
# Deep State of Mind  
Tonight at Eleven

By R.D. Power

### Also by R.D. Power

2020

Fate's Chances

Fed Up

For Power or Love

For Power or Love 2

Forbidden

Second Chances

Self-Sabotage

Taylor Made Owens

Thank Sophia for Sam

Copyright © 2018 by R.D. Power

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Written 2017-18

First published in electronic format in 2018

First published in soft cover format in 2018

ISBN: 978-1370083800 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1986073912 (print)

Edited by Nikki Rae

Cover designed by Vivid Covers

Formatted by Polgarus Studio

The author is not a representative of nor endorsed by any of the trademarks used or discussed in this book, which is a work of fiction and not meant to imply or represent reality.

"A power has risen up in the government greater than the people themselves, consisting of many, and various, and powerful interests, combined into one mass, and held together by the cohesive power of the vast surplus in the banks."

John C. Calhoun, 7th Vice President of the USA, 1836

"There is no such thing, at this date of the world's history, in America, as an independent press. . . The business of the journalists is to destroy the truth, to lie outright, to pervert, to vilify, to fawn at the feet of mammon, and to sell his country and his race for his daily bread. You know it and I know it, and what folly is this toasting an independent press? . . . Our talents, our possibilities and our lives are all the property of other men. We are intellectual prostitutes."

John Swinton, ~ 1880

"The real menace of our Republic is the invisible government, which like a giant octopus sprawls its slimy legs over our cities, states and nation ... The little coterie of powerful international bankers virtually run the United States government for their own selfish purposes. They practically control both parties ... [and] control the majority of the newspapers and magazines in this country. They use the columns of these papers to club into submission or drive out of office public officials who refuse to do the bidding of the powerful corrupt cliques which compose the invisible government."

John F. Hylan, Mayor of New York City from 1918-1925

"Any dictator would admire the uniformity and obedience of the U.S. media."

Noam Chomsky, 1985

### Dedicated to:

William Binney, Thomas Drake, Daniel Ellsberg, Kevin Shipp,

Julian Assange, Tom Fitton, and James O'Keefe

### Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

### Chapter One  
Hamilton, Ontario, September 2008

Michael hadn't noticed her before. Every Tuesday afternoon he went to the movies because it was half price, and the crowd was sparse. She worked at the cinema, selling tickets or in the concession stand. He'd seen her every week, but he hadn't _noticed_ her till now.

At first glance, she wasn't much to look at, which is probably why it'd taken him so long to notice her. She wore was what he figured were the most unsightly glasses ever crafted. Thick, black frames enclosed two narrow rectangles of glass that turned a young woman into a spinster. _What evil spell possessed her to buy those things?_ he wondered _._ One might think it would be impossible to divert attention from those glasses, but her teeth were equal to the challenge. The front ones jutted out so much that Michael imagined male beavers writing sonnets to her. She did her best to cover them with her top lip but didn't have enough lip to manage the task. _With that overbite, she could always get a job chewing down trees_ , he'd mused when he first saw her. A few ugly pimples on her chin fit right in. These facial features he'd taken in in that first glance, and he'd never bothered to linger longer.

This day, however, she had liberated her eyes for a moment to clean her glasses. He happened to be lined up for popcorn at the time and zeroed in on the most fabulous eyes he'd ever beheld. Large ovals of deep blue-green elicited an involuntary gawp and gasp from the young man. He averted his eyes and glanced around to see if anyone had heard the gasp. If they had, no one let on.

He returned his attention to the lady, to admire her eyes once again and to explore the rest of her face. But for an overly salient mouth courtesy of her front teeth, she had a perfect profile, and, from the front, symmetrical features, high cheeks, Greek nose, and plump, pink lips. Her dark brown hair was long and lustrous, but marred with a seemingly random braid here and there and uneven bangs that fell to her eyebrows.

She slipped her spectacles back on. Shaking his head, he thought, _Hiding those eyes is a crime against nature!_ As he reached the front of the line, Michael decided to ask the lady out. _Surely this girl doesn't have a boyfriend_ , he thought. _At first glance she's downright ugly_. He smiled at her, but she bashfully lowered her eyes. He elected to wait till he was leaving the theatre.

Near the end of the tedious movie, Michael ambled out to buy a chocolate bar he didn't want. He approached the concession without attracting the attention of the three women working that afternoon. They were conversing about going to a local pub after work. The bleached blonde said to the brunette with lovely eyes, "Come on. Maybe some guy will be so drunk he'll even settle for you for the night."

"No man will ever be that desperate," said the frizzy redhead.

"Just smile at the boys and you'll have your pick," returned the blonde.

The two laughed while the brunette smiled uncomfortably. Her front teeth jutted out over her bottom lip for a moment before she moved her hand to cover her mouth. She was obviously embarrassed about them.

"They'll be fighting each other for you," said the redhead.

The brunette noticed Michael listening and flushed in embarrassment. She said, "What can I get you?"

Michael replied, "Can I have a Coffee Crisp and . . . your name?"

"My name?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I'm taking a census." She frowned, so he made himself clear. "I want to ask you out."

Her co-workers laughed, and the brunette glowered at him while replying, "That's not funny."

"Wasn't meant to be funny. Please tell me your name."

"Uh, Elizabeth."

"Do you go by that or Liz or Eliza or Beth or Lizzie or . . . Bucky?"

Her co-workers hooted. Elizabeth blushed once more and turned around.

Michael had said it with a warm smile so she wouldn't take it seriously, but she clearly had. Now kicking himself for his gaffe, he said, "I was only joking. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Please go away," said Elizabeth.

"Come over here so we can talk, okay? Please?"

Pointing to the exit, she yelled, "Leave now or I'll call my boss over here to get you kicked out."

Michael exited, but decided to wait for her outside, if only to apologize again.

#

Elizabeth left the theatre and zipped up her jacket. There was a chill in the air; autumn was around the corner . . . or was it that cold guy? She halted upon seeing the jerk who'd embarrassed her sitting on the steps in front of the cinema. He saw her and stood, and she said, "I'm not interested in talking to you."

"I gather I didn't make a wildly positive first impression?" said the jerk.

"You made the worst possible first impression. Go away."

"You may find this hard to believe after my boneheaded little joke, but I didn't intend to insult or embarrass you."

"You're right; I don't believe you," she said as she started toward home.

He followed, saying, "It's the way my mind works. Things pop into my head that I think are funny."

"And you spew them out before thinking what pain they might cause?"

"Sometimes. You should hear the things I filter out." She shook her head and quickened her stride. Keeping up, he said, "What is it with you, anyway? Why is it so hard to believe I want to ask you out?" She kept walking, so he pressed, "Why?"

"Leave me alone."

"Tell me why and I will."

She stopped abruptly, turned, and shouted, "Because no one has ever asked me out! You're just taunting me; that's all guys ever do. Now keep your promise and leave me alone."

"I will but I want to say one more thing. When I was standing in line, I looked around for pretty women as I always do, and I saw no one."

"Okay—"

"Let me finish. It's true; I did gloss over you and your co-workers."

"Even Tara, the blonde?" she asked as she resumed walking.

Strolling beside her, he said, "Looks like a slut to me."

"That's what I think, but guys ask her out all the time."

"Because they think she'll be an easy score."

"I guess."

"Anyway. You took off your glasses and held them up to the light, and when you did that I said to myself, Wow! What gorgeous eyes!"

"Stop teasing me!" she said as she hastened her step.

"Your eyes are the color of the ocean on a sunny day; maybe a little greener."

"So, the color of a polluted ocean?"

"No . . . I . . ."

He was at a loss for words and seemed to be getting a little flustered, but now she was starting to enjoy the conversation. She waited for him to resume.

"Listen; your eyes are beautiful, okay? They're a spectacular . . . what the hell is that color that's . . . like, blue-green?"

"Teal?"

"Yeah, but a little bluer. They're a fabulous tealy-blue color, with a black circle around the whole iris. They form perfect ovals, they're big and bright, they're topped with long lashes and nicely shaped eyebrows, and you have the exact number of eyes I prefer, too." She grinned, showing her teeth, but she immediately covered her mouth.

She gave him a timorous and doubtful, "Thank you."

He continued, "You also have a great profile, and, um, your hair smells like . . . popcorn. So, have I sufficiently buttered you up to get the answer I want to the following question: Can I have dinner with you sometime?"

"No," she replied. Laughing at his disappointed face, she added, "No, You haven't sufficiently buttered me up."

"Oh. Well—"

"I'm just kidding. What's your name?"

"Mike Morrison. And you are?"

"Elizabeth Clarke. I go by Liz."

"Nice to meet you." They shook hands. "Now, will you please have dinner with me?"

"I'm not off till Monday."

"Monday it is."

She gave him her number and said, "If you call, I'll tell you where I live."

"I'll call."

When Elizabeth got home the first thing she did was look into the bathroom mirror. She _did_ have attractive eyes; she'd never noticed. _Maybe I'm not completely ugly._ Then she smiled . . .

Her front teeth were the bane of her existence. They jutted out at such an oblique angle, she'd developed the habit of keeping her mouth shut at all times. Her parents had no money to get her braces—or anything else. Her mother, with whom she lived, was constantly strung out on booze or weed and couldn't hold down a steady job. Her father, whom she visited once a month, had injured his back five or six years ago and had gone on Workers' Compensation. Though his back was fine now, as he freely admitted, he was too lazy to go back to work as a construction laborer.

In the shower, she went over and over her interaction with Michael. _He was cute! Why would he want anything to do with me?_ The only way she could account for it was he was setting her up for a practical joke, probably at the behest of those bitches at the theater. They were always teasing her about her looks, and she was defenseless. She was far too sweet to ever get mean with anyone, and anyway she agreed with them. She'd long since convinced herself she was repulsive and would never have a man.

If he calls, I'll tell him I'm onto him, and I won't let him make a fool out of me!

Early the next morning while preparing breakfast for her hung-over mother, Elizabeth looked at the ringing phone and thought she would shut Michael right down if it was him _._ After her hello, Michael said, "You like Italian food?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. I set a reservation at Baci Ristorante for six o'clock Monday. I looked up the best restaurants in Hamilton on the web, and it was on the list."

"I don't think—"

"I'll pick you up at a quarter to. Where do you live?"

"Becky and Tara got you to play a practical joke on me, didn't they?"

"Who? You mean the two at the cinema?"

"Don't play dumb."

"Listen, you seem to be a nice person, but you obviously have self-esteem issues that cloud your judgment. I just want to have dinner with you, but it's your decision. I won't beg, and I have only so much patience for accusations of ill intent."

"Uh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . I love Italian food."

She told him her address.

"Who was that?" asked her mother after she hung up.

"I have a date for Monday evening," she said as if it happened all the time.

"Well, it's about time," said her mother. "What's the matter with him?"

#

The following Monday evening, Michael picked up Elizabeth in front of her apartment building and headed to the restaurant. He thought, _Did you steal your clothes off the bag lady who sleeps in the alley behind the Salvation Army?_ To him, she looked the picture of poverty in her light brown dipped hem dress, grey knee socks, and black cropped moto jacket. Her outfit did, however, give hints of a delectable figure.

"You look nice," he said.

"Thank you."

The two strolled into the restaurant and were seated. The waitress gave them menus and asked what they wanted to drink. Both chose water.

"Oh, shit," said Michael.

"What?"

"Dammit, he saw me. It's someone I know; that guy who just came out of the washroom. He's a veritable Einstein. He has a doctorate in mathematics from Waterloo, and he started a software company that serves Fortune 500 firms. He looks like a computer nerd, but he's anything but." Elizabeth peeped at the tall, skinny, bespectacled Asian man, who wore a black t-shirt and red shorts. "He's filthy rich and only a year older than I am. I kind of like him because he's funny, but he won't or can't control what he says. I don't know if he's this rich eccentric who gets a kick out of shocking people or if he's borderline psychotic. Anything that pops into his mind, he blurts out."

"I just met someone like that."

He chuckled and said, "He's much worse than I am. Mark—that's his name—isn't equipped with a filter. If he wasn't funny, he'd probably get in fights every day. Someone married him, no doubt because he's rich, but I heard the marriage is rocky. No wonder. Shit, here he comes. He might say something mean to you, but try not to get too upset."

"You mean about my looks?" said Elizabeth.

Mark said, "Hey, Mike."

"Mark. How's life treating you?"

"The same way I treat a toilet—when I have the runs." He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table, set it between Elizabeth and Michael, and sat. "You don't look pleased. Is something bothering you?"

"There is now. What evil creature gave you the gift of speech, anyway?"

Mark chortled and said, "I admire you. You say what you think, and you're not quite as moronic as everyone else."

"I admire you, too. You must have a hundred compelling reasons to hurl yourself off the roof, but every day you manage to invent a far-fetched reason to go on living."

"Ha! But now that you mention it, I have one more reason as of today. Anne kicked me out."

"Sorry to hear that," said Michael.

"Yeah, well, every Anne Cunningham I've ever met is a complete bitch. Since when can't a man come out of his bedroom with a naked woman without his wife getting suspicious?" He glanced at Elizabeth for the first time, frowned, turned back to Michael, and resumed, "But who could blame me if I did fool around? Anne's sexual peak is below sea level. You should've heard us yelling at each other. She said I was lousy in bed, and I told her she'd be popular with the necrophiliac crowd. Then she screamed, 'I fake my orgasms!' and I hollered, 'I couldn't tell; your snoring never changed.' Then she might've mentioned she wanted me dead, I might've said better than being with her, and she booted me out—of the massive house _I paid for_. Who's this?"

"Liz Clarke," said Michael.

"I like her contours, but her face could use some work." Addressing Elizabeth, he continued, "If I were Arab, I'd trade you for a camel."

Miffed, Michael, said, "Decide now, asspipe: You walk out of here holding your head high or _I'll_ walk out of here holding your head high."

Mark sniggered and said, "I guess you like her. Good for you. I'm sure she has a great personality. Guess I better get going. We should get together sometime."

"Let's see. Today's the sixteenth. Why don't we make it when pigs fly?"

"Come on. I'm newly single."

"Piss off or I'll see to it your relatives are fighting over your estate tomorrow."

"Who you putting on the jet?" asked Mark as he stood.

"You."

"I'm putting Bush and Cheney on. Give me a call when you come to your senses," said Mark as he ambled toward the exit.

"I promise you'll hear from me by the second . . ." he called after Mark as he sauntered out the door, "coming of Jesus," he finished.

Elizabeth snickered and said, "What did he mean by putting someone on a jet?"

"First time we met we started talking about the jet that had crashed that day, killing everyone on board. He said it was too bad this guy he knew wasn't on that jet, then asked me who I wished was on it. I said the entire NDP caucus, and he got such a kick out of it he asks me the same question every time we meet." Michael sipped some water. "I'm sorry about what that bugger said to you."

"Not your fault. It's nothing new anyway. I get rude comments or grimaces pretty much daily. Even my parents think I'm ugly."

"Did they tell you that?"

While examining the menu, she said, "They say stuff like I can't expect any kind of Prince Charming with my looks."

"Nobody ever accused me of being charming—or a prince. I'm the first to admit I'm not quite perfect."

The waitress returned, and they ordered their meals.

While waiting for their food, they continued getting to know each other. Michael said, "What's with your parents? Most seem oblivious to how ugly their children are, but yours are oblivious to how pretty you are."

"Come on, Mike. When you say something like that I go back to thinking this is all some sort of practical joke. Why _did_ you ask me out?"

"You're the one who thinks she's ugly."

" _Everyone_ thinks I'm ugly."

"If I did I wouldn't be here."

He suggested a few small changes that would work wonders, including a prescription for acne and a pair of glasses to highlight her eyes.

She said, "And my teeth? They're too expensive to ever deal with."

"Your parents couldn't afford braces, I presume."

"Mom has . . . um, trouble holding down a job. She gets by only because I pay her six hundred a month for room and board."

"Really?"

"Yes. I can't save anything for braces or anything else."

"Your dad?"

"My parents divorced a few years ago. He lives in Brantford, and I go see him about once a month, mainly to clean his place and cook a few meals. He's on disability, even though he's physically fine. He has no money for me. I usually buy the food for the meals I make him."

"So, you've taken responsibility for your irresponsible parents?"

"Yes. I'm their meal ticket." Eyes watering, she added, "They're my adoptive parents. My real mother gave me up at birth; teenage pregnancy, they said. I asked about her but she'd stipulated she never be contacted."

"I'm sorry."

Looking at him in embarrassment, she said, "No, _I'm_ sorry. I'm getting too personal with someone I don't really know. I sound pathetic."

" _I_ asked the questions. Telling the truth, especially when the truth is uncomfortable, is _not_ pathetic. I like that you're candid." He also liked her voice and the way she spoke; she seemed intelligent. That was critical, for if she was dull this would be their only date.

The waitress brought bread, and both dug in. "Do you need your glasses to eat?" She shook her head and removed them. He smiled his thanks.

They continued their conversation. He told her he had a degree in aerospace science and engineering. She told him she'd stopped after high school because she couldn't afford college.

The waitress delivered their meals: Penne Alfredo for her and Parmigiana Di Pollo for him.

Elizabeth said, "Where do you work?"

"I work with my father in a garage on the small acreage we rent."

"You still live with your parents?"

"Uh huh. Man of your dreams, eh?"

"Your job?"

"My spending money comes from fixing motors and engines."

"Like car engines?" said Elizabeth.

"Mostly, but also everything from blenders to lawn mowers to boat motors. Most of my free time is spent working with my father trying to build a new kind of engine. Dad's a physicist at McMaster, and he's conceived a high-tech engine. My job is to engineer it."

"That's fascinating, Mike," she said with a warm smile, which she covered. She seemed impressed.

"What about you? I assume working the snack bar at the theater isn't your dream job."

"Not quite."

"What is your dream job?"

"Well, I always wanted to be a mother, I mean a great mom; the opposite of my mother . . . my _mothers_."

"Great. And when your kids go to school? Any career of interest?"

"Don't laugh." He nodded. "I know it's only a pipedream now because of the way I look, but when I was younger I thought, maybe, I could be a TV reporter. Stupid, eh?"

"Why should your looks stop you?"

"If you've noticed, not many of the reporters on TV are ugly."

"Yes, I've noticed, but you're not ugly." She smirked. "I know you find this hard to believe, but I like you, and I know you find this impossible to believe, but I think you're cute."

He wasn't being completely honest. Even with her mouth closed, her two front teeth distorted the lines of the lower portion of her face. They pushed out her top lip to such an extent that her closed mouth looked to be permanently overstuffed with food. The only way she could hide them completely was to extend both lips so far as to give a simian impression to the casual observer. In short, they really did disfigure her face, but he dared not let on he thought so, lest he aggravate an already-serious self-image problem. _If she could only get them fixed I think she'd be beautiful._

He added with a smile, "True, you could use a mallet to knock your teeth back where they belong, but I could get lost in your eyes for an eternity." She dipped her head demurely, eyes cast down, then, after a moment, she lifted her eyes to his. _That's the single most adorable sight I've ever seen_. For the second time in their nascent relationship he gasped at her in awe.

#

As he dropped her off that evening, he kissed her and said, "I had a great time."

"Me, too."

"Say you'll see me again."

She nodded.

They set a date for the next Monday, and he left.

Elizabeth stood inside the front door and struggled against getting too excited. He seemed to be everything she'd ever dreamed of; he was too good to be true. If she let herself get carried away with him, his inevitable rejection would destroy her. She was at once delighted and terrified.

She placed the fingers of her right hand to her lips and smiled with the thought of his kiss. Her first! Embarrassing that it took till age twenty, but wonderful!

They kept in touch via phone and email during the succeeding days. She found herself thinking about him almost every waking minute, which she'd scold herself about. _Don't get carried away with him, Liz. He's bound to let you down._ Then, as soon as he called and they began conversing about . . . whatever, a wave of bliss inundated her. He was so smart, so interesting, so perfect! _I can't wait to see him again._

Michael showed up after her shift on Friday, which was a nice surprise. "Come on," he said. "We're going to find you a pair of glasses that show off your eyes. I'm paying."

"You don't have to—"

"Liz, believe me, this is for me. I think your glasses are an evil spell to hide your eyes from me. I want them gone from this earth. Let's go."

While he waited in his car, she went to her apartment to get her prescription, then they visited a few optical shops where she tried on frames. They ended up selecting full-rim, black frames that displayed her lovely eyes. The second she tried them on he smiled and said, "Perfect!" Michael paid. The glasses would be ready in a week.

She felt guilty but happy; also, slightly suspicious. _What does he expect in return? Is all this intended to get his way with me?_ Not that she minded the thought.

A week later, Michael dropped by the cinema at lunchtime to take her to the optical store to pick up her new spectacles. With a diffident smile, she introduced her beau to her workmates.

Shaking their hands, Michael said, "Hi, ladies. Nice meet to meet you."

Tara said, "So, are you, like, Liz's cousin or something?"

"No."

"Are you actually dating Liz?" asked Tara.

"Yes."

Becky said, "What, on a dare or something?" He frowned, so she said, "Just kidding . . . but, really, Liz is sweet and all, but, um, she's not exactly Kate Beckinsale."

Michael replied, "I almost dated Kate, but she said no."

Tara said to Becky, "I know; he lost a bet."

Elizabeth felt mortified with the ribbing in front of Michael, not to mention furious, and it must've shown because Michael said, "Incandescent with rage. I like the look." He turned to Becky and Tara, said, "Looks like she intends to disassemble you molecule by molecule with a dull clever. We'll leave you two jackals to chew on someone else's carcass," and ushered Elizabeth out of the cinema.

Outside, he tried to lighten her mood, joking about Tara and Becky. "They were kicked out of Gomorrah for lewd behavior." Elizabeth smirked. He added, "I'll bet Tara's done more laps than Donavon Bailey." That warranted a weak smile.

At the optical shop she turned away to don her new glasses, then swiveled back to him. His bright smile told her he approved. She looked in the mirror and reflected his smile.

Heading back to the theater, Michael detoured into a small park.

Worried about getting back to work on time, she asked, "What are you doing?"

"Stopping."

"How long will it take?"

"About two seconds once I step on the brakes."

She rolled her eyes and said, " _Why_ are we stopping?"

"We're having a ceremony to thrust your old glasses back to hell. It'll take only a minute."

They exited his car, and he motioned with his hand, calling her to his side. He set the spectacles in front of the left front tire, then slid back into the driver's seat and, as Elizabeth watched, he put on a maniacal laugh and shifted the car into drive. The car moved forward a few feet and crushed the glasses. Then he backed up to run over them again, then forward one more time for good measure, all with the same crazy laugh, which had Elizabeth crying with glee. He stepped out of the car, jumped on the shattered glasses, then turned to her and gazed into her eyes.

"What?" she said, smiling.

"God help me, Liz, your eyes bring me closer to heaven."

She smiled and took him in her arms for a kiss, reveling in how wonderful he felt against her. She wanted a passionate kiss but was worried about amputating his tongue with her teeth, so she settled for a quick peck on his lips.

#

The young couple dated once a week for the next few weeks and by mid-November Elizabeth felt comfortable enough to ask him over _,_ though she was concerned about what he would think of her dingy apartment and her dingier mother. She'd spent all day cleaning, but no amount of elbow grease could expunge fifty years of dilapidation. Her apartment always smelled like a horrid combination of marijuana and whiskey. She hoped the garlic bread she'd made to go with dinner would mask that.

As usual, her mother was strung out that Saturday evening and, when Michael arrived, she sat at the kitchen table, slowly eating the spaghetti Elizabeth had prepared two hours earlier. Slurring her speech she said, "So this is Mitchell."

"Michael," corrected Elizabeth, abashed beyond words.

"Good luck hanging onto _him_ ," she said with a lazy chuckle. As Elizabeth fidgeted, her mother sucked in more spaghetti, then said to Michael, "What are you doing with my daughter?"

"Mother!"

"No, I mean why are you with her?"

"I like her; she's nice," said Michael.

"I'll give her that. Well, I'll get out of your way. I'm going to bed."

Michael glanced at the wall clock, as did Elizabeth: 8:07.

Once she disappeared into her bedroom, Elizabeth said, "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I'm dating you, not your mother."

Elizabeth microwaved some popcorn, and the pair sat together on the couch to watch a movie; _My Fair Lady_. Initially she sat a few inches away from him, but as the movie progressed, she snuggled in close.

When it ended, he said, "I enjoyed that."

"Surprised?"

"Yes, and I couldn't believe Eliza Doolittle's transformation. Just some raggedy clothes, messy hair, and grime on her skin, and one of the most gorgeous women on the planet was beneath everyone's notice. Add an annoying accent and low-class manners and she became an object of derision. My Eliza, just some pimples on your skin, awful glasses, and front teeth that get to your destination a half hour before you do, and people see an ugly woman who should be taunted."

He crossed his eyes and jutted out his top teeth to mock her. She tittered and elbowed him. "The thing is, you're still a pretty woman, even if the world is oblivious to it."

Her smirk must've conveyed her rejection of his assessment because he said, "You still see yourself as ugly even with your new glasses?" She nodded. "Even though most of your pimples are gone?" Another nod. "Even with your hair style now showing off your face?" Nod. He shook his head and said, "Please promise me to try your best to see the woman I see right now."

She nodded and smiled at his adoring eyes, but noted, "Not even you can disagree these are awful," pointing to her front teeth, "and they cost too much to fix."

"Maybe I can rig something up to fix them."

"Rig something up? These are my teeth you're talking about."

"You hate them anyway. What do you have to lose?"

"My _teeth_. They're useful for biting and chewing, and they're better than gaping holes."

"All we need to do is haul back your two front teeth. How hard can it be?"

"It might be really hard for all you know. If we do something wrong, I might lose them."

"Okay. We'll figure something out."

The two began kissing. She let his hands wander all over her body, which excited her enough that her hands became busy as well. When his eyes conveyed his torrid desire for her, she said, "My mom could come out at any moment."

Michael persuaded her to accompany him to his car, where they continued in the back seat, but she stopped him before he hit gold, saying, "I'm on . . . my period."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Because it's embarrassing."

"Why? As I understand it, half the population has periods. The other half has question marks, as in, 'Why do women always have their periods when I want to get very personal with them?' She grinned, and he went on, "And the entire world has colons, except for a few who have semi-colons because they've had an operation."

She chuckled and said, "And exclamation points?"

"Mine went down when you told me about your period."

She laughed and said, "Let me get it back up," as she took him in her hands to relieve his sexual anxiety.

The next weekend she met his parents. He'd told her his mother, Molly, was a physician and his father, Jared, was a professor, which had made Elizabeth less certain of their relationship, given how her parents compared to his, but there wasn't a hint of condescension from Mr. and Mrs. Morrison. They were nice and seemed pleased to make her acquaintance. Elizabeth, for her part, tried hard to present herself as worthy of their son, but she didn't believe that herself, so she worried she wasn't convincing. Michael assured her they liked her.

Late that evening, on the couch in the finished basement of his parents' home, she granted him her virginity.

### Chapter Two  
Hamilton, January, 2009

Under Michael's influence, Elizabeth applied for Mohawk College's Broadcasting—Television and Communications Media program. She was accepted and began her studies the following September. Michael not only covered the expenses, which were modest, he arranged for her to get braces through the Western University school of dentistry, which took on guinea pigs for teaching purposes, charging a fraction of what orthodontists charge.

By early October Elizabeth had a full set of metal braces and headgear. She felt happy, humiliated, hopeful, and homely. When he first saw her wearing the headgear he pretended it was sexy. She was lying on the bed reading in the guest room, where she stayed when she slept over at his place on occasion. When he entered, he stopped short, and said, "Wow! You fire up my limbic system, babe."

"What?"

"You roil my loins."

"All right. I know this damn thing is horrible. The sarcasm doesn't help."

"I'm trying to be nice, idiot!" he said with a grin. "Anyone who can make headgear look adorable makes me horny."

"Shoo, I need to study for my exam tomorrow."

"Let me say it as Shakespeare might: I shall abjure my love for thee, if thou wilt not fucketh me."

"Get thee lost." She resumed her studies, but looked up a minute later at her boyfriend. "Why are you still here?"

"We haven't had sex yet." She shook her head and returned her attention to her textbook, though she could tell he continued to stare at her. She held out for another minute before giving him a cross look. He said, "Shall we copulate?"

She sat up, feigned a frenzied expression, and pretended to chew maniacally, open-mouthed, as she reached for his zipper. He slapped away her hand, said, "Control yourself, woman, and get back to your studies," and backed out of the room.

The victorious lady chuckled and resumed studying.

In mid-October Elizabeth found her mother on the apartment floor when she got home after school. She called an ambulance to rush her to the hospital, but she died that night. Overdose. Elizabeth wept in Michael's arms for a short time, but she couldn't be devastated since she'd never loved her mother.

Since she couldn't afford her apartment on her own, Michael asked her to move in with him, and she happily accepted. She thanked his parents and vowed she would move out as soon as she could manage it, but they told her she was welcome to stay for as long as she wanted, saying she made their son happy.

In early November they got together with Mark Chu, because Michael's father wanted him to keep Mark happy as the financier of their engine. The two waited at the entrance to O Ultra Lounge, a Hamilton night club, for Mark's arrival. He soon arrived acting like he owned the joint, and maybe he did.

Michael greeted him. "Hey, Mark. What's new?"

"I hate all mankind," said Mark as he gave Elizabeth the once over.

"Yes, but what's _new_?" replied Michael.

"You've been blowing me off since I insulted that thing you were with."

"Do you never learn?"

"What? You must agree or you'd still be with her."

"This _is_ her."

Mark looked at Elizabeth again. She was habited in a burgundy lace dress, argyle tights, burgundy belt, and a purple scarf. Her hair was parted on the right and fell in waves down to the middle of her back. He said, "No way."

Elizabeth spoke up. "You said you'd trade me for a camel."

"Holy shit, you clean up nice. Now I'd settle for nothing less than three oil fields and a bowl of dates. Good choice, Mike, but I'd be careful about blowjobs if I were you. It'd be like fucking a garbage disposal." Observing Michael's glower, he went on, "Guess you must love her if you've been with her for this long and you get hyper-sensitive about anything I say about her. I'll be nice to her, but take it from me: be careful about love. The difference between love and sex is, sooner or later, about half your possessions."

As the three sat at a table near the entrance, Michael told Elizabeth, "Here's some vital context concerning Mark; he's a social moron."

"Moron with a one-fifty-seven IQ," Mark added. "Bet you're one of those idiots with a one-fifty IQ."

"I always thought it was petty to worry about IQ."

"All retards say that," said Mark as he scanned the dimly-lit room. He frowned as he watched people on the dance floor. "Lousy dancers, and the music is too loud," he said.

"Music? I thought it was just noise," Michael said. Elizabeth was thinking the same. "Back with Anne?"

"Nah. She's history. I miss my house."

"Surely no other woman is foolish enough to associate with you," said Michael.

"Have you not noticed my legendary charisma?" said Mark.

"Sorry, I haven't, but I'm sure it must be around here somewhere."

Addressing Elizabeth, Mark said, "This is why I like him; he's the only one who can keep up with me." Turning back to Michael, he continued, "FYI, I do have a special lady who looks after me, loves me, and even cooks for me."

"How is your mom anyway?"

Elizabeth chuckled. She enjoyed watching these two interact.

Mark replied, "If she's my mom, I'm Oedipus on steroids. When Anne took off her panties it started snowing in our room, but Jessica—if she wandered across a graveyard in a miniskirt there'd be boners sticking out of every second grave."

"Thank you for the vivid imagery," said Michael.

"Let me buy the drinks. What'll you have?" Mark asked Elizabeth.

"Maybe a Singapore Sling?"

"Live a little. I know your boyfriend is a nameless, pathetic pauper, but I'm King Midas. What say we order the best champagne this dump has?" He waved over a waitress and placed the order. He continued, "Hey, my company has a fifties party on Saturday the twenty-eighth. Want to come? You're both invited."

Michael said, "Great. Liz can go as a commie, and I'll get a wheelchair and go as a polio victim."

"Your sarcasm could choke Groucho Marx. Come on. Lots of drinks, good company, and a fancy supper."

"I'd rather accept a supper invitation from a tribe of cannibals."

Grinning, Mark returned, "I'll send a limousine to pick you two up. You can lounge around our campus drinking in the afternoon, then dinner, more drinking, and a limo ride home."

"I've got an even better plan," said Michael. "We don't do any of that."

Elizabeth was disappointed. Mark's plan sounded fun.

"So that's a no?" asked Mark.

"Yes," Michael replied.

"Yes, a no or yes you'll come?"

"Yes and no."

Mark looked at Elizabeth in exasperation and said, "Secretary, take this down: Shit!"

The champagne came, and Mark paid. As he poured some into her glass, Mark, not wanting to give up, said, "Talk some sense into him. Doesn't it sound fun?"

"Mike?" said Elizabeth.

Mark said, "Don't defer to him. Have you a mind of your own or not? Do you want to accept my invitation?"

"I'd like to go, Mike," she said.

"All right," said Michael.

She grinned at him and squeezed his arm.

"Christ, had I known all it takes to control him were hypnotizing eyes, great legs, and sculpted curves, I'd have brought along one of Toronto's five-grand-a-night call girls with me anytime Mike agreed to a drinking night."

"There's still another illustration of your faulty reasoning. I'm guessing your whore doesn't radiate the wholesome innocence I love about Liz."

"She will if I have her dress as a Catholic schoolgirl."

"No . . . wait. That sounds fun."

"Michael!" said Elizabeth.

Mark's phone rang. He answered, listened, and said, "What, now? . . . Ah, shit. Be there in half an hour." He hung up and said, "Something's come up. Big client in Japan wants to chat by video. Sorry, I have to cut this short. I'll send a limo to your place on the twenty-eighth at around three. Dress in fifties garb, but maybe not the polio dude since I have a few cripples working for my company who I hired to keep the government off my back; they're as good at programming as they are at walking. See you guys then—oh! Who you putting on the doomed jet? I'm putting on anyone named Mohammed."

Michael said, "Wouldn't be room with all the Mohammeds, but I hope the cause of the crash was the original Mohammed and his flying horse getting sucked into an engine."

Laughing, Mark said, "See you at my campus."

After he'd exited, Elizabeth said, "Sorry if you didn't want to go to the party."

"Actually, it sounds kind of fun, but a few hours with him will be overwhelming. I hope he has a lot of other people to divert his attention."

"He's quite a character."

"He's eccentric. It's not obvious, but I think he's a little depressed. Maybe he does miss his wife, and he must be bored to be so desperate for my company. He could spend the afternoon with the Dali Lama if he wanted. He's reached rock bottom."

"What's obvious is he enjoys verbally jousting with you. He's probably being honest when he says you're the only one who can keep up with him."

"Maybe. It just pisses me off that I have to look up to see his rock bottom. . . That came out wrong."

She tittered and sipped her champagne, her first taste ever of the beverage. It was a tad bitter in her opinion, but she enjoyed sensation of the fizz against her tongue, and liked the idea that she was actually drinking champagne! "I could get used to this."

#

A week before the party, Molly and Elizabeth embarked on a mission to find Elizabeth and Michael suitable attire for the 1950s theme. After two hours shopping, lunch, and two more hours shopping, they returned with their haul. Michael asked to see what they bought, but Elizabeth told him he had to wait till the day of the party.

A week later, Elizabeth emerged from her room in her fifties costume. Michael's eyes lit up. She wore a Hepburn-style blue polka dot swing dress that beautifully framed her breasts and hugged her figure down to her waist but flared as it fell to her knees. A single strap stretched from one armpit across the back of her neck to her other armpit, highlighting her long neck and leaving her upper chest bare. Her hair was drawn back off her face into a ponytail tied with a red ribbon.

For his part, Michael had greased his hair straight back and parked a cigarette over his right ear. He wore blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He said, "Hey, baby, you look _crazy_! Classy chassis!" Her expression must've conveyed her confusion, because he said, "Nice body. Want to go steady?"

"Oh, Mikey, you're the most! I'd love to."

They chortled and hugged.

"You smell fab, baby!"

"Your mom bought me a perfume called Opium. Isn't it nifty?"

"Makes me high. Where's your peepers?" said Michael.

"My wha . . . oh, glasses. In my purse. They don't go well with a fifties getup, and I thought you'd approve."

He nodded.

Molly and Jared stepped into the room, and Molly said, "Oh, Liz, you're so precious!"

"Thank you," she said, smiling, clutching her dress, and twisting her hips to display it to full advantage. Noticing Michael's expression, Elizabeth demurely dipped her head and lifted her eyes to his. His jaw fell.

Molly laughed and said, "You have him perfectly agog, Liz."

"Later," said Michael as he clutched Elizabeth's hand and led her to the waiting limousine.

Mark's firm had emulated the Silicon Valley style of designating its grounds as a campus. Upon arriving, Elizabeth and Michael strolled through together, marveling at the opulence. Four modern buildings enclosed a sylvan meadow with two fountains, various statues, benches, a tennis court, and even a swimming pool, though it was closed. Presley's _Don't Be Cruel_ played over loudspeakers.

It was a fine day for late November, but 12o C was uncomfortable for Elizabeth, who had pulled on a long-sleeve red cardigan, but left it unbuttoned.

As they approached the host and hostess, Mark said, "Hey, Daddy O. Welcome to our bash."

Michael said, "Digging this party, man. How you like my chick? Ain't she a dolly?"

"She's hep," said Mark.

Elizabeth introduced herself and her beau to Jessica, then took in a deep breath, gazed at Michael, and sighed dreamily as she said, "Isn't he a dreamboat?"

Jessica nodded. This conversation seemed to be beyond her.

"I'm out of fifties lingo now," said Michael to Mark, "so I'm reverting to current vernacular. Shitty party, asshole."

"Drinks are over there; hope you choke on them, bum banger," said Mark.

Michael led Elizabeth to the bar. From the popular fifties cocktail list, she ordered a Blue Hawaii, he the Bay Breeze. As they continued to ramble they noticed a monkey cavorting around a fountain. They looked at each other as if to say, _Mark's out of his mind_. Michael said, "This is what employment equity has come to." She grinned. "Let's check it out."

They ambled toward the monkey. A man approached them and asked, "Is that your monkey?"

Without missing a beat, Michael replied, "No, this is my girlfriend." Elizabeth punched his chest.

"No, over there," clarified Randy.

"Of course that's not my monkey. How irresponsible do you think I am? My monkey's at home looking after our baby." Elizabeth laughed.

"Why is there a monkey here?" said Randy.

"He heard people here are bananas," said Elizabeth. Michael grinned at her.

"Really, what's a monkey doing here?" reiterated Randy.

"Scratching his ass at the moment," said Michael.

"You're troubled, aren't you?" said Randy.

"Since you showed up, yes. Hey monkey, why is this ass-clown here?"

The man smirked and asked the next couple about the monkey as Elizabeth and Michael wandered away.

A hefty woman, outfitted in a dress with a red and white checkerboard pattern that struck Elizabeth as a table cloth, approached them and introduced herself as Maria Quijones, the new head of human resources. They told her their names. She asked, "You new here?"

"No," said Michael.

Maria said, "Were you hired through the internship program?"

"No."

"Could you maybe give me a little more detail?"

"Sure. When the interns were hired, I wasn't," said Michael.

"How do you know Mark?"

"I know him as an asshole."

Maria gave up and left to greet the next couple.

"Why were you so terse?" said Elizabeth.

Michael shrugged. "Because."

She said, "Ha, ha," and elbowed him.

As they continued to promenade, Darin's _Mack the Knife_ playing in the background, Mark ambled to them and said, "Who you putting on the DC3?"

Michael answered, "Allen Dulles and J. Edgar Hoover."

"I choose Mao."

"Senator McCarthy," Elizabeth chimed in.

"Good one," said Mark.

A group of three men and two women made their way to Mark. One of the men said, "Great shindig, boss."

Mark nodded.

"It's such an honor to work for your company," said a woman. The other four nodded. "Phil said something that rings true about how you hold our team together. He said, 'We're the bricks, you're the mortar.'"

"I'll mortar him," said Mark.

That elicited loud laughs from the five employees and chuckles from Elizabeth and Michael.

"But how do you do it?" asked the woman.

"Old family secret," replied Mark. "Keep quality uniformly high by caning slackers with bamboo."

That prompted another guffaw from the five.

"You're a titan in the field," said one of the male admirers.

"He's a midget in Lilliput," said Michael. That dumbfounded the five but when Mark laughed, they did, too.

The other woman said, "I so admire how you're so successful yet so down to earth and can joke with us and laugh when someone pokes fun at you. That's so rare. How are you the way you are?"

"Someone pissed in his gene pool," said Michael.

Mark grinned, patted Michael on the shoulder, and said, "That's why I want you here; to offset some of the ass kissing. But, as I think about it, in a way you're my serf as well, since I'm paying for your work. I think you should revere me, too. What do you say?"

"I always listen to what you have to say with the keenest disinterest, and today is no exception, so I'm not sure what you just said, but feel free to pretend I said whatever you wanted me to say and go away happy."

"Ha!" he said as he moved on.

With the Everly Brothers' _Wake Up Little Susie_ now blaring, the couple fetched another drink each, then wandered around talking to people till supper was called. All filed into one of the buildings where a capacious room had been set up for the meal. The main plates were crab-stuffed roasted lobster, barbequed filet mignon, and glazed rack of lamb. Mark sat with Elizabeth and Michael at the head table.

After dessert, Mark drew everyone's attention as only he could. "Everyone: shut _the fuck_ up, and keep shutting up, till I finish." The crowd hushed. "I trust you're all enjoying yourselves," which raised a cheer. "Kudos to Chef Guillaume, though his parents call him Billy. He'll be sure to never be stupid enough to barbeque without pants on . . . again." The assembled laughed.

"These are my friends, Liz and Mike, who, unlike all of you, do not bore me to death." More laughter. "Have anything to say, Mike?"

"I thought I was miserable before, but then you started talking."

"Liz, I think, is his first serious girlfriend. She doesn't look like she should be desperate, but there's no accounting for taste." She grinned, hand covering her metal teeth.

Michael returned, "Mark's ex says she had more satisfying eunuchs."

"Keep it up and you'll be one," said Mark. Turning back to his employees, he continued, "Just for fun, we ran a little experiment with our new application, combining state-of-the-art cameras, mic, and software to record anyone, anywhere, anytime. It'll be in the next gen iPhone." The employees applauded.

"That's Orwellian of you," noted Michael.

"Many of you saw the monkey near the fountain and wondered what was going on. Unbeknownst to everyone here, we recorded your reactions to the monkey with Randy's iPhone, which was sticking out of his jacket pocket. Randy works in our PR department. Most of you responded to Randy's monkey-business questions as I would've expected; answers like, 'No, it's not my monkey,' and 'How do I know what it's doing here?' George showed a bit of imagination when he said it was probably my mistress. George, you're fired." The man's face fell, and Mark chortled. "I'm shitting you, man. You win five hundred bucks." He held the cash out to the smiling man, who came up to accept it with his thanks.

"Also as I expected, one person answered as only a mentally-defective person could." He signaled, and over a big screen played a video of Michael, Elizabeth, and the monkey.

After watching their interaction with the monkey, with the audience laughing, Mark said, "Mike, here's a thousand bucks for so ably demonstrating both the capabilities of our new system, and the lunacy of your mind." Michael scowled as he took the money. "Share it with Liz for her pun."

Soon thereafter the party wrapped up, and the happy couple took the limousine back to his place.

#

Not much out of the ordinary occurred over the next two years. Elizabeth's father, finally ejected from the Workers' Compensation program, picked up and moved to Newfoundland because he'd heard it was easiest to qualify for welfare there. He hugged his daughter and drove off in his twelve-year-old Chevy pickup truck, and she guessed that would be the last she'd ever see or hear from him. She cried for a few minutes and that was it.

Elizabeth progressed well in her broadcasting course, and Michael continued his work as a part-time mechanic, part-time space-age engineer. He'd told her more specifics on their engine—most surprisingly, that it was intended to run on water. She thought it would be remarkable and a genuine benefit to the entire planet if they could get it to work.

The two grew ever closer, but the story on the engine wasn't so rosy. By November 2011, Jared and Michael had reached a standstill and could proceed no further until they figured out how to engineer the critical component for turning water into hydrogen and oxygen. Michael had begun brooding about it, feeling he'd failed his father. Elizabeth provided all the support she could.

Sitting up in bed next to Elizabeth, Michael said, "I don't think I can do this, Liz."

"I think you can. There's no deadline."

"No specific date, no, but we can't waste time on this forever. Mark won't keep funding us if I don't come up with something soon."

He hung his head and Elizabeth embraced and kissed him. "Mike, if you don't solve this problem I'll still love you. I think you'll have a terrific career because you're brilliant and will succeed at anything you put your mind to."

"Not this, obviously."

"Don't give up on yourself. Your father hasn't. I haven't. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself. Try to relax. Whenever I get anxious about what I'm doing I think about us and our future together and I'm happy."

"What would I do without you?"

"You'll never be without me, although to make my happiness complete . . ."

She'd been hinting about wanting a ring— _the_ ring—for Christmas, and he'd deduced this was still another hint, because he said, "Ring."

"Sorry. You have enough pressure on you. Lie back and let me help you relax." She made love to him, after which they fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, Michael sat up and exclaimed, "Ring!"

"What's wrong?" said Elizabeth, startled.

"I think I know how to do it!"

"It?"

"The engine. I'm pretty sure it'll work if we induce a plasmoid vortex ring."

"A what?"

"Has to do with plasma and magnetic fields—never mind. I have to wake up my father right away." He jumped up to get dressed.

Though it was 2:16 a.m., she knew better than to argue; this meant too much, and he was far too excited. She, too, was thrilled. "Did you dream it?"

"I . . . I don't know. It came to me when I was kind of sleeping, kind of awake. But . . . it's all really strange. It was like, I don't know, a flash of inspiration."

"That's wonderful, Mike. I'm so happy for you."

"And the flash, or whatever it was, wasn't only the overall approach. _I think I know every detail of how to do it_!" He was speaking elatedly and was so energized, he pulled his shirt on backward and didn't even realize it. She laughed at his frenetic actions. "That's why I have to talk to Dad and make sure it makes sense scientifically."

He scampered out of the room but returned to kiss her and said, "You eased my mind and put the concept of _ring_ into it before we fell asleep. That's the key. I love you!" Michael scurried out hollering, "Dad, Dad! I think I've got it!"

With that news, Jared took no time becoming wide-awake. He dressed, and father and son hastened to their workshop.

The ladies were too keyed up to go back to sleep, so they headed down to the kitchen for a tea. After almost an hour of talking, the two, who guessed their scientists must be on to something important since they were still working, got drowsy and returned to bed.

Not till mid-morning did the men come home. They marched in triumphantly. "He did it, Moll," said Jared. "Our son brought my idea to life!" Michael grinned, and both couples hugged.

"Congratulations!" said Molly.

Jared said, "I mean, we still have to build it, but it all fits. It's physics and engineering, but it's like a math problem in a way. When you have the solution, you know it, and once we worked it all out, it seemed to have been obvious all along. I can't imagine this won't work."

"Hey, my shirt's on backwards," said Michael, which prompted Elizabeth's laughter.

"Hungry?" said Molly. The men nodded. "This calls for homemade pancakes, omelets, sausage, and bacon." She and Elizabeth went to the kitchen to prepare a nice brunch.

That evening, an ebullient Michael took Elizabeth for a jaunt on a path through the woods behind the farmhouse. It was a fine evening for November with the setting sun rendering the fluffy clouds pink and purple. He seemed a little distracted to her, so she took his hand and asked what the matter was.

Juddering, he said, "I've, um . . . been waiting for a special occasion for this."

"For wha—oh!" she cried as she spotted what he'd extracted from his pocket: a small jewelry box.

He went down on one knee. Her hands shot to her mouth, and tears surged down her cheeks. He said, "You, my Eliza, are the love of my life. Please do me the honor of marrying me."

She screamed in ecstasy, embraced him, kissed him, and answered, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" He slid the ring onto her finger.

Elizabeth couldn't believe her good fortune. She'd wondered all along why he would want her, but now that he'd engineered technology that could make him rich and famous . . . _now he could have anyone_. Which was why she answered his next question—When do you want to get married?—with, "Right now!" _Before you come to your senses and change your mind._ He laughed, but she said, "Why not this weekend?"

"Like four days from now?" She nodded. "When it comes to weddings, don't women usually like to plan and fuss and . . . plan?"

"I have no real friends and no family, so the idea of a fancy wedding has no appeal to me, and I know you don't have any good friends, so what would we be missing by going to a justice of the peace? Just us and your parents. It would cost far less and neither of us has much money."

"Let's check with Mom and Dad."

Walking on air back home, they entered and found Jared and Molly conversing in the TV room. Molly, who must've known or suspected what her son had planned, jumped to her feet when she saw Elizabeth's glowing, metal smile and her new engagement ring. Elizabeth bounced to her future mother in law for a hug.

"Congratulations, you two. I'm _so_ happy for you." Molly's eyes overflowed. "I was hoping for this almost from the moment I met you, Liz. I think you're perfect for each other."

Jared shook his son's hand then hugged Elizabeth while Molly embraced her son.

#

That Friday, the betrothed stood before a Justice of the Peace, with Molly and Jared in attendance. Elizabeth had invited her father—all she had was his email address—but hadn't heard back. Michael was habited in a suit, Elizabeth in a charming pink embellished lace dress that flattered her figure and flowed to her knees.

Facing Michael and holding his hands, Elizabeth stated her vows. "I didn't write down what I'm going to say because I speak from the heart. Before you came along I hated my life—I hated my _self_. I was convinced I'd be lonely all my life and die alone. I fought against permanent depression by imagining someone wonderful coming along to save me, but I could never convince myself it would ever truly happen. My world was perpetually dark.

"Then, suddenly, a ray of bright sunshine pierced the gloom. You came into my life and changed _everything_ for me. At first I was convinced you were just the next cruel guy sent to make sure I'd stay wretched. I thought either this was a heartless prank someone was playing on me, or something that wouldn't last beyond the first date. I intended to keep an emotional distance from you so when you strutted out laughing, sticking me with the bill, or led me along only to drop me when I fell for you, it wouldn't hurt so much.

"But that plan went out the window almost right away. You captured my heart that first night. I sat across from you, gazing into your beautiful eyes, and admiring your quick mind, and praying that somehow, maybe, I could have you for my own. Forever. I didn't really believe it would happen. You were too good for me. You were a figment of my fevered imagination and would dissolve before my eyes and leave me more forlorn than ever.

"But for some reason I couldn't imagine, you actually seemed to like me. That gave me real hope for the first time in my life, but it also scared me to death. What if I lose you? Just the thought brought tears to my eyes.

"When you asked me to be your wife, my head spun; I was so dizzy with joy. Today will forever be the best day in my life. All the heartache, self-hatred, doubt, and disappointment that had defined Elizabeth Clarke vanish on this magical day, for I'm to be Elizabeth Morrison, the happiest woman on the planet. I love you, Michael Morrison. I'll love you forever."

"Shit, how do I follow that up?" said Michael.

"Michael Morrison!" said his mother. "You don't follow up such wonderful sentiments straight from your new wife's heart and soul with a swear word."

"Molly Morrison, you don't chide a man who's in the midst of his wedding ceremony," said her son.

"He's got you there," said Jared.

Elizabeth grinned.

Looking in her eyes, Michael said, "Mrs. Morrison, my perfect bride, you've become everything I knew you would. My exquisite Eliza, you're the toast of the town, and though the town is just a little shit-burg—" He glanced back at his mother, who rolled her eyes, and at his father, who was evidently trying to suppress a chortle, returned his gaze to Elizabeth, who was smiling, and continued, "We've only just begun. I love you, Liz. I'll love you forever."

The justice pronounced them husband and wife, and the newlyweds kissed.

#

Jared and Michael spent the next two months acquiring the necessary parts and equipment and constructing their engine. Mark provided state-of-the-art facilities for fabricating the breakthrough component, and finally, after a week of careful testing, they were ready for the maiden ride in the car; a 2002 Subaru Legacy that they'd purchased used. The car was outfitted with various high-tech instruments to gauge the results of the test drive.

Mark was invited to participate in the exciting event. They poured one liter of tap water into the tank to get an initial read on mileage. With Jared in the driver's seat and Mark sitting next to him, and Molly, Elizabeth, and Michael crowded into the back seat, Jared turned the key, and the engine started right away. "Ready?" he said.

"Go!" said Mark.

He took his foot off the brake, and the car began rolling. The three in the back cheered.

As Jared turned from the snowy driveway onto the slushy country road, Mark said, "Give her some gas—I mean water!"

Jared accelerated to sixty kilometers.

"That all you got? Come on," urged Mark.

Jared floored it. The acceleration was reasonable given that there were five adults in the car and the fuel was H2O. He topped out at a hundred kilometers before slackening his speed, saying, "Fast enough for the maiden voyage and for the road conditions. We need to analyze the results before going faster."

There was a good deal of hugging after the successful test, which unfolded exactly as Jared had hoped. A buoyant Mark shook their hands, congratulated them, and gave them a bonus of $5000 in cash to "celebrate in style." He left with dollar signs dancing in his head.

The money came in handy, because even though Molly and Jared earned a good deal of money in their regular jobs, they'd devoted all their savings to their water engine. Now that they had a working prototype, all their sacrifices would soon return enormous dividends and they could enjoy the best life had to offer . . . or maybe not.

Jared had been applying for patents all along and submitted their key breakthrough as soon as he got the paperwork ready. None of the applications had been granted as of yet since the bureaucracy took an average of two years in the United States; three in Canada.

Within a few weeks of applying for the critical patent, however, Jared received a terse letter stating that the patent application had been denied. Astounded, he phoned the patent office and got the usual runaround with nobody able or willing to answer his questions. Frustrated and angry, he hired a lawyer to look into the matter.

Meanwhile, during Elizabeth's February break from college, she and Michael were treated to a honeymoon cruise by his parents; their wedding gift. Elizabeth thought it was the most magnificent gift anyone had ever received.

#

Two weeks later, the patent lawyer called to ask Jared to come to his office. He and Michael drove to the Toronto office immediately. The lawyer informed them there would be no patent granted for the key component. He said his contacts didn't seem to want to give him a definitive reason for the rejection and that he'd never seen the like in his twenty-four years in the business. "They seemed, I don't know . . . scared."

"Scared?" asked Jared with great concern in his eyes.

"I . . . I don't know. A few of them told me they were ordered to say nothing on the matter. One mentioned that some _Men in Black_ types were seen speaking with the director of the patent office, and the rumor is they put the kibosh on your application. Another person said something even odder; the government had _seized_ the patent. I dismissed that since there'd been no patent grant in the first place."

"So the government seized the application?" Jared gathered.

"Apparently. Sorry I can't be more helpful," he concluded as he handed Jared a bill for fifty-seven hundred dollars.

On the way home, the shocked, disappointed, and livid men discussed the situation. "I shouldn't have taken you today," Jared began.

"Why not?" Michael asked.

"I think this could be dangerous for us."

"Unwelcome competition for oil?"

"Yes and all that implies. A lot of powerful people in corporations and government stand to lose a great deal from our engine. I knew that but I didn't stop. I _couldn't_ stop. I mean, there's the personal glory, of course, but that's secondary. Our engine would be such a boon for the world, but I'm afraid the people in charge will see to it that it never sees the light of day."

"So we're giving up?" said Michael.

"I . . . I don't know. God dammit! If we try to pursue this, I don't know what they'll do. I can't have you at risk."

"I'm not afraid of those fuckers."

"Be afraid! You think they'd hesitate to kill you? Billions, maybe trillions of dollars are at stake for the oil industry, bankers, and the establishment. From now on, you're out of this."

"But—"

"No! You're out. I'll try to quietly look for options other than just giving up, so leave it to me. The only other person besides Mom and Liz who knows your role in this is Mark. Right?" Michael nodded. "I'll let Mark know right away what we're facing, and I'm sure he'll keep quiet. Speak to no one about this outside of your wife and mother. As far as the rest of the world is concerned you're just a dumb gofer for me. Got it?"

"Why should you take all the risk?"

"Because as a father I would never forgive myself if something happened to you. I'm pulling rank here, son. You're out."

Michael reluctantly agreed.

### Chapter Three  
Hamilton, April 2012

The doorbell rang.

"Can you check?" said Michael.

A middle-aged man stood on the porch scanning the yard. He turned to Elizabeth when she opened the door. "Yes?" she said.

With a gloomy expression, he said, "Mrs. Morrison, I presume?"

"Who, may I ask, is asking?"

"I'm Bill Allum. I worked with your father-in-law at the university. I have something of the utmost importance to pass on to your husband."

"Can't this wait? Mike is devastated."

"I'm sorry, but it can't. Your father-in-law entrusted me to deliver this news to your husband right away if, uh, something happened to him."

She looked at him wide-eyed for a moment as she processed this news, then said, "Come in."

Meanwhile, Michael had come to the door. Elizabeth said, "Mike, this is—"

"Hi, Bill," said Michael.

Bill said, "I'm sorry for your loss, Mike."

"Why are you here?" asked Michael.

"I know my timing is bad, but . . ." At a whisper, Bill said, "This is going to sound nuts, and I'm not sure what to believe myself, but they might be listening."

"They?" said both Elizabeth and Michael.

"Please, just . . . come over here, away from the house."

Elizabeth was already sick with grief over the news they'd received at dawn. Add fear to this, and she was ready to break down, but she had to hold it together for her husband. She had to.

The three tramped into the nearby woods. Bill said, "Your father asked that I give you this if something happened to him." He handed Michael a computer memory stick. "He said you should listen to this right away."

"Why?" said Michael.

"I don't know, but he said I was to stress that listening to this _now_ was absolutely vital, and that it couldn't be on any computers the family owned. He even made me promise to insist you listen to this before you talk to anyone, including the police. Have you spoken to anyone?"

"I said maybe two words to the cops who told me my parents were dead, but I don't remember what I said. My mind was numb. It still is."

"I know; I'm sorry. Your father was a great man. This was his dying wish, Mike. Will you promise me you'll find a place to listen to this ASAP?"

"Yes. Thanks, Bill."

Elizabeth said, "I'm sorry, but I have to ask: Are you implying Mike's parents were . . . murdered?"

"I don't know," said the man, clearly uneasy. "When he gave me the memory stick with the instructions to pass it to you if something happened, I thought he was kidding at first. When he protested he was serious, I asked what was going on. He said he couldn't tell me without putting me at risk. I confess I thought maybe it was a practical joke, until I heard about their car crash . . . I'm very sorry."

"But, like, do you think maybe we're being watched, and that Mike might be in danger?" said a now terrified Elizabeth.

Bill answered, "I have no idea. Jared made me promise not to look at anything on the key, again for my own safety. You know as much as I do now. Go somewhere to listen to his message _in private_."

Michael nodded, and Bill shook his hand and departed. Michael went inside to grab his keys, and he and Elizabeth drove to Mohawk College to use a library computer. They did their best to watch for anyone tailing them, but knew if someone were they were completely out of their league and likely wouldn't spot the tail.

They were careful to select a computer that gave them a full field of vision to spot anyone near enough to listen in—assuming they didn't have some sort of technology that could accomplish it. The whole situation was overwhelming.

Sitting together, they looked nervously at each other, and Michael inserted the key into the computer. Michael opened the file explorer. Several files were listed, one labeled, 'Watch this right away.' He double-clicked on it.

It was a video. His father sat at his desk in his office at the university looking at the camera. He looked sullen and agitated. Michael had to stop the recording because he couldn't see through his tears. "Oh, Mike," said his distressed wife. She embraced him and cried with him.

A few minutes later, he clicked "play" once more.

Jared said, "Mike, if you're watching this, I guess you're now grieving over my, uh, death. Do your best to comfort your mother; at least you have each other."

Michael stopped the recording as his tears continued. He looked around to see if anyone was witnessing his blubbering. Again, Elizabeth comforted him, and he resumed the recording.

Jared said, "First of all, let me say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving you, Liz, and your mom alone. I'm sorry that I used all our savings on our engine, leaving nothing other than bank loans. I do have life insurance, but I took loans against that, too, so there's little or nothing there. Most of all I'm sorry I won't get to grow old with your mom, and hold my grandchildren, and watch with pride all the incredible things you're going to accomplish. You have a world of talent, and I'm so proud of you, and you must know how much I love you."

At this, Michael stopped the video. He told Elizabeth, "I have to . . . go to the bathroom." Nodding sadly she watched helplessly as he wept and trudged to the washroom.

He emerged a few minutes later with deep red eyes. His wife kissed his cheek. They continued to watch the video.

Jared said, "Now, what's so important that you had to listen to this even before the funeral? Make sure you're alone to listen to this and make sure you're not on any computer linked to me, you, Liz, or your mother, and make sure your phone is off! They might be able to find you through it. If not, stop this right now."

The pair paused the video to turn off their phones, then returned to it.

"As you know, I was worried enough about the possible fallout from our engine that I insisted no one know about your high-level involvement. Keep it that way! I mean it, Michael. If anyone asks you what you know about the engine, play dumb. Say you helped me here and there but know nothing about the technology. The safest assumption you can make right now is that I was killed because of the engine."

Elizabeth gasped and looked at her husband, whose expression conveyed rage; his jaw was clenched, cheeks on fire, eyes glowering. She grasped his hand in an effort to calm him. She hadn't heard what Jared was saying since his bombshell, and neither had Michael, since he rewound when he got himself under control.

". . . killed because of the engine. I'm young, healthy, happy with my family, happy in my job; no thoughts of suicide, in case that's what anyone tells you. My heart is strong, so if they tell you it was a heart attack, that's bullshit. I'm a careful driver, especially with you, Liz, or your mom in the car, so if it was a car accident, you can bet it wasn't. . . Christ, I just thought if it was an accident and you, Liz, or your mom was with me—Jesus, Michael, if your mom or Liz is gone, too, you must be going through hell. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." His father's tears started, and he stopped recording.

Looking more composed, Jared proceeded. "I'm back. I'll be optimistic and assume you have your mother and wife to comfort you. When they stopped the patents, I should've backed off, but I just couldn't. Those GD sons of bitches! My blood boils when I think of the audacity, the pure evil . . . I'm sorry. You don't need to hear my tirade again; especially not now.

"If I'm right about our engine being the cause of my demise, you can bet they took the engine and any plans. Check after you listen to this. I left the plans in a couple of obvious places: our home computer, my laptop at work, and a memory key in our safe deposit box. They'll make sure to steal these. You know where our key is for the safe deposit box. Check it as soon as possible. It also contains two thousand dollars to keep you going for a while. Your mom will get my pension from work, too, eventually.

"The plans for our engine are also on this memory key, for the sake of posterity. This is a godsend to all mankind, and I wanted nothing more than to share it with the world, but if the powers-that-be took me out over it, it's far too risky for you to move forward. Do you hear me? If my engine—our engine—causes your death, hell isn't hot enough for me. I know I shouldn't give you the plans, but I can't bear to think that everything we accomplished together just dies with me. Maybe someday in the distant future, our leaders will be more enlightened and will welcome our engine, but if I'm dead and our engine and the plans have been stolen, that time is not now. Hide this key well. Tell no one about it. No one!

"In any case, you can bet they'll be curious about your role and will look into you. Get your story straight. Liz should be safe, but she has to lie for you, too. You know nothing about the technology and couldn't possibly reproduce it.

"It gets worse, Mike. They'll most likely keep tabs on you, so you can't show your genius at engineering. I'm afraid you can't pursue graduate studies. I didn't tell you this because I didn't want to worry you if my worst fears were overblown, but I asked Mark to design something that would detect if someone tried to hack into your U of T records, and if so, would spit out fake grades that make it look like you scraped by with a D average. I know this undercuts your ability to achieve your great potential, but if you show what you're capable of, they'll play it safe and kill you, too. I'm so sorry, Mike, but if I'm gone and the engine's gone, then what I'm saying here is confirmed, and you have to play dumb for the foreseeable future.

"I love you, Mike. Be strong. You'll get through this. Help your mom through it, too. Please don't move far away. You and Liz are all she has now. Live a long, happy life with your wonderful wife, and if we're lucky, we'll see each other in some kind of afterlife."

Jared smiled sadly and waved goodbye as the recording ended.

Elizabeth and Michael again looked at each other, still finding it hard to believe, overwhelmed and terrified.

"We need to check the engine," said Michael. "If Dad was right, it's probably gone. If it's there, they'll take it soon enough."

"And if they don't?" asked Elizabeth.

"Then their accident might've been just that. No sense killing the inventor but not the invention."

"In any case, I don't want you taking the chance. We have to get rid of it."

They hurried to the garage that served as their workshop behind the house. Her heart fell when she spotted the broken padlock. He opened the door and saw the car had been stolen. "Fuck!" he cried. "They killed them, Liz. They murdered my parents!"

"I know, Mike, and I can't say how sorry I am." She hugged him.

Enraged, he screamed, "I can't just let them get away with this!"

"We'll tell the police, but . . ." she whispered, "they might be listening." He nodded, and she continued, "If whoever stole the engine tries to sell it, they're probably the killers. In the meantime, can't you build it again when we get some money?"

"Christ, Liz, that's PhD physicist territory, and my dad was the best in the field. It's light years beyond me."

"But you built it once with him."

"He told me what to do when. I just followed directions. I can't even remember a recipe for bread three minutes after I make it. All I can do without Dad is switch the engine from gasoline to hydrogen combustion."

"He left plans, didn't he?"

"The desktop with the plans on it is gone, so the fuckers got that, too, but he kept a copy at McMaster and in his safe deposit box. We have to get them before the fuckers steal them as well, and leave us with nothing. Let's go!"

They drove to the university, once more attempting to spot anyone tailing them and once more seeing nothing suspicious. There, sure enough, the plans were gone. They proceeded to the bank, and the story there was no better.

The bank manager said, "The government has seized the contents of your parents' deposit box."

Michael replied, "What do you mean? You let them steal their stuff?"

"We had no choice."

"The government? What government? Who in the government? How do you know they were who they said they were?"

"Take it easy, Mr. Morrison—"

"Take it easy? We entrusted your shitty bank to protect _our_ property—not the goddamn government's property! They had no right to take it, and you had no right to let them. You're complicit in the theft."

"Mr. Morrison, please! When people from CSIS show up waving badges and warrants, we have no choice. We're hardly complicit in this mess. You can't think we wanted any of this. Your parents owed the bank almost two-hundred thousand—"

"Scotiabank is out two-hundred grand. I'm out two parents!"

"Mike, please calm down," said Elizabeth. "You look like you're about to attack."

The bank manager, who was visibly shuddering, said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply our loss is anywhere near . . . I'm sorry. They said they'll be speaking to you about all this."

In a subdued tone, Michael said, "You know what was in there? Plans for an engine that uses water instead of gas. They stole it to protect the oil interests, and you let them. I hope you choke on all the pollution that'll keep spewing out of cars forever."

They exited the bank, only to be intercepted by two men in black suits. One said, "Mr. Morrison, we're from CSIS."

"The people who just stole the contents of our safe deposit box; the bastards who stole my father's engine; the _fuckers who killed my parents_?"

"Calm down," suggested one of the men.

"Fuck you! Give me what you stole from me."

"Come with us. We'll explain—"

"I'm not going anywhere with the bastards who murdered my parents."

"Your parents died in a car crash," said one agent.

"Bullshit!"

"I'm afraid we have to insist you both come with us."

"And if we don't?" said Michael, teeth bared and eyes aflame.

"Mike," said Elizabeth, "we can't take a stand like this. They have all the power."

"The power to murder and steal. Who gave them that much power?"

"Mike, please!" said his wife.

He submitted, and the two were ushered into the back seat of a grey sedan, which headed to the highway. In the back seat, Elizabeth clutched her husband's hand. His eyes conveyed rage and something else. Fear? Confusion? She squeezed his hand, and he looked at her and shook his head as if to say, _Can you believe this?_ Shaking her head and smiling sadly, she shuddered with fear and uncertainty. This could end with Michael _dead_! She willed herself to believe the best. _Everything will be all right. Please, God, help us through this._

They drove to an office building in Toronto and were separated. Distressed at being parted from her husband, Elizabeth followed a female, Agent Lovato, into her office and was told to sit. Agent Lovato sat as well and said, "Just a few questions and you can be on your way. What role did your husband play in building the engine?"

A nervous Elizabeth crossed her legs and arms and answered, "Uh, he helped out where he could, but most of his time he spends repairing cars and appliances—anything that needs fixing. That's how he supports us and pays for all my expenses at college; it's pretty much a full-time job."

"Your husband's an engineer. When he did help his father, what did he do?"

"I don't know much about that." _Careful, Liz!_ She could feel herself sweating, panicking at the thought of saying something that might get her husband _killed_.

"Water?"

Shit! She can tell how nervous I am. Will she know I'm lying?

"Yes, thank you. My mouth is dry." This pause gave her a chance to consider how to respond to this loaded question.

The agent gave her the bottle on her desk and repeated her question.

After taking a sip, Elizabeth replied, "Um . . . Mike did mention a few times how much he admired his father and regretted that he was nowhere near as smart. I think he only did what his father told him to do. Why is this important?"

"The patents for the engine have been seized or denied, which implies the engine cannot be built."

Elizabeth quickly weighed whether she should question this. Would it be dangerous to question this? Would it be suspicious if she didn't? She went ahead. "Why not?"

"That's beyond my pay grade," she said.

"Did you ask? I mean, why would anyone forbid something that can be so beneficial to everyone?"

"As I said, I'm not privy to that information. I'm sure they have their reasons."

"Protect the oil industry?" Elizabeth guessed. _Shit! Maybe I shouldn't have said that._

Ignoring Elizabeth's question, Agent Lovato asked, "Does your husband intend to build the engine on his own?"

She sipped more water to give her a few seconds to consider the question. "I don't see how without the plans, and I know we don't have the money even if he did have the plans."

" _Does_ he have the plans?"

_Look into her eyes and make her believe this!_ "You took them."

"You can go."

"So that's it?" Anger overtook her nerves and with a tear rolling down her cheek, Elizabeth said, "That engine was our family's future, but the loss of that is nothing compared to the loss of Mike's parents. They _murdered_ them. Don't you even care about that?"

"The police have concluded it was an accident."

"Come on. How stupid do you think we are?"

"Go home."

"Not without my husband."

"Wait for him in the front office."

Elizabeth glowered at her, stood, and left.

#

Meanwhile, Michael had answered the same questions with much the same responses, though he was considerably testier than Elizabeth had been. Agent Weerts had returned the cash taken from the deposit box to Michael, who said, "Great. That accounts for two grand of what you stole from me. Where's the other _tens of billions_?"

"You can go now."

"Oh, thank you, master!" Agent Weerts shook his head. Michael continued, "You proud of the job you're doing? You proud that you helped these arch criminals bury a technology that could've raised everyone's standard of living enormously, that could've cut pollution drastically, that could've prevented future depressions, that could've secured our energy future, that could've enriched Canada enormously?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, right."

"So is it that you're too corrupt to care or that you're too stupid to realize what you've helped your CIA bosses do? Do you really think they'd steal the engine, steal the plans, and kill the inventor if the goddamn thing didn't work?"

"Go home."

"You too, Agent Weerts. Go home and look in the mirror at a traitor to the people. Tell your wife and kids what you accomplished today. I'm sure they'll be proud. Congratulations, you fucking disgrace to the human race!"

He stood, picked up his chair and threw it at the windowed wall; it crashed through. Three people came rushing in ready for action, but Agent Weerts raised his hand and said, "Let him leave."

"Worried I'll get my day in court? No, what am I saying? You'd see to it I had an accident before that, right?"

"You watch too many movies."

"You have the nerve to say that after you helped them get away with murdering my parents and stealing my father's technology? I'm going to the cops to charge you with murder and theft, and when they do nothing, I'm taking my story to the media."

"Get him out of here," Weerts told his agents.

As Michael followed the agents, Elizabeth showed up with a frightened face. She said, "What happened?"

"I demonstrated my dissatisfaction with today's proceedings," said her husband. "And I've only just begun."

Taking his wife's hand, Michael led her toward the exit, shouting to the office occupants sitting at desks arrayed throughout the large room, "What your agency did today will live in infamy. You should all be deeply ashamed."

That garnered a headshake or two and one chuckle, which was too much provocation for Michael to withstand. He charged at the man, catching him by surprise, knocking him and his chair down. Michael landed on top of him, but the well-trained man immediately flipped Michael over and pinned him. He punched Michael once in the face before Elizabeth flung herself onto the man, who turned and threw her off and into a desk, stunning her. Enraged, her husband smashed the man's head into the desk twice before he was dragged away by the agent's colleagues. Now also irate, the agent stood to exact retribution, but his boss, Agent Weerts, intervened and hollered, "That's enough! What the hell happened out here?"

"This son of a bitch attacked me out of the blue."

Michael explained, "Bastard stood there snickering at me. After the travesty of justice that already happened today, it was the last straw."

"He was going on about how we should all be ashamed—"

"Shut the hell up, Turney," Agent Weerts said. "Lengies, escort these people out of the building."

Michael checked on his wife, helping her to her feet and embracing her. She said she was okay. Agent Turney glared at him, and Michael gave him the finger.

"You're lucky, asshole," said Agent Turney.

"Oh yes, parents assassinated and a multi-billion dollar engine stolen. You should be so lucky, motherfucker."

"Turney, my office. Now!" said his boss. He trundled off.

As Michael and Elizabeth were conducted out of the office by Agent Lengies—flanked by two other agents—Michael called out, "You're too afraid to stand up to them; too afraid to do your job and uphold the law. You're a bunch of pathetic cowards." On the street he said to Agent Lengies, "I guess I'll bill the government for the GO train back to our car, along with the cost of our engine?"

"I'm sorry about your parents," Agent Lengies said as she and the two male agents returned to the office.

Elizabeth stroked Michael's cheek and said, "Your nose is bleeding. Are you okay?" She dug a Kleenex out of her purse and dabbed his face.

"Ouch! Sore nose, headache. I'll live. Did he hurt you?"

"Not really. My arm hurts a bit."

"I'm sorry. I lost my temper."

"I understand, but we have to be careful about assaulting them and making threats. As I said earlier they have all the power."

"I can't control myself that well. All this is so fucking _outrageous_!"

"I know." She kissed him. "Let's go home." They trudged toward the subway entrance. "What did they ask you?"

"Not here," he whispered. "Anyone could work for those pricks."

A limousine pulled to the curb beside them and a window glided down. The startled couple retreated until they saw who it was. "Get in," said Mark Chu.

"What the hell you doing here?" asked Michael.

"They picked me up, too. Get in."

Elizabeth and Michael stepped into the car and sat next to Mark, and the driver headed back toward Hamilton.

"Sorry about your parents, Mike."

"They killed them."

"I know. Let my people handle the funeral."

Michael nodded and thanked him.

"They also stole the engine and the plans," said Elizabeth.

"They didn't tell me that, but I figured," said Mark.

"What did they ask you?" said Michael.

"What my role was, how much I invested, what I know about the engine. Do I know how to build it? Do I have a copy of the plans? What do _you_ know?"

"What did you tell them?" said Michael.

Speaking to the chauffeur, Mark said, "Turn on the sound system and turn it up high." The man did as asked, and the three huddled together so they could hear each other speak. Mark explained, "You wouldn't believe what these assholes can do as far as spying. It goes beyond what anyone can imagine. They can get into our computer, they can get into our Blackberries and iPhones, they can listen in on our conversations with special antennas, and God only knows what else. Yesterday I got a notice on something that I'd set up a few weeks back to alert me if someone tried to get access to your files at U of T. Your father—"

Michael interrupted, saying, "He left a recording to tell me that if he died, he was likely murdered, and he mentioned he asked you to change my grades."

"Only if someone tried to get into your records. Well, someone did yesterday."

"Do you know who?"

"I could probably figure it out, but it could be dangerous, and might alert them that we expected a check on your grades." Michael nodded. "They think you're a dunce, so that should help, but they'll be watching you."

"What did you tell the pricks?" said Michael.

"I told them I'm just an investor, that I know nothing about the technology but believed in your father, that I have no copy of the plans, and that you were a gofer for your father and were too stupid to build it again."

"Thanks," said Michael. Elizabeth nodded.

"They broke into my computer system and iPhone, too. I knew about it but let it happen so they see I have nothing material about the engine." Looking out the window, Mark continued, "This is an extremely dangerous situation. Caution is the watchword." Turing back to Michael, he went on, "The only reason they didn't kill you, too, must be that it might look suspicious. Mike, you have to play stupid, maybe for the rest of your life. They'll be watching."

"How the hell do I make a good living if I can't be an engineer?"

"I can give you enough to get by for a while."

"Thanks, Mark, but I'm not accepting charity."

"I could hire you, but that might raise their eyebrows."

"Yeah. Shit."

"Have a drink," said Mark as he slid open a cabinet that held a small selection of coolers and beer. Elizabeth chose spiked lemonade, and Michael selected a bottle of _Sink the Bismarck_. Mark took a _Crown Ambassador Reserve_.

Michael took a sip, grimaced at the bitter taste, and said, "Sorry you lost your investment."

"That's nothing, but the loss of the potential revenue from your engine hurts like hell. We would've been billionaires for sure."

"Is there nothing you can do? You have the resources to get the word out that this engine exists."

"No, Mike," said his wife. "They'll find out and kill you!"

"She's right," said Mark, "and I'm sorry but I can't risk it."

"Then I'll go to the media."

"No, Mike! We have to lie low or they'll kill you," Elizabeth repeated.

Michael cried, "God dammit! This is all so unbelievable and unjust, but if we try to do something about it, we're dead."

"Yup," said Mark. "You said they stole the only engine we had. _Can_ you rebuild it?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you can build it in your sleep, which, I understand, is how you designed it, but let me say for the record. . ." He opened his window as the limo streaked down the highway and screamed, "Mike Morrison is a fucking dunce! He couldn't build a snowman."

That drew a chuckle from Michael.

"On the doomed jet," said Mark, "everyone who ever worked for the CIA."

Michael nodded sadly.

As Mark let them off in the parking lot next to their car, he said, "I was disappointed not to be invited to your wedding, fuck face."

"You were in Shanghai," said Michael, "and anyway, the guest list was limited to non-assholes."

"Well, despite that, I have a little wedding gift for you two."

"That's not nec—"

"Hush!" said Mark, cutting off Michael. "This is for your lovely bride, whom I completely misjudged when I first saw her. As opposed to most lovely brides, who are actually pigs, she really _is_ lovely, or will be when she gets the junkyard out of her mouth." He produced a packet of hundred dollar bills amounting to $5000.

"Mark, that's too much," said Elizabeth.

"Horseshit. I wipe my ass with a wad like that."

"Thank you," she said, kissing his cheek.

Michael, too, leaned forward in jest to kiss his cheek but Mark stepped back and said, "Stay back, faggot!" As Michael shook his hand, Mark leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "If, many years from now, you do decide to take the chance of rebuilding, get in touch on the sly. I still own thirty-three percent, and the risk factors may be different then." He quickly kissed Michael's cheek with a grin.

"Fag!" said Michael as Mark re-entered his limo and drove off.

Before unlocking his car, Michael embraced his wife and whispered, "They might've bugged the car. From now on, as unbelievable and infuriating as it is, we have to act dumb when it comes to our engine and my part in developing it. We have to assume they're listening every minute." He pulled back and said, "Oh! I just want to scream."

Despite Elizabeth's objections, they proceeded to the police station, where Michael shared his theory that his parents were murdered with no proof other than the coincidence that the engine and plans were stolen simultaneously. They'd bought the story conveyed by two witnesses; that his parents were driving on the wrong side of the road, passing a car around a curve, and got hit by a truck. Michael said his father never would've done that and asked about the witnesses, and the police said one drove the car, the other the truck.

"Do they work for the government?" asked Michael.

"No," the officer replied. "One is a truck driver; the other works in the private sector." He wasn't willing to say where.

Nevertheless, the coincidence Michael mentioned piqued their curiosity, and they promised to investigate the theft and any possible connection to his parents' accident.

#

On the way home, with Elizabeth driving, she glanced at her husband to see tears streaming down his cheeks. She reached over to clutch his hand.

When he settled down, he said, "As if all this isn't unsettling enough, we're going to have to move. I can't possibly afford the rent there."

"We'll find a place, but let's not worry about that right now. The five thousand dollars will give us some leeway. Let's just get home and try to unwind."

Once home, Michael buried the thumb drive in the woods.

Elizabeth made a quick meal, but neither could eat much. Michael snared a bottle of scotch and poured a glassful straight over the rocks. He offered some to his wife, but she declined. They sat together in the TV room. He looked around and once more broke down. She wrapped her arms around him.

"I can't believe they won't come roaming in here as I saw thousands of times. How can it be that they're . . . gone forever?" He sobbed, and Elizabeth drew him closer, held him tight, and wept in sympathy. Not only did she feel his pain, she had her own to deal with; she'd come to love his parents as well. Molly had become her confidant and best friend. Her mother.

A few minutes later, Michael exclaimed, "To think these lunatic criminals will be watching every move I make for, maybe, forever makes my blood boil. Who the hell do they think they are, and how can they just get away with murder? With stealing our engine from us—from the _world_? Given what this engine could've meant to everyone on the planet, this has to rank among the most harmful crimes of all time. The people who did this have to be the most evil psychopaths in the world. I hope you heard that, you motherfuckers!"

Elizabeth embraced him to help calm him down.

"They probably are listening in, and they're probably having a good laugh. Hell isn't hot enough for them . . . God, I feel so depressed."

"I'm here for you."

"That's why I'm so depressed," he said with a cheerless smile.

She said, "We'll get through this together."

"Thank God I have you. I don't think I could go on otherwise."

He resumed weeping, and his wife comforted and cried with him.

#

A week later, an Ontario Provincial Police superintendent gave a courtesy knock on the open door and said, "Detective Stubblebine." The disheveled detective looked up from his cluttered desk. "The Morrison case." He looked expectantly at the superintendent, who said, "Drop it."

"What?" said the detective, dropping his pen.

Leaning against the door frame, the superintendent said, "Drop it."

"Why the hell—"

"This comes right from the top. Drop the investigation."

"But I'm on to something. I don't think it was an accident. The driver of the car has connections to the CIA—"

"Let it go. Call it an accident. That's an order."

He threw up his hands in frustration as the superintendent shrugged and ambled off.

The detective stomped out of the office, got into his car, and drove to the Morrison place. He knocked, and Michael answered. Elizabeth was at class.

Michael said, "I'll invite you in depending on how you answer my question: Did you conclude it was murder or an accident?" The detective dropped his eyes. "I see. Go away, far away, before I get arrested for assaulting a policeman."

"I . . . I'm sorry. Just a word. There's something strange—"

Michael put the index finger of his right hand to his lips. Stepping outside, he said, "Follow me; the house is almost certainly bugged. For all I know they have antennas aimed at me, too. We can speak in the woods back here."

They hiked through the trees and stopped in a clearing.

Detective Stubblebine said, "If I tell you the authentic story, are you going to go off half-cocked and storm the police department?"

"I know the bind I'm in; so do they, which is all that's keeping me alive. If I make too many waves, I'm probably dead. I expected the police to find nothing. If the CIA can force CSIS to do its bidding, no police department can withstand their pressure or threats."

"Odd you should mention the CIA, because the driver of the car . . . well, if I was free to do my job, I'd be quite interested in exploring why he once worked for the CIA, but I didn't tell you that, and I didn't tell you I was forced to drop the case by someone from the top; whatever the hell that means. What I did tell you was that it was an accident. Don't waste your time and effort pursuing these silly conspiracy theories of yours, and if you do, don't expect us to use any more of our resources."

"Our engine worked."

"I'm truly sorry. My hands are tied. If I try pursuing this I'll be fired."

"No, you'll be dead."

"As mind-boggling as that sounds, I believe it. This is the first time I've ever encountered anything like this, and it makes me sick. I can only imagine what you're going through." Michael nodded. "I hope you can drop it and get on with your life."

"I'd do everything I could to expose the sons of bitches, but I have a wife."

"Plus you wouldn't last an hour if they wanted to take you out."

"There's that, too."

"Please let it be and get on with your life. I don't want to investigate your murder only to be ordered to conclude the bullet in the back of your head was self-inflicted because you were depressed over your parents' death."

He shook Michael's hand and sauntered back to the car.

### Chapter Four  
Thunder Bay, June 2012

After completing her broadcasting course in the spring of 2012 Elizabeth was offered two unpaid internships, one in Hamilton at CHCH, the other at Thunder Bay's Global affiliate, CHFD. She accepted the latter because the couple desperately needed a change of scenery and thought a small city in northwestern Ontario might be safer than southern Ontario. Michael got a job at a local garage repairing cars.

Of his parents' belongings, they'd kept only what they needed—his mother's 2004 Nissan Maxima, the best furniture and electronics, dishes, linens, and clothes, as well as family keepsakes—but sold everything else they could, including his father's 2008 Honda Civic because they couldn't justify the expense of licensing and insuring two cars. The rest they donated to charity. They rented a U-Haul truck for the move to Thunder Bay.

Their lives there were uneventful, which was what they wanted after the unwelcome ferment of the past couple of months. His parents' murder and the loss of his once-in-a-lifetime breakthrough continued to depress and infuriate him, of course. To contrast their current straitened circumstances with what could and should have been an incredibly exciting and rewarding life was too much for him sometimes, and he'd brood and drink.

Elizabeth did everything she could to buoy his spirits; sex usually did the trick. His deep love for her was salvation for both, and she felt it would see them through this dark period. She reveled in his strong physical attraction to her and took every opportunity to please him sexually. She surprised him by answering the door in a negligee a few times, which always brought a smile to his face and a bump to his pants. He'd often text messages such as, 'Please submit your body to your husband so that he may ravish it,' which she was eager to satisfy.

Singing in the shower one evening, Elizabeth heard her husband enter the bathroom. He sang, to the tune of _Toreadora_ , "Is someone torturing my wife in there?"

Continuing the tune, she sang her answer. "No, I'm singing in my voice so fair."

Still signing, he replied, "But it's enough to lift up my hair."

She opened the curtain and sang, "But can't you see that I'm completely bare?"

"Completely bare. Oh yes! Completely bare, and what a lovely pair!"

They laughed, and she said, "What are you waiting for? Join me."

He disrobed and accepted her invitation.

Soaping her breasts, he said, "Anyone ever tell you you have a gorgeous body?"

"Just you, and I think you're full of it, but I'm glad you like it. What happens if I get fat?"

"I get lost," he said, washing her bum.

"I hope that's not true," she said, lathering his penis.

"I hope you don't get fat."

They lovingly washed each other and made love till the hot water suddenly ran out. They hooted under the cold stream, which became even more frigid as Elizabeth turned it off. Shivering, they dried each other and hustled to their bed to get sweaty and sticky again.

Through her love, his mood gradually improved. The little things were enough for the time being, as long as they were with each other; taking drives along Lake Superior, watching movies at home, the occasional dinner at fast food restaurants, which was all they could afford.

For his birthday in early August, Elizabeth bought herself a sexy bikini, which she modeled for about a minute before Michael could no longer hold back, hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her to bed.

For her birthday in late August he got her a gold chain. When he gave it to her, her eyes and mouth opened wide. He said, "I hope you like it. The salesman had a limited selection hanging from the liner of his overcoat."

"Oh, Mike, it's beautiful, but can we afford this?"

"I used some of Mark's wedding gift," which was largely depleted. "We should have something permanent to show for it."

She took him to bed to demonstrate how grateful she was.

At work, Elizabeth got her first opportunity on air after four months of doing grunt work. She was assigned coverage of Thunder Bay's new fire truck. Michael accompanied her.

Outside the fire station, she set up to introduce the story. Michael helped her with a suggestion for a promo. "We're here on the streets of Thunder Bay where, as always, absolutely nothing is happening. Tune in at eleven to see nothing happening as it doesn't happen. Tonight's nothing? A brand new red fire truck that goes, _woooooo_!"

"Thanks, Mike," said Elizabeth, who was a little nervous about her first assignment. "I've got this."

"Of course you do. You'll be great!" He kissed her, and she did the intro, then proceeded inside to interview the chief, then went for a ride on the new truck. She returned to the station for editing.

The two sat together that night on their couch in their small apartment at 11:06 when she debuted. "That's my wife there!" said Michael pointing to the TV. "Isn't she fabulous?"

"Shush," said Elizabeth. "I want to hear the fabulous lady."

When the story was done, Michael congratulated her on a wonderful job. She grinned, then the still excited woman made love to her husband.

Elizabeth got acquainted with a couple of ladies at work and joined a book club with them, but Michael only knew two gruff middle-aged men at work, neither of whom he had any interest in socializing with. He was wholly reliant on her for friendship, which was fine, but she worried he would get bored, particularly when he started carping about the lack of nightlife in the city. He needed to let off steam, she felt; he needed to get out for a night on the town with some rowdy men whose only agenda was having fun.

Elizabeth asked her pals at work about what their husbands did for entertainment in Thunder Bay. Not much besides drinking and hockey, they said.

That night lying nude in bed, she said to Michael, "You know Elise? She's the producer you met at the station." He nodded, snuggled close, and fondled her breasts. "Her husband plays on a local hockey team, and I guess a bunch are out of town this week and they're worried about forfeiting. Would you be able to fill in?"

As his hands migrated down to her crotch, he responded, "I haven't played hockey for at least a decade, and I wasn't much good then. I don't even have any equipment anymore."

"They said you could borrow some."

"You volunteered me already, didn't you?" he said, pulling her on top of him.

She smiled.

#

Three evenings later he was picked up by Elise's husband, Dirk, for the game. Dirk was a tall, husky man with a black beard and friendly eyes. Meeting for the first time, they shook hands and proceeded to the rink.

The two stood watching children play hockey for a few minutes. Michael guessed they were ten-year-olds. He observed to Dirk, "That little boy, number 10 there, is twice as good as I am at hockey, which both impresses and depresses me."

Dirk informed him, "That's a little girl."

"Ah shit!"

Dirk laughed as he led Michael into the locker room to change. As he entered, Michael crinkled his nose. He hadn't missed the pungent odors.

Dirk introduced Mike. "Assholes, Mike; Mike, assholes. Mike tells me he's not good enough to be an asshole like you guys, but we're desperate today so we'll give him a shot."

"Thanks, Dirk," said Michael. "That actually qualifies as the nicest introduction I've ever gotten. I want to apologize for playing like shit beforehand. My wife made me come out today, so this is all her fault."

Dirk introduced his brother, Scott, who looked nothing like Dirk. He was tall, but skinny with light brown hair and sported a few days of stubble. They shook hands.

Addressing two men on the far bench, Dirk said, "You two are back! Jim, nice to see you; we've missed your defense. Carl . . . hi."

The others snickered.

Scott said, "Hey, Jim, how do you feel?"

"Not bad. I have to stretch then massage my muscle for ten minutes before every game from now on."

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" said Michael.

"What a horrible thing to say," said Scott. "I wish I'd thought of it."

Michael suited up and proceeded to the ice to warm up. It'd been about a decade since he'd skated, but it was like riding a bike . . . except he expected to feel a few dozen muscles he hadn't strained in years, afterward.

He played defense, and he was quite ineffectual, or as his teammates expressed it: "You suck." He was the worst player. At one point, having let three forwards come in alone on his goalie on the same shift, he apologized to the goalie for his poor play, labeling himself the 'one-second-too-late defense,' but the man said not to worry about it. The seventyish man seemed easy-going and friendly. Michael joked to him, "You know, on sixth rebound you really suck," and the man guffawed. _Easy to make him laugh,_ Michael told himself.

"What's he laughing at?" asked Dirk.

"My defensive play," answered Michael.

"You should be a bit more aggressive when they come at you."

"I like aggression as much as the next guy . . . as long as the next guy is a chicken."

"Do you know who the goalie is?"

"No."

"That's Ron Tkachuk. He played for the St. Louis Blues for a couple of years in the sixties."

"He was an NHLer?"

"Yup."

"Holy shit. I'm far out of my league out here. Any other NHLers on your team?"

"No, mostly junior B; a couple of Junior A."

"Oh, is that all? I just played house league for a few years, and I was no better than average there. I can't play with you guys anymore."

"We concluded that after your first five seconds on the ice," said Dirk with a smile as he jumped the boards for his next shift.

As Michael hobbled to the locker room after the buzzer sounded at 8:50 p.m., he told Scott, "The difference between eight o'clock and eight-fifty is twenty years." Scott chuckled. Michael added, "If I had a gun I'd shoot myself to put me out of my misery."

"Want to borrow mine?" said Scott.

In the locker room, Michael was informed that he'd been traded for a chipped puck and a plunger with flaked shit on the handle. He nodded and said, "You got ripped off. As you could probably tell, I grew up playing baseball."

"Well, as a hockey player you're a great center fielder," said Dirk.

"Go back to center field," said one of the guys.

As the goalie stood to take off his shirt and arm and chest protector, Michael marveled that that emaciated body, looking like skin stretched over a skeleton, had been among the premier athletes on the planet a few decades back. He held his hand out and said to the guys, "I give you former world class athlete, now horrifically decayed, Ron Tkachuk. Isn't it tragic what time does to the human body?"

Ron said, "Still a better athlete than you," which elicited chuckles all around.

One of the other players, the youngest there—he looked to be twenty—told his teammates he'd be away in Ottawa next week.

"When you're in Ottawa, tell the Prime Minister to fuck his hat," said Scott.

"I don't think that's allowed," said the young man.

"This is Canada," said Michael, "where free speech is still allowed. Anything goes as long as we do it with the proper decorum."

"Decorum?" said the youngster with a tone that implied, 'fancy lingo for a locker room.'

"Yes," replied Michael, "It's Latin for 'get a fucking dictionary.'"

"Tell us how to tell off the PM with decorum, then," challenged Scott.

With a bombastic British accent Michael said, "The chair recognizes the honorable hat-fucking member from Thunder Bay."

Ron hooted loudly.

Michael stood and proceeded in Canadian, "Thank you, Mr. Speaker; nice fucking hat, by the way. Regarding the Prime Minister's latest proposal to extract the very fillings from our teeth, my constituents wish me to urge you, Mr. Prime Minister, sir, to fuck your hat. I say again, sir. Fuck. Your. Hat. I yield the floor to the hat fuckers across the aisle."

With Ron now crying with delight and most of the boys laughing, Michael got to his feet to leave. "It's been a slice, gents."

"Wait," said Ron. "You're welcome to join us in the locker room for a post-game beer anytime you want."

"Sit on a wooden bench with a bunch of smelly, naked men? Might sound wonderful to a faggot like you . . . wait. Are you gay?"

"No."

"Might sound wonderful to a faggot like you, but I'd rather get sucked through a Zamboni."

Laughing once more, Ron pressed him, and Michael agreed to drop by from time to time.

After the game, they proceeded to a local pub, as planned. This was a habit for Dirk and Scott. Dirk often invited his wife to join them; this night she would be coming, so Michael phoned to invite Elizabeth, too. She said she'd be there in a half hour.

The waitress knew to bring a pitcher of beer and glasses to their table. Dirk paid, and the drinking and banter commenced.

"Got to get laid tonight," said Scott.

"You'll strike out," said his brother.

Scott said, "What are there, at least ten thousand fuckable women in this city? What are the odds I won't sleep with one of them tonight?"

"Pretty good if you're married," responded Michael. Thirsty after so much physical activity, he downed most of the glass in one swig.

Getting to his feet, Scott said, "I'm going to hit on that blonde. I think I can pull it off."

"I think that's what you'll be doing tonight," said Dirk.

Scott ambled to her table, and less than a minute later he tottered back.

Dirk snortled and said, "No luck?"

"She told me to have sex with myself, but not in those words. Oh, here's Dad and Elise."

A middle-aged man, looking like an older version of Dirk, and a young sandy-haired woman arrived arm in arm. Michael nodded at Elise, who returned the gesture. She sat next to her husband and pecked his cheek. Dirk said, "Andy, meet Mike." As Michael shook Andy's hand, Dirk continued, "Dad's slowly losing his vision. He's got something called Best's Disease. It's inherited, so I can probably look forward to going blind myself."

"You should've married an ugly girl," said Michael. "Then you _would_ look forward to being blind."

Scott said, "I'm convinced Elise is blind, too, or she wouldn't have married my brother. Elise is cute. I can't understand it."

"She's okay in dim light," said Dirk to Michael.

"I'm right here!" said Elise.

"Don't interrupt, darling; that's rude," said Dirk.

The waitress arrived with another pitcher of beer and two more glasses. Scott paid.

"Bertha just got here," said Scott.

"Oh, I hate her," said Elise, gesticulating to a female a few tables over who could qualify for left tackle. "She's the meanest person I know, always insulting and threatening people—even hitting them. She put my friend in the hospital with a broken chin just because she asked her not to cut in line. I wish someone would take her down a few notches."

"Maybe it's just misunderstood," said Michael.

"It?" said Elise. He nodded. Tittering, Elise continued, "She's looking at us looking at her. She creeps me out. Somehow she knows we're talking about her. Maybe she has extra-sensory perception."

"I think she has an extra chromosome," said Scott.

"I like her as much as anyone, and I hate her guts," said Dirk. "What do you think of her, Mike? Is there enough liquor in the universe to make her fuckable?"

"Not a chance. Eighty-five percent of the nation's pigs are prettier than she is."

The assembled laughed, and Andy said, "Describe her to me."

Michael said, "Picture Natalie Portman in a miniskirt, only instead of a miniskirt she's wearing a potato sack and instead of Natalie Portman, she's Roseanne Barr. Well, she makes Roseanne Barr look like Natalie Portman."

Andy nodded and chuckled.

"Uh oh, here she comes," said Elise.

The woman in question must've divined that the amusement was at her expense, because she stomped over and said to Michael, "What the hell are you looking at, shit head?"

Michael thought, _I still haven't classified you. I think maybe you started as ooze on a hippo's afterbirth._ He said, "Nothing much, yet a whole lot."

"If you're joking about me, you ugly asshole, I'll kill you, and if you're staring because you think I'm easy, I'll kill you."

"Wouldn't matter which then, would it? But let me assure you, it isn't the latter. If we were stranded alone on a desert island and I needed sexual relief, I'd choose the blowhole of a beached whale over your bulky carcass."

That brought down the house—well, the table—as well as Michael after she smashed him in the face with a heavy fist. That knocked the chair down with him in it, and the uproar spread across the pub. As she strutted away he got to his feet and yelled after her, "Wait. I haven't finished insulting you yet!'"

She turned back, but saw the man she'd assaulted stood six-foot-two, and must've determined he looked in no mood to take another punch, for she halted and reversed course. Before she got to her table, the bouncer intercepted her and, to a cheering crowd, escorted her out.

#

Elizabeth entered the establishment and scanned the room for her husband. She spotted him standing at the bar. There she sauntered. Along the way a man approached her and said, "Hey, honey, can I buy you a drink?"

"Will you get one for my husband, too?"

That took care of him.

Nearing Michael, acting as if she were introducing herself, she said, "Hi, tall, dark, and handsome. Care for some company?"

"How much?"

"You bugger," she said with a smiling frown and a jab to his shoulder. When he turned to face her, she yelped, "Oh! What happened to your eye?"

"Near as I can figure it was the fist."

"Whose fist?"

"A big bully's."

The male bartender approached and said to Elizabeth, "What can I get you?"

"Huh," said Michael. "I stood here for three-four minutes trying to get your attention, but little did I know I had to be a pretty woman to do that."

"Funny," he said. Addressing Elizabeth, he repeated the question. She ordered a Virgin Mary and looked at Michael, who said pitcher of draft. She passed this on to the bartender.

Looking at his eye, she said, "Hockey?"

"No, here."

"Poor baby." She kissed him. "Did your big mouth get you in trouble?"

"Yes, and you'd think the offended party would've repaid my mouth. My eye was totally innocent."

"Did you get the bully back?"

"No, but I glared hard out of my good eye."

"Not very courageous."

"Take that back. She was huge."

" _She_?" He nodded. "A girl beat you up?" she said, laughing.

A loud crash startled them for a second. "Shit!" exclaimed a waitress, who'd dropped a tray of glasses. Laughter greeted the mishap. She stooped to pick up the shards.

Continuing their discussion, Michael said, "First, a guy can't do anything when a woman hits him or he's condemned by _everyone_. Second, she's the size of a hippo and as mean as a badger."

"Yet you insulted her."

"How will she ever improve if no one informs her she's a steaming mound of shit?"

"What happened after she hit you?"

"She waddled away, and the guys at the table shook the rafters laughing."

"Where is she? I'll beat her up," she said with a faux snarl.

"They kicked her out. I was told they were waiting for a final straw to ban her for life. You're looking at the straw, and he's kind of a local hero with the hockey boys now."

"Why aren't you with them? Too embarrassed?"

"Getting the next round. Apparently heroes get to pay here." The bartender brought the drinks.

While Michael paid, a small man accosted Elizabeth. "Hey, babe. Want some company?"

"Let me ask my husband," said Elizabeth. "Mike?"

Addressing the man, Michael said, "Do you have a pussy?"

Obviously intimidated by Michael, the man shrunk back, shaking his head.

"Then, no," said Michael. "You don't meet our minimum requirement for threesomes."

"Speak for yourself," said Elizabeth.

On the way to their table, she said, "Sorry for suggesting this; I didn't think you'd get hurt."

He halted, kissed her, and said, "Except for the punch I've had a great time. Thank you." Arriving at their table, Michael said, "Hey, lady and gents, this sex object is my wife, Liz."

"Pleased to meet you," said Elizabeth. She nodded to Elise.

"Tell me about her," said Andy.

Scott spoke up. "She's a hot brunette with a killer bod."

As a smiling Elizabeth sat, her husband told Scott, "Hey! Don't describe my wife. And you," he said, poking Andy's shoulder as he sat next to him, "don't picture her." Turning to Elizabeth, he went on, "Andy's a person experiencing visual impairment, and his son, Scott, is a person experiencing mental impairment, and you've met his brother, Dirk, who would've been the village idiot but his Down's-Syndrome brother beat him out for the job."

Dirk said, "Your husband plays hockey like a blind retard with a broken leg."

"I can't play with these guys," said Michael. "Most of them played at the junior B level; two played junior A, and one was an NHLer!"

"But we're recruiting him to be our team jester," said Scott. "You should've heard what he said to Bertha."

"The woman who hit him?" said Elizabeth.

"The very one. We call her Bertha." Scott proceeded to outline the interaction, adding, "I'll laugh for a week picturing her decking him after he said he'd prefer a dead whale."

"If that's what he said out loud, I can't imagine what he didn't say," said his wife. Asked to explain, she told the group she works overtime to get him to screen out the worst remarks that occur to him.

"Oh, don't do that with us," said Dirk. "Wouldn't do for a jester."

"I'm hungry," Elizabeth told Michael. "What'd you have to eat?"

"Poutine."

"French fries with crappy cheese and gravy?" He nodded. " _Tch_! That's garbage, Michael."

"You are what you eat," said Elise.

"If that were true, after last night, Andy would be a big hairy cock," said Michael.

"I'm telling Mom," Scott said.

"He told me it was a hotdog," protested Andy.

"Didn't you wonder why the hotdog had balls?" asked Dirk.

"You guys are disgusting!" said Elizabeth, though she was chuckling.

After another half hour, Elizabeth, worried about Michael's severe headache, made him leave with her.

She insisted he go to the doctor in the morning, so he did, but they found no problems other than a possible mild concussion.

#

In mid-October Michael pulled up in front of the terminal at the Thunder Bay airport to drop off Elizabeth. She was off to London to get her braces removed! It was cheaper to fly to London and back to get them removed by a student than to pay a regular orthodontist in Thunder Bay to remove them.

He kissed her, then said, "Excited?"

She beamed a smile, but her hand absent-mindedly came up to block her teeth from view. He clutched her hand, drew it down, and said, "You still do that once in a while and you have to stop. You'll want to show off your beautiful teeth to the world."

"I know your hopes are high, but they might still be far from beautiful. I don't want you disappointed."

"I love you no matter what. Now go. I need to get my fill of other women while you're gone."

"Don't even think about it. I'll see you tonight."

She kissed him once more and disappeared into the terminal.

That evening, waiting in the terminal for his wife, he spotted her and waved. She scampered to Michael and kissed him.

He said, "Unveil your smile, milady," while taking her carry-on. She dipped her head shyly, which she knew he loved, then slowly raised her head to him with a glowing smile. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "They're . . . they're perfect!" She grinned. "Who would've guessed your smile would rival your eyes as your best feature?" Embracing her, he resumed, "Let me enjoy a _real_ kiss without a potential booby trap for the first time with my gorgeous wife." He kissed her and snuck his tongue into her mouth and across her top teeth.

"Wait till we get home for naughty kisses," she said as she hooked her arm through his and drew him toward the exit.

Outside, he stopped, turned to face her, and said, "I need to see your smile again. I think I must've dreamt it, because nothing on earth can be that heavenly." That was encouragement enough to prompt another radiant grin. "God help me, woman, you light up the universe. I know you'll think I'm full of it, but I swear to God, you have the loveliest smile I've ever seen!" That impelled another bashful head bow, which prompted him to say, "Okay. Right here, right now. I want you!"

"Michael Morrison, control yourself."

"I promise I might."

"Behave till we get home, and I'll make it worthwhile."

"Deal!"

#

Early in the New Year, Elizabeth began applying for paid reporter positions across Canada, though the openings were few, and they typically required years of experience. As the rejections piled up she began to lose hope, though Michael did his best to keep her in good spirits. In the meantime, she got more opportunities on air and got more polished with time.

She filled in at the last minute for a sick weatherman and did such a good job she was permitted to take his place for the three weeks he was off. Michael implored her to start applying for weathercaster positions. Though her goal was to be a reporter, she followed his advice and began applying.

Elizabeth still wore the same glasses Michael had bought for her four years earlier, and they needed replacing. Though he'd never mentioned it to her, he wondered whether glasses might constitute a barrier to an on-camera position. She was cute with them, but exquisite without. He broached the idea of laser surgery, and she responded enthusiastically. For two months he worked overtime to pay for the surgery, and in April she underwent the procedure and would henceforth require glasses only for reading small print.

In late May, with one month remaining in her unpaid internship, she got some good news. As soon as Michael walked in the door after work, an animated Elizabeth dashed to him, saying, "I got an interview for the job at CBC in Calgary!" She embraced him.

"Congratulations!"

"I have to fly there Thursday. They'll reimburse me for that, but I'll need a new suit." He shrugged. "I'll also need to get my hair styled, and it's going to cost a good hundred bucks."

"I have three words for you, in no particular order: scissors, me, bowl."

"I have two words for you, in no particular order: off f—"

"Understood. Spend away, honey. It's an important investment in your future."

" _Our_ future. Oh, I'm so excited!"

"Let's celebrate. We'll go to the restaurant of your choice: McDonald's or Pizza Hut."

Grinning, she said, "Pizza Hut."

To accompany Elizabeth, Michael took two vacation days and found a cheap seat online, then the two flew to Calgary Thursday morning. They taxied to the TV station.

As they stood in front of the building on that warm, sunny day, Elizabeth said, "I'm so nervous, I'm going to blow it for sure, and when I do, the chances of getting any job in broadcasting are gone."

"You're not going to blow it. If I know anything about you, you don't blow anything, even when I want you to."

"What—oh, stop being so perverted. This is serious."

"Stop putting so much pressure on yourself. You'll be fine."

"And if I'm not?"

"Then there'll be other opportunities."

"Jobs in broadcasting are few and far between with, who knows, dozens of applicants for every position."

"But I bet not many of them have your talent and none of them have your looks," said Michael as he gently swept her hair from her eyes.

"You put far too much weight on looks."

"Yet still less than media moguls do. Almost everyone they hire is pretty or handsome."

"I don't think I can do this, Mike."

He took her hands and said, "Of course you can. Listen, you can conquer your fears."

"How?"

"Just trust that your talent will come to the fore, and decide you will not be frightened."

"You can't simply decide away fear."

"Why not? I mean, maybe if you're in the ocean surrounded by sharks and one of them bit off your left leg, you probably can't wish away your fear, but looking at a camera and reading a teleprompter is only daunting if you let it be. Don't let it! They want you because they've seen how you shine on camera." He clutched her upper arms and looked into her eyes. "Now control your fear; don't let it control you. You're _not_ going to be scared, dammit! You're going to convince them they'd be crazy not to hire you."

She nodded, kissed him, and left for her interview.

He occupied himself window shopping at nearby stores for close to an hour before she exited looking excited. She ran to him, saying, "I got the job!" and embraced him.

Michael kissed his wife and said, "Congratulations!"

"I was nervous at first, but then I decided I was being foolish and told myself, _I've got this!_ So it was just like you said; I controlled my fear and didn't stumble at all after the first couple of seconds. They were so impressed, they told me I got the job on the spot!"

"I never doubted you for a second."

"You never do. I'm so lucky to have you." She kissed him.

"This calls for a big celebration: Swiss Chalet or The Keg?"

"The Keg, and afterward I'm going to blow it for you."

"Goody!"

With Michael watching television in the hotel that night she called out from the bedroom, "Michael? Come here for a minute, will you?"

"On my way," he said, as he lollygagged to the bedroom. "What's—Oh!" he gasped as he gaped at Elizabeth leaning up in bed. She held the blanket to the top of her chest with one hand while the other supported her body. One bare leg was draped over the blanket, which his hungry eyes eagerly devoured. Her eyes exclaimed, _I need you!_ He'd never seen her, he'd never seen _any_ woman, so sexy, so desirable, so inviting. She let go of the blanket and held out her arms. "My God, you're magnificent," he said as he ran his hand up her smooth leg and melted into her.

"Do anything and everything you want with me," she said breathlessly.

### Chapter Five  
Calgary, July 2013

As the newbie on the team, Elizabeth got the weekend shift. Come mid-August, she also had to fill in for the weekday weathergirl, who was to go on maternity leave for six months. In the autumn, she was required to attend a short course; Introduction to Meteorology.

Her approval ratings, established via focus groups and number of viewers tuning in, started off high and went higher, for not only did she fast become nearly flawless at presenting the weather, she looked as lovely on camera as she did in person.

In September, the two were invited to a party at the home of the station manager. Elizabeth, anxious to make a good impression, worried about her husband, who didn't seem to lose too much sleep worrying about what people thought of him. Michael had been somewhat critical of the news coverage on CBC, saying they were so thoroughly liberal as to be socialist, and she worried he would make that clear at the party. She requested he be on his best behavior that night, and he said he would, but she knew as soon as he heard something he considered lunacy, he'd challenge it.

He smiled when he set eyes on her close-fitting red sweater and black skirt, which showcased her figure and her legs. Her luxurious brown hair flowing down to her breasts contrasted beautifully with her red lipstick and sweater. "You look terrific."

"Thank you. If I asked you to dress in something nicer, what would you think?"

He replied, "I'd think of throwing you off the balcony while I changed." He donned blue dress pants and a burgundy button-down shirt, and they drove to the party.

At the front door, Elizabeth said, "Oh, here comes the station manager. You can tell he's rich. Just look at the way he holds himself."

"Want to see me hold myself?" said Michael.

"Tch! I knew you were going to say something perverted like that."

"If you don't want to hear it, stop setting me up."

The host, a distinguished-looking seventyish man, approached them, offered his hand, and said, "Welcome. Joseph P. Bettencourt the Second at your service."

Shaking his hand, Michael said, "Heathcliff J Arbuckle the Thirty-ninth, needing service."

"Michael!" said Elizabeth.

"My wife calls me _Michael_. Mike Morrison. Pleased to meet you."

"Yes," he said as he shuffled away with a dour visage.

"Mike, he's the big boss."

"That's no reason to inflict the pompous ass on me."

"Please show him respect. For me." He nodded.

Scanning the room, she spotted the hostess and said, "We have to introduce ourselves to his wife."

"As the hostess, she's responsible for introductions, isn't she?"

"You worried about trivial courtesies now, Dear Crabby? Be nice!" A jazz trio played _Fly Me to the Moon_ as the couple sauntered toward the hostess. Elizabeth offered her hand and said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, I'm—"

"I have never been Mrs. I'm _Ms._ Bettencourt," said the haughty, stout, sixtyish lady while shaking Elizabeth's hand.

"I'm sorry. I'm Liz Morrison, the new weathergirl—I mean weather woman. I'm pleased to meet you. This is my husband, Mike."

"You new to the city?" asked Ms. Bettencourt, shaking his hand.

"Yes, we're from Ontario," answered Elizabeth.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said with a titter. "Welcome to the west and to my home."

"Delighted to be here. Thank you."

"Wine and cheese are over there. May I suggest Domaine Serene Chardonnay Dundee Hills Evenstad Reserve if you're partial to white wine and Orin Swift Machete California if you like red? Both are 2014 vintage and age very well."

"Thank you. It'll be our pleasure," said Elizabeth.

The pair strolled to the wine table. Michael, who didn't like wine, selected the recommended white because there were no other alcoholic beverages. Elizabeth, who was working to educate her palate, chose the red.

"Glad this wine ages well," said Michael. "Pity the same can't be said for the hostess." He took a sip and grimaced.

"She must be middle sixties. She's not in bad shape for that."

"She looks like a desiccated pear."

"Don't be mean."

"Heaven forbid. A team of the finest plastic surgeons on the planet convened to consider her case and arrived at the consensus that it would be best to put her down."

"Try again." Elizabeth sipped her wine and winced. They traded glasses.

"Was her nose that far in the air before she had her facelift?"

Chuckling, Elizabeth said, "I thought the plastic surgeons rejected her case."

"Oh yeah. Ignore that hilarious line."

"If I hear one, I'll ignore it."

He smiled, tasted the red wine, and frowned. She tasted the white and shrugged.

The two spent the next hour and a half milling about and chatting with station employees. Michael then found a televised Calgary Flames game and sat with a few other people to watch it. Elizabeth preferred conversations with her workmates.

Rejoining her husband about an hour later, Elizabeth said, "What did I miss?"

Michael responded, "You missed a riveting conversation about Carol's intestinal parasite and how her non-stop diarrhea is putting a damper on everything from her sex life to her travels."

"She does talk about that a lot, but don't you feel sorry for her?"

"I feel sorry for the _parasite_ having to listen to her complaining all the time. Now it knows what it is to be a husband."

She smirked and said, "Did you tell Deanne you don't like Indians?"

"I told her I don't like Indian _food_."

"Some might interpret that as a slight against Indian culture."

"Some idiots, yes. Let me know if you're one of them."

"How do you know you don't like _some_ Indian foods?"

"Their favorite cereal is Curry Flakes."

"It is not," said Elizabeth. She sipped some water.

"Their national dessert is chili pepper cake topped with mustard seed icing."

"Uh huh. Please be careful what you say to these people."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they're the ones trying to turn innocent remarks into some kind of national insult. Guess what? I hate Mexican food, too, but I have nothing against wetbacks—except they shouldn't be here—and Arab cuisine turns my stomach. If I had to eat hummus, falafel, and Baba ghanoush, I'd blow myself up, too."

"And I'd help rig you up."

He laughed at that and kissed her cheek.

Michael had avoided any political arguments thus far, though when he and Bruce Nyland, the weekend anchor, began discussing the recent chemical weapons attack in Syria, Michael disputed the Western government line that the Syrians did it, arguing no evidence had been presented. At that point Elizabeth separated them, but now Bruce returned to pursue the discussion.

He said, "You said there was no evidence that the Syrians gassed their own people, but we and all the other networks showed civilians, including women and children, writhing in pain."

"There was probably some sort of chemical attack, yes, but who did it?"

"Assad did it, for God's sake. Who else would?"

"The Israelis because they want Syria destabilized. The Americans because they're always aching for the next war."

"First of all I'm Jewish, and I don't appreciate the anti-Semitism. Second, what would the Americans possibly have to gain?"

"Another war; more profit for the military-industrial complex. Plus, they wanted a gas pipeline from Qatar through Syria to provide natural gas to Europe to undercut Russia's monopoly, but Assad said no."

"Because he's a Russian puppet."

Elizabeth observed anxiously as Bruce became more aggravated with every word out of her husband's mouth. He held a lot of sway at the station, and she didn't want him as an enemy.

Michael responded, "Maybe, but it's his country and his prerogative."

"Why do you like Assad so much?"

"Who said I like him? All I said was there was no proof he did it."

"Please! The American and Canadian governments would never lie about something of this gravity."

"You're entitled to your uninformed opinion."

Elizabeth frowned and kicked Michael's shoe. He glanced at her but returned his attention to Bruce.

Bruce said, "I do this for a living, and I know a great deal more than you on the matter. Why would you believe the Syrian government over ours?"

"Governments are awful at everything but they excel in two areas: spending money and lying. The media should listen with a doubtful ear to everything the government tells them, but instead they believe it all and pass it along unfiltered to the public. That's a gross dereliction of duty and a threat to our freedom."

"You really are a loon, aren't you?"

Elizabeth stepped in and said, "Please, Mike, end it there. He's a successful newscaster. Show him a little respect for my sake."

"With greatest reverence, I'd like to say, Mr. Nyland, sir, you're full of shit." Turning back to his wife, Michael said, "Is that little enough?"

She dragged her husband away from the angry man and rebuked him.

He went to watch the third period of the hockey game, and she went to talk to Ginger, the weathergirl on mat-leave, to get an idea of when she'd be returning.

#

Half an hour later, with the hockey game finished, Michael set out looking for his wife, humming _Sunny Gets Blue_ along with the jazz trio. He saw her speaking with Melissa Stewart. He had her pegged as a person with an average mind who'd been hired for her looks years ago, but now, having lost her looks but gained nothing in brains, she was ensconced as anchor for the six o'clock daily news, intending to stay until she died.

As Michael joined them, they were conversing about women in broadcasting. Michael was left to listen, as it was clear Melissa did not welcome any comments on the issue from a man. It was obvious from her remarks that she subscribed to the radical feminist worldview that white men were the source of all evil. Elizabeth gave some pleading looks to her husband, begging him to forego any rude comments.

Melissa eventually glanced at him and asked his wife what he did for a living.

"He's a mechanic," said Elizabeth.

"A mechanic?" she said in a tone that communicated, _What's a successful woman doing with a mere mechanic?_ Elizabeth, smiling nervously, nodded.

"Actually I don't have my papers. I'm a mechanic's helper," said Michael.

Elizabeth frowned at him as if to say, _You just had to bait her, didn't you?_

"Well, I guess we need people to do those sorts of things," said Melissa with a sneer. "It wouldn't do to be superfluous."

_Can't wait to read your obituary_ , he said to himself. "That's nice of you to say," he said to her. "It's nice to be super at something, and may I return the compliment by saying, you're super at cilious."

"Pardon me?" she said with a confused scowl. "What are you driving at?"

_You, next time I see you outside_. He said, "I'm sure you have some little kids to bake in your gingerbread house, so we'll leave you to your business."

Evidently not used to being slighted, Melissa looked down her snout at him and said, "I'm amazed that with all your important accomplishments, like changing a tire or loosening a bolt, you still manage to relate to the little people. Perhaps you can instruct me on the finer aspects of operating a wrench."

_Sure. Bend over_ , he mused. "Sure. Bend o—"

"Michael, filter!" yelped his wife.

He continued, "I've worn out my welcome, not that I ever was welcome, and I'd like to say how much I enjoyed your company—"

Melissa cut in, "Well that's a surprise given the insults—"

Michael cut back in, ". . . but I can't bring myself to lie like that, you pompous bi—"

Elizabeth covered her husband's mouth, and Melissa stomped away. She called after her, "Melissa, I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing to her for? Did you hear how that condescending bitch spoke to me?"

"Yes, but she has a lot of influence at the station. She could get me fired!"

"On what basis? Having a husband she despises?"

"Who knows? People like that make things up to get their way."

"Yet you apologize to her. Somebody wants you outside."

"Who?"

"Me. Let's go home."

"It's only ten-forty-five. It's a little boring, I grant you, but—"

"A little? It's so boring, the paint has not only dried but faded, weathered, and flaked off. Time is passing so slowly it's going backward. We got here this evening at seven-thirty; it's now ten-forty-five _yesterday_ morning."

"You're trying too hard, Mike."

"I'm tired and bored. Let's go home."

LeAnn, a frumpy woman with a pasty complexion and a pixie cut, whose job it was to find local advertisers, came along. They'd spoken earlier that evening. She asked, "What are you two talking about?"

Michael replied, "I was telling Liz about a new show I saw on cable called _Get Me the Hell Outa Here!"_

LeAnn said, "Oh, what's it about?"

"A man stuck in such a dreary situation he wants to kill himself."

"Doesn't sound very good."

Elizabeth said, "I much prefer the docudrama, _Just Wait Till I Get you Home_."

"And what's that about?" asked LeAnn.

"A woman who withholds all sexual favors from her dumbass husband."

"Sounds more like a comedy," said LeAnn.

"It's quite serious."

The couple said their goodbyes, and Elizabeth drove them home. They were a tad miffed at each other and said nothing until Elizabeth parked and broke the silence with, "This awkward silence gets on my nerves."

"This talking gets on my nerves, so now we're even. And shut up."

"We have to talk about this," she said as they entered the apartment building.

"Why? Are you worried if you shut your mouth all your words are going to jam up against your teeth and shove them back out?"

"We've never gone to bed mad at each other. I mean, I'm not really even mad. It's just . . . you made an enemy of Melissa and Bruce and didn't impress Mr. Bettencourt."

"So what?"

"I have to work with them."

"Yes, _you_ , not me. Let them hate me. They can't fire you for that, and they would never fire you anyway because half the city probably tunes to their news just to see the pretty weathergirl who gets the forecast right fifty-one percent of the time, well above average for the competition."

That was a nice enough compliment to prompt a kiss from her. They made love and fell asleep.

#

The next year and three-quarters were uneventful. Elizabeth had become too popular for Ginger to resume her former role of weekday weathergirl when she returned to work in January of 2014. The station compromised by giving Ginger Friday, Saturday, and Sunday duty, leaving her salary unchanged. Elizabeth had the other four days with no change in pay, which was pitiful. With the cost of living, she and Michael were forced to live frugal lives. That riled Michael, who was still bitter about his future and fortune denied. Were it not for his happy marriage he'd have been consumed by despair long ago.

The big city had much more to offer than Thunder Bay for entertainment and the attractions of the nearby Rockies beckoned, but the couple had so little spending money they couldn't go out more than once a week. Even then, it was typically a movie or dinner at an unexceptional restaurant.

The Calgary Stampede in July of 2014 was a unique experience for them. Elizabeth got a free pass for herself and Michael, and they spent most of the week there. Ginger pulled rank and made sure she got the assignment of reporting live from the event.

The following July, however, her boss decided Elizabeth would report the weather live from the Stampede grounds during the event. Normally she was responsible for her own camera while reporting outside, but the station had assigned an experienced reporter who rated a cameraman to the event, and the cameraman would be available for her as well.

On the final day of the Stampede, dressed in a white cowboy hat, a red shirt, short denim skirt with a brown belt, and brown cowboy boots, she wowed everyone with her live report. The segment started with a shot of her boots, and the camera slowly panned up her long legs as she strolled toward it. When the camera reached her smiling face, she began her broadcast. She outshone the sun as she forecast a sunny, warm day tomorrow in the city. Even the normally staid Bruce Nyland said, "Thank you, Liz. You'd make a great Stampede Queen."

A visiting executive from the ABC affiliate across the border in Spokane, Washington approached her while she walked with Michael to their car and said, "Ms. Morrison? May I speak to you for a moment?" as he handed her his business card. The heavy-set man was breathing hard from running. She nodded as she read his card; she held it up for Michael to read.

"I'm Herb Faustman, and I'd like to compliment you on your weather report. When I saw you just now on the TV in the concourse, I ran to catch you." He stopped to take a big breath, "Sorry. I haven't moved like that in some time, and I'm trying to ward off a heart attack at the moment." She smiled. "We're looking for a junior reporter. What would you say to working for ABC in Spokane?"

"Are you offering me a job?"

"I'm president and general manager, and I can hire whomever I please. What I saw on TV was a professional, confident, charismatic woman who, if I may say so, lights up the screen. I want you working for us. I can offer a salary of $40,000 American."

"I . . . I have to think about it and speak to my husband," she said, gesturing to Michael.

The man shook Michael's hand and said, "Of course. You have my card. We have to have someone in place by the first of September, and there's paperwork to get you permission to work in the States, so I'd ask you to let me know within a couple of days."

She agreed, and the man waddled away.

Elizabeth clasped her husband's hands and pleaded, "Mike?"

"You want to take it don't you?"

"It's a reporter's job. That's what I've been aiming for all along, and there's nothing on the horizon here. And it's ABC! Mike?"

"The United States is spiraling down the drain, and I don't think I can legally work there. Can we get by on forty grand and, if so, what'll I do with my time?"

"Then, I'll . . . um, turn it down, if you . . . really, um, want," she said as her face lengthened.

He looked at his emotional wife then yelled to the fat man, "Mr. Faustman!" He turned toward the couple, and Michael said, "She'll take the job."

As Mr. Faustman returned, Elizabeth embraced her husband with a heartfelt, "Thank you. I love you!"

### Chapter Six  
Spokane, Washington, September 2015

_This wasn't supposed to be his life_ , thought Elizabeth as she observed Michael sitting on the balcony, Budweiser in hand, looking at nothing. His parents and bright future taken from him by nefarious governments, he'd turned to Elizabeth for love and solace to get him through the turmoil. She continued to do everything she could to make him happy, but knew it wasn't enough. Forced to hide his genius, he languished in anonymity and worked jobs far beneath him. Time had dulled the pain of his losses, but his pride continued to dip ever lower. This move to the United States, where he couldn't even work, would worsen matters. He'd agreed to it out of love for her, but how to keep him happy?

She'd undertaken to begin looking for a reporter's job back in Canada after a year in Spokane, so at least he could tell himself, "I'm on a year-long vacation!" as he'd mentioned. "So what if it's unpaid? I put my wife to work to support us. I'm a kept man on easy street!" His ersatz smile and bitter eyes as he said this had saddened her.

Something moving on her leg startled Elizabeth. "Mike! A spider!"

He raced in saying, "Ahh! Evacuate the building!" He plucked it off her leg, then tossed it off the balcony. "Just do a Spiderman to save yourself, little buddy," he hollered down after it. Leaning on the railing, he sipped his beer.

_He's such a good man_ , she reflected. _Doesn't even like the idea of killing a spider. The complete opposite of the people who killed his parents and his engine._ They'd won. Evil had defeated good once again. It ate at him, she knew. He'd backed down, let them get away with the most egregious crimes imaginable, but what choice did he have? To fight them meant certain death, maybe for both of them. She suspected if it weren't for his love for her, he'd have done everything he could to bring his engine to fruition—and that he'd be long dead.

If he couldn't take advantage of his engineering genius in Canada, at least he could use his high-level mechanical skills to support them and stay occupied while she was at work. Here in the United States, it could take years for him to get a family-sponsored green card. The TV station had obtained an H-1B Visa for her, but could do nothing for him, leaving Michael in limbo.

She set aside her laptop and joined him to ask, "You okay?"

"There are people despairing about the hopelessness of it all, standing on high ledges and contemplating suicide, who're ecstatic compared to me. There are people holding a revolver to their temple who have a brighter future than I have."

"Oh, Mike—"

"Relax, Liz. I'm fine."

"But is volunteering enough for you?"

Michael shrugged. He had signed up as a volunteer driver for the cancer society and Meals on Wheels, which would keep him occupied two or three days a week. Otherwise, he'd tidy up, read, prepare meals, and watch TV while she was out, and when together they would "Explore their new city and fuck a lot," as he'd phrased it.

When on assignment, Elizabeth often invited him to accompany her, which he was happy to do. In late October, for example, she was assigned the task of interviewing a centenarian at a nursing home and asked him along.

They drove to the nursing home and, as she checked in with the social worker, Michael lingered in the hall. The social worker asked her to wait until they could get the elderly lady ready.

When Elizabeth emerged from the office, she saw her husband sitting in a wheelchair. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, and I think I got away with it."

"Where'd you get the wheelchair?"

"From a guy who's lying on the sidewalk."

"Uh huh. Take it back where you found it."

He wheeled it around the corner and returned.

Elizabeth told him, "The old woman's not ready yet. How do you get a hundred year old moving?"

"Throw her out the window. You know, it stinks like moldering old people in here. Remind me to die before I get old enough to be warehoused in a shithole like this."

"Shh! Keep your voice down."

An ancient man came hobbling down the hall, aided by a walker. With his back to the old man, Michael didn't see him until the walker bumped into his calf.

"Out of the way, shit head!" said the old man.

Michael moved directly in front of the crotchety man, who proceeded to shove the walker into Michael's legs over and over while cursing at him.

"Take it easy, old coot. What's your hurry anyway? Worried your number will be up before you get to the cafeteria?"

"Michael!" Elizabeth scolded. Turning to the elderly man she said, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, shut the hell up and move!" said the old man.

"Are those icky globules on your face made of curmudgeon?" said Michael.

Now irate, the man said, "Move, you goddamn bastard!"

"What's going on here?" said a nurse who'd come to check on the commotion.

"This piece of shit won't move—Ah!" said the man as he gripped his chest.

"Get away from him!" demanded the nurse as she shoved Michael aside and tried to calm the man down. He smirked at Michael.

"Don't worry," said Michael to the nurse. "His cold heart has at least a hundred beats left in it."

"Come on, Mike," said Elizabeth as she clutched her husband's hand and pulled him down the hall. "Why did you have to do that?"

"He was an asshole. He bumped into me and started cursing at me."

"So what? He's old and entitled to be cranky."

"There's never a reason to be rude."

She laughed and said, "You're rude all the time. You were just now rude as hell."

"Okay, let me amend my statement, then. The only reason to be rude is when someone is rude to you _first_."

"Or you could be mature and let it go."

"Which is what everyone does with that old codger, and that's why he keeps being a supreme asshole."

"So you're teaching an old man a lesson? What would you have done if you gave him a heart attack?"

"Forged a do-not-resuscitate order. You saw his smirk. He was acting so the nurse would take his side."

"Remind me not to take you along to any more nursing homes."

"Gladly."

The social worker emerged from the office. "Mrs. Morrison? Trudy is ready."

"Thank you."

The social worker escorted them to Trudy's room, where a lady, who looked like she died last week, sat in a chair by the window. Elizabeth scanned the dreary, musty room, which contained the chair, a bed, an ancient dresser with a few pictures perched on either side of a console TV. _Depressing!_ thought Elizabeth.

Trudy, habited in a flowery smock, yelled to the social worker, "My hearing aid isn't working again."

Loudly, the worker said, "It's probably the batteries. I'll get new ones." Turning to Elizabeth she said, "Be back in a minute. Feel free to set up."

As Elizabeth prepared her camera and microphone, Michael said, "Who dug up the fossil? If her boobs fall any further, they'll have a curly grey beard."

"Shush! And gross!"

"She can't hear."

"We don't know how deaf she is, and maybe she can read lips."

The old lady said to Michael, "I can't believe what that young tart is wearing, but men seem to like loose women nowadays."

"I suppose her outfit is quite scandalous compared to the toga you wore at her age, and yes we do."

Elizabeth said, "Mike, I need to adjust the camera for the light conditions and test sound level. Take the mic and test it, please."

He took it and did a mock interview with Trudy. "Was the Big Bang really loud? I hear you babysat God. I understand your grandmother emigrated from the primordial ocean."

Chuckling, Elizabeth said, "You'd better hope she can't hear you or she'll end the interview before it begins."

Turning to face the camera, mic in hand, he said, "Trudy has had a storied history. Growing up, she had a pet pterodactyl named Myrtle. The forest she frolicked in as a child is now oil. Hers was the first family on the block to get the wheel. She saw the Great Wall when it was just a run-of-the-mill fence. She lost her virginity in the back of a chariot."

"All right, Mike, that's enough," said Liz as she struggled to withhold her laughter so as not to encourage him further.

The social worker returned with the batteries, and the interview commenced.

#

Over the next several months, Michael enjoyed watching his wife blossom as a reporter. Most often, when he wasn't doing his volunteer work, he accompanied her, carrying equipment, suggesting questions, doing some camerawork, and praising her.

He also suggested new stories. In February, he'd transported a woman to the hospital for radiation treatment, and she'd told him that a therapy dog had visited the cancer ward and that it'd made everyone a little happier. When he passed this account on to Elizabeth, she decided to do a feature story on therapy dog visits to sick people, and she sought and got permission from her boss. She spent two days doing research into the topic and contacting the volunteer coordinator for therapy dogs in Spokane.

Since he was volunteering that morning, Michael couldn't go along for the shoot, but when he watched the story the next Friday evening he was delighted. Elizabeth had done a wonderful, heart-warming story about a pug visiting children with cancer. To see the joy on the children's faces brought a smile to his, and if that wasn't enough, she followed up with an interview of a father who'd said, "Our son was so depressed, and we were worried he was losing hope, but when the little dog was set on his bed, Brady lit up. For the first time in weeks he smiled. He asked if he could have a puppy when he got better, and we said of course. That was enough to give him and us the hope we desperately needed."

Elizabeth asked the coordinator, "Are these sorts of breakthroughs the exception?"

She responded, "Yes. Most often the people we visit simply get happy. The dog helps them relax and maybe helps transport their minds back to happier times. It's a small thing, but it's important to them."

When the report concluded, Michael turned to Elizabeth and said, "Liz . . . I'm searching for the right words to say how impressed I am. That was _so_ good. I don't think I've ever seen a better feel-good story, and it was seamless; it was perfect!" She thanked and kissed him. "You really brought out the emotions of the sick kids and their parents. I would've said before that a dog visit is a trivial event for these families who're going through hell, but I understand now how much the dog visits mean to them. Plus you looked adorable giggling when the dog licked your face. Made me want to lick you, too, which I'd do right now if you didn't have dog slobber on you."

His reaction to her report turned out to be common. That June, it earned her a regional Emmy for General Assignment Report.

In the interim, however, as Elizabeth got more serious about her work, their relationship began to suffer. It was nothing serious yet, just some arguments and hard feelings over what ABC was reporting or not reporting. He had too much time to read on the Internet and would find stories about serious events misrepresented—or more often entirely omitted by the network. He'd confront Elizabeth with this, and she'd say, "What can I do? I'm just a junior reporter doing local stories in a small city."

He'd concede that, but remained critical of her employer. At his behest she'd begun searching for reporter positions back in Canada, both because he wanted to work and because he wanted her out of what he'd begun to perceive as a malevolent mainstream media in the United States. He mentioned to her, "It's pack journalism. There's virtually no alternative viewpoints presented across MSM; all pro-government, all leftist, all collectivist, all pro-Democrats."

He was also concerned that she was adopting the attitudes of the leftists with whom she worked, and that, too, caused some friction. A typical discussion was one they had in mid-June. He'd made what he considered an offhand remark, which she'd have formerly smiled or smirked at, but not now.

"I saw a man wearing a fancy gown today; at least I hope it was a man since he had a baritone voice, no tits, and thick black hair on his chest. . . I guess she could've been Turkish."

"What about this person?"

"Nothing. I simply thought it worth noting that such creatures are infesting our neighborhood."

"This _creature_ is a person, and whether they identify as a man or woman is none of our business."

"Did my wife just say that? Christ Almighty, Liz, what are you becoming? This business of identifying as something we're not is a clear sign that our entire culture is ripe for self-destruction. Except for hermaphrodites, a person is either male or female, and if that person identifies as the opposite or somewhere in between, then he/she/it needs counseling."

"What's it to you how this person identifies?"

"Hey, if a man wants to cornhole another man or dress as a woman, so what? But they insist we consider it normal and presume to degrade us or demand punishment if we don't. Busybody governments are compelling me to accept whatever someone chooses to identify as regardless of biology or there'll be consequences. Are you kidding me? It's bad enough I have to see these kooks, but now I'm ordered to accept their delusions or the jackboots will come down on my head?"

"Live and let live."

"Stop with the bullshit clichés already. They're not letting me live. They're requiring me to accept delusions." She shook her head. "Shake away, dear. In fact, shake your head hard and get some of the cobwebs out. Your foolish opinions are starting to worry me."

"Same with yours."

"If it actually concerns you that I consider men men and women women, I think you need de-programming. You're immersed in this every day and it's poisoning your mind."

She'd never challenged him so forcefully, and he didn't like it. The challenges kept coming. Innocent remarks of his such as, "You looked so lovely on TV tonight, you'll be a national reporter in Canada in no time," would return unaccountable negative responses.

"So you think I only made it because of my looks?"

"I'm always complimenting you on your talent as a reporter. Either your memory or your hearing needs a tune-up."

"But I wouldn't be successful if it wasn't for my looks."

"Not _as_ successful."

"That's so sexist."

"What, are you expecting an apology because I love your looks? No matter what the leftists say, human beings are naturally attracted by beauty. Beauty makes life more worthwhile; it makes us happy. We admire beautiful writing, beautiful art, beautiful music, beautiful scenery, and beautiful people. You were blessed by nature with physical beauty and you owe some of your success to it. That's nothing to be ashamed of; it's as much a part of you as your intellect."

That didn't satisfy her. Elizabeth said with a tone of irritation, "We're going to a gay wedding, and you'd better not show any of your homophobia. I have to work with these people, and I don't want them to know my husband's a Neanderthal."

Wanting to lighten the mood, he grunted and threw her over his shoulder.

"Michael! Put me down!"

He tossed her onto their bed, dove next to her, and embraced her.

Elizabeth said, "You think you can just pick me up and throw me down on the bed then have your way with me? I'm not your sex toy."

"If that's what you think, you need reprogramming." She got up. "Come on, Liz. It's been a while."

"I'm not myself today."

Michael returned, "Excellent. I can cheat on my wife with you, and she can't do anything about it."

"Maybe if you try a different approach tomorrow."

"I'm beginning to think every approach is closely guarded."

He'd stopped going with her to her assignments, not that he was invited. As hard as it was for him to believe, they were growing apart.

The last Saturday in June was the gay wedding Elizabeth had mentioned. She had exacted a promise from her husband to keep his lips buttoned during the ceremony, and he kept it, but the reception was a different matter.

They were seated with one male and three female cousins of one of the grooms. Two of the women were plain, but the other was a well-endowed redhead who looked to be in her mid twenties. She was about two drinks shy of pretty, but her chest rendered her quite attractive. It took Michael a millisecond to notice that her low-cut dress presented her lovely breasts most scrumptiously.

The male cousin, Todd, and Michael shuffled to the bar to get drinks for themselves; the ladies didn't want to start drinking too early. A female bartender said to Todd, "What'll you have?"

Looking at the selection of beers, which included Coors and nothing else, he said, "I'd love a cold beer."

"And you, sir? How would you love a cold beer?"

Michael responded, "First I'd cup it in my hands, then I'd lick its frothy head, then I'd suck it a bit and swallow it."

She frowned but Todd chortled and said, "Better not say that too loud at _this_ wedding or you might get some unwelcome propositions." His smirk conveyed, _What's the world coming to?_ Michael nodded, smiled, and ordered a vodka and orange.

He noticed Todd limping, but said nothing.

Dinner was served. Roast lamb, roast beef, and a vegetarian plate were the choices. The Morrisons chose beef, two cousins chose lamb, and the other two selected the vegetarian option. Although the beef was tough, Michael gathered he'd made the best choice when Todd remarked, "What the chef did to this poor lamb must be prohibited by the UN."

"I hope you're talking about his cooking," said Michael.

Grinning, Todd nodded.

One of the female vegetarians said, "Eating meat should be prohibited by the UN."

Elizabeth leaned to her husband and said, "Don't."

The cousin continued, "Do you know what separates us from the animals?"

"Shoes," replied Michael.

"Shoes?" asked the confused woman.

"What animal have you ever seen that wears shoes?" said Michael.

Todd said, "A horse."

Michael said, "Shut up. Who asked you? Not even cartoon animals wear shoes. They often wear shirts, though not pants, interestingly enough. I'm glad most humans wear clothes; they hide a lot of horrific sights."

Still nonplussed, the woman resumed, "Seriously now, what separates us from animals?"

Michael answered, "Well, let's see. They don't generally shit in toilets—of course neither do many Asians and Africans; animals eat their weak—and we could learn something there; they don't waste a quarter of their lives in school; and the herbivores don't look down on the carnivores—in fact, they're often looking _up_ at them as they're getting eaten."

"Never mind!" said the woman.

"Thank you," Todd said to Michael.

The other female cousin began a conversation about hiring a man to fix her fence, which Michael didn't bother attending to, though he caught snippets and wondered why she was boring the group with this. _It better have a hell of a_ _finale_ , he thought. No such luck. She concluded, "As we expected, the fence turned out perfect."

Michael said, "That would've been a much better story if he fucked up."

"Michael, filter!" said his wife as Todd laughed.

Throughout the meal, Michael's eyes regularly feasted on the redhead's breasts. She caught him once and smiled. His wife also caught him. She said, "Will you please stop undressing her with your eyes?"

"As soon as I get everything off her." _She's got nipplius erectilius,_ he noted to himself, _and they're pointing right at me. I think they want to come out and play_.

Elizabeth said, "Pay attention to the head table. They're starting their speeches."

One groom said about the other, "Sometimes I feel he has so much love to give me, my heart overflows, and I just don't know where to put it all."

"I can guess where he puts a lot of it," whispered Michael. Elizabeth kicked his ankle.

The groom continued, "I vow that nothing will ever come between us."

With Elizabeth's expression warning _filter_ , Michael snickered as he thought, _Except, of course, between their cheeks—both sets._

Michael remained awake during the next half hour of boring speeches and the wedding party's failed attempts at humor, only by a more-than-occasional glance at the scenic peaks across the table.

After the newlyweds had their first dance, Michael headed to the bar to get himself and his wife drinks. He sat and placed Elizabeth's glass in front of her while she spoke to her neighbor. The redhead smiled at him, and he returned it. She asked who he was; he did the same. Lost in her cleavage he missed most of her response, but did catch her closing remark: "My cousin's always been just a big . . . suck."

_Yeah,_ _suck_ , thought Michael.

"Michael, don't be so rude," said Elizabeth, who'd turned back to her spouse. "You brought drinks for us, but her glass is empty."

"Can I freshen your nipples—uh, sorry," he said with a blushing grimace.

Todd almost fell out of his chair, laughing.

Tittering, the redhead replied, "Wouldn't mind, but I'm not sure what your wife would say."

"We'll probably find out when she finishes fuming. What can I get you?"

"I'm not sure if the bartender will know this one, or if they have schnapps and Bailey's, but I'd love a Cock Sucking Cowboy," she said with a vivid smile.

"If she doesn't know what it is, I imagine one of the grooms will," said Michael.

The redhead chuckled, but the wife kicked his ankle.

Elizabeth ignored her husband but apparently wanted to dance since she said to Todd, "You like dancing?"

"Used to but not since I lost my lower leg."

"Oh, I'm sorry. May I ask how?"

"Cancer, but don't be sorry because I feel fortunate. I beat it!"

"Great!" said Elizabeth.

"I haven't done much dating or dancing since, though," said Todd. "Most women expect a man to have two legs. One leg is a turnoff."

"You just have to find a woman who can't count," said Michael.

As Todd laughed at that remark, Elizabeth seized his hand and tugged him to the dance floor, where they danced for maybe ten minutes. Michael went to get the redhead a drink, but in the meantime a man from another table had asked her for a dance. Michael felt he had no choice but to ask the other cousins, one after the other.

They all returned to the table at the same time, but the redhead lassoed Michael for another dance. It was a slow song, and with his wife observing, he tried to keep his hips apart from his partner's, but she kept pushing forward. She said, "Hold me tight. I know you want to."

"Yes, but my wife's leer is burning a hole in my back."

"She's the jealous type, huh? Think she knows you have a hard-on?"

"Oh, probably, which means I'll be celibate for a month."

"I'm staying in this hotel if you want a fun time."

_Oh, God, yes!_ he thought, but he said, "Can't imagine anything more fun, but I'm in the occasionally unfortunate position of being thoroughly in love with my wife, and I won't cheat on her. Sorry, but I have to sit." With his hands across his crotch, he tottered back to his chair next to his miffed spouse.

"Enjoy yourself squished against her tits?" said Elizabeth.

"Very much, thank you. Glad you're concerned with my happiness."

"What did you two talk about?"

"How much I love you."

"Uh huh."

Near the end of the reception, Elizabeth, Michael, and Todd sat at the table. Two of the cousins had left, and the redhead was dancing wildly.

Michael said, "Look at her. She's as happy as a bulimic at a vomitorium."

"She'll need one soon; she's plastered," said Todd.

Elizabeth had ignored Michael since the dance with the redhead. She finally said, "Can I say just one thing to you?"

"That would be a first."

"Stop joking about everything!"

"Stop ordering me around!"

The redhead returned and said, "Fighting? Want to reconsider my offer, Mike?"

She lost her balance and fell onto his lap, and his face ended up pressed into her bosom. _So soft, like perfect little pillows with a faint strawberry scent, probably from her strawberry nipples._ He furtively jutted his tongue out for a quick taste of cleavage. _Yummy! Oh, I just want to ravish—"_

"Get off of him!" yelped Elizabeth. She seized her husband's arm and towed him outside. In the parking lot, she said, "What offer, Michael?"

"Just some fun in her hotel room."

"That slut! You see what comes of gawking at a woman like that? You're a married man—"

"Which is why I turned her down."

In their car on the way home, she said, "You embarrassed the hell out of me tonight with your inappropriate, homophobic, and _not funny_ remarks. And when you asked to freshen her nipples . . . I have never been more embarrassed in my life! You can think of her while you sleep by yourself tonight."

"What else is new?"

"Oh, how often do we sleep apart?"

"We sleep together, but we seldom _sleep_ together. When you open your legs moths fly out."

"You've been disgusting me all night!"

"Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the goddamn car!"

She pulled to the curb and stopped. He stepped out and slammed the door. Lowering the window, she drove alongside him as he ambled down the sidewalk. "Get in, Michael. We're miles from home."

"Go!"

"Mike, I'm sorry. Please get in. This neighborhood could be dangerous."

"Drive away _now_!" he screamed.

Now so upset she was trembling, she didn't move. He turned to plod in the opposite direction. "Please don't go back to her," she called out to him before driving away.

After Elizabeth had left, Michael turned and headed toward home. He scanned the neighborhood and judged it as lower-class but not a ghetto. _Probably not too dangerous, I hope._ It was warm, but drizzly. His head was also somewhat cloudy from the alcohol. He doubled his pace but had to slacken it after he meandered enough to step off the curb and onto the street.

A few minutes later, a car drove up from behind him and slowed. _Shit,_ thought Michael. _Just leave me alone._ Then he thought, _Shit! I have five hundred bucks in my wallet!_

Michael attempted to keep a modicum of cash in the house in case their bank got into trouble or the government finally admitted the whole financial system is a giant fraud and shut it down to reset it so the people would take the massive losses instead of the banking cartel that caused them. Elizabeth's constant need for new clothes—the station expected she wouldn't wear the same outfit over and over—invariably drew down their bank and cash balance to zero every month, so after payday, he'd withdraw a few hundred dollars to keep in the cupboard at home. This time, though, he'd neglected to stash the cash in the cupboard. _Shit!_

The car stopped next to him, and he was relieved to see it was the police.

"You lost, sir?" asked the officer in the passenger seat.

"Uh, no, Officer. Just heading home."

"Why are you out so late?"

Michael thought, _None of your GD business!_ but he answered, "Wedding reception. I had a tiff with my wife and decided to walk home."

The officer stepped out of the vehicle.

"Can I see some ID?"

He thought, _No! I've done nothing wrong. Piss off!_ but he said, "I guess. Any particular reason you're asking?"

"Do I need one?"

"I'm pretty sure you do, but . . . here," he said as he dug out his license and handed it to the officer.

"Alberta. Where do you live?"

"A couple of kilometers up the road."

"Where?" he said a little more authoritatively.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what the issue is here. I'm just walking home."

The other officer, a black man, joined the two.

_What the hell is going on?_ Michael asked himself.

"Problem here?" he asked his colleague.

"I think we might have an illegal alien on our hands," said the white officer.

"My wife is here on a work visa, and I've applied for one," said Michael.

The white officer grabbed his wallet.

Michael exclaimed, "Hey! What the hell?"

He extracted the cash, counted it, and said, "Five hundred dollars. I think this was illegally earned, so we're seizing it."

"That's bullshit, and you know it!" said Michael, now more incensed than cowed. "You're stealing it!"

The black cop suddenly grabbed him and pushed his head down onto the hood while he applied handcuffs and informed Michael, "You're under arrest."

"For what, asshole?" said Michael, now furious.

"You're illegally in this country and more than likely illegally working."

As they put him into the car, he yelled, "You won't get away with this, you fucking Nazis!" On the drive to the station Michael cursed at them the whole way, but they paid no heed.

#

Elizabeth lay awake all night waiting for her husband. After it became evident he wasn't coming back that night, she began crying, thinking he'd returned to the hotel to take the redhead up on her offer.

Finally he opened the door at ten-forty-five in the morning, by which time she was panicking. She'd just returned from driving the route to and from the hotel in the unlikely event she might see him . . . or his body.

The minute he strode into their apartment, she said, "Where were you? I was worried sick. Did you go back to her?"

"No."

"Then did you stay out all night to make me worry?"

"That did occur to me, but no. I spent the night in jail."

Shocked, she yelped, "What? You were in jail?" He nodded. "What did you do?"

"I tried to stop a robbery."

"Why would the cops arrest you for that?"

"Because they were the robbers."

"You're not making any sense."

He explained what happened, and she cried, "They can't get away with that!"

"Why not? They're the law. What do you do when the law is a bunch of outlaws? Try fighting them and we'll be in jail or booted from this banana-republic country."

"So, how did you get out? Why didn't you call me?"

"They didn't give me a call. They didn't even charge me because they know it's all bullshit. They held me overnight, then let me go and kept the money. I demanded it back, rather vociferously, then they threatened to arrest me for disturbing the peace. We're powerless; there's nothing we can do. It's familiar ground for both of us."

"This is unbelievable. They just steal our money?"

"I've heard about this but never paid it much attention. It's called civil asset forfeiture. Of all the outrageous things this country does, it didn't seem to rank high . . . until it happened to me."

She picked up their computer and searched for the term. A moment later, reading off the screen, she said, "It says civil asset forfeitures exceeded the total of all robberies in this country in 2015. They steal whatever they want from people and say go to civil court if you don't like it. It's stealing, pure and simple."

"It's the perfect crime. Rob people without charging them with a crime so they can't go to court at public expense. Merely state that they suspect you of a crime, then assume guilt and use that as the excuse to rob them. It can't be legal, but they're the goddamn police, so what are we supposed to do?"

"I'm doing a story on this."

Elizabeth proceeded directly to the police station with a camera, asking for an interview with the officers. She informed the desk sergeant she was a reporter for KCIA and intended to publicize their theft.

He ushered her to the police captain. She explained with emotion what was bothering her, and he politely dismissed her, so the irate lady hollered, "I demand to speak to the thieves."

The captain said, "Where do you come off demanding anything? You're not even a citizen here."

"I'm a legal resident who has the right _not to be robbed_ , especially by the goddamn police!"

"Keep your voice down."

"And if I don't? You going to arrest me? You going to steal my camera, my mic, my shoes?"

"You love being melodramatic, don't you?"

"Go on the record. Tell the people of Spokane about this forfeiture. Give me the police department's side. Defend it."

"You can leave now."

"You're too cowardly to defend your theft?"

"Out! Now!"

"I'm doing this story, Captain. Your name and your spinelessness will feature prominently. Good day."

On the way to her car, she came across the perpetrators, recognizing them from the description Michael had provided. She raised her camera and said, "Officers Pettigrew and Ritter?"

"Whoa," said Pettigrew. "I haven't agreed to an interview. Turn off your camera."

"This is a public street, so it's my right to record anything I want. I'm a reporter for KCIA, and I want your side concerning the five-hundred dollar theft you and your partner committed last night." They laughed her off and opened the doors to enter their cruiser. "This is your chance to defend yourselves." They stepped into the car. "You're going to be on the news, officers. I'm going to accuse you of theft in front of the entire city."

"That's a lie! It was proceeds of a crime," said Ritter, but Pettigrew held his hand out to shut up his partner.

"What crime, Officer?" asked Elizabeth. "My husband is legally in this country. You stole his money, held him in jail overnight, then let him go without any charge, but kept his money. Explain yourselves."

"Do you think you can get away with threatening us?" said Pettigrew.

"Watch the news tomorrow night. You'll be famous."

She drove to her TV station on her day off and worked all afternoon on the story. Proudly showing it to her supervisor, Andrea Park, the next day, Elizabeth got a shocking response: "You can't air this."

"What? Why the hell not?" said Elizabeth.

Andrea replied, "Liz, calm down. Civil asset forfeiture is old news."

"Old news? Hardly anyone knows about it."

"This does not go on the air. Got it?"

Infuriated, Elizabeth cried, "Got it. I quit! Got _that_?"

Elizabeth hadn't told her boss, hadn't even told her husband, she'd got an offer of employment from the Seattle NBC affiliate. The president and station manager, Eric Pedamante, had asked for a moment of her time at the Emmy award ceremony a month earlier and offered her a reporter's position. She'd have accepted immediately—moving up to the big city was the next step in her career—but Michael had been becoming more insistent they return to Canada. Trouble was, there were no positions at home. She'd told Eric she'd need a while to consider it. When he'd phoned her a week earlier inquiring about her response, she'd accepted the position without informing her husband. She hadn't found a way to tell him yet, which was causing her distress, and this distress had manifested as a sour mood and short temper. Quitting gave her the perfect excuse for taking the job, for she had no possibilities in Canada, and for informing her husband of such. Problem solved.

Andrea said, "Are you kidding me? Do you know how many people are lined up to take your job?"

"Goodbye, Andrea." She turned to leave.

"You have a great future with ABC. You're making a colossal mistake."

"Mail me my final check."

"Liz! We got a call from high up in the police department implying that if we aired this we'd lose future access to the department."

"And you're okay with that? It's blackmail! That itself is newsworthy. We can crucify them."

"I don't like the decision to drop your story, but I'm not the boss here. Bruce doesn't want to taint our good relationship with the department that helps us do our job."

"What is that job? Covering up for their crimes? I'm not working for a station that folds at the first hint of official pressure."

"It's more complicated than that. This story could well undermine the public's trust in its police force."

"If the truth undermines public trust, so be it."

"That's not your decision to make."

"But it is my decision to quit."

"You'll have to leave the country," said Andrea.

"Oh? So, after all your BS about the poor, oppressed illegal immigrant, you're ready to eject a _legal_ immigrant?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Goodbye, Andrea."

"We'll cover the five hundred."

Elizabeth, already on her way out of the office, didn't hesitate. She went to her desk, packed her belongings, and left KCIA for good.

When she told Michael she'd quit he was shocked, but not upset. When she told him she'd gotten an offer from Seattle, which, "I had no choice but to accept, since otherwise we'd be paupers," he was shocked _and_ upset.

He protested, "I hate it here. I want to go home before this whole rancid, rickety, wicked shit wagon of a country hurtles over the cliff dead ahead."

"I know, Mike, and I'm sorry, but what choice do we have? There are _no_ jobs in Canada for reporters. That CTV had the nerve to offer me an unpaid internship tells us all we need to know about my prospects there. I'll continue looking there, but for now, I had to accept."

Michael asked when she'd received the offer, and she told him, but phrased it to avoid an inquisition. "I told him I'd hoped to find a position in Canada, but he left the offer open. So . . . I took it." _Don't ask when!_

He looked askance at her, but dropped it.

### Chapter Seven  
Seattle, July 2016

For the first few weeks as a reporter in Seattle, Elizabeth was given mostly fluff assignments: persons with special needs being hired by local Walmarts, travel destinations within a few hours of the city, neighborhood clamoring for a stop light after a serious accident, and the like. When the presidential election heated up in late August, however, she was assigned to report on key campaign events in the region.

The network—all major networks aside from FOX—didn't even try to hide their bias in favor of the Democratic candidate. Elizabeth, too, both from personal conviction and inferences from her bosses and coworkers about their preference, showed a bias in her reporting, which her husband took issue with.

When she arrived home after reporting on the Trump rally in Everett, Michael asked, "Did you know you're a glorified booster for the Democratic Party?"

"I think you're overstating it."

"Aren't you supposed to be neutral?"

"How can we be neutral when Trump might get into the White House?" she said, kicking off her shoes.

"Because that's your frigging job! And don't get me started on the Clintons. They're pure evil. Trump might be a buffoon, but I don't think he's evil, and he's probably not as dangerous as Clinton. That monster is pushing for war against Russia, and my wife is helping her to get in the position to do that."

"So, I'm biased against Trump, and you're biased against Clinton."

"I'm not the journalist here. Bias in journalism is thoroughly unprofessional, and political bias in journalism undermines democracy. Be a reporter. Investigate. Question. Be fair. Do. Your. Job!"

Elizabeth shook her head, thinking, _leave me alone_ , and went to the bathroom for a shower.

For the most part, Michael was complimentary about her work. He'd embrace her when she got home and say her reporting was getting better and better, at least as good as any national reporter. She exulted in his praise, and often rewarded him in bed.

As Elizabeth's job evolved to serious reporting, however, Michael would occasionally challenge her network's partiality and her part in it. There was never any sex after what she perceived as criticism.

He'd suggest possible stories for her, but, for the most part, they were beyond the purview of a local reporter. He understood but sometimes argued that she could make a name for herself reporting on something that not even the national networks were covering.

"Look at this," he said to her one Saturday in September. She looked over his shoulder while he worked on their laptop. "I read an article outlining an academic study that shows Google is slanting its search results to help Clinton win the White House. I tried it myself. If I type, 'Hillary Clinton is', into Bing the autocomplete function gives me, 'Hillary Clinton is a filthy liar.' 'Hillary Clinton is a murderess,' and similar links, almost all negative. Let's try it with Yahoo. 'Hillary Clinton is a liar,' 'Hillary Clinton is a criminal.'"

Elizabeth looked at the results, again virtually all negative. Finally, he tried it with Google. The results: 'Hillary Clinton is winning,' 'Hillary Clinton is awesome,' and the like, all positive.

Liz said, "Okay?"

"A mammoth, extraordinarily influential corporation is trying to sway the electorate by filtering search results in her favor."

"And?"

" _And?_ You're the reporter here, and you can't smell a big story? Should a private corporation have this much power? It subverts democracy."

"I'm just a local reporter."

"But the story is largely relegated to the alternative media. You could break it on the mainstream."

"I'll check with my boss, but I know what he's going to say; stick with the local scene."

"Point out that Google was founded and developed with CIA and NSA funding. Maybe that'll convince him."

Her boss told her what she expected.

As time passed, Michael grew more dissatisfied with his current lot. He suggested he work under the table to bring in more money and to avoid going crazy from boredom, but Elizabeth thought that could risk their status in the country if he was caught. He continued to volunteer and read, but he gradually became despondent. Elizabeth felt bad about it, but there was little she could do other than try to keep him happy while she was home. Befitting his current existence, he became lazy, which led to further disputes between the two.

Arriving home after work to see him on the couch in his boxers and undershirt, Elizabeth remarked, "You didn't even put on pants today?"

"You know, I hate it when you get home from a hard day's work and my dinner's not ready."

She could only laugh at that, but when vegetating in the apartment without even getting dressed became a habit for him, she began to prod him to find more volunteer work or something to keep him occupied.

In late October, Elizabeth, reacting to what she perceived as groupthink with her entire newsroom blithely assuming Clinton had the election won, made the mistake of mentioning, "My husband says Trump is going to win."

That provoked a wave of hearty guffaws. Elizabeth was mortified, but smiled to imply she thought Michael was nuts as well, thereby disarming them.

On election night, an exhausted Elizabeth trudged into their apartment close to midnight and collapsed onto the couch next to her husband. He kissed her cheek, then poured her a glass of red wine. While she sipped and unwound with her legs propped up on his, Michael regaled her with the reactions of the various mainstream networks.

"It's hilarious but depressing watching these pretentious liberal morons crying. I mean, some of them were actually weeping over Trump's win and Hillary's loss. A few of them said, 'It's the end of the world.' They're still railing against Trump for supposedly being racist, sexist, narcissistic, and even mentally ill, still ignoring Hillary's blatant criminality and murderous past, and now they're dismissing the verdict of the American people, daring to scold them for their decision.

"The legacy media has learned nothing from this. They backed the corrupt status quo and the people said screw you, and the media has gone utterly mad. The rants I've seen changing channels defy belief. One idiot said Trump's election is the most cataclysmic event the country has ever seen, worse than the Civil War, WW II, and 9/11."

Elizabeth tuned out of his rant. Not that she disagreed with what he was saying, but she was exhausted and just wanted to sleep.

"Can you believe that level of idiocy?"

She nodded; to what she didn't know.

"They're already calling for him to be removed from office. The evening of the election! Their contempt for democracy is stunning."

"You're enjoying this."

"Watching the media freak out? You're damn right I am. Smug pricks never once considered Clinton was toast, which was so clear to anyone who bothered looking at the evidence."

"What about Trump as president?"

Michael laughed and said, "There's a saying that people get the rulers they deserve. I couldn't agree more. After all the awful things this country has done to the world and its own people for at least a generation now, maybe this is the start of their comeuppance. I just hope they don't take the rest of the world down with them."

#

Michael had been to the station once with her and had met a few people there, but there'd been no serious interaction, which, he figured, was the way she wanted it. He was, however, invited to a New Year's Eve party at the station manager's place.

That evening, while she applied eye shadow, she looked in the mirror at what he was wearing—blue jeans, a red golf shirt, and sneakers—and said, "You can look quite handsome, but you seldom do."

"Thank you."

"I _mean_ , you're a fine-looking man when you care to be but you seldom care to be. Please wear the clothes I picked out for you."

He donned light grey dress slacks, a dark grey dress shirt, and black loafers, she a classy, form-fitting red dress that ineluctably drew his eyes along her curves and down her long legs. _Wow!_

The couple drove to the mansion on Shilshole Bay, where the party was taking place, with many stern warnings from Elizabeth along the way to behave. As the two entered the house, she said, "Just once, pretend you're a gentleman."

"Only if you pretend to be a prostitute."

" _Not_ a good start. Please don't alienate the people I work with."

The host, Eric Pedamante, approached and introduced himself to Michael. Michael shook his hand and shivered internally, thinking, _You make my spine cringe, buddy._ Of small stature—five-foot-eight, Michael estimated, since he had half an inch on Elizabeth—Eric looked to be sixty. He wore an impeccably-tailored suit and spectacles with frames of gold, but he struck Michael as a vile gnome. Michael wiped his hand on his pants after Eric let it go.

"Nice to finally meet you, Mike," said Eric. "Liz has told me you're not permitted to work in this country yet, so how are you keeping yourself occupied?"

_I'm embarrassed I belong to the same species as you,_ thought Michael as he responded, "Reading, mostly. Vegetating. Some volunteer work. Not much else." _I hate that you're alive._

"We're ecstatic to have Liz here. She's extremely talented."

"Yes, she is, and she's ecstatic to be working for KMSM TV." Looking at a painting of a medieval knight thrusting his ax down toward a helpless child, Michael thought, _Methinks there shall be ructions betwixt us, milord._

"Help yourselves to the finger foods and order whatever you want from the bar over there." Eric excused himself to greet the next pair.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth as she led her husband to the bar.

A string trio played chamber music. "What's with media parties and trios?" asked Michael.

Elizabeth treated that as rhetorical. She surveyed the splendor of Eric's estate and furnishings and said in a wistful tone, "Would you look at this place? Oh, how I wish we could afford something even a tenth as nice."

Michael smirked and said to the bartender, "The ambiance has my wife fantasizing. She needs to get back to reality. She'll have the cheapest wine you have, and I'll have a cup of cyanide, please." It was her turn to smirk.

As they accepted their drinks from the bartender—wine cooler for her, vodka and orange juice for him—the weeknight co-anchor, Deirdre Pardo, stepped up to order. Michael had seen her on TV and was looking forward to meeting her in person because she was a traffic-stopping blonde. Elizabeth had sized her up as the ultimate cock-tease, which made him want to present his for the teasing. Tonight she wore a body-hugging, black mini-dress that featured her delectable legs and mouth-watering cleavage. His eyes and pants bulged, and his wife evidently noticed because she clutched his chin, swiveled his head to hers, and looked at him with a visage that screamed, _Michael, reel in your tongue!_ He smiled.

Acting like she owned the place, Deirdre asked what wines were available and sneered at the options. "If I have to, I'll settle for Lewis Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley. What I'd give for a 2012 Ridge Monte Bello Santa Cruz Mountains!"

_My, you're a haughty hottie, aren't you?_ thought Michael.

She glanced at Elizabeth, said hello, then at Michael and said, "Well, aren't you a tall drink of water?"

_Oh, please sip me!_ Michael shook her proffered hand and said, "Consider me a 2012 Ridge Monte blah blah."

That earned him a wifely elbow in the ribs.

Tittering, Deidre went on, "I can see from the glint in your dreamy brown eyes that you have a bit of the naughty rogue in you dying to be set free."

_And the naughty rogue is dying to put his bit in you,_ he mused as he answered, "Not true. I'm a complete angel content to be caged. Just ask my ex-roommate 23749."

"Oh, I love a man with a quick wit."

"And this one's taken," said Elizabeth to end the flirtation as she tugged him away. "Consider me a Ridge Monte? Really?" He shrugged. "Flirting while your wife is standing right beside you?"

"Lighten up, Liz. Clearly I wasn't trying to pick her up in front of you. I have never and will never cheat on you, all right?"

She let it go and proceeded through a wonderfully-appointed great room and toward the back-yard. Michael observed his wife's envious expression as she spun around little by little and ran her eyes over the huge fireplace framed in dark green marble on the west wall, the hardwood staircase on the south wall heading up to an elevated walkway that presumably led to bedrooms on either side of the house, a kitchen off the east wall larger than their entire apartment, featuring superb wooden cabinetry and enough granite to pave Park Avenue, and massive windows on the northern wall that showed off the bay beyond. Strolling out to the large deck in the back yard past a group of chatting workmates, she said, "Oh, look at this view! Isn't it spectacular?" Michael nodded. The deck overlooked a short, grassy declivity, which terminated at the water. The deep blue bay under a partly cloudy sky painted purple by the setting sun transfixed Elizabeth. "And breathe that refreshing, salty breeze. God, how I'd love to live here!"

They joined the group of co-workers. One of the reporters, Anne Timbrell, was in the midst of declaiming to the people surrounding her, "Tomorrow, finally, Seattle employers will have to pay a living wage—still meager, but borderline sufficient—to people who're impoverished. It's about time!"

"Hear, hear!" said a few, as most of the assembled clapped, including Elizabeth until she saw her husband frown at her.

"I know," she said to him, "you're not a fan of minimum wages."

That got the attention of two people close by, one of whom said, "Not a fan? Against a living wage for persons in diminished circumstances?" as the other looked at him as if he were a leper.

Anne stepped forward and said, "Who could possibly be against raising wages to help persons experiencing poverty to feed their children, except, maybe, contemptible capitalists?"

"Spoken like a die-hard socialist who thinks she's infallible and that anyone who dares to think different is a reprobate. I'm against minimum wages because they raise unemployment. People who keep their jobs will of course be better off, but business owners will fire a bunch of workers and add machines, and those who don't will go out of business. So a lot of _poor people,_ mostly women and minorities, lose their jobs, a lot of marginal businesses go out of business, and customers and tax payers end up paying more." Michael sipped his drink.

Anne returned in a miffed tone, "If you thought about it for one minute, you'd know _more_ jobs are created because the extra money these people earn, they spend, unlike the rich people who have so much they stash billions overseas so they don't have to pay taxes. Some of the extra money from the higher minimum wage will bring in taxes that can be used to help the few who lose their jobs."

"Empirical evidence has proven your specious arguments wrong over and over—"

"Come on, Mike," said Elizabeth as she hauled her husband away from the group.

"Did you disagree with what I said?" he asked.

"No, but I don't want them to hate us. I have to work with them."

"Okay, I'm sorry."

They proceeded to an enormous room in the finished basement that could've fit a good portion of a football field, where many of the men and a few women were, fittingly enough, watching a football game on a television Michael estimated to be at least a hundred inches. The picture was superb with stunning colors and clarity, as if the audience were sitting in the stadium. Michael grumbled to himself, thinking about his bland thirty-two inch LED flat screen.

They met the crew that did the technical work producing the news and got along well with them, so the Morrisons passed most of the evening with them.

As midnight neared, they went back upstairs, where Marley, Eric's administrative assistant, approached the couple and said, "I'm going around on behalf of Eric asking couples to play a simple game that's supposed to show who knows his or her partner the best. It works by giving one partner a word and having the other guess what it is with as few hints as possible. The winner gets a day on the Pacific on Eric's yacht! Runner-up gets dinner for two at The Herbfarm in Woodinville, the region's most exclusive restaurant. So far the record is two hints and the runner-up is three. Ready?" Elizabeth nodded eagerly, and Michael shrugged. "Okay, Liz, here's your word." She handed Elizabeth a slip of paper.

Elizabeth looked at the paper and said to Michael, "Oh, this should be an easy one. Your favourite pastime when I'm not with you."

"Masturbation."

"Michael, filter! Try again. Cruising on a yacht would be a unique experience for both of us. Second hint: You turn it on, watch it, and turn it off."

"You."

"Tch! Come on, Mike. Take this seriously. We can still win a fancy dinner date. Ready? It's how you see me when I'm working."

"In my mind . . . naked."

"Oh, I give up."

"Surrender."

"Not funny."

"Somber."

"Shut up!" she said as she stomped away from him. Suddenly, she reversed course and demanded to know, "Why?"

Marley escaped the impending argument and moved on to the next couple.

Michael replied, "Because I don't trust Eric, and I don't want us to be beholden to him."

"Why not?"

"Something about him . . . I don't know. It's hard to put my finger on."

"Great, Michael. Thanks a lot. You know I wanted the prizes."

"I know but . . . there's something off about him. Like, look at the pictures hanging around here." The artwork, either bizarre satanic pictures such as the devil kissing a man's cheek and the pope's face exploding, or paintings and sculptures depicting children under duress, would give anyone pause, especially an honorable man like Michael. "Don't they give you the creeps?"

"They're strange, yes, but maybe he's just a rich eccentric. You don't know him, and it's unfair to judge him before you do."

"We all size up people instantly for better or worse; that's how we evolved to help us avoid danger. _He's_ danger. I certainly don't want us on a yacht with him."

"Fine, but please don't let him know how you feel."

Blaine Dalio, one of the weekday co-anchors, meandered to them. Blaine was of average height, but was considered gorgeous by most females, with his raven hair, bushy brows, square jaw, strong nose, and large brown eyes. Clearly inebriated, he greeted the couple. "Hey Liz and . . . I forget your name."

"Pete Moss," said Michael.

"Oh yeah. Guess who I entertained last night, Pete? I'll give you a hint: there were two of them and they were identical."

"Your fan club," said Michael.

"The Olsen twins!"

While gulping his drink, Michael thought, _You are very unnecessary._

"I know what you're thinking," said Blaine.

I doubt it.

"No threesome. Sorry to disappoint you."

Your existence disappoints me.

"Not that that hasn't happened to me before," Blaine said with a wink. "I had to settle for one of them, but I'll leave it up to your imagination which."

I'm imagining the pleasure of your departing—in both senses.

Blaine said, "I haven't given up on the other twin, though. One down, one more to go."

You could do with one more hole in your head.

"Well, Pete? Say, something."

"I'm not fond of you."

Elizabeth said, "Michael, please turn your filter on and leave it on. Do you have to say everything that seeps into your brain?"

"Just joshing, Blaine," lied Michael to appease his wife.

"Oh, you had me going for a minute," said Blaine. "Everyone likes me, so I couldn't figure out why you wouldn't."

Let me fill you in: you're insipid.

"Oh, there's Wendy and Brit. I have to tell them about the Olsens. Happy New Year!" said Blaine as he ambled off.

"Happy New Year," said Elizabeth.

"He seamlessly embodies the concept of insufferable," said Michael.

"He's popular with his audience and with the ladies."

"His winning personality?"

"He's striking and, on camera, he comes across as likeable."

"Must be special effects." Michael took a swig of his drink.

"At any rate, he's more likeable than you today."

"Also much better looking and much more successful. You should dump me and go after him."

"Don't tempt me," she said as she strutted away, leaving him behind.

Deidre strolled to him and said, "You didn't seem impressed with Blaine."

"On the contrary; I admire how he's overcome the awesome mediocrity of his mind to do so well."

"He's got hypnotic looks that have all the girls panting."

"But not you?"

"Oh, we've had our fling, but, believe me, he's nothing special upstairs or down, if you know what I mean," she said as she glanced at Michael's crotch and smiled.

"I know so well, my down is up." She grinned. "As for upstairs, I think maybe his brain _is_ special, but not the good kind of special. I'm guessing it's more of a ganglion than a brain. Maybe if he brings both neurons to bear on the issue at hand he might have his first thought."

That set off her laughter, which was most becoming. _God, woman, you're heart-stopping! How I'd love to throw you over my shoulder, run upstairs, tear off your itty-bitty dress, and—"_

"Mike," said Elizabeth. "Come with me. A few of the anchors want to ask you how you knew Trump was going to win." She flashed a faux smile at Deirdre, who returned the favor, then took her husband's hand, and pulled him toward the group of three, asking, "What were you two talking about?"

"Blaine mostly. She doesn't think much of him."

"You were looking awfully horny considering Blaine was the topic of conversation."

"Shit, I hope I'm not gay."

To the kitchen they sauntered—on the way, both refreshed their drinks—where three reporters stood around the massive granite-covered island that doubled as a table. Elizabeth said, "Carmen, Chris, Vicky, you've met my husband, Mike." They nodded and greeted him.

"So, your Trump won, as you somehow predicted," said Carmen with a condescending sneer.

With furrowed brow, Michael said, " _My_ Trump? I can't even vote in this country. All I ever said was anyone's better than that depraved psychopath termagant, Hillary. As for somehow predicting, it was obvious."

"All the polls showed Clinton had, like, a ninety percent chance of winning," said Vicky.

"You mean all the corporate media polls, which were clearly biased by oversampling Democrats. The few polls that sampled fairly showed an even race. Add in the evidence from rallies, with Trump drawing tens of thousands of enthusiastic supporters everywhere he went and Clinton drawing tens of paid shills, and it was obvious who was going to win."

"Well, now we're stuck with a Russian stooge. Hope you're happy," said Carmen.

"Please tell me you're not gullible enough to believe this Russia conspiracy nonsense," said Michael.

"I take exception to that," responded Carmen.

"Me, too," said Vicky. Christopher nodded in agreement.

"Tough," said Michael. He snared a baby carrot from a tray of vegetables, dipped it in some concoction in the center of the tray, then plopped it into his mouth. He grimaced at the combination of sour dip and bitter carrot, and nearly spat it out, but forewent that. He chewed and swallowed quickly and chased it with a gulp of vodka and orange.

"Mike, please keep this courteous," said Elizabeth.

Vicky said, "It's so clear Trump was Putin's choice, and that he's only president because of Russia. Only a Russian troll would say different." Carmen and Christopher nodded.

Shaking his head, Michael said, "You people are delusional. After Wikileaks released information from the DNC server, the Democrats desperately needed a diversion with the election at stake; Russiagate was the answer. Because the intelligence community and the so-called free press were in on it, it worked like a charm. There's been virtually no examination of the mass criminality of the Clintons. No examination of the DNC subverting the Sanders campaign. No media investigation of the murder of Seth Rich, who Wikileaks strongly suggested was the actual leaker."

Christopher said, "So you trust Wikileaks more than our national media?"

"I trust a used car hawker turned politician turned child molester more than the media."

"How could the Russian story still have legs if there wasn't something to it?" said Christopher.

"Besides the $160 million the government committed for corrupt think tanks, academics, and NGOs to foster the Russian hysteria? The media gives it legs because it's in the oligarchy's interest to keep it in play. Russiagate started as a diversion, but it's now evolved into a multi-purpose scam. It explains away not only Clinton's embarrassing loss, but the media's complete failure trying to persuade the country to vote for its candidate. 'Not our fault; it was the Russians!'

"The phony Russian connection is also doing yeoman's duty dismissing the voters' rejection of the status quo and undermining Trump's legitimacy, which is vital because he represents a threat to the powers that be. It's imperative to hamstring him before he can jail all the criminals serving the Democrats and drain the putrid slime out of the Washington Deep State cesspool."

"Do you honestly think there's a Deep State?" said Carmen. She sipped some wine.

"Do you honestly think there isn't?" asked Michael.

"You really are a conspiracy nut, aren't you?" said Carmen. "You think the CIA had JFK killed, don't you?"

"That's obvious. MLK and possibly RFK, to boot."

Shaking her head, Vicky said, "You imbibe all the fake news that litters the alternative media. It's all garbage."

"I get such a kick when MSM has the chutzpah to charge anyone else with publishing fake news. That's their goddamn specialty! NBC, ABC, CBS, MSNBC, CNN, the _New York Times_ , and the _Washington Post_ are the worst. They've discarded all pretence of honesty and objectivity; they're the propaganda arm of the oligarchy, as bad as or worse than Pravda ever was."

"That's quite a charge. Do you have any proof?" said Christopher.

Michael chuckled and answered, "Where's your demand for proof for the Russian connection? There's no proof, and there will be none because it's all bullshit. But to answer your question, I can sit and watch a national news broadcast and pick out lie after lie. For decades, you've been merely passing on government lies without any checks whatsoever, like North Vietnam attacked our Navy in the Gulf of Tonkin, Iraq has weapons of mass destruction, Assad gassed his own people, and Russia shot down the Dutch jet. I could go on for hours with the lies."

"So, as far as you're concerned we're a bunch of liars," said a miffed Vicky, pointing at him with a celery stick loaded with dip.

With Elizabeth's expression pleading with him to back down, Michael said, "No. I think most of your local reporting is factual and professional. What I'm saying is at the corporate level the truth doesn't matter, only the perception of what the truth is. With the Trump phenomenon I think the corporate media operates with a philosophy something like, 'Since we mold perception, we, in essence, create the truth, and the truth we shall create is that Trump is a Russian stooge and he must go. Whether he actually is a Russian stooge is irrelevant. He hurts our interests and he must go. So what if this constitutes a coup against the duly-elected president? We know what's best for the nation.'"

"Who's to decide what the truth is?" said Christopher. "The alternative media?"

"Each person gets to decide what the truth is; that's not the media's job," countered Michael. "Its job is to dig for the facts and present them objectively, but it doesn't do that."

"We've won all sorts of awards for investigative reporting, Mr. Morrison," said Vicky.

"To repeat, I'm talking about _corporate level_. You do, however, pass on the national and international stories, no matter how outlandish and devoid of proof, without hesitation and often with comments of approval."

"First, we have no choice in the matter. Second, who are you to label them outlandish?" said Vicky.

"All right! That's enough," said Elizabeth. "This is supposed to be a fun occasion and the discussion has gotten a bit hostile. So let's reflect on our blessings, forget our differences, and enjoy the rest of the evening. Come on, Mike," she concluded as she dragged her husband away from the other three back to the great room where the two sat on a white couch that looked a lot more comfortable than it was. "I asked you not to antagonize anyone."

"It was a friendly discussion till Carmen and Vicky got testy. I didn't get personal until they did."

"This isn't high school. When someone insults you, be a gentleman and keep to the high road."

"Or I can be a man and defend myself. They're not used to being challenged, and they can't deal with it without getting defensive, emotional, and insulting."

"Sounds like someone I married."

"I'm still the same person you couldn't wait to marry. Now he's not good enough for you?"

"I never said that."

"The implication was obvious."

"Come on, Mike. I don't want us fighting, too. Can't we just try to have fun?"

"Sure, let's go home and go to bed."

"Behave for the rest of the party and it's a date."

She escorted him to a small group of four women and Blaine standing at the fireplace. Now more intoxicated, Blaine said, "Welcome back, Liz and Pete. We're all here, we're all in our prime, we've had a great year, and we're living in the best city in the world. I can't imagine a happier occasion than this." He gulped whatever he was drinking.

Michael replied, "I can—"

"Keep it to yourself, dear," said Elizabeth, as Michael completed his thought without voicing it: _his funeral_.

"Look at the way they're all gazing at him," whispered Elizabeth. "Is there a word that means five-some?"

"Paradise?"

"You would take four women to bed at once?"

"Any man would."

"Even if he were _married_?"

"Ah, honey, of course not. I'd stop at three."

"Then I'm glad you don't get gaggles of adoring females surrounding you."

"There was the redhead in Spokane. Can one be a gaggle?"

"No, and please don't remind me of that slut."

"It's not fair to judge her like that. How could she resist this?" he said as he grinned and passed his hand down his body as if to highlight it.

"Why don't you ask Carmen and Vicky that?"

"Touché!"

From across the room Eric called out, "Can I have everyone's attention? It's ten minutes to midnight, and I want to say a few things." People settled down and turned their attention to the boss. "We've had a great year at KMSM TV. Our fantastic crew nabbed twenty Emmys, twenty-one, if we include Liz's, though she won that for the competition. That's why we stole her!" The assembled chortled as Elizabeth smiled and bowed her head bashfully. "She'll win awards for us from now on. She brings something unique to our station."

_Integrity?_ thought Michael.

Eric continued, "An international perspective, though, of course, Canadians are much like us."

_Them's fighting words_ , Michael told himself.

Eric said, "Another invaluable addition to our team early this year is Deirdre, one of the best anchors in the business." Deirdre nodded her thanks. "Karen retired in May and will be missed."

"She was pushed out because she got too old to attract youthful viewers, and she didn't go quietly," muttered Tim Cooke, a broadcast technician, to Elizabeth and Michael.

Eric's speech went on, "Cole and his wife had a handsome baby boy last month, and Sarah adopted delicious ten-year old twin boys from Vietnam in May. Congrats to both."

Both nodded, Sarah with an uncomfortable smile.

"Delicious?" said Michael to his wife.

"He was joking," said Elizabeth.

"That's a worrisome joke."

Eric said, "Another happy occasion was in the summer when Wendy got married to Brittany. You two look happy still."

The ladies nodded and kissed each other.

Eric droned on mostly about himself with people glancing at their watches and wondering how midnight was still to come. Michael moved to get himself another drink, but his wife informed him he'd had enough. He wondered how she knew when he didn't.

He murmured to her, "Shit. Is it February yet?"

"Shush!"

Eric wrapped up with, "When I'm dead, I know your talents and hard work will ensure I leave behind an important journalistic legacy."

As people clapped, Michael leaned into his wife and began, "When he dies—" before Elizabeth elbowed him. He finished to himself, _all he'll leave behind is a foul stench. Even the vultures will turn up their noses._ _The only mark he'll leave behind will be a skid mark on his skivvies. Boy, if I said that out loud my censorious wife would've killed me  . . . Delicious twin boys? What the hell sort of pervert is he?_

When Eric finally wrapped up a minute before midnight, Michael remarked to Elizabeth and Tim, "You've heard the expression, 'Time flies while you're having fun?' Well, when Eric began speaking, time slammed into a mountain."

"You didn't like it?" asked Tim.

"Is it just me, or does Eric strike you as creepy?"

Elizabeth said, "Mike, please keep those opinions to yourself."

"Yeah, he does," said Tim.

"See?" Michael said to his wife. "I think Edgar Allan Poe wrote him."

Tim grinned and toasted that comment. The men clinked glasses and sipped their drinks.

People started counting down from ten, and at midnight, with the trio playing _Auld Lang Syne_ , couples kissed each other, then some began kissing their co-workers.

#

Blaine planted a smooch on Elizabeth's lips, which surprised her. She had to pull back from him when he wouldn't desist. She looked to see if Michael had noticed, but Nicole, the pretty intern, was kissing him. Frowning, Elizabeth went to the bathroom.

On the way out she stopped short when she heard two of her workmates around the corner mention her. Vicky said, "Did you see Blaine kiss Liz? He gave me a peck but he _kissed_ her."

"Lucky girl," said Ariana. "He's gorgeous."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up with Liz. He's obviously interested, and she isn't doing much to discourage him," said Vicky.

"What about her husband? What's his name?"

"Mike. He's beneath her."

Ariana replied, "That's what I thought. I can't figure out why she's with him."

"Oh, I hate that man! He's unemployed, and when he works, he's blue collar, yet you should hear him spout his misinformed opinions as if they're facts. He droned on and on about how terrible the media is and how we lie all the time."

"Really?"

"Yes. Ask Chris or Carmen. He's a Trump apologist, and I think he must love Russia or something. It's so galling when someone so stupid thinks he's so smart and has the audacity to think he knows more than we do about what we do! My best guess is that he's mentally ill."

"Anyone who's for Trump is a sick, racist dolt."

Vicky continued, "To top it off, he thinks he's funny, but he's merely crude. Tonight, when Eric told a group of us about his safari—his 'first time in the bush,' as he put it—Mike said something like, 'My first time in the bush, I emerged red-faced and smelling like fish.'"

"That's disgusting," said Ariana.

As Elizabeth rolled her eyes and grimaced, Vicky continued, "Most of us groaned. I mean, what kind of thing is that to say to a man who's a hundred times better than he is, and with women around?"

"Glad I'm not married to him."

"Perish the thought."

"Glad you're not married to whom?" asked Deirdre, who'd just joined the conversation.

"That awful Mike Morrison," said Vicky.

"Awful cute," said Deirdre.

"You must've drunk him cute," said Vicky. "He's an idiot."

"I think he's uncommonly clever," said Deirdre.

"You weren't there to get insulted by all his nonsensical arguments. You should've heard how he wrote off all of us in the media as liars."

"Damn, I missed that?" said Deirdre. "I love the way his mind works. He's so quick . . . and _interesting_."

Vicky said, "Carmen, Anne, and Sara hate him. He's getting frowns from almost everyone tonight."

Deidre said, "That intern . . . uh . . ."

"Nicole," said Ariana.

"Yeah. She kissed him three times and even squeezed his ass the third time."

Elizabeth's eyes opened wide. _That bitch!_

Deidre continued, "I avoided the kissathon out there—most of these men disgust me—but I made an exception for Mike. In fact, I French-kissed him." Elizabeth's eyes narrowed.

"You'll hate yourself in the morning," said Ariana.

"For not waking up next to him, yes," she said with a titter as she strolled away.

When Vicky and Ariana rejoined the party, Liz, after a brief interval, followed. She made a beeline for Michael, grabbed his hand, gave him a "Tch!" because he had another drink, and told him they were leaving, adding, "Enjoy your French kiss with Deirdre?"

"It wasn't a French kiss. Is that what she told you?"

"That's what she's telling everyone."

"She kissed me and tried to hug me, but I gently pushed her back and reminded her I'm married. Not sure why she'd fib about that."

Elizabeth believed him because he almost never lied. "Probably just trying to shock Vicky and Ariana, who were saying almost everyone here hates you."

"Remind me to kill myself."

"I might just do that. Enjoy kissing Nicole three times?"

"How do you know about Nicole and Deirdre? You weren't here."

"Made sure, eh?"

"Everyone was kissing. Nicole circled back twice. I didn't want to be rude and say no."

"Right. How about when she grabbed your butt?"

"What, do you have spies?"

"People are talking about it. Did you just let her?"

"She's super drunk. I thought she was doing it to all the men. It was no big deal."

"It is to me. People are talking now."

"So what? Most of them are supercilious twits."

"How can you lump them all together and write them off like that? Where do you get off looking down on them? Stop being so arrogant."

"Okay, let me be more precise. I like the people behind the cameras, like Tim, Ross, and Wendy. They're nice and smart."

"The technical people," she said with a sneer.

"Now who's being arrogant? Technical people, my dear, are the ones who do the important work, the ones who make the breakthroughs that move civilization forward, like engines that run on water. It's the white-collar crowd who're ruining the West. Except for Deirdre, who seems sharp, your on-camera team, along with that creep of a general manager, are snooty, shallow assholes."

"Do you lump me in with that group?"

"Actually I lump you in with Deirdre. What about you? You embarrassed about me being an unemployed bum?"

"Of course not, but I do get embarrassed when you make an ass of yourself. Did you joke about . . ." She leaned closer and whispered, "eating pussy," and continued in her regular voice, "in front of Eric and a bunch of women?"

"I knew I should've filtered that as soon as it slipped out. Sorry. And let me ask again, do you have people spying on me?"

"I don't need spies. Your big mouth speaks loud enough for everyone to hear."

"Good one."

"You promised me to behave tonight, and you didn't. I'm not happy with you right now."

"Par for the course."

As the two donned their jackets, Eric approached and said, "Leaving already?"

"Yes," replied Elizabeth. "I'm tired. Thank you for inviting us. We had a good time."

Eric shook Michael's hand with both of his and said, "Mike, you've made quite an impression."

Withdrawing his hand, he answered, "Ditto." Looking at the picture hanging in front of him of a child being tempted by a mischievous sprite, Michael added, "Tell me, do you consider a child as an oblation to your malevolent god, Moloch?"

"Huh?"

"Or do you simply go with the tried and true goat immolation and save the kids for more carnal perversions?"

As Eric gaped at Michael, Elizabeth, aghast, said, "Michael, filter!"

Eric, trying to compose himself and look tough, said, "Watch out."

"I'll be on the lookout for suspicious circumstances," said Michael with an aggressive glower of his own, which further discomfited the man. Michael had a good half foot and forty pounds on Eric, and his hackles were spiked.

She made her apologies to her boss, clutched her husband's elbow, and yanked him outside. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Checking his reaction. I'm pretty sure he's Luciferian; you know, a devil worshipper. I've read about them, and he fits the profile. Could well be a pedophile, too."

"That carnal-perversion comment was the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"No, it can't be any higher than second. The stupidest thing I ever said was, 'I do.'"

"Not funny. How dare you accuse him of something so heinous? You have absolutely no evidence. Aren't you constantly badgering me for making statements without evidence?"

"He makes my skin crawl. Stay clear of him."

"He's the general manager, so I can't stay clear—though, with your big mouth, he might fire me!"

"Good, I don't want you working for him. He's dangerous."

"Stop it! Oh! You make me so angry sometimes. You can sleep on the couch tonight."

He said, "I'm sleeping in the bed. _You_ sleep on the goddamn couch."

"Fine."

"Fine."

And those were the last words the two spoke that drizzly New Year's morn.

#

As the new year unfolded, Michael watched incredulous and fascinated, and Elizabeth heard all about it. He told her, "It's as if the entire left side of the political spectrum, and the neo-cons to boot, have gone insane." They—the political class, intelligence agencies, think tanks such as the Council on Foreign Relations, NGOs, Hollywood celebrity scum, and especially the mainstream media—refused to accept the results of the presidential election and were resorting to some nasty business to overturn it.

Michael pressured Elizabeth to avoid this dangerous lunacy, as he termed it. She felt she had no choice but to raise the issue at work. It didn't go well there or at home.

Returning to the apartment after work one day in early February she informed her husband, "I did as you suggested and asked my bosses what proof we have that Russia interfered in the American election."

"And?"

"And they made me feel like a fool for even asking. They said everyone knows Putin did this."

"On what basis?"

"Seventeen American security agencies say so."

"That's nonsense."

"And you know more than the entire American security state? Who the hell are you? I was blushing for the rest of the meeting because I asked such a stupid question."

"The lesson you should've taken was that they offered no proof other than an already debunked story about seventeen agencies backing this."

"The lesson I learned is not to listen to you. PolitiFact, which earns its money checking _facts_ , confirmed the story is true."

"Who pays them for their so-called facts?"

"You're so damn cynical, and you can't accept that you might be wrong. Ever! You can't accept that I have my own opinions. Or is it simply that you don't _like_ my opinions?"

"Depends on whether they're your opinions or you're just spouting off some of the nonsense the morons at work are filling your head with."

"That's so insulting. You speak as if I'm so weak-minded that anyone who wants can mold me."

"A strong-minded person doesn't change her opinions so readily."

"So you do see me as weak. I have news for you: I'm a strong, successful woman. What if I have different opinions from yours? Am I supposed to change them to suit you or just keep them to myself? What does that say about our relationship?"

"If our opinions are opposed on things that matter deeply to us then that says we have no future together."

That remark almost stopped her heart. She couldn't believe he'd said it and couldn't believe the panic she felt. He tramped off to the bedroom. Feeling their relationship slipping away, she sat on the couch, wrapped her arms around herself and wept.

Through the winter and spring, things didn't improve; he kept up the pressure, and she kept resisting.

She returned home one evening with light brown hair and blonde highlights. Surprised and dismayed, Michael asked what she was thinking. She informed him that management wondered whether she might consider going blonde, "You know, for the ratings, and I thought, why not?"

"But I loved your hair."

"It's still my hair. You disapprove?"

"Yes."

"I'm used to it."

He shook his head and stomped out to the balcony.

It wasn't all bad, of course. Elizabeth continued to excel as a reporter. In March two men stopped her outside the studios on the way to the light rail line, which she took when Michael needed the car. One introduced himself as Faraz Azizi and told her that his brother was being recruited by "evil people who want him to carry out an attack on innocent people." He mumbled to Elizabeth that his brother "had mental problems."

She, of course, asked Faraz if they'd been to the police, and he said they had but that the police weren't interested in helping. His brother, Ibrahim, told her emotionally that he didn't want to hurt anyone, but, "The men said they will make sure I cannot stay in this country if I don't."

"Who are they?" asked Elizabeth.

"I only know them by Muhammad and Abbas."

"They threatened to deport you if you don't do what they say?"

"They said they would tell the police I was here against the law," said Ibrahim.

"What did they tell you to do?"

"Take a gun they will give me to shoot people at Alki Masonic Temple. I told this to the police, but they did nothing."

The story seemed unbelievable, but she recalled Michael telling her the FBI conducted stings from time to time to make it look like they were foiling terrorist plots and keeping America safe. He'd said, "They set up a weak-willed Muslim man, then step in at the last minute to stop the attack. The poor sap then gets to spend the rest of his life behind bars."

She said to the brothers, "What's supposed to happen next?"

Faraz said, "Abbas will give him the rifle at eight-thirty tonight."

She looked at her phone: 7:46. "Not much time. Where's the meeting?"

"Just a few-minute drive, in an alley across from the art museum. I have my car. Can you, maybe, come with us and video them on a secret camera?"

"Hard to say till I see it, but, um, this is a bit awkward because I don't know you, and a woman has to be careful in this city."

Faraz replied, "I understand. Maybe if you get a male reporter—"

"No." She didn't want to give up the possibly red-hot scoop. "If you'll allow me to take your picture and send it to my email account at work, so, if, um, something happens . . ."

He nodded. She snapped the picture, sent the email, then phoned Michael to tell him she'd be late and why. Reacting negatively, he insisted she not go alone with the men and said he'd join her. She said, "Can you please trust that I can handle myself?"

"But—"

"You've been there every step of the way for me, and I love you for that, but I need you to understand and respect that I have to stand on my own two feet now."

"Is it in a dangerous part of town?"

"No, the meeting is just across from the art museum."

"Liz . . . I'd be much more comfortable if you'd let me watch your back."

"No! I need your trust and confidence much more than your protection. Don't get me wrong; I'm grateful for your concern, but if I see you there, I'll be very angry."

"Understood."

"I'll be home as soon as possible."

The brothers and Elizabeth drove to the museum and turned down the alley. It was pitch black. There was a tiny parking lot nestled behind the surrounding buildings, and there were lights on the buildings but they'd been broken. _Not good_ , thought Elizabeth. They continued through the alley to the next street and parked. Elizabeth asked Ibrahim to phone her and keep it on during the meeting; she would record the conversation. A Ford sedan drove past Faraz's car and turned into the alley. "That's Abbas," said Ibrahim.

"Let's try to follow the car after the meeting," suggested Elizabeth.

Faraz agreed and told Ibrahim to take the bus home.

Ibrahim dialed Elizabeth's phone and put his phone into his jacket pocket so that the microphone could pick up his voice. He exited the car and trudged down the alley.

Over her phone they heard a man, presumably Abbas, say, "Allah will bless you for this, my friend."

Ibrahim said, "But I don't—"

"Take it!"

Elizabeth turned to Faraz and guessed, "The rifle." He nodded.

Abbas said, "Tomorrow night at 8:00 there will be a gathering at the temple. Shoot everyone you see."

"But what if I get caught or killed?" said Ibrahim.

"Then you will be glorified in martyrdom. Allah will bless you, my friend."

A moment later, Ibrahim said, "He's driving toward the museum. Did you hear us?"

"Yes. Thank you," replied Elizabeth.

Faraz followed the Ford, stopping for a second so Ibrahim could shove the rifle into the back seat. She was worried about Faraz's ability to stay with the car, but as it turned out, it drove just a couple of blocks and parked in front of an office building. They drove past and parked down the block. Elizabeth looked back to see a white man come out of the building and step into the car. Street lights enabled her to video them talking. After a minute or so, the white man returned to the building, and the Ford drove away.

Elizabeth checked and learned the office building in question housed the FBI offices in Seattle. She told Faraz to go home, that she'd take it from here, but that she'd phone them in the morning. She went to confront the FBI.

#

A motorcycle pulled to the curb. The rider, Mohammed, was watching his partner's back and had spotted the Azizi car tailing him. He observed as a woman in the car videoed the meeting between Abbas and their FBI contact, Special Agent Winter. She stepped out of the car and headed toward the FBI office, and the car drove off.

_She's a reporter!_ Mohammed realized, recognizing the pretty lady from the TV news.

He and Abbas stood to make a pretty penny with this setup, and he wouldn't stand for anyone ruining it! Alighting from his bike, he hid behind a pillar of a building down the street from the FBI office and waited to intercept her. It was important to do so before she got near the FBI building, because it had cameras pointing at the street. The road was deserted but for an old woman walking a dog a block away and two cars that were approaching, one from each direction. Of course, there could be more eyes in the nearby buildings, so he planned to seize her and quickly haul her back behind the pillars.

The cars passed his location. Clutching his dagger, he waited till the second she passed by and coiled himself to lunge at her . . . when of nowhere a man in a black hoodie appeared from behind, swinging a baseball bat! It connected with his arm that held the knife, and he grunted in pain, dropping the knife.

Mohammed collapsed to his knees, holding his injured right arm with his left. He looked up at the man, but couldn't see much in the shadows with his hood pulled low over his head, other than he was tall and white. He said, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Her bodyguard. You made a big mistake targeting her, shithead."

He reared back to strike again. "I was only going to scare her off!" claimed Mohammed, but it failed to mollify his attacker's evident rage.

"Go near her again, you're dead!" He walloped Mohammed across the side of his head, knocking him out.

#

Elizabeth entered the FBI office, hoping to spot the man. Seeing no sign of him she identified herself as a reporter for the _Seattle Times_ —she'd learned from her experience in Spokane when the authorities stepped in to halt her story and she wanted to preclude that this time—and showed the woman the paused video of him on her phone.

"That's Special Agent Winter. Not a very good picture. What do you want from him?" said the woman.

"I want to ask him a few questions on an important matter."

After a wait of seven minutes, during which Elizabeth did some second-guessing about challenging the FBI—a key part of the Deep State that had already dealt with Michael's parents ruthlessly—she was escorted to his office. She elected to be bold— _a TV reporter should be safe_ —but not without some trepidation. She asked for permission to record the conversation, which he denied.

Special Agent Winter said, "What do you want?"

"I want to know what you have to do with Ibrahim Azizi."

Special Agent Winter's eyes showed shock for a split second, but he calmly said, "Never heard of him."

"How about Abbas?" said Elizabeth.

"Don't know any Abbas."

"Then what were you doing in his car not ten minutes ago?" She showed him the video of the encounter.

"This meeting is done. Get out."

"Are you setting up Mr. Azizi so you can swoop in at the last minute to save the day?"

"Out. Now!"

"Nice talking with you, Special Agent."

Trembling from nerves or adrenaline after the confrontation, she left the building only to notice a small gathering of people around a man who was sitting on the sidewalk with blood running down his head and neck. He looked dazed, and there was something wrong with his arm.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Somebody assaulted him, just because he's a Muslim," said a woman.

"I'm a reporter," said Elizabeth to the man. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"No! Get away from me," he hollered. He struggled to his feet, swayed, staggered to a motorcycle, and drove off.

At home, Elizabeth relayed the excitement of the evening to Michael, who praised her tenacity and bravery.

She said, "It sickens me how we treat Muslims, not just the FBI, but some sick SOB on the sidewalk right down the street from the FBI."

"Was the assault unprovoked?" said Michael.

"I don't know, but the witnesses apparently thought so."

"Witnesses?"

"Well, one lady said she saw a man with a baseball bat running away, and another woman corroborated her account."

"Did they call the cops?"

"No, the victim just wanted to be left alone. He probably knows he'll get no justice. It's so sad." She kissed him and said, "Thank you for trusting me." He nodded. "Is that blood on your hand?"

"Oh, it, uh, must be from the pot roast I was preparing for dinner."

"How come I don't smell the roast?"

"I decided to save it till tomorrow since I didn't know when you'd get home. Fish cakes instead?"

Her sensational story aired the next evening. She was a little nervous that the FBI would learn who she was and step in to stop it, but her prevarication about working for the newspaper must've thrown them off long enough for her story to air.

The story made giant waves in the city for about a week. The FBI, of course, denied any involvement, and pointed out the reporter had misrepresented herself and couldn't be trusted. Elizabeth scoffed at that, reporting the next evening that the entire case was about the FBI misrepresenting _themselves_ in order to frame an innocent man just to make themselves look good and keep their budget intact.

Michael was delighted with the story, and his praise was effusive. Finally she was allowed to tell an uncomfortable truth about the government. It helped that Eric Pedamante was on vacation at the time, because he seemed upset that the station had damaged its reputation with the authorities, but he changed his tune when the kudos came rolling in from media throughout the northwest.

She was to earn the second Emmy of her young career with the story.

#

On the first Saturday in June, the 54th Annual Northwest Regional Emmy Awards ceremony took place in Seattle. A proud Michael escorted his wife to the event.

Sitting across from her at a table, Michael gazed at his wife in awe. Never had he seen her look so elegant. _God, she's breathtaking!_ Her hair was pulled back from her face into a bun at the back of her head, but for a golden wisp left to dangle over each cheek, which she'd brush away from her eyes from time to time. As she spoke to her tablemates, her head bobbed to and fro and her eyes dazzled. Every time she smiled, she took his breath away as her gleaming teeth contrasted with carmine lips. Her long gown left her neck and upper chest bare but for spaghetti straps, displaying her flawless skin. Borrowed pearls and gold hoop earrings completed the exquisite picture.

To think this was the awkward, seemingly homely girl he'd met at the movie theater almost a decade ago. He knew, once he saw her eyes, that she had great potential, but this woman before him now; _good Christ Almighty! No man is good enough for her. Look at the men gawk at her; she has them craving her attention. How can I possibly hope to keep her? Now she's a double Emmy Award winner, and I don't even have a goddamn job!_

Her attention a hot commodity, Elizabeth barely even glanced at him as she conversed with the people around the table. The odd man out, Michael stood and wandered around the spacious room until he came across Nicole, the pretty intern. She beamed a warm smile at him, which was invitation enough to sit next to her and strike up a conversation. Nicole's gown was rather plain, showing little skin, but he enjoyed her deep brown eyes and glowing smile.

Michael said, "How come you're not at the KMSM table?"

"No room, and I rank right at the bottom."

"Not so; that's my place," said Michael.

"True. You're not the most popular guy with the people I work with, though a couple of them quite like you. Dee for one, and here she comes."

Passing by, Deirdre mentioned, "Hey, Mike, my boss just described you as a know-it-all pain in the ass."

"Hey, Dee, your boss just described you as terminated." Michael ran his eyes over the lovely lady, who wore a stunning blue gown that displayed a generous portion of cleavage and, with every stride, one luscious leg through a slit. _Wow!_

She grinned and said, "He said he can't stand being in the same room as you."

"Same room? I can't stand being in the same hemisphere as him."

"I think he'd like to see you leave."

"I'd like to see him in a coffin."

She laughed and shuffled off.

Nicole said, "Your wife is the center of attention over there. I admire her."

"Me, too," said Michael.

"Oh? That kind of surprises me."

"Why?"

"I hear through the grapevine that you're always criticizing her. Oh . . . I mean, I also heard her say that she owes everything she is to you, so I don't mean to—"

"It's all right. I do criticize her a lot, particularly when she goes along with the BS coming out of the national desk."

"What do you mean? What BS?" asked Nicole.

"I promised Liz not to go on a tirade tonight."

"She's not here."

"I'm sure you don't want to hear one."

"Actually I do," said Nicole with a smile. "Deirdre said she looks for any excuse to get you going." He shrugged. "Tell me what BS upsets you most, and we'll leave it at that."

"What upsets me most is what the mainstream media doesn't tell the country, but that alone would take an hour just to summarize."

"The worst example, then," she said, inclining toward him with her chin leaning on her fist.

"US imperialism is the worst example, and it's what I hassle Liz most about. The US has started several wars since 9/11 and most of them are still going on, but the evening news has next to nothing on them. Where are the investigative reporters to hold the government accountable on its overseas misadventures? Where's the live, ongoing coverage of the wars in Afghanistan or Iraq or Libya like they had in Vietnam?"

"I thought those wars were long over."

"You just proved my point. You work in the media and you don't know the US is still in Afghanistan and Iraq blowing people up. You don't know because the media isn't reporting on it. Untold misery being inflicted by Uncle Sam isn't newsworthy? Libya has descended into protracted civil war because NATO attacked them; nothing about it in the media. At the beginning of June, UNICEF reported that 1.3 million Libyans needed emergency humanitarian assistance before they die. Hear anything about that?"

"No," said Nicole with a shocked expression.

"Do you know what NBC and the rest reported on that day instead? Obama was playing golf on celebrity islands. Big news, eh? Meanwhile, in Libya, the country he—along with the conniving witch, Hillary Clinton—absolutely demolished, people are dying in droves, and they're so desperate they're fleeing to Europe, many drowning in the process. Those who survive will contribute to the religious strife on that continent."

"I had no idea."

"Because no one, _no one_ in the mainstream media even asks why we're busy wrecking so many countries, let alone looking for answers. They've destroyed millions of lives, and for what? What the hell has the United States gained from all this bloodshed? They've lost every goddamn war they've started since World War II, for God's sake! What a useless, horrid waste of lives and money just to benefit the Deep State. They're the worst criminals on the face of the planet, and the media is helping them. I don't want Liz to be one of the enablers, so I criticize and pressure her."

"To do what, tell everyone what's going on? They'd fire her."

"Good."

"Good? She just won her second Emmy and she's not even thirty. She's so good at this. How can you want her to lose her job?"

"I just told you. The media plays a critical role in convincing the public that all these wars are necessary. People can be manipulated, especially when they trust the source, and manipulation is easy when people are afraid—Iraq and North Korea have nuclear weapons and they're going to attack us!—or outraged—Syria gassed its own people!—and the corporate media are experts at creating fear and anger. I don't want my wife to play even a bit role in helping foment new wars; that's the epitome of evil and irresponsibility. Her career is nothing compared to the millions of lives new wars will ruin. . . I've said enough. I promised Liz to avoid this stuff tonight."

"So, why does Liz owe everything to you?"

Michael replied, "All I did was help her reach her great potential."

"I wish I had someone like you to help me." He smiled, as did she. "How did you two end up here?"

He summarized Elizabeth's career trajectory, concluding, "As for her current job, we discussed things and decided to do everything she wanted and nothing I wanted. I think, maybe, she staged a coup and took over our marriage."

Deirdre strolled by again and said, "Hey, Mike, I know the secret of how to drive a man crazy in bed."

"Well, you don't seem to be keeping that secret very well."

Deirdre laughed and ambled off.

Nicole, also chuckling, said, "I'm surprised Dee said that to you. It was really suggestive."

"She likes teasing men."

"She likes _you_. If I were Liz I wouldn't want a woman like Dee interested in my husband."

"Dee's all talk. I'm sure every red-blooded man in creation interested in Liz. I trust her."

#

Elizabeth hadn't given much thought to her husband during the ceremony but now scanned the room for him. She spotted Michael in conversation with Deirdre and Nicole and frowned as she observed them. He said something, and both women laughed. Deidre sashayed away, but Nicole was immersed in conversation with him.

Despite how far she'd come, Elizabeth remained insecure when it came to Michael. Here was this fetching brunette, clearly infatuated with him despite his lowly status; all she knew was he was cute and funny. Imagine if she knew what he'd accomplished by his mid-twenties, and what he could accomplish if he set his mind to it. He would've been rich and famous had the baneful shadow government not stolen his future. She, Nicole, Deirdre, _every woman_ would be competing for him, if they knew. Even in his diminished state he was better than any man she knew.

She and Michael were drifting apart— _No!_ It was too depressing to think of where it might lead. They'd spent the last few months bickering with each other over her job, and the only solution seemed to be to quit. Elizabeth kept avoiding that not only because it would leave them destitute, but because she loved her job, and as tonight had made clear, she was damn good at it. She hoped her latest award might make him back off with the criticism.

For now she had to pry him loose from that tart.

#

Nicole told Michael, "I'm not sure if Liz trusts you. She's on her way over here, giving me the evil eye. Before she gets here, I want to say . . . um . . . if you're ever looking for another ingénue to help, look my way."

Elizabeth said, "You two seem to be getting along well."

She glowered at Nicole, who lowered her eyes and said, "I should get going."

Nicole departed, and Elizabeth asked, "What were you two talking about? She seemed enthralled."

"We definitely weren't discussing how the media ignores all the wars the good old USA has started and is still prosecuting."

"Tch! Michael, you promised."

"She insisted. I said a few things and left it at that."

Fatigued from all the excitement, Elizabeth asked Michael to take her home.

### Chapter Eight  
Seattle, July 2017

KMSM TV managers were so impressed with Elizabeth's stellar performance as a reporter that they offered her the weekend morning news anchor position remunerated at $75,000, which she enthusiastically accepted. On July 1 she debuted at 4:30 a.m. for a five-hour shift on air. Her Sunday shift was 7 a.m. to 9:30. During the week her job was to plan for the coming weekend.

Elizabeth spent the summer learning the ropes of being a weekend morning anchor and was doing well. For the most part Michael was complimentary and said little negative, in part to reduce pressure on her and in part because most of her job was introducing news, weather, and sports stories and conducting puff interviews on set, which were repeated over and over across the five hours. He made exceptions when she mindlessly or purposefully passed on obvious lies.

The first came her second Sunday on the job. The discussion started off calm, but rapidly became tense as he ramped up criticism in response to her dismissals.

Sitting down to lunch in their tiny kitchen, he lauded her performance so far, but mentioned, "I noticed you told your audience today that Iran sponsored the 9/11 attacks."

"I reported that the _New York Times_ said that." She bit into her tuna sandwich.

"Those bastards lie about everything. They're the main propaganda tool of the Deep State. The Deep State is angling for a war against Iran now, and they're paving the path by convincing the public that Iran is our mortal enemy. What better way to do that than lie about Iran being the main power behind 9/11?"

"How do you know they weren't?"

"Because I'm not brain-dead!"

"Stop yelling at me."

He took a deep breath to try to regain his equanimity, but this was a critical issue in his judgment and he didn't like her defensiveness, so he remained tense. "There's no evidence Iran sponsored 9/11, and do you know who confirmed that? The goddamn _New York Times_!" Her eyes widened. "This is a retraction of their claim that Iran sponsored the attacks. Read it," he said as he pushed the laptop to her. In the article, not only had the paper acknowledged its error, but conceded "a similar error" had occurred in 2013.

When she finished, he said, "So they actually made the same _error_ twice, which should tell anyone who bothers to think that they knew damn well they were lying. To get around this they buried a retraction deep inside the paper a week later. I found this out by spending precisely five minutes online. So tell me, did you know you were lying?"

"No!"

"Isn't it your job to check these things?"

"I don't need to hear this!"

"It's vital you hear this. They're using you to grease the wheels for war against Iran. Open your eyes! They're setting up to murder millions more people in the Middle East and you're helping them. I don't want my wife complicit. Anyone who has anything to do with helping these war criminals _is_ a war criminal!"

Elizabeth shot to her feet and stormed to their room, slamming the door. He discarded her half-eaten sandwich, for he, too, had lost his appetite.

He trod more lightly for the next couple of weeks, but in late July he again challenged her to think about the state of the media.

Sitting on the couch reading on their laptop while Elizabeth sat beside him watching TV, Michael said, "The Senate wants to declare Wikileaks a non-nation enemy intelligence service so they can charge them with espionage. Why the hell wouldn't the media be all over this giving shit to the government?" She made no response, so he continued, "I'll tell you why: the media is losing the narrative that Trump is a monster, conservatives are monsters, and Democrats are angels. So, since they're losing, they stand silent. They stand silent while Google, and the social media outlets shut down or defund conservative voices. So what if freedom of the press goes into the toilet? As long as we succeed in our coup."

He occasionally tried to lighten the mood, but she didn't react as she formerly had with a laugh or grin. At their kitchen table, he said, "Listen to this headline from _Natural News_. 'Overhaul your health by doing a natural gallbladder cleanse.'" She didn't interrupt her breakfast to react, so he continued, "Only this morning I was wondering, 'You know, I can't recall ever having cleaned my gallbladder. I bet it's filthy. I wonder how I can clean it?'" Again no reaction. He shook his head and gave up.

A few days later another story he judged as serious came up, and that set the two at loggerheads once more. Lying on their bed reading on the laptop, he said, "You have to read this. A group of former high-ranking American intelligence officials, who call themselves Veteran Intelligence Professionals for Sanity, just published a report that utterly shatters the Russian hacking conspiracy. Turns out the DNC documents were copied onto a portable storage device like a thumb drive. So _not the Russians_. Then the docs were later doctored to implicate Russia. They have irrefutable scientific _proof_ of this. Not reported in MSM. Why?"

"How should I know?" replied Elizabeth, who was standing in the closet selecting her outfit for tomorrow.

"Don't play dumb. You know damn well."

Turning her head to him, she said, "Counter to the narrative," with a sneer to mock him.

"Don't you dare talk down to me!"

"Don't you dare scream at me!" she cried, taking a stride toward him.

"If you can't see how important this story is, you're hopeless."

"I'm sick of your constant sniping."

"I'm trying to have a conversation, but any time I get the least bit critical you get defensive and hostile."

" _You're_ the one who gets hostile, and I'm sick and tired of it."

He looked at her, shook his head, and said, "What the hell happened to you? You had vitality, a genuine joy of life; you were a pleasure to be around. Now you're . . . I don't know, bitter, moody, short-tempered—"

"Because you never stop criticizing me!"

"Oh, grow up, for God's sake. Ninety percent of the time I'm complimentary. You go bonkers whenever I'm not worshiping you."

"I hate the way you treat me."

"Then act like an adult, not a spoiled, thin-skinned teenager."

"You have no idea what it takes to walk the fine line between what my employer expects from me and what my husband _demands_."

"I understand your workplace is a political minefield, but you have to understand that I couldn't care less."

"What?"

"Deal with it or quit."

"Thanks for the support."

"The problem is I spoiled you by being nothing but supportive since we met. Now you see it as your God-given right, regardless of the issue. All the while, mind you, you've given me virtually no support. You never even consider what I might want. It's all about you. Now you stand there feeling sorry for yourself because I've finally had it. You know what? Tough! My support has helped you to become what you've become: spoiled in both senses; pampered and decayed. I've come to regret supporting you, and you'll get no more."

"Then no more sex!"

"I won't notice any difference, and I couldn't care less!"

She brought her hand to her mouth and rushed out weeping.

Their relationship continued to deteriorate, so by August, he would pick out news items he knew would rile her, and she would ignore him or give perfunctory responses.

Early on in the month, Michael walked in from the balcony with the laptop to the kitchen table where Elizabeth was jotting down notes for a weekend interview. Placing the machine before her, he said, "I wanted to show you this beyond-belief Orwellian headline from the spin kings at the _New York Times_ : 'Russia's Military Drills Near NATO Border Raise Fears of Aggression.' Do you see any problems with that? . . . No? I'm not surprised since your brain is now thoroughly addled by the company you keep."

"You, you mean?"

Ignoring that, he continued, "Here's a hint. NATO has no border; it's actually Russia's border. So, NATO is setting up bases and moving war machines to the Russian borders, Russia is running drills inside their own country, and _they're_ the aggressors? The _Times_ is deliberately stirring up pro-war sentiment, same as they did with the Iraq war, Syrian war, Libyan war, and same as they're now doing with North Korea and Iran. Who reads this dangerous, embarrassing rag? How stupid does someone have to be to believe anything they write?"

A few days later, near bedtime, he said to her, "Gallup poll found fifty-eight percent of the country backs war against North Korea if diplomacy and sanctions don't work. Congratulations! Your propaganda worked. The way is smoothed for the next war. Millions might die. Happy? Want to go out to celebrate?" Since she didn't answer, he teased, "'How about we get naked and go to bed?' he asked, knowing she'd rather get drawn and quartered."

Elizabeth said, "'I'd love to,' she would've answered if he wasn't such a jerk."

"At least that's a better excuse than 'I'm tired.'"

"Yet they mean the same thing."

"Ah, now we're getting to the bottom of why I so seldom get to your bottom. Why don't I sleep on the couch?"

"Good idea."

"Bad night, dear."

"Bad night."

"I want a divorce," he mumbled to himself as he left their room.

Unwelcome self-revelations often creep up without our noticing, though we sense something vaguely discomforting. The discomfort grows over time until we can no longer deny something's wrong, though we still can't specify what it might be. Then one day we get a sudden jolt; _Oh, no!_ We know exactly what's wrong, and it's not pleasant. Only then do we become conscious of the signs that have been there all along.

I want a divorce!

He lay on the uncomfortable couch and wept.

#

Michael had only an inkling of his wife's disquietude. She still loved him and respected him, though he was infuriating her these days. In her mind he misunderstood, perhaps intentionally, her standpoint on the cardinal issue dividing them; her job.

She was deeply conflicted at work. She knew full well that a number of national and international stories she broadcast to an ignorant, gullible public were lies. Whenever she questioned a story, she was pressured to cease. She was told her future was bright as long as she toed the line. "Don't think, just read," was essentially what they expected. And, absent the lying, she loved her job.

At home, Michael pressured her to be truthful. She'd thus far listened to her employer rather than her husband, and this was doing great damage to their marriage. It slowly dawned on Elizabeth that she was choosing her job over her husband. The thought of losing him was much worse than the thought of losing her career, but if she made the right choice, she was back to square one; unemployed with no prospects in the corporate media, and she wasn't qualified for anything else. Siding with her husband would leave both of them unemployed with no prospects. What then? Where would they live? How would they eat? They had no savings.

Her angst was such that she lost her appetite and trembled whenever she even thought about how to face down her bosses concerning the latest challenge Michael had issued and how to face her husband after she chickened out. It seemed she was on a path to a fateful decision: her husband or her career. She was at her wits' end with how to navigate this path so as to avoid this dilemma.

At the end of her Sunday morning newscast in mid-August, she sat despondent at her desk. Earlier she'd introduced another national news story that again implied the president had links to Russia, and she didn't want to go home to another grilling.

The evening before had featured still another heated argument between the pair in their apartment. As if his constant shots at her performance on air weren't bad enough, Michael had taken aim at her texting.

"Tell me," he opened in his now familiar combative tone, "aren't reporters supposed to report what happened, as opposed to how it affects them and what they think about it?"

"Yes."

"Then explain to me why you're constantly on Twitter or Facebook telling everyone what Liz Morrison thinks on this and that?"

"Journalists are expected to tweet nowadays, and that means sharing our views on key news items."

"Who gives a shit what journalists think? It doesn't matter what they think."

"I have thousands of fans who care."

"Fans? A newscaster has fans?"

"I meant followers."

"No, you meant _fans_. You love the limelight; you're signing autographs, for Christ's sake. A newscaster! You're supposed to report the news, not _be_ the news. You're not writing op-eds . . . well, you are, but you're not supposed to be."

"Don't presume to tell me what I'm supposed to be doing with _my_ job."

"What the hell do you know about ninety-nine percent of the subjects you tweet about?"

"That's why it's opinion."

"Besides your _fans_ , you're writing to your colleagues; showing them you're part of the in group, that you share their warped view of the world."

"Who cares what _you_ think?"

"You betray your ignorance and arrogance every time you send out a tweet. It's embarrassing."

"I'm sick and tired of your unending criticism. Leave me the hell alone!"

They'd slept apart again, which was becoming the norm. They hadn't made love for at least a month, and he didn't seem to care. She'd read enough women's magazines to know that was a glaring danger signal. A deep sense of dread over their marriage was her constant companion these days.

Michael's unyielding line was, _Never lie to your audience! It's unprofessional, irresponsible, and even dangerous if the lie is big enough, and it reflects poorly on our family._ Was he willing to end the marriage if she continued to cross that line?

Tim Cooke, the broadcast technician for all her newscasts, said, "Still here?" She nodded sadly. "What's the matter, Liz?"

"My job, my marriage, my life; everything else is fine."

"Oh, let's hear all about it," said Hayley Black, an associate news director who worked weekends.

"Let's restrict it to the job," suggested Tim.

"You can tell me the rest when we get rid of Tim," said Hayley.

"It's all kind of interrelated anyway. I have my husband constantly pressuring me to tell the truth when I read the news, but I have my employer telling me to stick to reading what's written for me and leave the editorial decisions to the experts. I'm caught in the middle."

"What does he mean, telling the truth?" said Hayley.

"He's unemployed, and he spends his days reading on the Internet and tells me what he thinks is really going on in the world. He says NBC and all the other networks and major newspapers are lying about everything important by omission or commission."

"He's pretty much right," said Tim.

"What?" said Hayley with an expression of surprise and confusion. "You're saying we're lying about everything?"

Tim smiled and replied, "No, just the important stuff."

Elizabeth responded, "Mike's been saying that for months and asking me why I'm lying to everyone watching the news." Her eyes began to water. "We're arguing all the time. I read the news, go home, and get the third degree from my husband for lying. He told me if my lies about Russia or Ukraine or Iran or North Korea help the government incite a war, I'd be partially responsible for maybe millions of lost lives! He said I'd be a war criminal."

"That's a bit harsh," said Tim. "My wife questions a lot of what we're reporting, too, but she doesn't make me feel guilty about it."

"I think that's mean of Mike," said Hayley.

A tear dripped onto Elizabeth's cheek. "What if he's right? If what we're actually doing is priming the population for yet another war, do we not share any of the responsibility?"

"We're just doing our job," said Hayley.

Elizabeth asked Tim, "How do you justify the lying to yourself?"

"What choice do I have? I have a newborn and a two-year-old and a mortgage of half a million bucks. Jess is a copy editor at the _Seattle Times_ and has been told when she gets back from maternity leave she'll be going down to part-time."

Elizabeth said, "So our excuse for abetting the war boosters is we're just making a living?"

"I don't want to hear any of this," said Haley, who strode away.

Tim said, "I don't have any magic words to make you feel better. If you're in the position to make a living doing something else, then I suggest you leave since you're obviously feeling guilty and worried about your marriage."

"I don't have any experience or credentials to start all over at anything else, and I'd have a whole lot to lose. Not to brag, but Eric told me they're grooming me for the national news."

"I've heard that; you're the current golden girl. I'd suggest trying your luck with the competition—"

"Mike says they're all the same."

"True, so you'll have the same problem, and if you burn this bridge, word will get out fast that you're not with the program, so to speak, and you'll be blacklisted."

"If I quit we have no income, no savings, and no prospects. I can't quit."

"Which is where I am, and that has to be your justification."

The next week, KMSM TV staff members and spouses were invited to a barbeque at the Executive Director's house. Elizabeth debated whether to extend the invitation to Michael. She thought, maybe, he wouldn't want to come anyway, so she invited him. Turned out he was so bored he agreed to accompany her. As always, she asked him to avoid any controversial debates.

He kept to himself for the most part, drinking beer while Elizabeth circulated. That wasn't difficult for him, since most wanted nothing to do with him and vice-versa. He gravitated toward Tim, whom he seemed to like. Deirdre and Nicole also garnered his interest, naturally.

Elizabeth passed by him in conversation a few times and heard snippets. He was keeping his fans entertained.

On her first pass she heard him tell Deirdre, "I don't have a bucket list but I have a lengthy fuck-it list."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and passed them by.

On pass two, Tim asked Michael, "What's he look like?"

Her husband answered, "Plop a small ball of shit onto a big tower of shit."

Tim laughed. Elizabeth furrowed her brow and made her way to the associate producer to ask him a question.

Pass three featured Michael telling Tim, "One must take care not to violate terrorist etiquette. Normally, when I bludgeon someone to death . . ." Elizabeth hurried on her way so as not to hear the rest.

On Elizabeth's fourth pass, Deirdre was presumably telling Nicole and Michael about a trip to Australia, because she said, "Yes, all over the place. There are so many kangaroos they're a hazard on the highways after dark."

"Are they protected by the government?" said Nicole.

"Probably," said Deidre. "How else would there be so many of them?"

Michael responded, "They fuck a lot?" Both women chortled as Elizabeth smirked and headed to the bathroom.

A guffaw prompted Elizabeth to make a fifth pass. Michael was surrounded by Deirdre, Nicole, Tim and his wife, and another couple Elizabeth didn't know, all of whom were laughing. Michael was saying, ". . . bought your grandma a thong for Valentines . . . you might be a pervert." More laughter ensued.

"One more, one more!" said Nicole. Deidre nodded, and all looked at him expectantly.

Michael said, "I can't think of . . . oh! If your date has sexy hooves . . . you might be a pervert." All laughed heartily again, Deidre placing her hand on Michael's chest, which failed to impress Elizabeth, but just as she was about to liberate her husband from Deirdre's clutches, Eric called her over to meet a network executive. They sat at a poolside table sipping drinks.

The executive was a plain-looking man, but, the confident way he presented himself gave Elizabeth the impression he was important. He said, "Sit. We hear a lot of good things about you."

"Thank you," she replied.

"I understand you started your broadcasting career as a weathergirl?"

"Yes, for over two years in Calgary."

"Finding charismatic reporters who have experience with the weather can be a challenge. Might you be interested in reporting live when a hurricane hits? There's one aiming for Houston as we speak."

"Absolutely." She was ready to leap to her feet with joy, but restrained herself.

"Good. We'll let you know. Neophytes are typically posted off the beaten path, to begin with. I mean, hurricanes are unpredictable beasts, and we need people in place in case it swerves at the last minute. So, if we call on you, it'd be on standby status, but it's still a great opportunity. You'd still have your position here, but this is kind of an audition for a permanent position at the network level."

"Thank you. If you call, I'll be ready."

"Good."

They shook hands, and an ebullient Elizabeth headed back to Michael to let him know the exciting news. Deirdre now occupied his attention. _Figures_ , Elizabeth thought.

He said to Deirdre, "I can think of one flaw; it's completely ridiculous."

Deirdre tittered and said, "You just need to get out and meet people."

Michael retorted, "I've met enough people to know I've met enough people."

That delighted Deirdre, who gazed at him desirously.

Elizabeth reclaimed him for supper.

After steak and burgers—Michael had rejected each after a taste, saying a Mexican armed with a boatload of chiles, oregano, and cumin must've been in charge of barbequing—people shuffled off with drinks in hand. Elizabeth again circulated but soon noticed Michael with a group of several station personnel. Curious, she went to check it out.

As Elizabeth strolled to the group, Deirdre was saying, "Only Mike and Tim got that one right. Second question—and again, I want you to give me an answer quickly, and Mike, don't shout out your answer yet. A bat and a ball cost a total of a dollar-ten. The bat costs a dollar more than the ball. How much does the ball cost?"

Virtually everyone without delay said, "Ten cents," some adding, "You're kidding, right? Make this a little challenging," or words to that effect. Elizabeth was thinking the same thing.

"What's going on?" she asked Olivia, the weeknight weather person.

"Shortest IQ test in the world, supposedly. Three questions that were in some economics journal years back. Deirdre said it would be fun. I'm not sure about that. I think they're trick questions, and they'll make us feel stupid."

"Mike?" said Deidre.

"Five cents."

"I guess you think you're being funny," said Carmen.

"He's right," said Deirdre.

"Come off it!" said Vicky. "It's so obvious the answer's ten cents. Why are you wasting our time with this, Dee?"

"Mike, explain," said Deirdre.

"Focus on the word _more_. You all said ten cents. The bat costs a dollar _more_ than ten cents, so a buck-ten. A buck-ten plus ten is a buck-twenty, but we were told the total is a buck-ten. A buck more than a nickel is a buck-five, totaling a buck-ten."

"Thank you, Mike," said Deirdre with a warm smile.

_What's her angle here?_ wondered Elizabeth.

Deirdre continued, "Last question. Mike, keep it to yourself. There's a patch of lily pads in a lake. Every day, the patch doubles in size. If it takes forty-eight days for the patch to cover the entire lake, how long would it take for the patch to cover half of the lake?"

Most people quickly answered twenty-four days, though a few remained silent, likely worried about looking like a fool, having gotten the other questions wrong. Twenty-four was the answer Elizabeth had come up with as well, but as she thought about it a bit more she came up with the correct response just as Gerry, an associate producer, said, "No, it's forty-seven."

"Mike?" said Deirdre.

"He's right. If on day forty-seven the lake is half full and it doubles every day, on day forty-eight the lake is full."

The abashed group dispersed, shaking their heads. Deidre said to Elizabeth and Michael, "You see those two right over there? That's Jacqueline Bennett and Bill Mason. Heard of them?"

Elizabeth nodded. She recognized Jacqueline as a news anchor for MSNBC and Bill as a political reporter for CNN. With short blonde hair and a voluptuous figure, Jacqueline was attractive, yet was severe-looking when she addressed serious topics. Bill was a bald, rotund man, perhaps forty, with an effeminate voice. His high-pitched rants against Trump were by now legendary.

Deidre went on, "Did you know Jackie used to work at KMSM and Bill worked at K . . . ? I don't remember the letters; it's the CBS affiliate in the city." Elizabeth shook her head. "I want you two to meet them."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," said Elizabeth, gesturing to her husband.

"Oh, I think it's a wonderful idea. I love fireworks."

"You're asking for it," said Elizabeth.

Deirdre said, "I spoke to them just now, and they've let their success go to their heads. They think they know everything when they know damn close to nothing. It'll be fun watching them get all upset with Mike's political incorrectness."

Deirdre seized Michael's hand to lead him to the pair, which riled Elizabeth. Upon reaching them, Deirdre said, "Jacquie, Bill, meet Liz and Mike. Liz joined us about a year ago, and she'll be taking whichever one of your jobs she wants within another year." The two laughed, likely dismissing the very thought, but Deirdre leaned between Elizabeth and Michael and murmured, "I was serious. You're much better than either of them."

Elizabeth nodded and smiled. Michael whispered to his wife, "I'm sure you're better than anyone on those networks, but please don't ever take a job with them."

Deirdre proceeded to say, "Mike can't work in this country yet because he's Canadian, but when he does work he's a mechanic's helper, he tells me, though I think there's something wrong about that story. Anyway, want to debate this mechanic's helper on any topic of your choosing? Both of you against him. I don't like your chances," she added with a smile.

"No thanks," said Jacqueline and Bill in unison, in a tone that suggested, _Stop wasting our time._

Deirdre said, "Mike, tell us what you think of Antifa."

He glanced at Elizabeth, who shrugged while sipping her wine, and he replied, "A bunch of thugs who're so stupid, they have no idea they embody the very evil they affect to protest."

"Oh come on," said Bill. "How can you make that charge?"

"Antifa, short for anti-fascists. They come to the rallies in masks or hoods, brandishing baseball bats, clubs, tire irons, and rioting, setting fires, and attacking innocents or the police. Just like the Nazi brown shirts in the thirties, or the Red Guard supporting Mao."

"Nazis and communists are on the opposite ends of the political spectrum," held Jacqueline.

"Actually Nazi stood for National _Socialism._ Communism and Nazism both push for totalitarian power for the state—in other words for the absolute subjugation of everyone to the all-powerful state—and anyone who gets out of line must be severely punished or killed."

"You actually believe communism is as bad as fascism?" said Jacqueline with a visage of outrage.

"Worse," said Michael.

"Worse?" said Bill, obviously incensed. "What are you? A Nazi sympathizer?"

"To defend Hitler is maybe the most abominable thing I can think of," said Jacqueline.

"You know damn well I'm not defending Hitler," said Michael. "People like you invoke Hitler whenever you want to establish moral superiority because you can't win factually or intellectually."

"I take great exception to that. I'm Jewish and—"

"So what? Who cares what your religion is? Hitler was bad. What a revelation! You should report that on your next broadcast, but maybe add that Stalin killed far more people than Hitler, and so did Mao, so by that measure they're even worse. Maybe not by your measure since Stalin and Mao murdered atheists or Orthodox Christians or Buddhists or Taoists or Muslims, and Hitler murdered a lot of Jews and others, but I measure by human lives regardless of religion. Guess what? _Both_ Communists and Nazis are awful human beings. So, why are you focusing on the one—neo-Nazis and KKK—and ignoring the crimes of Antifa and Black Lives Matter?"

"A KKK shirt would fit you perfectly," said Jacqueline.

"And you'd look much more attractive in a hood," said Michael. He turned to Elizabeth and said, "I know; filter." He guzzled the remainder of the beer in the can."

Chuckling, Deidre asked Michael, "So you oppose Antifa and Black Lives Matter because they use violence?"

"As bad as that is, I think the larger issue is what they stand for. These mobs are teeming with feeble-minded, immoral, gullible goons looking for trouble. They beat up people who have the nerve to disagree with them, they ruin property, they seek to disrupt and discredit any assembly that stands for long-cherished Western values, especially freedom of expression. They flippantly disregard the law and society's morals, all along given a free ride by the police and defended by or even cheered on by the corrupt national media."

"Corrupt? We're doing a fair and balanced job," said Bill. Michael laughed. "What, do you hate the media? Don't you know a free press is vital to any democracy?"

Michael answered, "Yes it is. The problem is there is no free press. If you dare to state the truth on any matter of importance to the corporatocracy you'd be out on your ear in a split second. Authorized story lines only!"

"Now hold on," said Jacqueline. "You're essentially accusing us of lying."

"When you start off the financial news saying the economy is doing great because unemployment is at record lows, you're misinforming your audience."

"I beg your pardon? I'm a trained economist. Are you?"

"No, thank God," said Michael. "If an economist said the sun will rise tomorrow, it wouldn't."

"Funny. Unemployment is well under five percent," said Jacqueline.

"According to the government, yes, but you must know they selectively count the unemployed; that there are a hundred million working age Americans not working."

"They're retired or at college," asserted Jacqueline.

"I'm not sure whether you're afraid to tell your audience the truth, or you learn along the way what topics are _verboten_ and don't even have to be told to avoid them, or you're just too lazy to learn what the truth is, but whichever way, you're doing the bidding of the Deep State, whether you know it or not."

"Deep State," said Bill with a dismissive tone. "Just another conspiracy theory."

"Which is Deep State code for 'shut this loudmouth up before he gets too close to the truth.'"

"You know nothing about the internal workings of the media, yet you come across as if you somehow know everything," said Bill.

"I don't need to know the inner workings since I can see the product right on my TV. The best example of this is your coverage of Trump. You don't investigate; you merely pass on the word of those who have an interest in undermining the president. You're their press agents. You're being used and you have no idea."

Bill, now close to livid, said, "Trump's immoral, period. Here's this misogynic, racist pig putting at great risk all peoples on our planet, and you're defending him? We have real problems like climate change, the glorification of slave owners, racism, sexism, disrespect and outright hostility toward transgender people, undocumented immigrants panicking they could be deported, the ban of Muslim immigrants, and on and on, yet Trump just sits there tweeting his sophomoric nonsense all day."

"All I hear from you is the same vacuous, sanctimonious garbage masquerading as morality that spews out of socialists' mouths all over the Western world. Where the hell is your indignation for the people that our liberal democracies are bombing, mutilating, and killing all over the developing world? Where's your anxiety for the danger that the neocons and their mouthpieces in the mainstream mediocrity are creating by demonizing Russia? You're risking nuclear war with the Russian nonsense. Can't you see how utterly irresponsible and malevolent that is?"

He was cut off by Jacqueline, who said, "Enough with the tirade! I ask you, where's _your_ morality? You laughed when Bill said transgender people. Only a truly intolerant and despicable patriarch would deny these people their right to be considered what they consider themselves and to be addressed as he, she, ze, whatever they please."

_Uh oh_ , thought Elizabeth. _Now he'll take off the gloves_. She tried to convey with her expression, _Relax!_ but he was focused on Jacqueline.

"You obsess over GD pronouns and look down on me because I don't subscribe to your bullshit on abolishing biology? Right now your malicious fucking country is carpet bombing Raqqa, Syria, murdering thousands of civilians. This is a disgraceful _war crime_. Where's your reporting on it? Where's your pity for the victims? You're busy fulminating against improper pronouns while the world falls apart; you're the immoral one! You and all the goddamn libtards who foam at the mouth over meaningless, manufactured bullshit, but ignore outrages being perpetrated by the people you worship. You disgust me!" He crushed his empty beer can in his fist.

Jaw hanging low and eyes apprehensive, Jacqueline couldn't utter a word as Elizabeth intervened. "That's enough! Everyone calm down. We'll leave now, and you can go back to making merry."

As they walked away, Deirdre accompanied them and said to Michael, "Sorry. I guess I put you on the spot. I was just curious about how you'd handle them. You did superbly, and I quite enjoyed the exchange. I agree with most of what you said, by the way, although I'm not sure whether most people in the media know they're lying. It's an incestuous group with the same values, and there's a fairly severe degree of groupthink. They're convinced they're telling the truth, no matter how outlandish it might sound to an outsider."

Elizabeth added, "That's right. They laud each other in person and on social media for supporting the group. Everyone they respect agrees with them, so it reinforces their convictions. They're the epitome of yes-men and yes-women, and anyone who raises any doubts is scorned and corrected. I learned that right away."

"So there's never any penalty for lying?" said Michael.

Deirdre responded, "Quite the contrary. Just praise and career advancement for upholding the narrative, and penalties for countering it."

"Which suffocates alternative viewpoints," said Elizabeth. "Whenever I speak up against what everyone's saying, I get shut down."

"But you and Deirdre know what the _real_ problems are, yet you play along in their make-believe world," said Michael.

Deirdre explained, "It's not as straightforward as you seem to assume. Believe me, whenever a good reporter, like Liz or me, comes up with a scoop, we try to run with it, but there are managers and editors who have say over us. They have to please their corporate masters, who, in turn have to please their sponsors, not to mention staying off the bad side of government regulators who can cause the network headaches.

"I had a juicy story on phony research in the pharmaceutical industry when I worked for the Los Angeles ABC affiliate a few years back. Lawyers for the drug company immediately went to work, threatening lawsuits and telling ABC they wouldn't place any more of their expensive ads on the network. Their lobbyists contacted Congressmen in districts where the drugs were manufactured and where they did R&D, and the politicians began threatening the network, too. My story was axed. There's an entire industry devoted to helping companies or famous people get stories killed or at least modified, and other stories—which are really advertising or propaganda—placed in papers and on TV or radio. Even honest managers and editors get worn down by these tactics over time and just give in, and so do reporters. Why bother working hard on a juicy story? It'll just be killed. The corporate and political interference is getting worse, too."

"Okay, I understand," said Michael, "but that's different from not informing your audience about, say, the desperate situation in Syria, or passing along the next lie about, whatever; the Russians stealing the election."

"To be honest, my bottom line is, 'Okay, I'll play along, because I have a glamorous and well-paid career to think about.' It's easy to say quit when it's not you."

"Precisely," said Elizabeth.

"And if every voice of reason left the media, how much worse would it be?" added Deirdre. "Anyway, enough of that. I want to know, Mr. Morrison, just how smart are you?"

"Smarter than the average journalist."

"That wouldn't take much." Deirdre pressed him. "You didn't answer my question. Do you have a degree?"

"Yes."

"In?"

"Aeronautical engineering."

"A rocket scientist," said Deirdre. "Why am I not surprised?"

_Shit_ , thought Elizabeth.

Deirdre continued, "I bet you have a genius IQ."

He replied, "Why do you care? It's only a number and doesn't account for common sense, creativity, or any other aspect of intelligence."

"Yes, in other words. Here's the thing . . . I want to talk to both of you about this. I can't see myself ever getting married. I get bored with any man after a month at most, though it might take a year or two with you," she said to Michael with a wink. "But I'll be thirty-four next month, and I really, _really_ want a child, and I think I found the perfect man to father—"

"My man?" said Elizabeth, who found herself upset at the prospect. _This is why she staged all this; to gauge his suitability to father her child_.

"Strictly a medical procedure," Deirdre hastened to add. "Mike just needs to make a sperm donation—"

Michael interrupted to say, "My policy is direct deposit; no middle man."

"Fine by me, but I'm sure Liz would object."

"I do, and I'm not happy about a sperm donation either."

"May I ask why?" said Deirdre.

"If you have his child, he'll want to visit a lot and be with his child and . . . you. It's a real complication with all sorts of unknowns, and it makes me very uncomfortable."

Deirdre said, "I understand, but all I ask is that you think about it. Maybe if one of us takes a job elsewhere, so you don't have to worry about visits. Just think about it."

Elizabeth reluctantly nodded and led her husband to their car.

As she assumed the driver's seat, designated driver once again, she said, "I don't want you siring her child."

"Why not? We'd make an amazing kid, don't you think? We owe it to the world. Her genes express themselves most superlatively and they're calling out to mine."

"I told you why, and I shouldn't need to argue my case. I'm your wife, and my say is as important as yours in this."

"Oh? My say in your career seems to be zero, so why should you get equal say in what becomes of my cum?"

"Mike, I . . ."

"I've always wanted to be a father, and you don't seem interested in a family anymore." Seeing her pouting, he said, "Liz, relax. I have no intention of going against your wishes."

"I do want children. I've always wanted children. I want _your_ children."

"Just not now."

"I know you're anxious. Just give me a little more time to get more established, then—"

"Then you'll move up to national level and will need more time. Soon it'll be too late."

Given her conversation with the network executive, this prospect was real. She decided now was not the time to reveal this to her spouse. "I promise we'll have children as soon as practical."

"Practical?"

_Oh shit! Wrong word._ "Please, Mike. Give me a little more time. Please!"

He nodded and left it at that.

Elizabeth couldn't find a way to tell Michael about the possibility of being called to the national stage for a hurricane. Such was the state of their marriage. Hurricane Harvey passed without a call from the network, but she did get a call for Hurricane Irma, which was set to inflict itself along the east coast of Florida after wreaking havoc in the Caribbean. She would be posted on the Gulf Coast in case the hurricane shifted, and she had to inform her husband and had no idea what his reaction might be. Fortunately he raised the general topic.

"CNN told its brain-dead viewers today that hurricane names are sexist because female hurricanes are deadlier than male hurricanes. Here I was laughing at the alternative news sites contending that the hurricanes were the result of climate engineering, but CNN got even more pathetic than that. Irma's bearing down on Florida, and Jose is next. God's pissed at the hegemonic troublemaker, aiming a few hurricanes at the country within a month. Maybe they should stop killing people all over the planet."

"Um, speaking of hurricanes . . . NBC has . . . um, asked me to go to Florida—"

"What?"

She'd been curious about whether he would care that she might be risking her life while worrying he wouldn't care.

"Jesus, Liz, that could be _very_ dangerous."

Relieved to observe his obvious concern, she took his hand and said, "I'll be posted on the Gulf coast, just in case. The models predict it'll hit the Atlantic coast."

"And if it deviates west?"

Squeezing his hand, she said, "This is an incredible opportunity for me. I'll decline it if you insist, but I _really_ want to do this."

"Why you? Aren't there more experienced reporters wanting this opportunity?"

"Weathergirl background, I guess."

"Test for the national stage?"

"Maybe."

"Ah, shit, how can I deny you this opportunity?"

"Thank you!" Elizabeth hugged and kissed him, then hastened to pack her bags.

The next morning as she was set to leave, she mentioned, "I've noticed lately that you're getting a bit of a potbelly; nothing serious yet, but I'd like you to consider cutting back on the junk you eat and maybe getting some exercise. When I think about it, it's amazing you're not fat with your diet and sedentary habits. Maybe get a start when I'm away?" He nodded. "See you in five days."

"Be careful," said Michael. "Don't be like those fools who stand outside in hundred mile-per-hour winds and driving rain. All they're proving is their stupidity. Promise me, Liz."

"I promise." She kissed him and hurried to the waiting taxi.

### Chapter Nine  
Seattle, September, 2017

"Ah, God dammit. I knew it!" said Michael. Word had just come from the National Hurricane Center that Hurricane Irma had shifted west, just as he'd feared, so his wife was now directly in the monster storm's path in Naples, Florida. He phoned her.

"Liz—"

"I know what you're going to say, but I can't leave. Not only would that cost me any hope of promotion, it would ruin my reputation. I have no choice."

"Shit, Liz, I know that, but . . ."

"I promise I'll stay under cover. I'm not looking to show off. I'll just do my job as best I can. Sorry, Mike. I have another call. As you can imagine things are hopping here and we have to choose suitable locations. Love you."

And that was that. Michael was a little surprised that he was so worried about a woman he'd convinced himself he no longer loved. Then again, no matter how he felt about her now, she'd meant everything to him, and he wished her no harm. Still, he felt a genuine sense of dread as he spent a sleepless night worried about what Elizabeth would face the coming day. Was his love live embers ready to roar back to life, or merely ashes?

He was up before dawn and switched on NBC, which was covering the storm just off the Florida Keys. He watched the coverage all morning, most of which was from eastern Florida. He'd been so down on the network, he was pleasantly surprised at how professional the coverage was.

Early that afternoon, the anchor introduced Elizabeth, saying the storm was due at her location in Naples late afternoon. The shot switched to her. There she stood, large black microphone in hand, dressed in a yellow rain jacket, black pants, black boots, and a beige baseball cap with the NBC peacock. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail, which she'd pulled through the gap in the back of the cap. To him she was the cutest being on the planet.

Standing on a deserted street, Elizabeth was soaked with pouring rain, just the outer limits of the gargantuan storm. "Things are rapidly intensifying here as Irma bears down on the Florida Gulf Coast. We don't expect the full-force hurricane winds here until early evening, but . . ."

A powerful wind gust from behind Elizabeth caught her by surprise, and she had to quickly shift her feet to stay upright. A palm frond tumbled past her. She kept calm and continued, "As you can see, it's already delivering a powerful punch. The streets are deserted, which makes sense, but it's a bit eerie."

She moseyed a few feet to a man whom she introduced as the mayor. She asked him about preparations, estimated proportion of people who'd elected to ride out the storm, and any reports of damage thus far. Among the revelations was that emergency workers wouldn't be available once the wind speed hit the forties, which Michael thought was ridiculous, especially as his wife would be out there when the wind hits a hundred plus.

The network shifted location at that point. Michael was at once impressed by Elizabeth's performance under stress and worried about what was in store for her.

Mid-afternoon, she reported from the same location downtown but the picture showed the shoreline where people had ventured out to where the ocean waters had receded as the storm approached. Elizabeth said, "Authorities continue to warn about a massive potential storm surge. These people are at great risk because receding water presages a coming surge that could quickly overtake them. Emergency workers are unavailable until after the storm passes, so city officials are urging people to stay inside."

Switching to her location, NBC showed Elizabeth in a parking lot; the wind and rain were steady and getting heavier. Braced against frequent gusts, she held her hand up to keep the rain out of her eyes and struggled to remain upright, ponytail whipping around, jacket and pants rippling against her body, and it was difficult at times to hear her speak. The sound technician must've conveyed this to her, because, as she continued to report, she made her way toward a building where the cameraman stood. On the way she said, "Oh!" as a wayward mail box was blown across the path directly in front of her. "I guess wind and rain really don't stop them," she said to the laughter of the people in the studio, with whom she was conversing. Michael smiled at her sangfroid and professionalism. She really was a natural at this.

All afternoon as the storm intensified the network periodically checked in with Elizabeth, who was camped underneath the arch of a bank building, out of the direct path of the wind. One time the wind would be screaming, the palm fronds on the trees behind her practically horizontal, the next would be comparatively calm as waves of the storm hit and passed. Speaking of waves, during her update from Naples at around five o'clock, she noted white caps on the avenue as the camera panned left to right.

Suddenly a transformer exploded behind Elizabeth, which the camera caught. Clearly startled, Elizabeth winced and ducked, but recovering her composure almost immediately, she chortled and said, "Sorry, this is my first hurricane. I knew to expect wind and rain, but not explosions." Again, the co-anchors in the studio chuckled as Elizabeth carried on. "That illustrates a major emerging problem, and one that will beset the state in the days and weeks to come: damage to the electrical infrastructure. Power is out all over this city, with power lines down and, as our crack cameraman Joe just caught, at least one transformer exploding. The mayor has cautioned residents to stay clear of dangling power lines once the storm has passed.

"Something else I hadn't expected is the constant popping in my ears as the air pressure suddenly changes. If you look behind me now," she said as she stepped aside so the camera could focus beyond her, "you can see that . . . you can't see. It reminds me of whiteouts that we get in blizzards up north. There's so much water in the air, it's a little like being inside a churning dishwasher.

"Right there," she said, pointing her cameraman to something interesting. "The wind is so ferocious it's creating mini-tornadoes of water in the flooded parking lot next to this building." A yield sign flew by and Elizabeth said, "At least the sign is warning people to get out of the way." Michael laughed while shaking his head in awe of her. Elizabeth went on, "Keep in mind as we watch the turmoil behind me, we've yet to see the peak of the storm."

One of the co-anchors asked her whether she thought global warming might be to blame for the recent rash of hurricanes, which had Michael rolling his eyes. He thought Elizabeth's answer to this foolish question was brilliant. "Uh, not sure about that. It seems to be a remote concept at the moment."

NBC went to commercial, and Michael went to get a bite to eat. He was still worried about her, but she was in what seemed to be a fairly safe position, and she oozed such confidence that it calmed him. When they returned to her, the camera showed that it was almost pitch black outside at 5:54 p.m. on a summer evening. "We can't see twenty feet," she said. He sat, eating a plate of brown beans and homemade bread, and watched her report.

NBC proceeded to other correspondents for a while, but when they returned to Elizabeth she was standing in the parking lot. It was bright and breezy. "We're in the eye of Irma." She tittered adorably, then apologized, saying, "Sorry. Phil, our sound man, just joked we should poke her hard in her eye for what she's doing to us." The co-anchors laughed, but it sounded phony. Elizabeth continued, "A few people are taking advantage of the respite to walk their dogs." Here the camera showed three people doing so. "We hope they know the rear end of Irma will be here shortly."

Elizabeth was on a few more times throughout the evening, but the main focus of reporting had moved north. Michael poured three ounces of Crown Royal over ice to celebrate her safety and stellar performance.

She managed to reach him later that evening and was excited after her eventful day. He lauded her on air work. "Liz, I can only say, wow! You were flawless. You were classy, witty, personable, the cutest thing on earth; the consummate professional."

She thanked him and said the NBC brass told her much the same thing, adding that they wanted her to stick around for another couple of days to report on the storm's aftermath.

Her main report was slotted into the NBC national news Monday evening. As the shot showed three young black men linking arms to rescue a white woman and her child from a car in rushing waters, then a white man carrying two black children to safety through waist-deep water, Elizabeth concluded her narration, "In the wake of this destructive hurricane, there are no colors, creeds, ethnicities, or genders, just people helping each other . . . well, and people helping themselves to others' belongings on abandoned downtown streets, as Jason Sands reports from Fort Meyers."

On Wednesday afternoon she returned home, and Michael reiterated his congratulations for her performance. She talked about her week for hours, and he listened attentively.

After dinner she asked, "Did you lose any weight?"

"Yup, lost four pounds."

"I can't tell."

"Well, I gained five of them back."

"Didn't you eat healthy as I suggested?"

"Yup. Yesterday's diet was typical. All I ate was bread, tomatoes, a bit of ham, and a few small chunks of pineapple."

"That does sound healthy—wait. You ate a Hawaiian pizza, didn't you?"

"It was delicious."

"I want you to eat better food."

"Then stop cooking."

"That might've been amusing if I did any of the cooking."

"It's the best I could come up with on short notice."

"Mike, I . . . will you maybe consider relenting on the criticism over my work? You've just acknowledged how good I am at this."

"You've been good all along; you're getting great. That's never been the issue."

"The lying. We have to find a compromise, Mike."

"Maybe a reporter or anchor back home?"

"Those jobs are supremely rare, and you know our networks are much the same as here."

"Not quite as bad."

"But how can I compare reporting for crappy CBC or little Global or CTV to NBC? It would be like being offered a spot in the majors and declining it to stay in the minors."

"What about FOX? They're okay."

"No positions; I checked."

"Then our impasse continues."

She sighed.

"Liz, truth is not only critical for a free society, it's critical to me, and to our family honor, and it should be the cardinal tenet of every journalist. You're in the middle of all the lies, and even though I hit you with examples all the time it seems to go in one ear and out the other. Listen to this. I mean really listen; it perfectly illustrates my point. Today something called . . . let me look this up."

He opened the webpage he wanted. "The Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project along with the Balkan Investigative Reporting Network proved that the Pentagon is in the midst of shipping as much as $2.2 billion of weapons to terrorist groups in Syria, and it's working with Eastern European crime syndicates to do it. Not only that, they're falsifying paperwork to hide their involvement. I checked online NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX, CNN, the _New York Times_ , the _Wall Street Journal_ , and the _Washington Post_. Not one word about it. Be honest now; isn't the story newsworthy?"

"Yes."

"The MO the Pentagon used is standard practice to destabilize targeted regimes. The CIA has been waging war using proxies for decades. They're the morons who've planned and lost _every_ goddamn war they've started for the last half century, not that any of them have suffered any consequences. Oh, and their misadventures also helped spawn al-Qaeda, the Taliban, and ISIS."

Elizabeth read the story, then said, "I understand everything you're saying, and I do listen, but here's my side. The reporter who broke this story, Dilyana Gaytandzhieva, however you pronounce that, was fired."

"I know."

"So, yes, she was a great reporter. _Was_."

"She did her job, and she risked her career and maybe her life to tell the truth. I have the greatest respect for her. Maybe someday her courage, which seems to have utterly disappeared in the West, will make the world a bit safer. That's far more important than her job."

"Mike, they were hinting they want me to be a reporter for the national network. How can any reporter turn that down?"

"I don't want you working for them. They don't report; they advocate and mold opinions by deciding what to present and how to spin it and, just as important, what to omit, all in sycophantic service to their corporate masters. They and the rest of the national media are unfathomably corrupt and completely out of control."

"If I do accept a position with them?"

"Then we have a big problem."

"A _marriage_ problem?"

"Yes." That spurred her tears. "Liz—"

"No, you've said quite enough! You've made it clear; my husband or my career. That's so unfair. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed. You've utterly ruined what had been the best week in my life. Good night!"

Michael felt bad for upsetting her but that emotion was overshadowed by anger and disappointment. She didn't care that she'd be deliberately spreading malevolent, possibly dangerous lies to deceive the American public. He'd thought her integrity was beyond reproach, but he now wondered if he'd been mistaken. Moreover, she'd made it clear that he wasn't the automatic choice when it came to her husband or her job. Did he now mean that little to her? _It's just a job, for Christ's sake!_

#

As Elizabeth drove to work the next morning she stewed about their interaction.

I've worked so hard and done so well, and he doesn't care. Just throw it all away because I might have to mislead people now and then. Maybe it's for the greater good. How the hell does he know what happens in the corridors of power? It's far more complicated than he knows. But no! Michael Morrison knows everything. He's decided it's all evil and has decided for me that I'm not to be a part of it. What, does he think I'm his little child who needs his constant guidance?

Michael had told her more than once that IOUs were a flimsy foundation for love. Yes, she owed him more than she could ever repay for everything he'd done for her, but did that mean sticking with him even if he began to treat her with disdain? She'd never once questioned that her love was far more profound than mere gratitude . . . but now she began to wonder. She'd spent a good portion of this year angry with him, and things seemed to be deteriorating, but whereas she'd heretofore panicked at the thought he might leave her, for the first time she questioned if it would be all that bad.

She was constantly wooed by men, many much more successful than her husband, some better looking, a few both, and those in the broadcasting industry were nothing but supportive of her success. Monday evening a handsome senior network executive had treated her to the most luxurious dinner she'd ever had—the wine alone cost two-hundred dollars—and it was clear he wanted her, for the network and for himself. As always, she made it clear that she loved her husband and wouldn't cheat. Now a small part of her regretted that decision.

She stewed about Michael's disrespect all day and arrived home that evening ready to do battle, but he must've sensed her hostility because he said nothing.

This remained their mindset for most of the month. He said nothing about her work or much else. They conversed rarely and slept apart.

He did bring up one news story he'd read on independent media, but she gave it a frosty reception.

He said, "I want you to read this article from Zerohedge."

"No thanks."

"You worried you'll learn something? Let me summarize, then, what I believe to be the most important financial article written in years. It begins with a simple question. I'm paraphrasing: 'If you owe $10,000 on your credit card, would you consider that as income?'"

"Of course not."

"That would be idiotic, right? Cue the federal government, which specializes in idiotic. Believe it or not, the government considers its debt as income and even _adds it to the GDP_. Is that insane or what? The author of this piece proposes a revision to the GDP calculation that merely removes government debt. What it shows is nothing short of astonishing. Curious?"

"Not really."

He looked at her with surprise, but said, "It shows a steeply declining GDP since 2007, _minus 7.5% per year on average!_ In other words, we've been in a severe depression since 2007. It's only money conjured out of thin air by the government that has given us the illusion the economy is still functioning. It's coming home to roost soon. We can't even imagine the economic misery we're in for. Keep this in the back of your mind as you tell your audience how rosy everything is, so they neglect to prepare and spiral down with the economy when it's flushed into the sewer."

"Sure, Mike," she said dismissively.

"Groupthink has gotten to you, too, hasn't it?"

"I have a working dinner to go to with the weekend crew. You're on your own."

"Used to it."

Near month's end, she got a call from NBC headquarters asking her to come to New York City to interview for a reporter's position. She thanked them and said her answer would be yes, but that this involved her husband as well, and she'd need to discuss it with him. The executive, the same one who'd made a pass at her, said he understood and gave her a couple of days to get back to him.

That evening, fretting about how to break this to her husband and expecting a negative reaction, Elizabeth lumbered into their apartment after a hectic day at work and noticed a light under the bathroom door. With her husband in the bathroom she checked what he was making for supper. Spaghetti. _Not again!_ Glancing at his phone, she saw something that caught her attention. He'd been texting someone and had made plans for the next day. She read the interchange, figuring Michael's texts were on the right side:

Been thinking about me?

Every time I get my nails done.

You get your nails done?

No.

I'm guessing you have no special plans tomorrow.

I do have plans. I'm going to open a beer, sit on my chair, look out the window, think about my life, and have a good cry.

That's just because you're married.

Come on. My wife's a good person. You know that. She's so kind and compassionate. When I told her I was going to jump off our balcony, she warned me not to land on any children.

Meet me at the Four Seasons tomorrow at noon.

Buying me lunch, sailor?

We can't be seen together, but...

She heard the toilet flush and hastened to their room, steaming over the intelligence she'd just stumbled across. _Deidre? Nicole? Some other bitch? I'll meet them tomorrow and catch them red-handed! This is probably it for us._

Elizabeth, more incensed than glum at this stage, was primed for battle. After changing, she emerged from the bedroom and prodded him, and he took the bait.

Standing over him as he sat on the couch, she said, "How stupid were we at NBC today? How sinister?"

"Well, let's see. Maybe this month's biggest story was that Comey, who was Obama's appointment to head the FBI, authorized a wiretap to spy on the Trump campaign, and the wiretaps continued into this year. Wiretapping the other political party was what happened with Watergate, and it was perceived as so serious, Nixon was shunted out of office for lying about it. CNN broke the story, but, of course, ignored the Watergate overtones and instead tried to tar Trump with Russian connections. So we have a new Watergate. NBC, CBS, and all the mainstream networks are ignoring the obvious comparison to Watergate. Was Obama aware of this? Shouldn't this be the lead story for weeks?"

Hands on hips, she responded, "Not if the professionals feel it shouldn't be."

"What? Did you actually say that? How brainwashed are you?"

"Stop insulting me! Stop talking down to me. I'm not your child."

"I hope not, given what we—"

" _Don't_. I'm sick and tired of you making light of _everything_. Joking is your way of dismissing me."

"No, it's—"

"I'm your wife, and I expect to be treated as an equal. You drive me crazy thinking that you get to do my thinking for me, deciding my future with little or no input from me."

"What's with you?" He stood to face her.

"Let me finish! I'm not some helpless damsel who needs a knight to guide and protect her. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself." She paused for a deep breath and resumed, "NBC wants me to interview for a job with the national network."

"What, in New York City?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

Furious with him and intending on transmitting this to New York tomorrow, she answered, "I said yes."

"With no input from me?"

"When I want your input I'll ask for it. The decision is mine."

"Not just yours."

"Yes, mine."

"Ours!" he screamed, now with a fierce expression. "This is my life, too, and we're only here because of you. Do you think you can just accept a job anywhere you want, and that I should have no say in it?"

She turned away from him and said, "You can have a say, but I have the final say."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you'll have to decide whether you want to come with me or go somewhere else."

"Who the hell are you?"

Turning back to him, she said, "Liz Morrison, anchor for the KMSM weekend morning show."

"You're not the person I married."

"How so?"

"You're . . . how to put this? I fell in love with the cute girl next door. She was sweet and innocent—"

"She was self-loathing."

"She was no such thing; she just lacked confidence. She was the nicest, most genuine person I'd ever met."

"And now I'm, what, mean and phony?"

"And hyper-sensitive."

"And you're an asshole!" she yelled as her tears welled. She started to storm out but halted, turned, and added, "I've grown; you haven't."

"You've grown arrogant and conceited."

"Did you ever think that maybe this is the person I always wanted to be? The person you first met was a pale imitation of the person I've become."

"I fell in love with the person I met, and I asked that person to marry me. I would've never wanted to marry whoever the hell you are now."

Now practically hysterical, she stomped to him. Her face a few inches from his, her furious eyes assailing his, she shrieked, "And I would've never married you if I'd known things would turn out like this! I know damn well you're playing me for the fool!"

"You know, your eyes are as gorgeous as ever, but I can't look at them anymore." He turned away from her and continued, "I spent the best part of our marriage deeply proud, profoundly in love with you. Now I'm ashamed of you."

"Ditto."

He spun around and, looming over her, he glowered into her eyes, and said with bared teeth, "I want a divorce."

"What?"

"You heard me."

He said something else, but she heard nothing as she slowly sunk to her knees and watched Michael don his shoes and jacket and leave. All her bluster vanished in a heartbeat. She wanted to call out to him, but she'd become nearly catatonic. Her head spun; the floor seemed to swell, the walls to undulate. _No, no, no_ , she chanted. _This can't be real. It has to be a nightmare!_

It couldn't be that her worst nightmare had just come true. Every time she'd had this terrifying dream, she'd awakened in a cold sweat and latched onto her husband sleeping next to her, but this time . . . either she couldn't wake herself, or it was real! Her anger with him evaporated, and the real possibility he was cheating on her faded into insignificance, for he intended to abandon her. She wrapped her arms around herself as if struggling to hold onto a man who was no longer there.

Somehow, though she'd been playing with fire for months, getting burned never seemed possible. _We're together forever, and nothing can change that. We love each other too much to even consider ending our relationship. We'll get through any short-term challenges and come back stronger than ever. But  . . . he's gone._ The desolation and hopelessness overwhelmed her so thoroughly she collapsed to the floor in a fetal position and sobbed so hard she found it difficult to breathe. _Please, God, wake me up. Please tell me this isn't real._

In this utter despondency, she languished till she noticed that the darkness besieging her had enveloped the world. It was nighttime. Struggling to stand, Elizabeth tottered to the nearest lamp and switched it on. Glancing at the clock on the stove, she was startled to find she'd been out of it for over an hour.

"Mike? Michael? Are you here?" She dashed to their room but no Michael. Then she hurried to her pocketbook to get her phone. Dialing it, she murmured, "Answer, answer!" No such luck. "Dammit!"

His rendezvous set for tomorrow reoccurred to her for the first time since he uttered the D word. Anger and grief hit full force, turning her stomach, and she darted to the bathroom to vomit. Washing her face, she glanced in the mirror at a picture of despair, which renewed her tears. She attempted another call. Just as she was about to give up, he answered.

"What do you want?"

"Mike! Where are you?"

"What do you care?"

"Come home."

"What for?"

"We need to talk."

"I think we said pretty much all that needs to be said."

"Mike, I want us to work things out. We can't just give up everything we had together. . . I don't want to div . . ." She couldn't even finish the word. "Did you mean it? Wait! It's not the time to answer that question. Please come home so we can talk."

"Not tonight."

"Are you . . . with someone?"

"No, for Christ's sake. I'm alone in a hotel room."

"Four Seasons?"

He hesitated, then said, "Four Seasons? Why would you pick that one?"

"It's close by."

"Not really. I'm at some shithole; I don't even remember the name."

"Tomorrow, can we please, _please_ talk about this; about us?"

"I'll see you there tomorrow afternoon."

The next day, she steeled herself to confront her husband and his lover, convinced one way or the other her marriage was done. She left in plenty of time, but ran into heavy traffic. Cursing and panicking that she'd be too late to catch them, Elizabeth finally arrived at 12:28, dropped off her car with a parking attendant—something she never did, but this was an emergency—and ran inside the hotel. She checked the restaurant and tavern but didn't see him.

Disconcerted and close to tears she exited the hotel only to see Michael debarking from a stretch limousine parked in front of the building. Astonished, she scampered after him to demand an explanation, but halted, deciding the better course was to determine whom he'd met in the limousine. She couldn't begin to imagine who or what this was about.

She knocked on the window. Down it slid, and she nearly fell over in shock at the sight of a lanky Asian man she knew years ago.

"Mark?" she said. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"

Mark Chu opened the door and said, "Get in. In case anyone's watching, they can't eavesdrop." She stepped inside and closed the door. "How'd you find us?"

"Never mind that. Why are you here?"

He held up a small box that looked to be a thick iPad and said, "It's our tricorder."

"Tricorder? You mean the thing on _Star Trek_?"

"The very one; well, not the very one. It's a bit clunky compared to what they had on _Star Trek_ , but it's remarkable nonetheless."

"It's nice," she said without looking at it. "Now what were you talking to my husband about?"

"This," he said as he handed her the tricorder. She examined it while he explained, "It'll immediately diagnose more than two dozen health problems like tuberculosis, anemia, atrial fibrillation, heart attack, stroke, pulmonary disease, pneumonia, diabetes, hepatitis, even common forms of cancer. It's leaps and bounds beyond the machine that recently won the prize that Qualcomm put up to develop a tricorder. I found out about the competition too late to enter, but I assembled a top team of doctors who specialize in diagnosing various health conditions, software engineers to program what the docs told us, and hardware engineers to bring it all together."

"Very impressive. Now tell me what I want to know: Why was Mike—"

"Liz, listen. This little machine is a miracle. Here." He extracted something that looked like a thick watch and strapped it on her wrist. He looked at the readout and said, "Body temperature thirty-six point four. Blood pressure one-twenty-eight over eighty-three; slightly high."

"Of course it's high. You're not telling me what I want to know!"

"Then you're not listening to what I'm saying. Resting heartbeat sixty-seven. Normal sinus rhythm. That's just a fraction of what this can do. Put one drop of your blood on a test strip, insert it into the machine, and answer a few questions posed by the machine, and it'll tell you instantly whether you have tuberculosis, diabetes, anemia, hepatitis, and a bunch of other nasty shit. It'll prevent countless deaths. It's a work of genius!"

"Michael's genius?" she asked, again looking at Mark in shock.

"We went through a dozen engineers who made little progress—"

"So you hired Mike?"

"I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

" _You're_ surprised?" she said. "How did you find him?"

"I saw you on satellite TV—and you look fantastic, by the way—so I knew you two lived here. I hired someone to locate Mike and contacted him about a year ago."

She shook her head in astonishment and dismay that Michael had withheld this from her. "But, he's not supposed to be doing anything that might alert the government about what he's capable of. Isn't this extremely dangerous for him?"

"We've been so discreet, not even his wife knows about it," said Mark with a grin. "He came up with exactly what we wanted in less than a year, working on his own at a little lab we rented for him here."

"Lab? But . . . how did I not know? When did he even go?"

"While you were working, I suppose. He has the second most amazing brain on the planet. This is almost as impressive as his water engine. It'll out-diagnose any doctor anywhere on the main maladies that attack humans. We'll have this in every doctor's office, hospital, and clinic within a few years. After that, once we perfect it so people don't have to poke themselves for a drop of blood or use electrodes and shit like that, it'll be available for home use.

"When I introduce it next year I'll come on like some kind of Father Teresa, so concerned with the sullied masses. I'll say we did it for the world." Here Mark affected a speech. Looking out to an imaginary audience, he bellowed, "What a blessing for mankind; so many lives saved. What a boon to governments; so many dollars saved. Everyone's saying it and I can only agree: Mark Chu's a saint!" He chuckled and concluded, "What a bunch of shit. I care much more about going from humdrum rich to embarrassingly rich. Fuck the sick!"

Someone behind the limo beeped.

"Did you pay Mike?" said Elizabeth.

"I—"

The driver beeped again.

"What's his problem?" said Mark to the chauffeur.

"We're in a parking spot, actually two parking spots, for the disabled, sir."

"Fuck him and fuck the crippled."

The driver, a white man with a goatee, pulled alongside them and beeped once more. Mark lowered his window and said, "What's the matter? You don't look crippled, physically anyway."

With an expression of indignation, the man replied, "I'm not _disabled_. You're so ignorant, you're taking up _two_ disabled spots."

"Sorry; they didn't have a car long enough to take up three. You're doing yeoman's service in your self-appointed role as crusader for the rights of the crippled. Congratulations. Now move along and stop wasting my time."

"Move, asshole!"

"Make me, fuckhead."

"I'm calling the cops, you prick," he said as he took off.

"Christ Almighty, the nerve of some people," said Mark with a big grin. He hadn't changed a bit, which Elizabeth found somehow reassuring. "Where was I?"

"Did you pay Mike?"

"I provided the funding and equipment he needed and offered a hefty wage, but he preferred a ten percent stake, both because he'll make out much better and because having too much cash raises too many questions. If this goes the way I think it will and if the kleptocracy doesn't somehow think this is a threat and swoop in to kill us all, he'll be humdrum rich. I also gave him some . . . uh, never mind."

"What?"

"It's not important."

"Mark!"

"I gave him some expensive pearls for you." He said something else, but she didn't hear it. Her ears were ringing, her cheeks burning. She began to cry, and she looked at Mark through her tears; he seemed more uncomfortable than concerned. He said, "Maybe he's holding onto them for a Christmas gift?" She shook her head, more to express hurt than to reply to Mark. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you about the tricorder. Are you two having trouble?"

Her crying escalated.

"I guess so," said Mark, handing her a Kleenex.

"He told me last night . . . he wants a divorce." At this point, she commenced sobbing. After a minute or two of trying to calm down, she looked at a clearly uneasy Mark and offered her apologies. "Did he say anything to you about me?"

"Just that you'd changed." That reinvigorated her weeping. "I'm not helping much, am I? Good thing I'm not a counselor."

"Mark . . . I'm sorry. I'll go now."

"Hope things work out for you two," he said, seemingly happy to see her go.

Elizabeth rushed home because Michael had said they could talk then. When she arrived, Michael was there and she said, "Tell me, and don't lie. I'll be able to tell if you're lying. Who did you . . ." She broke down in tears.

He said, "What's the matter?"

She took a deep breath and demanded to know, "Who did you give the pearls to?"

With a look of surprise, he said, "How do you know about them?"

"Just answer my question!"

"Jeez, Liz, settle down. They're right here," he said as he went to the closet and fished them out. She glanced at the pearls but stared hard at him. _An entire secret mission that I knew nothing about._ He continued, "You read the text message yesterday while I was in the bathroom."

"Yes. I . . . I misinterpreted what I read. I was convinced you were having an affair, so I got furious and aggressive with you. I'm so sorry."

"And you came to the Four Seasons for a showdown." She nodded solemnly. "How could you think I was texting anyone but Mark? We discussed who we want on the doomed jet."

He showed her the lines.

Buying me lunch, sailor?

We can't be seen together, but I'll give you a couple of bucks for a hotdog. I assume you have the beta model ready.

Yup. Works like a charm.

See you tomorrow. I'm putting every last goddamn social justice warrior on the jet.

Good. I'm putting a hundred kiloton nuke on it and I'll send the jet hurtling into the slimy cesspool of Washington, DC.

Excellent! Take out the whole den of Zionist pedophiles in one shot. Remember to invite some Indians to Thanksgiving (the Cdn one). That's what it's all about, after all. Give them a smallpox blanket as a thank you for all the shit you whiteties stole from them.

You should do some serious reflection on the type of person you are, but since I know you won't, let me give you the _Reader's Digest_ version: you're an egomaniacal, depraved sociopath, and I quite admire you.

Same here, fuckface. I'm off to a boring meeting.

I'm off to take a shit.

Elizabeth explained, "I didn't get this far. You flushed the toilet and I ran to the bedroom and was ready to strangle you when I came out. I'm sorry." He said nothing, so she continued, "So you spent the last _year_ working on his tricorder and never told me?"

"More like nine months by the time I got started."

"You actually have a lab?"

"Just a tiny setup in an apartment two floors up with the tools and electronics I need."

"You went while I worked?"

"Yes."

"Why, Michael? What possible reason could you have not to tell me?"

"I didn't want you talking me out of it, and if you really wanted to know what I did with my time you'd have bothered to ask. You're too wrapped up in your own career to think about anything or anyone else, and you seem to assume anything I do must be worthless."

"That's not true! I know full well that you're capable of almost anything. I assumed, though, that you wouldn't take on a high-level engineering project since you know how dangerous it is for you if they find out." They stood on opposite sides of the room. She wanted to close the distance between them but was too uncertain of him to move.

"They? The Deep State? The one that doesn't exist according to most everyone you work with?"

"I was there with you when the Deep State killed your parents and stole your engine, remember? I know they exist, and more to the point, _you_ know. Aren't you worried they can read your texts?"

"We used the best encryption available."

"Still, why are you taking this chance with your _life_?"

"Because my life, right now, isn't much." That reactivated her tears. Making no attempt to comfort her, he went on, "A man has to feel he's useful. I was unemployed with no prospect for even the lowly work I've had to do for almost a goddamn decade!" As a wave of emotion swept over him, he stopped talking, clenched his jaw, and turned away from her. She knew he was embarrassed and upset about his subservient status, but seeing him now, she deduced she'd underestimated the extent. _He looks ready to cry. I feel terrible for him, but I'm afraid to hug him. What does that say about our marriage?_

He turned back to her and resumed, "Before we started having problems, I at least had you to talk to, to comfort me, to love . . ." That opened the flood gates, and his tears flowed.

She ached to rush to him and embrace him, but feared his reaction.

"I wanted to accomplish something meaningful again, and I was bored beyond belief, so I agreed to do this."

"And you succeeded."

"Surprised?" he said, wiping his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

"No, of course I'm not surprised. So . . . what now?"

He shrugged, took a step toward her, and held out the pearls.

She didn't take them. "Why were you holding onto them? Deciding whether to save them for your next girl?" Her tears continued.

"There didn't seem to be a good time. I'd intended to give them to you the night you got back from Florida, but that ended, as usual, with another argument. Our relationship isn't in the place where pearls make sense."

She nodded morosely and folded her arms against his uneasiness.

"It was also awkward because you didn't know about the tricorder. I have mild hypertension, by the way."

"So get it treated."

"The healthcare system is so screwed up in this country I don't want anything to do with it. When I got the bill my blood pressure would shoot to the moon and kill me."

"My plan covers you, too."

"Not the sky-high co-pays or deductibles. We don't have _any_ savings."

"Mark said you have a ten percent share in the tricorder."

"If I get rich, would you quit?"

She paused to consider. "How should I answer that without upsetting you? If I say no, you'll write me off, but if I say yes, you'll think I'm a gold-digger."

"A gold-digger would be gazing at her pearls in the mirror now."

"Give them to me when it feels right," she said. "Mike, please tell me you didn't mean what you said last night."

He hung his head and shrugged. She wrapped her arms around her chest and said, "Please, Mike, I . . . I can't lose you." He said nothing. "Would you . . . maybe consider couples counselling?"

"Can't imagine that helping much."

"Why not?"

"We can't just talk our way out of this."

"If our marriage ever meant anything to you, do this for me. . . Mike? _Please_!"

"I'll think about it."

"I have to get to work, but I won't be able to do anything if you don't give me hope. I haven't even been able to eat since you told me you wanted a . . ." Her tears resumed. Still, he wouldn't commit. "I'll turn down the interview in New York."

"I'll go to counseling if you insist."

"Thank you." She gave him an awkward hug and tried to lighten the mood. "Going to invent an invisibility cloak while I'm gone?"

"Good idea. I could go to Seahawks Stadium and hang out in the cheerleaders' locker room."

She smirked, kissed his cheek, and left.

### Chapter Ten  
Seattle, October, 2017

In early October, Eric asked Elizabeth and Deirdre to model in a fashion show for local charities that he supported. Both readily agreed and were told they'd model two outfits each. Elizabeth invited her husband.

The ladies were coiffed and painted by a professional cosmetician. Elizabeth first modeled an elegant blue gown with a slit that displayed her entire left leg. Blaine, the MC, said she looked fabulous as she strutted down the catwalk. This was fun! Her second outfit was a chic white pantsuit. The pants were bell-bottomed but otherwise unremarkable, but the top portion was a shirtdress that hugged her svelte figure and extended down about two inches below her backside. Even Michael, who'd been busy ignoring her sexually for the past couple of months, did a double take.

"Stunning ensemble for a stunning lady," said Blaine as she pranced out and back with so many flashes going off she found it disorienting.

She was permitted to keep the pantsuit, so she wore it to a dinner with the on-air and production crew, which Eric had booked at the Sky City revolving restaurant atop the Space Needle. She and Michael concurred it would be better if he didn't accompany her.

The view was terrific, the food less so, but everyone was in a good mood and the alcohol flowed freely, courtesy of Eric. This party doubled as an after-fashion-show bash and a celebration of the station's success this year. Its talented staff members had garnered close to two dozen regional Emmy awards.

Eric said, "Liz, stand up and take a bow. An Emmy in your first year with us and two in your young and promising career. Wow!" The assembled clapped as Elizabeth smiled shyly, stood, and bowed.

"Thank you," she said as she resumed her seat.

The boss continued to laud the award winners while everyone celebrated and drank. At one point, her neighbor, a female producer who was long past intoxicated, swept her hand across her as she spoke and knocked Elizabeth's wine glass over, its contents spilling across the table and dripping onto Elizabeth's white pants.

"Oh, shit!" she said as she dabbed her pants with a tissue, but she was too late; they were ruined, maybe permanently. She glared at the woman, who was in the midst of a laughing apology, and hurried to the ladies' room. Looking in the mirror, she knew her only recourse was to remove her pants.

Once more gazing at her reflection, Elizabeth was of two minds. Her short dress was more risqué than anything she'd ever worn in public, which went against her demure nature. On the other hand, she was feeling the wine and wanted to show off a bit. In any case, she had no choice; the night was still young, she was having fun, and she had no intention of going home for hours. She strolled out of the washroom alert to reactions. For the most part, of course, people's focus was elsewhere, but men who did notice gawked goggle-eyed at her. She was both embarrassed and delighted. Two flashes went off, and she told herself, _I hope they're not taking pictures of me._

She elected to change seats, an empty chair next to Blaine, who was looking incredibly sexy. As she sat he gazed longingly at her legs. "If I pour some wine on your dress, will you take that off, too?" he said.

Elizabeth chuckled and shook her head.

A man and woman asked if she would be good enough to pose for a picture with them. She was reluctant to do so in such a revealing outfit, but didn't want the reputation of being snooty either, so she stood and smiled for the picture. Several others took pictures of her as well.

As the evening wore on, Blaine closed the gap between them until their legs were touching. She made no objection. She was drunk by this point and desired the physical contact. Not only was this man as handsome as a movie star, her man had apparently sworn off sex with her, which was not only distressing, but insulting. While ostensibly listening to a conversation to her left, she imagined slipping off her panties, running her hands up Blaine's thigh, and clutching his crotch. She then imagined unzipping his pants and liberating his manhood, then standing, straddling him, and lowering herself onto him. As she fantasized, she unconsciously rubbed her leg against his.

When she glanced down to see him hard, she realized what she was doing and desisted. She moved away, but she'd already geared him up for the conquest.

"Anyone ever tell you how gorgeous your legs are?" he said with a warm smile.

"Just my husband," she answered, suddenly worried about the signals she'd been transmitting.

"I know this might upset you, but I have to say what everyone is thinking. Why are you married to that loser anyway?"

"He's not a loser."

"Come on. With your looks you can do so much better."

"Like you, you mean?"

"Well, you seem interested," he said, moving closer.

"I'm not," she replied scooting away as far as she could without touching Eric, her other neighbor.

"Uh huh," he said, closing the gap once again. "We'd make a great item; both successful, popular, beautiful people."

"Though one of us is certainly more conceited."

"I'm just being honest. He's not in your league. He's plain-looking," asserted Blaine.

"He's really cute!"

"He's unemployed."

"He's not allowed to work in this country."

"When he is, what is he? A mechanic's helper?" She looked down. "He makes a fool out of himself every time we see him, acting like he's an expert on everything, thinking he's funny."

"He is funny."

"Says who? He gets more scowls than laughs. I've heard people say his humor is raunchy and childish."

"Sometimes, but he has a wonderful wit. He's also brilliant."

Blaine sniggered and said, "Brilliant? How is it then that he's only a mechanic's helper?" She sighed and again cast her eyes down. He leaned against her and said, "Stop fighting it. I know you want me."

"No!" she exclaimed. "Stop this now, Blaine. I love my husband."

"Why? What's he ever accomplished?"

Carmen, seated to the other side of Blaine and eavesdropping, gave a smirk that communicated, _Nothing!_ Eric's snort conveyed the same impression.

Now pushed to the limit and feeling guilty about flirting with Blaine, Elizabeth blurted, "He invented an engine that runs on water!"

That brought Eric into the conversation. "Did I just hear that your husband invented an engine that runs on water?" She nodded. "What, for some toy boat?"

"For a car; an actual car . . . not a toy one," she answered, now concerned that she'd mentioned this. This was _dangerous_ for Michael, but what could she do now? Say she was only kidding? They'd think she was making fun of Michael.

"You seem quite unsure. Did you ever see this engine?" said Eric.

"Yes. He and his father spent years designing and building it."

"But how do you know it works?"

"Developing it was a key part of our everyday life early in our relationship, and when they succeeded I actually drove it, but I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Come on, Liz," said Blaine. "How do you expect us to believe this? If it's true, where are his billions of dollars? Where's his Nobel?"

Eric added, "Where's his _engine_?"

Now stuck between the rock of being labeled a liar and the hard place of risking her husband's future, she hesitated. "They . . . they took the engine away, so let's leave it at that."

"They?" said Eric.

"The government. I've said too much. This could be dangerous for Michael! Please forget I said anything about it."

"Liz, we're in the news game, and this would be the news of the century if it's true," said Blaine.

"Why do you think this could be dangerous?" said Eric.

"Eric, please, can't you let this go?"

"Just answer my question, then I'll let it go."

"The government seized the patents, stole the engine, then his father died in an 'accident,'" she said, using air quotes. "His mother was in the car and died, too. To avoid the same fate, Michael had to play dumb and claim he had no knowledge of how to rebuild it."

" _Can_ he rebuild it?"

"Drop it, Eric; I mean it! Don't tell anyone about this or it could risk Michael's life. I have to go." She stood faster than her alcohol-laden brain could manage, and she stumbled. Blaine caught her, clutched her by the waist and, going with her momentum, sat her on the table. To the busy bodies on social media, who happened to be on hand at the restaurant, this was a stroke of luck to guarantee their fifteen seconds of fame among their online friends. The surprised woman crossed her legs but not before a few flashes went off. Then, as if that weren't enough to get the gossipers going, Blaine clutched her thigh and planted his lips on hers. She pushed him back and swung her open hand at his face. He parried it, snickering. Much of the establishment was laughing, though not Eric, who, perhaps, feared a lawsuit. He yanked Blaine back from her.

Elizabeth told Blaine, "That's wrong on so many levels, I don't even know where to begin! That's the epitome of sexual harassment, but even more to the point, I'm married, you asshole, and I'm not interested in anyone but my husband."

Eric demanded Blaine apologize. He did and staggered out of the restaurant.

Elizabeth, still distressed and alarmed over the prospect of her husband finding out, lurched out of the restaurant, down the elevator, and outside to hail a cab home. There, staring at Michael asleep on the couch, she began to quaver and weep. Oh how she was dying to take him in her arms and never let go, but so far had their relationship deteriorated, she feared his response if she did.

She plodded to her cold, empty bed and lay there panicking. _Oh, what a mess I've made, and it's all my fault! I practically invited Blaine to jump me, flirting with him like a foolish schoolgirl. Then I opened my big mouth about the engine. What if that comes back to haunt Mike? Jesus, Liz, what were you thinking? Please, God, make them forget what I said about the engine and don't let Michael find out about what Blaine did to me._ She worried herself to sleep.

The pictures of the kiss and grope of her legs went viral quickly, which launched her into a state of panic the next morning after she awoke to her phone buzzing again and again with messages. Her jaw dropped as she read the messages, most of which were warnings from her workmates about the events the evening before. As she looked at the pictures, her agitation rocketed.

Her abashment and ire peaked as she viewed an upskirt photograph featuring her white, frilly panties. _Oh! How dare they!_ There were several other pictures featuring her legs that people had taken at various points that evening. When she stood to pose for the picture, one person had taken a video from the side starting at her feet and panning up her legs, pausing at her backside, then at her breasts before resting on her face. It played in a slow motion loop and had thousands of views already.

She went ballistic as she watched the recording of Blaine molesting her, along with a handful of the dozens of lurid comments. Some were enthusiastic over a budding relationship between the two popular newscasters: "Imagine what beautiful children they'll have!" Most were sympathetic, even irate over the treatment she'd received: "The invasion of her privacy is outrageous!" "When he kissed her it was obvious she was shocked and upset. Dalio should be fired and charged with sexual assault." But a few were mean-spirited: "The slut flirted with him all night and finally got what she asked for." "She was obviously looking for action wearing that micro-dress, so stop feeling sorry for the tramp."

She wondered about her reputation and what this might mean for her future prospects as a serious reporter, but that was meaningless compared to the possible repercussions for her marriage. Would this be the last straw for Michael?

Elizabeth woke up her husband and told him what had happened, omitting her flirtation with Blaine. She sat on the edge of the couch, arms enfolding her body, as he viewed the pictures. When he lifted his eyes to her in anger after seeing the upskirt shot, her stomach fell. _Oh, God, what's he going to do?_ But he said nothing as he proceeded to watch the video of Blaine assaulting her. She could barely breathe waiting for his reaction.

He turned red and said through clenched teeth, "I'll break his fucking neck!"

In one sense his initial reaction was a relief; his anger was focused on Blaine. Also, his anger over another man groping and kissing her seemed to suggest he still had feelings for her. On the other hand, was he really planning to break his neck?

"A question," Michael said, "one I'm sure most husbands don't like to ask their wife; where did your pants go?"

"Someone spilled red wine on them, so I had to take them off." He looked doubtfully at her, but she said, "Really! I'll show them to you." She dashed to the closet, dug her pants out of the laundry, and hustled back. "See?"

"And you were okay wearing just a shirt in public?"

"A shirtdress."

"You were fine with a shirtdress that barely covered your bum?"

"Not really, no, but I sat at the table for the rest of the evening, so my legs weren't really on display." She gave him an uncertain smile as she shuddered.

"Why would that asshole figure he could get away with something so outrageous?" She maintained her smile as she began to sweat, answering with a tentative shrug. "You were sitting next to him?" She nodded. "What were you talking about?"

"Uh, nothing important. I don't . . . um, remember."

"Sometimes being a good person has its drawbacks. Good people don't like lying, so when they do, they look guilty. I've seen you lie so many times on TV I know exactly what to look for. You blink quickly and get a crinkle between your eyes."

"I'm not . . . he was drunk and, um, making passes, and um . . . saying he was much better than you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I was defending you."

"Good of you. He was making passes yet you stayed beside him?" She lowered her eyes. "So you were happy about his advances?"

"No!"

"There's that crinkle."

Shit! This is going badly.

"Mike, I . . . I was drunk, and, to be frank, I'm devastated that my husband's lost interest in making love to me."

"Christ Almighty. You lost interest in sex with me long ago. Did you even once worry how I felt?" She once more stared at the carpet. "No, and I think it goes beyond your anger with me. I think last night shows you're interested in a more handsome, more successful man."

"That's not true! I'm not interested in him or anybody else but you. I was flattered by his attention; that's all. I thought it was a little harmless flirtation."

"And the outcome of your harmless flirtation was a kiss and a thigh grab?"

"That was completely unexpected. I was mad at him for that."

"A gorgeous woman dresses like that and flirts with a drunken Lothario is surprised when he moves the seduction to the next level?"

"I told him I wasn't interested; that I love you."

"And that's the way you show it?"

"I'm so sorry, Mike." She moved toward him, intending to hug him, but his hand shot up to warn, _Stop!_ She halted as her shuddering amplified. She could _feel_ his hostility.

"Maybe I should show how much I love you by injecting Deirdre with the sperm she wants."

"No! Don't even say that. I never intended to fool around on you. I would _never_ do that. You must know that." She stood wilting under his glare and hung her head. "Are we . . . in, um, trouble again?" she said as her tears stirred.

"Again?" He stalked to the closet to get his jacket.

She asked, "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Don't go to her."

He said nothing further and left.

She sat, dazed with grief over the state of her marriage. _And I didn't even tell him about spilling the beans on his engine. If that comes to light, we're finished for sure_. She clutched the throw pillow and lay on the couch, dejected.

#

Michael sped to the KMSM TV news studios. _They stole my wife figuratively, now they want to take her literally. Fuckers! I hate Dalio. I hate that whole station. I hate the whole media. I hate this whole country. I hate everything!_

Pulling into the parking lot, a woman cut him off for a spot, and he opened the window, hollering curses at her. She stayed in the car, afraid to exit. He moved on. Finding a space a few rows over, he parked, stepped out of his car, and slammed the door so hard—unable to afford a new car, they still had his mother's 2004 Maxima—the side mirror flew off. "God dammit!" he screamed to the heavens. He stooped to retrieve it and flung it at a nearby wall, smashing it to bits.

"Hey!" said a male witness in a dress; he had a face with neatly trimmed stubble offset with pale pink lipstick, mascara, and heavy, black eye shadow. "Your toxic masculinity is polluting the world."

Michael stomped to him, clutched the top of his dress, and reared back to punch. The man cowered, his face betraying panic, but Michael's humanity asserted itself. _No! Don't do this._ He released the man, who wasted no time fleeing, while screaming, "That maniac tried to kill me! You see what trans people have to deal with? Straight white males are a curse on humanity!"

That generated a couple of head shakes in his direction, to which he responded with his middle finger as he marched toward the studio. _When I find that wife-stealing bastard, I'll pound his pretty face to hamburger! Think you can take advantage of my wife and get away with it as if I'm some feeble sap anyone can walk on without consequence? You'll be lucky if I don't tear you apart!_

A well-dressed, haughty woman exited a jewelry store, ran into him, and yelped, "Watch where you're going!"

" _You_ walked into _me_ , you careless bitch, so fuck off!"

The lady's jaw dropped, and she hurried away.

Oh! I feel like I'm going to explode! Everyone considers me a nothing they can treat like dirt. Even Liz! Well, I've fucking had it! After I crush that son of a bitch, I'm going to make plans to build my engine again. I'm sick of hiding, sick of being afraid of those criminals. I'll show the world who I really am. Deep State murderous fuckers; it's me or you. If I go down, at least I go down fighting.

Arriving at KMSM-TV studios, he stumped in, looking for his target. The first familiar person he encountered was Nicole. "Mike, why are you—"

"Dalio. Where is he?"

"Um, in the studio, but what are you . . ."

He strode there and located Blaine, who was busy scolding a male intern about bringing him the wrong coffee. Seeing Michael at the last minute, he tried to escape, but Michael collared him and shoved him to the nearest wall, his hand around Blaine's neck. "You think you can get away with assaulting my wife, you little shit? I'm going to twist off your head and stuff it up your ass!"

"Jesus Christ!" squeaked Blaine, unable to speak at full volume due to his constricted throat. "Someone, help me!"

The crew urged Michael to calm down and called for security. One man clutched his arm, but Michael glowered at him and warned, "Don't!"

The man backed off, but warned, "Security will be here at any minute, and we don't want anyone hurt."

With Blaine turning a faint shade of blue, Michael released his neck, but held him against the wall with his upper arm across Blaine's chest.

With a crowd watching the proud anchorman's distress, Blaine attempted a brave face. He said, "If I wasn't a gentleman I'd put you in your place."

Michael responded. "I don't think 'gentleman' means what you think it does, unless you think it means pussy."

"You stuck in high school? Think you're going to scare me?"

He grabbed Blaine by the collar and lifted so he stood on tiptoes. "Did you actually think you'd get away with assaulting my wife? You think you have nothing to worry about treating her as just another bimbo and me as a chump who'd look the other way?"

Michael saw two security guards rushing toward them and realized that this would end poorly for him if he didn't desist. He moved his face close to Blaine's and screamed, "Touch my wife again and all the security in the world won't save you. _Got it_?"

He turned with Blaine still in his clutches and launched him several feet backward; he landed on his rump and screeched at the jolt. Rallying his courage with the cavalry on hand, Blaine said, "Rough him up a bit so he'll learn he can't just stroll in here and manhandle the talent."

One guard clutched his arm but Michael yanked it away and turned to clock the man. The other guard, a burly, marine-looking man, seized Michael, and the two guards drove him into the wall.

"Stop!" yelled Eric, who'd just arrived. "Let him go," he told the guards. They obeyed, but stayed close. "I'm sure Mr. Morrison will walk out of here on his own volition."

"Worried about a lawsuit?" said Michael.

"I understand a man's need to defend his wife's honor. You've made your point, now leave my studio."

Michael smirked, glared at Blaine, and departed.

#

Eric returned to his office and made a phone call to his contact, Kate Lutz, the CIA's lead agent in Seattle. He'd been recruited years ago. It was his job to cast news stories in a favorable light, favorable being defined as whatever the CIA deemed to be in the nation's interest. It'd been lucrative for Eric—he owed his mansion and his yacht to his CIA income—and it afforded him protection for his unsavory pursuits.

He opened, "Caught wind of something that's probably nothing but may be worth checking out. One of our anchors here, an up and comer named Liz Morrison—"

"The one in the hurricane?" said Kate.

"Yes. She's very good at her job."

"Not to mention lovely."

"She bragged the other day that her husband, Michael, years back, had invented an engine that runs on water."

Kate said, "You say there's nothing to it, so you think she was lying?"

"It's just that the story seemed farfetched, but Liz seemed adamant, insisting that her husband and his father spent years building it and that the government seized the patents and engine and that his father was killed in an accident, which she believes was actually murder. She also said Michael had to hide his role from the government so he wouldn't be killed as well."

"I'll check into it."

#

To say Michael was unenthusiastic about marriage counseling would be an understatement, but he'd agreed to it, and when Elizabeth made an appointment with a counselor who'd been highly recommended by her workmates, he kept his commitment; in body if not in spirit.

Dr. Lawrence Collins introduced himself. He was dressed casually but professionally in a button-down pink shirt with open collar, black sports jacket, and grey dress pants. His grey hair was well coiffed, set off by his black skin and striking black eyes. He smiled a lot and spoke softly but firmly, and he struck Elizabeth as friendly, competent, and compassionate. His well-appointed office with large windows, beautiful wooden desk, well-stocked book shelves, thick brown carpet, and plush armchairs bespoke success.

The three sat in the armchairs facing each other. Dr. Collins said a bit about how counseling proceeded, then invited the couple to tell him about themselves. Elizabeth provided a straightforward response, but Michael said, "I was born. A decade ago I became Liz's slave. I now seek my emancipation."

"Please, Mr. Morrison, I can't help unless you take this seriously. How would you characterize your relationship?"

"Here's the pecking order in our family: Liz, Liz's things, the furniture, the recycling, me."

"If you could change one thing about your wife, what would it be?"

"Her marital status."

Elizabeth winced at Michael's opening remarks. He seemed to have made up his mind to divorce her. She gazed at her husband sadly, then at the psychologist desperately, hoping he could somehow draw them back from the precipice.

The counselor said, "You don't want to be here. I understand, but you came here, which shows you haven't given up on your marriage, so please give this a chance to work."

Michael nodded and said, "Okay. I want her to be who she really is, the wonderful woman I fell in love with, not whoever the hell she is now."

"Liz, what one thing would you change about Mike?"

"I want him to love me again and to accept me as I am."

Michael said, "That's two things, and the second cancels out the first."

Dr. Collins said, "Liz, how much do you believe you've changed?"

"If I hadn't met Mike I'd still be a shy, scared, ugly, self-hating woman earning minimum wage selling popcorn, and the only way I wouldn't have ended up a spinster is if I killed myself. I owe him _everything_."

"Quite a transformation, Liz. Mike, in what ways has she changed that you dislike?"

"She's become a first-rate reporter, as good as or better than anyone on the national stage, but little by little, as she moved up the hierarchy, she's had to abandon her integrity to the point that it doesn't seem to matter to her whether she tells the truth. But the truth is imperative to her profession, imperative to the country, imperative to _me_."

Dr. Collins said, "Liz, how do you respond?"

"He doesn't know the pressure I'm under; he thinks he does but he doesn't. My husband has me second-guessing everything I say on the air. He thinks I'm this automaton who unquestioningly reads everything written for me by people he considers immoral Marxists. I do have input and I do have my say, and, believe it or not, Michael, I do my best to stand up for what I believe in, and I know you don't accept this anymore, but we still share most of the same values. Every time I object to something at work, I get abuse, frowns, head shakes, and even warnings to stay in line. Then after taking this abuse at work, I go home and get the third degree from my husband."

"Then quit," said Michael.

Now irritated with Michael's cavalier attitude, Elizabeth became more assertive. "Easy as that. Throw away everything I worked so hard for; everything I've accomplished. Just walk away from a decade of building my career and plunge us into poverty without any hope of a job that pays a decent wage. Throw away my reputation."

"You already did."

"My reputation is fine at work, despite my continual questioning, because I get high ratings, which means my reputation with my audience is fine as well. It's my reputation at home that's in the cellar. And most of my reporting is truthful."

"Sure, it's a nice day, it's Girl Scout cookie season, hurricanes cause a great deal of damage, an accident has closed Main Street, but on serious matters—"

"Yes, most of my reporting is straightforward, factual, local news. On national and international, I have scant input, but when I do give input and take abuse for it, at least I get to inject a little more balance. Just last week, I brought up the issue of our lack of coverage of the Yemen war because my husband wouldn't let up on it. I had to fight at work, but I did get to tell my audience that there are thousands of starving and displaced people there due to the war, and told them how to help. I go home and Mike grills me over leaving out the detail, as he put it, that Saudi Arabia, Britain, and the United States are responsible for the tragedy. Well, they wouldn't let me say that."

"Does that not tell you everything you need to know about the immorality of the people you work for?" said Michael.

"No it doesn't. Most of the people I work with and for in Seattle are fine people. They're professionals who do a good, honest job reporting _local_ news. Virtually all the national and international news is fed to us by the network. We do introduce it and sometimes comment on it, but we're simply not permitted to dispute it. Anyone who did would be out in a heartbeat, never to work in the media again. I take advantage of the commentary they let anchors make to bring up issues we may be giving short shrift to, so at least I can make up for some of the more glaring omissions from the network, but believe me, they keep me on a short leash so as not to contradict the network's position."

"Such as take down the president of the United States," said Michael.

She looked at the counselor in exasperation and said, "This is what I have to deal with every day, and he wonders why our sex life suffers. How many women would be in the mood after being abused and taunted by their husband for the shitty job they're doing day after day after day?"

"Mike, would you characterize your interaction with Liz as abusive?" said Dr. Collins.

"It's honest, but I wouldn't say abusive."

"You called me a war criminal!" said Elizabeth, getting emotional.

"A war criminal?" said the counselor. "Mike?"

"Context is important here. The only time mass media approves of the president is when he's threatening war or making war, which is probably the main reason the peace candidate has become bellicose. That MSM is forever pushing for war either means the military-industrial complex controls them or that war serves the bottom line of all media conglomerates. Take the Korean situation."

"Mike, let's not get into this now," said Elizabeth. "We're supposed to be discussing our relationship."

"No," said Dr. Collins, "Please go ahead with this discussion. It'll give me insight into how you two interact outside of this office. Act as if I'm not here. I'll step in when I feel it's appropriate. Mike, go ahead."

"Okay; North Korea. America's bluster is a smokescreen to keep a sizable military presence near China and Russia, and anyone who can't see that is just a useful idiot. Whether North Korea can deliver a nuclear bomb by ICBM to the United States is a big question mark. Yet NBC, like the others, is doing its part to whip up a state of frenzy against the fool in North Korea. Polls show most of the country is worried about North Korea now. North Korea! The most pathetically backward country on earth is going to get us, so we'd better get them first. Disarm right now or else!"

"You don't think North Korea should be allowed to have the bomb, do you?" said Elizabeth.

"What I think doesn't matter. What the United States thinks shouldn't matter either. North Korea is a sovereign country; they get to decide for themselves what they do with their money. The country that can nuke the earth several times over is forbidding North Korea to build even one to defend itself from by far the most dangerous country in the world. Who gave the U.S. that right?"

"And if we do nothing and they use the bomb to kill millions?" said Elizabeth.

"They use the bomb, they lose everything. They'll never do it unless we attack them."

"How do you know? He's a madman," said Elizabeth.

"Is he? You a psychologist now? He's a malevolent dictator, yes, but insane? North Korea learned a valuable lesson from Gaddafi's decision to abandon Libya's nuclear weapons program. Not long after, his country was ruined, and he was horrifically murdered with Hillary Satan Clinton joking, 'We came, we saw, he died.' Hilarious, huh? North Korea was also decimated by US bombing during the Korean War, which you can bet they remember. I know if I'm Kim Jong-un, I'm going full speed ahead with my nuclear program. It's my only hope to protect my nation and myself from the murderers in Washington, and I know they know if they try to take me out I'll turn South Korea, Tokyo, or maybe even an American city into a massive graveyard."

The counselor took a sip of coffee, then said, "These kinds of disagreements are central to your marital problems?"

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "He has strong opinions, and they may or may not reflect the truth, but Mike's sure they do. I'm not, and that would be okay—we can have our disagreements and still love each other—but the problem is my employer thinks very different, and I'm caught in the middle."

"Mike," said Dr. Collins, "is Elizabeth not entitled to her own opinion on these matters?"

"If her opinions are broadcast to millions and they're supporting out and out lies, no, she's not entitled to them. Do you think the criminal media will show millions of dead Korean children if this war happens? And what happens if China or Russia intervenes? It's pure madness to contemplate war there, but the media is whipping up pro-war sentiments regardless. Talk about the height of irresponsibility. If war happens, they'll share some of the responsibility." Turning to his wife, he said, "If that doesn't scare the hell out of you, you're not even human."

"Mike," said the counselor, "don't you think it's unfair to put all that on your wife's shoulders?"

"She's complicit. I pressure Liz because I don't want her involved in cheering on wars. Liz is pretty far down the hierarchy, but everyone in the network just goes along. Well, that's not good enough for my wife, God dammit! It's the epitome of immorality and the opposite of what a good journalist and a good person should stand for."

"Do you think your pressure on Liz is negatively affecting your marriage?" asked Dr. Collins.

"Of course it is, but there's a larger ethical issue."

"More important than your marriage?"

"Millions of lives are far more important than one marriage. I know she doesn't have the power to change much, and it's too much to call her a war criminal. I'm just trying to impress upon her how important this is."

"To you," said the counselor.

"It should be important to _everyone_. It isn't because the media isn't doing its job."

"You've acknowledged the pressure you're putting on Liz is unfair. As the first step in repairing your marriage, would you consider relenting?"

"No. As I said, the underlying issues are too important. Anyway it's too late."

"If it were too late you wouldn't be here."

"Even if she quit her job today, I no longer feel the same way about her. It's . . . gone."

Elizabeth looked at her husband in despair and started crying. He lowered his eyes.

"May I suggest transporting your mind back to your happy days together to try and recapture the feeling?" said the counselor.

Michael hesitated a moment and looked at his wife. She smiled sullenly. He closed his eyes and said, "The happiest moment of my married life was on the day she got the weathergirl job in Calgary. That night we celebrated. She was so happy she glowed, and I'd never seen anyone or anything more beautiful in my life. I still haven't. We made love, and she was so . . . she loved me deeply, and she showed it."

He opened his eyes, looked at her, and sighed. "She had sumptuous dark brown hair then; it suited her perfectly, but the network wants her to be blonde because she gets more viewers that way. Sex sells, after all. She has thousands of admirers, and her head is swelling so fast, I don't recognize her anymore. She's not the person I married. I loved her sweetness, her innocence, her integrity, her heart and soul; I loved _her_. Now she's bitter, cold, conceited, and deceitful, and she's flirting with other men.

"She told me she's been this person all along. I doubt that's true. I hope it's not. If so, I married a fraud. But I guess it doesn't matter. She likes who she is and has no intention of going back to being the wonderful person I married. On the contrary, she seems to despise the person she was. I don't love the person she's become. I don't even _like_ her. That's why our marriage is pretty much dead."

The counselor looked at Michael and, in a calm voice, ventured, "I think there's more to it. I think there's another level, maybe subconscious. Could it be, maybe, that she's flying too high, and you're scared she's getting away from you?" Michael gazed into space, contemplating that loaded question as the counselor proceeded. "Ask yourself whether you're, in fact, doing the opposite of what you did when you first started dating. You pulled her up from the ground, got her on her feet, and set her soaring. Now you're pulling her back and dragging her down to earth."

Elizabeth was a star streaking across the heavens striking awe into the hearts of the masses. He was a streaking meteorite plowing into the earth in remote Siberia striking fear into the hearts of two rabbits and a moose. _I'm deliberately trying to sabotage her career for my own selfish reasons!_ Michael grabbed his hair. His face scrunched and tears sprung from his eyes. The revelation was too much.

Dr. Collins drove the point home. "I think you pulled her up then pulled her back out of the same motivation; you love her."

Elizabeth reached over to clutch Michael's hand and said, "Oh, Michael, I love you. I always will. I'll never leave you."

"And how have you been communicating that, Liz?" said the counselor. "Cold shoulder, withholding sex, flirting with other men?" It was her turn to break down in self-reflection.

"Okay, I have you both in tears, so that's enough for today. I think we've made real progress. For what it's worth, from what I see, I think you still love each other. It's buried under some weighty issues at the moment, but I'm quite sure we can exhume and revive it, if you're willing to try."

The two nodded and returned home.

#

Eric's phone rang; he recognized the number. His CIA contact said, "We have to get in front of this water engine business."

Eric replied, "Are you implying the engine really worked?"

"It's above your pay grade," said Kate.

"Jesus Christ. What did you have in mind?"

"He'll disappear or have an accident like his father. Do we have to worry about his wife?"

"They're having marital troubles, and I think a divorce is imminent. I'd hate to lose her. Plus, firing her could look suspicious."

"We're beyond firing. Langley is going nuts over this. We have to control it."

"She's our most popular anchor by far, and the national desk is interested in her. She could be a great asset for us going forward."

Kate asked, "Will she question when her husband disappears?"

"My best guess is she'll figure he took off. The gossip mill says she's after Blaine, so she'd probably welcome her husband, um, disappearing."

"Guessing and rumors aren't good enough. There's an immense amount at stake here. Empire-collapsing immense. She could well be a liability."

"I can take the usual steps to ensure we can control her."

"Make sure you do, or she'll disappear, too."

Kate hung up.

#

Blaine had endured some ribbing over his evident alarm at the prospect of being dismantled by Elizabeth's husband. He'd protested he merely held back because he was a gentleman, but people laughed at his assertion, which left him humiliated and outraged.

As if that weren't bad enough, Carmen and Vicky warned him his career could be at stake for sexual assault. He exclaimed, "She wanted me. She was flirting with me all night, rubbing her leg against mine!"

"She says she's still in love with him," said Carmen.

"He's demanding a divorce, so I'd say she's in love without him," said Vicky.

The three cackled.

Blaine, who could never be accused of having a brain, decided to hit back in public.

#

Elizabeth had come into the studio for the closing segment of the Friday evening news to promote a special guest she'd be interviewing on set the next morning. When she finished and the program was winding down, Blaine said, "So, Liz, rumor has it the network wants you in New York."

Elizabeth gaped at him in shock and responded, "I . . . I can't talk about that now."

When she'd phoned the New York executive to decline his interview, she'd been talked into an unofficial interview over the phone, and he'd concluded by informing her she'd probably get an offer in the new year. She hadn't told Michael this, of course, hoping, somehow, he'd relent. The counseling session had even given her cause for optimism, but if Michael were watching now—and he always watched her on TV—he'd know she'd been lying to him about telling the network no.

Blaine ended the broadcast with, "In the meantime, we all wait with bated breath for your genius husband's world-changing engine that runs on water—unless the government gets him like they did his father. Good evening, everyone!" He sniggered, and Elizabeth turned a bright shade of red as the commercials commenced.

Elizabeth hurried from the set in tears but ran into Eric, who halted her and told her to settle down, and that he'd take care of things, hollering, "Blaine, you're fired. Pack your things and get out now!"

While an incredulous Blaine argued with Eric, Elizabeth, in deep shock, tottered out of the building to her car.

This was the worst moment of her life. The best she could hope for was Michael leaving her forever and disappearing. The worst: the CIA would kill him and maybe her. In pure panic, she contemplated swerving into a dump truck speeding toward her, but forewent the impulse. Not only did she want to end it all, she felt she deserved it.

She made it home and, pausing before the apartment door to take a breath, slow her heart, and pray, she opened it. Michael stood there with a packed duffle bag. Knowing his intention was to leave for good, she said, "Please, Mike, don't leave me. _I love you_."

"You told them about the engine."

With tears streaming down her face she said, "I . . . they were calling you a loser and—"

"Here's what my life has come to. I want to walk out that door and never see you again, but . . ." Tears welled in his eyes. "I can't afford to cross the goddamn street! I'm so broke, I don't even have one cent." He pulled out his empty pockets.

"Oh, Mike. I'm so sor—"

"Shut up! I gave you everything I had. Not just all the money I made toiling in grease and filth; _everything_! Every bit of love in my heart. Every hour of my day. All my hopes and dreams. A decade of my life I dedicated to you. You took everything and left me with _nothing_. No money, no future, no self-esteem, no confidence, no children, no love, no goddamn wife!" Michael wiped his eyes and nose with his hand. "That's what love means to you."

Weeping, Elizabeth said, "Please, Mike . . . forgive—"

"So now I've arrived at the final indignity; I have to ask the person who took everything for a bit of money so I can leave fast before the CIA arrives to _kill_ me. How's that for irony?"

Elizabeth slumped to her knees in misery. She held out her arms, pleading for him to forgive her, but he went around her to her purse. He opened it, extracted her wallet, took the thirty-five dollars she had, and strode to the door.

"Michael, I love you. I'll quit! We'll run together, and I'll have your baby." He opened the door and stomped out. "Please take me with you! Michael!" She crumbled to the floor and sobbed. _Oh, God. It's really happened. He's gone forever. Wake up. Please wake up!_

### Chapter Eleven  
Seattle, November, 2017

In a daze from the incredible revelations and their implications, Michael trudged toward the bus station. His initial plan was to get out of the United States posthaste, but what then? Maybe call Mark and ask for help.

At the bus station he found, to his dismay, that the last bus to Canada was overbooked, and he'd have to wait till morning for the next one. He surveyed the station, wondering if anyone might be his assassin, though he guessed it would take them more time to arrange his murder. He sat on a hard bench, afraid and thoroughly dispirited, and worked hard to prevent tears.

About two hours later, his phone rang. He'd switched it off because he was worried assassins could find him through it and because Elizabeth wouldn't stop calling, but he'd turned it back on to check price and availability of a train ticket to Vancouver. Too expensive. He just about shut off his phone when he saw Deirdre's name on the display. Out of boredom and curiosity, he answered.

"Mike? I heard you left your wife," said Deirdre.

"Yeah."

"Sorry. You going back to Canada?"

"Yes."

"This might sound crass and opportunistic, but before you go, could you please consider what I raised with you in August?"

"Sperm donation?"

"Yes. I have the kit the clinic assembles to collect and store sperm, and if you want . . . how did you word it? A direct deposit? I'd be happy to accommodate you."

"I _just_ left her."

"I know, I'm sorry, but you have something I desperately want. I can give you money, too, to help you until you get settled."

Though it was humiliating to accept money from her, Michael's life was at stake and he needed the wherewithal to escape. He also needed a place to sleep for the night.

"I'm so broke, you'd have to pay for the taxi ride to and from your place."

"No problem."

He gave the taxi driver the address Deirdre had told him, and they proceeded to one of the city's most expensive neighborhoods—she lived maybe a kilometer away from Eric's. How Deirdre could afford such a swanky house he had no idea. _She must have a million-dollar mortgage_.

He paid the cabbie with every penny he had and walked to her door. Before he rang the bell, Deirdre opened the door, threw her arms around him, and kissed him. She wore a blue satin robe that fell to just below her rear. She clutched his hand and drew him inside. "Take off your shoes." Once he did, she pulled him into a large room and toward a plush cream sofa, then turned to him and undid her robe. Michael gawped at the ravishing creature. Deirdre's naked body, with its porcelain skin, perfect curves, and generous breasts, seemed to have no flaws—and no hair. He stared at her crotch, electrified.

She smiled salaciously and kissed him. As she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, he said, "Dee, there's nothing I'd rather do than . . . you—I mean, you're spellbinding—but I'm still married to her and I left her not three hours ago."

Undeterred, she lowered his pants, then his boxers. She pushed him down onto the couch, then she straddled him.

"I don't think I can . . ."

"I'm sure you can," she said, clutching his hard penis. Then she aggressively plunged down on him and started wildly thrusting up and down.

"Dee, stop."

"Not till you give me what I want. Come in me, Mike!"

"No. Stop!" he said lifting her off him. "I'll give you the sample you want but not like this."

That took her aback and seemed to anger her, but without a word, Deirdre leaned over to the end table and grabbed a container. Then she knelt next to him and used her mouth and hands to bring him to a quick climax and capture her prize. She smiled and said, "I'd have preferred a direct deposit, but this should be fine. Tell me truthfully and off the record: did your engine actually work?"

"Yes."

"Just pour water into the tank and go?"

"Yes. About ninety kilometers per liter of water."

"Wow." She held out his specimen and said, "Worth its weight in gold times a thousand. Maybe I should put it on eBay for a million bucks."

"If you get it let me know. There's more where that came from."

She stood, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Then she tied her housecoat and said, "Now, already!"

"What?" he said, but just then he felt a piercing shock and collapsed. Stunned, he struggled to figure out what was happening to him. As he concluded, _I've been tazed!_ , Michael was lifted to his feet by a burly man. "What the—" he said before the man wrapped his arm around his neck, cutting off his air.

Perfectly calm, Deirdre said, "Sorry, Mike. This is nothing personal. I really do like you, and I wasn't lying about wanting your child, but I have a job to do. Be assured that I'll treasure our child. I'll tell her or him what a great man Daddy was. At least your line will go on, even though you . . . won't."

She continued talking but by this time Michael was close to losing consciousness, probably forever. This thought was stupefying, and his mind was in full-blown panic mode. He did hear her yell, "Not here!" The man loosened his grip and Michael took in a big gulp of air. She continued, "I don't want a mess on my new carpet, and I don't want to think about a corpse in my new house. Do it somewhere else. Kate wants pictures of the body, so make sure there's no doubt he's dead; maybe slash his upper chest and neck with a dagger, then bash his head in with a hammer or tire iron."

"We have an ax," said the hit man.

"Perfect. Chop his chest, neck, and skull apart, take the pictures, then dispose of the body so it can't be found and bring me the pictures."

The man asked, "You want us to make it quick?"

"I don't care; just make sure there's plenty of blood, so hack a few times before his heart stops. You, pull your car into my garage so the neighbors don't see," she said to another assassin, who Michael spotted for the first time. Back to the hood holding Michael, she said, "Taser him again so he doesn't cause a fuss." As the man did so, Michael grimaced in pain and collapsed. "Now pick him up, cover his mouth so he can't scream, and take him to the garage. Then knock him out or something, put him in your car, and don't forget his clothes and duffle bag. Come on, move it. I have to get dinner going."

Michael was dragged toward the garage, Deirdre leading the way and speaking on the phone. "Hi, Kate. Job's done, and they're disposing of the leftovers as I speak. I'll bring the pictures, and any parts you want on Tuesday. . . Ah, you're no fun." She looked at the assassins and muttered, "No cadaver pieces necessary."

Back to Kate, Deirdre resumed, "My pleasure. I expect a very expensive bottle of wine. I'm celebrating because I'm going to be a mother; a single mother. . . Not yet, but I have the world's most valuable sperm." She tittered. "Yes, from the dearly departed." She opened the door to the garage and added, "As he climaxed I was looking into his beautiful eyes thinking, 'Enjoy it, darling, it's your last one!'" She laughed and winked at Michael as they hauled him past her into the garage. "She did? Don't worry. I'll get her to Eric's place so he can either make her one of your loyal minions or reunite her with her deceased husband." Deirdre hung up and said to Michael, "Your wife just quit; she's going to try to win you back. Good luck with that." She snickered and nodded, and Michael felt a searing pain on the back of his head and lost consciousness.

#

Deirdre sauntered to her wine cabinet and chose her favorite bottle to celebrate. While sipping, she prepared supper.

After supper, she retrieved the jar with Michael's sperm and smiled. _What a perfect baby I'm going to have!_ She picked up her phone and dialed.

"Hi, Liz? It's Dee."

It was apparent Elizabeth was weeping. "I can't talk now. Goodb—"

"Don't hang up! It's important. Michael's here, but he doesn't know I'm calling."

"Why's he there?" asked Elizabeth.

"To, um, give me—"

"His sperm!"

"Yes, and he wants to give it to me . . . you know, the natural way."

"No, Dee, please!"

"That's why I'm calling. I mean, I know he left you, and in his mind he's free to do this, but I like you and thought it was only right to ask what you thought."

"I don't want you to let him lay you, Dee. He's still my husband, and I want him back."

"Can you get here right away, so we can discuss it with him?"

"I'll be right there."

Deirdre smiled, imbibed more wine, and kissed the jar.

She made another call. "Eric, Liz obviously isn't going to give up on Mike, so she might be a liability. She's on her way here, so I need your decision. Sedative or poison?"

#

When Michael opened his eyes, all was black. He had no idea what was going on for a few moments, but suddenly his predicament reoccurred to him. His head throbbed, but that was a tertiary problem at present. He tried to move but hit his head on something right above him. He moaned in pain. _I'm in a trunk!_ And the car was on the move. _Shit, they're going to kill me! Oh, God, please help me!_

In this state of terror he suffered for another several minutes. _Come on, think, think!_ He felt around for a tire iron, or anything else he could use to give himself at least a slim chance of defending himself. Nothing. The car slowed and Michael's heart accelerated. _Once we get where we're going, I'm dead!_ The car turned and accelerated but the road was bumpy, jostling the already disoriented and terrified man. He cradled his aching head in an effort to protect it from another jolt. After a few minutes of this, the car slowed and halted, and Michael's heart rocketed.

The trunk opened, and a huge pair of hands seized his arms, unceremoniously hauled him out, and threw him to the ground. Michael tried to get up to run but, still woozy from the crack on his skull, he fell. This was fortunate in one narrow sense, for if he'd managed to run a few feet in the direction he'd intended—away from his killers—he'd have done the deed for them because the ground ended; they were on a precipice! It was pitch black. The headlights provided enough light to see the cliff's edge, but he couldn't tell how deep the plunge was. He guessed it was deep enough to bury him and the evidence.

The assassin picked him up, and Michael's tenacious efforts to free himself were unavailing. The hood was incredibly strong. He held his victim fast and told his colleague, "Come on, hack his brains out."

The hood approached him with a hatchet, swung his arm back, and leveled it at Michael's head.

#

Elizabeth sped to Deidre's house, ran to her front door, and rang the bell. Deirdre answered with a melancholy face and informed her, "I'm sorry, Liz. When I told him we all needed to discuss this, he left."

Elizabeth began weeping.

"Please, Liz, come in, at least till you settle down."

She tottered inside. Deirdre took her hand and guided her to the couch in the great room. Both ladies sat. Elizabeth said, "Did you two . . ."

"No, I wouldn't let him, but, um, he did give me what I wanted." Deidre picked up a jar from the end table. Elizabeth saw the white fluid, lowered her head, and continued crying.

After a minute or so in this misery, Elizabeth said, "Did you help him?"

"Yes."

That redoubled her weeping.

"I'm sorry, Liz, but it was the only way he'd give me what I so desperately wanted. It was only a matter of a few minutes. Can I get you a strong drink?"

"I don't think—"

"I insist. I can't let you suffer alone. I have excellent red wine."

Elizabeth nodded, and Deirdre left the room. To think that Deirdre was to have his child and she never would. What could be more devastating? Had Deidre not taken the container with her, she'd have been tempted to steal it and run out.

Deirdre returned with two glasses of wine and a blanket. "Liz, if you don't mind standing for a moment; cream couch." Elizabeth nodded and stood. Deirdre handed her both glasses and spread the blanket over the couch, then both ladies sat. Elizabeth held out a glass for Deirdre, but she said, "No, that one's mine; I already sipped from it. Elizabeth gave her her glass, then, out of her mind with grief, downed her entire glass. Deidre chuckled and said, "Want another?"

"Yes."

Deirdre poured her another glass, but this time Elizabeth took only one gulp. She said, "Did he tell you where he was going?"

"Canada."

That news was sufficient to prompt another slug of wine. "Oh! I'm feeling this already," said Elizabeth.

"Probably all the emotion has exhausted you."

"All of a sudden, I'm feeling quite, uh . . . lightheaded. I'd better get home."

She stood and lost her balance. Deidre took her arm to steady her and said, "Sit. It'll pass soon."

"No, I want to get home, but I don't think I can drive. Would it be too much trouble to drive me home?"

Deidre agreed. She helped Elizabeth into her car and backed out of the driveway.

Elizabeth said, "No, I live the other way . . . I'm getting worse, I think." She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them they were in front of Eric's house. "What are we doing here?"

"Eric wants one minute of your time to try to talk you out of quitting."

"Not tonight. Just take me home. I think I'm getting sick."

Deirdre didn't listen. She came around to the passenger side, opened the door, and helped Elizabeth out; she found it hard to resist.

Eric opened his door and let them in. Deirdre said, "I'll wait outside."

Elizabeth said, "No, Dee. I . . ." But she was gone.

Eric said, "Relax, Liz." As the room started to spin, she noticed two children, a boy and a girl. "You have a preference?"

"A preference? I don't under . . . I'm so dizzy. What's going on?"

Gesturing to the children, he said, "These are our meals. Which do you want?"

"What are you . . . talking about?"

"I get the hotdog, you get the pizza."

#

Michael shut his eyes and waited for the excruciating end. Suddenly, there was a sharp report. Then another shot. He and his assailant fell. Michael, now dazed and panicked but still alive—somehow—squirmed to free himself, which he did readily.

"Easy," said a man.

Michael looked up, saw an elderly man with a pistol, and pleaded, "Don't kill me!"

"Why would I do that when I just saved you?" said the man.

"Who are you? What the hell is going on?"

"Not a very nice thank you, but I'll take it."

Michael stood slowly, swayed, and glanced at his two would-be killers, both of whom had bullet wounds to the head. He reengaged his savior.

"Uh, thanks, but I don't understand . . . who are you?"

"Time for explanations later. Those your pants?"

Michael, who still had only a shirt and socks on, looked to see his pants hanging over the edge of the cliff. He retrieved them and as he stepped into them the man said, "I can guess why you were basically naked, but you can regale me with the story later. Right now we have to get going."

Michael hesitated. Suddenly freezing, he scanned the area for his jacket, shoes, and duffle bag. He stumbled over to check the car.

"Searching for your suitcase?" Michael nodded. "They threw it over the cliff." Michael smirked and relieved one corpse of his jacket and shoes and donned them. The man said, "Coming?"

"I . . . I know you saved my life, and thanks again, but I have no idea who you are, and given today's, um, horrors, I'm finding it hard to trust anyone. I'm still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane."

"Adrenalin and cool weather. Trust me or stay here. Up to you," he said as he ambled to his pickup.

"I suddenly discovered I trust you," said Michael as he slogged to the pickup and slumped into the passenger seat.

"Who are you?" asked Michael.

"First, tell me what role you played in building your engine." Michael's expression must've betrayed his wariness because the man went on, "To repeat, I stopped your murder, so give me the benefit of the doubt."

Michael said, "My father designed it; I engineered it."

"Perfect!"

"What's perfect?"

"It gets to my motivation for helping you. You see, I'm you," said the man. Michael looked at him quizzically, and the man added, "My name is Nathan MacIsaac. I was in your position about forty years ago." The puzzled look remained, so the man proceeded to say, "You think you're the first person to come up with an engine that runs on water? A couple of colleagues and I invented a water engine in the nineteen-seventies. Somehow Texaco stepped in and won the patent _for my engine—_ there's no way they came up with the exact same design at the exact same time—then they proceeded to shelve it. My colleagues who tried to stop them . . . they're dead. I disappeared before I met the same fate."

As they turned off the dirt path onto the pavement, Michael looked out the window, rubbed his sore noggin, and said, "Where the hell are we anyway?"

"In the mountains east of Seattle."

"How did you know about me? How in the name of God are you even here?"

"I keep my eyes and ears open for any news about water engines since my misadventure with the murderous government. Fortunately for you, I live only about fifty miles from Seattle, and I saw the joker on the Seattle news talk about your engine. Brought back a lot of nasty memories. If the joker wasn't joking, I knew they'd target you, so I decided to see if I could stop it, because, as I said, you're me. I found your wife on Facebook and sent an urgent message for you two to get out of town. She asked who I was, and I said, 'A friend.' She told me you'd already left. I asked for your phone number, and after some hesitation, while I impressed upon her the urgency of the matter, she gave it to me, but it kept going to voicemail."

"I'd turned off my phone because I was worried the fuckers would track my phone and my wife wouldn't stop calling. I left her."

"But you switched it back on."

"I was stuck at the bus station for the night, and I wanted to check on train tickets."

"Lucky. I tracked down the location of your phone."

"How do you know how to do that?"

"I'm smart; like you. It's good I came right away. I'm surprised at how quickly they got assassins out."

"That bitch Deirdre. She's a weekday anchor at the station and doubles as a psychopathic CIA agent, I'm guessing."

"You just left your wife and went on a booty call?"

"It wasn't like that—well, yes it was but there was more to it." Michael explained what happened.

"Do a gorgeous gal a favor by laying her. I can respect that. She thanked you by setting you up?"

"Yup. Can we stop by her place so I can kill her?"

"We need to skedaddle. Might take them a while to figure out their guys are dead, and we need that while to get away. As soon as they find out, they'll send a team of reinforcements."

"How the hell do we survive that?"

"You mean how the hell do _you_ survive that. They don't know about me. I got away from these maniacs in the nineteen seventies, before all this Orwellian security state business. It was a lot easier to stay hidden then. Now, they watch everything we do. The surveillance state can predict what we're going to do before we even give any thought to it, for Christ's sake. You make a call, go online, send a text or email, use your credit or debit card, drive your car, pass in front of one of the millions of cameras they have pointed at everything, and who knows what else—they've got you. They'll put out an APB or whatever they do nowadays so every one of their storm troopers from the CIA and FBI down to the local sheriff and shopping mall security guards will be on the lookout for you. They'll do everything they can to corner you; steal any money of yours they can find, monitor the calls, texts, emails, and whereabouts of anyone you know."

"Jesus Christ. Is there anything I can do? Maybe go online and tell the world how to build my engine so killing me won't accomplish anything?"

"I know all about that scenario. As you can see, I had the nerve to go on living, and they couldn't take the chance that anyone would take my invention seriously, so they utterly ruined my reputation. They concocted an entire life history that made me look like the epitome of the snake oil salesman. My engine was a fake, I ripped off my investors, I was wanted by the police for massive fraud, I cheated on my finals at Cal Tech, I cheated on my wife, and on and on."

"Was any of it true?"

"I did cheat on my wife; worst mistake of my life."

"You loved her?"

"Hell no; hated her. It just cost me most of what I owned. What about your wife?"

"We're done." He sighed and looked into the darkness through the side window.

"You really are me."

"I don't hate her, only what she became in the news business."

"Don't get me started on the media."

"So they'll destroy my reputation, too."

"Foregone conclusion."

"Unless they murder me right away," said Michael, shaking then rubbing his head.

"No, they'll still ruin your reputation so no one will take rumors of your engine seriously."

"Wonderful."

"Isn't it?"

"An exceedingly malevolent, murderous, all-powerful state versus Mike. No problem!" Michael could see nothing other than the road ahead illuminated by the headlights. "Where are we anyway?"

"Like I told you, east of the city. Close to where I live, actually."

"Are we going there, or since you're not on their radar, am I on my own? I'm asking in the hopes you'll continue to help me because I'm completely out of my league; a fish in a barrel with a hundred professional fishermen angling for me. I don't even know the first step to take, let alone what path."

"I'll teach you what I can. I do have some training that helped me through. When I was a twenty-year-old senior in college, I won the draft lottery. So, I went to graduate school to defer going to war, which I was able to do because Cal Tech gave me generous scholarships, but their generosity didn't extend forever. Being smart worked against me. At age twenty-four I'd made a breakthrough that all the professors were crowing about, and they said, 'Congratulations. Here's your PhD!' I'd been feeling great about myself. 'Look, everyone, at how brilliant I am. Look, everyone, my future is bright. Look, everyone, I'm in the goddamn marines on the frontlines in Vietnam!'"

"They put a PhD physicist on the frontlines?"

"That's another interesting story. Our mutual friend, the CIA, came calling, telling me how my expertise in electromagnetism could not only keep me out of the war, but could help the nation. I was terrified at the prospect my work could be valuable to those thugs, so I told them to piss off. I'm convinced they pulled strings to place me on the frontlines. So, I spent a year in 'Nam shitting my pants, watching too many teenage friends in my unit die senseless deaths, and killing people who were trying to kill me merely because we invaded their country and were slaughtering tens of thousands of their countrymen.

"Afterward, though I immediately got a job as a professor at Berkeley and looked successful on the surface, it took me years to come to terms with what I'd been forced to do by our military. My disquiet cost me my wife, though in retrospect I think I never loved her. I was so messed up, I wasn't thinking straight—except when it came to theoretical physics. There alone I could immerse myself in a world that made sense and block out the rest."

Nathan slowed and turned left. He continued, "Eventually I made a bargain with myself; do something good for the world, and I would forgive myself for the evil I'd done for my country—that is, for my country's arms industry. That led to my water engine, which was, paradoxically, my final undoing.

"The one silver lining of my military experience was that I learned the skills to survive the last forty years. What about you? What's your story?"

Michael informed Nathan of his history related to the water engine after which Nathan responded, "Fucking CIA! Most iniquitous entity on the planet. So, I presume from what you told me you know little if anything in the way of self-defense techniques?"

"Nothing."

"Know any survival skills?"

"Nope."

"How to shoot a gun?" Michael shook his head. "How to grow food? Trap food? Fish?" Michael's head shook through the list of skills he didn't have. "You really are helpless, aren't you?"

"Useless city boy. I'm good with anything mechanical. Maybe I can rig us up an impregnable fortress."

"Good luck. They have an arsenal that can destroy the world several times over, and one of those times is currently aimed at you. That'll teach you for inventing something that would make the world a hundred times better. So, how does your engine work?"

"My father was a physicist at McMaster University, a world-leading expert on zero-point energy."

"Bingo," said Nathan, "though we called it electromagnetic energy. Set it up in a vortex ring and—"

"Turn water into oxygen and hydrogen and flow it through a modified gasoline engine."

"How did you engineer it? I mean, how did you figure it out?"

"Dad was the theorist, but was useless at turning theory into something real. I'm the opposite. I came up with the breakthrough, in a kind of waking dream after years of working and talking with Dad on the problem."

"True father-son collaboration. Our team had the same strengths. I was a theoretical physicist at Berkeley. Brian and Pavel were engineers there. I'm just a hermit now, living off the land."

"What a shame."

"Better off than my partners who're part of the land." Nathan glanced at Michael and said, "I'm dying . . . cancer." He reached forward and turned up the heat.

"I'm sorry."

"I've been hoping, even desperate enough to pray, for another opportunity to bring my engine to life, but I don't have the engineering skill."

"You want me to build it."

"Quid pro quo. I save your life and keep you alive; you build our engine. I know you're young and would have more to lose—"

"I'm already at the top of their hit list. How much worse can it get? They killed my parents and obliterated my future, and I rolled over and took it up the ass, playing dumb to save my life and keep my wife out of harm's way. I'm sick of running and hiding. We've let these evil fuckers get away with outrageous crimes, not only against us; against _humanity_. And where's it gotten us? Where's it gotten _everyone_? They're more entrenched and powerful than ever. However slim, the chance to bring them down is within our grasp. Let's build the fucking thing and drive it right up their arse!"

Nathan laughed. "You played dumb to stay alive; you can't blame yourself. Tell me: how did they find out what you're capable of?"

"Bigmouth wife told the people she works with, trying to defend me against their verbal attacks, she said. One of them happened to be a CIA operative."

"Which prompted you to walk out on her." Michael nodded as Nathan passed a slow-moving big rig. "The media is controlled by the aristocracy. The CIA has agents in every major media outlet."

"I'd read that a few times but had no idea how true it was. Deirdre seemed brilliant, sensible, and forthright."

"Add a touch of psychopathy and she's the perfect agent. Forty years ago, we ran into the same nasty bunch . . . well, the previous generation, but they're all the same; they have been since the Praetorian Guard terrorized Rome. Brian and Pavel did their best to get the media to publicize the theft of our patents and our breakthrough. They tried NBC, CBS, ABC, the _New York Times_ , the _Washington Post_ , _Newsweek, Time_ , BBC—you name it. All refused to report on it. They did run a story on the disgraced scientists who'd gotten drunk and died driving off a cliff; the same ones who'd tried to bilk investors out of millions with an engine that used nothing more than conventional electrolysis. I'll see the smug smirks on the anchors' faces till the day I die."

Michael shook his head in disgust.

Nathan continued, "I've heard rumors of others who did what we did and who died prematurely as early as the nineteen-forties! In the nineties an American named Stan Meyer actually got his story on the local evening news showing his water-powered car driving down the road. Then the spooks took charge, ruined him, and murdered him. He ran out of a restaurant hollering, 'I've been poisoned!' and collapsed, but I think the authorities ruled his death was from natural causes."

"I suppose arsenic is natural."

"I have no idea what's true and what's not, but I'm betting our engine's been invented more times than we know."

"Shit, I'd thought at least our idea was original."

"Trust me, being scooped is the least of your troubles. Hey, you want to be even more pissed? We're almost out of gasoline."

Michael frowned and said, "Where the hell are we?"

#

The next morning, a Saturday in mid-November, Elizabeth called in sick and drove to the hospital to, maybe, find out what had obliterated all her memories after seeing those children at Eric's house. Late that afternoon, she went to work to confront Eric, but she emerged from his office in absolute shock.

After considering her options, she phoned Tim to ask him a big favor and arranged to meet him at the station two hours before her 7 a.m. Sunday shift. Two minutes before her shift began, instead of sitting before the live camera to begin her news broadcast, Elizabeth sat in the control room with Tim. "Thanks, Tim," she said. "This means the world to me. I hope this doesn't cost you your job."

"I'm doing it for both of us. I hope it doesn't cost you more than your job."

She nodded. Tim left the control room, and she squeezed Krazy Glue into the keyhole, shut the door, and locked it. After the commercials finished, she pushed the button Tim had indicated, slid up the volume control, and her pre-recorded video started playing on air. "Please, God, give me at least five minutes before they take it off," she murmured.

She watched on a studio monitor as the video played.

Sitting at the broadcast desk—the same one she'd normally be at for a live broadcast—and looking solemn but intense, she began. "This will be my final broadcast on KMSM TV. I'd been headed to the moon, according to network brass who wanted me to move to the national network because my ratings are high. I'm told I look great on camera and people trust everything I say, so I was off to the big time. Despite that, I quit. Why? My husband left me."

Here she brought her hand to her mouth and nose in an attempt to hold back tears. After a moment, she resumed, "He left me because he couldn't stand the part I was playing in lying for the network and their bosses in the banks and government. He was absolutely correct. You shouldn't believe everything I say. When it comes to national or international news you shouldn't believe _anything_ I say. I lie, _we_ lie all the time on NBC News. I'll get to that in a minute, assuming they don't cut this off. This is a recording.

"As if losing my husband wasn't bad enough, something else happened last night that I'm still having a hard time believing and that prompted me to make this video. Deidre Pardo phoned to say my husband was at her place, so I went there only to be told he'd left. She gave me some wine, which I accepted in my misery, but soon I started to feel dizzy. She said she was going to drive me home but instead took me to the home of Eric Pedamante, our station manager.

"Deirdre left, saying she'd wait outside. Then two children appeared, a boy and a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. I asked Eric what was going on. He said, 'These are our meals.' I had no idea what he meant. The last thing I remember about last night was him saying, 'I get the hotdog, you get the pizza.' I learned this morning that was slang for he gets the boy, I get the girl." With tears in her eyes and an enraged red face, she bellowed, "These were children, you goddamn animal!"

Taking a deep breath, she proceeded, "Yesterday morning I woke up mystified with a bad headache, so I went to the hospital to find out what happened to me. I'd been drugged with Rohypnol—commonly known as the date rape drug—and I have the proof. I confronted Eric. As you can imagine, I was livid. He told me to calm down, and played a video of me naked in bed with the girl, who was also naked. She was licking me and fondling me. I was out of it but writhing and moaning in response to what she was doing to me. To me it was clear I had no idea what was happening, but a neutral observer might conclude that I was enjoying it."

Elizabeth looked at the clock: 7:02, then returned her attention to the video.

"In shock, I asked Eric, 'Why?' He said, and obviously I'm paraphrasing, 'We have big things planned for you, but you have an annoying tendency to question too much. We don't want to lose you, Liz. You're golden, but we need to be sure of your loyalty. This video stays private forever as long as you do what you were born to do; read the teleprompter and look genuine and pretty. Stop questioning what you're reading.' He added ominously, 'Play along or it won't go well for you.'

"I left his office in a stupor. I don't know if I was more outraged or terrified. I confronted Deirdre, but she professed complete innocence. I don't believe her. I think maybe they did the same thing to her and now she's under their control.

"I called the police, and they sent two detectives to talk to me. I told them everything I knew. They talked to Eric and Deidre, who, of course, denied it. They said I was disconsolate after my husband left and had been acting erratically and was taking strong psychotropics. That's a lie, but the police believed them! I don't even think they're looking for those poor children! God knows what the devils will do to them now. Get rid of the evidence?" By this time tears were pouring from her eyes.

She broke down crying on the air. Tim had left a few seconds of this in the video for impact, but had to cut most of it out, for precious seconds were ticking away. Elizabeth stood nervously in the control room. Close to three minutes had elapsed, and she'd seen no one yet. The next minute was critical, and she was ready to fight off whoever got into the control room first. Every second seemed an hour.

The video continued with Elizabeth having composed herself. "My husband, Mike, the love of my life, left me because my job was telling lies to the public. He said he didn't want me associated with lies that help the government start wars, control the economy, spy on the public, and so much more. I had a choice to make: quit and keep my husband or continue lying and keep my career. For a reason I cannot fathom, I chose my career, so he left, and my happiness was extinguished."

Again she cried as the video continued to roll, now nearing three and a half minutes. A security guard arrived and pounded on the door, and Tim shouted as planned, "Liz! What are you doing? Open the door, for God's sake!" The phone in the control room rang. _Probably panicked station execs_ , she thought. Two more people came running to the control room door, shouting, "Pull the plug! Pull the plug!"

On air, she was saying in the video, "I'm doing this for two main reasons. On a personal level, I want to reclaim a small measure of integrity and, I hope and pray, reclaim my husband. I love you, Mike. Please come home to me. On a professional level, I want to apologize to my audience for all the lies. As Mike told me many times, my primary responsibility as a journalist is to tell the truth. I didn't always do that, and I'm truly sorry.

"I also have to say to my audience, you, too, have the responsibility to hold the media accountable. Why do you believe everything we say? You know the mass media lied about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, so why do you believe us when we say that Russia was behind the Ukrainian coup, or that Assad gassed his own people? We lied for our warmongering government and for the corporations that own us.

"And the lies keep coming. I mean, do you actually believe the Russiagate nonsense? We all know there's nothing to it, and you should, too. Have some common sense and use your head, for God's sake. It's so obvious Russiagate was cooked up by Clinton and probably Obama as an excuse for losing the election and as a reason to undercut Trump. Otherwise he might bring them to justice for all their crimes. We're in a new cold war now, aided and abetted by the media's demonization of Russia. Demonizing Russia is _dangerous_! We have to stop!

"The many lies I told, such as Trump colluded with Putin, the economy's on fire, and Iran sponsored 9/11, are outweighed by the truths I never told—lies of omission. I lied by not telling you that almost half a million Syrian refugees have returned home after Assad had regained control of large swaths of Syria, which the rebels _we_ illegally armed had utterly ruined. The lies on Syria reported almost daily by our media, especially the _Washington Post_ and _New York Times_ , are so egregious as to be criminal.

"I lied by neglecting to report on the unparalleled humanitarian crisis unfolding in Yemen, perpetrated by Saudi Arabia with the full support of the United States. Millions are displaced, and people there are dying by the tens of thousands from bombs, starvation, and pestilence—a massive cholera epidemic is raging there right now—but I ignored all of it. I lied by bringing you virtually no stories on the catastrophic situation in Venezuela. I asked my bosses about it, and they said it wasn't newsworthy. An entire, formerly rich nation, disintegrating with thousands facing starvation including young teenage girls forced to prostitute themselves so they don't starve to death. The miracle of socialism; not newsworthy. Ever hear of all the arrests of child traffickers in the last several months? How in the world are unspeakable crimes against defenseless children not newsworthy? Ever hear of the slaughter going on right now in the Congo? In Myanmar? The famines in Nigeria, Somalia, South Sudan? I mean, the litany is endless!

"I lied by omitting any mention of a long-bankrupt Social Security system. It, along with desperately underfunded state and municipal pension plans, have no hope of paying anywhere near their promised benefits to millions of Americans, who will almost certainly face dire poverty. I omitted any critical journalism on the obvious crimes of Hillary Clinton, including approving the deal to sell Uranium One to the Russians in return for millions of dollars to her so-called charity. A good deal of evidence proves that the Clinton Foundation is the largest charity fraud ever devised. Why didn't the mass media ever take seriously the many crimes of the Democratic Party made evident by the Clinton and Podesta emails? And that's nothing compared to the trillions of dollars reported as missing from the US government. _Twenty-one trillion; with a T!_ _Missing!_ From just two departments! Special investigations are set up to investigate the president for having the nerve to seek détente with Russia, but on the missing money? Nothing. Russiagate—"

The power to the studio was turned off. Elizabeth opened the door, and the security guard grabbed her. "Hey!" said Tim. "Go easy on her."

The security guard handed her off to the police, who placed her under arrest.

#

Watching Elizabeth on TV at Nathan's cabin in the mountains east of Seattle, Nathan said, "They'll kill her. She's clearly despondent. They'll make it look like suicide."

Michael, who'd reached the same conclusion, nodded in fear.

#

KMSM wanted charges pressed, so Elizabeth was arraigned, then released on her own recognizance. She, in turn, swore out official complaints against Deirdre and Eric.

Two police officers accompanied her home. They offered to check out her apartment to allay what they probably felt were unreasonable fears, and she gratefully accepted.

She unlocked the door, and one of the police officers preceded her inside, hand on his gun, which was still in the holster but ready to draw. Reaching in to switch on the light, Elizabeth followed.

Suddenly, the second officer, who was directly behind Elizabeth, lunged forward, right arm around her neck, left hand covering her mouth. Her scream was muffled; her heart raced. _Oh, my God! What's going on?_ The other officer stuck his head out the door and said, "Okay."

Deirdre, faux smile pasted on her face, entered her apartment and closed the door. At this, Elizabeth almost fainted. _Are they going to kill me?_

Deirdre said, "I thought you were a lot smarter than this. How stupid do you have to be to publicly accuse us of rape and child molestation? Did nothing Mike tell you sink in?"

How do I get out of this? I don't think I can. I think I'm going to die! God, please help me!

"I can see panic in your eyes," Deirdre continued. "Yes, you're going to die tonight."

Elizabeth's trembling intensified, and her tears commenced.

"You dare besmirch me on air after I spent _years_ building my spotless reputation?" said Deirdre with fierce eyes. "It won't work, but I'll have to work hard to dispel the inevitable rumors that'll circulate for who knows how long. For that you'll pay, physically and emotionally. Now, we can't leave bruises because you're going to commit suicide with a massive overdose of sleeping pills," she added as she extracted a bottle from her purse, "but I think these nice policemen will be most happy to rape you, and I'll be happy to watch this final indignity. On the emotional side, I have two critical pieces of news for you, and I promise, once I tell you, you'll willingly take these pills."

Tears of terror now poured out of Elizabeth's eyes.

"First, I lied when I said I didn't do your husband. After he gave me my sample, I blew him and fucked him hard for almost an hour. He told me I was the best he ever had and that you were boring in bed."

This news, of course, grieved Elizabeth, but it still paled compared to the unreal prospect of her impending doom.

"Second, because of _you_ , because you told everyone that Mike built a water engine . . . Mike is . . ."

Please don't say it. Please!

"Dead."

Elizabeth's knees gave out and, her full weight now resting on the arm around her neck, she could get no air. Her eyes rolled back and things started going fuzzy.

Deirdre's voice echoed but Elizabeth made it out. "No! Don't let her faint! I have to tell her more."

The man holding Elizabeth shook her, which helped bring her to her senses. Her legs steadied and reduced the pressure on her neck so she could breathe.

"One more thing, Liz. His death was agonizing."

Now sobbing, Elizabeth could no longer see through her tears. _The love of my life is dead, and he's dead because of me. I killed him! I'm so sorry. Please get this over with. I can't live with this guilt and pain!_

"He was killed slowly with an axe. My handler needed proof the threat to national security was neutralized, so I asked for pictures of the corpse. They videoed his death. Too bad I don't get it till tomorrow, or I'd share it with you. Can't wait to hear his screams of agony and see his torn body writhing in pain as he slowly expired." She chuckled and concluded, "Okay boys; have fun with her, but no bruises!"

The police officer released her, and she fell to a sitting position. One lowered his zipper as the other pushed her to the prone position and yanked down her pants. As her consciousness ebbed, she was jolted by a loud bang!

Then another; and two more.

Now confounded, she looked around in a stupor. Someone . . . a man, knelt next to her and gently lifted her to a sitting position. "Liz? Liz? You still with us?"

The familiar, comforting voice helped her gradually recover.

Another male voice, this one unfamiliar, said, "She's in shock. Carry her to the sofa."

The familiar man—she knew his voice and his scent and her hope began to revive—did as suggested then sat next to her. He said, "Great shooting and thank you, but why did you wait so long?"

"We didn't exactly have much time to react when we chose where to hide, so I couldn't get a clear shot without risking your wife until she fell to the floor."

_Michael!_ She focused on the man in front of her as she finally realized it was him. "Mike? You're . . . alive? _We're_ alive?"

"If not, heaven's an enormous disappointment."

"But . . . how?"

"No time for explanations. The neighbors will have called the cops, and we just killed two of them, so they'll shoot us on sight. We need to scoot. So take thirty seconds to grab only the most essential things—because we're never coming back here—then we need to hustle." She got to her feet and lost her balance. Michael caught her and said, "Liz, I can carry you to the car if you want, but then you won't be able to take anything with you."

"No, I can . . . um, walk . . . I think."

She willed herself to walk, then ran to their room to pack her suitcase with their laptop, pictures, the pearls, and a few items of clothing for her and him. When she emerged, she noticed three bodies. The two cops were dead, and Michael was kneeling over Deirdre, who'd been shot in the chest, but was clinging to life. Blood ran down from her mouth and nose.

"You're alive? . . . Mike, please help," Deirdre muttered. "I was inseminated this morning. I'm carrying our child."

"You think I want my child to have the DNA of a monster? Do you think I want a psychopath raising my child?"

Crying and sputtering, she said, "I don't want to die."

"You found the prospect of our deaths entertaining."

"Eric still has those kids . . . I'll tell you where . . . if you, ah! . . . help me."

The other man, who looked to be in his seventies, said to Elizabeth, "I've seen this kind of wound many times before. She won't last two minutes."

Michael said, "I'll phone 911 if you tell me."

"Hidden room, uh, beneath base . . ."

Deidre lost consciousness. Michael felt for a pulse and shook his head. Getting to his feet, he said, "Let's go."

The three dashed down the stairs and out the back door. As sirens closed in, they scrambled into a new-model Volkswagen Jetta, the elderly man in the driver's seat, Elizabeth and Michael in the back. The car took off, and the enormity of the situation washed over Elizabeth like a tidal wave and swept her into Michael's arms. Squeezing him, she wept and managed to get a few words out here and there. "Mike, I'm . . . so sorry for . . . putting your life in . . . such peril. When she told me you were dead . . ." She buried her head in his chest and sobbed. After a few minutes, she kissed him. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

Michael explained how he and Nathan came to be in the position to rescue her.

"So your water engine wasn't the first?" the startled woman interrupted. Michael shook his head. "And his partners were murdered, too?"

With a nod, Michael replied, "And he thinks he wasn't the first."

"Not only that," added Nathan, "other breakthroughs, like Ogle's vapor carburetor and the Pogue carburetor, that made regular engines run up to two-hundred miles per gallon of gasoline, were shelved and the inventors were either murdered or threatened with death. The technologies were buried. Heaven knows how many times this has happened."

Michael finished bringing her up to date, wrapping up with, "We knew going to the apartment might be risky for us since I have a large bull's-eye on my back, but it was our best shot at finding you. When I saw you being escorted by two cops, we nearly bolted, but then I saw Deirdre coming, and I knew you were targeted. So Nathan quickly hid in the front closet and I hid in our bedroom, praying the cops wouldn't check. I thought this might come down to a shootout—Nate's a Vietnam vet who knows how to handle a gun—and, if so, we'd be condemned as cop killers, so I asked Nate for his phone so I could video whatever I could through the crack in the door."

Michael checked the video and said, as he watched it, "Quality could be better but I got everything till I left the room. I was bouncing around a lot when the shots were fired, but it still proves these people intended to rape and murder Liz."

Elizabeth changed the subject. "Mike, I assume you saw my final broadcast?"

Nodding, he grasped her hand and said, "I was so proud of you I nearly cried."

"Nearly?" said Nathan.

She said, "Mike . . . the children."

"We can maybe find a pay phone, assuming they still exist, and phone the police."

"The police? The same group that just tried to rape and kill me? You, more than anyone, know we can't trust anyone in authority. We have to go to Eric's and check for a secret room under his basement."

"We don't know it's Eric's basement," said Michael.

"It's the best guess we have."

"We can't risk our necks on a guess," said Michael.

Elizabeth looked into her husband's eyes and said, "They might kill those children, Mike. Can we let Eric get away with that? With doing this to God knows how many children over the years and in the future? With drugging me and involving me in sexual assault?"

Michael said, "Nate? What's your opinion?"

"You and I spoke about shifting from defense to offense with these devils."

"Offense?" Elizabeth asked her husband.

"We'll talk about that later." Turning to Nathan, Michael said, "So, we're going to see if the kids are there?"

"Maybe saving these kids and stopping this son of a bitch might offset, a little, the child soldiers I killed in Vietnam. Where does the bugger live?"

Elizabeth directed Nathan to Eric's mansion on Bay Terrace Road in Seattle. He parked in the driveway, noting, "I hate this guy already. Look at this place! The driveway alone must cost my net worth."

He gave Michael a pistol and told him to go around back; he and Elizabeth would walk to the front door. Michael seemed as if he was about to object but said, "Yeah, she's safer with you."

The three exited the car. As Michael dashed to the back yard, Nathan and Elizabeth went to the door and rang the bell. While they waited for a response, Elizabeth hugged Nathan and said, "Thank you for my life." He smiled. A few seconds later a maid answered. "We need to see Mr. Pedamante," said Elizabeth.

"Who's calling?"

She looked at Nathan, who said, "Elizabeth and Michael Morrison."

"Wait here," she said as she closed the door, leaving them outside.

Nathan extracted a handgun, opened the door, and entered. Elizabeth followed. "Stay close," he said. She nodded.

There was a commotion from the back of the house, then Eric hollered, "Ah! Help! Rosa, call 911, call 911. Hurry!" as he came scuttling into the house, heading toward the front door. Michael tackled him at the foot of the staircase, then flipped him onto his back.

Elizabeth intercepted the maid and said, "No police!"

With Nathan flourishing the pistol, she meekly nodded.

Michael, now sitting on Eric's chest, said, "The kids; where are they?"

"What kids? Are you out of your mind?"

Michael pointed the gun at Eric's temple. "The little girl and your catamite. Where are they?"

"There's no kids here!"

"When I get to zero, you're dead. Three, two, one—"

"Mike!" said Elizabeth. "You're not a killer. We can't defeat them by becoming them."

Michael moved off Eric, but held him fast with his arm. He pointed the pistol at Eric's crotch and restarted the countdown. "Three, two—"

"You wouldn't dare!" said Eric.

"You involved my wife in your Luciferian nightmare, you fucker! You rape little children! You're a goddamn monster. Believe me, I _will_ shoot. When I get to zero, your child raping days are over. One last chance; where are the kids?" Eric stayed mute, so Michael continued, "Three, two, one, zero."

Bang!

Eric howled and the housekeeper yelped. Blood spread over the slate tiles, and Eric continued to screech.

The housekeeper, now crying and crossing herself, fell to her knees, praying.

Michael was clearly upset at the lengths he'd gone to, so far to no effect other than the laudable end of finishing Eric's child predation days, so Nathan took charge. He knelt next to Eric, shoved his pistol so far into Eric's mouth that his weeping turned to gagging, and said, "I killed the two hoods you sent after Mike, the two you sent after Liz, and _Deirdre_. One more depraved pervert will complete my day. No countdown."

Michael pulled Nathan's phone from his pocket and started recording.

Withdrawing the gun barrel from Eric's mouth and pressing it to his forehead, Nathan proceeded, "The second I stop talking, you die if you don't tell us where the children—"

"They're gone!"

"Where to?"

"I don't know. I call my contact, who picks them up."

"Name of contact?"

"I only have a number. Ah! Please help me. I'll bleed to death!"

"Number!"

Eric grunted out the number and finished, "That's all I know. Now call the ambulance!"

Elizabeth said, "How do we get into your dungeon?"

"I told you the kids are gone. They took them yesterday. They had to go after Liz did her hit piece."

Elizabeth said, "Are they dead?"

"I don't know! Oh, Christ, this is a nightmare. Help me! Give me something for the pain."

Nathan said, "Location of dungeon. Last chance."

"Rosa, show them. Now call 911! I'm getting faint."

As Michael continued to video, Rosa reluctantly led Elizabeth and him downstairs to the huge room in the basement. The far wall included one section that jutted out about three feet. Proceeding to the left side, the maid moved an armchair and pushed the bottom of a picture frame to the right; a panel opened inward and a light illuminated a metal spiral staircase. The three descended to a commodious room with various odd-looking contraptions that Elizabeth guessed were used to torture children. She and Michael looked at each other, shaking their heads in dismay. How many children had suffered here at the hands of pure evil?

Elizabeth checked two doors on the right, but they were locked. The maid pointed to a key hanging on a hook on the wall. Elizabeth unlocked the doors only to find the rooms empty. Each contained a single bed, a toilet, a small sink, and a television. Guessing many children had been imprisoned in the Spartan rooms, Elizabeth got a chill.

"This is where they kept them. They're gone," said Elizabeth, crying. "If I hadn't mentioned them on TV . . ."

"This is _not_ your fault," Michael said. "You did the right thing. This was Eric's doing, and we put a stop to him. If the police did their job, they could've rescued the children, so it's their fault, too."

"But they're probably dead."

"We don't know that. They could've shipped them anywhere."

Michael pushed the housekeeper into one of the rooms and locked the door. She pounded on it and said, "I'll die in here! Let me out."

"Experience a little of what you let happen to children in this house for yourself, bitch," said Michael.

Bang!

Elizabeth and Michael looked at each other in fear, then ran upstairs. As they reached the ground floor, another shot echoed; then an agonized shriek. Michael held Elizabeth back and peeked around the corner. He relaxed, motioned Elizabeth forward, and said, "Nate? Everything okay?"

"Yup. He needed some persuasion to tell me the location of his safe and further persuasion to tell me the combination.

They looked at Eric, whose knees were blasted apart.

Eric cried, "Ah! I've never been in such pain. Please . . . give me something."

Nathan said, "Safe's in the dungeon, in the wall behind the picture of a decapitated child, if you can believe anyone would have such a picture. Right 53, left 11, right 72, left 49."

Michael dashed downstairs and a couple of minutes later returned with three kilo bars of gold, several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and several DVDs, including one labelled, 'Liz.' Grinning, he said, "This ought to buy us groceries for a few days."

Sirens moaned in the distance. "Move it!" said Nathan. "Nosey neighbors must've heard the shots and called for help. You'd better drive in case I have to shoot."

They sprinted to the car, leaving Eric to deal with his bleak situation as best he could, and backed out of the driveway only to see two police cruisers zoom toward them, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Michael floored the accelerator and peeled out. One of the cruisers followed; the other stopped at Eric's.

"Shit!" said Elizabeth. "If they catch us we're dead! What do we do?"

Neither man answered as Michael sped out of the fancy neighborhood onto West Commodore Way, the police cruiser now directly behind them.

#

"Jordan? This is Kate. Deidre's dead."

"What?" said Jordan, her CIA contact at headquarters in Langley.

"The two cops we lined up to end Liz Morrison are dead, too, and there've been gunshots reported at Eric's house," said Kate.

"Shit! How?"

"I haven't heard from the assets I sent to take care of the Michael Morrison situation."

"And this is the first I'm hearing about it?" said Jordan.

"They weren't supposed to contact me till this afternoon, and Deirdre told me Morrison was dead."

"Then who the hell is killing our people?"

"No idea," answered Kate.

"What—"

"Wait! . . . I've just been informed Eric's been shot, but he's alive. He named Michael Morrison as one of the shooters and said his wife and an old man were with him."

"God dammit! Take them all out! I don't care what you have to do. Our heads will roll if they get away!"

#

While traveling southeast along Salmon Bay with two police cars in hot pursuit and Elizabeth panicking, Nathan, who was in the front passenger seat, extracted a box from the glove box. He flipped a switch and, at the push of a red button, the police cars fell behind, their lights and sirens extinguished.

Elizabeth continued to look on in amazement as the cruisers coasted to a stop. "How?"

Nathan explained, "You happen to be in the car with the world's two leading experts on electromagnetic energy. In my spare time, which I've had a great deal of for forty years, I built a miniature EM pulse device that produces EM bursts."

Michael elucidated. "EMPs disable any electronics that aren't shielded."

She nodded and said, "This car is shielded, I assume?"

"Mike rigged something up in half an hour this morning," said Nathan. "He's got the all-too-rare magical engineering touch."

The trio continued moving south along Lake Union. Elizabeth reported more flashing lights in the distance behind them. That didn't seem to concern either man, but then Nathan said, "Oh, shit!" Startled, Elizabeth looked forward to see several police cars blocking the road about a kilometre ahead.

Michael jammed on the brakes and stopped. He looked at the marina to his left and said to Nathan, "Can you hotwire a boat in under a minute?"

"Maybe."

"It's our best option," said Michael as he turned into the parking lot of Signature Yachts. The three jumped out, grabbed their belongings, and hustled down the pier. Nathan stopped at a fancy motorboat that had just docked. "Permission to come aboard, skipper?" he said as he hopped on. Elizabeth and Michael followed suit.

"Hey!" said the man.

Nathan pulled out his pistol and said, "How about a ride?"

"O–okay," said the man nervously. He stood at the helm and backed the boat away from its mooring. Nathan stood beside the man; Elizabeth and Michael sat in seats at the back of the boat.

Four police cars screeched to a halt in the parking lot.

"Uh, hurry," said Nathan.

"But—"

That's all he got out before Nathan shoved him overboard and applied full throttle as several cops sprinted toward them. They opened fire. Elizabeth screamed and ducked; Michael joined her on the floor. One bullet clipped the top of the seat she'd abandoned, but that was the extent of the damage.

Nathan initially headed north, but turned sharply when he spotted a police helicopter zooming south toward them. "Mike," he yelled, "take the helm."

Michael took the wheel, zipping south toward the tip of the small lake. Elizabeth, terrified, resumed her seat. Nathan readied his EMP device. Michael said, "What's the effective range of that?"

"Maybe fifty meters, but we have another problem."

"It'll shut down the boat as well," said Michael.

The helicopter sped out in front of them and hovered just north of the marinas at the southern shore.

"Turn?" said Michael

"No!" replied Nathan. "Full speed ahead. Harder to hit us, and we can maybe coast to shore after we lose power."

A police officer onboard the helicopter opened fire, eliciting another scream from Elizabeth. With the boat now hurtling toward the gunfire, she stayed petrified in her seat.

"Here goes," said Nathan as they came within fifty meters of the aircraft.

The roar of both engines ceased just as they closed the gap, the helicopter not ten meters above them. It immediately began plummeting, provoking all three to gasp and duck. The chopper hit the water a few feet behind the boat, causing it to lurch forward and throwing Elizabeth into the frigid lake.

#

Michael's attention was riveted on the rapidly approaching shoreline. Fortunately, he'd oriented the boat between a pier and a quay since the maneuverability of the powerless boat was hampered, but the question now was would the boat slow enough before it ran aground and threw them into the windshield?

"Shit! Too much momentum," Michael hollered. "Jump!"

He and Nathan leaped over the side into the water perhaps ten meters from shore. The boat careered ashore, up a short, shallow grade, through a wooden fence, and lodged underneath a play structure. Fortunately no children were present. As Nathan swam, then walked to shore, Michael spun around looking for his wife. "Liz? Liz!" He dipped his head under the surface but saw no trace of her. He hollered to Nathan, "What the hell happened to Liz?"

"Thrown overboard when the big wave hit us."

"Shit!"

Michael swam then ran to the shore and up the jetty toward the scene of the crash. With his heart beating fiercely as his agitation rocketed, he raced to the end of the pier. Not seeing any sign of her, his tears commenced. He called out, "Liz? Liz!"

As if this wasn't bad enough, sirens were closing in.

#

Jordan said, "I need an update."

Kate responded, "Still at large."

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"They apparently have some sort of tech that can power down engines. Hold on . . . Oh."

"What?"

"They just brought down a police helicopter."

"That's it! I'm calling in the military. I have a gunship on standby. It'll be there within ten minutes."

#

In despair, Michael turned to dash back to Nathan before the police arrived, but noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He looked and saw a head pop up on the quay to his east. It was her! _Thank God!_ He screamed, "Liz! Down there fast!" pointing toward the parking lot. As she got to her feet, she wobbled. "Hurry! The cops are almost here!"

The two sprinted to the parking lot. When they met he took her in his arms, kissed her, and spun her around. Elizabeth winced and said her shoulder hurt from hitting the water; she was also shivering from her unplanned dip. An Audi sedan pulled up next to them. "No time for sweetness. Get in now!" said Nathan. Elizabeth slipped into the back seat, but Michael said, "Half a minute while I get our stuff from the boat."

"No time," cried Nathan, but Michael was on his way. Twenty-six seconds later, he returned with the EMP box and their suitcase, to which Elizabeth had added the gold and cash. Michael bounded into the back seat, and Nathan took off. Just as Nathan pulled out of the parking lot onto Fairview Avenue, three police cars streaked toward them; two from the west, one from the east. "Duck!" Nathan shouted.

They did and Nathan drove right past the two cruisers, which turned into the parking lot along with the third. Elizabeth gave Nathan directions to I-5 Express south and asked him to turn up the heat.

They drove a few kilometres, just above the speed limit so as not to draw attention, but soon spotted flashing lights behind them.

"Did they find us?" said Michael.

"They might have satellites pointed at us by now," said Nathan. "We're obviously a high priority target."

"Is that for us?" Elizabeth asked, pointing to a fearsome-looking helicopter rocketing toward them.

"Take this exit! There's a tunnel!" exclaimed Michael.

Nathan ramped up the speed and headed east on I-90. As they merged onto the highway, they were startled to see two police cruisers right on their tail!

"Can't you use the EMP thingie?" said Elizabeth

"That'll stop us, too," said Michael.

#

The Apache pilot said, "They're heading into the Mount Baker tunnel, and we've been warned they can bring us down if we get too close. How do you want us to handle it?"

Jordan said, "Position at the exit to the tunnel and blast the shit out of them."

"What about civilians?"

"Collateral damage. These people are more dangerous to this country than the fucking Russians. I don't care how many have to die, just blow them the fuck off the planet!"

#

"Get the EMP thingie ready," advised Nathan.

"I hope it still works after banging around in the boat," said Michael.

Fortunately it was Sunday afternoon, and there were few cars on the road, so it was easy to navigate around them. Nathan raced past two Sunday drivers, who pulled off to the side upon spotting the police.

As they shot into the tunnel at 112 miles per hour, one police cruiser attempted to overtake them in the right lane. Nathan yanked the wheel to the right to cut it off. He steered around another driver, and the police stayed with him. Bullets from the cop car behind them shattered the back window, and Elizabeth and Michael cowered and ducked. With the end of the tunnel in sight, one cop car just off his bumper and the other trying to surge ahead again on the right, Nathan said, "Brace yourselves for whiplash."

"What are you going—" said Elizabeth just as Nathan steered into the cruiser on the right so it scraped the concrete barrier, throwing sparks everywhere, then jammed on his brakes. The car behind slammed into them, then clipped the other cruiser and flipped onto its side. Elizabeth screamed as the Audi rocked with Nathan struggling to maintain control.

Elizabeth jutted her head up and looked behind them to see many more flashing lights near the entrance to the tunnel.

Nathan raised his gun and fired three times at the officer driving the car pinned between them and the barrier. He slumped forward, but managed to stop the car.

Nathan passed two more cars that had stopped in the right lane. Looking in the mirror, he yelled to overcome the noise of the wind, "No one else can get through from behind, but there are flashing lights on the other side of the barrier. We'll never outrun them all, plus they'll have the bridge blocked ahead. We have to stop the cars between us and them and try to get to the tunnel heading west. On my mark, push the button . . . Now, Mike!"

Michael pushed the button, shutting down all nearby engines, including theirs. Several cars on the other side of the barrier shut down with the startled drivers doing their best to stop without power brakes, eventually managing and blocking the police cars behind. The Audi continued to coast toward the tunnel portal, Nathan steering around two cars in front that had stopped.

Suddenly, Elizabeth shrieked, "Michael!" while gawking at a huge helicopter descending into their path at the mouth of the tunnel. Before Michael could react, Elizabeth reached over to push the red button just as the Apache began to fire. One projectile slammed into the car, deploying the front air bags and knocking the hood up, so they couldn't see ahead. This was fortunate in one sense because a huge explosion threw the car sideways into the tunnel wall, triggering the side air bags and briefly engulfing it in a ball of fire. That prompted screams from all three. The Audi grinded to a stop just meters from the exit.

"Everyone okay?" said Nathan as he rubbed his neck.

"I think so," said Michael. Elizabeth was too flustered to answer. "Quick thinking pushing the button, Liz. You saved our lives."

"Cops are no doubt on foot behind us; we need to scoot," said Nathan.

All three exited the smashed and singed car only to see the wreckage of the Apache strewn and burning on the road ahead. The pilots were dead. Elizabeth put her hand over her mouth as she observed the carnage. Two cars were burning on the westbound side of the highway, and traffic was halted.

The trio gingerly made their way around the flaming debris, traversed the meridian to the other side of the highway, and entered the westbound tunnel. Nathan, whose leg was bleeding, limped to a Honda Accord that had stopped just inside the tunnel. The driver was presumably rendering assistance to the injured in the cars involved in the crash, for the vacant car was running. "You drive," Nathan told Michael.

"Your leg?" said Elizabeth.

"Laceration; I bleed too easy now. I'll be okay."

The three piled in, and they sped back to I-5 south to the airport, passing police cars galore.

Nathan, who didn't seem to be rattled, said, "I've stolen three cars and one boat today. I make a pretty goddamn good thief."

"Where to now?" asked Elizabeth, who sat in the front passenger seat. Still soaked and freezing, she dialled up the heat.

Michael said, "We were worried someone would spot us leaving our apartment and rat us out or that the spooks could use satellites to track us, so we parked Nate's car in an enormous parking garage at the airport, where he stole his first car of the day. Now we pull this car in and drive his car out."

"I'm scared as hell, but you're smiling," said Elizabeth. "How, after what we just went through?"

Michael said, "I'm so terrified, I think I shat out my intestines. I'm smiling because against all odds we're still alive and still free, courtesy of that crazy bastard back there. We beat a fucking Apache helicopter, for God's sake! Woo! It feels great to finally fight back. Every second we live from now on is a gift, thanks to Nate, and I'm going to try to relish every minute, including taking the fight to these fuckers. You okay with that, Bonny?"

She smiled and said, "Guess I don't have much choice, Clyde. I just hope no innocent people died." She looked behind her and said, "Nate's asleep. He must be exhausted at his age."

"Plus, he thinks he has cancer," said Michael.

"Thinks?" said Elizabeth.

"He's been living under the radar for forty years. He has a phony ID, but he seldom tests it. He won't go to the doctor."

"What's the point of staying off the radar if the cancer kills him?"

"Exactly what I asked," said Michael. "He told me, even if his life was ordinary, at age seventy-three he wouldn't put himself through chemo, radiation, surgery, or all three. He does want to be as free from pain as possible, so he grows a bunch of grass on his property. It's good stuff."

They sped to the airport and into the multistory parking structure. They drove up two floors and parked, and the three exited the Honda and collected their possessions.

Nathan explained to Elizabeth, "They'll soon figure out where this car is, then they'll search video footage from the airport to try and find where we went. I haven't spotted any cameras in this section of the garage." They traipsed maybe a hundred feet to an ancient Toyota Corolla. "You two get in the back. We don't need you spotted by their cameras or they'll find us fast. Once we roll, you'll have to duck till we leave the airport. I'll put a bit of a disguise on."

He removed his cap, pulled the elastic for a fake beard over his head and positioned the beard, and donned sunglasses and a different baseball cap. He continued, "If you believe spy movies, changing cars won't work. They'll put some slimy prick in charge of a hundred computer and video specialists. They'll narrow down where we disappeared to, and they might be able to figure out we're in this car. Who knows if they can really do this? I don't think they're that smart. In fact, I think most of them are morons, but they could find this car."

"In that case what'll we do?" said Elizabeth as she and Michael ducked.

As Nathan backed out and proceeded to the garage exit, he replied, "I have stolen Oregon license plates on the car. I'll swap them for my Washington plates out in the country somewhere, and if that doesn't fool them, I guess they'll catch me and I'm dead a little sooner."

Elizabeth said, "I'm sorry you're sick. So, you risked your life for me because you felt you didn't have much to lose? I hope that's not an ignorant question."

"No, it's true, but I had one more requirement that your husband has agreed to. I'll let him tell you since you might not be too pleased, but to set the table, I'll just say I'm goddamn sick of hiding and letting those bastards win. They destroyed my life, and Mike's and yours, Liz."

"You want him to build your engine!" deduced Elizabeth.

"She's sharp," said Nathan.

"And you agreed?" Elizabeth asked Michael.

"In a heartbeat," he answered. "Not only do I agree with him, your life was at stake."

"Good. Do it. Then drive to Washington, D.C., and run them over," she said.

Both men laughed.

They exited the airport and drove east away from the city. For a while the three remained silent. Elizabeth was inundated with emotions ranging from horror at almost dying and seeing people killed to the joy of being alive and being with her husband. She guessed the men were similarly preoccupied.

Drowsy, she kissed her husband, snuggled into his arms, and fell asleep.

#

Early the next morning, at Nathan's country cabin near Wellington, Washington, Elizabeth's jaw dropped as she watched news coverage of yesterday's mayhem. This was now national news, with NBC's _Today Show_ devoting special coverage to it. They brought in the KMSM TV news feed. It began with the anchor listing the astonishing highlights: Deirdre Pardo murdered, two police officers murdered, General Manager Eric Pedamante seriously wounded, police helicopter shot down with two police officers missing and presumed dead, army helicopter downed with both pilots dead, two more police officers killed in the tunnel, an elderly couple burned to death in their car just outside the tunnel, and the kicker; Elizabeth and Michael Morrison, along with an as-yet unidentified elderly man, were the perpetrators.

Carmen, Vicky, and Christopher interviewed police, KMSM employees, neighbors where the shootings took place, witnesses in the tunnel, and hospital staff. The police, of course, represented their dead officers as fallen heroes and the murderers as the worst scum on earth. The police chief told Carmen on camera, "Our preliminary examination of the officers' body cameras leaves no doubt that both Officer Randy Mitchell and Officer Harold Robbins were gunned down in cold blood. They were shot from behind. They never even had a chance to defend themselves. The cowardly suspect, Mr. Michael Morrison, is at large."

"Oh! Those goddamn liars!" said Elizabeth.

"Can't be," said her husband. "It's right there on nation-wide NBC news."

The Chief was still speaking. He named the other four dead or missing officers and lauded their heroism.

"I'm very sorry," said Carmen. "Can you give us any details on the murder of KMSM anchor Deirdre Pardo and the attempted murder of Station Manager Eric Pedamante?"

"She was shot in the chest at close range. It's an oblique angle from Officer Mitchell's body camera, but I'm comfortable that the evidence will prove that Mrs. Elizabeth Morrison is the perpetrator."

Now weeping, Carmen said, "She was a colleague and friend, and I'm shocked that Liz Morrison could do that."

The Chief went on, "As for Mr. Pedamante, he was able to say a few words after an operation to save his life, and he identified Mr. Morrison and an unknown elderly man as the shooters. He was shot three times."

"Was he able to tell you why he was targeted?"

"He said it was revenge for revealing the truth about Elizabeth Morrison on the news the evening before."

Back to the studio, the anchor reminded the audience that Eric had been interviewed the previous morning. She showed a clip.

Standing in front of the TV studio, Vicky had said, "Mr. Pedamante, how do you respond to the incredible accusations made by Elizabeth Morrison that both you and Deirdre Pardo drugged her and set her up in bed naked with a female child in order to blackmail her?"

"She was front-running a major story that we were about to reveal about Mrs. Morrison's, shall we say, predilection, for young girls. We received a video from an anonymous source showing her in bed with a pre-teen girl. Both were nude and Mrs. Morrison was taking advantage of her. I provided a copy of the video to the police, who were busy readying an arrest warrant for Mrs. Morrison when she took to the air to slander me and attempt to put the entire lurid mess on me and Deirdre. I can vouch for Deirdre, who has the highest integrity of anyone I've ever met. We here at KMSM are shocked, saddened, and outraged at what Liz Morrison proved to be."

Speechless, Elizabeth slowly lowered herself onto the couch in astonishment and consternation.

The national network went on to report on the fireworks between the outlaws and the law as they fled, interviewing crying relatives of the innocent senior couple who'd died when the helicopter exploded, placing all blame on the fugitives and leaving the audience with no doubt about their viciousness.

Nathan said, "Perfect story to keep any attention from the actual guilty parties and to tar you, Mike, to undercut any legitimacy you might have had so no one will take our water engine seriously."

Michael, clearly irate, said, "This is what it feels like to be the target of the never-ending lies that come out of the security state and their marketing department popularly known as the mainstream media. This is precisely why I wanted you out of it."

"I never once came close to this level of outrageous falsehoods," said an infuriated Elizabeth.

"No, but it would've been your full-time job once you ascended to the national level. You'd have been the person interviewing the crying relatives and warning the public that we're at large and extremely dangerous. All your former colleagues at the local level are busy doing what they do best; relying on the word of others, as opposed to digging for the authentic story. If this happened to Carmen, would you have accepted the word of Eric?"

"No!"

"No? Even though you'd have been fired in an instant?"

"I'd have sought out Carmen's side."

"I believe you, because you're a much better reporter than any of them there, but, of course, you'd have learned that Carmen had killed herself at which point you'd have concluded she was guilty and passed it along."

Elizabeth lowered her eyes. It was true. After a moment of reflection she said, "I'm going to use the video you took and tell the world what really happened."

"Where?" said Michael. "No mainstream media will touch it."

"With undeniable video and audio evidence that the police are lying and that they were going to rape and kill me?"

Nathan said, "The Las Vegas mass shooting is all official lies. There's loads of evidence that there were multiple shooters. Police scanners had the police themselves reporting shooters on the fairgrounds and in several hotels. Dozens of witnesses reported the same thing. Some even insisted there were helicopters overhead without lights on them; they heard them and saw flashes from gunfire. Yet nothing about any of it on the national media. The _New York Times_ saw fit to scold anyone who claimed there were multiple shooters. Mike's right; the mainstream media won't touch our video."

She said, "Then I'll put it on YouTube."

"They'll delete it as soon as they find it," said Michael. "They serve their shadow government sponsors, too."

"We can't just give up!" said Elizabeth.

"We won't," said Michael. "Do your report and put it on YouTube with a note urging people to download it and pass it along to everyone they know before YouTube deletes it."

"There's also a new option called DTube," said Nathan. "It's based on the blockchain, so your video will stay up. Only problem is not many people know about it."

Elizabeth nodded. "I'll use both." Changing the subject, she said, "I still can't believe they drugged me and put me in bed with a child to try to blackmail me into doing their bidding. What kind of evil are we dealing with?"

Nathan said, "The worst; the evil-death-cult CIA."

"So Eric works for the CIA, too?" said Elizabeth.

Nathan responded, "Undoubtedly. The CIA controls our media and the European media. Their infiltration into the media began decades ago. Have you heard about Operation Mockingbird?"

"No," said Elizabeth.

"Hmm; should be required study for any journalist." Nathan grimaced in obvious pain. Besides fatigue, this was the first sign Elizabeth had observed of the cancer consuming him. He reached forward, opened the lid of a cigar box, extracted three joints, placed one in his mouth and offered the other two to his guests.

Elizabeth said, "At 8:22 in the morning?" Michael took one, then Elizabeth said, "Oh, the hell with it," and took one as well.

After lighting the three joints, Nathan continued, "Operation Mockingbird refers to the CIA program that conscripted journalists to the CIA cause, writing stories for them, publishing their disinformation, killing stories counter to their narrative, and even spying for them. Thousands of journalists were involved. It's all documented. It was supposedly dismantled when it came to light in the seventies, but there's no question it still exists and is probably a lot larger and more nefarious. I mean, the legacy media is the mouthpiece for the aristocracy, after all. A German journalist admitted to working for the CIA a couple of years back and said many of his colleagues in Europe did as well."

"Do you think the CIA is also infiltrating the alternative media?" said Elizabeth.

"Of course," said Nathan. "The dictatorship and its acolytes are busy infiltrating and hijacking the alternative news media, hiring thousands of people to sow disinformation and ruin the reputation of key alternative news sites that don't willingly accept the official version."

"Or force Google, Facebook, Youtube, Twitter, and the rest to censor them?" said Michael.

Nathan said, "Muzzling alternative news is simply the latest offensive, but the censorship isn't necessarily forced. I think a lot of Silicon Valley either works for the oligarchy or thinks the same way. It's the independent journalists who make the content who're being censored. The oligarchy has an iron grip on the mass media, but the alternative media was out of their control. Enter the fake news narrative and conscript the collectivists at Google, Facebook, Twitter and so on to repress alternative viewpoints, creating algorithms to censor so-called fake news—news that doesn't support the cabal's chosen truth, that is.

"They were surprised by Trump's election and mean to prevent something like that in the future because independent thinking is a threat to their planned New World Order. The implications for free speech are chilling, yet MSM is on board both because they were losing a fair competition and because they work for the establishment. Can't blame them in one sense; if they told the truth the whole deranged, debauched system would implode. Problem is nothing will get solved. Everything will get worse until the eventual implosion might be nuclear."

"Unless Trump is a lot smarter than everyone gives him credit for, and he's working behind the scenes to destroy the cabal," said Michael.

"Possible, I guess," said Nathan.

Michael said, "There'll be history books dedicated entirely to the madness enveloping the world in the early twenty-first century. People will marvel at the level of insanity."

Nathan returned, "Assuming that future historians aren't themselves paid to lie or that they don't mistake today's pervasive lies presented by the legacy media as truths, so that the lies, in effect, become the everlasting truth."

Michael said, "Shit; that's a depressing thought. Anyway, in the meantime we can watch the destruction of the Western system in slow-motion. How could anyone not find that fascinating?"

"Fascinating and depressing," said Elizabeth. She sucked in smoke from the joint and coughed.

Nathan said, "This isn't necessarily something to despair about. In the first place we've earned our own destruction. Second, it's just history replayed. This happens to every empire, and it opens the way for something different, maybe better maybe worse, but certainly different."

Elizabeth said, "Can anything stop it?"

Nathan replied, "Nothing. Our political and economic systems are finished. That's incontrovertible. They need massive restructuring, but the people in charge are incapable of bringing about change, which is standard for elites across time. They're entrenched at the top, and they like it there; that everyone else is suffering—so what? But eventually their callous decadence, their refusal to entertain change that'll help the common folk at their expense, causes their downfall. The people withdraw their consent to be governed by fiends, then the fiends order their armed legions to subdue the troublemakers and the revolution commences."

Elizabeth produced her report that showed what transpired with Deirdre, the police, and Eric. On camera, she began with a summary of what happened leading up to her attempted murder, then said, "After I finished my mea culpa and left the control room, the police arrested me for trespassing of all things. I'd got my message out, and it enraged the powers that be so much that they pronounced my death sentence. That's quite an assertion, I know, but I have unassailable proof because my husband recorded what actually happened. He'd anticipated an attempt on my life after my report that day and set up his phone to record the event. I only regret I can't see the faces of the criminals responsible right now."

Talking over the video of the attack in her apartment, she set the context and said, "This took place in our home on November seventeenth. As you'll see I was escorted to my apartment by two police officers, the ones who ended up dead. A word of caution: this is extremely graphic and upsetting. Three people were shot to death; two Seattle police officers and Deirdre Pardo. I've made no attempt to edit. As it is, the people responsible will do everything possible behind the scenes to discredit this, but any thinking person will know this is impossible to fake."

After showing the incredible events that had unfolded in their apartment, Elizabeth returned to the screen and said, "Still believe we're mindless cop killers? Still foaming at the mouth over killing two of the city's brave, selfless protectors, Mrs. Mayor? You in on all this, like the previous child molesting mayor, ma'am?

"Yes, our friend shot them, but only to stop my rape and murder. Some might be asking themselves why he didn't give them a chance to stand down, but put yourselves in that position. These so-called policemen were hired killers. If we gave them a chance to surrender and they did, then what? Call the police? They'd just lie to their friends, and we'd be taken away later and killed. In the heat of the moment and even upon further reflection, he reasoned that he had no choice. As for the video evidence, it would've disappeared in a hurry. These people are as powerful as they are vicious."

"We leave it to you, the audience, to discern the obvious truth."

Elizabeth paused and looked intently at the camera. "As for the carnage when we were fleeing: what would you do if the government pulled out all the stops to _murder_ you even though you were innocent of any crime? The police never had any intention of capturing us alive; they started shooting at us whenever we were in their sights. They were so desperate to kill us they had a helicopter gunship shoot into the tunnel, careless of the consequences for other innocent lives. We're truly sorry the elderly couple died as a result of our escape, but all we did was defend ourselves from crazed murderers.

"We are _not_ sorry for the police and soldiers who died; they were trying to _slaughter_ us! Because we didn't just accept our violent deaths and fought for our very lives, we're now designated as the most wanted criminals in the nation! What a travesty. If they catch us, we know we're dead. They're not looking for justice; the police are looking for revenge, and the CIA is looking to silence us before we can introduce cutting-edge technology that will shift money and power from the government to the people. So here's our promise to the people in power; you pushed us too far, we're no longer afraid of you, and we're taking you down! Stay tuned."

No one who watched her report could have any doubt the police and Eric were the guilty parties, yet, as Michael and Nathan predicted, none of the networks or major newspapers would publish it. It was up on YouTube for seven hours before it was deleted, but it made it onto many alternative news sites, which featured the story for weeks. It also remained available on DTube. In the meantime, MSM portrayed them as the epitome of evil, asking the public for help in finding the criminals.

### Chapter Twelve  
Wellington, Washington, December, 2017

Worried every minute that assassins would show up to murder them, the three put plans in place to build their engine. Nathan and Michael would build it while Elizabeth recorded their work for posterity.

One necessary early step was to enlist financial help and that could only come from Mark Chu. In early December, Michael arranged a meeting with him at the nearby Steven Pass Mountain Resort. He wore Nathan's fake beard and sunglasses.

"Fuckface!" said Mark in his standard stentorian voice. "Nice beard. Obvious fake, by the way. It's my thirty-third birthday!"

Michael returned, "I hope someone got you something nice, ass nozzle, because I certainly didn't."

"Well, then, it's too bad you came."

"And thirty-three-and-three-quarters years ago, it's too bad your father came."

Mark snickered and said, "I miss you. For my birthday my wife outfitted an entire home gymnasium for me, I guess because I'm getting flabby. That is without a doubt the worst present anyone could ever get me."

"No, the worst present anyone could get you would be a mirror."

"Ha! I personally dug up your thumb drive, the first dirt I've dealt with, other than bankers and bureaucrats, since I was a kid. As for why you want it, I'll take a wild stab in the dark, and I hope I hit you; you want to build our engine and you want money."

"You see, I've been going through a rough patch since, uh, birth."

As Michael explained the situation Mark's eyes grew wider and wider. Michael paused, chortled, and said, "If your skin gets any paler and your eyes get any wider, someone might mistake you for a round-eyed bastard, you slant-eyed bastard."

"Heaven forbid. My IQ would tumble to your level. So you currently have assassins on the hunt for you?" he said, scanning the environs. "What would we do if an assassin showed up with a gun right now?"

"Standard procedure would be to shit our pants, then die, not necessarily in that order." Seeing Mark remained tense, Michael added, "You checked your testosterone lately? I think you're down a quart. Calm down. If they knew where I was you'd be conversing with a corpse right now. Besides, you see that old guy there in the flannel jacket? That's Nate. Besides being smarter than you, he's a Vietnam vet who's keeping a lookout."

Michael dug out the three gold bars from his backpack and said, "At current market prices, these are worth about a hundred-fifty grand Canadian. If one of us walked off the street to cash these in, there'd be questions and nosey government requirements."

"What if I offered a hundred grand?"

"I'd call the assassins myself and tell them where we are. Give me what they're worth."

"Anything else?"

"One minor thing; release your rights to our engine."

"That's worth—"

"Nothing to either of us. The situation today is far worse than when they murdered my parents. The Deep State is so entrenched it controls everything important, including the media. They'll never allow us to come forward with our engine."

"So how will relinquishing my rights help?"

"We have a plan to hand it to the world for free. Countries not blessed with much oil should jump at this and offset the Americans and Brits and Arabs. Do this for me; do it for _humanity_ , Mark." As Mark cogitated, Michael continued, "That old man saved my life and Liz's. He's dying of cancer and his dying wish is to bequeath our engine to the world, and we're doing it, Mark. I want your blessing and your promise not to pursue this legally."

"If I did that—"

"They'd know you were involved, yes, which proves my point. It'll never see the light of day if we try to profit from it. If this engine becomes a reality, it should help bring down these damnable bastards. That alone is worth the risk. And if that happens and we can step into the light safely, I promise you, you'll get due credit as the philanthropist behind this gift to humanity."

"Mark Chu, philanthropist. I like it! Not as much as Mark Chu, gigolo, but we can't have everything. Consider it done."

The men shook hands.

"Hey, as of last Tuesday I'm a father!" said Mark.

"Congrats! Boy, girl, or some other of the sexes that leftist claim are real?"

"Boy, and if he ever claims to be any other sex, I'll chop it off myself."

"How's Connie?"

"Fine, though the delivery was hard—especially on me. All her screaming kept me awake. Thoughtless woman. The aftermath is trying, too. Just because she was stretched beyond all reason in her nether regions, she wouldn't let me in last night."

"Give the woman a break; it's been only four days."

"My role is to shower her with gold, jewels, mansions, boats, you name it. Hers is to fuck me and have my kids. If she doesn't let me in soon, I'll show her!"

"Toronto call girl?"

"No. She's the mother of my son, so I need another strategy, and I think I've found the ideal one. I'll mope all day. After that she won't soon trifle with me again."

"That's been my strategy for a while. It makes them even less horny than they are naturally."

"Impossible! You and Liz okay; your marriage, I mean?"

"I think so. We'll work through it. We still love each other."

"Good." Michael gave Mark the gold, and Mark said, "I'll get you the cash by this evening. Meet you back here at seven. Who you putting on the jet? I choose Netanyahu and all the other yahoos in Israel."

Michael responded, "I choose every pedophile on earth."

"All of Washington, Hollywood, and London? Perfect! I have a son to protect."

#

Four months later, in mid-March 2018, Elizabeth broke the story of the year. Working with Project Veritas, which had verified Elizabeth's earlier video showing the police fixing to rape and kill her, she narrated a first-rate report as an independent journalist.

Dressed casually in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, hair pulled back into a ponytail, she opened, "This story _should_ be the most important so far this century. The importance of what I'm about to reveal cannot be overstated; this new technology will quite literally change _everything_. For the most part the changes will be enormously positive. The vast majority of the world will be incalculably better off, assuming the technology isn't destroyed by the people who have a great deal to lose. Unfortunately those people hold the power, and they will stop at nothing to preserve it. We know this not only because we see these wicked people spread war and chaos across the world on a daily basis, but because they've already murdered four people we know of to keep this new technology out of _your_ hands. They also tried to murder my husband and me last autumn in Seattle.

"You've no doubt seen the reports of the terrible Seattle cop killers at large and aching to continue the murder spree, none other than yours truly and my husband. So first things first; we'll review what actually happened. We offered the video to all mainstream outlets. They all passed. We uploaded it to YouTube, but they deleted it after a few hours." She presented the highlights and pointed out that Project Veritas had verified their story as true.

Elizabeth continued, "As shocking as I'm sure you found that, it's a sidelight in the main saga." Elizabeth strolled to a blue 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. Michael and Nathan stood in front of the car. "This is my husband, Michael Morrison, and Dr. Nathan MacIsaac. Dr. MacIsaac was a theoretical physicist at Berkeley in the 1970s. Working with two top engineers, one a professor, the other a grad student at Berkeley, he designed and built a car engine in 1976 that ran on regular water. Soon thereafter, the US government seized the engine and the plans, and both engineers died in a car crash. Dr. MacIsaac fled before he had a crash, too.

"Fast forward thirty-five years; Jared Morrison, a theoretical physicist at McMaster University in Hamilton, Ontario, and a newly graduated engineer, his son, Michael, made the same breakthrough—well, there were some differences between the designs, but the main components were the same. Soon thereafter, the government seized the patents, and Jared, my father-in-law, was killed in a car crash; his wife was in the car and died as well. The engine and plans disappeared. Michael played dumb to stay alive, but, unbeknownst to the depraved puppet masters, he knew full well how to build the engine. He dared not do this, but I opened my big mouth in front of Eric Pedamante, the child molester and likely CIA officer, and set our nightmare in motion.

"Nathan knew what would happen to my husband, and he decided to act. He saved my husband by shooting down his would-be assassins. After that, he saved my life as well, as we showed you.

"Outraged over what's been done to them and facing the prospect of hiding for the rest of their lives or dying violently if discovered, with the most powerful enemies on the globe after them, they chose to take the offensive. They combined their skills to rebuild their engine."

She nodded to the men. Nathan opened the hood of the vehicle.

Elizabeth continued, "We've enlisted the help of Project Veritas to help convince you of the authenticity of our engine. The complete plans may be downloaded from their website listed on the screen below. Step-by-step videos are also available on DTube and BitChute, detailing how to build each major component.

"We'd love to benefit from the genius of these two men but, that being impossible under the circumstances, Nathan and Michael have graciously turned this over free of charge to the world. Anyone who wants can build this engine, though be aware that the shadow government may send assassins. We obviously can't get patents, and even if we could, the government would seize them. There are at least two instances of this already.

"There's the risk that someone in the Deep State patents the engine, then shelves it and forbids anyone to build it with the law on his side. All we can say is the inventors have turned this over to mankind, no strings attached. American courts will, of course, rule for the moneyed interests, but we hope countries with little oil, thus, little to lose and everything to gain, will reject any such findings in light of the inventors' declaration that this engine is henceforth in the public realm, and step forward to run with this. This might include Japan, China, India, Southeast Asia, much of Europe, and others. They can anticipate heavy resistance, maybe armed resistance from oil-producing nations, especially the good old USA, which has the most to lose. We can't do anything about any of that. All we can do is hope people across the world can benefit.

"Speaking of going forward. Let's go for a ride." The four, including a Project Veritas representative, stepped into the car, the Morrisons in front. Michael turned the starter. It wouldn't catch. "What's the matter?"

"Uh, fuel tank's empty," said Michael.

He got out, opened the gas cap, lit a match, lowered it into the receptacle, and pretended to peek down the spout.

"No gas?" she said with a smile.

"I don't know. Let me make sure," he said. He lit a small propane torch and stuck the tip into the receptacle. "Guess we're out," he said.

"If this were mainstream media, I'd assume my audience is a bunch of idiots who're gullible enough to believe that a handful of Russians trolling Americans about Clinton is an act of war equivalent to the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, and I'd warn, 'do not do this with your car at home.'"

Nathan stepped forward with a liter bottle of water. He showed it hadn't been opened, then twisted the cap off and poured the water into the tank, saving one small portion that he drank. The four resumed their seats. Michael tried the starter again and it caught immediately.

The camera showed the car pull onto the road and speed down the highway.

Elizabeth continued her report, talking over the video. "Project Veritas can't verify the technology itself—we leave that to scientists who can study the blueprints—but they have thoroughly checked the car for alternate fuel tanks."

The shot showed two men checking the car, one of whom looked at the camera and said, "We can confirm this car runs on regular water."

The video then showed the car driving both from the outside and inside the car.

Afterward, the Project Veritas representative said, "We have verified the speedometer is accurate within two miles per hour. The speed peaked at eighty-eight miles per hour. On one liter of water, the car traveled fifty-four miles. Acceleration was reasonable, though not quick; the same as one might expect from a modern four-cylinder engine. This car is equipped with an eight-cylinder engine that has been converted to run on hydrogen. So, not quite as powerful as a gasoline engine, but still extremely impressive given that it runs on water."

Elizabeth proceeded, "Now we fully expect that certain so-called experts will step forward and claim this engine is a fake. It breaks the laws of thermodynamics! It's just electrolysis! These guys are charlatans! Mainstream media will feature them, trying to tamp down this engine and no doubt, many of their audience will believe them. The government will double down and accuse the inventors of fraud and hunt them down to bring them to justice, or better yet, kill them. They'll try to quash the blueprints, make the engine illegal, threaten prison for anyone who builds it, or war against any state that proceeds with it. Make no mistake; the very prosperity of the American empire is at stake. When the petrodollar falls, America falls. That, of course, is inevitable anyway, but they want to stave it off as long as possible.

"When and if this happens, ask yourselves why your government wouldn't want this technology; wouldn't kill _for_ this technology. The answer is obvious. The dislocation it would cause _to the people in power_ would be immense. Oil fuels our economy; it has for over a century. It's what our prosperity is based on, and it's what the wealth of the point-one-percenters is based on. Imagine what would happen to their wealth if something came along to ruin the oil industry.

"So why is your government defending them and not the people they're supposed to represent and serve? If you're wondering this, then pardon me, but you're hopelessly naïve. The power of the United States depends crucially on the petrodollar.

"We implore everyone watching this to please, _please_ put pressure on your government to make this engine a reality in your country. Oil is expensive, it causes extraordinary problems ranging from resource wars to pollution, and it's running out. We need a new source of energy; cheap, clean, reliable, safe energy, and _we now have it_. This technology isn't limited to car engines. It can power any form of transportation; it can heat homes, offices, and factories, and eventually it should work as a viable substitute for oil—or natural gas, or coal, or nuclear, or wind, or solar, or batteries—in almost any application, including fueling electrical generators so electricity will be practically free!

"This will not only enormously curtail air pollution, it will dramatically cut the cost of _everything_ we buy because the cost of energy to produce goods and services and the cost of transportation to bring them to you or you to them will plummet. Oh, in case you're worried about the supply of potable water, this can be easily modified to run on salt water—a truly endless supply of energy; see our how-to video on DTube or BitChute. We give this to you, all peoples of the world, so do your part and _demand_ unfettered access to it!"

Standing before the Barracuda with Nathan and Michael beside her, she signed off, "Liz Morrison, reporting for Project Veritas from somewhere in western North America."

Reaction to their engine was much as expected, with the United States, Canada, Australia, the European Union, and major oil producers declaring it a fake, making it illegal, and working to subdue it internationally, but other nations, primarily China, ignoring warnings from the West and going forward with the engine. The United States sent aircraft carriers into the South China Sea off Hong Kong and instituted tariffs on a wide range of Chinese manufactured goods. China reacted by readying its hypersonic weapons and selling off billions in US treasuries, which rocked the American economy.

Hungary and France then broke with the EU and announced they would proceed with the engine as well, prompting threats from Washington and Brussels and rattling European markets. That gave India and Japan the courage to split with the United States and announce approval to build the engine. The United States immediately announced stiff tariffs on all Japanese and Indian products. The Nikkei plunged, forcing Japan to relent. India stayed the course, having too much to gain with the new engine. Russia prohibited production of the engine, its rich oil reserves at stake, but did not want to support the United States nor alienate China, so stayed mum on the international disputes. Putin put the armed forces on high alert.

Central banks got involved to steady the markets, printing trillions of fiat currency units. Global stock markets zoomed. Gold, which had been rocketing, plummeted when billions of ounces of paper gold were dumped onto the market at the behest of the central banks. Oil, of course, crashed, but recovered somewhat when the United States reinstituted sanctions on Iran and moved its war machines to the Iranian border. It also helped that the CIA provided ballistic missiles to Houthi rebels, who used them to attack Saudi oil fields. Oil pipelines in Nigeria mysteriously exploded as well. The United States then imposed a fifty-percent tariff on Canadian oil, which provoked Canada to impose tariffs on US agricultural products.

Inflation jumped, and an all-out trade war was afoot. Shooting wars were likely. A nuclear war was possible. The engine wasn't so much the cause as the catalyst for the implosion of the volatile political economy of the early twenty-first century.

Eric was released from the hospital and was well on his way to recovering when he suffered a setback in the form of a fatal heart attack induced by microwaves courtesy of the CIA. Pending charges of child predation became moot.

Nathan's health had declined steadily while he and Michael were building their engine; he couldn't manage more than an hour on his feet by the time they finished. Soon after Elizabeth's broadcast, he became bedridden. Elizabeth and Michael did what they could for him. She, in particular, was wonderful, feeding him, sponging him, reading to him, and doing everything she could to make him as comfortable as possible. Near the end, with Nathan in great pain, she pleaded with him to let them call an ambulance to take him to the hospital, but he refused. "I don't want to die alone," he said. "After forty years, I finally have friends again. I want to be with you."

Two days later, after he soiled himself, the humiliated man asked one last favor of Michael. Michael demurred, but Nathan insisted, calling in his marker. Michael dug Nathan's grave on a rustic hill overlooking a stream at the edge of Nathan's property, and the three went there, Michael carrying Nathan. Struggling to his knees, he hugged both Morrisons and closed his eyes. A weeping Elizabeth turned her back. With tears streaming down his face, Michael put the pistol to the back of Nathan's head, said, "Goodbye, good friend," and squeezed the trigger.

The couple hugged and wept, then Michael lowered the body into the grave. Elizabeth tossed a daffodil onto his chest and said a little prayer.

"Lord, I know Nathan killed many people, but I hope you can forgive him. The army forced him to kill. He tried to atone by inventing an engine that he hoped would change the world for the better, but wicked people took that from him. He killed others to save our lives so that Michael could bring his engine to life. What Nathan's done for humanity will live on forever. We pray that this earns him a place in heaven. And please forgive my Michael for ending Nathan's life. As you must know, he did it as an act of mercy."

"And, God," added Michael, "If you could see fit to make sure our engine doesn't spark World War III, that would be nice."

He buried Nathan. The two walked hand-in-hand home.

Mark advanced the Morrisons some money for their tricorder, which at least assured their financial future and gave them the wherewithal to evade the authorities. He also spirited them out of the country to a remote part of Argentina.

Their love came back strong, and Elizabeth got pregnant in late spring. Their future was nebulous and possibly perilous, but they would face it together, come what may.

END

Novelist ROBERT POWER was born in Canada, but raised and educated in the United States. He stayed in university so long, Berkeley eventually gave him a PhD to get rid of him. Working as a consultant from home, he drove his wife crazy until he took up writing fiction in his too-ample spare time. Neither he nor his wife know what they were thinking when they decided to have four children, but they're happy they do—most days. They live in southern Ontario. Visit his website: rdpower.ca.

R D Power's novels:

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