" he said excitedly, and cried an 'ouch'. "What did Mr. Munroe use to glue these things on with?"

Shorty shrugged, then tried to pull his own disguise off. Whatever Munroe had used, it was meant to stay. It seemed the only way the beards were coming off was with the skin attached. "What're we goin' to do?" Shorty pleaded.

While Abe was trying to get his thoughts together, someone in the audience called out, "We want the Lord." Very quickly the phrase caught on and a chant began rolling across the park like a tidal wave. One of the bishops, who had opted to wear his black suit and clerical collar, stood and faced the crowd. With a somber facial expression he motioned for the people to be quiet. The chanting halted and he sat back down.

Taking note of the bishop's attire, a man's voice rang forth. It was evident the petitioner was from out of town and was not aware of how the miracle worked. "We came a long way to see the miracle, Father," the caller said. "We've got kids with us and it's getting late."

The wording aimed at the bishop caused Shorty to look over at the row of ministers. The men were obviously getting nervous, crossing and re-crossing their legs and running fingers around their tight-fitting collars. He leaned over and whispered to Abe. "They're thinkin' it's the priests that's callin' the Lord down," he said with the hint of laughter in his voice. "Seein' as how they acted so rude last night, it might do 'em some good to squirm a little, don't ya think?"

"No, I don't think," Abe snapped as if Shorty's remark was a personal affront to him. "I'm surprised at you, Mr. McDougal. How do you think the Lord would look on us if we did something like that on purpose?"

The extra moment of inaction brought on by Abe and Shorty's bickering was all the crowd needed to gear up. "What kind of farce is this, Father?" someone yelled. "Where's the Lord?" a second voice demanded. Then a series of sarcastic questions hit the air followed by a loud and raucous booing.

The crowd was about to lose restraint, and Abe sensed it. He gave a fast jerk on the beard but only succeeded in pulling out a fistful of hair and sending a storm of pain through his cheek. "It's no use," he said to Shorty. "I'm just going to have to get up there like I am. It ain't right to keep them waiting like this."

Shorty gave him a nod. "Maybe if ya leave yer hat and coat here with me ya won't be lookin' so strange. Do ya think?"

Abe didn't have time to answer him. Amid the ever-increasing booing noise an aerial object of some description winged over the minister's heads and splattered against Roland Thompson's belly. The splotch it left was red and it looked like he had been shot. Before Roland could react, a second missile splashed onto the back of the archdeacon's chair. A fan of tomato juice streaked up the back of his neck and all over the two bishops sitting next to him. "We want the Lord, we want the Lord," the chanting began anew.

With that, the archdeacon stood and spun around. "We're not bringing the Lord," he yelled, then had to duck to miss being hit by a flying hotdog.

Abe threw his frock and hat to the pavement and started up the steps. "Hold it! Hold it!" he shouted, but he was too late to save the ministers further indignation. A volley of mushy objects had already been launched, and the entire delegation of dignitaries and Roland Thompson were scrambling to get back to their cars and out of harm's way.

As the cars of clergy departed, Abe walked over to the middle of the platform and raised his hands over his head. Like Munroe had put it earlier, he was sure enough a sight. Against the background of his white shirt, the long, gray, beard with tufts missing here and there gave him the appearance of an unkempt hermit.

"Is that you, Abraham?" someone shouted. The mass hushed.

Abe nodded then bent to talk into the microphone. "That was an awful thing you people just did," he scolded them. His amplified voice boomed and screeched with a loud squealing noise. He backed away and spoke in his normal voice. "I'm sorry, I never used one of those before."

"You don't need it," someone from far in the back of the crowd told him. "We can hear you just fine."

Abe waved a hand. "Like I was saying, you shouldn't have treated them that way. Those men were just trying to get at the truth, just like you folks are."

"Are you bringing the Lord, Abraham?" a voice rang out.

"The Lord's already here," Abe answered. "He's always been here. You see, that's the thing about the Lord. He's kind of like the wind on a cold day, you can't see Him, but if you go outside you can sure enough feel Him. Heaven knows I've spent most of my life outside in that cold wind. But you know, it wasn't until just a few days ago that I realized that the Lord was with me all that time. To be real honest with you, I never really thought much about Him. About the only time I ever tried to talk to Him was when I was in some kind of pain or got myself in trouble of one kind or the other. I did a lot of that." He paused to let the chuckling die down before continuing.

"That's all behind me now. I'm just sorry it took so long for me to come to my senses. You know, even after I first saw the Lord, I kept on giving Him trouble. I didn't want to change my ways and I really didn't want to stop drinking. I suppose I was what you'd call a hard case. But the Lord stuck with me. And, folks, He'll stick with you if you'll just give Him a chance. He already knows you. He's in your hearts. You've just got to open the door and go outside where you can feel Him." With that, Abe stopped and stared at the faces of all the people who were intently gazing at him. It was a strange scene. Possibly a thousand people, many of them children, and yet not one sound, not even a baby's cry disturbed the moment.

"You asked if I was bringing the Lord," Abe said, his voice carrying to the last person in the audience without him having to shout. "I just wish you all could be standing up here and seeing what I see. If you were, you'd know He's here."

Shorty stood to his feet. "Amen!" he called out.

"Amen!" someone said in return. Then the entire mass rose and began to applaud. Abe bowed his head, and the park lights shut off, leaving them in total darkness as if a lead shield had been dropped around them. Even the sky was black, no moon, no stars, no refraction of city lights, just blackness.

In an instant, the glorious Light of the Lord settled over them as an opaque golden cloud. It rippled from the center outward until its luminescence covered the entire gathering. Then it floated down upon them in layers of prismatic color, each layer separated by countless bursts of tiny sparkling stars, some white as new-fallen snow, some of a royal emerald green, others of colors not yet imagined. It drifted onto the people and through them and into the grass below them. As the last layer passed, the sky appeared again, starlit and magnificently clear. Slowly the park lights glowed back on as if a dimmer switch was controlling their brightness.

Just as the times before, the Light was praised by silence. For a long minute the blessed crowd stood fast, moving only their heads to visit their sight upon those surrounding them. As if there were no differences among them, no envy, no animosity, no jealousy, they gazed at one another with looks of total compassion and empathy.

To Abe, who was in the position to overlook the entire congregation, the scene was one of complete brotherly love. He gave them a few more moments of reflection then he spoke. "You know, folks, you're the luckiest people in the world. You came here to see the Lord and He came here to see you. He is a sight to behold, but it doesn't end here. I sure wouldn't want you to make the mistake I did by going back to your old ways. Just try to remember how you're feeling right now, and try real hard to never change. Now, I think it's time for you to get your kids home. I'm sorry we ran so late."

"Glory be to God," a voice sang. The sound brought the crowd out of its mesmerized state. They began to move, en masse, towards the bandstand with their hands searching pockets and purses.

Abe held up his hands. "Folks, you hang on to your money. Spend it on your family or on those people you know could use your help. Like they say in the places where I used to hang out, this one's on the house."

Shorty climbed the steps and joined Abe. "I'm glad ya did that, Mr. Douglas. Them people've already spent a fortune just hangin' around here all day. Here, I brought yer coat." He handed Abe the black frock and helped him slip into it. "Ya know, that was a pretty powerful appearance," he went on, then gave Abe a quizzical look. "Do ya think it's over? Do ya think that might've been the last one?"

Abe straightened out the front of his frock. "I expect the Lord's the only one who could answer that, Mr. McDougal. As far as I know, we just keep on doing it. You know, there's a lot of people in the world."

"Yer sayin' we might be at this ferever?"

Abe laughed. "I just told you I don't know. But, if that's the plan, I don't think I'd mind."

"Mr. Douglas?" a man interrupted them.

Abe looked down at the older gentleman standing in front of the platform. His silver hair was almost as unruly as Abe's, his shirt wrinkled, his dark trousers held up by a broad pair of red suspenders, and his red-cheeked face highlighted by reading spectacles that hung on the tip of his pug nose.

"Mr. Douglas, I don't have the words to tell you what this has meant to me and I don't know how I'm going to write about it and do it justice."

"You're a writer?" Abe asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the man answered, and handed Abe a business card. "I'm Harley Goodhouse. You can see by the card, there, I work for the Midvale Monitor." He offered a hand to Abe, then to Shorty with a questioning look.

"Thomas McDougal," Shorty said.

"Nice to meet you both. Would you mind if I took your picture?"

Abe fingered the bottom of his beard. "Well, actually..."

Shorty butted in. "Do ya think we could get a copy fer ourselves?"

"I'd be more than happy to get you a print," said Harley, reaching for the camera that wasn't there. "I must have left it over there," he said, motioning behind himself. "Just a second, I'll go get it."

"We'll be waitin' right here fer ya," Shorty said as Harley left in search of his camera.

Abe waited for the reporter to get out of hearing distance before he spoke to Shorty. "You want a picture of us looking like this?"

Shorty laughed. "It'd be kinda fun to look back on, don't ya think?" he said, straightening out his and Abe's beards. "Anyways, he can always take another one when we figure out how to get these off our faces. Here, put yer hat on and button yer coat."

Harley came jogging back. "It's amazing," he said holding up his camera. "It was still there." He directed their pose and snapped two shots, then hung the strap around his neck. "You know, I wasn't going to stick around tonight. In fact, the only reason I came over in the first place is because I heard there was a couple of bishops on their way and I thought there might be a story in it." He took his glasses off and stuffed them into a shirt pocket.

"I'm ashamed to say it now, but like most of the folks around here I go to church fairly regular. And I'd been pretty much convinced that you two were doing the Devil's work. That's how the churches feel about you guys, you know. That's why most of the people here tonight were from out of town. Actually I was headed home when I stopped to listen to Hattie Scott telling her story about how her bad leg was miraculously healed. Seeing her dance around on that bad leg of hers caught my attention. I saw her just last week and she could hardly move then."

Abe nodded. "She told us," Abe said. "And there's probably more like her that we just don't know about. I don't think the Lord would help her and overlook everybody else, do you?"

Harley gave them a wide smile. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Douglas, and I'm going to find them, and I'm going to write the story right this time. You know, I owe you both an apology."

"Fer what?" Shorty asked.

"For doing such a lousy job in last week's paper," the reporter answered. "I have no doubt a lot of your troubles could have been avoided if I had done the piece right. But I promise I'll make up for it. I wish it could be sooner, but this week's paper won't be out for another couple of days. When I do get this real story out, though, everything's going to change. Midvale's going to be the new Mecca. I can guarantee you that."

"I don't believe I've ever heard of that," Abe said.

"Mecca?" Harley said. "Well, that's a special religious place where people go to pray."

"Fer pilgrims and such?" Shorty asked.

"That's right. Where pilgrims go. That's what Midvale is going to be," Harley said, nodding his head. "Well, gentlemen, I'd better get on that story." He pulled a small notebook from his pants pocket and thumbed it to a clear sheet. "Would you mind if I caught up with you sometime tomorrow and asked you a few questions?"

"Not a'tall," Shorty answered for Abe. "Would ya be havin' our pictures with ya then?"

"Sure will," Harley said with a smile. "Right now I'd like to try to talk to some of the other witnesses before they all leave. So I'll say goodnight and be in touch tomorrow. You guys still with Captain Hedges?"

"We are," Abe Answered, and Harley left to get his story.

Munroe waited in the background for the reporter to finish his business then motioned for Abe and Shorty to join him. "I seen the Lawd!" he said, fairly gushing with excitement. "Whoee! It sho weren't like nothing I ever imagined. The Lawd's beautiful, ain't He?"

"He certainly is, Mr. Munroe," Abeagreed.

"You know I's getting' old, and I used to fear 'bout dyin', but not any mo. No Suh, I ain't afraid no mo. I'd go right now if He was to call my name."

Shorty screwed up his thick eyebrows. "Ya know, Mr. Munroe, ya shouldn't be talkin' like that. The Lord didn't let ya see Him to put yer mind on cashin' in."

"Mr. McDougal's right, you know," Abe said. " It's good you're not afraid, but you've got a lot of living yet to do. You just remember the Lord's real and make the best out of every day."

"I'll sho nuff do that," Munroe said, and shook both their hands. "I'm just glad I got to see Him. Yes Suh, I'm a happy man."

"Mr. Munroe?" Abe interrupted him. "What kind of glue did you use to stick these beards on with? They won't pull off."

Munroe laughed. "They stuck on pretty tight, all right. That's the way they s'posed to do so they don't go fallin' off in the middle of a show or somethin'. Jesse got some solvent ovuh at the trailer fuh that. If you boys is through here, we can go on ovuh and git yuh fixed right up."

"We're finished for the night," Abe said, and they walked across the highway to the trailer in Munroe's pasture.

### CHAPTER 20

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: That thing with the flying fruit was not my idea. It was effective though, wasn't it? If you will refer to number 5768 of my list you will note that my initial plan was to have your ministers decide to leave the meeting on their own since it appeared that Douglas and McDougal were not going to show up. The rest of the meeting, I thought, went extremely well. Host

To: Host. All's well that ends well. God, cc etc. etc.

To: Host. I think I just heard a chuckle coming from the Record Room. It could have been Scribe but I don't think so. I see what you meant by listening closely to Douglas' words; very well done. I do hope that at least part of it came from him. Gabriel, cc Scribe

Reverend Atchinson, Father Coombs and their entourage had wasted no time in getting a round-table discussion going. Since the Free Gospel Church was the closest safe haven, they sped there and charged into the basement meeting room. Their plans to verbally annihilate Abe and his gangster sidekick had taken a terrible twist, but they weren't even close to giving up.

As the team of highly trained specialists retreated to revamp their strategies, Roland Thompson secluded himself in the bushes just outside an open basement window of the church. Anxious to get the scoop of a lifetime, he huddled down, got out his pad and pencil and peeked inside. Reverend Atchinson was pouring a round of wine into some rather hefty glasses.

After a long swallow of Atchinson's wine, Archdeacon Coleman complained to begin the meeting. "I have never in my life seen such irreverence," he stated. "And this man has the blatant gall to call himself Abraham?"

"That's exactly what we said," Reverend Meade spoke up. "It's heresy from the word go. In my estimation the man is damned; he's causing all kinds of dissension."

"Ah, that's the point of the matter," Bishop Duncan said. "From what I know, he's not only damning himself but he's putting a lot of good people in jeopardy of being damned as well."

"And it's costing us a small fortune," Atchinson said, picking up the wine bottle and offering another round.

"That's true," Father Coombs said, waving off the refill of his glass. "He's not doing the city any good either."

"Have any of you tried talking to the man?" Bishop Riley asked, adjusting the volume control on his hearing aid. "Just a small amount," he said to Atchinson.

"The man's nuts," Deacon Collingsworth answered Riley. "And he's got the Mafia and a vicious dog on his side."

"The Mafia!" Riley and Duncan said at the same time.

"What in heaven's name do they think they're doing?" the Archdeacon exclaimed. "This is religion we're talking about, not politics!"

"This is money," Father Coombs supplied. "They take in an unbelievable amount each meeting; perhaps thousands."

"Whew!" Bishop Riley whistled. "I see what you guys mean, now."

Bishop Duncan straightened his slouched shoulders. "So do I," he said. "But the Mafia! How are we supposed to fight that?"

"Don't ask us," Pastor Elroy answered him. "That's what you guys are here for."

"Count me out," Bishop Riley said, holding up his hands. "I got in the middle of a Family quarrel once. Wicked." He shook his head. "Absolutely wicked. No, I'm not getting into that again. And, actually I'm just sitting in as a visitor. This isn't my diocese, you know?"

Archdeacon Coleman finished his second glass of wine. "Well," he said, and cleared his throat. "It seems that we either talk to him or forget the whole affair and suffer the consequences. Personally, I don't want to suffer anything. I say we try to gain an audience with this Abraham."

"We're all with you," Reverend Meade said, and the rest of the Organized Ministry glared at him. "What I mean is, the local clergy agrees as long as you do the talking."

The Archdeacon held up his glass and nodded to Atchinson who poured the last of the fourth bottle into his glass. "All right," Coleman said, followed by an audible sigh of resolve. He looked at Bishop Duncan. "You with me, Bishop?" Duncan answered with a slight nod. "All right," Coleman repeated himself, "we'll try to talk to him tomorrow."

Deacon Collingsworth stood and slammed a fist on the table. "You'd better do more than try to talk to him." He made his statement in a raised voice and through contorted lips. "We're all counting on you guys to save us any further embarrassment."

From the moment Collingsworth mentioned the Mafia's involvement in the Midvale Miracle, Roland Thompson began formulating his story around that premise. And as soon as Collingsworth stood to make his final statement, Roland pushed his camera against the window screen and snapped off three pictures. The bright light of the flashes coming so unexpectedly shook the preachers to the core. They all jumped and shouted their individual sounds of surprise, filling the basement with an ungodly amount of noise. But Roland had what he wanted. He ran to his car and sped back to his hotel to call in the good news. "Hold on to your visor, Uncle Rayford," he said in a high-pitched voice when Manson answered the call. "This whole thing down here is a Mafia operation!"

Rayford coughed. "Just a second, let me get you off the speaker. Okay. Now, did I hear you right?"

"The Mafia," Roland repeated. "They're behind the whole thing."

"Are you sure?"

"Got it straight from one of the preachers down here. Let's see." He thumbed his notepad. "Yeah, here it is, a Deacon Collingsworth."

"Deacon? That's not very high up the ladder," Rayford said.

"I know, Uncle Rayford, but that's what he told a couple of bishops and an archdeacon. I don't think he'd do that unless he was awfully sure of himself. And from what I've gathered from the people on the street, it seems to ring true. They're making a fortune on this. Can you imagine what a story this will make?"

"Roland, are there any television guys there?"

"Nobody. We've got it all to ourselves. The only other reporter I saw was good old Harley, and his weekly doesn't come out 'til Thursday, I think."

"Did you think to get a shot of the miracle?"

"Huh-uh. I mean I don't think they had one tonight. I looked around for Douglas, he's the head honcho, but I think he flaked out because of all the high-ranking church officials here. Probably regrouping, maybe thinking about moving on to another town."

"That doesn't sound too good," Rayford said like he was thinking aloud. "You think it's possible that it's all over? A one shot thing?"

"Not for a minute, Uncle Rayford. There's too much money involved. According to the ministers here, they take in thousands every night. They're not going to let that go."

"I'd guess not," said Rayford. "So. You got enough information to write a piece on it yet."

"Oh yeah," said Roland.

"Well, get on back here pronto. The news agencies are waiting on us. Roland, my boy, you've got about two hours to write it, and it'll be the headlines in every major paper in the country in the morning. Good work, Roland. This is going to blow their bloomers off."

"I'm on my way. And, Uncle Rayford?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for giving this one to me."

"Just think Pulitzer, boy, just think Pulitzer," Rayford said with a chuckle in his voice. "Now, get off the phone."

Captain Hedges was waiting up for Abe and Shorty when they got back to the Center two hours after going to Munroe's trailer to get their beards removed. Big red splotches covered their cheeks and chins where Jesse's solvent had soaked a little too long. "My God! What happened to your faces?" the captain gasped when he saw them. "Did those women find you? I've been worried sick about you both all day..."

He would have gone on but Shorty held up a hand. "We're just fine, Cap'n," he said. "And, no, it wasn't the doin's of those women ya warned us about, as awful as they were." He ran a hand over his face. "It's nothin' to be alarmed about, just a little rash, don't ya see?"

"Thank goodness," Hedges said with a sigh of relief. "That bunch of women were members of various churches, you know. I'm not too sure what you fellows have gotten yourselves into, but I certainly hope you know what you're doing. Those women are going to tar and feather you if they ever find you."

"They found us, Captain," Abe told him. "But nothing bad came of it. I was hoping to see you at the park tonight."

Hedges nodded. "I was going to be there, but I didn't want to leave for fear I'd miss a call about you guys. I've been checking all day between the police station and the hospitals. I had the feeling you were in dire straits. I'm glad I was wrong."

Abe took his hat off and said, "Thanks for worrying about us, Captain. I'm sorry we caused you so much grief, but really everything's okay. We'll have another meeting tomorrow night, maybe you can come then."

"I'll certainly try," said Hedges. "Well, now that I know you're safe I think I'll be heading off to bed."

"Captain?" Abe stopped his turn. "Do you think we could take tomorrow off? I know we've been missing a lot of work but we'll make it up to you."

Hedges nodded. "I can't think of any reason you couldn't. The store's been pretty dead of late, and Leroy seems to like being over there for a change. Sure, go ahead."

"Ah," Abe hesitated. "I was wondering if maybe we could borrow your car, too." The captain's eyebrows raised, and Abe quickly added an explanation. "We've got kind of an important errand to run, Captain, and it would sure be nice if we had a car."

"Do you have an operator's license?" asked Hedges, his face twisting a bit when he said it.

"Mr. Douglas does," Shorty said quickly, and prodded Abe with a winging elbow. "Show it to him, Mr. Douglas."

"I believe you," Hedges said when Abe started to reach for his wallet. "You know she's sort of temperamental at times? Just take it easy and she'll get you where you're going. Where are you going, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It'd probably be best if ya didn't know that, Cap'n," Shorty said. "That way ya wouldn't have to be tellin' a fib if someone were to ask ya."

"Like those women," Abe added.

"I see what you mean," Hedges agreed. "Okay, wait here and I'll get you the key."

Before sunrise the next morning Abe and Shorty and Horace loaded into the old yellow station wagon and steered it towards Windsor to do their shopping for the kids at the Waverly Home. Most of Midvale was still asleep, but not for long.

### CHAPTER 21

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Just for clarification, I feel it necessary to have it recorded in the book that although I do on occasion give our subjects a minimal amount of help, for the most part what they say and how they act in all situations is of their own choosing. So far, I think it is working out nicely. Host

To: Host. It is so noted. God cc, etc. etc

To: Gabriel, via Scribe, no cc. Perhaps knowing this will alleviate any fears you may be entertaining that I am overstepping the free-will boundaries. My involvement is merely suggestive. Hope this helps. Host

Roland Thompson's exclusive report hit the national wires the moment Rayford Manson finished a quick edit. And just as Rayford had predicted, the story made the front page on every newspaper of any importance in the country the following morning. While the piece was definitely centered on the Mafia connection and the hoodwinking of the populace, Roland was smart enough to give himself a hold card. The last few sentences of his article comprised an admission that some of the witnesses swore that the miracle was truly the work of God.

But it was a case of too little too late. Had Roland done his job of reporting properly he would have found that everyone who had witnessed the miracle with an open mind could not be swayed. To those people the miracle was indelibly imprinted and irreversibly real. But the testimonies of these true believers would have to wait for Harley Goodhouse's article to come out in the weekly Monitor, still three days away. For now, the story people saw was one that Roland had based on the feelings of the local ministry and a few other skeptics he had run into on the streets, like Sister Allecia. The story was simple. The gangland guys had gotten themselves knee-deep in bible-belt religion, and they were making a killing on it. That wasn't good news to several people in high stations.

Gerald Dodge had worked at the Bureau for twenty-three years. He was like part of the woodwork and felt that way most of the time, but his retirement was coming up and he had built himself a good nest egg. Another few months and he could tell them where to put the job. He was feeling pretty secure until the cellphone on his nightstand jingled him awake at 0610 hours. He glanced at the clock and flipped the cover open on the phone. It was Stacy Hamilton, his secretary. He had forgotten to roll back the call-forwarding on the office line when he got home the night before, but she didn't give him the chance to apologize for the mistake. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Dodge." Her voice sounded rushed. "But the President wants to talk to you. Can you believe it, I've got him on hold?"

"The President? Of the United States?"

"One and the same. Shall I give him your cell number?"

"Yeah. I mean sure, Stacy, thanks."

Before Dodge could get out of bed, the cell jingled again.

"Gerry. Thanks for taking my call," the President said crisply. Twenty-three years in the force and not once had any of the four presidents he had served under even bothered to wave to him. And now, here was a personal call and a president using his nickname like they were old friends. His mind raced with possibilities.

"Mr. President," Gerald answered.

"Gerry, I, uh, I wonder if you'd do me a favor?"

Gerald rubbed his eyes open and let his feet search the floor for his slippers. "Certainly, Mr. President, anything I can."

"Well, it's actually not for me as much as it is for the First Lady. But it's about this little fiasco over in the Midwest. Midvale, specifically."

"I guess you've got me at a disadvantage, Mr. President. I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"Do you subscribe to a paper, Gerry?

"Four of them, Mr. President. I like to get the different slants."

"Good. If you'll open one of them up you'll see what I'm talking about. The same story's in each of them. Go ahead. I'll wait."

Gerald laid the phone on the bed, hurried to the bathroom then ran to the front door and grabbed a paper off the step. "Mafia Manipulates God". The headline was expanded to take up the entire top of the paper. Gerald scanned the article quickly then retrieved the phone. "I just glanced through it, Mr. President, and off the top of my head it sounds like something the Justice Department or the CIA should look into."

"Uh, yeah, well, Gerry, I, uh, oh hell, there's no sense in beating around the bush. The First Lady wants you to take care of it. She's of the opinion that you're the best guys to get in there and get this mess cleared up before it gets any more out of hand. You know she's pretty fundamental when it comes to religion. And right now she's about as upset as I've ever seen her."

"Well, Mr. President, it's really not under our jurisdiction, but I'll see what I can do. Does the Director know about this yet?"

"I, uh, I don't think we need to get him involved at this point, Gerry. Let's just keep this between us for now. I've got every faith in you. I'm certain you will figure out how to bring it all together. Keep me informed, and give my regards to the Mrs."

Gerald didn't have a Mrs. "Certainly, Mr. President," he said. The call ended and Gerald got Stacy back on the line. "Call Chamberlain and Hart and have them read the front page of the paper and be in my office at eight."

Stacy had coffee and doughnuts ready when Gerald arrived. She poured four cups, set the pastries out on napkins and sat down to join the meeting. "Well," Gerald said. "What did you all think of the story?"

"Depends," Chamberlain said. "Do you mean the Mafia part or the God part?"

"I didn't see the God part," Gerald answered. "Probably should have spent a little more time on it. What did it say about God?"

"There's some people who swear it's on the level," Stacy said. "But there's not enough meat to get a good feel about it."

"The journalist brushed over it right at the last," Hart added. "But, what does all this have to do with us?"

"I was wondering the same thing," Chamberlain said. "As far as I could tell, they haven't done anything that would warrant our intervention." He stared hard at Gerald. " Unless you know something we don't."

Dodge shook his head. "Nope, nothing in the closet. The reason you're here, and don't let this leave the room, is that the First Lady requested us."

"Really?" said Stacy.

"Why us?" Hart asked. "If anybody's going to check it out it ought to be the Justice boys." He stopped to run a hand over his chin. "But, you know, there's something about the whole thing that doesn't ring true. I mean how is the Mafia or anybody else going to fool anybody into believing God is visiting them. It can't be just a simple case of magic, or what did they call it, High-Tech Pyrotechnics."

Chamberlain washed down a mouthful of doughnut. "Speaking of the Mafia. How do you suppose this Collingsworth guy figured that out?"

"Don't know," Dodge said. "But that's the way it stands as far as everybody is concerned. And it looks like it's up to us to sort it all out."

"What does the Director say about it?" Hart asked, and Gerald gave him a shrug. "He knows, doesn't he?" Hart said.

"More coffee?" Stacy asked.

Hart pressed for an answer. "He does know, right?"

"No, he doesn't. At least on the surface," Dodge answered as he twisted two fingers to cross themselves on one hand. He held the hand up. "You know the president and him are like this. If this whole thing were to blow up in our faces, he would be held to blame, unless of course he didn't know about it."

"Right," Chamberlain said. "I get the picture. So, what are we going to do?"

Dodge finished off his coffee. "Try to make it as legal as we can. If we can get them to cross the state-line with their scam we can tackle it without recourse."

"So, how do we accomplish that?" Chamberlain asked.

"That's what we've got to figure out today," Dodge said. "Eat up boys, it's going to be a long one."

The Midvale matter was being discussed in a totally different light on the east side of Chicago,.

"It's all set, Boss," Antonio Pasta informed the squat, gray-haired man behind the massive mahogany desk. He pointed at the telephone. "I turned the volume up so you could hear them okay."

"That's good, Anti," the boss said as he dumped the remainder of his cigar in the marble ashtray and switched his speaker box on. "You all there?" he asked the box. It answered in a garble of noise, and he threw up a hand signal of frustration at Pasta. "Okay, okay," he went on, "let's have it by the numbers. Guerro?"

"Yeah."

"Lido?"

"I'm here."

"Santini?"

There was a pause. The boss looked at Pasta like it was his fault, to which Pasta squeezed his lips together and shrugged. "He was there, Boss," he said, pointing to the box. "I talked to him, myself."

"Santini!" the boss yelled.

"Holy balls!" the box answered in the mixed voices of Guerro and Lido.

In half a second a third voice sounded. "Hey, this is Santini." The sound of a woman's giggle in the background filtered through the line.

"We're not inconveniencing you are we, Mr. Santini?" the boss said slowly.

"No, Boss. No sweat," Santini answered, and the boss changed his tone.

"Lose the company, Louie. We got business to take care of."

A whisper of muffled sounds came through the speaker then Santini was back. "Okay, Boss."

"Okay, I'm gonna ask a question and I expect a straight answer, one at a time. Which one of you's got the action in Midvale?"

The box went silent for a long moment then Lido spoke up. "You got to be kiddin', Boss. There ain't no action in Midvale."

"I never kid," the boss said in the familiar deadly tone they all knew meant big trouble for them.

"Hey, come on, Boss," Guerro's voice sounded. "What action you talkin' about?"

"Yeah, what action?" Santini's voice broke in.

The boss looked up at Antonio and shrugged his shoulders. He switched the speaker to mute then lit another cigar and watched the cloud of smoke dissipate before saying anything. Then, making a face of uncertainty, he asked Pasta, "Whatta you make of it, Anti?"

Pasta raised his eyebrows. "They're either too dumb to know what's going on in their district or they're in it together. It's that simple, Boss."

After a couple of seconds thought, the boss nodded then flipped the conference call back on. "Okay. Here's what we're gonna do. All of you know Antonio. I'm sending him in my place. You make arrangements to pick him up at the airport this afternoon." He paused and glanced up through the circle of cigar smoke. "I want each of you to know that Antonio is very dear to me. I expect him back here tomorrow in the same good health. Lo capite?"

"Hey!" Santini's voice shouted. "I want to know what's going on."

"No problem, Boss," Guerro said.

"We'll show him a good time," Lido replied.

"Well?" said Santini. "Are you going to tell me what's happening?"

Pasta leaned over the boss' desk. "I'll tell you when I get there. I'll call you back and give you the time."

The boss switched the speaker off and ended the call. "Keep an eye on Santini," he warned, then shook his head and blew a long puff of smoke across the desk. "Ahh, Anti. It's a good thing Mama Lucia is dead and gone, God rest her soul. If she knew about this thing she'd have a heart attack and die all over again." Pasta bowed his head and the boss nodded to the show of respect. "Better get some things together. Call me when you get there."

"No problem, Boss," Pasta answered with a wink and a fist mortared into a palm.

The boss managed a thin smile at the inference of Antonio's gesture. "Call me," he repeated, and Pasta left to check on the family business down in Midvale.

In Windsor, the 'Rte.66' clock on the wall of Dwayne Pearson's office registered eight-o-five when the telephone rang. "Mr. Pearson, he's on line two," Margaret's normally sweet voice said in a sour tone.

"How's he sound?"

"I don't use that kind of language," Margaret said.

Dwayne sighed then mumbled a curse under his breath. "Tell him I'm out."

"Won't work," said Margaret. "I already tried and he said to find you in the next three minutes or I could find another job."

"Okay," Dwayne said, then took in a deep breath. "Put him on."

"Pearson!" The loud voice rattled Dwayne's earpiece. "Childers."

Dwayne Pearson was the manager of KRTV in Windsor, an affiliate station of Continental Broadcasting Corporation. Bruce Childers was the vice president of Continental Broadcasting in charge of news releases.

"Yes, Sir," Dwayne's voice dwarfed its way back.

"What's going on down there? I was just handed a newspaper. I never read a newspaper, Pearson, do you?" Dwayne answered 'no'. "Well, by God, you'd better start. That's where the news seems to be."

"You're talking about the Miracle," Dwayne stated. "I thought it might be too controversial..."

Childers didn't let him finish. "You thought?" Childers boomed. "You get your tail over there right now. I mean you, personally. I don't want to see anything on the tube tonight except miracle news. You understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," Dwayne answered meekly. "I'll..."

Childers cut him off again. "What are you waiting for? Easter?" He shouted the question then hung up.

Within minutes, Pearson and his camera crew were in the truck and on their way to Midvale.

But the biggest surprise contained in Roland's story came to Deacon Collingsworth when he withdrew his copy of the Windsor Chronograph from the rural mailbox that morning. "Oh my God!" he cried out when his photograph stared back at him with a caption under it that read "Deacon Rats Out Mafia". The picture was a bit blurred by a screenlike mesh but it was unmistakably him, standing, snarling, and pounding a fist on a tabletop.

"Deacon Milton J. Collingsworth, filling in for Reverend T.L. Hershey of the Midvale Brotherhood of The Valley Community Church, 1301 W. Salem Street, informed the Chronograph today that the so-called Miracle of Midvale is nothing more than a money bilking scheme set up by the syndicate of mobsters more commonly known as the Mafia..." the article began. "Oh my God!" he kept repeating as he sat on the curb and read down through the column.

Father Coombs, who had made the original accusation of the Mafia's involvement, and the one Collingsworth had merely repeated, was nowhere mentioned. It was evident that the reporter had based his entire story on this single offhand remark given in the heat of discussion and supposedly in private. But the damage was irreversible. Sole blame and sole credit now belonged to one man, Deacon Milton J. Collingsworth. Without finishing the article or bothering with breakfast he threw a few things in a suitcase and got out of town as quickly as he could.

Not having the Deacon's worries, Atchinson, Coombs, Meade and the remainder of the Organized Ministry were out early scouting the town for Abe and Shorty. The archdeacon, Bishop Duncan, and for the time being, Bishop Riley had moved into Father Coombs' quarters and waited there for the scouting party to bring them news. They had raided the refrigerator three times and were finishing up a big-pot poker hand when Reverend Meade burst in at eleven o'clock and broke up the game. "We've looked the town over high and low, fellows. He's not here."

The Archdeacon raked a goodly sized stack of bills off the table and stood. "There's a possibility that our presence has discouraged him, gentlemen. He may never show up again."

"I hope you're right," Bishop Riley said, slipping his playing money into a snap purse.

"That reminds me," Atchinson said as he walked up behind Reverend Meade, "I heard he didn't take up a collection last night."

"I heard that, too," Meade said. "I'll tell you, something's brewing. Just as sure as we're standing here, that hypocrite is up to no good."

Bishop Riley stood and dropped his little purse into a pocket. "Do you think one of you gentlemen could get someone to drive me to Windsor? I really should be getting back to my own area."

Bishop Duncan scowled. "We all know you don't want anything to do with this, Bishop, none of us do, but you're here. And who knows, if they're moving on they might just be in your diocese next time. I think you owe it to yourself to stay and see this through."

Bishop Riley gave him a reluctant nod and sat back down.

"So," Bishop Duncan said. "I suppose the only thing to do now is to wait and see if he decides to hold another meeting this evening. Until then, I propose we get some rest."

The group agreed to meet again at the park that evening to see if Abraham was still in town.

Unlike the Organized Ministry, Sister Allecia didn't give up on the search so early. She and her revitalized mob were tearing the boards off the abandoned bowling alley's doors when Officers Clements and Robins made the mistake of stopping to investigate their activity.

The two officers backed off when the big sister told them who she was searching for. They had received direct orders from Junior Williams to leave Douglas and McDougal alone as long as they weren't flagrantly breaking any of the town's ordinances.

"We're going to find him no matter what it takes," Allecia told Clements. "The worm deserves no mercy."

Officer Clements held his hands up in front of her. "You ladies can't be going around destroying private property like you're doing here. Now why don't you all go home and let the law take care of this?"

"The law? Ha!," Sister Allecia laughed. "You're the law, aren't you? Or are we paying you to pussyfoot around and play with your siren?"

"As a matter of fact, ma'am," Robins said, "we're only representatives of the law."

"That's right, Miss..." Clements started.

"Mizz!" Allecia blared.

"Mizz," Clements corrected himself. "What Officer Robins said is correct. Until a crime's been committed our hands are tied."

"A crime?" Allecia yelled. "He's robbing the town blind, you idiots, right in front of your noses, and you don't call that a crime?"

Clements shot a glance at Robins who in turn headed for the cruiser. "I'll call it in," he said on the run, and Clements turned back to Allecia.

"They'll know about it down at headquarters," he told her. "I'll just go listen in."

Before he got to the car, Robins stood and called to him. "They don't know anything about a robbery. Where's it supposed to be anyhow?"

Allecia stomped her foot and growled, "Let's go, ladies. He must be down at the Police Station. That's the only place we haven't looked."

While Robins was trying to get Gertrude back on the radio to warn them that Allecia and her mob were coming, a private chartered jet was just completing its taxi at the Windsor airport. Guerro, Lido and Santini were waiting for its single passenger to deboard.

"You guys sure you're not holdin' out on me?" the worried Santini asked for the third time.

"Whatta you so nervous about?" Guerro answered as he popped an antacid tablet into the hole under his mustache.

"Tony's gonna straighten it all out," Lido said without looking up from his nail cleaning.

Santini eyed them both fearfully, then resumed his pacing. He was sure the two of them had set him up and that Antonio was coming to finish the dirty work. That was Antonio's job and he was very good at it.

"Where can we talk?" Pasta greeted them when he got to Lido's limousine. "And what's the meaning of this?" he said, flicking an open hand at the big car. "You trying to win a stupidity contest, or what?"

"Hey, Tony," Lido answered. "We just wanted to make you comfortable. You don't like the car? I'll burn it. Whatever you want, Tony."

Pasta pushed past them and crawled into the door the driver was holding open. "Get in," he said.

"How about my place, Tony?" Guerro asked as he got in beside Pasta. "It's close and no bugs."

Santini sat across from them. "What's this all about, Tony?" he asked as Lido joined them. The driver closed the door.

Pasta shushed him. He nodded to Lido and looked towards the glass divider between them and the driver. "Tell him to get us outta here."

Lido informed the driver then opened a small suitcase and pushed it on the floor over to Pasta. "Didn't want you to feel naked, Tony," he said as Antonio looked down at the arsenal of handguns in the case. "Take your choice, there all loaded and clean." Pasta nodded, picked up an automatic with a silencer on it and laid it on the briefcase beside him then pushed the suitcase back to Lido with his foot. They settled in for the silent twenty-minute drive to Guerro's villa.

Guerro's place sat nearly on the top of the only hill within a hundred miles of Windsor. A high rock fence all around it gave it the appearance of being a medium sized fortress. The only way in was by way of a switchback paved road or via helicopter. A guard stood watch at the entrance gate.

Santini let out a deep breath when they reached the main gate and the guard waved them through. He didn't think he would make it this far.

Guerro led them to his billiard room where Pasta opened the meeting. "Okay. Which one of you wants to start?"

"Start what?" Santini blurted out his bafflement.

Lido spoke up. "Why don't you do us the honor, Tony?"

Pasta opened his briefcase and took out a handful of newspapers. "One or all of you made a big mistake when you started this without letting the boss' know about it."

All three of them, gave him a puzzled look. "Whatta you got there? Newspapers?" Santini asked.

"Take a look at the front page," Pasta said, throwing the papers at them. They each grabbed up a copy and unfolded it. The dumbfounded looks on their faces told Pasta that the news really was news to them.

"Hey, I don't know nothin' about this," Lido said, holding the paper out and shaking it fiercely.

"Holy, holy, holy," Guerro repeated and looked straight at Santini.

Santini started shaking his head rapidly back and forth. He held his hands up in front of himself and backed away. "You gotta be crazy if you think I'd do something like this."

"You expect me to believe what I'm hearing?" Pasta pressed them.

"Whatta you think I am? A damned atheist?" Guerro fired back at him.

"Hey, Tony, I belong to three different churches. You know that," Lido said, and all eyes again fell on Santini.

The frightened Santini made a cross sign over his face and chest. "On my mother's grave, I got no part in this," he cried out.

Pasta rubbed his face then gave them all a look that said he didn't like it but he believed them. "So, what's going on?" he said. "You guys are supposed to be running the show down here. Don't you read the papers, listen to the radio, watch TV?" He shook his head. "The boss ain't going to believe this. How could someone horn in on your territory without you at least knowing about it? I mean, don't you have any kind of communications set up?"

Guerro hung his head. "This is real embarrassing, Tony. I can't imagine nobody doing something like this. They got no respect for nothing. No respect."

"We gotta straighten it out," said Lido. "Whoever's doing this thing's gotta pay."

"I'll do the job, myself," Santini said, his voice echoing a sense of urgency. "That is unless you feel you gotta handle it, Tony."

Pasta walked around the desk, picked up the telephone and dialed the boss's number. "Give me some privacy," he said, motioning them out of the room. "And, Lido?" Lido turned back to him. "Get rid of the limo. We don't need no more attention than we've already got."

### CHAPTER 22

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: If you wouldn't mind taking over for a little while, I should check in on the next phase. As you know, the timing of upcoming events is crucial to our overall success. I believe a second look is warranted since it involves so many interdependent factions. This is so much fun! Host

To: Host. At present, I am working with Michael on the climate logs. I took the liberty of giving Gabriel responsibility for your next watch. God cc, etc. etc

While Antonio Pasta was filling the boss in on what he had uncovered, Abe and Shorty were on their way back from Windsor to deliver their purchases to the orphanage.

Shorty had been given the navigator's job and he had gotten them to Windsor earlier with out a hitch. So, on the return trip, Abe forgot about watching for landmarks and was simply enjoying the cool drive. With Horace's head sticking out of an open window they were whistling down the highway without a care in the world. "Ahh, it's a wonderful feelin' indeed," Shorty said, holding a hand out to catch the wind. "Ya tend to ferget the small pleasures in life as ya grow older don't ya, Mr. Douglas?"

"I suppose we do, Mr. McDougal," Abe said. "But here lately I've been thinking a lot about all those little things I missed out on. I imagine you did too, growing up the way you did. But I feel like maybe we've been given a second chance at it. Not that we deserve it after the kinds of lives we've led."

Shorty turned to face Abe. "You know, Mr. Douglas, I can't think of a better way to make up fer where we went wrong than what we're doin' today. I recall one year when a bunch of students from the university threw a Christmas party fer us. That was the best Christmas of me life, and after all these years I remember it like it was yesterday. This'll be like that fer the kids at the orphanage. I know it's not Christmas, but it'll be like that fer 'em. Do ya think they'll recognize me from the last time, ya know when I was drinkin' and all?"

Abe didn't answer him, instead he pulled the car to the side of the road. "Mr. McDougal, doesn't that look a lot like Midvale to you?" He pointed toward the tall feed silo that marked the north end of town.

The Irishman pulled his cap off and gave his scalp a long scratch. "I don't know how that's possible, Mr. Douglas," he answered. "And anyhow, what would we be doin' on this side of town?"

Abe shook his head. "Give me that map." He took it out of Shorty's hands, turned it right side up and searched for Midvale. "Okay, I've got it," he said, pointing out their position to Shorty. "We're here. Now if we backtrack this way we'll wind up back in Windsor." He ran a finger along the route and stopped at the crossroads they had passed an hour earlier. "You told me to keep going straight."

"It's me eyes, Mr. Douglas, sometimes they go skittery."

"Well," said Abe. "If you'd of kept the map turned the right way maybe they wouldn't have messed us up. I guess we turn around."

Shorty eyed the silo. "Ya know, if we just drive on ahead we'll be goin' right by the park. I know me way from there, I think."

Abe took his advice and pulled the car back onto the highway. In a few minutes they passed Munroe's pasture. Only a dozen or so cars were lined up alongside the barn and Munroe had slashed his price to five dollars a day. Shorty waved but Munroe was too busy making another sign to notice them.

"I wonder why there's not more people around?" Abe asked aloud, putting his thoughts into words.

"There's not much to do at the park," Shorty answered. "I'm thinkin' they're waitin' 'til it gets a little later."

Abe nodded. "You're probably right. What time is it anyhow?"

"I wouldn't know, but it was after two when we left the store."

"That late?" Abe pushed the accelerator down. "I sure hope you're right about being able to get us to the orphanage."

Nine kids of various ages swarmed the old yellow car when Abe wheeled it into the oleander lined driveway of the Waverly Children's home; not an orphanage at all but rather a type of foster home for wards of the state who were awaiting adoption. A middle-aged woman, looking somewhat harried, stood in the doorway of the main building. She rang a bell and the kids backed away but kept their eyes glued to the pile of boxes in the back seat of the car. Shorty waved and Horace stuck his head out and 'woofed' a hello.

Abe got out and called, "Miss Haggard?"

"Let the gentlemen have a little room," the woman said as she walked closer. The kids took a tiny step to the rear. "I'm she."

Abe removed his hat. "I'm Abraham Douglas and this is Thomas McDougal," he said as Shorty eased himself out of the car and into the blockade of excited youngsters. It didn't appear that any of the children or Miss Haggard saw him for the man who helped to get Mr. Lafferty fired. As Shorty cleared the way Horace bounded out of the car and over to the oleanders where he opted to watch everything from a safe distance.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Douglas. I received your note," said Miss Haggard. She nodded a hello to Shorty. "I was praying it was you when the car turned in." She gave them a warm smile and pointed to the children. "As you can see we were all praying."

"Were ya, now," Shorty said, mainly to the children. "That'd be a grand thing to be doin'. Ya know, the Lord answers yer prayers don't ya?"

"Mr. McDougal?" Abe interrupted him, and rolled his eyes toward the back seat of the wagon. "The prayers won't really be answered until the car's unloaded." He gazed at the eager faces. "Would any of you like to help us?"

Shorty had to jump back to escape injury as the kids dove into the tempting old wagon. All but one of them found a hole to crawl through. The tiny tot who didn't make it seemed terribly confused by the mad rush. He stood by for a brief moment then took his thumb out of his mouth just long enough to ask a simple question. "Are you Santa Clause?" he asked Abe.

"Oh, no," Abe answered. He squatted down and winked at the tike. "But Mr. McDougal here. Well, he's working at becoming an elf. And when he gets all the way down to just your size, do you know what he's going to do?"

The boy removed the white, wrinkled thumb from his mouth again and looked way up at the Irishman. "He can't do that," he stated, and replaced the handy pacifier.

Abe laughed and picked the smart little fellow up and hugged him. "You're absolutely right, he can't. But let's not tell him, okay? He thinks Santa's going to hire him someday."

From his perch in Abe's arms the child looked down at the short man. "Can you make horses?" he asked Mc Dougal around the ever-present thumb.

"That's the next thing on me list," Shorty answered. "Just as soon as I get me uniform made." He bent over at the waist and stared at his feet. "Would ya be knowin' how I could get the toes of me shoes to turn up so they'd look like an elf's?" Without warning a misguided missile in the form of a soccer ball bounced off his cap.

"Jeremy!" Miss Haggard's voice rang out. "Oh, Mr. McDougal, are you all right?"

Shorty let himself plop down on the seat of his pants and began to laugh. "Would ya look at that!" the Irishman gasped as if some small miracle had just occurred. He pointed to his shoes. "Ya made me toes turn up!" The tike giggled, and Shorty got up and danced a little jig. "I'm goin' to be an elf, I'm goin' to be an elf," he sang out. In milliseconds every one of the children and Miss Haggard joined in the merriment.

Horace must have decided all the strangers meant him no harm. With all the laughter going on, he ran up and sat down at Abe's feet. The little tike looked down at the dog and forgot all about his thumb. "Can I pet your doggie?" he asked with a broad smile beaming on his freckled face.

Abe set him down. "This is Horace," he said. "What's your name?"

"Alvin," the tot answered, holding a hesitant hand out to touch Horace. Horace licked the tiny hand then nudged his muzzle up to the boy's chest.

"He likes you," Abe said to Alvin. "You can go ahead and pet him if you want to."

With that Alvin reached both arms out and hugged the old dog's neck. "You want to play with me?" he asked after the long hug. Horace 'woofed' softly and gave him a grin. It didn't scare Alvin. "Come on, doggie," he said, and Horace eagerly followed him to wherever he was going.

Miss Haggard sighed. "That's the happiest I've seen Alvin in the five months he's been with us. In fact I've never seen any of the children so happy. It does my heart good. I don't know how we can ever thank you both."

"You don't have to," Abe said, turning back to the car. "We've got some clothes and things in here, too."

"Not knowin' the sizes ya'd be needin'," Shorty explained, "we just brought ya a few in every size they had."

Abe raised the back seat and took out a good-sized box. "We thought you'd want to take charge of this one," he said, opening the box. It was packed full of candy bars.

"Oh, my goodness. I think we'll save this for a while. They're going to be hyper enough from the toys for today." She motioned a hand towards the building. "Would either of you like a drink? We have coffee or tea."

"We would," said Abe. "But we were kind of late getting here and we have to be back in town pretty soon. Maybe we could come back sometime and take you up on that."

"Any time," Miss Haggard said. "We'd love to visit with you for a while."

"Likewise," Shorty said. "If ya'll show us where ya want these things we'll just be puttin' 'em inside fer ya."

With the car unloaded and farewells said to Miss Haggard, Abe stood in the courtyard and called Horace. "Come on, boy, it's time to go home." Horace and Alvin were chasing a butterfly a short distance from him. "Come on," he called again. Horace looked at him, 'woofed' then went back to the chase.

"Looks like ya may have lost yer dog, Mr. Douglas," Shorty commented, his voice cracked and somewhat teary.

Abe didn't answer him. Instead he walked a few paces into the open field and squatted down. "Horace," he called again. This time the old dog came to him, sat down in front of him and 'woofed'. Abe patted him on the head. "You want to stay here, Horace?" he asked. "I can't say that I blame you," he went on, looking around them at all the free range. "The city's really no place for a dog like you." Horace turned his head when Alvin called him. "Go on," Abe told him. "You go on and play, boy. I'll come back and see you whenever I can."

"Come on, doggie," Alvin called again, and Horace went to him.

"I think it'll be okay," Miss Haggard said when Abe asked if Horace could stay with Alvin. "I just hope he doesn't want to sleep with him. I'm not sure how I'd handle that."

"Oh, Horace will be happy with a few rags on the porch," Abe said. "And the boy'll be fine as long as he knows Horace will be there in the morning. We'll come back when we can." He gave the boy and his doggie a final glance before getting back into the car. "I'm going to miss him."

Abe and Shorty were silently shedding a few tears as Abe pulled the captain's station wagon out of the drive and onto the highway. The sad-happy moment of losing their buddy had blurred their vision as well as their thoughts and neither of them saw the big gray sedan bearing down on them when he entered the highway.

The deafening blast, blast, blast of a car horn and the screaming of skidding tires jolted Abe back to reality. Instinctively, he wheeled the wagon onto the gravel shoulder. As the wagon hit the dirt, the sedan slid past them sideways in the middle of the road. Its driver was frantically flogging the steering wheel trying to regain control, and the contorted faces of two passengers were hard-pressed against the left rear window as the car continued to revolve on the pavement and zoom on by.

"Oh, me everlovin' mother!" the panic stricken Shorty bellowed. "They're goin' to lose it as sure as the Lord's watchin'." Just as he got the words out, the sedan slid into the gravel on the opposite side of the road. It quickly spun around twice then slammed into the rail fence that ran alongside the highway. A great cloud of dust and dirt flew into the air like the rooster tail of a speedboat. The car plowed down two hundred feet of fencing before it bounced to a stop.

Breathlessly, their knees jelled all the way to their shoulders, Abe and Shorty sat for a long silent moment waiting for someone to get out of the car. When it didn't happen, Shorty put both hands over his eyes. "Would ya mind, Mr. Douglas, goin' and seein' if any of 'em are still alive? Me stomach doesn't set well with that sorta thing."

Abe's hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble opening the door. "Lord, I hope they're not dead," he prayed as he slowly got out of the car. Cautiously he approached the sedan. "Hello, in there," he called out when he got within shouting distance but got no answer. He took a few more steps then called again. This time a mumbling of voices caught his ear. He ran the rest of the way to the car. At close range the voices were clearly audible.

"Get your knee outta my stomach!"

"That's not my knee, and quit pushin'."

"Ohhh, I think my back's broke."

Abe jumped over the tangle of fence rails and wire. He bellied up to the car and looked into the back window. Three vicious-looking faces stared back at him.

"Don't just stand there," one of the faces growled. "Open the door."

Abe opened it and the body of a fourth ugly face toppled out. It rolled over. A bright red imprint of a shoe sole covered his forehead. "Ohhh," the man groaned, and rubbed a hand over his branded brow.

Another voice flew out of the car's backseat area. "I told you to quit pushin'."

"Sorry, Tony, but your knee's killin' me. Can't you move it a little bit?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Tony said as he pushed another man out of the car headfirst.

"Take it easy, Tony," the dumped man pleaded. He began walking on his hands and dragging his legs out of the intertwined mess in the back seat.

The driver screamed. Abe ran around to his side of the car and tried to open the door. It was caved in and wouldn't budge. "Can you slide out the other side?" Abe called through the closed window.

The chauffeur grimaced. "My finger's caught in the door!" he cried out, and pointed with his other hand. The tip of his little finger was squashed between the doorframe and the instrument panel.

A look of pain crossed Abe's face. "I'm sorry. The door's stuck," he said. He tugged on it once more and the driver screamed again.

Tony had gotten himself out of the car and came around to see what was happening. "What's the problem up here?" Tony asked.

Abe pointed. "His finger's smashed and stuck."

Tony smiled. "That all? I thought he was in some kind serious trouble." He pulled a switchblade knife out of a pocket, flicked it open and handed it to Abe. "Break the window and get him outta there."

Abe backed up. "I can't do that!" he said in a terrified voice.

Tony screwed up his face, grabbed the knife and shoved Abe out of his way. "Shut your eyes," he warned the driver. "I'm gonna break the glass."

The driver looked up, saw the knife and jerked his hand hard. "Never mind, Tony," he said through gritted teeth, and held his hand up to show Tony he didn't need to cut it off after all. He was minus a fingernail as he slid out of the passenger side door.

"I'm so sorry about all this," Abe tried to apologize, but Tony didn't want to hear it.

He told the driver to open the trunk and grab the suitcases, then flipped a hand motion towards the captain's wagon. "That pile of garbage still running?" Abe nodded. "That's good. Right, boys?" The boys agreed and all five of them started over to the wagon.

"We'd be glad to take you into town," Abe offered as he took two of the cases and fell in behind the tough-looking crew. "We've got plenty of room for you all." He didn't get an answer.

Shorty still had his eyes covered when they got to the wagon. "Hey you?" Tony said in a deep voice. "Outta the car."

Shorty dropped his hands and stared at the mean dark eyes of Antonio Pasta.

"Outta the car!" Tony said again, and Shorty popped out. "Okay, Santini, you drive," Pasta ordered.

"Right, Tony." The five of them piled into the captain's wagon. Santini fired it up and pushed the accelerator further down than it had ever been pushed. Black smoke billowed out of the tail pipe. "What kinda piece of junk is this?" Santini yelled when the old engine started coughing and sputtering. He pumped the gas pedal a few times and the old wagon caught on. It's engine smoothed out and sounded more like what Santini was used to. Amid the noise of grating gears and screeching tires they were off, storming onto the highway and steaming towards Midvale while Abe and Shorty were left standing in the smokescreen yelling for the men to take it easy on their borrowed vehicle.

### CHAPTER 23

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: The far reaching effects of our mission are about to be set in motion. We now have most of the principal players on board. Of course you already knew that, but Gabriel will be interested. By the way, thank Gabe for filling in for me and keeping our subjects out of harm's way during the big crash scene. Good job. Host

To: Host. Yes, job well done, Gabriel. It's nice that you two are communicating again. God, cc etc. etc

Before the station wagon's smoke evaporated into the air, all the kids except Alvin came running through the thicket of oleanders that lined the driveway. "We heard the noise," one of the older children said, panting as he ran up to Abe and Shorty. Then he saw the missing fence and gray sedan sitting lopsided in the drainage ditch. "Wow! What happened? Where's your car?"

"The captain's going to ask the same question," Abe said to Shorty before answering the boy. "Don't worry, everything's okay. Some men just ran their car off the road and borrowed ours. Do you know if maybe Miss Haggard has a car we could use?"

"Huh-uh," the boy said, shaking his head. "We had a truck but that was Mr. Lafferty's and he's not here anymore."

"Well." Shorty shrugged it off. "In that event would ya be havin' a couple of beds we could use fer the night?"

"You can have mine," the boy said, his eyes reflecting pure joy at the idea.

"Mine, too," another boy said.

Abe interrupted them and deflated the moment of elation. "We won't be staying, kids. Mr. McDougal and me have an important meeting to be at in a little while, and we can't miss it, can we, Mr. McDougal?"

The look of disappointment shone on the Irishman's face as much as it did on those of the children. "Mr. Douglas is right," he said, in a halfhearted tone. "I suppose we do have to be on our way."

"You kids run back and tell Miss Haggard that nobody's hurt or anything," Abe told the youngsters. "We'll see you again as soon as we can." He turned and started down the road. "Come on, Mr. McDougal, we've got a long way to go."

Less than a mile down the highway Shorty stopped and sat down on a guardrail post. "It's me feet, Mr. Douglas," the little man explained when Abe asked him what was wrong. "They'll never be carryin' me all the way to town."

Abe sat beside him. "I thought you said those were the most comfortable shoes you ever owned."

"They are. But I've not had the chance to walk this far in 'em before."

"Well, just try to keep your mind off your feet," Abe said. He pointed up the highway. They were heading up one of the few rolling hills on the road. "When we get to the top it'll be easier walking. Or, I can go on and you can wait here. Someone might come along and give you a ride, then you can have them stop and pick me up, too. Would that be better for you?"

Shorty stood. "No, no, I'll do like ya said and keep me mind on somthin' else."

"Good. I'll try to slow down a little and stay with you. Let's go."

They had just topped the hill when a car passed them by. The driver honked and a young boy, looking at them through the rear window, stuck his tongue out. "I hope they're takin' him to the meetin'" Shorty snarled.

"If you don't hurry it up a little there won't be a meeting," Abe answered. The Irishman groaned. "I know, I know, it's your feet," said Abe, cutting his complaint short. "Mine aren't doing too well either. Come on."

A few hundred feet beyond the hilltop Shorty stopped abruptly and turned around to see what was making the noise behind them. He squinted to shield his eyes from the glow of the setting sun. "Do ya hear that, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe turned. "Sounds like a tractor to me," he said, holding a hand over his brow. "But I don't see it."

Moments later an abbreviated line of wooden crates came into view above the horizon. Quickly the line took on the shape of a stack of crates above the silhouette of a farm tractor. It chugged over the hilltop. Abe and Shorty could see now that the tractor was pulling a trailer loaded with boxes of chickens. The driver braked to a stop when he reached them. "That your car in the ditch back there?" he asked, petting the head of a potbellied pig that sat in the seat next to him.

"Nope," Abe answered. "But we could use a lift. You wouldn't happen to be going all the way to Midvale, would you?"

"I sure am."The driver motioned behind him. "These chickens got to be to the plant today. If you don't mind riding on the back, you're welcome to jump on." The pig squealed. "This is Elijah. Say howdy, Elijah." The pig squealed again. "Smartest pig in the country," the man boasted with a hearty laugh. "Jump on. Where'd you want me to drop you?"

"The park'd be fine," said Shorty, eyeing the pig. The fat little creature seemed content with its station in life. "Does he always ride along with ya?"

The driver smiled. "Only on special occasions," he said. "I'm going right by the park. Glad to help you out." He motioned them to get aboard, put the tractor in gear and switched on the lights. "Hold on, Elijah," he said, and the miniature pig flopped down on the seat and squealed again.

Abe and Shorty found a place to sit on the very back end of the trailer and jumped on. The swarm of chickens squawked and fluttered against the wooden slats of their crates sending a shower of tiny white feathers down on them.

"They'll blow off," Abe said after trying unsuccessfully for a minute or two to brush them away. But as the chicken rig rolled on at twenty miles an hour, rather than clearing the atmosphere, the situation only worsened. They were soon covered with the sticky little bits of fluff and gave up on trying to remove them.

While Abe and Shorty bounced along on the back of the trailer watching the centerline and the countryside melt into darkness activities at the park were gearing up.

The clergy was there early, but not obvious. It had been Bishop Riley's suggestion that the ministry members wear casual clothes in lieu of their working suits and mill through the crowd like common folks. All approved the idea, but none of them wanted to give up the seating arrangement when it came meeting time. As a courtesy to the pulpit, the Jaycees had manned the chairs all day to make sure they were available when the show began.

Roland Thompson had lolled around for an hour or two taking snapshots of interesting looking people. Black and white, low-light photography was his real passion and he was good at finessing details in his work. He was down to his last frame in the roll of film when Antonio Pasta and the boys from Windsor strolled in at seven o'clock. Like the ministry, they had opted to drop their normal dark suits for a more relaxed look. The change of attire however did not change their roughshod attitudes. They walked directly to the row of chairs. It made no difference to them that the seats were occupied. Thompson didn't know them but their swagger and forwardness intrigued him. He waited until they reached the chairs then clicked his last shot. Not giving them another thought, he walked into the shadows behind the bandstand to reload his camera and attach the flash unit.

"These are reserved," the Jaycee said when Guerro told him to get up.

Pasta bent at the waist and came eye to eye with the man. "We're the ones they're reserved for," he said in a cool, deliberate voice. "You got a problem with that?"

The Jaycee stumbled in his hurry to evacuate the chair. The four other Jaycees down the line jumped to their feet as well, and Pasta and the boys sat down. They had checked around town all afternoon but nobody could help them find the guys who were responsible for their trip to this Godforsaken place. And they weren't happy about having to come to the park to finish the job. "This ain't good, Tony," Lido whispered after a few seconds of silence. "What if someone recognizes us?"

"What? You got your picture in the Post Office or something?" Pasta said. "Who's gonna recognize you?"

Guerro leaned over. "You ain't a little nervous?" he asked Antonio.

"Yeah, I'm nervous. Santini's too quiet."

Santini heard him. He stood and started to say something but stopped immediately. Dwayne Pearson of Channel Three was walking fifteen feet behind them talking to a cameraman. Instead of finishing what he was going to say, Santini gave Pasta a look that said he ought to check over his shoulder. Pasta turned his head.

A man was setting up a stationary video camera some thirty feet from the bandstand and Pearson was giving last minute instructions to his roving cameraman. "See if those guys will move their chairs and leave an aisle for us," he said, referring to Pasta and the others. He was close enough to be heard.

Without waiting to be asked, Pasta stood, picked up his chair and headed towards the backside of the bandstand. Lido, Guerro, Santini and the injured chauffeur followed suit and removed themselves from camera sight.

Roland Thompson had no idea what a turn his luck was about to take when Pasta and the boys set their chairs down behind him. He was stooped against the fence with his back to them finishing up the film and flash changeover.

"What'd you mean back there, Tony?" Santini continued his retort. "You still think I'm in the middle of this, don't you?" He held a hand out to Pasta. "Give me the gun. Give me the gun. I'll do 'em myself."

"Keep your voice down, you idiot," Pasta warned, turning his head from side to side quickly to see if anyone may have overheard Santini. Roland was behind them and out of Pasta's line of sight, but close enough to clearly hear the threat. He stayed still and turned his head just enough to see the backs of the five burly-looking men. He saw Pasta pat the side of his shirt. The bulge the pistol made was obvious. "They'll get what's comin' to them when the time's right," Pasta said in a lowered voice. "'Til then keep your mouth shut."

"I ain't taken this quietly, Tony," Santini said.

Lido slapped a hand on Santini's shoulder. "You gotta learn to listen, Louie. Tony's gonna take care of it and that's that. Now shut up or you might be taken care of at the same time, lo capite?"

Thompson had heard enough to cinch his dreams of winning the Pulitzer. He crawled down the fence-line as quietly as he could until he was far enough away not to be noticed by the gangsters then got up and ran. Since he had seen no sign that Douglas or McDougal were present, he figured he had time to call his uncle with the latest news and then get back to actually witness the massacre. The only thing standing in his way of getting another scoop was the Channel Three news team. When he got to their news van he jerked the ignition wire out of their portable generator.

"Hey, you?" Officer Robins shouted at him. Roland froze with the wire still dangling from his hand. Mayor Junior Williams had personally assigned Robins and Clements to night watch at the park just in case a problem arose from the ridiculous mafia story. The mayor, due in large part to Hattie Scott's experience, was inclined to believe the Lord's presence was on the up and up. In view of his political position, however, he had purposefully refrained from becoming an eyewitness. But if big trouble was afoot, he wanted to be the first to know about it. As a result, for the last few days the two officers had taken on the role of being his personal stooges. When Roland vandalized the generator the policemen were finishing off a hotdog in the shadows behind a foodstand and saw him do the deed. Robins walked up to him. "What are you doing, there?"

Roland stammered. "I...I... I was just trying to repair this." He held the wire out to Robins.

"You work for Channel Three?" Officer Clements asked.

"I'm a reporter for the Windsor Chronograph," Roland answered shakily. He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Clements.

Clements glanced at it and gave it to Robins. "Uh-huh," he said. "So why were you trying to, ah, fix this for Channel Three?"

Roland broke down. "I wasn't," he confessed. "Actually I was trying to keep them from getting my story."

Dwayne Pearson came around the front of the van. "Hey, Roland," he said, walking over to them. "What story?"

Robins saw the Channel Three patch on Dwayne's jacket. "You know this guy?" Robins asked.

"Yeah," Dwayne answered, and Robins held the ignition wire over to him. "He just broke your generator," the officer told him.

"What?" Dwayne's eyes darted to the machine. "Oh, for crying out loud, Roland! That's going to cost you."

"You want to press charges?" Clements spoke up.

Dwayne grabbed the front of Roland's shirt. "I ought to beat you to a pulp right now!" He shook Thompson hard before Robins stepped in and pulled them apart. Dwayne glared at Roland. "What story could be this important to you?"

Roland clamed up.

"So?" Clements asked again.

"Yes. I do want to press charges," Dwayne answered. "Jail's where he belongs. Get him out of here."

"Aw, come on, Dwayne," Roland pleaded. "You'd have done the same thing to me if you'd had the chance."

"I don't have time for this, Roland," Dwayne said, cocking his eyebrows at the reporter. "You going to let me in on the story or not?"

"Huh-uh," Roland replied.

At that, Officer Clements addressed Dwayne. "You'll have to come down to the station with us to file the complaint."

Pearson's face went sour. "Can it wait 'til after the broadcast?"

Clements looked at Robins and shrugged. "Sure, I guess that'd be okay. It'll take us a while to book him anyhow."

"Thanks," Dwayne said. "Take your time."

"You're going to regret this, Pearson," Thompson rattled loudly. "Just wait 'til Uncle Rayford hears about it." He turned to the officers. "I do get a phone call, don't I?"

"Yeah, one," Robins said, taking a hold on Roland's arm. "Let's go." The officers locked the red-faced reporter between them and led him to the squad car.

As Dwayne Pearson and his crew were making a hectic search for an electrical outlet, the Jaycees were rounding up the replacement chairs, and the ministry members were gathering to the front. In civilian clothes and solemn demeanor they aired the appearance of a possible threat to Pasta. He leaned over to Guerro. "You got any idea who they are?"

Guerro stood to get a better view then shook his head. Lido answered Pasta. "The one in the middle's a Bishop from Windsor."

"Does he know you?" Pasta asked.

Lido shook his head. "I don't think so, Tony."

"Good. Keep your head down just in case. And don't nobody look at a camera."

"How long we gonna sit here?" Guerro asked nervously.

"As long as it takes," Pasta answered. "We ain't gonna leave 'til it's done." They all settled back in their chairs and surreptitiously watched as the crowd grew over the next quarter hour to three hundred or more people. A small crowd in relation to what it would have been if Roland's fictitious story had not been printed. However, except for a few like the ministry, Sister Allecia and Pasta's bunch, those three hundred people were true believers. They had seen the Light of the Lord and felt His presence within themselves. No newspaper story could quell their faith or hinder their return to witness again the magnificent glory of God. Their prayers, the ministry's, Sister Allecia's, and Pasta's were all soon to be answered.

Dwayne Pearson stood in front of the empty, decorated bandstand as his producer gave him the countdown. At seven-thirty, television stations around the country interrupted their programming to air a special report, live from Midvale. The red light on the shoulder camera blinked on, and Dwayne started his report. "From above this platform, just behind me, we are told that a great light will soon appear. For some, it will be the realization that a higher power truly exists. For others, the light will be confirmation that a more earthly power is at work. We will bring you full coverage as the evening progresses, but for now, we take you to our newsroom where Janet Neighbors is standing by to bring you some opposing interviews we obtained earlier today. Janet?"

"Thank you, Dwayne," Janet said, beginning her part of the program. Dwayne unhooked his mike. "This'll take about five minutes," he said to his cameraman. "Is the stationary cam ready?"

"If the wire holds up," the man answered. "I've got the Jaycees looking for a heavier extension cord but they're not back yet."

"Keep your fingers crossed," Dwayne said, and walked to the van. "What do you think, Ernie?" Ernie, his tech man, was busily trying to re-attach the ignition wire on the generator.

"They didn't make these things to be repaired," Ernie said in disgust. "Look at this. He tore it right out of the magneto. We're going to have to rely on city power, boss. But we need a higher amp cable."

"Yeah, I know," Dwayne said. "Bud's trying to locate one." His cellphone rang and he pushed the button on his belt. "Yeah?" he answered.

"Pearson." Childers voice traveled into his earpiece. "That's some good stuff your girl is running. Keep it up."

"Thanks," Dwayne said, but Childers had already hung up.

"Him?" Ernie asked, and Dwayne nodded. "Hope Bud's lucky with that cable," the tech said as he went back to unbolting the engine shroud.

The arrival of the chicken rig at the park's entrance went unnoticed as the driver and Elijah pulled the tractor to a stop. Abe and Shorty came around to thank him. "No thanks necessary," the driver said with a smile. "Looks like something important's going on at the park."

"Their waitin' fer the Lord," Shorty provided. "Would ya care to be joinin' us?"

The man shook his head and Elijah squealed. "We'll drop by on our way back," he said. "Gotta be getting these birds to the plant right now. But good luck to you."

Abe and Shorty thanked him again and walked up the paved path through the archway. They were still trying to dust off the thousand little pieces of chicken feathers that clung to them like hungry leeches.

"Here he is!" a voice from the rear of the crowd yelled out.

"Get on the monitor," Dwayne ordered Ernie. "Tell them it's live time again." He ran back to take his position in front of the bandstand. "Get ready to roll," he told his cameraman.

Sister Allecia strong-armed her way through the crowd but stopped short when she saw the feathered mess Abe and his sidekick were in. She pointed half her large body at them and let out a thunderous laugh. "Somebody beat us to it, Ladies!" she said, then made a mock chicken sound as Abe and Shorty passed her. She and her contingent of vigilantes were still laughing as Abe reached the steps and gave himself a final dusting off.

"Roll 'em," Dwayne said, and waited to see the red light. It didn't come on.

"And, now, back to you, Dwayne," Janet said, wrapping up her portion of the report. A 'Technical Trouble' sign flashed on the screen. A moment later Dwayne's cellphone rang. "What the hell are you doing, Pearson?" Childers yelled. "I haven't seen a tech-flash in years!"

"We're trying to get it fixed," said Dwayne.

"Quit trying and do it! Tell the station to run some more footage on the interviews."

As Dwayne sprinted to the van, Lido looked up from concealing his face and saw Abe. "Is that the idiot who's causing us trouble?" he said, startled by seeing him. The rest of the gang lifted their faces.

"Ha," Pasta started to chuckle. "Ha, ha-ha." He broke into a full laugh, and the others joined him.

"This is gonna be a real pleasure," Guerro said.

Shorty peeked around the corner of the stand to see what the commotion was about. "Oh, me everlovin' mother," he gasped when he saw Pasta. He reached up to warn Abe then thought better of it and crawled under the stand.

Abe climbed the steps and walked to the middle of the platform. He looked down directly at Bishop Riley and nodded his head. The bishop crossed himself, and Abe gave him a warm smile, then raised his hands. Myriad feathers fell like snow but the bits of chatter amongst the crowd ceased. "I'm sorry we're so late," he apologized, lowering his hands. "The chicken business seems to be a little slow these days." He paused to brush off some more feathers and to let the few chuckles fade.

"But the Lord's never slow," he continued, holding his hat at his side. "He's always a step ahead and waiting for us to catch up. I'll tell you, it's a good thing He's patient, too. It seems like we're never in a hurry to gain on Him. I used to be that way, myself. I'd drag my feet at every stream I came to instead of jumping across right quick to find out what was on the other side. You all know what I'm talking about. You've probably done a little foot dragging yourselves, haven't you?" He paused again and settled his eyes on Bishop Riley for a quick moment. While the rest of the ministry appeared only restless, the bishop now seemed intent on hearing him out.

Abe looked back out over the crowd. "Tonight, folks, if we're lucky, the Lord'll help us across a river. He'll give us a glimpse of the beautiful shore He's built for us on the borders of heaven. About the only thing He asks from us is that we be good to ourselves and good to our neighbors. And, in my way of thinking, that's not asking for too much."

Some one said, "Amen," and Dwayne's floodlights flared on.

Abe held his hat up to block out the glare. "Well, that's about all I wanted to say, anyhow. Oh, except that if any of you want to give money, give it to the Waverly Home. They'll surely appreciate it."

The row of ministers mumbled something among themselves, and Dwayne's lights, and the rest of the park lights died.

In an instant the lights flashed back on, but they weren't KRTV's. Everybody looked up expecting to see the gleaming light of the Lord pouring down upon them. Instead, as if they were gazing through a celestial telescope, a single star drilled through the clouds above them and zoomed in, doubling in size and intensity. Then, as though an effervescing veil of transparent hues had been dropped horizontally across the sky, the star winked its new colors then shot back into its space above the clouds. To the believers and to those caught in the act of prayer, the sparkling orb of light was unmistakably God-sent. To those with ulterior motives it came as unexplainable and unusual but not necessarily heavenly. "The Lord is with us," Abe called out, as the star resumed its natural home and the veil of color and cloud cover melted away.

The floodlights snapped back on and the cameras flashed the picture of a bright, starlit sky to television sets wherever people were tuned to the CBC network. And Childers was back on the phone. "You've really done it this time, Pearson!" he yelled.

"The Lord did it," Dwayne answered back, and pulled the earpiece out while Childers was threatening to have him fired. As Dwayne silently trudged towards the van, Abe turned to walk off the stage. He was stopped quickly by the raised voice of Archdeacon Coleman.

"This scheme will damn you to the burning fires of hell much quicker than you think," he warned, shaking a finger at Abe.

Abe turned back to him. "Maybe you should keep an eye on your own coat-tail, Sir," he said, causing the gun-shy archdeacon to spin his head to see if anything was behind him.

"What is this Waylayer's Home?" The out-of-town Bishop Duncan injected.

"An orphanage," Abe replied. "And it's not Waylay..."

"For young hoodlums, I'd wager," Duncan snapped before he could finish his explanation. Abe started to try again but the bishop wasn't through. "Abraham and the Lord, indeed. Just how gullible do you think people are? Why not call yourself Moses and be done with it? Or, better yet why not claim to be the Lord, Himself?"

"And," the archdeacon carried on, addressing the melting crowd, "this fool who calls himself a prophet is not even an ordained priest, or a minister of any kind for that matter."

"I doubt if the man even knows how many books there are in the bible," Reverend Meade butted in. He glared at Abe. "Do you?" he asked sarcastically.

Abe said, "No."

"Or who was the first martyr?" Reverend Atchinson said.

The grilling would have continued had it not been for the unnerving bark of Sister Allecia's overwhelming voice. "Come out of there you sniveling scum of a snake!"

The crowd had already begun to breakup but at the grating sound of her voice it started moving away at a much faster pace. Antonio and his crew, who had stood to make sure they were next in line for a go at Abe, backed off. The ministry fell silent.

Worried about Shorty, Abe jumped off the platform and nearly landed on the big sister as she pulled the squirming Irishman onto the paved area. "Get the buckets, Ladies," Allecia yelled joyously as she reached over and single-handedly tackled Abe. The two impostors were no match for the twin-sized heavyweight. She brought Abe to the ground and threw herself on top of him.

Although the big sister was totally disheveled, her floral dress hitched far too high and one shoe missing, she fairly beamed with elation as she lay pressing her quarry into the pavement. "Where's the tar?" she called out again. When no one came forth, her eyes hurriedly searched for a familiar face but found none. Either her entire crew had lost heart or they had been converted. Either way she had Abe and Shorty pinned but she was all on her own. She moaned a disheartened sound and let her legs thud down on Shorty's back.

Bishop Riley, who had been the only silent member of the clergy to this point, stood from his chair when Shorty let out a cry of pain. "Let them go," he said in a voice that demanded attention.

Sister Allecia jerked her head up. "Who said that?" she bellowed.

Bishop Riley took the few steps to look down on her. "I did," he answered. "What you have in mind is not the way God would want this handled."

Allecia groaned her disappointment and shot a pleading glance at Reverend Atchinson. When he nodded she shifted her weight, and with a show of belligerence, she took her time and slowly rolled off the two downed men.

"I'm leaving town tomorrow," Riley said when Abe and Shorty got to their feet. "I might suggest you do the same." He turned to the rest of the clergy. "Gentlemen," he said, and took the lead as they filed away. Sister Allecia glared a final threat and huffed away behind them.

Abe raised his eyebrows and shook his head, but before he could make a comment, Antonio Pasta tapped him on the shoulder with the switchblade. Abe turned then batted his eyes. "That's good, you remember me," Pasta said, thumping the big knife against Abe's chest. "We've been thinkin' about all the things that could happen to you." He shook his head and frowned. "You know, there's a lot of bad stuff goin' on in the neighborhood."

"Hey, that's just the way it is," Santini said, and Lido nodded.

"Now that you know how things could be for you," Pasta went on. "Why don't you make it easy on yourselves and tell me about the operation. Like what's the game and who's the boss. Things like that."

Abe was noticeably at a loss. "I work for the Lord, if that's what you mean. I don't know anything about an operation."

Guerro gave Pasta's arm a little tug. "Let me see you for a minute," he said, motioning for Pasta to follow him. They walked a few paces away. "Let's just scare 'em and get outta here, Tony."

"You serious?" Pasta said, almost laughing at the idea. But Guerro was insistent.

"Something tells me he's on the level, Tony. It's in my guts."

Pasta shrugged. "The boss ain't gonna like it."

Guerro's eyes pleaded with him. "I gotta feelin' it don't make much difference if he likes it or not." His voice held a tremble as he pointed skyward. "Just look around, Tony. How could the guy cause something like that? There ain't nothin' up there to work with except the real thing."

Pasta looked up. Nothing but normal stars looked back at him. He nodded. "Okay, let's do it," he said, then made a cutting motion across his neck. "You know if we're wrong there's gonna be four of us in that special place of yours." Guerro shrugged, and the two rejoined the group.

Pasta sauntered up to Abe and put his face way too close to Abe's for comfort. "So, we talked it over and we've decided to be as fair with you as the fathers were." Lido nodded his approval but Santini started to complain. Pasta turned and shot a glare at him. "You want the word to get back that you were uncooperative?" Santini silenced his thoughts, and Pasta returned to Abe and Shorty. "So here's the decision. If you're gone in the morning when we come looking for you, you got no worries. If we hear of you working again in this part of the country, then you got a problem." He raised the hem of his shirt and flashed the handle of the pistol. "We got an understanding here?" Abe and Shorty nodded. Ending the conversation Pasta said, "That's good. That's very good."

Santini looked over his shoulder as they strolled away. "Sleep tight," he said with a wry wink.

"Can ya imagine that?" Shorty said after the thugs had gone. "Us bein' run out of town on account of the Lord."

Abe sat down on the edge of the platform and put his face in his palms. He rubbed his eyes for a moment then stared off into the empty park. "I wonder if this is what it's always going to come down to, Mr. McDougal?"

"What are ya sayin', Mr. Douglas?"

"Us getting kicked around from one place to the other."

"Oh."

"You know, like we got kicked out of the alley. The Lord followed us then. Maybe he'll just keep on following us. Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be."

"I suppose ya could be right in yer thinkin'," Shorty agreed. "But it'd be nice if we knew fer certain, wouldn't it?"

Abe answered with a brief "Uh-huh" as he got up. "Well, let's get home and get packed. We sure don't want to be here in the morning."

"What about the capt'n's car?" Shorty asked as if it had just dawned on him.

Abe swung around. "Good Lord, I forgot all about it! We've got to find it, Mr. McDougal."

"Are ya thinkin' they might've left it here in town?"

The thought that the captain's car might not be in Midvale brought an amazed look to Abe's face. "I sure hope so, Mr. McDougal," he said. "If they didn't we're in really big trouble."

With their minds now set on finding the car they hurried out of the park and walked briskly towards the center of town.

The basement lights were on in the Free Gospel Church when Abe and Shorty passed by it but they had no idea that they were the topic of the conversation taking place there.

The preliminaries of the minister's success had been touted earlier, and now Bishop Riley had the floor. "As you all know, I didn't want to be here tonight. In fact it's a fluke that I'm here at all. I was supposed to be on my way home yesterday but Bill," he pointed to Bishop Duncan, "talked me into coming with him. Thought I might be of help in getting this thing straightened out. Then I wanted to leave earlier today and that didn't work out either. The thing that tops it all off, though, is that I had my hearing aid tuned all the way to mute tonight when this man, Abraham, took the stage. Now Bill can attest to this. I can't hear a thing without my aid." He looked at Bishop Duncan. "Isn't that right?" Duncan nodded. "But, gentlemen, I heard every word the man said. In fact I could repeat it verbatim if that's what's needed to prove it."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Archdeacon Coleman asked.

Riley laid his hearing aid on the table. "Exactly," he said, and watched as all the ministers gazed at the little piece of tan plastic. "I felt the hand of God reach into me and restore my hearing."

"My God, man!" Father Coombs said. "Why didn't you say something at the park?"

Riley looked hard at him. "Would you have believed me, under the circumstances?" Coombs didn't have an immediate answer. "I'm not too sure all of you believe me even now. But look into your hearts, Gentlemen, or at any rate look at the logic of it. You saw the Light just as I did. Do you really think it was a prank?"

Reverend Elroy spoke up. "What makes you so special? Why would the almighty God pick you out of the bunch of us to make a point? I think I'm just as virtuous as any man here. In fact, as the man was speaking, I was closing my mind to the blasphemy."

"Same here," Reverend Meade said, causing a mumble of chatter to breakout among the others.

"Were any of you praying?" Riley asked.

The door behind him opened and Brother Michael stepped into the room. Atchinson, seeing that Michael didn't have his glasses on, picked up his wine glass and took a couple of steps away from the table. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I know I wasn't invited," Brother Michael said in an unexpectedly strong voice. "But I knew you'd all be here." He walked over to the table and laid his glasses beside Riley's hearing aid. The group looked bewildered. "I went to the meeting at the park tonight at Hattie Scott's insistence. Some of you know her." He paused but no one, not even Father Coombs, commented. "She had an injured leg and it was healed last week at one of the meetings. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it."

"I heard about it," Father Coombs then said. "She's been on our prayer list for quite some time. I simply put her healing to that."

"Well, I'm sure I haven't been on your list," Brother Michael said. "And tonight I got my sight back."

A curious look flashed on Bishop Riley's face. "Were you praying at the time?"

"Of course," Brother Michael answered. "That's what I was there for."

At that Bishop Riley redirected the question back to the rest of the clergy. "Were any of the rest of you praying?" In answer all he got was silence. He looked back at Brother Michael. "I was praying, too," he said. "Not for my hearing, though. I was praying that I wasn't getting involved with the Mafia again."

Brother Michael smiled. "I was praying it was for real."

Riley nodded. "It looks to me, Gentlemen, like we've all made a terrible mistake. I can't speak for the rest of you, but as for myself, I'm going home and spreading the word that what happened here is truly a miracle. God was trying to get our attention and we sent Him away." He hung his head. "What a way to end a career."

"Or start one," Brother Michael said and dropped an arm over Riley's shoulder. "It would be a good way to start one." He looked at the other ministers. "I think we all should go home and pray that God will give us a second chance." He turned to the door. "Goodnight, Gentlemen," he said as he walked away without his glasses.

Abe and Shorty were standing across the street from the Cock's Crow Inn six blocks away when the meeting ended.

Pasta and his henchmen had registered at the best hotel in town, and were lucky enough to park curbside in front of it. They were enjoying an alfresco dinner by gaslight in the courtyard when Abe and Shorty spotted the captain's old yellow wagon. On the surface the car appeared to be no worse for wear. Only after they got it started would they know for sure, but that would have to wait until the gangsters had moved inside.

"I'll come back a little later and fetch it," Shorty said when they saw Pasta and the boys being served their entrees.

"How're you going to do that?" Abe questioned. "They've got the key."

Shorty flashed him a quick grin. "I'm thinkin' ya really don't want to know that, Mr. Douglas," he said, and abruptly changed the subject. "Ya didn't happen to see the capt'n at the meeting, did ya?"

"If he'd been there I'm sure he would have looked us up," Abe answered. "What are we going to tell him about his car?"

Shorty shrugged an 'I don't know' then said, "I suppose we could both wait around 'til they go inside, huh?"

"It's getting pretty late," Abe said. "Peon's going to be locking up soon, then neither one of us will be able to get in. I guess I'll just go on. I'll tell the captain that you're bringing the car, okay? You can drive, can't you?"

Shorty nodded. "That's the plan then," he said. "I'll be comin' along shortly."

Leroy Titus met Abe at the door with a telegram in his hand. "It's for you, Mr. Douglas," he said excitedly as he handed it over.

"A telegram?" Abe asked as though it was unbelievable. He had never before received one. "Who's it from?" Titus started to answer but quickly changed his mind.

Abe turned it over in his hand. He could see that the envelope had been steamed open and sloppily resealed. "Well, what does it say?" Titus dropped his stare to the floor, and Abe reopened the flap. The sender was Gerald Dodge, the F.B.I. guy, using the alias Marion Hail. Thanks to the enthusiastic cooperation of Rayford Manson it took only a single telephone call to obtain Abe's address at the Salvation Army. "Gees!" Abe said after reading it twice. "Does Captain Hedges know about this?"

"He's not here," Titus said, shaking his head. "He's still at the hospital." Abe's surprised look prompted him to go on. "The Captain's okay. He's not there for himself," Titus added. "His sister's having a baby and her husband's out of town. So Captain's been sitting with her since early this afternoon."

"You had me worried," Abe said. "Well, if you're still up when he comes back would you ask him to come see me? I really need to talk to him. Would you do that?"

"Sure will, Mr. Douglas," Peon said, nervously eyeing the telegram. "Do you really talk to God?" he asked as Abe was about to walk away.

Abe smiled at him. The frail man's eyes and sloping chin were dancing with anticipation. "I have talked to Him a couple of times. But mostly He just lets us know He's here with a beautiful light. You never got the chance to see Him, did you?" The excitement drained from Peon's face, and Abe patted him on the shoulder. "Someday you will."

"Really?" said Peon.

"Sure," Abe answered just as Shorty came through the door.

"The car's put away all safe and sound," the Irishman said with a quick wink at Abe. "Where's the Capt'n?"

"He'll be here pretty soon I imagine," Abe answered before Peon got the chance. "We need to be getting upstairs." He nodded to Peon. "Let me know when he gets in."

### CHAPTER 24

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: I had intended to send this post directly to Gabriel since I can feel his growing concern that Douglas and McDougal are headed for sure disaster, however, I also feel the necessity of having each step of the mission fully recorded for future reference. So, Gabriel, as you read this post, know that although by celestial design nothing can ever be completely ruled out, I am as certain as diligence allows that I have considered all the contingencies and am prepared to altar the course as necessary. Then, of course, if all else fails, I still have you and Michael to fall back on. Host

To: Host. And me. I am here always. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. I wouldn't worry so much if you had a little more recent experience in these matters, or, if you would relent and let me in on your plans Gabriel, no cc

It's yer call, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said after the shock of the telegram had worn off. "Ya know I'm with ya whichever way ya decide."

The telegram consisted of an offer for them to come to Washington D.C. and hold a one-night meeting. The fee was set at ten thousand dollars, negotiable, accommodations and airfare included. Plus they could keep all the donations. Airline tickets had been reserved in their names and were waiting, pending their acceptance of the offer, at the Windsor Airport.

"I've never been on an airplane, have you?" Abe said in answer to the Irishman's vow of loyalty.

"It's never been one of me fantasies," Shorty said, showing a touch of fear in his eyes. "To be perfectly honest, me mind goes all powdery just thinkin' about it. But, if ya think we ought to go, I'll put me worries to rest and join ya."

"Okay." Abe layed a hand on Shorty's shoulder. "It's settled then. Pack up your stuff, Mr. McDougal, and we'll catch the eight o'clock train to Windsor in the morning. I'm going to run down to the supermarket and send Mr. Hail a wire. If the captain comes back, ask him to wait for me, will you?" Shorty said he would and Abe left to send an acceptance of the offer.

Gerald Dodge's desk was strewn with take-out food boxes and half-drank cups of tea when the staff boy touched his back and woke him up. "The telegram you're waiting for, Sir."

Dodge batted his eyes open and nodded a 'thank you'. He slugged down a swallow of cold tea and opened the wire. "They took it!" he called out with a measure of joy. "Wake up, guys." He gave Hart and Chamberlain a few seconds to get their minds in order then finished the announcement. "You can go home, boys. They'll be here tomorrow afternoon." He looked up at the clock. "Make that today," he corrected. "Grab a couple hours sleep and be back here early. We've got a lot to do."

The following morning Dodge's office was a hive of activity two hours before Captain Hedges came to the sleeping room to awaken his few guests at six a.m. The captain had taken on Peon's job the day after Horace's escapade. But, since the room no longer held the stench of stale alcohol or the foul odors associated with its previously drunken cohabitants, the captain found it an exhilarating chore. He whistled his way through the room opening windows and rousing the sleepers.

When he saw Abe and Shorty's belongings loaded like parcels and sitting on the floor beside their cots he stopped short and roughly shook the two men awake. "You're not leaving, are you?" he asked when they opened their eyes and squinted against the rays of sun laddering through the window blinds.

"Good grief!" Abe said with a start. "Get up, Mr. McDougal! It's already morning." He swung out of bed fully dressed. "We need to be going, Captain."

Hedges frowned. "Going where?"

"Didn't Peon tell you?" asked Abe.

"Tell me what? What's going on?"

"They're chasin' us outta town," Shorty answered as he stood and grabbed his cap. "We've gotta be gone before long."

Hedges sat down on Abe's cot and shook his head. "Maybe you should start at the beginning. Who's chasing you and for what?"

"It's a long story, Captain," Abe said, picking up his backpack. "We don't have time to tell you the whole thing, but it seems like the whole town, or most of it anyways, wants us gone. They don't believe the Lord's really here."

"They're thinkin' we're tryin' to hoodwink 'em," Shorty added. "Can ya imagine that, Capt'n? Us makin' this whole thing up? Course ya wouldn't know, yerself, not seein' the Lord and all, but if ya had've ya'd know it's all been on the up and up."

A look of guilt crossed Hedges' face. "I know, and I'm sorry I never got to the park, but I do believe you. And no, I can't imagine you two deceiving anybody. Look, fellows, what can I do to straighten this all out?"

"Nothing, Captain, but thanks," Abe said. "We've made up our minds. There's a man in Washington D.C. that wants us to bring the Lord there, and we're going to go. We need to get out of here now and catch the train to Windsor."

"What train?"

"The eight o'clock."

"The freight train?" Hedges guessed, and Abe nodded. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do so you wouldn't have to leave?" Abe shrugged a 'no'. "Well," Hedges said, rising from the cot, "why don't you stay for breakfast then I'll drive you to Windsor?"

"Would ya do that, Capt'n?" Shorty asked, delighted with the offer.

"Certainly. Leroy can watch the place for a while. By the way," he said, looking at their rolled-up belongings, "if you'd like you can get yourselves a couple of suitcases out of the store. They might make it easier for you carry your things." Abe thanked him and he gave them the key to the Thrift store. "I'll see you at breakfast then," he said, as he departed to check on the cook's progress.

With their gear repacked in proper cases, Abe and Shorty stood nervously by the old wagon as Hedges gave Titus some final instructions for the day. "Why didn't ya tell the Capt'n about the ten thousand?" Shorty wanted to know.

"I was going to talk to you about that," Abe answered. "I figured we'd surprise him after we collect it, but I wanted to see if you agreed with me first. I was thinking we might split it up. Give half of it to the Waverly Home and half to Captain Hedges, if that'd be okay with you."

Shorty spent no time making up his mind. "I'm thinkin' that'd be a dandy thing to do, Mr. Douglas. Ya couldn't be findin' two more worthy causes. It's certain it'd be put to good use."

"I'm glad you feel like that," Abe said, and nodded towards the alleyway entrance. Hedges was coming. "Let's just keep it to ourselves, okay?" Shorty nodded then opened the driver's door as the captain reached them.

"Ready?" Hedges said, and slid into the seat. "May I have the key?"

Abe gave the Irishman a quick glance of alarm. "The key, Mr. McDougal," he repeated the captain's request.

Shorty exhaled the long breath he had been holding. "It pains me somthin' awful to tell ya this, Capt'n. But yer key got misplaced in the rush of things. But we'll get ya another as soon as we get to Windsor."

Hedges gave him a smile. "No harm done," he said. "I've got a spare in the office. I'll be right back."

As soon as the captain left Shorty dove under the dashboard. "What are you doing?" Abe leaned over and asked him.

"I already told ya that ya don't want to know," the little man said as he hurried to redo the wires he had stripped the night before. "It'll be good as new in a minute. Just keep an eye out fer the capt'n, will ya?"

"I feel like a thief," Abe said, shaking his head and backing away so he could see around the corner.

"It's not like I stole it," Shorty reminded him as he crawled out from under the dash and got to his feet. He brushed his hands together. "There now, no one'll ever know I was under there."

"He's coming," Abe whispered just loud enough for Shorty to hear him. "Get in the car and look natural."

"I am natural," Shorty said. "Yer the one that's lookin' guilty."

Captain Hedges rejoined them. "Everything all right?" he asked Abe.

Abe shrugged. "Just worried about your key," he answered. "We're ready to go if you are."

Hedges turned the key and the old wagon hummed to life sounding better than it had in years. "We're off," Hedges said and pulled out of the alleyway as if he were the only driver in town.

A few blocks away Santini was nervously knocking on the door of the Cock's Crow bridal suite. The chauffeur opened it and Santini burst in. "You ain't gonna believe this, Tony. Some clown's ripped off our wheels!"

Pasta took another sip of mocha and turned away from the window. "That's good," he said calmly.

"Whatta you mean, that's good?" Santini blurted.

"That means our problems ain't gonna give us no more problems. You understand?"

"Oh yeah," Santini said as the idea settled in his mind. "They took it. I'm gonna kill 'em."

"You're beginning to worry me, Louie," Pasta said, glaring at him. "Now, listen carefully to me. You're not gonna do nothing. If anything happens to them, I'm gonna hold you personally responsible."

"Hey, Tony," Santini said, holding his hands up. "Anything could happen to 'em. A car wreck, heart attack, snake bite, anything."

Pasta set his cup down and walked up to within inches of Santini's face. "None of them things better happen. Lo Capite?"

Santini shrank into a chair, kissed the tips of his fingers and flicked them into the air. The telephone rang before he could say what was on his mind.

Lido answered it then handed the receiver to Pasta. "Yeah?" Pasta answered. It was the boss.

"Hey, Anti, whatta you got us into down there?" an angry voice asked.

"Nothing, Boss. I ain't done nothing."

"It's all over the papers, Anti. How many people you pop, anyhow? What's the matter with you? You crazy? You know I can't have nothing to do with this..."

Pasta cut him off. "Whatta you talking about. I gotta bad connection, or what?"

"You better believe you gotta bad connection," the boss fired back. "Anti, Anti, Anti. Priests? Mama Lucia! The Protestants? Maybe I could understand that a little, but whackin' priests? Every family in the country's crying for blood. Your blood, Anti, and I gotta give it to 'em."

Pasta was losing his cool composure quickly. "Wait a minute, Boss," he pleaded in a tone the others had never heard. "There ain't been no killings. I got no idea what you're talking about. What priests?"

"No killings?" the boss repeated as a confused question.

"No," Pasta confirmed. "Here," he said, "Lido, Guerro and Santini will tell you." He held the receiver out at arm's length. "Tell him," he ordered, and they all shouted, "There ain't been no killings!"

"You heard it, Boss," Pasta said. "We ain't so much as swatted a mosquito since we hit town. I don't know what you're reading, Boss, but it's all garbage."

There was an audible sigh at the other end of the line. "Okay, Anti. You tell Lido to find out who's responsible for this and let me know. I'll cover it with everyone and get you straight with 'em. In the meantime I want you back here, and bring Guerro and Santini with you. I don't want anything else said or done 'til we get this thing cleared up."

"Right, Boss. We'll be there this afternoon." He hung the receiver up then snapped his fingers. "Get us a cab," he said, and all four of his subordinates reached for the telephone at once.

Roland Thompson had jumped the gun, literally, when he reported the inevitable blood-bath story to his uncle during the one telephone call the Midvale Police would allow him. Rayford didn't want to run the story at all without solid evidence that the shootings had indeed occurred, but with having Channel Three on site, he was afraid not to release at least a token piece. He had set his teeth into the story and was determined to hang on.

In the heat of the race against time and television, Rayford forgot about his nephew's plight and simply sent a runner to pick up Roland's film and notes. He had the film strip developed and immediately the dim outline of Santini's face rang a mental bell. He didn't know who Pasta, Guerro, or the chauffeur were, and Lido's face was totally obliterated by someone in a Jaycee jacket. But Santini's features stood out. He knew the face but just couldn't place it.

For the next two hours, with his television tuned to Channel Three, Rayford buried himself in the archives searching the old photos and his memory. Nothing about the miracle flashed on the screen, but at midnight, he found what he was looking for. An old shot of Louie Santini. He pulled up the print and read the first few lines.

Santini had been questioned in the software pirating scandal three years before. Seven of his trucks, loaded with copied CDs, were seized but he had not been charged due to the lack of evidence. The trucks had mysteriously disappeared from the temporary holding compound before the FBI agents could have them moved to a more secure area.

And, now, here he was again. The mob connection seemed viable in Rayford's mind, so risking a slander lawsuit, he toned Roland's report down to say the likelihood of gunfire was imminent and called it in to the national wire service. The story was juggled to the front page a second time and hit the streets in the morning editions under the headline 'Mob Rumbles Religion'.

Antonio Pasta's boss wasn't the only one caught off guard by the breaking news. Gerald Dodge and his men, Chamberlain and Hart, had opted to spend the night in the employee's lounge instead of driving home and back again with so few hours in between. They weren't aware of the latest news until Stacy arrived at seven o'clock. "You haven't seen the news, have you?" she said, noticing none of them had yet shaved or combed their hair. She laid the paper on the lunch table in front of Dodge. "I'll put the coffee on, you're going to need it."

Gerald flipped the paper over. His eyes focused on the picture of Pasta and the others. "Looks like this confirms it, fellows," he said, turning the sheet around to Chamberlain. "The guy there in the back, that's Louie Santini. Remember him?"

"The guy with the magic trucks?" Hart said.

"Yeah," Chamberlain answered him, and turned the paper so they could share reading it.

"Either of you recognize the other ones?" Dodge questioned. They both shook their heads. "Stacy, get this down to Gordon. See if he can get a make on any of them."

"Coffee's about ready," she said. "I dropped a copy off with him on my way up. Said he would call the minute he knows for sure."

"Holy hell, Boss, you'd better read this," Hart said spinning the newspaper back around to him. "We might be too late."

Dodge quickly read the short article that basically said the clergy might have already been cut down at press-time. "Stacy!" he yelled. "Where the hell is she?" Chamberlain told him she was on the telephone. "Get her off and tell her to call CBC. Find out where this thing stands." As Chamberlain ran to the office, Dodge turned to Agent Hart. "Call Manson at the Windsor Chronograph. See if his guy's got anything new."

With the room empty of everyone else, Gerald looked up at the portrait of the President on the wall above the microwave. "Thanks a lot, buddy," he said sarcastically. "And thank the little missus while you're at it."

In a few minutes Dodge had replies to all his questions but none of them were what he wanted to hear. Dwayne Pearson and his crew were as yet unaccounted for. Roland Thompson was incarcerated for sabotaging the generator. And other than Santini, Gordon could only identify one other individual in the photo---a Jaycee, one Harvey Gladstone, a bell-ringer in the Savings and Loan fiasco and now in the federal witness protection program. A lot of worthless information in Dodge's estimation. He still didn't know if the massacre was history or if it had yet to be played out. "Where's Stacy?"

Hart gestured that she was on the telephone again. "Calling the local law," he said.

Dodge smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. "At least one of us is thinking. We should have called them first." He sat down and tried to rub the stupid look off his face. "That coffee ready yet?"

Stacy brought the coffee and the good news at the same time. "Everything's quiet there, Mr. Dodge. Nothing out of the ordinary last night or so far this morning."

"Have you heard from Patterson yet?" He was referring to Jeff Paterson, the head of security at the Windsor airport who was charged with seeing that Abe and Shorty got on the plane.

"Uh-huh," Stacy said as she poured his coffee. "They hadn't reached the airport when I called him, but he'll let us know the minute they do."

Dodge took a few swallows of his coffee. "So," he said as he thought aloud. "Let's go ahead with the meeting arrangements as if it's still a go. If things change later on, well, we'll just have to stay flexible as best we can. You guys get on the horn. Start with the Academy, and whoever else you can think of. We need that auditorium filled by seven-thirty tonight. I'll make sure we have enough manpower to cover the place. Let's do it."

### CHAPTER 25

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: Things are beginning to move at a faster pace, so I'll keep this post short and we can all get back to watching the mission unfold. I just wanted to reiterate my thankfulness for your allowing my personal involvement and providing me the latitude to do it my way. I am one happy camper, as they say down here. Host

To: Host. Your enthusiasm is contagious, and rightfully so. God, cc etc. etc

While the plan was coming together in Washington, the old yellow wagon was pulling up to the airport terminal in Windsor.

Not being familiar with the new parking regulations, Captain Hedges dropped Abe and Shorty off at the terminal entrance and directed them to go straight to the ticket counter. There they should tell the agent that their tickets on Eastwings Airlines were being held for them. "He or she will set you in the right direction," Hedges said. "And don't worry, it's still the safest way to travel, I'm told."

Abe offered him a hand. "We'd have a hard time thanking you enough for all you've done for us, Captain. It's been a real pleasure knowing you."

"That's me exact feelin's," Shorty added. "Yer a good man, Capt'n, and I'm wishin' ya all the best."

Hedges smiled broadly. "It's not often I hear things like that. Come see me when you get back."

"I'm not too certain we're coming back," Abe said. "But if we do, you'll be getting a visit, for sure. Oh, I almost forgot." He took a small gold ring out of his pocket and handed it to Hedges. "I found this years ago. It's been a sort of good luck piece for me. I'd like you to give it to your new niece when she's a little older."

Hedges looked surprised. "Are you sure?" Abe nodded.

A car horn sounded behind them, and Hedges gave them a small wave with the ring still in his hand. "Go straight to the ticket counter," he said again, then drove slowly away.

Hedges had steered them correctly. They found the Eastwing's booth and asked for their tickets. "May I see your I.D's," the ticket agent asked.

"Ya'll just have to be takin' me word fer it," Shorty answered. "But Mr. Douglas has one."

As Abe reached for his wallet, the agent glanced at the man standing at the other end of the booth. The man nodded slightly. Abe held up his ragged old driver's license. "That's fine," the agent said. "You understand, we just need to make sure. We wouldn't want anyone else getting your tickets." He motioned to a porthole. "If you'll just slide your luggage under the counter there, you're on your way. You'll be departing out of gate five." He pointed down the concourse. "Just down that way."

Halfway down the concourse they came to the security arches where they were asked to empty their pockets and proceed through the detectors. Abe dumped his bit of change, his wallet and his pocketknife in the tray. "Sir," the guard said. "You can't take the knife aboard."

At the station next to him, Shorty emptied his pockets of coins, three packages of crackers and cheese and a sack of candy corn, and walked through the arch. It beeped so loud it scared him. The guard stepped in front of him and asked him to raise his arms. Shorty shot his hands skyward and the guard ran a wand over his body. When the wand neared the little man's chest another beep sounded. "Sir, would you open your jacket." Wide-eyed and mouth open, Shorty promptly obeyed. "May I?" the guard asked, reaching for the top of the leather pouch pinned to his shirt collar. "What's this?" he demanded.

"Me purse," Shorty answered.

The guard glared at him. "You were told to empty your pockets."

"I did," Shorty said. "Ya didn't say anything about me purse."

The guard gave him a mean squint. "Take it off and put it on the tray. You have anything else hidden in there?"

"Only me sewin' kit."

The guard shook his wand at the tray.

"Right," Shorty said and dropped the little kit on top of his purse.

The guard opened the kit and shook his head. "There's scissors in here. You can't take these aboard."

"What?" Shorty said, dropping his arms to his side. "I'm not one to travel without me sewin' kit. And without me scissors it ain't a sewin' kit anymore, now is it?"

As Shorty was arguing his case, Abe was getting upset about his pocketknife. "That's the only thing I've got left of my father's. I'm not going to give it to you."

"It's either that or you don't fly, Sir."

Abe shrugged and stepped back out of the detector. "Then I won't fly."

The man who had nodded to the ticket agent earlier interrupted the commotion. "If you gentlemen will step over here for second," he said to Abe and Shorty. The guards handed him the trays. "Please," he asked and gave them an ushering motion to a door opposite the arches. Inside the room he said, "Evidently you haven't flown in a while. There's some restrictions now that you aren't aware of, but I think I can help you." He took the knife and the sewing kit out of the trays. "I'll get these put into your checked cases, that way you'll be fine. Okay?" Abe and Shorty agreed and were then allowed to pass through the detectors and find their departure area. As soon as they reached it, the man called Gerald Dodge's office with an update. "Are you sure you've got the right men?" he asked Dodge. "They don't fit any profile I've ever seen."

"Are they on the plane, Patterson?" was Dodge's only comment.

"They will be in a few minutes." Patterson glanced at his watch. "Make that fifteen. The flight's scheduled for ten-ten, and the agent says it's on time."

"Thanks, Patterson. Let me know for sure when they board." Patterson put the telephone in its cradle then sat on a bench in the gate four waiting area where he could see without being seen until the men boarded their flight.

Gate five marked the end of the concourse. A cul-de-sac of floor to ceiling glass that provided an almost full circle view of the airport's activities. Shorty wasn't impressed by what he saw. "I didn't know they still flew 'em with propellers," he said as they watched a turbo-prop taxi up from the runway. The name Eastwings Airlines stretched out in red letters along its silver fuselage. "Ya don't imagine that's the one we'll be travelin' on, do ya?"

"Looks like they're going to stop right in front of us," Abe answered while rubbing the palms of his hands on his pant-legs to dry them off. He was trembling. "You know, maybe we should've asked the Lord about this first, Mr. McDougal."

"I'm thinkin' it's a little late fer that now," Shorty said, nodding towards the uniformed lady just opening the door to the tarmac. "Unless yer of a mind not to go a'tall. Do ya think they'd be givin' us back our belongin's if we were to change our minds?"

Abe shook his head. "For all I know they might already be gone."

"Are you gentlemen taking flight 101?" a woman's voice asked.

They looked up to their right where the gate attendant now stood looking down at them. The other twelve passengers had already passed through the door. Abe removed his hat and handed her the tickets. "We're going to Washington, the capital."

"This is your flight then," she said hurriedly. "You need to be boarding. Do you have any carry-ons?"

Abe shook his head, but Shorty answered her. "I had a sewin' kit but they took it away already. Would ya be knowin' if our suitcases are still here?"

The lady pointed to a small tractor just pulling a trailer away from the airplane. "They've just now been loaded. Don't worry, they'll be there when you land. You really have to get aboard now."

"I don't suppose I'd have time to go to the loo, would I?" Shorty said hesitantly.

"There's one on the aircraft," she said, showing her impatience.

Abe stood and grabbed Shorty's arm. "Oh, come on, Mr. McDougal, the Lord'll see us through it."

The inside of the craft seemed even smaller than it appeared on the outside. Abe had to bend his head down to walk to their seats in the very back of the plane. "Do you want to sit by the window?" he asked, and Shorty shook his head. "Your stomach, huh?" Abe guessed.

The steward interrupted them. "You need to sit down and fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen. We're about to takeoff."

After a quick briefing on what to do in the event the plane crashed, the pilot revved the engines. The whole machine shook and quivered as the roar and whir of the engines increased. "Oh, me everlovin mother!" Shorty breathed and clapped his hands over his eyes. Abe grabbed onto the armrests and stiffened back into the seat. The plane droned louder and moved away from the gate area, its tires thumping on the tarmac in ever increasing frequency. In a few breathless moments, the plane's engines eased as it reached the beginning of the runway. "Are we flyin'?' Shorty muffled.

Abe opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of his voice was destroyed in the thunder of the great propellers chopping into the morning air. Instantly they were hammered into the depths of their seats. "I want off!" Shorty yelled, as the plane screamed down the asphalt, its engines shaking the seats like an out of kilter washing machine. Then, abruptly it tilted nose-up at a drastic angle and they headed skyward.

As the thumping of the tires subsided, Abe chanced a glance through the porthole window. He saw the wing vibrating up and down in terror-raising rapidity. Suddenly he got the notion that the floor was going to open and drop out from under them. He closed his eyes. "Lord, help us," he prayed, then turned his head to look at Shorty. "You'd better grab on to something! This thing's not going to make it!"

But it did. In a matter of seconds the body of the craft leveled off and the drone of the engines took on a much less labored sound. The nerve-crushing liftoff was behind them but that didn't seem to matter. The two frightened greenhorns sat stiff in their seats, very pale and more than a little queasy. As soon as the 'Fasten seatbelts' sign blinked off they took turns splashing their faces with cold water in the tiny restroom.

Dodge had not intentionally been sparing with the taxpayer's money when he had their flight booked. Had he been given a choice he would rather have put them on a non-stop flight, but that was not an available option. Eastwings, a shuttle service, was the only carrier flying out of Windsor and it ran only small capacity, no-frills, prop-jets.

"I'm thinkin' a little somethin' on me stomach would ease me jitters a bit," Shorty said a half-hour into the flight. He and Abe were beginning to accept the normalcy of the plane's bouncing and bumping around as it roared through the pockets of turbulence they never knew existed. No one else, it seemed, was concerned, and the uneasy feelings in their stomachs had eased somewhat. "Would ya care fer some?" Shorty asked as he broke out his cache of crackers and candies.

They had nearly finished the bag of candy corn when the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "The seatbelt light is on, ladies and gentlemen. We'll be approaching Cincinnati International in about fifteen minutes. The weather is a clear, sunny seventy-two degrees with a five-knot wind out of the southwest. A good day to be fishing."

"What are we doing in Cincinnati?" Abe asked the steward, bewildered by the announcement. "I thought you were taking us to Washington."

The steward smiled. "You'll catch a connecting flight here," he advised. "We don't go all the way." He reached over to check the tension on their seatbelts. "Can I see your tickets?" Abe handed them to him. "Uh-huh. You'll be transferring to NationAir. That's in the same terminal we use so it'll be easy for you to find. Just watch the signs. Oh, I see there's no layover. You'll have to go straight to Nation's desk as soon as we get there. Okay?"

"What about me suitcase," Shorty asked. "I wouldn't want to be losin' it."

"It'll be on the same flight with you. Now," he said, moving away, "we'll be landing in a few minutes. Everyone be sure to keep your seatbelts on until the plane comes to a complete stop."

"I'll just be closin' me eyes if ya don't mind, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said, tapping Abe's arm. "I'm hopin' to see ya on the ground."

Abe leaned over to put his face against the window. "I'm going to watch. It got us this far. I think it'll get us back down." He stared out of the window for a few minutes then said over his shoulder, "Everything looks so small out there. I wonder if that's how we look to the Lord?"

Shorty changed his mind about keeping his eyes closed. He undid his seatbelt and squeezed his face next to Abe's. "Ya mean like a bunch of ants? That's a highway down there! Do ya see it? And a river! Just look at it, Mr. Douglas, how it snakes and twists around. I should've had a look earlier."

The steward's voice sounded behind him. "You're going to have to sit back in your seat, Sir. And buckle your belt." The plane suddenly tilted sideways. The view was immediately changed to blue sky, and Shorty had to grab Abe's jacket to keep from falling into the aisle. The steward caught him with one hand and pushed him down into the seat. "Buckle-up and stay!" he said like he was commanding a dog. Shorty obeyed then both he and Abe closed their eyes and waited for the plane to crash into the ground.

They were both fervently seeking God's intervention when the screech of the tires and the unexpected bumps of the touchdown rattled the plane. "Mr. Douglas?" Shorty whispered.

"Mr. McDougal?" Abe returned.

"Are ya okay?"

"Uh-huh. Are you?"

Shorty opened his eyes and saw the light posts and buildings whizzing by outside. "We did it!" he yelled. "We landed!"

The engines screamed in defiance as the pilot reversed the propeller angle to slow the craft, and Abe glued his face to the cold surface of the window. "Thank God," he said in answer to Shorty's exhilaration. They were on the ground, but there was no recuperation time.

Still on wobbly knees and slow of foot a few minutes after landing, they filed down the loading ramp to board the plane that would take them to their final destination. This time it was a regular jet.

It seemed to Abe and Shorty that the huge NationAir jet could have swallowed two of Eastwing's turbos and still had room for the eighty passengers that boarded with them. The sheer magnitude of its giant body and expansive wingspread renewed the panic they thought they had put behind them. But quickly enough their fears passed. The engines whirred with a reassuring whistle of power as the massive bird took to the runway and lifted off with the ease of a butterfly taking wing on a breezy day. It slanted upward and climbed effortlessly into the heavens. "It's amazing isn't it, Mr. McDougal?" Abe said when the plane leveled off. "Something this big riding on nothing but air."

"It's amazin' that I'm on it," Shorty said. "And just between us, I'm thinkin' I've had enough to last me the rest of me life. When we leave Washington, let's be travelin' by a more conventional means."

"A train?" Abe questioned.

"That'd do," Shorty answered with a brisk nod.

"Okay by me, but I suppose a lot depends on what the Lord wants us to do."

"Well, if ya recall, Mr. Douglas, it wasn't His idea that put us up here. It was yers. So, maybe the next time you oughtta be askin' Him first."

"I don't remember you saying anything about that before we got started."

Shorty lowered his eyes and fidgeted his fingers together. "I know," he said.

The flight attendant saved him from completing his apology. He handed them each a package of smoked almonds from his cart. "Something to drink?" he asked pleasantly. "Coffee, tea, cola or lemon-lime?"

For the duration of the flight they sipped their colas and munched on the almonds, taking turns looking out of the window at the clouds and the landscape as it slid by twenty thousand feet below them.

Agents Chamberlain and Hart met them at the airport just inside the waiting area of their arrival gate. The two men, a bit rugged in facial appearance and dressed in dark suits, seemed amiable enough as they approached. "Mr. Douglas? Mr. McDougal?" Chamberlain asked, giving them each time to acknowledge him. "Richard Chamberlain. This is Darrel Hart. Mr. Hail sent us to welcome you." They shook hands. "Mr. Hail's looking forward to meeting you both. Let's pick up your luggage and we'll be on our way."

"How was the flight?" Hart asked, making small talk as they walked towards the baggage carousel.

"It was an experience," Abe answered noncommittally.

"That it was," Shorty said. "Ya know this is me first time to Washington."

"Really?" Chamberlain said. "Well, we'll try to make sure it's one you'll remember." Abe caught the clandestine wink he gave Hart.

"That's awful kind of ya," Shorty said. "Isn't it, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe nodded. "Uh-huh, real kind." He pointed to a man on the opposite side of the carousel. "I think that's our cases he just picked up," he said, and speeded up his step.

"That's okay," Chamberlain said. "He's one of ours. I mean he's getting them for us." Abe slowed and let his words sink in. Something about the men didn't ring true with him.

"I'll get them," Hart said and sprinted ahead to intercept the other man and take control of the suitcases. He was on his way back when Abe met him and reached for his case. "That's all right," Hart said. "I'll carry them to the car for you. You guys just take it easy."

Outside, both Hart and Chamberlain stopped to put their sunglasses on. With this new look about them, Abe became even more suspicious. They sorely reminded him of the five tough guys in Midvale. Shorty, on the other hand, was busy taking in all the newness and not paying any attention to the underlying subtleties. "Yes, Sir, it's a fine city ya live in," he was saying as they reached the waiting car. It sat empty at the check-in curb with its engine idling. Chamberlain opened the trunk and Hart hefted a case at a time into it. When he picked up the second case, the front of his coat flared revealing the butt-end of his service pistol.

Abe quickly looked away and followed Shorty into the back seat of the car. "Didn't you need to use the restroom?" he said to the slack-jawed little man.

"No," Shorty answered. Abe moved a foot over and pushed it down hard on one of his tennis shoes. "On second thought, I suppose I should," the Irishman said in a hurry.

"Me too. We'll be right back," he said to Chamberlain, who was now in the front seat waiting for Hart to get into the driver's side.

Chamberlain opened his door. "I'll go with you and show you where it is."

"We can find it," Abe said, getting back out of the car. He was anxious to let Shorty know that the mobsters were still after them but Chamberlain wasn't going to cooperate.

"No, that's all right," Chamberlain said. "It's no trouble, and now that you mention it, I could stand to go myself."

Not wanting to show his suspicions, Abe nodded, and the three of them headed back into the terminal. The restroom was just inside the baggage area. It would have been impossible for them not to find it had they gone alone.

With his bathroom ploy summarily quashed and Shorty being so wrapped up in his own excitement, Abe resolved himself to the notion that instead of running away from trouble they were headed into a disaster. Everything in his mind seemed to point to the fact that another group of mobsters were behind their being in Washington. And it didn't look like he was going to find the opportunity to share his worries with McDougal.

### CHAPTER 26

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: We are fast approaching the point we have all been waiting for. It should be recorded that the success of this mission will be dependent upon the final input and cooperation of the entire working staff assigned to it. I firmly believe we are all ready to see it through. Host

To: Host. Let it so be recorded. To borrow a phrase from a previous post, tally ho. God, cc etc. etc

To: Host. Your influence it seems is as contagious as is your enthusiasm. That's nice. Michae,l cc Gabriel

Gerald Dodge had set up an office in a nondescript building near an elaborate Chinese restaurant. Hart drove the car into an underground garage and the four of them took an elevator to the third floor. The door they entered was labeled 'Capital City Productions'. Dodge sat behind a sleek black desk, his feet resting on the top, a long, unlit cigar stuck in his mouth bulging out one cheek. The telephone rang as they entered. He laid the cigar in an ashtray and stood. "Boys, we're glad to see ya," he greeted them in a down-home kind of drawl. "Have a seat, I'll be with ya in just a minute. Durn phone won't let us be." He picked up the phone, "Hail here," he said, answering the call. After a moment's silence he said, "We'll have to get back to ya on that, Mr. Dodge. Right now we've got some real important people in the office. I'll call ya tomorrow." He hung the receiver up. "Bureaucrats," he said, shaking his head. "They want everything done yesterday, and can't do anything on time themselves." He walked around the desk and offered his hand.

Abe had remained standing, holding his hat in his right hand at his side. He shifted hands. "Mr. Hail," he said, taking the man's hand in his. The grip was strong on both their parts.

"Aw, we don't bother with formalities around here," Dodge said. "Just call me Marion. We've got everything lined up for you, Abraham." He paused. "You don't mind me callin' you Abraham do ya, Mr. Douglas?"

"Abe's fine. And this is Thomas McDougal."

"Thomas is sort of an aide to Mr. Douglas," Chamberlain explained, and Dodge shook his hand.

"As I was sayin', Abe, we've got a lot of people lookin' forward to your presentation tonight."

Shorty leaned forward. "Will the President be joinin' us?" he asked with a look of joyful expectancy on his face.

"As a matter of fact, I talked to him this morning," Dodge answered. Which was the truth. "And he said he'd do all in his power to come." Which was a bald-faced lie, but it didn't show on Dodge's expression or in his voice. "Either way, the place'll be loaded. That I can guarantee ya."

Abe didn't like the way Hail had emphasized the word 'loaded'. "Where will the meeting be held?" he asked somberly.

Dodge gave him a broad smile. "You're goin' to love it, Abe. Best place in town. Historic and beautifully redone. We thought we'd just surprise you with it. You're goin' to love it, I just know you are. Now, let's get down to the nitty-gritty as they say back home."

"The ten-thousand dollars?" said Abe.

"That's what I like," Dodge said with a laugh. "A man who knows what it's all about." He went to the opposite side of the desk and took a large envelope out of a drawer and slid it across to Abe. "Five thousand now and five after the meetin'. That satisfactory to ya?"

Abe eyed the envelope, but Shorty was the one to answer. "Sounds like a proper bargain," he said, getting up and retrieving the packet.

"You'll want to count that," Dodge said. "Make sure a mouse hasn't got to it."

"That'd be suitin' me just fine," Shorty said and started to open the flap.

Abe stopped him. "That won't be necessary," he said, snapping the envelope out of the Irishman's hands. "I don't think Mr. Hail would try to cheat us."

Dodge held a hand up. "Oh, but I insist," he said, his voice almost demanding. "We're good but we could make a mistake."

"The man's right ya know, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said, retaking possession of the envelope. He turned to Dodge. "Not that I don't trust ya, ya understand, but business is business." Dodge nodded and motioned for him to proceed. Shorty spilled the contents on the desk and began his inventory of the bills.

Abe watched him for a moment then glanced up at the wall clock. It was ten minutes before two. "What time is the meeting," he asked.

"Eight o'clock," Dodge answered.

"Where do we stay 'til then?"

Dodge looked beyond him at Chamberlain and Hart who were standing at ease against the back wall. "We thought ya might enjoy a tour of the city. The boys here volunteered to show ya around, right fellas?"

"Right, Marion," Hart said almost facetiously. "Anywhere you want to go."

Abe was going to request a hotel but Shorty had a different agenda in mind. He had finished counting the money. "Five thousand on the nose," he informed Abe as he folded the envelope into a more manageable size and slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket. "Do ya think it'd be possible fer us to go to the White House?" he asked Dodge. "I'm thinkin' it'd be nice to give the president our personal invitation."

Dodge hesitated for a moment. "I believe he said he would be at Camp David all day. Big meetin' or somethin'," he said. Another lie of course, but a plausible one.

"Maybe his wife then," Shorty persisted.

"I'm pretty sure she's with him," Dodge said, and Shorty wilted a little.

"Is there a telegram office in the building?" Abe asked.

Dodge's face took on some extra wrinkles. "Why?"

"I'd like to wire the money to someone," Abe said, and Chamberlain coughed loudly like he had choked on something.

Before answering, Dodge shot a glance at Hart who shrugged as much as to say 'Don't ask me'. "Ya know," Dodge said, "I've never paid much attention, but I don't think there's one here. How about you, Richard? You know if they have a service here?"

"Not in this building," Chamberlain said, then coughed again just to justify the first one.

Shorty patted his chest. "Ya needn't fret, Mr. Douglas. It'll be safe enough here in me pocket. No one but us knows I've got it, and I ain't plannin' on takin' me coat off." Abe shot a quick glare at him but it passed right by as Shorty continued talking. "I'm fer hittin' the road and lookin' the town over. Are ya ready?"

"That's the spirit," Dodge said with a chuckle in his voice. He put an arm around each of their shoulders and ushered them into the hands of Hart and Chamberlain. "The boys know every good spot in town. They'll treat ya right, and I'll be seein' ya along about eight." He turned to Chamberlain. "Richard you make sure now that they see all the important places, you hear?"

"Yes Sir," Chamberlain answered crisply, then quickly changed his tone. "We'll see you at the meeting then, boss."

Shorty was asking if they should call a joint session of congress when the four of them exited Mr. Hail's office.

As soon as the door-latch clicked shut, Dodge opened a desk drawer and switched off his tape recorder then picked up the telephone and dialed his real office. "Stacy. Everything's a go, how's the audience shaping up?"

"Unbelievably well," Stacy answered. "The Academy thing fell through, though. They've got a field exercise tonight..."

"That doesn't sound like good news to me," Dodge interrupted her gruffly.

"Just hold on," Stacy said. "I called Marjorie Watts a half-hour ago..."

"At the White House? That Watts?"

"Sir, will you let me finish?"

"Sorry," Dodge apologized. "Go ahead."

"Marjorie and I go way back," Stacy explained. "We're coffee buds. Anyhow, she put me on hold. She was back in two minutes and told me not to call anyone else. She'd take care of it. When I balked, she told me the First Lady had given her the order."

"What?"

"Marge wouldn't go into detail, but it seems the First Lady has some kind of personal vendetta going against your guest speaker."

Dodge went limp and fell heavily into his chair. "I should have guessed something like this would come up when I first got the call from him. Dammit! So, what's she going to do? You get any clues from Watts?"

"She carries a lot of weight," Stacy said, referring to the president's wife. "I had just hung up with Marge when you called. I guess the word's spreading like wildfire. From what she said, you can expect half the city's big wheels to be there tonight. And, the First Lady, herself."

"No!" Dodge said as if he didn't believe it.

"Yes," Stacy answered seriously.

"Okay, Stacy," Dodge said with a deep sigh. "Get Adams on the line and patch him through, pronto."

Adams was the agent Dodge had stationed at the auditorium to head up the security team. In moments Dodge was talking to him. "I wondered what was up," Adams said when Dodge gave him the news. "The Secret Service just walked in. How do you want me to handle it?"

"Cooperate," Dodge said. "But let them know the birds are ours. I'll be in the office in half an hour. If they've got any questions they can call me there."

As the afternoon slipped by and Dodge concerned himself with the new twist brought on by the First Lady, Chamberlain and Hart had their own hands full trying to keep tabs on the two tourists. Abe tried his best at every point of interest to get Shorty off to the side to tell him what he figured they were in for, but the agents never gave him the chance. They hovered around them every step. After the first hour Abe gave up. Shorty wasn't receptive anyhow. He was far too occupied with the sights and history of the city to pay attention to Abe's hints that they needed some serious discussion time.

The small group had just exited the Lincoln Memorial and stood looking back at it from the bottom of the steps. "It's an absolute marvel," Shorty said, staring up at the immensity of the huge columns. "Like everything we've seen today. It's hard to imagine so much beauty in one place. Yes sir, me old mother would be proud of me travels if she only knew of 'em." He turned to the quiet Abe. "It's been a real excitin' day hasn't it, Mr. Douglas?"

"And it's not over yet," Abe answered as they all turned toward the parking lot.

"Very true," said Hart, glancing at his wristwatch. "Who's for something to eat?"

Shorty glowed. "I'd be all fer that. What do ya say, Mr. Douglas?"

"Fine," Abe answered.

Shorty turned to Chamberlain. "I'm thinkin' he's not over the plane ride yet," he said as an explanation for Abe's somberness. He patted Abe's arm. "But a good dinner'll be fixin' ya right up."

"There's a nice little mom and pop shop just down the street," Hart suggested. "Homestyle cooking. You like Italian?"

"Oh, it's all right," Shorty said. "But I had somethin' a little more elegant in mind. Do ya know of a nice place? Sorta on the expensive side." He patted his chest. "I'm thinkin' we can afford it."

Chamberlain shook his head. "Now what kind of hosts would we be if we let you buy your own dinner? No sir, this is all on us. That is, it's on Marion," he said, smiling at Hart.

"That's right," Hart agreed with a shrug to Chamberlain. "Marion's not one to spare expenses," he said with a chortle. "And we know just the place."

"Would you fellows like to change clothes before dinner?" Chamberlain asked. "You know, put on a suit or something?"

Abe lightened up, thinking this might be his chance to talk to Shorty privately. "Yeah. That would be good. Do we have a hotel to go to?"

Chamberlain grimaced slightly and made a clicking noise with his tongue. "We got a suite for you but it won't be available 'til after the meeting. But in the meantime I'm sure Marion would insist that you use his mobile office." He took a cellphone from his pocket. "Give me a second, I'll call him. Hart, you guys go on. I'll meet you at the car."

Chamberlain was only a couple of minutes behind them when he opened the car door and climbed in beside Hart. "It's all set, fellows. We'll make a quick stop at the office for you guys to spruce up a little then head on to the restaurant." He nodded to Hart. "It's in area one," he said, and Hart backed the car out of the parking space.

A mile or so from the Lincoln Memorial, Hart pulled into the shadows at the rear of a federal building and parked alongside a bus-sized motorhome. "This is it," he said, getting out of the car. The sound of a generator engine hummed from the back and the door was unlocked. "Marion had it warmed up for you so you could take a shower if you wanted to," he said as they all stepped inside.

Dust covers had been carefully spread over all the equipment on both sides of the aisle leading from the front to the rear leaving only a table, a couch and three chairs uncovered. "The dressing area is in the back," Chamberlain said, setting their suitcases down and unzipping them. "Everything you need should be there but you'll have to go one at a time, though. It's kind of small."

Abe's shoulders sagged as his last hope to tell Shorty of their troubles vanished. "I'll go first, Mr. McDougal," he said in a dejected tone, and picked out a few things from his case. Within a half-hour they were on their way to dinner.

In Abe's mind, the restaurant Hart chose had to be the very finest in the city---Victorian, profuse in plush velvet, lead crystal and impeccably dressed servers. He had never seen anything even remotely as elegant. Being early yet for the evening clientele, and after talking on the side to Chamberlain, the maitre'd waived the formal dress code, found Shorty a necktie and seated them. No less than seven waiters glided to their assistance during the several courses of the meal that ended with apple pie, steaming hot and drizzled with dainty streams of swirled caramel. Agents Hart and Chamberlain had stretched the expense account far beyond anything Dodge would have expected. "Marion's going to be sorry he didn't join us," Hart said with a laugh as he dropped a credit card on the leather folder without even looking at the bill---one Abe knew must be astronomical.

Chamberlain chuckled then looked at his watch. "If you fellows are ready," he said to Abe and Shorty, "I suppose we should be getting on over to the auditorium." He motioned for a waiter. "I'll wait for the receipt if you guys want to bring the car up."

"It was a fine dinner," Shorty said. "I want ya to know we appreciate it."

Abe rose from the table. "It was without a doubt the best dinner I've ever had," he said sincerely. "I hope we live to see the time when we'll have another one like it."

Hart smiled at him. "Shall we go?" he said, falling in behind them as they walked to the door.

Chamberlain dialed Adams on his cellphone. "We're ten minutes away," he said.

The dash clock read seven-fifty-one when Hart drove into the alley behind a red-brick building and stopped at a staircase marked 'Stage Entrance'. Three other cars and a black van were parked just ahead of them. Several chauffeurs were milling around, chatting, smoking and polishing the cars. "Well, this is it," Chamberlain said. "Doesn't look like much from out here but you're going to be impressed when you get inside. Ready?"

"As ever," Shorty answered, and Abe nodded.

The backstage area seemed to be a jungle of ropes, wires and wooden contraptions of all sizes. Above them, the ceiling took on the look of a skyscraper under construction. A dangerous mass of steel beams and electrical wiring appeared ready to come crashing down at any moment. All of it only added to Abe's fears that he had made a tragic mistake in dragging himself and McDougal into this situation. But now he had no options. Marion Hail was walking towards them.

Abe didn't give him the chance to say anything. "Which way is the stage?" he asked.

Dodge motioned to their left. "Right over here," he said, and walked Abe and Shorty to a wing. The main draperies were drawn open and a simple blue backdrop had been lowered to take up most of the depth of the stage. The audience was in full view. "I'll just be waitin' here fer ya, Mr. Douglas," the Irishman said, then patted Abe's arm. "Are ya all right, man?"

"I'll be fine," Abe said. "I won't be long." He removed his hat, stepped through the opening and walked out to the front center of the stage where a single microphone stood. The murmur of the crowd died out. Abe stood silent for a long moment squinting against the footlights and focusing beyond them at the people who had gathered in this magnificently beautiful theater. Once accustomed to the light, he took in a few deep breaths, prayed for the Lord's help, then spoke into the microphone.

"I'm not sure I ought to be here," he started as he nervously rolled and unrolled the brim of his hat. "I'm not even sure the Lord wants me to be here. I forgot to ask Him." A light sound of hesitant laughter came up from the audience. Abe looked down at his hat. "I've been worried all day that I made a terrible mistake. I know there's people that would like nothing better than to get rid of me. People who think I'm going to bring them some kind of trouble, but they're wrong," he said, looking back out over the crowd. "I'm not the one they ought to be worried about. I'm just a simple man who happened to be chosen by the Lord to let you know He's still around. I don't know why I was picked out. It's certainly not because I've been good all my life. I haven't been that. Fact is I've done a lot of things that I wish now I hadn't. I suppose there's some of you folks who feel like that, too." He paused, his eyes drawn to four women sitting in a gilded cubicle halfway up the theater wall. Their escorts, he presumed, stood behind them. He exchanged nods with one of the women then continued where he left off. "But anyhow, I'm here, so I probably ought to start at the beginning."

One of the escorts stepped to the front of the cubicle. "We understand you have the power to summon God," the man said, his voice carrying throughout the theater. "We'd like to see that."

Abe winced. "I don't have any power to do anything," he answered. "The Lord makes up His own mind. He certainly doesn't listen to me. If He needed advice, I'm sure there's men and women in this auditorium a thousand times smarter than me. He'd probably be asking one of them."

The man started to say something further but the woman Abe had nodded to stopped him. He stepped back behind her.

"Believe me," Abe went on. "I've wondered about that a lot. I mean why He didn't pick someone smarter. Someone that had all the right answers and didn't have to hem-haw around like I do. You know, maybe someone from here in Washington. I've seen some of you on television and I'm always amazed by how much you know. I think if I was the Lord I'd have picked one of you folks. But a good friend of mine once told me that the Lord has a reason for everything He does. I guess we're not supposed to understand it all."

When Abe stopped to take a deep breath, a smartly suited woman from the front row of seats rose to her feet. "Excuse me, Sir," she said rather haughtily. Abe acknowledged her with a brief nod. "We're busy people. Can we just bypass the life story and cut to the chase? Whether God comes at your beckoning or of His own accord is irrelevant to us. We're simply interested in the end result, which is His appearance. Is that going to happen or not?"

Abe shook his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I really don't know."

She turned to face the audience. "Are we going to sit here and listen to this...this self-righteous, satirist spew his sarcastic remarks? Are you listening to him? Oh, it's all innuendo of course, but he's demeaning and ridiculing everything we stand for. Are you going to let him get by with that?" A mumble of voices surrounded her.

Her harsh words and lawyerized voice rang the trouble bell in Gerald Dodge's mind. He motioned his men to stand ready and kept his eyes glued to the vehement woman.

She again directed her thoughts at Abe. "How dare you come to our city, to this revered hall and taint it with your invasive speech. Your subliminal references and accusations that our citizen's are not of the highest caliber, worthy of any station, be it of God or any other entity."

Abe heard her out then silently turned his eyes to the ceiling. "I could really use your help here, Lord," he whispered.

The woman stamped a foot and reached down to pick up her briefcase. It snapped open and a bottle of perfume clinked against the floor.

"Gun!" someone yelled, and everyone in the audience, including the brash woman, scrambled to find floor space. Abe froze. The men and women in the cubicle vanished. Six stagehands with pistols drawn swooped in to form an arc in front of Abe. Instantly Dodge ran out of the wing, grabbed Abe's arm and towed him off stage. They didn't stop running until Dodge had him and Shorty loaded into Hart's car. Chamberlain took the wheel and Dodge jumped into the passenger seat. In seconds they were on the street barreling away from the theater.

"They could have shot ya in there, Mr. Douglas," Shorty said, his voice panting and cracked.

Abe, still frightened by all the events of the day, stared dead ahead, his eyes fixed on Dodge's back.

"That's a fact," Dodge said, twisting in his seat to face them and dropping the good old boy routine. "That little charade could have cost you your lives." He then addressed Chamberlain, "Take us out to the old highway." Silent for a moment, he rubbed a hand over the stubble of beard he had forgotten to shave off then turned back to Abe. "You want to tell me why you didn't go through with it?"

Abe looked confused. "I don't know what happened," he said. "He's never let us down before."

Dodge raised an eyebrow. "Who? Who's never let you down?"

"The Lord, man!" Shorty fired. "Are ya thinkin' we'd be relyin' on anyone else?"

Dodge shrugged. "Just a try," he said. "How did you figure us out? One of my boys tip you off?"

Abe's face sagged. "I've known about you all day. And just because the Lord didn't show up tonight that doesn't mean He doesn't know about you and your whole rotten organization, too. And, mark my words, He'll get you for what you're about to do." Dodge's face contorted, and Abe's words shot a spear of terror through the Irishman.

"What're they about to do?" Shorty blurted.

"Kill us," Abe said flatly.

"What!" Chamberlain, Dodge and Shorty all yelled. The car swerved dangerously close to the curb, Dodge slammed into the side window, and Shorty slumped into his seat.

"That's what you do, isn't it? Kill people?" Abe said.

"No, no, no," Dodge repeated. "The F.B.I. doesn't operate that way."

Shorty popped back to life. "Yer the F.B.I.?"

"Part of it," Dodge answered.

"What did you want with us?" Abe asked, completely taken aback by the surprising revelation.

"We were wrong, too," Dodge answered. "We thought you two were racketeers."

"Oh, me everlovin'..."

"We're just servants of the Lord," said Abe.

Dodge smiled. "Or, maybe you just think you are," he said. "Could you guys just be a little misguided?"

"No." Abe answered quickly.

Dodge held up his hands. "I believe you believe that," he said. "But if I were you I think I'd hold off on the preaching for a good long while. Everybody may not be as understanding as I am."

"That's me exact thoughts," Shorty said. "I'm thinkin' we've about come to the end of the road, Mr. Douglas."

"Pull over here," Dodge said to Chamberlain, then turned back to Abe and Shorty. "Like you said, Mr. McDougal, this is the end of the road, as far as we go. This road will get you home. I suggest you stay on it all the way."

"Yer meanin' to just drop us off in the middle of nowhere?" the astonished Irishman said. "Yer not getting' us a ticket of some sort?"

Dodge nodded. "I think you've already cost the government enough. And, ah, the five thousand dollars?" he said holding out a hand.

"You want it back?" Abe asked. "We held the meeting. We should get paid."

"Yes you did hold a meeting. I'll give you that, but the arrangement called for God's appearance. That didn't happen, so the money would never be an approved expenditure."

Abe frowned. "Give it to him, Mr. McDougal, and let's get out of here. It's a long walk. We might as well get started."

"But..." Shorty started to complain.

"Give it to him," Abe said again, and the Irishman retrieved the envelope from his pocket.

"Here, take yer booty," he snapped, handing it to Dodge.

Dodge took it and tossed it on the seat beside Chamberlain. "It's just as well," he said. "It's counterfeit. We were out to get you one way or the other. Actually, I'm glad it worked out this way." He got out of the car and opened the door for them while Chamberlain got their suitcases out of the trunk. He held a hand out to Abe. "No hard feelings? Just doing our job, you understand?"

Abe hesitated then shook his hand. "So were we, Mr. Hail," he said.

They watched as the car's tail-lights disappeared into the night, then he and Shorty took their first steps on the long journey to a destination they had yet to determine.

### CHAPTER 27

To: God c/o Scribe

cc Book of Records last entry

Supreme Being: When we began this journey, I told you how pleased I was to have the opportunity to once again be working side by side with you. Now, more than ever, I realize how naive I was to have made that statement. Whatever I may have managed to bring to this mission pales in comparison to your contribution. I will be forever indebted to you. Host

To: Host. When I created creation, the mandate of free will was applied to the whole of it. That includes you. Without your participation and your ideas, this little reminder of ours would never have come about. It is I who am in awe of you. God, cc etc. etc

As the two dejected apostles, weary of both mind and body, trudged down the lonely Maryland highway, the printers in Midvale were putting the finishing touches on Harley Goodhouse's article. The weekly Monitor would be out the following day, and the true story of the Miracle would finally be known. Harley had done as he had promised. Under the double headlines 'God is alive and well---The Miracle is truly a Miracle', Harley's story was a poignant collection of testimonials drawn from verifiable accounts of people whose lives and health were irrefutably changed for the better.

In two days time the story was destined to be in the minds and on the lips of people around the globe, ranking it amongst the greatest miracles of all recorded time. But the beginning of this newest revelation was still some ten hours in the future---too late to save Roland Thompson the terror of being kidnapped from the security of his own bedroom.

Entering the mobilehome had been a snap for Lido's guys. They gave Thompson time to drift off then threw a blanket over him, hogtied him and tossed him into the trunk of their car. In twenty minutes they hauled his flailing body into Guerro's villa and dropped it at Lido's feet. Lido picked up the telephone and hit the quick dial. "Sorry to wake you, boss, but I thought you'd like to know I got him," he said softly into the mouthpiece.

Thompson yelled out something, and Lido put a foot on his chest.

"You got who?" the boss' irritated voice came back.

"The guy that put the finger on us," Lido answered. "The one you told me to find."

"Well, get rid of him," the boss said.

Lido nodded. "You want it to be an accident or just let him disappear? I'm at the ranch. By the time anybody finds him he'll be considered an ancient artifact."

"That's not what I meant, Lido. Don't you ever watch the tube?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Things are startin' to smooth out, that's why. We don't need no more publicity. You understand me? Antonio tells me you recognized a priest last night."

"Yeah. A Bishop from here in Windsor. What about him?"

"He's on the news tonight saying he don't think we got any dealin's in this miracle thing. And that's good, right?"

"Yeah. Right, boss. So what do I do with this guy?"

"Let him go. Does he know who you are?"

"He don't know nothing."

"You didn't erase him already did you, Lido?"

"No. I swear to God. He's just tied up and blindfolded."

"Well get him outta there. And, Lido, do me a favor."

"Anything, Boss."

"Read a newspaper now and then, listen to the radio, watch a little T.V., huh?"

"Yeah, sure, Boss. Sorry I woke you. I'll take care of it."

The boss hung up and Lido took one of his men aside. "Take him back to town. Tap him on the head and leave him. Don't get carried away, one little tap, that's all. Lo capite?"

"Yeah. One. Consider it done," the kidnapper answered, then he and his partner picked up the now subdued Thompson and hauled him back out to their car.

Lido slugged down a long shot of bourbon and went to bed to forget the whole affair.

A thousand miles to the east Abe and Shorty were ready to call it a day themselves. The deserted strip of asphalt agent Dodge had ejected them onto was a most desolate road. Only one car had passed them by in the two hours since the agents had left, and it was going in the wrong direction. Rather, it was headed in the opposite direction. Neither Abe nor the Irishman had given any thought that they might not be walking a westwardly course. They had simply taken Dodge's word for it that he had put them out on a highway that would eventually lead them to Midvale. And then perhaps, on to Washington state. Except for Shorty's incessant grumbling about how badly his feet hurt, they covered the six or seven miles in silence, thinking about what had happened to bring on such misfortune. The fact that God had let them down was something neither of them could fathom.

"Me feet won't take me body another step," Shorty panted as he sat down on a guardrail post and began to take off a shoe.

Abe stopped and looked over his shoulder. "It is getting pretty late. Maybe we ought to look around for a good place to spend the night."

"I'm thinkin' there's no better spot than right here," Shorty moaned.

The sight of the little man rubbing one foot then the other brought a smile to Abe's face. "Let's at least get off the road a bit," he said. "Come on, you can make it another few yards."

Shorty slipped back into his shoes and the two half-skidded down the small embankment and made their way to an oak tree a couple of hundred feet from the road. They sat down and leaned their backs against the trunk of the tree.

"Where did ya go wrong?" Shorty asked when they got settled in.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm thinkin' ya must have done something to cause the Lord to neglect us like He did."

Abe shifted around to look directly at the Irishman. "Are you going to blame me for this?"

"Well, yer the boss," Shorty stated, pointing a finger at Abe's chest.

"I didn't do anything, Mr. McDougal. And we're in this together." He pushed the Irishman's hand away. "And there isn't any boss, so quit calling me the boss. I don't know why He didn't show up, and I don't know why we're here."

"So what are we gonna do?" Shorty pleaded. "Ya do know we can't go back to the Capt'n's don't ya? They'll be sloppin' that awful black stuff on us fer certain this time." Shorty shuddered at the thought of Alecia and her brigade pouncing on them. His stomach emitted a loud, rolling grumble. "It's me innards," he apologized. He looked down and began searching his pockets for something to eat.

"What are you doing?"

Shorty held out a handful of after-dinner mints. "Would ya care fer one?"

Abe looked astonished. "Where'd you get those?"

"Well, they were just sorta sittin' there in a bowl," Shorty said with a shrug, "so I just sorta took a few."

"Just sorta where?"

"In the restaurant, of course."

"You stole them!" Abe nearly shouted.

Shorty jerked back. "I wouldn't say that."

"You don't have to say that. I just did. You stole them! You stole them and now were here. What does that tell you, Mr. McDougal?"

The little man's eyes widened. "Oh, me ever lovin' mother."

"That's right. Now, whose fault is it?"

"Abraham?" The voice came out of nowhere, but it was unmistakable to whom it belonged. The bickering ended abruptly.

"Lord?" Abe answered, and Shorty, now convinced it was his doings that stranded them, tried to bury himself under Abe's armpit.

"It's no one's fault," the voice said. "The plan just didn't work out the way you thought it would. That happens on occasion."

A long silence followed as Shorty covered his eyes and continued to burrow deeper into the safety of Abe's jacket.

"Thomas?" the voice called.

Shorty peeked through the jacket folds and his fistful of mints.

"I said it's no one's fault, Thomas."

Shorty had pushed himself so close to Abe that it was becoming extremely uncomfortable. "Will you move?" Abe shrieked while trying to push the trembling Irishman away. "I'm sorry, Lord."

"I'm not the Lord," the voice said.

"You're not?" said Abe.

"No."

"But, but..." Abe stuttered his astonishment.

"I know. You're surprised."

The Irishman shifted his body and whispered into Abe's ear, "We're in fer it! If He's not the Lord, that only leaves one possibility. It's Satan Himself!"

"Thomas!" the voice boomed.

Shorty bolted upright. "What?" he gasped.

"Now you've done it!" Abe shouted.

"Both of you be quiet for a minute," the voice ordered. "No, I'm not Beelzebub, and no, I'm not the Lord, and no, I'm not here to do you any harm. My purpose is quite the opposite, in fact. If you'll just listen."

Shaken and confused by the whole situation, the two men obeyed and sat silently waiting for the voice to explain itself.

A pulsating, low light took on the shape of a man standing in front of them. He was dressed in slacks and a blue blazer and was immediately recognized by both Abe and Shorty as the man who had given them their first donation back in Midvale. He smiled with the warmth an old friend bestows. "I understand your confusion," he said. "You fully expected our presence and you believe we let you down. But that's not the case."

"Well, it's fer certain ya didn't show up," the Irishman blurted out, then almost as quickly capped a hand over his mouth forgetting the little hoard of mints that now flew away in every direction. He mumbled something and tried to pick up the closest candies. Abe jabbed him with an elbow and nodded his head to let McDougal know this wasn't the time to worry about his stomach.

Shorty yelped. "What did ya do that fer?"

The image of the man disappeared.

"You just don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?" Abe scolded. "He's gone! You see that? He's gone."

Shorty lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"If you'd just think of the consequences sometimes before you say something," Abe continued his lecture.

Looking up through his brushy eyebrows, his lower lip quivering, Shorty tried to exonerate himself. "I'm sorry all the way to me bones. I truly am, but it's just the way I've always been. As soon as somethin' pops into me head it pops right back out through me mouth. I know it's got us into a lot of trouble." He paused and ran a hand over his face. "I guess I ain't much of a partner, am I?"

"It's not that," Abe said, furrowing his brow and patting the Irishman on the shoulder. "Actually, I can't think of another soul I'd rather have as my best friend."

Shorty's eyes lit up. "Ya mean that?"

"I surely do. And whatever comes of this I'd like it if we stayed partners." He held out a hand and Shorty grasped it with fervor.

The image of the man they had momentarily put out of their minds returned. "We're glad that's settled," he said. "It pleases God that you've made that decision." His reappearance brought a sigh of relief from both the men. Abe raised a hand. "Do you have a question, Abraham?"

"I do," Abe said with a nod.

"Go ahead."

"It...it...it just doesn't seem right," Abe stammered. "I mean all this time you've let us think you're the Lord and you're not. We told everyone that you were and when you showed up, a lot of them believed it. Not everyone, mind you, but a bunch of folks did. We all thought it was a miracle."

"It most certainly was," the man said.

"It might have been a miracle," Shorty spoke up, "but it wasn't a God miracle."

"It most certainly was," the man repeated himself. "I couldn't do this without God. Just look at yourselves. You're sober, you're clean, you have a dignity you've never had in your lives. Where were you a few short weeks ago?"

Abe and Shorty exchanged glances.

"Do you think that would have happened without a little prodding by God?"

"It could have happened," the Irishman answered.

"Of course it could have, but my question was, would it have happened?"

Abe shook his head, and Shorty agreed. Had it not been for the light of the Lord, they both knew they would still be living in some forsaken alley in some unknown town looking forward only to their next drink.

"As you said, Abraham," the voice continued. "Hundreds of people believed they saw a real miracle and those people's lives have been changed as well. Some of them," he stopped for a little chuckle. "Well let's just say that you would never believe some of the changes that were made. In the end, hundreds of thousands of lives will be altered by the miracle you helped them witness."

"Are ya an angel then?" the Irishman asked. "The Sisters in me younger days said I had a guardian angel. Ya wouldn't be him would ya?"

"No, Thomas, I'm not your guardian. I'm what you might refer to as a facilitator. You see, God rarely finds it necessary to handle things personally. As a rule it wouldn't be in anyone's best interest for Him to do that. So this job was delegated to me. Within His guidelines I produced small miracles to a limited audience. That way, whether people have faith in what they see or hear about is left up to them. And God is never put in the position of playing favorites, or in that of being the absolute ruler. It works quite well."

Abe raised his hand again but didn't wait for an approval. "So why did you strand us tonight. It seems we could have done a lot of good there."

"I know in your view we let you down, Abraham. But honestly, we didn't. There were those in your audience who were truly moved by your words. They were inspired to become better human beings, as we are certain they will. As for a visual miracle, that would have been in total opposition to God's rule of non-interference in governmental affairs."

"So, why did you allow me and Mr. McDougal to come here in the first place?"

The man wagged a finger and raised his eyebrows a bit. "If you remember correctly, that was your decision, Abraham, not ours."

"Well, that's probably true," Abe said. "But if it hadn't have been for you we wouldn't have been invited and we wouldn't be stuck here. That's not fair is it?"

"Okay," the man paused, and propped his chin in one hand. He seemed to be hard at thought. After a moment he continued what he had started to say, "Let's weigh the good and the bad. On the good side, you and Thomas have become model citizens, you've helped countless other people, you escaped any number of things that could have caused you bodily harm and, oh yes, you got to ride on an airplane. Now, on the bad side, let me see...what was it?"

"We're stuck here and me feet are killin me," Shorty answered.

"That's right," the man agreed. "That makes it about ten-to-one in favor of the good. Doesn't sound too unfair to me."

Abe laughed. "Not when you put it that way it doesn't. I suppose we ought to be thanking you instead of complaining."

"That would be nice," the man said with a twist of his head. "Unnecessary, but nice. By the way, we intend to fix both those bad things, starting with your feet, Thomas. I'm sure they feel better already."

"I can't believe it!" Shorty said almost immediately. "Me poor old feet feel like a baby's. I'm thinkin' I could run all night on 'em." He stopped short and returned his gaze to the man. "I'm not goin' to be doin' that am I?"

"Thomas, you're an absolute wonder," the man said with laughter in his voice. "Do you really think after all we've been through that we would turn a blind eye on you now?"

Shorty coughed. "Not in a minute," he answered hurriedly. "It was a wee joke, don't ya see?"

"Speaking of not leaving us here," Abe said thoughtfully, "what are we going to do now? We can't go back to Midvale. There's a few of those people who'd like nothing better than to see me and Mr. McDougal show up so's they could finish their job of railroading us."

"That's fer certain," Shorty said. "Are ya of a mind fer us to be takin' the miracle somewheres else?"

"I see I have some more explaining to do," the man said. "You must understand that miracles have a very short life. They are meant to be only small reminders that God is still here and still looking out for His creation. They can't go on forever."

Abe gave him a quizzical look. "You mean it's over?"

The man nodded his head. "Logged in the annals of time."

"Ya can't do that!" said Shorty. "Just look at all the people we didn't get to."

"That's the whole idea, Thomas. God doesn't want to take away the rights He gave to each individual to let him or her make up their own minds about things. If the miracles went on and on that's exactly what He would be doing. It would be like spending your entire life doing only what someone else told you to do. You wouldn't like that would you?"

"I'm thinkin' I get enough of that already," Shorty answered with a quick smiling glance at Abe. He promptly dropped the humor when he saw the serious look in Abe's eyes. "What's troublin' ya, Mr. Douglas?"

Abe directed his answer to the man. "Without the miracle, what's to become of us? You know what we were before, and I sure don't want to go back to that."

"Me neither," Shorty added.

"We certainly hope you don't," the man said sincerely. "But of course that would be your decision. We can't help you there. As for the rest of your lives, we don't know how that will go for you. We do know that you're both good-hearted. That's one reason why you were chosen to be a part of the miracle. We are sure you can put that quality to good use."

"Where?" Abe asked. "You don't mean around Midvale, do you?"

"You're still worried about the problems you left behind? I told you we would fix that. In fact it's being seen to as we speak. If you'd like to return there, it will be perfectly safe. No one who knew you as being the miracle's spokesmen will recognize either of you now."

Shorty screwed up his face in bewilderment. "You can do that, ya say? You mean that not a soul will be puttin' two and two together?"

"It was part of the plan from the beginning," the man assured him. "You were both new to the area, few people knew you, and in the condition you were in at the time, if you remember, even fewer people paid attention to you. That is until the miracle began."

"So you just erased us?" Abe said.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. It's as though you were never there."

Abe and Shorty stared at each other for a long moment in disbelief then Abe turned back to the man and asked the obvious question, "What about us? Are we going to remember?"

"Absolutely," the man answered. "It's an indelible part of your souls. But we suggest you keep it confidential just between the two of you."

"No one would believe us anyhow," Shorty said. "If ya recall they wouldn't listen to a word of it the first time we saw ya."

The conversation was interrupted by the hissing sound of air-brakes releasing their pressure.

"I see your ride is here," the man said, adding a hand motion towards the road. "Have you decided where you want to go?"

Abe and Shorty's eyes followed the man's gesture and saw the outline of a bus sitting idling on the highway. Its door was open.

"Midvale?" the man asked.

"I would like to see Horace again," Abe answered. "See how he's doing and if he's okay. How about you, Mr. McDougal?"

"Ya know, I've been sorta missin' him too," Shorty said. He looked up at the man. "Do ya think the bus could be dropin' us off there at the orphanage?"

"The Waverly Home," Abe clarified.

"We're familiar with it," the man said. "I am certain we can do that." He smiled, took a step backwards then mimed an ushering movement with his arm. "It's a limited, nonstop express. You'll be there in the morning."

"So this is goodbye?" Abe said, and stood to offer the man his hand.

"Farewell is a better term," the man corrected. "With us it's never goodbye. We are proud of you, Abraham." He shook Abe's hand then offered the same gesture towards the Irishman. "Thomas, never doubt yourself. You're a kind and gentle man, and that comes from the highest authority."

"Yer not so bad yerself," the Irishman said through teary eyes. "Thank ya fer all ya've done fer us. We'll be tryin' to keep up our end of the bargain."

"We have every faith in you both," the man said as they walked towards the waiting bus.

As they reached the steps of the bus Abe turned to the man. "I didn't catch your name," he said.

"I don't really have a name," the man answered.

"Well, we'll be fixin' that," Shorty said quickly. "How about Bartholomew? That was me father's name, rest his soul. They tell me he was good man. How would Bartholomew be strikin' ya?"

"I'd be honored, Thomas," the man said with a slight bow. "I'd like that a lot." He stepped back to give them access to the bus. "Better get aboard now. We wouldn't want to run late."

As Abe and Shorty boarded, the man waved. "Goodnight, Abraham. Goodnight, Thomas," he said just before he vanished. The big door of the bus closed behind them with a whooshing sound.

"Pick any seat you want, fellas," the driver said, grinning at their surprise. A potbellied pig scooted out from under his seat and squealed. "Elijah says howdy."

"Well I'll be!" Shorty exclaimed. "So you were a part of this, too?"

The driver nodded over his shoulder. "We all were," he said laughingly.

Shorty looked down the rows of seats. Several people waved hello, and the man nearest him stood. "I see we got you on the right train after all, Mr. McDougal," he said pleasantly.

Shorty gave him a broad smile. "You did at that," he said. "But ya know, at the time I was expectin' to go to Washington State not to the capital." He pulled Abe up next to him. "Mr. Douglas, this is the man you can be thankin' fer gettin' us together." Abe shook his hand. "I'm still at a loss of how ya did it," Shorty went on. "One minute the train was speedin' by at ninety miles an hour and the next minute I was on it. I laid it off at the time on me mental state seein' as how I'd been drinkin' quite a lot that evenin'. But at any rate I'm glad to see ya again. I'll always be grateful fer what ya did."

They moved on down the walkway returning smiles to those faces they recognized as people with whom they had come in contact over the past several days. People who had helped them along the way. Ramon was there with his bright, toothy smile. And the brash young pool shark gave them a thumbs-up sign. The old lady who urged Abe to tell his story at his first meeting and later gave Horace the steak reached out and touched their hands. The lone drunkard who had trouble stepping over a crack in the sidewalk tipped his hat as they walked by. Behind him sat the young girl to whom Abe had returned an innocent wink that the ministry had misread as a signal to his fusilier. The last passenger was the woman in the dark business suit from the auditorium; the one who would have been to blame had the expected gunfire occurred. Abe laughed when he saw her. "You had me scared to death. Do you know that?"

"Me too," Shorty said.

A pained look crossed her face. "We do know how you felt and we're so sorry for the tense moments we caused you," she said sincerely, then smiled. "You were never in danger, but of course we couldn't let you know that."

Abe scratched his head. "I guess I don't understand. Did you have to make everyone mad at me? I was being real serious about how smart they were. I wasn't making fun of them like you said."

"We know you weren't, Abraham. But when you asked for help, we had to consider the needs of everyone. You were not aware of this, but your audience consisted solely of skeptics, hand-picked by the president's wife. She was there, by the way---the women you nodded to in the loge box."

"That was the First Lady?" Abe said in amazement.

"Yes. And she recorded the entire event. She has already listened to it seven times. By tomorrow, she will be completely convinced that the Miracle was authentic. Her opinion, you know, is very powerful."

Abe nodded. "Was that the president with her?"

"No. Those were Secret Service Men, her bodyguards, if you will. But she was one of the people who were also asking for our help. She came to the meeting with only one thought in mind---to expose you as a fraud---but after your first few words she felt an immediate change of heart. She wanted to believe you, and she prayed for an indication of your authenticity. Some of the people in your audience were actually entertaining the idea that you were being facetious, so we merely showed them the absurdity of such thoughts. We purposefully turned your words around. By taking the burden of stupidity upon ourselves, and without interfering in free will, we answered everyone's prayers, including yours.

"We know all this is difficult for you to understand," she said, laying a hand on each of their arms. "But just remember, you and Thomas have done a great deed for all humankind. You were chosen by God and you have done exceedingly well by Him."

Elijah waddled up behind them and squealed. "You fellas might ought to be finding a seat," the driver called back to them. "Elijah says it's time to be movin' on down the road."

"Right away," Shorty called back to him.

Abe and Shorty took their seats and watched the little pig scurry back to his spot under the driver's seat. As the interior lights slowly ebbed into total darkness, a blanket of warmth covered them and they fell immediately to sleep.

The soft glow of the morning sun on their eyelids awoke Abe and Shorty. Rather than being startled, it seemed quite natural for them to be sitting on their cases at the entrance of the gravel drive to the Waverly Home. The bus had moved on; the highway deserted of traffic.

Without a backward glance, they picked up their suitcases and walked towards the courtyard where Miss Haggard was just raising the flag. The children and two other women had gathered around the base of the flagpole and had their right hands over their hearts. Since their backs were to Abe and Shorty, none of them knew they had company. Miss Haggard finished raising the flag and tied it off for the day then turned to the children and began to recite the pledge of allegiance.

Abe and Shorty set down their cases and joined in at the last part, "...one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

"Amen," Shorty added loudly. Miss Haggard, her staff, and all nine kids looked to see who was there. Shorty gave them a little finger wave. "Ya know, it only seems right to say that," he defended himself, and waited for some kind of response.

Miss Haggard nodded. "Amen," she said.

That broke the children's silence. "Amen, amen, amen," they all shouted.

"That's enough," Miss Haggard shushed them, but before she could say anything else a red blur came charging through the small crowd and bounded over to Abe.

"Hey boy!" Abe shouted, and bent down to take the dog into his arms.

A look of puzzlement flashed over Miss Haggard's face. "You know this dog?" she asked.

"We surely do," Shorty said.

"That's my dog, mister," a little tike spoke up, then popped his thumb back into his mouth.

Abe looked up at Shorty and shook his head slightly. "Well, he looks to be a fine dog," he said while roughing up Horace's hair and petting him. "Just like one we used to know. You wouldn't mind if we shared him, would you?"

The boy looked over at Miss Haggard as if to gain her approval or rejection of the idea. She gave him a quick wink and a nod.

At the same time Horace went into a body wiggle and jumped up to lick the Irishman's face.

The little boy removed his wrinkled thumb once more. "He likes you, so I guess it's okay. His name is Horace. Mine's Alvin. Who are you?"

"Well, Alvin, I'm Abe and this is Mr. McDougal."

"You can call me Thomas," Shorty said and held a hand out to shake with Alvin.

Alvin disregarded the offer. Instead he said, "You're short like me, aren't you?"

"Alvin! Mind your manners." Miss Haggard shouted. "I'm sorry. Alvin doesn't think sometimes before he speaks."

Shorty playfully ruffled the boy's hair. "Oh, think nothin' of it. I am short ya know, and me mouth is uncontrollable at times, so Alvin and me are a lot alike. We'll be gettin' along just fine."

Miss Haggard clapped her hands and nodded to one of the women. "Oletha, take the children inside, will you?"

"Come along, Alvin," Oletha said. "And the rest of you. Time to wash up. Breakfast in a few minutes."

The second woman and all the children except Alvin shuffled off towards the front door. At the entryway, Oletha called, "Alvin, bring Horace with you."

Alvin took hold of Horace's collar and tugged with all the might he could muster. "Come on, Horace," he pleaded. "We have to go eat." The old dog's ears perked up, and with one last rub against Abe's pant leg, he gave in and towed the little boy away.

With the children and her staff members gone, Miss Haggard returned her attention to the two men. "So, gentlemen, what brings you out here, today?"

Abe scratched his head and looked around the place. The grass was overgrown, the white rail fence looked more gray than white and the outbuildings were in sad disrepair. "Well, we were wondering if you could use some help," he said. "We have some free time and we'd be glad to give you a hand. Isn't that right, Mr. McDougal?"

For the first time since they met, the Irishman surprised Abe with his answer. "That we would," he said taking off his jacket.

Miss Haggard's face took on the expression of sorrow. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible," she said slowly. "It's not as though we don't need it, we do, as you can see, but the home is state funded and there's just not enough money to get everything done that needs to be done."

"A few nails and a little paint. That shouldn't cost too much," said Abe. "And the labor's free." He looked at Shorty. "We could probably handle that, couldn't we, Mr. McDougal?"

The Irishman started to say something but Abe cut him short. "Of course we could. The place'll look brand new in a few days. And Mr. McDougal here is a fine cook. He can help out in the kitchen."

"Actually I am," Shorty said, and bobbed his head up and down a few times. "And right now I'm thinkin' I'll get on into the house and whip up some breakfast. That is if ya don't mind, Ma'am."

Miss Haggard was obviously stunned by the course of the conversation. She hesitated and stared heavily at the two men for a moment before answering them. "I don't know why I'm doing this, but God knows we need the help." She paused, closed her eyes and lifted her face heavenly. "I pray I'm doing the right thing."

"Well," Shorty said, "I'll just find me way to the kitchen and let you two discuss the details." He picked up his suitcase and headed for the front door.

Miss Haggard offered her hand to Abe. "I'm Elizabeth Haggard."

"Abraham Douglas," Abe countered, and shook her hand. "Call me Abe."

"Shall we join them in the house?" she asked, and Abe picked up his suitcase to follow along.

"For some strange reason I have the feeling we've met before, Mr. Douglas," Elizabeth said on their way across the courtyard. "And the way Horace took to you two...why I've never seen anything like it. He's usually very protective of Alvin. Barks his head off at strangers. Have we met before and I've just forgotten?"

"Oh, I can promise you I'd recall that if we did," Abe said with a broad smile.

She blushed noticeably. "My mind," she said with a flourish of her hands. "I think I'm going completely bonkers at times."

As they reached the doorway she stopped. "You know, Mr. Douglas, there might just be a way to get you a paid position here."

"Really?" said Abe.

"Well, it wouldn't pay much, certainly not enough to cover two men's needs."

"You needn't worry, Miss," Abe stopped her. "Mr. McDougal and me are here because we want to help. And we'll stay on as long as we can and or as long as we're useful to you. A place to sleep and a meal a day is about all we need. And we'll help out with the groceries, too."

Miss Haggard laughed. "Oh, groceries is one thing we have plenty of and there's always an extra bed or two. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. And I'll check on that position. We had a maintenance man up until a few days ago, but he left under some, shall we say awkward circumstances. It's just as well; he never did the work in the first place. I'm just not sure yet if they are going to refill the job or turn it over to the Parks Department."

The aroma of cooking surrounded them as they entered the foyer. "It seems that Mr. McDougal found the kitchen," Abe said, and motioned for her to take the lead. "After you, Miss Haggard."

"Call me Liz," she said.

That night Abe laid his tired but refreshed body down on a cot in a room above the boy's dorm. He stared at the blackness of the ceiling recounting the events that brought him to this point in his life. For a few minutes he listened to the soft snoring of his equally exhausted partner. Then he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

"You're very welcome, Abraham," a gentle voice said as he dropped off to sleep.

The end...Well, not quite.

Miracles have a way of living on long after the actual event—the stories, the recounting, the transformations of people's lives, all consequences of the small but powerful acts of God—they live on. For the witnesses of the Midvale Miracle, those precious times when the Light of the Lord made its appearance above the city park did not mark the end of an era but rather the beginning of a new life.

### THE AFTERMATH

Harley Goodhouse was right when he predicted that Midvale would become the new Mecca. Since the Miracle, pilgrims from around the globe have kept a steady flow of traffic into and out of the small but popular prairie oasis. Thanks to the Lord's visitation, the newly found wealth, and the industry of Jr. Williams the town has taken on an entirely new look. The once dusty buildings now sparkle with fresh coats of paint and clean storefront windows. The streets are lined with potted trees and millions of year-round flowers. Shops like Guthrie's and Fast Albert's are open six days a week now and doing a landslide business. All in all the town is prospering far beyond the dreams of any of its residents, and each of them give daily thanks for their blessings. Strangely, the single rose placed on the park platform by Hattie Scott is still there, as radiant as it was the evening she left it. Through wind and weather and the curiosity of kids it remains, a simple statement that God is still alive.

The Organized Ministry (including Brother Michael and Deacon Collingsworth, who returned from hiding-out the day after he heard that the Miracle was for real) has remained intact but now they are operating on a much higher level. One Saturday and Sunday a month all nine churches in town close their doors and each of the ministers take turns hosting a service from the bandstand in the park. The weather on those particular weekends so far has been glorious.

Ironic as it seems, the man responsible for all the trouble Abe and Shorty ran into in the beginning, Harley Goodhouse, went on to win the Pulitzer Prize for his in-depth testimonial article in the Midvale Monitor. From the small weekly paper the story went on to become the number one lead in global news. Harley retired shortly thereafter and is now busy writing a book on miracles in general. That's sure to be a best seller.

Although the reckless drive towards the same Pulitzer was Roland Thompson's downfall, as it turned out it wasn't all that bad a move for him. He wasn't cut out to be a reporter in the first place. Pig ranching was more his style. Uncle Rayford understood this but he also felt he had an obligation to his sister to keep Roland employed. So when Dwayne Pearson quit his job at the television station Rayford sold him the Chronograph and bought a hog farm upstate. He put Roland in charge of the place and between the two of them they raise some of the finest potbellied pigs in the nation.

Munroe Washington found his niche as well. Using the money they collected from their parking-lot venture he and his son, Jesse, put in a petting zoo and waterpark at the far end of the pasture. As Munroe put it, "It keep the childen occupied while the old folks is paying they respects ovuh at the park." Big Sister Allecia and Charlie Belew work for Munroe. That is when they're not busy giving anger management classes down at Brother Elkins' New Hope Mission. Elkins, himself, was their first client. There's talk around town that there's more to Allecia and Charlie's business arrangement than they let on but they haven't announced a date yet.

For a while after the Miracle there wasn't anyone left in town to take Arthur Hedges up on his offer of help. All the heavy drinkers who were around when the Miracle was taking place were converted and have long since gone back to a more productive life. Of course, it didn't take long for their replacements to start drifting through and now Arthur is back in business doing what he loves most. Peon (ah, Leroy) is still with him but not nearly as obnoxious as he once was. Oh yes, about the Captain and his car---God must still be with him whenever he gets behind the wheel.

No one ever heard what happened to Antonio Pasta and the boys from Windsor. That's probably not too unusual. Prior to the Miracle no one heard much about them either. Their gray sedan was towed into Midvale a couple of days after their departure but it was never claimed. Jr. Williams finally had it designated as city property then gave it to Miss Haggard as a token of Midvale's support of her work.

There is one other point of possible interest that could have a connection to the shady side of life. A new non-denominational retreat located on the only hilltop within a hundred miles of Windsor was opened a while back. Rumor has it that an anonymous gift of five million dollars in cash was donated to that retreat in the name of one Mama Lucia. But that's only a rumor. Gerald Dodge was going to look into it but he left the Bureau before he got the chance. It's said that the First Lady herself hosted his retirement party and that he's now soaking up the sun on a houseboat somewhere in the south Florida Keys.

Abe and Shorty stayed on with Ms. Haggard and got the old Waverly Home looking almost new. To this day the only living creature who knows them for who they really are is Horace, and that's as it should be. Mr. McDougal spends his spare time nowadays giving free billiard lessons down at Bill Carson's establishment. You can find him there every Thursday night surrounded by teens and sighting down his beautiful pearl-inlaid cuestick. That was a gift from Bill when the little man offered to help get the new operation up and running. You see, Bill doesn't sell liquor anymore. He turned in his license and changed the name of his place to The Old Tyme Soda Fountain and Billiard room. For business as well as personal reasons it was the best move he ever made.

As for Abraham. He and Elizabeth got married. We all knew that would happen. After their marriage, the state honored Elizabeth's request that she and Abe be granted approval to foster all the children. The idea that they were now an actual family thrilled all the kids and brought on the immediate cessation of little Alvin's thumbsucking problem.

That brings us to Horace. In Alvin, the old dog found a soul-mate but on the more natural side of life he also found himself in the fatherly way with a neighboring retriever named Lulabelle. It won't be long now before a whole new generation of tiny Horaces will be chasing butterflies in the Waverly's courtyard.

So life goes on, today better than yesterday and tomorrow...well, to put it honestly, who but God knows what tomorrow will bring?

One last point. In an unprecedented move, backed by both the First Lady and the Supreme Court, a joint session of congress just recently voted unanimously to keep God in the Pledge of Allegiance. Will the Miracle never end?

####

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Watch for more of my work coming soon to Smashwords.com.and other fine online bookstores I write in several genres, for children as well as adults in both book length and short stories. Just look for Bob Brewer

