

THE SHORT HISTORY OF MILITANT LUTHERANISM: A NOVEL

BY

NEIL ACKERMAN

Copyright 2014 Neil Ackerman

Smashwords Edition

**Author's Note:** From first to last this is satire. Feel free the share with others. This book may not be used for commercial use without the permission of the author. (My sincerest apologies to Presbyterians.)
CHAPTER ONE

THE UBER LUTHERAN –THE EARLY YEARS

PECKERMAN, INDIANA

1993

On the lookout for trouble squint-eyed Alfred Mole peered through the school door's window—a heavily smudged pane of glass chipped by well-aimed BB's and reinforced with an embedded grid of thin wire. The little man scanned the playground monitoring the seventy-five children who milled there about. Each of the poor souls longed to find sufficient distraction to induce a temporary state of amnesia. Everyone enrolled at the Peckerman Academy for the Socially and Educably Challenged wished to forget that all among them had been handpicked to fill the institution's murky roster—elementary education's version of purgatory.

"Recess ought to be banned!" Mole snorted to no one.

Ninety percent of the school's discord originated during those fifteen-minute spurts of adrenaline. According to the vigilant Mr. Mole society teetered on the brink of Biblical Armageddon, and diabolical practices such as recess could be just enough to supply that final nudge. Despite his inflated self-opinion, Alfred Mole was but one small cog in a large gear, and his rigid judgments and adamant denunciations counted for naught. Recess was safe for the time being.

Suddenly Mole caught sight of a muscular eighth grader—a known troublemaker who sported dark, kinky hair and handsome angular features. Conan Kinnear, wearing his trademark black shirt with minister's collar, towered over a sea of scruffy heads making the eccentric fourteen-year-old easy to spot.

There's that weirdo Kinnear. Gotta keep tabs on the son-of-a-bitch every minute of the day! Mr. Mole studied the problematic eighth grader who'd once been described in the teacher's lounge as a curious combination of Lutheran fanatic and that ticking package left unattended in airport terminals—an object to be regarded suspiciously. Be that as it may, in the eyes of the Academy's handpicked students being considered a source of trouble by Mr. Alfred Mole was the greatest of compliments generating both admiration and praise.

Mole watched as Kinnear read from a tattered _Bible_ to two seventh graders (known Presbyterians) who stood jaws tightened, fists clenched, and arms resolutely crossed. Though he considered himself a Christian and sympathized with the self-styled evangelist's message, as far as Mole was concerned, the Kinnear boy's preaching was too closely aligned with tactics employed by third world dictators.

Aware that Conan Kinnear had a well-deserved reputation of NOT turning the other cheek, Mole tensed ready to spring. The resentful recipients of Kinnear's scriptural lesson were in the midst of mockingly rolling their eyes, and Alfred could picture what was about to occur: any second young Kinnear will go ballistic, punches will fly, then once again it must be "Alfred Mole, to the rescue." Background music played inside of Mr. Mole's prematurely balding head—music similar to that accompanying the hero of a grade-B western, circa 1950, as the protagonist, guns blazing, saves a helpless widow from losing her ranch and simultaneously secures "drilling rights" to the widow's beautiful daughter.

Mole licked his lips then pensively rubbed his chin. If the man's calculations were correct, Kinnear's tally was about to climb to three fights in five days—an accumulation of offenses that, according to the Peckerman Policy and Procedure Manual (co-authored by Mole himself), equated to a one-week suspension.

Ah, Kinnear, you are about to be busted. The delightful prospect conformed perfectly to Mole's rigid sense of frontier justice, and he began to wring his bony hands at the prospect of breaking up the soon-to-ensue fight.

As Peckerman's only non-tenured teacher crouched cat-like ready to pounce, a gruff and forceful inquiry came from behind him, "Everything under control Mr. Mole? We are expecting a member of the school board to drop by for a SURPRISE inspection you know."

Alfred Mole lurched. The little man with pencil neck and plaintive voice wheeled around positioning his back to the door. Conan Kinnear vanished from Alfred's mind replaced instead by the towering figure of his boss Tyberious Tweed.

"Why yes. Yes, Sir, I have not forgotten. I received your memo this morning, and, yes, things are . . . uh . . . definitely under control, Sir! You can rely on me. When I'm on duty, they know better than to try to pull anything." The simpering Mr. Mole fawned and repeatedly bowed as he assured his supervisor that under his watchful eye the Academy's _special_ students were sure to toe the line.

Principal Tweed, a full head taller than his scrawny employee, normally scowled when addressing underlings. But Tweed's scowl suddenly morphed into a wither-producing sneer, and without another word Alfred's imposing boss, like the Ghost of Christmas Future, began pointing toward the window and to the fallow patch of earth that lay beyond—the very patch he'd entrusted to Mr. Mole's _iron-fisted_ supervision.

To the uninitiated, the cluster of youngsters suddenly massing in the middle of the Tobias Peckerman Memorial Baseball Diamond might have conjured up visions of pagan ritual, but not to a veteran of the academy's trenches. Suddenly remembering Conan Kinnear and the recipients of young Kinnear's unappreciated scripture lesson, Mole spotted the donut-shaped throng of children from which issued that all too familiar word, "FIGHT," and he quickly jumped to the conclusion: violence has erupted!

Pushing open the door, Alfred hurriedly left his boss. Mole gritted his teeth and exclaimed under his breath as he ran at top speed, "Kinnear, you're gonna get it this time!"

When twenty strides from the ring of agitating trouble makers, one of the youngest, a short, grubby fellow with two missing teeth and a noticeable lisp, shouted a warning, "Wasch out! Here comesch da Sscheriffff!"

It gave the diminutive teacher considerable satisfaction that he'd earned the worthy nickname, and while patrolling Peckerman hallways, searching pockets, and inspecting lockers, he wore the title like an invisible badge similar to the real badge adorning the narrow chest of television's Barney Fife.

The "Sheriff's" approach raised the stakes, and the tempo quickened as the "Socially and Educably Challenged" feverishly danced and cajoled imploring those in the middle to indeed "fight." But Mr. Mole could see no one in the circle's center, and he naturally assumed that the combatants no longer stood but lay grappling on the ground. From experience rolling in the dirt occurred ninety-five percent of the time; only rarely did Peckerman thugs remain standing trading punches toe to toe.

Since the imperious Tweed was probably taking in the action from the sanctity of his office, Alfred realized that by maneuvering swiftly and decisively the moment could be turned to his advantage. When arriving at the circle's outer perimeter, the Sheriff began casting students aside like a manic chef peeling the platelets from a boiled artichoke.

Expecting to find Conan Kinnear gripping the two Presbyterians in twin headlocks Alfred Mole advanced and at the same time considered the advantages that come with tenure. His ego inflated. Alfred was the puffer fish of playground monitors. However, upon breaking through to the center, he was greeted not by Kinnear but by the unanticipated sight of two dogs in the middle of an act that virtually guaranteed to increase the canine population of Peckerman, Indiana. After an inspection, which lasted three seconds tops, Sheriff Mole realized that playground lightning had struck—there was no fight, and that there never had been!

Roughly half of the seventy-five Socially and Educably Challenged immediately ceased chanting, "Fight" switching instead to repeatedly yelling a different monosyllable also beginning with the letter "F." The remaining thirty-seven point five, too timid to yell expletives, began a gale of laughter so deep and so prolonged that three were later diagnosed with inguinal hernias. For the moment, there on that barren sector of Planet Earth, the mob ruled, and its rule was without mercy. All were overjoyed to have successfully triggered that moment of amnesia, which the "handpicked" of Peckerman so desperately seek.

As Mole transformed from "sheriff into stooge," turning a brilliant shade of crimson in the process, he looked to the heavens. A single word materialized in the muddled confusion that was his brain: RECESS!!!!

Even though Alfred could point to no codicil in the Peckerman Policy and Procedure Manual, which specifically outlawed the current activity playing out just inches in front of his suede wingtips, he figured that school policy was being seriously breached. Consequently, Mr. Mole bent to separate the offenders.

Despite the clamorous din, one voice in the crowd rang clear and true, "Listen! My lover! Look! Here he comes, leaping across the mountains, bounding over the hills . . ."

Mole turned and spied Conan Kinnear reading from his tattered Bible. The expression on Kinnear's face was anything but angelic as Peckerman's "ticking package" read selected passages from the Old Testament's lurid "Solomon's Song of Songs."

"How beautiful you are, my darling! Your eyes are doves. How handsome you are, my lover! Our bed is verdant. . . . My lover is to me a sachet of myrrh resting between my breasts. Oh half-blind rodent, thou art but the dung of an ignorant camel . . ."

I'm no Biblical scholar, Mole silently conceded. But I am virtually certain that young Kinnear has just now misread a key portion of Biblical text. As he pulled and tugged on the uppermost animal, Alfred promised to check his own Bible when given an opportunity. And was his mind playing tricks? It appeared to Alfred Mole that amongst the rabble many were cheering Conan Kinnear as if they assigned him full credit for the present debacle. But surely that could not be, thought Mr. Mole, for the Lutherans he knew were a simple, straightforward lot, capable of neither subtlety nor subterfuge, and to pull off such a _coupe_ would require plenty of both.

Once Mole had succeeded in separating the lovers, he lugged the male (still noticeably "ardent") over to a neighbor's fence and deposited the remorseless offender on the other side. Next Alfred patiently collected a stern rebuke from the property owner for he had dropped _Romeo_ onto a perfectly good tomato plant, and in an effort to rekindle true love the star-crossed canine managed to take out an entire row of beans.

Standing in front of the large window in the principal's office, Tyberious Tweed and board member Silas Wingate watched the proceedings. After thoughtfully pondering the curious events, Wingate soberly asked, "Has Mr. Mole been granted tenure?"
CHAPTER TWO

THE INAUGURAL YEAR OF LUTHERAN MILITANCY

2007 (14 YEARS LATER)

Dressed in minister's black shirt and white collar twenty-eight-year-old Conan Kinnear, while munching a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, read aloud from an ancient book. After licking the sticky from his fingers, he carefully closed the tattered, leather-bound volume entitled Disputation of Doctor Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences, more commonly known as Luther's Ninety-five Theses. The work had in its day ignited wars, torn a people apart, and wounded the Catholic Church—but in modern times the average Lutheran, preoccupied with job and family, was only vaguely aware of its existence.

Conan, however, was anything but average. Kinnear had memorized all ninety-five theses and regularly and routinely raised eyebrows by spouting Martin Luther's original words.

In many ways Conan was difficult to ignore—muscular, handsome, and tall (over six and a half feet tall). Plus atop his head a pile of tightly curled dark hair added significantly to that height and at the same time put one in mind of a 70's-style Afro lending the Caucasian a certain incongruity.

No steroids, no human growth hormone, no long sessions in the gym, his bulging muscles were a gift—a gift he planned to employ in the service of the Lord and to advance the Lutheran agenda. Not sufficiently challenged, the restless Kinnear was only partially satisfied with life. He worked as a librarian for the Peoria Public Library in the heart of the American Midwest. Conan had moved to central Illinois because he considered it a bastion of the Lutheran faith.

Though Mr. Kinnear dressed the part, he wasn't actually an ordained minister. He'd applied for seminary once but was rejected for unspecified reasons. Conan saw his rejection as a green light from God encouraging him to travel a more militant path, a path consistent with his combative nature, but an avenue clearly outside the Lutheran mainstream.

To that end Conan the Librarian, as Peorians called him, conceived his master plan—the formation of Lutherans United for More Power, which he envisioned to be the Evangelical Lutheran's militant underground—political action down and dirty and supported primarily by Conan's own modest salary. LUMP became his focus, taking a backseat to nothing. First conceived in 2002, his master plan matured for five years before the final version emerged into the light of day (a pattern strikingly similar to the lifecycle of the common cicada).

Already they, the other member was his friend Rex Von Tastic, were exploring alternative sources of income. Revenue was desperately needed to support Lutheran missions in far-flung corners of the world labeled "heathen" by church hierarchy—places like Nevada.

Around noon of August 8, 2007, LUMP received a phone call from the Evangelical Lutheran - Nicene Offensive (EL-NO), a non-violent activist group staffed by vegetarians and headquartered in Chicago. The EL-NO official would say only that they needed "a little help with a delicate matter."

Two hours later Conan Kinnear and Rex Von Tastic were packed and on their way. LUMP's inaugural mission had been launched.
CHAPTER THREE

REX VON TASTIC — OWNER OF REXTASTIC FASHION DESIGNS

A small man with delicate features and flamboyant manner, Rex Von Tastic neither looked nor dressed like a Lutheran. He seemed too modern—too "with it." But he was a Lutheran and was dedicated to the cause. When attending church service, his signature red scarf set him apart—the single injection of color in an otherwise muted congregation, a butterfly among moths.

Intelligent, talented, and inventive, Rex had the reputation of being Peoria's finest clothing designer. He specialized in utilitarian fashions, such as uniforms, scrubs, and coveralls and had received accolades from every corner of the world for his keen sense of style and taste. Von Tastic was not afraid to forge new pathways and to push boundaries to the brink of scandal.

Career-wise Von Tastic's crowning achievement came when the North Korean Minister of Wool insisted that he spend a year in that nation's capital working to liven up the country's fashion industry. Lutheran designers in general, and Rex in particular, were reputed to work miracles with the color brown.

Of course, when his year abroad was over, he returned to his hometown and Mid-America's mecca of practical attire, which was also home to his one true (but secret) love, Conan Kinnear.

However, loving Kinnear had its drawbacks: for one, the handsome librarian had been so caught up in Lutheran political action that he had little time for anything else; secondly, Conan, oblivious to Von Tastic's affection, was too preoccupied to pick-up on Rex's obvious hints and flirtations (signs that were evident to everyone else. Therefore, all who met them assumed that the two close friends were an item); and, finally, Conan the Librarian appeared to be neither homo- nor hetero- but was that unusual specimen, asexual, having no interest in the subject whatsoever. At the age of twenty-eight that part of him had yet to awaken.

Rex's love, sadly, remained unrequited. The frustrated fashion guru would have had a better chance of understanding his plight had he actually been born a Lutheran. Instead, he was only a convert—his conversion owing in no small part to meeting Conan Kinnear for the first time—a life-changing experience, which Rex Von Tastic had described as "electric!"

Unknown to the love-stuck Von Tastic, sex amongst Evangelical Lutherans is a slow, tedious enterprise not unlike the mating of the Galapagos Tortoise and occurs only after the adult reaches his/her late twenties or early thirties. When that condition is met, the male Lutheran slowly, and with much fumbling, mounts a receptive female and begins a leisurely back-and-forth, rocking motion typically accompanied by prayers and sometimes by the singing of hymns. But once the couple hits their stride, it's "Katie bar the door!" and, ultimately, enough fluid is transferred to fill the gas tank of a mid-sized SUV. The sweating and thrashing frequently lasts well into the night and leaves the male so thoroughly spent, that he is unable to go again for another ten years.

After the relationship has been consummated, the male and female by some form of holy telemetry, little studied and poorly understood, frequently remain together for upwards of half a century.

The mating behavior described above has been observed only amongst Evangelical Lutherans. Curiously, intercourse involving members of the Missouri Synod branch of Lutheranism is similar to that of the Presbyterian who is known to copulate as frequently as two times per week, and larger males in their prime with ready access to a willing female, three times.

Conan Kinnear, a born Evangelical, had yet to experience hot turtle lust, and to cut to the chase, Rex Von Tastic settled for just being around the man he so ardently admired. The designer of uniforms and practical attire elected to play along as the firebrand Kinnear worked to elevate and sharpen the dreams initiated in the year 1517, dreams originally kindled in the quick and agile mind of Martin Luther but which, over the centuries, had grown a bit fuzzy and slightly out of focus.

Conan Kinnear's existence consisted of hooks and slices, and his balls seldom landed on life's smooth fairway. Rex had a stake in those balls, and his aim was to stiffen Conan's stance and straighten his drives off the tee.

Conan the Librarian's latest foray into reality's fringe involved the formation of a so-called militant underground—Lutherans United for More Power. Rex was assigned to design a banner for LUMP, which he did with passionate fervor and with a tear in his eye. He took certain "liberties" with the project and kept the finished product hidden in a box promising to unveil it when the time was right. He hoped that the flag would clearly announce his love for the leader of LUMP and would awaken feelings, heretofore, foreign to Conan Kinnear.

When Conan telephoned his partner in early August of 2007 with news of EL-NO's request for help, Rex turned his business affairs over to an assistant and road forth with his secret love to Chicago. He so hoped they would share a room together.
CHAPTER FOUR

EL-NO HEADQUARTERS

CHICAGO. ILLINOIS

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 2007

Martin Luther himself must have been personally looking out for Conan Kinnear and Rex Von Tastic because when the pair hit Chicago's Dan Ryan Expressway, the normally busy highway provided clear sailing all the way to the Sixty-third Street off-ramp. Conan always felt that way, that the patriarch and founder of Lutheranism from his seat in the boardroom of Heaven took the time to guide and protect his most loyal and "special" subject. Now Conan the Librarian was about to embark on his first quest—a test of Kinnear's spiritual resolve and of his physical stamina. Shortly he would learn the details of his and Von Tastic's secret mission.

Not wishing to speak ill of his sidekick, Conan Kinnear silently called into question the degree of his friend Rex's dedication. Seemed the man only wanted to sing classic show tunes on the drive north, successfully deflecting Kinnear's every attempt to steer the conversation in the direction of The Ninety-five Theses. That not withstanding, the librarian had to admit that Von Tastic's rendition of "There is Nothin' Like a Dame" followed immediately by selections from West Side Story, The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, and Camelot was nothing short of spectacular. And he was not sure what to make of the fashion designer's dramatic collapse when finished with his epic musical review, a collapse that resulted in Rex's head resting comfortably on the founder of LUMP's rather muscular right shoulder.

A block and a half after exiting the Dan Ryan, the two Lutherans pulled into a small parking lot where West Sixty-third intersects South Stewart Street. A sign on a run-down storefront declared boldly, "Evangelical Lutheran – Nicene Offensive, Newton Oyster, Director."

Conan could not help feeling envious when he was introduced to Oyster and to Oyster's assistant Kermit Plaid. EL-NO's number one and number two officers each looked resplendent and somewhat dashing in their brown serge uniforms and camo-colored berets.

Oyster's outfit sported chevrons, which started just above the elbow and kept going until they disappeared somewhere behind the thin man's narrow back. In a manner reminiscent of Joseph Goebbels, the director shot his cuffs, saluted, and clicked his heels in deference to the militant Peorians who eagerly stood before him.

The stooped figure with wide mouth, bulging eyes, and rounded torso slouching next to the Director was his young and able assistant. Epaulettes adorned the shoulders of Kermit Plaid helping to conceal the fact that Plaid's shoulders were practically nonexistent. When Rex first spotted Kermit, the fashion designer did a double take for many of the assistant's physical features were shared in common with a toad including a massive double chin, which connected mouth to upper chest in a sweeping unbroken curve. Later Rex was relieved to note that the Toad-man's primary form of locomotion was a penguin-like scuffle and involved no hopping whatsoever.

Committed to diversity the members of LUMP were not adverse to frog-like humans and were pleased to learn that it was the recommendation of EL-NO's second in command that had prompted Director Oyster to request LUMP's assistance in the first place. As children growing up in separate Indiana communities, the two, Plaid and Kinnear, had been members of their local Lutheran youth organizations surreptitiously known as Luther League. They had encountered one another at state assemblies, and the younger Plaid came to admire Kinnear's dogged determination, single-mindedness, and angular features (Plaid having none of his own).

Though Conan Kinnear could not place Kermit Plaid, Plaid had retained a clear recollection of the future librarian and the eventual founder of militant Lutheranism. Even back then the perceptive Plaid recognized that Conan Kinnear was destined to do great deeds and would someday place the banner of the Evangelical Lutherans where that banner had not yet been placed. Kermit speculated hopefully that Kinnear could be the individual whose coming was foretold by Nostradamus 450 years ago:

In the year 2000 plus seven a great warrior

bearing forth the banner of Luth

will swim the river

and will sow his seed in the rectum of a true Christian.

"Luth" was a veiled, but obvious, reference to Martin Luther. Kermit Plaid was unclear about "swimming the river," however, he had secretly fantasized for years that his rectum would be the repository of the "Great Warrior's" seed.

When the greetings and introductions went back and forth between the members of LUMP and the members of EL-NO, someone watching the cordialities might have been reminded of a game of doubles ping-pong. Once the pace of those cordialities ebbed a bit, and there was some confusion over whose turn it was to volley, Conan Kinnear went ramrod straight and announced in a loud, clear baritone befitting a true champion, "God remits guilt to no one whom He does not, at the same time, humble in all things and bring into subjection to His vicar, the priest."

For the blink of an eye both Oyster and the toad-like Plaid's faces registered a combination of confusion and alarm. However, quickly and simultaneously their expressions changed to recognition and angelic euphoria. Both burst forth at the same moment with "Number Seven," (in these times of religious malaise truly committed Lutherans identify one another by quoting the original writings of their founder). The Ninety-five Theses were not lost on the members of the Evangelical Lutheran – Nicene Offensive.

What little tension that had remained in the room quickly vanished except for Rex Von Tastic's silent objections to Oyster and Plaid's "appalling excuses" for apparel. Rextastic, as the designer liked to be called, noted their slightly ruffled Florentine cuffs and the cut of their heavily starched Victorian collars—the clash was most unsettling. And furthermore, the bundles of gold shoulder cord that each wore in profusion demonstrated both an unnerving show of excess and a complete lack of purpose.

Stick to a theme! Rex, whose sensibilities had been severely taxed, wanted to yell the words to the heavens, but he sensed that the two men standing in front of him were barely evolved and that yelling would be pointless. Instead he tugged at the red silk scarf tied sassily about his neck and smiled in a manner similar to a seasick person when handed a bologna sandwich.

The apparel they bore upon their backs represented styles that went out with Benito Mussolini, but to be fair, according to the trade magazine Midwest Uniforms and Work Clothes Digest, similar gold accents were mounting a comeback in Wichita, which Rex believed to be a lonely outpost somewhere on the desolate prairies of Kansas. In consideration for his friend Conan Kinnear, Von Tastic was willing to overlook the lack of originality that littered EL-NO's deplorably dressed leadership.

To the exclusion of Rex (the only convert to Lutheranism in the bunch) Conan, Kermit, and Newton (Lutherans by birth) batted a few of the Theses back and forth, recalling their favorites and discussing interpretations of the ones that they poorly understood. By the time the three were ready to get down to business, Rex had begun to entertain himself by perusing some of the knickknacks with which the pintsized Oyster had chosen to decorate his barren digs. Displayed on the wall was a diploma granted by St. Olaf College of Northfield, Minnesota; a red and black poster proclaimed: "VEGAN AND PROUD OF IT;" a certificate issued by the South Dakota Synod Council declared that in the year 1979 EL-NO's now middle-aged director had achieved perfect attendance. Another certificate announced that Newton Oyster was the Carthage College intramural chess champion third place runner-up for 1984; also there was an undated photo that included a much younger Oyster absolutely beaming while posing with an older, sober individual plagued by an officious sneer and wearing a professor's cap and gown—and finally, the _piece de resistance_ , a preserved armadillo, heavily lacquered and looking, at that moment, just as bored as Rex Von Tastic.

All was forgiven, however, when minutes later Kermit Plaid took Rex aside and exclaimed glowingly, "I simply loved the article about you in Lutheran Lifestyle Magazine _!_ "

* * *

With the greetings and formalities finally out of the way the first order of business involved the presentation of a photograph.

"Gentlemen, this is Preston Cash," the Director's expression became gravely serious and somewhat sad as he handed the picture to LUMP's large impassioned leader.

"Preston Cash," the militant Kinnear repeated slowly while holding up the picture. Then the big man added a personal observation, "Why, he looks just like Ben Affleck."

"Er . . . that is Ben Affleck. I mean the person on Mr. Affleck's right; that's Preston Cash."

Conan nodded. His eyes were drawn to an easily overlooked character standing next to the famous actor. Cash's face was nondescript and upon it resided an inoffensive smile. The librarian breathed deeply like a bloodhound eager to start the hunt might breath, absorbing every molecule that would assist the intelligent animal in the determined, unswerving pursuit of its quarry.

After glancing at the photo, which his muscular friend cradled in his strong, sinewy hands, Rex Von Tastic silently observed: This Cash fellow obviously takes advantage of all the "blue-light specials" in assembling his wardrobe. To the fashion designer it appeared that the man's primary objective was to go unnoticed in a room full of morticians.

"What did he do?" Kinnear inquired while taking note of the fact that the man in the photo appeared rather wimpish and that possibly—just possibly—his eyes betrayed the slightest hint of deceitfulness, and the big Lutheran noted silently: A quality common to the Presbyterian.

EL-NO's two honchos looked toward the floor as if stalling for time. Finally Oyster offered sheepishly, "Stole our money."

"How much money?" Conan the Librarian asked as he memorized the pale but innocent face of Preston Cash.

"Uh, four . . . four hundred . . ."

Kinnear looked up in surprise, "Four hundred dollars?" He appeared rather shocked realizing that his first quest, which he'd intended to dedicate to the memory of the great Martin Luther, would only amount to "small-time debt collection."

"Ah . . . er . . . four hundred thousand," Director Oyster corrected abashedly.

"You mean this guy ripped you off for . . ," Kinnear did not seem disappointed with the larger figure and, if anything, appeared downright happy to the puzzlement of both Oyster and the toad-like Plaid.

Upon hearing the larger sum Von Tastic took the photo of Preston Cash from the sturdy militant he so ardently admired and scrutinized the face of the rather average-looking character whose outward appearance was more along the lines of "grownup choirboy" than successful thief. His wire-rimmed glasses lent Mr. Cash a studious quality, and Rextastic perceptively concluded: Wolf in sheep's clothing.

In a lilting voice that could have been Dorothy's from the _Wizard of Oz_ , Rex Von Tastic asked what sensibly popped into his head, "Why call us? Why not go to the police?"

Oyster and Plaid looked at each other while continuing to don the same embarrassed expressions that they'd been donning for the past two minutes. Then Kermit Plaid, after receiving a nod from his boss, gave a brief explanation, "The money that Cash stole . . . uh . . . did not 'officially' exist."

The two downstate Lutherans looked at the Chicagoans who were nervously averting their eyes. Oyster preferred to inspect his perfect attendance certificate while Plaid had taken a sudden interest in armadillos.

Kinnear glanced at his partner, and by the looks they exchanged the two members of LUMP decided not to ask further about the source of the ill-gotten money.

"Preston was such a good Lutheran too. We hired him in 2005 as our accountant and chief fiscal officer. He knocked our socks off during the interview. Knew all ninety-five theses by heart," Oyster spoke forlornly. The sting of betrayal affected the sound of his voice; at times it wavered; and once he emitted a squeak as if the Director had chewed on a mouse.

"Could rattle theses off like he could his own name," Assistant Director Kermit Plaid chimed in while shaking his head back and forth and using the same doleful inflexion as his boss.

"Felt sorry for him too. He'd lost his Benjamin Dover job a few years back when the company . . . you know, the energy giant . . . when they . . . when they went belly-up. Took him completely by surprise—that whole California scandal. The poor guy had no clue that the company was breaking the law."

From the Director's tone, Von Tastic sensed that Oyster, despite the missing money, continued to harbor a measure of sympathy for his ex-fiscal officer. The fashion designer had no trouble understanding why: _When Lutherans go bad, it is an occasion for great sadness._

Not wanting the trail to grow cold, the gung-ho Kinnear enquired, "Any clue as to where he is?" Like a dog ready to hunt, the militant Lutheran made scant attempt to mask his enthusiasm.

Perking up slightly, Director Oyster leaned over his desk; he held down an intercom button, and asked fawningly, "Lydia, can you come in here a minute?"

Rextastic noticed a spec of saliva forming at the corner of the thin man's mouth.

Momentarily Miss Lydia Bun-King, wearing a skimpy silk mini-skirt, made her grand entrance. But most of the eyes in the front office were drawn toward her red corseted bustier. Bun-King's advantageously displayed tits seemed to have entered the room a full five minutes before the remainder of EL-NO's pretty office assistant (that is to say, so taken by her generous breasts, five minutes would customarily pass before anyone would notice the rest of the buxom young lady). The petite blonde's decidedly un-Lutheran bosoms stood out like two cannonballs ready and willing to be deployed in a battle amongst women for male attention.

It looked to Conan and Rex that Newton Oyster was happy to declare Lydia Bun-King the winner of that skirmish and lay before her the terms of his capitulation and immediate surrender. Unbeknownst to those assembled, Oyster's last sexual experience had occurred in 1997. The good Lutheran's ten years of waiting were almost over. Newton Oyster's throbbing nozzle was ready, and, in his mind at least, Lydia Bun-King's tank called to him: Fill me with your high-octane, Big Boy!

Those in the room noticed the miraculous effect Miss Bun-King had on both Mr. Oyster's posture and on his disposition. The man who a moment before showed signs of being mired in a miserable funk immediately perked up. After adjusting his sagging stance, the Director appeared five inches taller, and all vestiges of "funk" had disappeared.

Chicago is a big city. Lust is not in short supply, and outlets for the gratification of that lust can be found on many street corners. Those in the front office of the Evangelical Lutheran – Nicene Offensive had sworn an oath to combat lewdness and to rid the city of "gratuitous fornicators." Surely God had placed Lydia Bun-King amongst the Lutherans to test their resolve. Would EL-NO pass the test? Had he been given to the sin of gambling, Rex Von Tastic's money would have been placed squarely on, "Hell no!"

Newton Oyster recalled the moment that he first laid eyes upon the buxom Lydia. The little man had stroked the end of his pointy nose. His initial observation was that she possessed the tits of a Presbyterian, and he'd conceded long ago that if he were to once again "fall from grace," it would be at the behest of just such a woman. Presbyterians knew no shame.

To their credit both Kinnear and Von Tastic seemed immune to Lydia's sexual tractor-beam, a fact that did not escape the approving eye of Kermit Plaid who, having taken a seat, bore a remarkable resemblance to a frog resting on a lily pad.

Rextastic eyed the woman's skimpy ensemble. He recognized the Mandarin silk fabric adorned with dragonflies of which Bun-King's skirt was fashioned. On one hand, the material was not cheap; on the other hand, not much of the expensive brocade had been required. The maven of style and dress gave the outfit a grade of "B-plus."

While Director Oyster drooled down the front of his uniform, Plaid asked the woman to recount a phone call that she'd received earlier that morning. Bun-King did not disappoint. Kinnear scribbled furiously on a pad of paper as she spoke while chewing a wad of gum the girth and density of a golf ball, "Honey Bunch, . . . ah, that's what I call, er, Mr. Cash, . . . he phoned me at the office, only I was, like, late for work . . . Saw-rrrreee! . . . Traffic, ya know. So he leaves me a message, . . . like, on my voice mail . . . asks me if I want to be a 'California Girl,' like in that old song by the Beach Boys. Says, like . . . uh, to join him in Venice. Only I'm thinkin', 'Hey, isn't Venice one of those cities in Spain?' He didn't leave a number. Guess he wanted me to think about it. Then he said he'd call me back and, like, ask again later. But that's, like . . . well, all over now." Lydia released an audible sigh.

Oyster awoke from his dribbling trance and asked, "Over? Why . . . er . . . whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, I just now talked to him on the phone. Said, like . . . ah, it had to be brief, but that California was, like, out of the question, and he was on his way to Sydney . . . or . . . maybe Madonna . . . or no, like, that's the singer isn't it? Anyway, it was somewhere in Arizona that's for sure. Said he'd, like, check again in two weeks."

"By any chance, could he have said Sedona?" Rex hazarded a guess while pursing his lips and turning his head to one side.

"Yeah! That's it, Sedona, Arizona." After the words left her mouth, a look of confusion began to distort Lydia's pretty face, and the office assistant added, "Said he was, like . . . ah, going to live on a 'butterfly ranch?' Can you beat that? People raise butterflies on ranches now days. Hey, do butterflies, like, give milk or something?"

Rex Von Tastic listened with uncertainty. Automatically he offered the word "Butter" as lighthearted banter. Thinking that Ms. Bun-King was kidding, he had decided to play along.

Lydia looked at the short, slim man wearing a black silk shirt with a flamboyant, red scarf tied jauntily about his neck. The man sported brown hair fashioned into random points that were tipped with blonde highlights, and she asked, "Butter?"

Mouth agape, the clothing designer explained further, "Butter, . . you see BUTTER-flies give . . . BUTTER."

Bun-King's face suddenly lit up with an expression similar to the one that must have illuminated the visage of Madame Currie when she discovered the element Radium. "Oh yeah, I bet that's right!" the office assistant with the Lutheran face, the Presbyterian body, and the Baptist brain seemed happy to have put two and two together.

Meanwhile, the wet spot on the front of Director Oyster's shirt had grown to the size of a medium pizza. Drool glistened on the man's less-than-ample chin. Just the sight of Lydia reminded Newton that, despite being in his mid-forties, there were adventures to be had and mountains to be climbed.

When Miss Lydia Bun-King left the room, Conan the Librarian analytically surveyed her from the rear. Next he glanced at the photo of the plain-looking man who'd stolen the Lutheran's 400,000 dollars, and he shrewdly concluded: It appears that Mr. Preston Cash likes to wade in water that is over his head. This Miss Bun-King may come in handy.

* * *

Kinnear and Von Tastic agreed to travel immediately to Sedona, Arizona, and have a look around. The "Great Warrior" and "Peoria's finest fashion designer" were handed a paper bag full of hundreds to cover their expenses, then Oyster wished them luck.

As the militants stood to leave Kermit Plaid raised a hand and asked, "Could you give me a minute? I have something you will need."

Receiving a nod yes, the EL-NO second in command hurriedly shuffled out of the room. Returning seconds later, he bore a gift—a portrait of Martin Luther in a wooden frame. This the toad-like man presented to the great warrior, saying with pride and with a measure of solemnity, "May it bring victory, and may our enemies give way before it!"

Conan straightened, cleared his throat, and then soberly delivered his response: "Uh, thanks."

* * *

After closing the door behind the two members of LUMP, Director Newton Oyster sighed and then commented, "Well, there goes Don Quixote and Sancho Panza with the last of our money."

The comment struck his able lieutenant as cynical and unfair, but Oyster had a right to be acerbic. If the two adventurers did not succeed in their mission, the Director would have to return to managing one of his father's hamburger restaurants in Pierre, South Dakota—and Newton Oyster considered himself a devoted vegan and a fierce proponent of animal rights. While on the other hand, Kermit Plaid's future was secured for he was licensed as an undertaker by the State of Illinois.
CHAPTER FIVE

NEWTON OYSTER — VEGAN AND LUTHERAN ACTIVIST

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

ONE WEEK PRIOR TO THE MEETING WITH LUMP

The sign overhead declared: "ORGANICALLY GROWN."

Newton Oyster picked up an eggplant; next he clumsily retrieved his reading glasses, which dangled from around his neck secured there by a shoestring. After impatiently pushing the cheap spectacles into place (not quite getting them straight), the little man wearing a military-style uniform brought the eggplant into better light. He still had not come to terms with having to rely upon reading glasses, having only recently reached his middle forties.

On the lookout for bruises and traces of pesticide residue, the shallow-chested and practically chinless, Mr. Oyster gave the purple vegetable a careful inspection. I know better than to trust these irreligious "Chicago farmers," he thought while turning the eggplant over three times just inches from the end of his pointy nose. But despite having serious suspicions, the bulbous vegetable passed inspection, and he placed it in a basket along side an onion, which had weathered similar scrutiny.

The farmer's market on Chicago's south side buzzed with the hustle and bustle of mercantile trade. The noise level, louder than usual, served as a barometer signaling to the experienced that business was good. Newton looked at his list and headed straight for the booth offering Golden Dragon Tofu. When it came to his main course, Newton Oyster, a particular and a fastidious man, accepted no substitutes.

Later as Oyster strolled back toward his studio apartment, his groceries in a bag, he halfheartedly mused to himself how "things are really okay," which he then repeated several more times. The musing was that of a basically insecure person conscious of the requirement of first selling himself on the assertion that, indeed, "things are really okay." But things were NOT okay, and Newton Oyster knew it. An employee along with a large sum of money had recently turned up missing, and he did not care to face the consequences just then.

Things are really okay. . . Things are really okay. . . Things are. . .

Such self-talk had become a habit after a college counselor told him years before how the practice could lift his spirits and had the additional benefit of allowing him to avoid reality—a practical necessity for Mr. Oyster. For the moment the "missing money" was successfully forgotten having been replaced by Newton's dream of launching a combination vegetarian / Evangelical Lutheran cable television network. He pictured himself in a "Jimmy-and-Tammy Faye-style" setting selling viewers on the advisability of meatless meals and of God served up _a la_ Lutheran.

Newton's spirits remained high until he opened the door to his tiny apartment. Despite being crammed with junk, the place seemed barrenly empty. He had never married.

The little vegan wearing the one-of-a-kind uniform had ruefully conceded more than once: It is hard to find a mate when you are five foot four, weigh 125 pounds, adhere to veganism, and feel an intense loyalty to a man who died during the sixteenth century. From experience he'd discovered that any one of those things alone put off most women, and he possessed all four.

Poor Newton Oyster had had only two relationships with members of the opposite sex, and one of those was purely spiritual. The other occurred ten years before. Oyster lost his virginity in a torrid romance, which lasted exactly thirty-six hours and seventeen minutes and left him too spent to get out of bed. The diminutive vegan recollected her first words as he, wearing his uniform, walked down Ashland Avenue ("Hi Sailor! Wanna date?"), and how she later referred to him as "My Little Hot Tamale," and how he had requested that she refrain and address him instead as "Her Bean Burrito," because tamales were made with meat and, therefore, rang counter to his sensibilities.

After the blissful but tiring encounter, the woman had the effrontery to ask him for two hundred and fifty dollars; a request he flatly rejected. The Bean Burrito required an entire week to recuperate, and he recorded their marathon of lust and love on his kitchen calendar where he'd logged all of his important accomplishments and memorable moments. The year had been 1997. Other than an appendectomy on the twenty-second of September 2001 and the founding of the Lutheran activist group known as EL-NO in May of 1995, his dusty stack of expired calendars chronicled fifteen unremarkable years.

In the time since his decade-old dalliance, sex was something that he had successfully put aside mainly by channeling his ardor into the task of memorizing the original writings of Martin Luther. Thus inspired, pushing women from his mind had been no great challenge. But, mysteriously, all that had recently begun to change.

About one year ago Oyster had hired a young woman who possessed certain noticeable "charms," and ever since, Newton found himself filled with impure thoughts. Nothing he could do seemed to help; even invoking the spirit of his long-dead mentor, the Great Reformer and the founder of Lutheranism, could not return his mind to matters of piety. So at the age of forty-five Mr. Oyster was fighting the battle that afflicts the typical teenage boy; a battle that Newton Oyster had somehow managed to skip when he himself experienced puberty in the years between his twenty-seventh and his thirtieth birthdays.

Twelve hours after shopping at the Farmers Market the lonely Lutheran sat by himself on his couch. He switched on the TV and ate the bland concoction of onion, eggplant, and Golden Dragon Tofu to which he had added a dash of pepper and just a pinch of paprika then proceeded to smother with catsup.

After tiring of I Love Lucy reruns, Mr. Oyster began switching channels and stopped when he spied an actress who closely resembled Lydia Bun-King, the very employee who had inspired his unchaste thoughts. Soon drool began to appear at one corner of his mouth, and the secretions dripped onto the front of his white cotton tee shirt. Newton was in love and with a much younger woman!

About this time in his life Mr. Oyster began to indulge a new passion—the writing of poetry—penning love poems mostly. The frequent subject of his limericks, sonnets, and couplets was the aforementioned Lydia Bun-King.
CHAPTER SIX

THE SOLUTION TO CORPORATE SLEAZE

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 2007

Leo Toast deserved to be in prison. But instead of manacles and an orange jumpsuit, he wore Armani and enough bling to decorate a Christmas tree. On that early August morning he'd inked a deal, and for his trouble, collected a substantial kickback (though he preferred the word "commission"). Additionally, the whole affair provided him with an excellent excuse to party.

Until recently partying had come naturally; he'd not needed an excuse. He'd frequently cut loose for the slightest of reasons or for no reason whatsoever. But now things were different—he was within a week of his fortieth birthday, and Leo Toast was sensing change.

Aware that he bore a striking resemblance to Elvis Presley (admittedly Elvis during his later-in-life "stocky" phase), he realized that there could come a time when he'd meet a presentable woman with low standards. Consequently, without the usual barrier in place (namely Leo Toast's easily detectable absence of character) there would be no safeguard to keep cupid at bay. And if this yet-to-be-encountered woman's standards were exceptionally low, nothing, therefore, would stand in the way of matrimony. And, further, if luck should have it that the future Mrs. Toast possessed the proclivities of a politician, that is to say, no standards whatsoever, he and she might take that ultimate of steps and conceive a little Toast. The possibility, though remote, was real to Leo.

Formerly Toast's thoughts seldom traveled much beyond the current amount of cash in his pocket, and he had considered the future the lowest of priorities. But now, like hungry mosquitoes, visions of tomorrow buzzed about him constantly. There were sleepless nights when he could hear the buzzing and little else.

However, that morning's lucrative transaction represented a breakthrough, making tomorrow brighter, more focused—and at least for the moment, serving, like repellant, to keep the mosquitoes at arm's length. The reason was simple. Leo Toast had inserted his foot in a door, a very important door, behind which lay countless other opportunities especially for a person like Leo whom even his mother considered "morally lax."

To celebrate his latest success, Toast was spending that afternoon alone aboard his yacht the Melba, nibbling second-rate caviar and getting sloshed on margaritas. He'd called an escort service earlier, and the lady was due to arrive around 3:00 p.m. At 2:30 a heavyset pizza deliveryman wearing a white uniform waddled up the dock and came aboard uninvited.

Resenting the intrusion, Leo immediately objected, "No, no. I did NOT order pizza! Now take that damn thing and get the hell off my boat!"

Number one: Leo Toast could not recall the last time he'd phoned for pizza. He guessed it had been fifteen years ago. At any rate, he certainly hadn't that day. And, number two: he didn't care for the stuff—considered it "poor man's food," lumping it together with "Beanie Weenies" and that orange substance labeled "cheese food" delivered flatulently from an aerosol can.

The rotund man holding a brightly checkered box that was clearly marked "Tony's Pizza-To-Go" asked in an even tone, "You Leo Toast?"

The deliveryman did not appear flustered, nor did he raise his voice in response to the less-than-friendly reception he'd just received from the Melba's intoxicated skipper. In truth he didn't blame Toast for snapping at him, conceding silently that if the shoe were on the other foot, he'd probably be angry too.

"Yeh, I'm Toast, but I still didn't order pizza!"

The deliveryman then said something curious, which Leo's alcohol-addled brain did not correctly interpret, "Yes, you are, . . . uh, toast that is."

Achieving that sneaky look that betrays a "born again" about to enter a whorehouse, the fat man squinted then swiveled his large head to check for witnesses. Satisfied that there were none, he opened the pizza box and withdrew a gun. After belching twice the man politely excused himself; on the drive to the marina he'd wolfed down the box's original contents and had begun to detect signs of gastric distress. No doubt the pepperoni, he thought as he leveled a Beretta inscribed with "To Sergey. From Grandpa. Xmas 1987."

A piece of mozzarella dangled from the tip of the gun's barrel three inches from Leo's nose. To his credit, Toast remained perfectly calm and managed to say before he was shot dead, "Okay! Okay! I'll take the damned pizza!"

Business had been good for the professional killer. Normally he experienced his heaviest volume during an election year; so 2007 was turning out to be a pleasant surprise. His tax-deferred savings plan had topped half a million, but it was not simply about himself. Small enterprises like his were the foundation of the nation's economy, and he felt pride and a sense of accomplishment knowing that he was doing his part for the good of the country.

Earlier that day the assassin had terminated a Mr. James Bond, and he could not help but smile when recalling the other James Bond, the one made famous in the movies. The hit man had followed his Mr. Bond out of a restaurant and into a multi-level parking garage. Evidently this Bond character was frugal—not at all like the famous secret agent—for he carried his leftovers in a plastic sack. _Something you probably don't see actual spies do,_ the assassin had silently observed at the time.

The Bond killing had come off without a hitch. He'd used an old trick. When no one was around to act as witness, the hit man had called his victim's name.

TWO HOURS EARLIER

"Mr. Bond, Mr. James Bond!"

Upon hearing his name Bond turned and saw a person who could have been a busboy. The curious "Mr. James Bond" did not recognize the stout gentleman dressed in white and hustling to catch him. He watched as the fat man held up a piece of plastic the size of a playing card.

Calmly the fat man asked as the distance between them closed, "Are you James Bond?"

"Well . . . er . . . yes," Bond responded while simultaneously feeling his pocket to make sure his billfold occupied its customary location.

"You left your credit card on the table in the restaurant just now. I found it when I was clearing your dishes."

Bond thought that it could hardly be the case but reached for the card to make sure. Besides no one called him James. He always went by Jim—"Jim" was even the name on his credit accounts.

The man in white withdrew his left hand from behind his back revealing a gun with a silencer and quickly and expertly shot Jim Bond twice.

As Bond lay dying on the garage floor, the hired killer took from his own shirt pocket a folded scrap of paper and stuffed it in his victim's mouth, saying as he did so, "Sorry I gotta do this. It's the bonus, you see. I get an extra thousand bucks if I put the paper in your mouth." Shaking his head he added, "World's a crazy place. Believe me, Buddy. You should see some of the freaks I have to deal with!"

The self-employed small business owner felt better getting things off his chest; however, he received little sympathy from Mr. Jim Bond.

After picking up the dying man's leftover food, the assassin hurriedly exited using a stairway. A few minutes later he sat in his rental car. Following a quick inspection of the leftovers, the man in white gritted his teeth and grumbled. Mr. Bond's luncheon scraps included: wilted salad, one soggy dinner roll, and a skinless, half-eaten piece of broiled chicken; the latter looked as if it had been tenderized with a brick.

Tossing the sack and its contents out of the rental car's window, the assassin mumbled, "I'd rather eat hay. Hell, shootin' done this guy a favor."

Next the fat man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket then studied the scribble it contained. On his schedule was the aforementioned Mr. Leo Toast—and the following day, he had a similar matter to attend to in California, which meant a late flight to Los Angeles.

As he read the note, the fat man's stomach growled. He glanced at his watch, did a quick calculation, and then decided to stop for food on the way to the marina. He'd been informed by his contact that Leo Toast would be spending that afternoon aboard the Melba.

There was something odd about the fat man's contact; she was an old woman with blonde hair (obviously dyed), and she wore sunglasses so large and so black that she could have worn them to a masquerade party and remained a mystery to everyone present. Plus, she had the disturbing habit of popping up out of nowhere. The first time she'd materialized, she'd whispered to him secretively, "My name is Granny Eileen, and I have been assigned to be your guardian angel," then she forced into his hand several pieces of paper, one of which he'd moments before stuffed into the dying James Bond's mouth.

While the killer sat in his rental car he decided he was in the mood for pizza. That's when the idea struck him: I'll get take-out! I'll eat the pizza; then I'll hide my gun inside the empty box! This Toast fellow won't know what hit him . . . hum . . . Guess I'll have to order an extra large so the gun will fit. The plan immediately appealed to him.

They were all part of a package—the two hits in Baltimore and the one in L. A., and he wondered what the three victims had done to piss-off the old women who'd hired him.
CHAPTER SEVEN

VENICE BEACH, CALIFORNIA

11:15 A.M., THE NEXT DAY

Preston Cash strolled on the Venice Beach pier sipping coffee from a paper cup. Fishermen speaking every language but English were snagging cigar-sized fish and putting them in plastic grocery sacks. Each newly caught fish would rapidly flop at first, causing the sacks to vibrate and mimic the sound of polite clapping at a recital. He could tell who was having the most luck by the amount of "applause" coming from the plastic bags that rested on the pier.

Stopping beside a garbage can to take his last sip of coffee, Mr. Cash observed: What is it about California? Everywhere I go I see old women. And was it his imagination? They all seemed to steal glances in his direction, then frown and furtively look away. He found the phenomenon new and puzzling, for Preston Cash generally escaped attention altogether. He was nondescript—neither homely nor handsome and could not be described as short nor be categorized as tall. The man's ears stuck out no more than ordinary, while his nose protruded a normal distance and in the customary direction. His brown hair matched the color of his eyes, and his demeanor did not inspire nor did it threaten. He was a man of Teflon to whom adjectives did not readily stick—save for perhaps "thin." But if at knifepoint, one were forced to choose two words to describe Mr. Preston Cash, the carefully chosen pair would undoubtedly be: profoundly average.

Early in life Preston had discovered that no one seemed to notice him. In no way, shape, or form did he stand out. Initially considering his bland appearance a flaw, years later he discarded his original notion when struck by the realization that the condition he enjoyed was instead a blessing. For someone in his line of work, which involved separating people from their money with neither their consent nor their knowledge, it was preferable to possess an easily forgotten face.

Finishing both his coffee and his stroll on the pier, the bland-looking Cash deposited his empty cup in the trash then glanced at an old lady who was currently and unconvincingly pretending not to notice him. She wore the largest, blackest pair of sunglasses that he'd ever seen. A sour expression clouded the portions of her face not otherwise obscured by her glasses. Preston gauged the depth of the old woman's displeasure and wondered if the fish cleaning station that she stood next to had been neglected by the Division of Parks and Recreation's custodial staff and that she was reacting to its foul odor rather than to his presence. He could not be certain.

The swindler nonchalantly moved along resisting the temptation to sniff an armpit when the thought flashed through his mind that the source of his newfound attention could be the result of an indifference toward personal hygiene. But recalling the long, hot shower that he'd enjoyed that morning (and nearly every morning), he promptly abandoned the possibility.

Mr. Cash approached a seagull. The bird cocked its head and regarded him suspiciously.

Ten days worth of stubble half-heartedly covered the face of Preston Cash, and because it suddenly started to itch, he began scratching for all he was worth. He'd always been clean-shaven and neatly dressed. Now he was neither. For starters there was the beard, plus he wore faded jeans, tee shirt, and a cheap windbreaker. And two more items caused the man to look out of character: prescription sunglasses for one and a ball cap for another. The reason was simple; he figured the Lutherans would come after him, and he did not want to make it easy for whomever they sent.

But what the hell, he thought. They're Lutherans. What's the worst thing they can do? . . . read me Martin Luther's "Ninety-five Theses?"

After considering the possibility of being repeatedly assailed with the religious reformer's original views on indulgences written and posted in 1517, he concluded soberly that the experience could indeed kill even a healthy person, and Preston Cash began to walk a little faster.

THE MERCEDES GRILL

Mr. Cash did not get far before the threat of having to listen to the original words of the sixteenth century theologian and founder of the Lutheran Church had worn off—he'd traveled one hundred yards to be exact. When this occurred, he was outside of the Mercedes Grill at the foot of Washington Boulevard a half block from the beach, and the smells coming from its kitchen, the empty feeling in his stomach, and the Grill's laid-back atmosphere conspired to draw him off the street and lead him to a table toward the back.

Cash ordered an omelet and asked for a copy of the L. A. Times—a request that was to shortly save his life. Half of the meal remained on his plate when he read about the murders of two of Benjamin Dover, Inc.'s former west coast energy traders, Bond and Toast. Preston Cash had known them. Along with the two murdered men, he had been the third of the BDI trio who were guilty of manipulating energy prices and ripping off California utility customers to the tune of eleven BILLION dollars. The state claimed that the figure came closer to thirty billion. Either tally made the Lutheran's recently embezzled 400,000 seem paltry, and he began to wax nostalgically and at the same time wonder if he was losing his touch. Success too early in a person's career can be a mixed blessing, he sadly ruminated.

After the scandal broke and the company went bust, Bond and Toast consented to quick trials. They turned state's evidence, testified against their former bosses, and ended up serving short sentences in a California facility, which offered old world charm and sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean.

The "chief prevaricator," Mr. Benjamin Dover, died subsequent to hearing a jury pronounce "Guilty as charged!" After a hastily arranged pathology exam, death was declared to be from "natural causes," and the body quickly cremated. (Rumor has it, however, that Dover faked his death. Those in the know—namely the ex-wife of a certain pathologist—say the man's _soul_ is currently resting peacefully in Argentina.)

Having a healthy fear of confinement Preston Cash neglected to arrive for his court appearance. He jumped bail, changed his name, and lived for five years, eleven months, and thirteen days in Chicago before returning to California and settling in the City of Venice.

The _Times_ reported that Jim Bond took one shot to the head and another through the heart. The killer next stuck a typewritten message in the dead man's mouth, just one sentence: "Dude, those guys are being royally screwed!"

Cash recognized the words as the same ones that Bond had spoken to him back in 2001. None of the BDI employees knew they were being taped until it all blew up in their faces, and they began reading their own incriminating statements in the newspaper. They'd just pulled what the company affectionately termed a "Fat Boy" where Ben Dover, Inc. officials purposely overstated the amount of energy that they would deliver to California the following day, and when the energy did not arrive as promised, rates skyrocketed. BDI then reaped a windfall by selling what they did have at unheard of prices. The company made obscene profits because of their own misinformation. It was too easy, and the government was too handcuffed to respond.

Like water through an open floodgate money poured in that summer afternoon six years ago. Bond turned to him laughing and gushed his oft-quoted "royally screwed" line. Cash recalled that there was a gleam in the man's eyes, and that he'd never seen his partner in crime look so happy. Now Jim Bond was dead.

Toast's circumstances were practically identical to Bond's, but with three exceptions—the message on the piece of paper for one, the fact that Leo's body had been discovered on his yacht by a prostitute making a house call, for another, and, finally, the police discovered traces of cheese, pepperoni, and tomato sauce in his wounds.

Like Bond's, Toast's note demonstrated the depth to which the energy trading company had sunk and did not catch Leo Toast anywhere near his charitable best: "Okay, the hell with the San Andreas Fault! THIS is where California breaks!"

Leo had just gotten off the phone with a Nevada power plant executive when he'd said it. He had convinced the man to shut down, promising that the exec's BDI shares would go through the roof. It turned out that Leo Toast was right. Things looked pretty rosy for the company's stockholders until the house of cards came tumbling down. To loosely paraphrase Sir Isaac Newton, "For those with lofty expectations, gravity can really suck."

ENERGY DEREGULATION meant gold to the unscrupulous and had made larceny incredibly simple. Even the U.S. President supported the concept, and as far as Preston Cash was concerned the chances were better than fifty-fifty that country's chief executive was either a moron or, at the very least, one of his top advisors had had a piece of the action.

Benjamin Dover contributed major bucks during the previous presidential campaign; consequently, his name had been tossed around as a possible choice to become the nation's energy tsar— _the fox in charge of the henhouse_. All that remained for Dover to do was pass a litmus test by asserting that he'd been "born again," but apparently some other rich Christian had written a bigger check.

California had been easy pickings, and Ben Dover, Inc. had hired smart people who were pathologically skewed. In the company's culture of deception swindlers like Preston Cash thrived. He'd turned thirty-five in 2007 and was already referring to the years 2000 and 2001 as the "good old days."

After reading the newspaper account of the murders a second time, Cash recognized the perversity of the symbolism and said to himself: By stuffing the papers in their mouths the killer was making them eat their own words. It was little comfort to him that the person responsible had gotten the right quotations into the right mouths.

Cash swallowed. Then the profoundly average man with his new beard, his ball cap, and his prescription sunglasses shuddered at the thought of the reams of paper that he would be called upon to ingest if the opportunity presented itself. No contest. Between Jim, Leo, and himself, it was he who'd had the biggest mouth. On one memorable occasion as electrical rates hit record highs, he was caught on tape saying, "We are stickin' it to Grandma Millie, and it feels . . . ohhh . . . sooo . . . good! Right up the ass, Granny!"

The _Times_ article went on to state that a heavy man dressed in white was spotted leaving the scene of the Bond murder, and that the police were looking for one Michael McKinley to place under protective custody. McKinley was presumed to be the next victim "because of previous close associations with the other two."

Preston Cash HAD BEEN Mike McKinley, and the former Mike McKinley decided then and there that he would pass on the protective custody offer. Added to the fact that there was a warrant for his arrest, he could not bear the thought of having to depend upon the largesse of others. Anyway he was certain that his chances of staying alive were better if he relied solely upon his own savvy.

Digging through his wallet Cash (a.k.a. McKinley) pulled out a twenty and laid it on the table. As he rose he looked around the Mercedes Grill. Other than two old women at a corner table who were acting as if they'd confused him with Charles Manson, he detected no one suspicious.

California was not the place to be just then. Preston Cash would receive little sympathy in the state that he'd helped to rip-off. Even the writer of the _Times_ article seemed to be pulling for the assassin and had ended his report by stating authoritatively that, ". . . so far, seventeen California service clubs and fraternal organizations as well as a minister in Lompoc and a pig farmer in Poseyville have stepped forward and taken credit for the two homicides." Maybe it was a joke, then again, maybe not. He did know that the debacle at BDI had occurred six years ago, and he thought he was clear of the fallout. Obviously, he was wrong, and, more than anything, he wanted to keep from being dead wrong.

Cash walked a block and a half east along busy Washington Boulevard, then crossed the street and turned north onto a narrow sidewalk that paralleled one of the community of Venice's canals. The sidewalk separated the canal from a row of small backyards. Suddenly no one was around. Turning onto the strip of concrete adjacent to the waterway was like walking from a crowd directly into an empty room.

A voice called from behind, "Mr. McKinley, uh, Mr. Michael McKinley!"

Cash did not stop, did not turn around, and made no indication that he even heard the man.

"MR. MCKINLEY, YOU LEFT THIS IN THE RESTAURANT!"

Finally turning while trying to appear calm, Preston Cash spoke affecting a passable British accent, "I say, uh, bloke, are you speaking to me? The name's Worthington, Nigel Worthington."

A heavy person dressed in white held a credit card in his right hand and, with his left hand, concealed something behind his back. Cash spotted a wad of paper large enough to choke a horse. The paper protruded from the fat man's shirt pocket straining its seams and severely testing the tensile strength of cotton thread.

Uncertainty registered on the wide face of the husky stranger, then curiosity, and he kept coming forward furrowing his brow and studying Nigel Worthington's composed features.

* * *

Has my contact steered me wrong? The bewildered fat man asked himself. It hardly seemed possible . . . and yet.

As the paid killer advanced he continued to extend his credit card toward the bland fellow with the English accent. Keeping the gun hidden behind his substantial frame was not difficult, and with his thumb he clicked off the safety—ready in case the accent was a ploy.

* * *

When the man in the white uniform was within range, Cash kicked him hard in the nuts, then shoved, sending the suspected assassin flying into the canal. The impact created a mini-tidal wave and scattered a pair of curious mallards.

The ex-BDI employee who had never owned a credit card in his life was off and running. He cleared a fence, cut through a back yard, ducked in between two houses, and sprinted a half-mile to the tiny room he'd been renting from a lady who could easily have passed for the Wicked Witch of the West.

While there, Preston Cash quickly changed into a tuxedo, grabbed the suitcase containing the Lutheran's money, and snatched a sign he had hanging on the wall—the sign spelled out: "VALET PARKING" in large letters.

Moments later as Cash peered through the small boarding house's backdoor window, the Witch, sitting at her kitchen table while sipping her morning allotment of syrupy wine, asked in a snooty voice, "Yeh goin' to the prom?"

Doing his best to ignore her, Preston Cash cautiously cracked the door just wide enough to stick his head into the open air—ready to quickly withdraw in case he detected the cocking of a gun.

The Witch added sarcastically as she refilled her empty tumbler, "Hadn't yeh ought'a shave first?"

Meant as an editorial comment rather than as a reminder, her words fell upon deaf ears. The old woman's assessment of her tenant had been poor. Despite his assurances that he was a writer, he seemed to perform no useful function whatsoever and had no discernable means of support. And since so many "budding authors" rested idly on City of Venice benches, the Witch had long ago sandwiched that line of work somewhere in between "panhandler" and "bum."

On top of everything else the old woman had become rather annoyed, having discovered while rifling through her lodger's waste can, that the ungrateful bastard had crumpled then thrown away all of the "Help Wanted" columns that she had carefully clipped from the newspaper. She'd decided that her renter was best suited for dishwasher, laundromat attendant, or dog walker (though she had qualms about the later—the thought of entrusting a beloved pet to a person too lazy to shave provided her with a conundrum). Having painstakingly circled appropriate ads, she'd then slip them under his door.

After a quick look outside, the ex-energy trader judged that the coast was clear. He stepped into the backyard and then hurriedly walked three blocks to a restaurant named The Sacred Cow Steak House.

The Witch's parting shot did not register, "I hope yeh don't think that there 'Valet Parking' sign is a proper substitute for flowers!"

Upon arriving at The Sacred Cow, Cash leaned his sign against a utility pole, and in five minutes was behind the wheel of a Porsche Cayman S that looked like it had been driven off the showroom floor. The elderly playboy who owned the Porsche had a tan that made him look like an over-cooked hot dog, and he escorted a beautiful woman less than half his age. She wore a filmy dress, which became partially transparent when light hit it from behind, and Preston was delighted to discover that the curves of her body were NOT obscured by the presence of undergarments. The clear outline of nipples under tissue-thin fabric and the perky bounce of supple breasts brought out the gallantry in Preston Cash, and he graciously opened her door.

Their eyes met. The woman smiled. She winked and at the same time breathily whispered, "Nice tux."

Because beautiful women unnerved Preston Cash, he unexpectedly lost the ability to wink, and instead of reciprocating normally, he spastically closed both his eyes. Also he did not answer her back but kept to himself what he would have said had he been cooler and more James Dean—something on the order of "Thanks, Babe."

But Cash did not lose sight of the big picture. Recovering quickly from his attempt at eye contact; he gave the "Over-cooked Hot Dog" a phony ticket stub in exchange for the Porsche's keys. Next the car's owner, exuding a heady air of self importance (almost as palpable as his heavy-handed application of aftershave), called Preston "Boy." Sneering contemptuously in Cash's direction the old man then added, "I know how many miles are on the odometer!"

Showing no emotion whatsoever Preston Cash thought to himself: And I'm about to add 500 more.

Thirty seconds later, with the Lutheran's 400,000 dollars resting beside him on the passenger seat and the "VALET PARKING" sign next to it, Cash sped off in the shiny new Porsche. The professional swindler rationalized as he turned northeast onto Venice Boulevard and headed toward the 405 freeway: What's the old guy need a car for? He's gonna die from an overdose of Viagra pretty soon anyway.

It was hard for Cash to feel sorry for the tan geezer, and he fell to thinking: What better way to meet your Maker than probing that honey's carpet—even if your stiffy is compliments of the fine folks at Pfizer?
CHAPTER EIGHT

THE LEPIDOPTERIANS

SEDONA, ARIZONA

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 2007

Preston Cash had a plan. First, he drove to Sedona, Arizona, and the Porsche Cayman S that he'd stolen outside of The Sacred Cow got him there in style.

Along the way Cash retrieved from his wallet an advertisement that he'd clipped from the Los Angeles Times. He read the mysterious ad and afterwards returned it to a place of honor tucked between a phony I.D. and a condom. The hopes he'd had for the condom all but vanished when the Lutherans caught onto his scheme, requiring his hasty retreat from Chicago. He counted—fourteen days had passed since his move from the "Windy City." The valet parking sign then too had come in handy.

Because of two phone calls Cash had placed earlier, the condom still had an outside chance of being pressed into service prior to its expiration date. He checked.

"Two months! Damn, that's cutting it close!" Preston Cash gave a deep sigh. More than anything, he hated throwing away unopened condoms purely because his lack of success in the bedroom caused their expiration dates to come before he did. The act of cleaning his billfold and tossing expired prophylactics spoke to his manhood, and the message was not good.

Straightening the jacket of his tux after slipping his wallet back into a pocket, the swindler concluded that he'd found the perfect place to hide from both the Lutherans and from the professional killer dressed in white. The hit man who he'd kicked in the crotch had to have been the same guy who'd done-in Bond and Toast. As he drove northeast out of the L. A. basin, Preston Cash jokingly speculated: The killer was probably hired by a bunch of angry old women. Must have taken exception to my "anal penetration" comment. He laughed out loud at the preposterous suggestion. Of course his laughter was heard by no one and rang hollow even to himself.

Having stuck in the craw of an indignant public, Cash's Grandma Millie statement had "enjoyed" primetime news coverage and had become his most infamous quotation—almost a symbol for the whole sordid Ben Dover, Inc. affair. But "Right up the ass, Granny!" was just one of a thousand equally offensive words and phrases that Michael McKinley (a.k.a. Preston Cash) had come up with and that were caught on tape back in 2000 and 2001.

Later while driving across the Mohave Desert, Cash asked himself: _What if it's true and I've offended someone? What I said was said in jest._ As he saw it, his only crime was being first on the scene. After all, the politicians had passed the laws. They had prepared the feast. Cash and his two now-dead buddies just happened to be the first to sit down and dine _. So what_ , he thought _. We were pigs. If it hadn't been us, someone else would have come along and gorged themselves. Why can't people see that?_ Cash shook his head as he tried to push the blame for his actions onto those elected to serve in Washington. Then, tired and just plain bitter, he brooded over how the nation was "clogged" with the small-minded and the thin-skinned. Venice, California, had grown on him, and Preston Cash regretted having to move out of the laidback beach community quite so soon.

* * *

The strange advertisement in the _L A Times_ that he had read and returned to his wallet was also an invitation:

ATTENTION! FELLOW LEPIDOPTERIANS—Butterfly People of Southern California: Those of you ready to cast aside your earthly guise as the lowly caterpillar casts off its chrysalis and emerges to become nature's metaphor for happiness, JOIN US IN OUR ARIZONA COMPOUND. Trade in your human form! Renounce your name and accept a greater glory. Turn over to us your belongings, which merely burden your transition (car titles, deeds, stocks, bonds, cash, etc.) We have a certified notary public on staff 24/7 and will be pleased to handle the full details of any transfer of assets.

Emerge with us into the gentle air; lift clear of Earth unencumbered by gravity. We are located at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane, Sedona, AZ (your tax deductible contributions may be sent to the same address).

The time has NEVER been better for complete transformation. Join us; surrender to tranquility (The LEPIDOPTERIAN colony is a gated community; we insure your complete privacy and strictest confidentiality).

After ditching the Porsche in Sedona, the address 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane was easy enough to find. The people who greeted the swindler at the gate seemed harmless, though they thought it strange that the newest LEPIDOPTERIAN had arrived on foot, wearing formal attire and sporting a Rolex watch which Cash did not hesitate to hand over to the Grand Monarch (and the Grand Monarch, who, while on the outside went by the name of Tito Abellard, was not surprised to find out later that the Rolex was counterfeit, casting a shadow on the newcomer's confession of faith in the LEPIDOPTERIAN concept). Besides a pair of glasses, the only other item that the newest Butterfly candidate carried was a key, which could have been to a storage locker. The new recruit refused to relinquish his precious key even though it was clearly explained to him that its presence around his neck could interfere with metamorphosis, and, like an anchor, could weigh him down as he changed into a butterfly. The storage locker key obviously bound him to an earthly possession of some value.

The prospect of a botched metamorphosis did not seem to bother the fledgling disciple and straight away earned the new guy the reputation of being a "caterpillar with attitude." Cash had made a mental note that similar objections had not been raised concerning the wearing of his prescription sunglasses—apparently myopia occurred frequently in the insect world. One look around the compound confirmed that corrective lenses were, indeed, a common insect accessory.
CHAPTER NINE

THE GRANDMA MILLIES

VENICE AND EL SEGUNDO, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2007

Michael McKinley (alias Preston Cash) had kicked the hit man in the balls. The instant that the impact occurred the fat man saw a blaze of stars, stars that soon began to spin wildly, similar to a "pinwheel" on the Fourth of July.

By the time the killer had crawled out of the canal, McKinley had disappeared. Large, irregular patches of black mud on his white uniform created a dairy cow-like pattern, and the water that soaked his clothes added fifteen pounds to his stocky frame. He decided it was useless to chase after his quarry who had just demonstrated a lightning burst of speed. He'd never met anyone like McKinley. It was as if his intended victim had read his mind, and, while water formed a puddle on the sidewalk at his feet, the unhappy killer decided then and there that the old ladies were not paying him nearly enough money.

Casting a furtive glance, the assassin quickly tucked his gun inside his pants. To completely conceal the Beretta, he pulled out his shirttail, letting it drape over the protruding pistol grip, and he instantly became self-conscious about the obvious bulge. The effect made it appear that he'd been watching porn—the kind he really enjoyed—a fat man going at it with two Asian chicks.

The frustrated killer turned to leave, but after taking two steps, he realized that he no longer possessed his credit card. The last thing that the situation called for was for him to stick around, however, since the card in question had his name on it—his real name—he was left with no other option, and grudgingly he stepped back into the canal.

Upon entering the waist-deep water for the second time the assassin discovered that his first visit had left it murky—so fouled in fact that it took him nearly twenty minutes to locate the incriminating piece of plastic. By then a small crowd of locals had gathered, and using the scowls on their tanned faces as a gauge, the fat man registered levels of disapproval, which exceeded in magnitude the scowls that he'd received at the end of his second marriage. He'd met wife number two while performing in the circus (formerly known as Stupendous Sergey, the self-employed hit man had once earned a living as a knife thrower—she a lion tamer).

When the ex-circus performer attempted to climb out of the canal, credit card in hand, he discovered that the ducks had returned and were beginning to add their two cents to the protest. The ruffled birds commenced a flanking move, swimming back and forth and cutting off his route of escape. With a gentle sweep of his hand the embarrassed assassin attempted to scoot the noisy mallards to one side. But apparently in that community, raising a hand to a duck is the moral equivalent of barbequing a child. Sergey hurried his departure.

Retreating down the sidewalk, gun butt pointing the way like the prow of a proud galleon, and with the credit card gripped firmly in his hand, the foiled assassin turned on Washington Boulevard and began to slog the three and a half blocks east in the direction of his parked rental car. When passing the corner of Washington and Sanborn, two old women with arms crossed disapprovingly, stared as he trudged by leaving a trail of muddy water. In concert the women gave Sergey disgusted sneers reminding the assassin of his sixth grade teacher's reaction when in front of the class he spelled the contraction can't, "C-U-N-T."

* * *

Stupendous Sergey's actual name was Ostrovsky—to be precise: Sergey Fyodor Ostrovsky. His great-grandparents had been members of the Russian aristocracy. Ninety years ago they'd fled their homeland in the midst of political turmoil and eventually settled on the island of Cuba. From them the name Ostrovsky had been handed down, along with a love for opera, and a gene causing four out of five Ostrovskys to be "big boned."

Sergey's grandfather Arkadiy Ostrovsky having been deemed the family's "black sheep," left Cuba and made his way to the shores of the United States. Later Arkadiy fathered two sons, Vasiliy and Leonid. Early in the era of Fidel Castro, Leonid Ostrovsky lost his life while participating in the botched invasion of Cuba known as the Bay of Pigs. It is said only that Leonid "distinguished himself in battle."

Vasiliy, a locksmith and small-time burglar by trade, managed to avoid distinction by showing up at the wrong hotel the night that the Watergate was broken into by a group of his friends, all Cuban exiles. The botched robbery produced the scandal that eventually toppled the presidency of Richard M. Nixon. Despite Vasiliy's failure to appear, his partners went ahead without him. Missing their locksmith they used duct tape to prevent a door from latching. An alert maintenance man discovered the tape, and the enterprise was foiled. In a way it was Vasiliy's inability to read a map, which triggered the downfall of the thirty-seventh president of the United States.

The very same Vasiliy Ostrovsky fathered Stupendous Sergey in 1967, and the burglar-locksmith raised his son in a Cuban section of Miami, Florida, not many miles from Sergey's current place of residence.

As a young child owing to his rather portly stature, kids in Sergey's neighborhood called him Cerdo Ostrovsky, _cerdo_ being the Spanish word for pig. It was about this time that Grandfather Arkadiy presented his chunky grandson with a set of perfectly balanced throwing knives, and the demeaning name-calling abruptly ended. Happily, Sergey was left alone, and he chose to spend his spare time perfecting the craft of throwing pointed utensils at objects both stationary and moving.

Years later Ostrovsky was to catch the eye of Andre Laffoon, owner of the renowned _Cirque_ _Du_ Laffoon, where Stupendous Sergey was to throw his knives at an able assistant who suffered from acute depression and had neither the energy nor the resolve to take her own life. It ended suddenly and happily for her during a matinee when Sergey was not so stupendous, and soon after, the portly young gentleman embarked on a new career, that of exterminating humans, which was for the best because audiences tended to make him nervous.

* * *

On the afternoon of August 7, 2007, Sergey Ostrovsky waited in his rental car within earshot of a payphone on a quiet side street in El Segundo, California, not far from LAX. He found sitting to be uncomfortable as his nuts had swollen to the size of tennis balls, and he was beginning to consider whether or not he should consult a physician. Two and a half hours had elapsed since his scrotum had been introduced to Michael McKinley's foot, and, if anything, the pain was getting worse.

Stupendous Sergey looked at his watch. He made a mental note: _Five 'til two_.

Just as the assassin was starting to wonder if there was a specialization in the field of medicine for inflamed gonads, the payphone began ringing. He set aside the cold can of soda that he'd been pressing against his testicles, got out of the car, and hobbled over to the phone picking up the receiver on the fifth ring, "Hello, Painted Bunting here."

The old lady who had hired him to kill the two from Baltimore and the Californian insisted that he go by the code name "Painted Bunting," and that she be called "Loggerhead Shrike."

Of course at the time he protested and asked in a whiny voice (for which she latter admonished him), "I don't WANT to be called anything, but if I must, why can't I be The Falcon or, maybe, The Eagle?"

In response Loggerhead Shrike stiffened. Steadfastly holding her ground, she dismissed Sergey's suggestion with: "Sorry, it's been decided by committee vote!"

Afterwards, the woman successfully negotiated a price reduction saying that since there were to be a total of three victims, that under such circumstances, a mark down was not simply "merited" but was "virtually compulsory!"

Reluctantly agreeing to her terms, Painted Bunting decided then and there that once he'd completed the job for Loggerhead Shrike, that he would no longer accept work from old people. They were far too finicky, and most of the time the biddies and geezers felt entitled to senior citizen discounts or asked about receiving rebates or free merchandize—ideas which Ostrovsky found troubling. Besides, he'd made a name for himself. Business was good; he could afford to be selective.

Stupendous Sergey recalled how forcefully the old woman came across on the telephone that first time they'd talked, and he was not looking forward to explaining to Loggerhead Shrike how Michael McKinley had gotten away.

Having identified himself as Painted Bunting and with the receiver pressed to the side of his head, Ostrovsky stood waiting for a response, but none came. There was only silence at the other end of the line.

Sergey tried again, "It's me Painted Bunting; is that you Loggerhead Shrike?"

Following a pause someone answered tentatively, "This . . . this isn't Time-Waster Video is it?"

"NO, YOU STUPID BASTARD!" Painted Bunting yelled then slammed the receiver down hard. He was not having a good day.

He'd just hung up when the phone rang once more. This time the assassin answered gruffly, "HELLO!"

Again he was met by silence, and losing all patience, he shouted into the mouthpiece, "Look here ASSHOLE, this is NOT a god-damned video store . . ."

"You watch your tongue Painted Bunting. I am seventy-two years old, and I am NOT about to take any foul-mouthed sass from the likes of you, Sir!"

"Oh! Oh! Sorry. I thought . . ."

"No, you did NOT think. AND while I'm on the topic of 'not thinking,' I got a report from our agents in the field. They tell me that the 'Mockingbird' got away. What have you to say for yourself?" But Shrike did not give Painted Bunting a chance to answer, and she continued hardly missing a beat, "And another thing, those fine people in Venice are very proud of their waterways. We certainly do NOT want one of OUR employees taking a bath in their canal and disturbing their precious ducks in the process! You got that Painted Bunting?" She fired out her words as fast as a machine gun spitting bullets.

Despite feeling that ducks were anything but precious, Stupendous Sergey mumbled, "Uh . . . um, yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, M'am. Sorry M'am. Won't happen again."

"You can bet it won't happen again. Do you still have Mockingbird's, er, papers?"

"Yes, M'am. Got a little wet, but they're drying out in the back seat. They'll be good-to-go by tomorrow."

"Okay, now, listen up! We think we know where Mockingbird's headed. Two days ago one of our operatives saw him tear an ad from a newspaper and stick the clipping in his wallet. You following this Painted Bunting?"

"Uh, yeah sure . . . er . . .M'am."

"Well, our person retrieved his discarded _L A Times_ , bought a new one for herself, and found the advertisement he was so interested in."

"Uh, yeah?"

"Look west down the sidewalk."

"Which way is west, M'am?" As well as distinguishing between left and right, Painted Bunting struggled with the cardinal points.

"Toward the ocean!" When it came to transmitting contempt over the phone Loggerhead Shrike had no equal. Her words literally oozed displeasure. "Now, if you are looking WEST, you will see a telephone pole."

"Uh, yeah. Right. Or, no. It's not a telephone pole. It's a streetlight. All the utilities around here are buried."

"Okay, okay. A light pole, whatever. At the base of the POLE there is a can."

"Yeah, a can. Uh huh. I see it."

"When I hang up, go over to the can and inside you will find the article."

"Oh, okay, . . M'am."

"We think he's on his way to Sedona, Arizona. You'll find the address in the clipping. Any questions?"

"Well . . . er . . . have two questions if I may, M'am. How many agents you got working for you anyway?"

"A lot, and lets just call them 'concerned citizens' and leave it at that. Now come on Bunting, my favorite soap opera starts in one minute. Hurry it up. What's your second question?"

"Well . . . I . . ," Sergey fidgeted.

"Come on, out with it!"

The one-time circus performer could tell that he was dealing with a bird of prey. And he was to find out later that the real Loggerhead Shrike, also called Butcher Bird, is, indeed, a meat-eater and frequently impales pieces of its victims on barbed wire fences or on the thorns of trees leaving ghoulish decorations hanging about the countryside. Sergey Ostrovsky had expected as much.

"You mentioned a 'committee.' Who is it that I'm working for anyway?"

Loggerhead Shrike hesitated before answering and then said in a voice that was both proud and defiant, "We call ourselves The Grandma Millies Social Club."

Thinking how, for the last fifteen minutes, he had been massaging his sore genitalia, the assassin was about to ask if he was currently under surveillance, but the Butcher Bird abruptly cut him off, "That's your two questions. You want more? You do the job right next time. Oh, and one other thing about Mockingbird, he paid for his omelet at the Mercedes Grill with cash."

Painted Bunting stared blankly at a column of ants marching across the pay phone before he cleverly rejoined, "Yeah, . . so?"

"So your credit card ploy that worked yesterday with that nefarious slanderer in Baltimore did not work this morning on Mockingbird because Mockingbird does not use credit cards."

Painted Bunting was stunned. _How'd she know that credit card stuff? And, damn, Shrike even knows what the bastard ate for breakfast!_ Growing a bit paranoid, he looked in all directions certain that he was being watched by one of the Grandma Millies.

The ants began breaking formation.

With the theme song to _Days of Our Lives_ playing in the background, the old lady hurriedly instructed Sergey to return to his Florida home and sit tight, and that "They" were going to check things out first then call when his services were needed.

Two minutes later Stupendous Sergey was back behind the wheel of his rental car gently pressing the cold soda can against his ailing gonads and at the same time holding the clipping from the _L A Times_. Careful not to pick his nose in case one of the Millies might report him to Loggerhead Shrike, Mr. Ostrovsky struggled with the pronunciation of the word LEPIDOPTERIAN. Somehow he sensed that his task had not become easier.
CHAPTER TEN

THE BUTTERFLY PEOPLE

SEDONA, ARIZONA

For Preston Cash life in the compound at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane, though not a barrel of laughs, was better than being shot in the head or being read to from Martin Luther's _Ninety-five Theses_ —but not a whole lot better. Most of the Butterfly People went around moon-eyed and trance-like as if they'd been injected with anti-psychotics: _an asylum run by the inmates_.

Conversations were short, restricted to one or two syllable words and an occasional head nod. In fact there appeared to be a two-syllable maximum, for upon hearing words longer than two syllables, a LEPIDOPTERIAN would become drowsy and would soon begin to snooze. Preston Cash had put two asleep himself during the afternoon of his first full day, and he predicted that the disciples of the Grand Monarch were a short step away from communicating by rubbing antennae.

What little Cash did overhear from the mesmerized followers of Tito Abellard were words of praise directed toward his holiness, the Great Insect who preached that the LEPIDOPTERIANs would soon be delivered to a place, or would develop a condition, which he called the "Next Level." The new recruit was able to piece together from Abellard's ramblings that the converts were to transform into a kind of barely visible angel and would spend all day hanging around in the clouds. _Crapping on the humans below_ , Mr. Cash added in his mind.

In fact, "Uncle" Tito believed that real butterflies were actually miniature angels sent from Heaven to provide humans with a sample of life in the hereafter. Not wanting angels stuck to the grill of his 1959 Pontiac Bonneville, the Grand Monarch drove no faster than ten miles per hour when he left via Milkweed Canyon Lane to fill the car's trunk and wide back seat with surplus lettuce—the primary staple for the twenty plus members of his flock.

Most of the time the LEPIDOPTERIANs opted to stare off into space while munching contently on the giant heads of lettuce, saying only that they were "getting ready." Without exception cult members enjoyed piped-in, new age music, had no interest in Cash's two favorite subjects (money and distilled beverages), and possessed an exaggerated fear of birds. Longing to know more about the transformation that would place them among the clouds, the Grand Monarch's disciples consumed every word that he spoke. It was as if his platitudes were coming straight from Ben and Jerry's.

Despite repeated efforts, Preston Cash could get little in the way of information out of his peers though he did overhear a caterpillar who tipped the scales at around 250 pounds say how she "so looked forward to flying." Raising his eyebrows, Preston had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting as he glanced at the woman's substantial rear end: _Lady, you'll never get FAA approval to lift that much cargo off the ground!_

All the LEPIDOPTERIANs wore black robes not unlike those supplied to college students for commencement exercises. No pastels, just black because they were still technically "caterpillars." Colors would come after "Metamorphosis." Preston Cash tried to picture a couple dozen adults skipping about in rainbow-colored robes while flapping imaginary wings. It was a scene he planned to miss.

Once a week each of the LEPIDOPTERIANs was shaved from head to foot by older, trusted members of the order. The Grand Monarch referred to these veteran caterpillars as his Lieutenants, and they chanted over and over as they barbered, "Humans are hairy; caterpillars are not."

The candidates for metamorphosis were issued rubber flip-flops for their feet, and the cynical Cash silently observed: _Humans wear flip-flops; caterpillars do not_.

Serving dual roles as barbers and guards, the lieutenants also pulled duty at the front gate and regularly walked the compound's perimeter just inside its formidable fence. Its chain link rose six feet, which did not include the razor wire coiled at the top. Preston viewed the fence, the sharp wire, and the guards as protection, but he could not entirely dismiss the notion that the compound's defenses also served to keep him prisoner. He'd initially planned to stay only two weeks, but from amongst the LEPIDOPTERIANs only their leader freely came and went.

Despite being hairless and consuming what seemed like tons of green, leafy produce, the new inmate remained very much in touch with his human, non-insect side and successfully resisted making the emotional leap into caterpillar-dom. But despite his resolve, his emotional "center board" did not quite extend deep enough into the "murky waters" of the colony to keep the swindler on a completely even keel.

After one week, Preston grew desperate for news. All conventional sources of information had been cutoff, including cell phones, radio, television, Internet, and newspapers. The order "No communication with the corrupted world beyond the fence" was strictly enforced, and the fledgling caterpillar soon began biting his nails and compulsively rubbing his head where his hair had once been.

As the ad in the _Times_ had hinted, LEPIDOPTERIANs were not called by their given names but were re-christened. It turned out that each was assigned the name of a butterfly. And because all of the common butterfly names had been taken, Cash got stuck with "Western Pygmy Blue." He was handed a nametag with his new appellation printed crudely with a black felt-tip.

Food was a substantial problem—monotonous and entirely vegetarian. The first week he lost seven pounds from his already thin frame and eight more the week after. Besides the heads of lettuce, most meals consisted only of vegetables, an occasional melon, and some sort of sugary liquid, which the LEPIDOPTERIANs passed off as nectar. They were required to suck the sugar water through a straw considering it practice for when they would become butterflies.

The first time Western Pygmy Blue sampled the nectar, he immediately joked rather loudly, "I see that Uncle Tito's been robbing hummingbird feeders!" But no one laughed, and he found that all eyes had turned disapprovingly in his direction. What followed was one hour of complete silence except for sobbing coming from two LEPIDOPTERIANs driven to tears by his irreverence.

Having found the daily ration of nectar not to his liking, Cash would secretly slide his glass to a giant of a caterpillar named Tiger Swallowtail, and the big caterpillar would suck down both their portions in seconds. The loud noises coming from his straw, sounded like water rapidly draining from a bathtub. At mealtime the insatiable Swallowtail without fail saved Preston a seat and insisted that they sit together.

There was one non-vegetarian amongst them. One of the LEPIDOPTERIANs was fed only meat. This particular caterpillar was kept in seclusion, locked in a windowless room and was allowed to roam the grounds only at night while everyone else was secured in their dormitories. No one ever saw the mysterious individual's face or heard the meat-eater speak. During the day trays of cooked chicken and beef were handed in through a portal as if the person on the other side was the dangerous Hannibal Lector. The rumor Cash had heard was that the occupant of the room would eventually change into a variety of butterfly called a Harvester—the only known carnivore in the order _Lepidoptera_ and like Doctor Lector the Harvester occasionally indulged in cannibalism.

The explanation sounded plausible, but did not jive with what Western Pygmy Blue observed. For example, the Harvester's door was a joke—attached to its frame by an undersized pair of rusty hinges; and to Preston Cash it seemed that even the slightest nudge by the prisoner within would send the rotten piece of lumber crashing to the floor. Therefore, he dismissed the Harvester as just another example of Abellard's histrionics.

Near the beginning of his second week with the LEPIDOPTERIANs, while lying on a couch just outside of the Harvester's locked door and while savoring the delicious aroma of cooked meat, which wafted from within, Cash began to hear a grinding noise. The noise, coming from the carnivore's room, continued for one hour. During that hour, the smell of steak began to be replaced by that of ether. Soon Western Pygmy Blue began to feel faint, and assuming that ether was the cause, he headed for his bunk in the sleeping dorm.

Upon standing Cash glanced at a mirror that was built into the Harvester's wall, and at first did not recognize the face staring back at him. It was his face but drawn and grim. That he had changed so much in so short a time triggered a shudder, and when he turned away from the mirror, he felt his ribs. What he touched beneath the thin nylon of his gown felt as much like sticks laid side-by-side as it did actual bone, and he wondered how much more he could take of Tito Abellard's _Bed and Breakfast_.

* * *

On walks through the colony's grounds the former employee of Benjamin Dover, Inc. was frequently drawn to the "garden." In his opinion it was not much of a garden, since it consisted of just one kind of plant—a plant that he'd never seen before. No one seemed to know its name until one day he happened to ask Tiger Swallowtail.

Swallowtail said only, " _Ricinus communis,_ also known as castor bean," then yawning, the big caterpillar politely excused himself.

Standing a little over head-high, the unusual bean plant sported large leaves, each leaf the size of a small umbrella. The castor beans produced two things that drew Cash to the garden: one was shade, and the other was the peculiar, ornate bean itself. The beans developed inside of spiny pods and on hot afternoons the pods would burst open and the beans would come shooting out. Perhaps it was an indication of the decline of his mental health since arriving at the colony, but Cash found the exploding pods to be the highlight of his day, and he would laugh like a hyena each time a pod ejected its colorful cargo.

No weeds grew in the garden, and every morning the ground around the base of each plant was wet as if someone were taking extremely good care of the small plot. Besides himself and two of the inmates, Red Admiral and Spring Azure who were always rendezvousing to pursue a little caterpillar hanky-panky, Preston Cash could not recall seeing anyone else in the garden let alone anyone tending the plants.

* * *

Hands down the spookiest of the butterfly people was their source of inspiration, the Grand Monarch, Mr. Tito Abellard. When Preston Cash first read the LEPIDOPTERIANs' advertisement in the _Times_ , he assumed the leader was, like himself, a con man out to steal the assets of anyone gullible enough to answer his ad. But the more that Cash witnessed of the chief caterpillar's bizarre behavior, and the more he sampled the boss' unusual ideas, Western Pygmy Blue began to believe the man to be completely sincere and totally insane. Just seeing the man's eyes would cause most people to come to the same conclusion. They were big eyes and reminded the former BDI employee of the headlights of a 1946 Chevrolet.

Abellard's mental state, matched with his considerable charisma, made for an unpredictable combination, which kept Preston Cash a little fearful and always guessing what would happen next at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

A PHONE CALL FROM CALIFORNIA TO

HOLLYWOOD, FLORIDA

TUESDAY, AUGUST 21, 2007

When Painted Bunting received the long awaited phone call from Loggerhead Shrike, he was in the shower singing the part of Madame Butterfly from the opera of the same name. Stupendous Sergey often fantasized about being an opera virtuoso and had pondered about how his life had actually turned out and how things could have been different had he gotten the right break.

That is not to say that the man was dissatisfied with the profession he'd chosen, because he was not. But he remained equally certain that opera stars rarely got kicked in the balls (unless they gave a really bad performance) and, furthermore, he'd never read in the newspaper about the three tenors being pushed into a muddy canal.

As far as the question of personal ethics was concerned, the hired killer was a practicing Unitarian, so it was not likely that moral issues would have any sway upon him.

Still Stupendous Sergey held no illusions, being an assassin had several drawbacks and afforded those in the business little in the way of prestige—a fact that Painted Bunting believed to be patently unfair, because, from his angle at least, those whom he disposed of were largely scum, and the world was a better place without them. Sergey often asked himself: _How's what I do any different than exterminating termites or ridding a dog of fleas?_

Picking up the phone Ostrovsky heard the harsh voice of the old woman he knew only as Loggerhead Shrike, "Bunting, It's me. You still got the article?"

"Yes, M'am."

"Ahem! Mockingbird . . . is . . . no . . . longer . . . a . . . bird."

While dripping wet and completely naked, Sergey held the phone, which unfortunately he kept on a table adjacent to his window air conditioner. "Oh?" he said sounding somewhat confused.

It had been two weeks since their last conversation. In the interim Ostrovsky's balls had returned to their normal size, but only after an herbalist prescribed rest, ice, and an organic grape supplement. The latter was to be taken orally, except Sergey, slightly dyslexic, became confused and began swallowing the ice and applying wet rags soaked with the concentrated grape extract directly to the affected area, turning his scrotum a brilliant shade of blue. But either way, the assassin was satisfied because the mix-up produced the desired results.

"He . . . is . . . a . . . butterfly. Do you GET it?"

Sergey scratched his chin not sure where his boss was headed, "Who he, M'am?"

"Bunting, are you putting me on?" The old lady who'd hired him to kill the Ben Dover trio was growing testy.

It was then that Painted Bunting recalled that Loggerhead Shrike (whom he suspected of harboring ultra liberal tendencies) had her "concerned citizens" everywhere, and Sergey, a life-long Republican naturally given to paranoia, began to wonder if one of the Millies was watching him at that rather inopportune moment. If he had to, how would he explain to the Shrike his case of blue balls? _Or . . . What if?_ Sergey's mind was working overtime. _What if she'd had one of her agents install a camera in my apartment?_ In the chill air his genitalia (not terribly stupendous to begin with) had shrunk to practically nothing, and he quickly covered his diminished blue package with his free hand. On top of that, the embarrassed assassin was self-conscious about his weight problem, and he began looking furtively in all directions. _The entire Committee is probably gathered around a television right now_ , Ostrovsky said to himself, as he envisioned twenty old ladies pushing and shoving in order to get a better view of the screen—a screen which featured a naked, fat man with a tiny, blue scrotum—an unusual sight even for Californians.

"The _L A Times_ article, Man! Sedona, Arizona. Milkweed Canyon Lane. You know, . . . the article we placed in the can!"

"Can?"

"THE TIN CAN IN EL SEGUNDO!!!" Loggerhead Shrike quickly reconsidered her vow not to curse, and immediately appended her code of ethics by adding a codicil permitting her (for reasons of "health") to use harsh language under extraordinary circumstances—cerebral hemorrhages being a common medical problem for people with type "A" personalities. She figured therapeutic swearing might vent just enough steam to keep her blood pressure below "critical mass."

Despite being both naked and cold Sergey felt obligated to update Shrike on the advances made in the technology of food preservation and storage, "Cans are no longer made out of tin . . ."

By the time the assassin understood what the chief of the Grandma Millies was trying to tell him, he had pretty well air-dried and did not need a towel. He did take exception to her use of the word "failure" in describing the outcome of his first "meeting" with Mockingbird. He told her so, and added that he did not approve of the word but preferred instead the phrase "deferred success." At that point Loggerhead Shrike began making noises consistent with one in need of the Heimlich Maneuver, and Painted Bunting politely asked if there was anything that he could do to help.

Sergey did not follow Shrike's advice—that he point the barrel of his gun at his own head and then pull the "friggin'" trigger. To the naive Ostrovsky, the shock of hearing such a hostile remark from the lips of a seventy-two-year-old grandmother was right up there with his initial discovery that women fart—the latter revelation had taken him completely by surprise many years earlier due largely to the rumblings, which issued routinely and unabashedly from the butt of the first Mrs. Ostrovsky.

After hanging up the phone and quickly slipping on a pair of shorts, the assassin searched for the Grandma Millies' hidden camera. Finding nothing, Sergey Ostrovsky breathed a sigh of relief then threw himself into the task of organizing. He rushed about his tiny Hollywood, Florida, apartment tossing essentials into a tattered suitcase. His head filled with the things that he had to do: _Get dressed, finish packing, book a flight to Phoenix, and_ (after a glance toward his crotch) _hope that I don't get strip-searched at the airport._

But the first thing the dyslexic killer needed to attend to was his gun. The usual routine was to overnight express his Berretta to an alias, and because he had a fake ID to match he always addressed it to Thomas Smith sending his trusty semi-automatic general delivery.

The assassin walked over to his closet to select what he would wear while in Arizona. The mud spots never came out of his white uniform, but that did not matter. Michael (Preston Cash) McKinley, a.k.a. Mockingbird, had already seen him in his white outfit so this time he would have to select something different—something that would allow him to blend in and give the appearance that he was an Arizona native.

"A theme—stick to a theme," Sergey mused quietly. He'd recently read an article entitled "Dressing Oneself for the Work Place—Be Sassy!" written by Rextastic Von Tastic, owner of and the creative genius behind the world famous Rextastic Design Studios of Peoria, Illinois. The man was a fashion expert of considerable renown, and the assassin had been an admirer for quite some time. As Mr. Von Tastic was a prolific writer and the subject of numerous television interviews, it had been easy for Ostrovsky to keep abreast of the designer's meteoric career, and the overweight assassin decided to follow the clothing maven's seasoned advice.

Twenty-four hours later Stupendous Sergey, determined to complete his mission for the Grandma Millies, was driving a small rental car north out of Phoenix on Interstate 17. Dressed as a cowboy—boots, hat, western-style shirt with silver and turquoise accents, and a bright-red, silk bandana tied with _joie de vivre_ about his neck (an example of what Mr. Rex would label as "sassy"), the contract killer headed in the direction of Sedona, Arizona; his well-traveled Berretta rested beside him still boxed and wrapped in brown parcel paper—next to it, lay an empty violin case. The stupendous and sassy Sergey Ostrovsky needed to find 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane.
CHAPTER TWELVE

WEEK TWO WITH THE LEPIDOPTERIANS

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15, 2007

At first Preston Cash (a.k.a. Western Pygmy Blue) was happy when he found out that the colony's population was about to increase by one. He would no longer be the rookie, and the other caterpillars would have someone else to gawk at with their bug eyes and vacant expressions.

The latest recruit was a mid-sixty-ish woman from Redondo Beach, California, who did not seem all together pleased when the lieutenants, while chanting, "Humans are hairy; caterpillars are not," shaved every hair from her body and dubbed the poor woman "Lesser Split-tailed Fritillary."

Since the hairless lady from California was a beginner, Cash figured that she had not yet lost her power of speech, and ambling up to the newest caterpillar he announced, "One thing you ought'a know about this place is that they make you check your brains at the door."

Straight away Western Pygmy Blue found Lesser Split-tailed Fritillary to be an ill-tempered woman who tended to growl rather than speak, but there was more. By the second day Cash had gotten the distinct impression that the wretched woman was following him.

Once again the man who'd stolen the Lutheran's 400,000 dollars asked himself: _What is it about these old California broads?_ For the last several weeks there always seemed to be one or more of them looking in his direction and at the same time making no secret of the depth of their displeasure. The latest LEPIDOPTERIAN was no exception. Sticking to him like glue, the bitter woman frowned practically nonstop. It got to the point that even while alone Preston was afraid to scratch an itch, or to, in any way, touch himself inappropriately for fear that he would turn and discover Fritillary casting a laser-like stare in his direction. In his imagination he could hear the sizzle as the force of her glare burned holes in his fragile composure.

On Friday of her first week (his second) Cash succeeded in giving the lady the slip by hiding in the men's john, and quite by chance, the swindler was able to turn the tables on the new recruit. As Preston exited the restroom, he spotted her across the dining hall sneaking out the rear of the building.

Smiling mischievously Western Pygmy Blue hurried over to the door she'd slipped through. Opening it a crack, he saw the hem of Fritillary's black robe disappear around a corner, and out the door he went. To his surprise the hairless Californian moved very fast, and Preston hustled to keep her in sight.

Finally Lesser Split-tailed Fritillary crested a hill behind the dining hall, and believing that she was alone, the woman began waving to a point in the distance. The sun lay in the direction she stared, making it difficult for Fritillary to see. She squinted and alternately brought one hand, and sometimes two, to her forehead forming a visor to shield her eyes.

Next the old woman withdrew a cell phone from her robe, punched in a number, and began an animated conversation, none of which Preston could overhear.

Symptomatic of living in the "butterfly" asylum, Western Pygmy Blue became strangely indignant, and he stamped a foot as he muttered, "This California bitch is breaking the first rule of the LEPIDOPTERIANs—communicating with someone on the outside!"

The initial course of action that Preston considered taking was to inform the lieutenants. But upon reflection, he reversed himself. The mysterious lady had produced his first bit of excitement since the day he'd kicked the assassin in the nuts and then stole the aging playboy's Porsche.

Cash started thinking. He speculated that Tito Abellard probably had not paid his taxes, and that the woman could be working undercover for the IRS. _But why?_ He asked himself after pausing. _Why would Fritillary be spending so much time tailing my sorry ass?_ Then a more plausible explanation struck him—and struck him hard: _The old prune is a Lutheran! Probably sent by that snake-in-the-grass Newton Oyster. What a jerk! Always stressing the importance of perfect attendance on the development of character. I wouldn't put it past Oyster to send an old woman. He's a sneaky bastard and just clever enough to do the unexpected. And if Lesser Split-tailed Fritillary works for EL-NO, could she have been waving to the not-so-dynamic duo of Oyster and the toad-like Plaid?_

Preston Cash had to get answers to his questions for he had sadly concluded that if the Lutherans were, indeed, onto him, then dear, sweet Lydia Bun-King must have betrayed his confidence. But Bun-King had always treated him so special. Of course she treated the forty-five-year-old Oyster "special" as well and so too half of the men who'd wandered into the EL-NO office—some of whom had not bathed in weeks, and most of those "rustic gentlemen" had no business being there in the first place. He was sure that they'd been drawn to the spot just to sneak a peek at EL-NO's trophy office assistant, and in all honesty, he could not blame them.

If Lydia had ratted him out, that would, ultimately and regrettably, mean having to discard yet another expired prophylactic—his tenth in as many years. His dry spell had been that long, and without Bun-King's full cooperation there was "no rain in sight."

Over the next two days Cash twice attempted to flush Lesser Split-tailed Fritillary from her cover by quoting Martin Luther. Coming up behind the suspected Lutheran, he recited from memory thesis number six, "Hell, purgatory, and heaven seem to differ as do despair, almost-despair, and the assurance of safety."

The sour woman turned, raised the portion of her face where just days before her eyebrows had resided, and stared disgustedly at the hairless swindler in the black robe. From the heat of her gaze Preston Cash got the feeling that she truly believed that she was not looking at a person at all, but at a mound of excrement from which spouted incomprehensible gibberish. It was the reaction that he'd hoped for. Nine times out of ten a true Lutheran upon being presented with such tempting bait would swallow it whole—had Fritillary been Lutheran, a smile would have reflexively lit up her face, and caused the woman to take on the countenance of a cherub.

A cautious man, Cash continued to have his doubts, and he gave himself the following counsel: _Either this woman is IRS, or she's a really bad Lutheran_.

The next day the hopeful Mr. Cash cast his other lure, thesis number seventy-one, "He who speaks against the truth of apostolic pardons, let him be anathema and accursed!" Once again, the lady produced a response intended to leave Preston Cash feeling only anathema and accursed, and for the second time in two days he found encouragement. _No cherubic reaction that!_ he thought as he happily studied the harpy's contorted face then watched as she stomped off in a huff.

Before departing, Fritillary emitted a particularly nasty expletive which she followed with a decidedly un-Lutheran-like snort causing Cash to further grasp at the conclusion that his original hunch had been correct: _LESSER SPLIT-TAILED FRITILLARY WORKS FOR THE INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE!_

By clinging to the remote possibility that Fritillary was not Lutheran and, instead, fed from the public trough, the hope of linking up with the alluring Miss Bun-King was not completely dead. Preston's desperate reach was akin to that of a drowning man. But then again, no one living in the LEPIDOPTERIAN community was known for the accuracy of their assessments.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE SASSY VAQUERO'S MORBID DISCOVERY

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 22, 2007

When the hired killer Sergey Ostrovsky drove into Sedona, Arizona, dressed as a sassy cowboy, he immediately checked into the cheapest motel in town. Because he was traveling on an expense account, and because the Millies insisted that he keep his expenditures to a bare minimum, he chose the modest accommodations of the Mountain Vista Motor Court, which had been constructed in 1948, and in the intervening fifty-nine years had undergone no improvements either major or minor. From his window Sergey could see the rear of a discount store and the Post Office's loading dock. Above a chest of drawers, which leaned noticeably and appeared ready to collapse, hung his mountain vista—a faded picture of the Matterhorn.

Most of the Millies' money came from bake sales, and to date the efforts to terminate the BDI trio had cost the equivalent of twenty thousand coconut macaroons—the club's entire budget for 2007. The problem was simple; it was August—five and a half months of the year remained. Like the United States' wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, things had gotten out of hand.

* * *

Finding 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane was a snap for Sergey. It seemed that the LEPIDOPTERIANs had become the town's favorite topic, playing second fiddle only to the many local energy vortexes that littered the countryside and drew in tourists "Like flies to horse shit," as Sedona's less polished were given to say.

When Stupendous Sergey arrived at the LEPIDOPTERIANs' compound, three individuals peered at him suspiciously. They raised their hands gesturing him to stop, a measure that Ostrovsky viewed as unnecessary for the three stood behind a locked gate. _What do they think I'm gonna do?_ Sergey asked himself. _Leap over six-foot of fence like a damn kangaroo?_

The two men and one woman were hairless; flowing, long, black robes covered their bodies; and on their feet were cheap, dime store shower shoes. At first the astonished killer looked at the LEPIDOPTERIANs distrustfully as a soldier might view a suspected insurgent whose disproportionately thick midriff was at the same time rather lumpy.

Sergey carefully unfolded a photograph. Next holding it up for the three to see, he pointed to the face in the picture. The face, of course, was that of Michael (Preston Cash) McKinley. He told the three that he'd come ". . . to talk to this man . . . er . . . to my friend." The guards stared blankly at the photo then at each other.

Gathering into a huddle, the LEPIDOPTERIANs began communicating using an odd assortment of grunts and mumbles. Their conference over, one of the men stepped forward and said something practically incomprehensible. And while looking straight at the killer, he moved his hands in Ostrovsky's direction as if he were shooing away a dog. The killer took the hint.

When Ostrovsky turned his back on the mystifying guards at the gate that afternoon, he returned Mockingbird's picture to his pocket then headed straight toward his rental car. He wanted to put the Mockingbird job behind him—and fast. As poor Sergey struggled to climb into his cramped rental car (a Geo Metro—the cheapest rental car in all of Arizona), he started making plans to return the following day. Using bolt cutters he would snip the LEPIDOPTERIANs' fence and sneak onto their property unobserved.

Later that evening, alone in his motel room, Sergey tried to recall what the man at the gate had uttered. "Western Pygmy Blue," or was it "Western Blue Pygmy?" Neither made sense to the ex-knife-thrower-turned-contract-killer. He was virtually certain that pygmies were NOT blue, and besides that, they did NOT hail from the West—he'd spent time in the West, and never once had he encountered a pygmy—blue or otherwise. Finding the whole business absurd, Sergey categorized the LEPIDOPTERIANs as borderline whackos and filed them away in his mind alongside joggers—not quite right in the head but too sane to commit to an institution. Then he asked himself, _I wonder if the Butterfly People have much of a sting?_ He suspected that the answer was no.

Sergey Ostrovsky had grown tired of Arizona. The small car he'd rented had begun to aggravate an old circus injury; plus the red kerchief around his neck was uncomfortable. As if that weren't enough, something in the air played hell with his sinuses, and it distressed him to no end that his cuticles were becoming ragged and frayed. Earlier he'd purchased a quart jar of Olsen's Miracle Udder Balm, and he was eager to begin restoring suppleness to his dry, itchy skin. Besides, the sassy look had begun to wear thin—especially after the assassin had collected a seductive wink from an older gentleman dressed in similar attire—attire which bore the unmistakable stamp of Rextastic Fashion Designs.

On the way back into town, Sergey loosened the red scarf but did not remove it. Ever since his arrival in the "Grand Canyon State," he sensed that people were staring at him, and the killer unhappily conceded that the silk accessory probably looked better on the handsome model in the magazine than it did on a portly individual whom kids had once nicknamed Cerdo.

* * *

Early the next morning, after taking advantage of the Motor Court's free continental breakfast, which consisted of burnt toast, watered-down orange juice, coffee that required chewing, and a banana, which appeared to have been run over by the truck that delivered it, the assassin drove back to the address on Milkweed Canyon Lane.

Topping a hill a half-mile from the compound, Sergey passed a van parked on the side of the road. Not far from the van stood two older women each with binoculars pressed to their faces. The position of their bodies suggested that their subject of interest resided in a nearby grove of trees. One lady held an open book in her hand, while the other woman pointed to a high branch as she looked through her field glasses.

"Bird watchers!" Painted Bunting gave a disgusted snort. He hated birds, especially ducks.

As the Geo rounded a corner 200 yards from the colony's driveway, Ostrovsky discovered that not only was the gate unguarded, but that it appeared to be open as well, a fact that did not jive with his previous day's experience or with what he knew to be the LEPIDOPTERIANs' fierce love of privacy. He looked down at his side and inventoried the things that he would need to complete his assignment. His eyes fell upon the photo of Mockingbird . . . _check_ . . . then the large wad of paper with quotes to stick in Mockingbird's mouth . . . _check_ . . . and finally the loaded gun with silencer, which was currently concealed inside a violin case that he had picked up in a Phoenix pawn shop . . . _check_.

Sergey smiled. Few things made the fat man happier than correcting a "deferred success."

The killer parked the tiny rental car a few feet from the end of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' driveway, and in case he needed to make a quick getaway, he pointed it in the direction of town. After getting out of the Geo, he warily approached the gate. The place had the air of a ghost town—spooky and eerily quiet. Normally nonchalant and bold as brass, this time Ostrovsky's body language spoke of deception and trespass. He could not account for why. If caught, he planned to innocently ask, "Isn't this 2121 RED ROCK Road?" then quickly turn and leave. And if they tried to stop him, well, the assassin was not averse to "swatting a few butterflies."

Stupendous Sergey tiptoed as he crept toward the front entrance of what appeared to be an assembly hall. With the violin case in one hand he reached with his other to open the door—just a crack, no more, enough to get a peek into the heart of the dead-still building.

Just as Sergey touched the doorknob, suddenly and quite unexpectedly the very same door burst open and a wraith-like, highly perturbed individual dressed in black came speeding out. Since the thin man's hairless head was turned backwards, he could not see where he was going and that a large person holding a violin case stood directly in his path. Predictably, the skinny fellow, with cue-ball head and sunken, sallow eyes slammed squarely into the assassin's chest. Both men went sprawling.

As Sergey and the stranger lay on the ground they stared at one another in bewilderment. No more than two seconds passed before the newcomer let out a gasp as if he mistook the chunky cowboy for a Jehovah's Witness with a shopping cart filled with literature. The hairless man then jumped to his feet and, demonstrating a remarkable burst of speed, lit out in the direction of the compound's front gate. His spindly arms waved wildly in the air as he raced down the gravel drive.

The sassy cowboy's expression, too, quickly changed, but to something more on the order of a grizzly bear's after having been cuffed on the nose by an environmentalist for catching too many salmon. While sitting on his butt, Ostrovsky yelled after the gaunt figure, "What's the matter, Buddy? You late for graduation or something?"

Thinking his comment to have been quite clever, Sergey was pleased. In the quick-witted rejoinder department Mr. Ostrovsky generally stumbled out of the starting gate in last place _. But not this time!_ He congratulated himself, then slapped his cowboy hat back on his head, producing a temporary and expanding halo of dust in the process.

_That skinny dude looks like some kind of damned concentration camp runaway,_ Stupendous Sergey observed as he picked himself off the ground and attempted with only partial success to brush the light-colored dirt from his pants. After adjusting his wide-brimmed hat and picking up the now soiled violin case, the former knife-thrower, once again, extended a hand toward the door.

Except for the run-in with the "wild man," Ostrovsky had heard not one sound since parking the Geo. As he began to push through the entrance of the large building for a second time, the thought entered his mind: _Just my luck, today's probably fieldtrip day or something._ He could not shake the feeling that the compound was deserted.

One look inside, and all of the assassin's questions were answered. Dead bodies normally did not disturb Stupendous Sergey. You might say that he was in the "dead body" business in a manner of speaking. But the assassin was not used to seeing quite so many corpses all at one time. He estimated that there must have been twenty or thirty hairless, dead people clad in black robes and lying about in what obviously was a cafeteria.

Thirty seconds passed before the assassin realized that his "work" might have been done for him, and that Mockingbird's might be one of the bodies that sprawled on the floor in front of him. He fished Michael McKinley's photo from his pocket. After a glance he asked himself: _How can such a bland-looking person be so damned hard to kill?_

Picture in hand, the assassin went from body to body hoping to find a match. After checking everyone twice without success, Sergey was about to leave when he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. A door at the far end of the room opened and two LEPIDOPTERIANs, a man and a woman in the act of suppressing giggles, entered the dining hall recently turned morgue. Because the assassin had ducked out of sight, and also because there was so much else for the new arrivals to take in, the hairless couple did not see Ostrovsky who crouched low while holding violin case and photo.

Sergey witnessed the two stagger backwards when the full gravity of what lay before them hit home. The woman dropped to her knees. The man, visibly shaken, checked the nearest corpse then returned to her side. Soon he settled on the ground beside her. Consoling his partner by placing one hand on her shoulder, the hairless man closed his eyes, and together the two LEPIDOPTERIANs began a sobbing lament.

Stupendous Sergey left his hiding place and crept slowly toward the grieving couple. He stayed as much as he could in the dark areas of the poorly lit room. The assassin extended the picture of Michael McKinley in front of him, and in a voice as soft as he could muster, he asked, "Pardon me. Have either of you seen this man?"

The sound of Sergey's voice sent the identically dressed and hairless couple into a paroxysm. Wide-eyed, both skittered on all fours like sand crabs away from the "outsider" before being stopped by a wall.

"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." Sergey was amazed. Except when he pointed his Berretta in someone's face, he was not used to being treated like an alien visitor from another planet. "Have you seen this man?" he patiently asked a second time.

To the assassin it seemed like a full five minutes had gone by before the black-robed man accepted Mockingbird's photo. After studying the picture, his only comment produced complete disappointment: "Western Pygmy Blue." It was the second time that Ostrovsky had heard the three words and both occasions occurred when people were shown McKinley's photo.

Stupendous Sergey was clueless, and in exasperation he said aloud, "Why does it feel like I'm goin' backwards?"

Yet another "deferred success!" It did not look good. Worst of all, he would have to inform Loggerhead Shrike. But, following a brief pause, the assassin shrugged and, feeling resigned, announced to himself: _Hell, the bitch probably already knows_. No sooner had he finished the first thought, when he was struck by a second: _Why, this one shouldn't be on me! It's NOT my fault that Mockingbird isn't here. The information_ _that_ _the Millies supplied me was bogus! It's Shrike's people who blundered_. And he would have told her himself and in those exact words if he hadn't been chicken.

Sergey Ostrovsky took Mockingbird's photo back from the odd character lying on the floor, and with a sad look he thanked the poor man then dejectedly turned to leave. His reputation was on the line, and that meant everything to the hired killer.

When Sergey was within twenty feet of the front door, he stuck a finger in one ear and wiggled it as if checking his hearing, which to him seemed to have gone faulty, for at that moment the assassin thought he caught the sound of someone outside jauntily humming "There's No Business Like Show Business"—and doing a credible job of it as well. The melody was accompanied by the rapid approach of footsteps, and for the second time that day Sergey dove for cover as two people strode into the LEPIDOPTERIANs' cafeteria-assembly hall.

The first person was a veritable giant—athletic, muscular, a mass of hair in tight curls topped his head. The big man wore minister's garb, and in one hand he carried a photo framed in wood. He held the picture aloft and angled it in front of him as if it were an icon or talisman possessing magical powers. The man bore himself triumphantly, appearing as if he were returning having conquered the world or as one boldly treads after having located free parking in downtown Los Angeles. Behind him mincingly stepped a small, thin fellow wearing a black silk shirt and a familiar filmy, red scarf. The second man Ostrovsky recognized immediately. He was none other than Rextastic Von Tastic, the world's foremost authority on workplace attire!

When the two Lutherans passed by Sergey's hiding place, they were naturally aghast. The sight of the dead LEPIDOPTERIANs stopped Von Tastic and his sturdy partner in their tracks, and Stupendous Sergey took advantage of their momentary distraction to attempt to slip out of the front door unnoticed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE JOURNEY TO THE NEXT LEVEL

THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 2007 — MINUTES BEFORE SERGEY'S DISCOVERY

Two weeks and one day after Preston Cash became a LEPIDOPTERIAN he was in the midst of a metamorphosis but not the metamorphosis that the Grand Monarch had spent so much time describing. Cash had shed fifteen pounds—fifteen pounds he could ill afford to lose. He'd turned into a compulsive hand wringer and had twice been rendered completely hairless by two of Tito Abellard's lieutenants. The Western Pygmy Blue of August twenty-third appeared quite unlike the individual who strode confidently through the colony's front gate a mere fifteen days earlier. Cash had arrived on the scene wearing a tuxedo, dress shirt, patent leather shoes, and a deceitful smile. On the morning of the twenty-third, while sitting in the compound's cafeteria, Western Pygmy Blue chronically thumped his hairless head with his fingertips. Pausing to bite a fingernail he wished the others would take their seats.

The caterpillars were abuzz. Rumors circulated about something special that was to occur. Breakfast began with the Grand Monarch's rambling speech on the subject of butterfly safety and concluded with a list of birds known to eat members of the order _Lepidoptera_ —a list that generated nervous tremors from a spellbound audience.

Finally Tito Abellard, rising to his feet, signaled for his lieutenants to fill everyone's glass saying to the assembled caterpillars, "I would like to propose a toast. But please, DO NOT DRINK UNTIL AFTER I HAVE SPOKEN."

Glancing fitfully to his left and to his right Preston Cash silently observed _: This is new_. Throughout the room people were readying their straws. He concluded that indeed something special was about to take place, and the troubled LEPIDOPTERIAN began to pay slightly more attention. Putting one hand across his face Preston peered through the openings between his fingers like a sneak thief peeking through the gaps in a board fence. As drinks were poured, Cash glanced toward the suspected IRS agent from California. Her sneer indicated that she, like him, had not yet melded with the whole butterfly scene.

Abellard held up a brimming glass and took in his adoring followers, sharing with them liberal amounts of eye contact and casting in their direction a manic smile. The Grand Monarch's expression reminded Cash of a famished Lutheran at an ice cream social about to dig into a heaping bowl of homemade vanilla covered by fresh strawberries and drizzled with chocolate syrup. Of late, Preston had been couching his thinking with images of food.

When everyone had full tumblers, Abellard raised his glass and announced dramatically, "THE CREATOR HAS SENT ME HIS SIGNAL! YES MY FRIENDS, THE NEXT LEVEL AWAITS US! DRINK UP FOR BY THIS TIME TOMORROW WE WILL HAVE ARRIVED, . . . OUR HOPES AND OUR DREAMS FULFILLED, . . . OUR JOURNEY COMPLETED!"

Shortly the sound of vigorous sucking echoed throughout the room. Cash pushed his own full tumbler over to Tiger Swallowtail, and the happy goober quickly polished off both glasses; it had become their personal routine—just between Preston and his "lunch room buddy." The practice had started back on day two when Cash first sampled the nectar and found it not to his liking.

Preston Cash, his hand still covering his face, watched between the "slats" that were his fingers as everyone wholeheartedly drained their mugs then followed by personally congratulating a neighbor. The room was alive with cheerful mumbling. In that jubilant moment the LEPIDOPTERIANs displayed more spirit than he'd witnessed in the entire fifteen days of his stay, and the cynical confidence man briefly wondered if there was really something to "this metamorphosis business." Those in the room seemed elated. They were ready for the Next Level, certain that it would bring them more happiness than the level on which they were currently stuck.

Cash half expected a lieutenant to enter the room carrying a large box of multi-colored robes and start distributing new outfits. It did not happen. Instead the swindler watched as people's expressions began to change. No longer joyful, each LEPIDOPTERIAN broke into a sweat, and their faces turned various shades of green. He looked over at the IRS agent, and it appeared to his untrained eye that she, after two twitches and one convulsion, had suddenly died. Like a disabled battle cruiser sinking silently below the surface of the ocean, her limp body slid from the chair in which she sat and slowly disappeared below the tabletop. The chilling thought flashed through Preston's mind that for her there would be no more talk of tax audits or threats of garnished wages.

In disbelieve the embezzler-of-Lutheran-money looked over at the head table in time to witness the Grand Monarch's arrival at the Next Level, a short journey consisting of his five-feet-ten-inch frame falling straight over backwards and onto the floor of the dinning hall—not at all like a butterfly but more along the line of a felled oak.

Preston's response was not a measured response. He leapt from his chair, felt for a pulse in the vicinity of Tiger Swallowtail's carotid artery, and, finding none, he began running frantically toward the exit. As he threw open the heavy door, Western Pygmy Blue directed his gaze behind him at the mass of dead bodies, which lay strewn about. He did not look where he was going, and, as a consequence, the frantic, half-starved caterpillar ran straight into a thickset gentleman holding a violin case.

Following the collision, Cash quickly gathered himself. He was virtually certain that the person he'd run into was none other than the assassin. The man he suspected of being the killer possessed the same wide face, the same dark hair, and the same hairy, sausage-sized fingers, but there was something new. The fat man sitting across from him in the dirt had on different clothing. No longer dressed in a white uniform befitting a busboy, the assassin's new ensemble caused Preston to picture a flamboyant guest of a gays-only dude ranch, plus pinned to the man's shirt a button announced "BUSH/CHENEY '08."

Having so recently witnessed the LEPIDOPTERIANs' self-annihilation, then immediately afterwards, having lived through (so far at least) a surprise encounter with the hired killer, and added to those traumas his having to ponder the possibility of a third term for the then occupant of the White House—well, there was just too much on the life-long Democrat's plate. Preston did not respond calmly. The frenzied swindler took off as fast as his flip-flop-covered feet could carry him. He had no plan of escape—no carefully considered destination. He just wanted out . . . away from the compound . . . away from the killer . . . away from the room filled with dead "caterpillars."

To say that his two weeks with the LEPIDOPTERIANs represented the worst two weeks of his life would have been no exaggeration, and capping it off, that day, the twenty third of August, had turned into a mind-numbing disaster. However there were two bright spots that he simply could not ignore: first, his was not one of the bodies slumped over chairs and sprawled upon the floor at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane, and, second, he vaguely recollected from his community college political science elective that U.S. presidents were limited to two terms only—providing, in his mind, ample proof of the existence of God.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LUMP AND THE LEPIDOPTERIANS

SEDONA, ARIZONA

THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 2007

On the morning of the twenty-third of August, after driving 1,700 miles and tracking down numerous leads, all of which went nowhere, the two members of LUMP left their motel room in order to check out what was perhaps their most promising lead to date. Conan had written the address in his notebook: 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane. The militant Lutherans were hopeful that they'd at last found the "butterfly ranch"—Preston Cash's mysterious hideout. So far the mission to recover EL-NO's pilfered 400,000 dollars had been long on effort but short on results.

On that morning Conan and Rex planned to investigate a cult known as the LEPIDOPTERIANs. And as Rex had pointed out, the cult's name bore a striking resemblance to the word _Lepidoptera_ , which any amateur entomologist would know is the taxonomic order for butterflies and moths.

To avoid disappointment, the Peorians struggled to keep their expectations in check. For example the day before, despite having high hopes, they'd discovered that a Sedona sushi bar named Madame Butterfly's, which offered psychic readings and sold maps to local vortexes, did not additionally have the Lutheran's swindler hidden in an upstairs apartment. The experience delivered a "direct hit" to their enthusiasm and, since in Rextastic's opinion, the sushi was clearly past its prime, to their appetites as well.

At the same time that the Lutherans negotiated the winding lane that threaded its way to the head of Milkweed Canyon a hairless man sprinted down the center of that same road but in the opposite direction. Thin-faced and gaunt, the hairless speedster wore a long black robe and had on sunglasses and cheap flip-flops. While one mile from the LEPIDOPTERIANs' colony and in the middle of a particularly sharp curve, Lutherans and sprinter came face-to-face missing one another by a matter of inches. Kinnear jerked the stirring wheel hard and simultaneously hit the brakes. The Toyota swerved and skidded to a dusty stop.

Passing the startled Lutherans quicker than it takes a Presbyterian to break a promise (as Conan was given to say), the man looked as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"Crazy Bastard!" Kinnear exclaimed. The big Lutheran needed a second to collect himself. Crazy or not, Conan conceded silently that he'd never imagined that a human wearing shower shoes could run that fast, and he wondered what was the stranger's motivation.

Having turned in order to catch sight of the back of the bizarre character, Rex Von Tastic noted that the last time he'd seen apparel that unflattering was during his recent trip to Chicago (in fact it was while meeting with Director Oyster and the toad-like Mr. Plaid). At first the fashion expert assumed he was witnessing a shocking example of college fraternity hazing, then it occurred to him that it was equally as likely that a Shriner had mistakenly eaten a shroom.

Following at a discreet distance and matching the runner's pace was a van with California license plates. The van contained two elderly women whose expressions alternated between frowns and active scowls. One of the ladies, while leaning from the passenger window, twirled a pair of binoculars, which reminded Von Tastic of a gaucho preparing to release a bola.

"Presbyterians," Conan Kinnear speculated.

"Evidently," Rex chimed melodiously.

Eventually easing to a stop across from a parked Geo Metro, Conan turned off the engine. A nearby sign read, "2121 Milkweed Canyon."

"Well, this must be the place!" Kinnear declared. Aware that he might see action, the big Lutheran breathed deeply and smiled broadly.

Von Tastic hadn't come across a Geo in five years and said so. Six-feet six-inch Conan (whose curly hair added yet another half foot to combine for an imposing total of seven feet) confessed that he'd not realized that a US car company had ever manufactured such a tiny automobile, and the militant Lutheran stared at the miniature vehicle like someone in a museum might stare at a Faberge egg, impressed by its small size and attention to detail.

Turning away from the Geo the two Peorians passed through an open gate and began walking up the LEPIDOPTERIANs' driveway. Rextastic carried the picture of the embezzler Preston Cash, while Conan held high the likeness of Martin Luther, the Great Reformer and the founder of the One True Faith, to whom their mission had been dedicated. Oddly enough the likeness, which Conan bore aloft, was a copy of a drawing that the founder of Protestantism had posed for while experiencing a bout of dysentery. Consequently, Luther's expression was not that of a defiant spiritual pioneer, but was more along the lines of a distressed individual who had urgent business best conducted in a lavatory.

The uber Lutheran bore proudly Luther's picture as if it were vested with special powers and would provide both light and protection once they were inside the compound and surrounded by the enemies of piety. Even though Conan himself was not absolutely certain that this was the hiding place of Preston Cash, the sacred image emboldened him, and he straightened his posture and picked up his pace.

Rex Von Tastic had been in the middle of singing "There's No Business Like Show Business" when they'd parked across from the Geo Metro, and out of nervousness the spry, slender designer continued to hum the melody as the two approached the colony's dining hall. Unlike Conan, Rextastic did not look forward to the possible confrontation that awaited them on the other side of the door just ahead. Von Tastic continued to hum, and to further allay his fear, he simultaneously worked to perfect a dance step that he'd learned during his year in North Korea.

In the lead Conan began to barge through the LEPIDOPTERIANs' entrance without bothering to knock. Meanwhile, Rex, stopping in the middle of an arabesque, crossed his fingers, and hoped that the "butterfly people" shared nothing in common with the Branch Davidians who until 1993 had called Waco, Texas, their home.

Opening the door dispelled the fashion designer's fear of encountering gun-toting butterflies. Bodies were strewn everywhere, a sight to which rugby players are accustomed—but not so militant Lutherans. Recovering from his initial shock Rex turned in time to catch a glimpse of a sassily dressed gentleman beating a hasty retreat behind them. Von Tastic guessed that the man who carried a violin case under one arm could afford to lose seventy-five pounds, but otherwise he looked resplendent in his cowboy outfit with red scarf and western-style dungarees.

Meanwhile Conan produced a series of audible gasps; he suppressed an urge to throw up and considered leaving immediately, but he could not budge. He stood frozen in place while looking from the picture of Martin Luther to the dead people then back to the picture, a pattern he repeated for the better part of a minute, that is until Rex assured him that the portrait of Martin Luther was not the likely cause of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' demise, and that he was virtually certain that portraits do not kill, even sacred portraits, unless they are very large and are dropped from great heights.

While attending to his friend, Rextastic also felt a trifle ill though he kept his condition to himself. He'd never seen so many appallingly dressed dead people in his life. He could excuse them for being dead but not for wearing nylon on a summer day.

Suddenly Rex recalled the similarly attired individual whom he and Conan had come close to running over as the man frantically sprinted around a bend on Milkweed Canyon Lane. _A survivor_ , the fashion designer concluded in hindsight: _But who the hell were the old women in the van?_

It was then that Conan Kinnear heard whimpering at the far end of the room, and he and his partner headed cautiously in that direction. A hairless man and woman both dressed in identical black robes rested on the floor. The couple was, understandably, distraught. Rex Von Tastic signaled for his large (and somewhat scary) friend to stay back, and the fashion designer, continuing to hum, proceeded on alone. Holding out the picture of the thief who'd stolen the Lutheran's money, Rex slowly approached the grieving LEPIDOPTERIANs. After formally announcing his presence with a gentle "ahem," Von Tastic in his high-pitched voice politely asked, "Have you seen this person?"

As the Peorian spoke, the hairless man turned around, and Rex was able to read the nametag on the front of his robe: _Red Admiral_.

To the fashion designer Red Admiral seemed a bit putout as if he'd recently been pestered and resented yet another intrusion.

After a glance at the photo, the grieving butterfly looked up at Rex, and asked incredulously, "Tell me, what the hell would Ben Affleck be doin' around here?"

Rextastic clarified, "No, the person on Affleck's right."

"Oh, him. Well . . . er . . . yes. That would be Western Pygmy Blue," the LEPIDOPTERIAN said in response.

Rex, who at one time had owned an extensive butterfly collection and was quite familiar with the large group of butterflies known as the "Blues," pointed to the man in the picture standing along side Ben Affleck and asked, "You mean, he is Western Pygmy Blue?"

Red Admiral answered, "Yes, he is Western Pygmy Blue."

Rextastic straightened and turned slowly. When he got along side his partner, he whispered, "The man we saw running, dressed like these." Making a sour face Rex swept his arm toward the poorly attired dead bodies then continued, "Did he look familiar to you?"

The great warrior, still bearing the image of Martin Luther, but now holding it limply at his side, replied to his friend, "I thought at the time that I'd seen that face before, but I couldn't place it. What's your take?"

Von Tastic did not say a word. All that the smartly dressed man did was hold up the picture of Preston Cash in front of the leader of LUMP, and the gesture was enough to jog the memory of Conan the Librarian. It was obvious now; they had come quite close to running over their embezzler.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

RED ADMIRAL AND SPRING AZURE MEET THE HARVESTER

THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 2007

Rextastic Von Tastic and Conan Kinnear were more determined than ever to catch Preston Cash. After speaking with Red Admiral, they realized that it was Cash they'd seen running on the road toward town. Hurrying from the room filled with dead LEPIDOPTERIANs, the Lutherans left the couple to deal privately with their grief.

* * *

Two minutes after the militants took their leave the sound of knocking began issuing from behind a locked door—a door that adjoined the LEPIDOPTERIANs' dining hall. The curious knocking became louder and louder, then abruptly stopped.

From behind the same door a calm, soothing voice called out, "Spring Azure. Spring Azure. Come help me. Please, open my door. I can see that the key is in the lock. Spring Azure, all you have to do is turn the key."

It was difficult to tell if the person speaking was male or female; the tone, strange and muffled, sounded almost as if the speaker wore a mask. The message was repeated over and over until Red Admiral and Spring Azure could no longer ignore the Harvester's haunting plea.

* * *

Too overcome to stand, the distraught LEPIDOPTERIANs had been consoling one another while lying on the floor next to the dining hall's far wall. It was where they had stopped when the portly cowboy startled them. He wore a red bandana and carried, of all things, a violin case. How they jumped the first time the cowboy opened his mouth. The stranger then handed them a photo, and looked horribly disappointed when Red Admiral told the violin man that it was a picture of Western Pygmy Blue.

A few minutes after that came the little guy with the strange hair and the voice like Dorothy's from _The Wizard of Oz_. He also carried a photo, but in that one the Eiffel Tower stood in the background and Western Pygmy Blue was positioned next to Ben Affleck. The stranger with the high-pitched voice wore a red bandana similar to the cowboy's, and he hummed the show tune, "There's No Business Like Show Business," which was not one of Red Admiral's favorites—quite the opposite actually.

The LEPIDOPTERIANs were dead—next a procession of outsiders came looking for Western Pygmy Blue. The two survivors thought: _Surely, things can't get any worse_.

* * *

Red Admiral and Spring Azure had met and had fallen in love while living in the colony. Prior to coming separately to Arizona to answer the intriguing invitation of Tito Abellard, she from Colorado, he from Minnesota, each had been thoroughly disjointed—out of sync with their surroundings. For the first time in their lives the two lovers felt at home and would have been content to have remained "caterpillars" forever—but in a heart beat all had changed.

*** *** *

"Spring Azure. Spring Azure. Come help me . . ."

Together the couple stood, left their end of the dining hall, and slowly advanced toward the rickety door behind which came the hypnotic summons, ". . . all you have to do is turn the key." Curiously, they smelled ether as they drew nearer the Harvester's locked door.

Once again the two were adrift. No one remained to bring them food, to provide the comfort of like-minded people, to regiment their lives—only the Harvester's voice cut through the silence, ". . . all you have to do is turn the key."

Red Admiral reached for the key, which stuck out of the lock, but he stopped when Spring Azure violently shook her head no. Maybe the things they said about the Harvester were true? The ether practically overwhelmed, and feeling light-headed, Red Admiral began to blink.

". . . all you have to do is turn the key."

Spring Azure's face filled with fear; tears glistened in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. At that instant her lover decided that they would leave "this place of death." That they would return, together, to the world from which they had escaped. He'd found in her what had always been missing inside of him, and he was certain that Spring Azure felt the same.

". . . all you have to do is . . . ," the voice cutoff in mid-sentence.

The lovers had turned their backs on the door and had taken two steps toward the new life that awaited them on the outside when from behind them came a loud crash, and the door flew open.

Red Admiral jumped, began to wheel around, and caught a glint of light reflecting from a steel blade. He felt metal penetrate his side. A short, stocky, hairless person wielded the knife. The person wore rubber gloves, a black robe, and breathed through a portable respirator attached to a small oxygen bottle. The dark robe, the respirator's mouthpiece, and the labored breathing coming from its wearer caused the Harvester to resemble a stubby version of Lord Vader but without the upper portion of his black helmet.

Ten minutes later a cloud of dust billowed from behind Tito Abellard's 1959 Pontiac Bonneville as car and driver raced down Milkweed Canyon Lane heading toward Sedona, gripping the wheel, a totally bald person wearing civilian clothes. Sitting barely high enough to see over the steering wheel, the Harvester had one mission only—to deliver, willingly or unwillingly, Western Pygmy Blue to the Next Level. The meat-eating LEPIDOPTERIAN had already sent Red Admiral and Spring Azure on their way.

By the time the Pontiac had reached the edge of Sedona it was third in a short line of cars. A Geo Metro lumbered cautiously at the front of the string. Behind the wheel of the Metro was a heavy man with a bright red scarf around his neck and a cowboy hat on his head. Barely fitting in the miniature vehicle, the perspiring cowboy resembled a pimento stuffed in an olive. On the front seat next to the cowboy lay a violin case.

The second car in line was a brown Camry. Stenciled on the side of the Japanese import were the mysterious words "Lutherans United For More Power."

Pontiac, Toyota, Metro—the occupants of all three hunted the same quarry—a completely hairless swindler known to some as Mockingbird, a person guilty of many sins: the stealing of money from hapless Lutherans, the defrauding of West Coast utility customers, and the defamation of a group of elderly California women to name just a few. And now the felon had skipped out on his one chance for salvation—a trip to the Next Level.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THIRTY MINUTES LATER — THE LUTHERANS ROLL OUT THEIR BIG GUNS

"We saw him!" Conan Kinnear breathlessly reported over the phone.

"Where?" Newton Oyster, director of the Evangelical Lutheran – Nicene Offensive asked excitedly. The chinless Lutheran, made a fist, thrust his arm straight into the air, and followed the gesture of victory with, "YES!"

The mission's success would keep him in Chicago doing the work of the Lord, whereas, failure would surely land him back in South Dakota peddling "murder burgers" (a.k.a. hamburger) to voracious and insensitive meat eaters. Having to move would probably make Newton Oyster the only vegan in his hometown of Pierre where eating beef remained a permanent part of the cultural landscape.

_Don't they know that research funded by PETA has proven conclusively that cows function cognitively at a level equal to the typical American seventh grader, but that the tranquil bovines are the cause of far less vandalism?_ Oyster silently questioned as he scratched his head and furrowed his brow. He loved cows, and after being away from his home state for twenty-seven years, Newton did not think that he could mesh with such company. In the Windy City there were enough like him to support at least one passable meatless restaurant, but unfortunately it was a good twenty miles from Newton Oyster's front door.

The dutiful Conan the Librarian, blessed with jutting chin and superhuman resolve, described what he and Rex had seen as best and as accurately as he could. "He'd lost a lot of weight so we didn't recognize him at first. Plus Cash was completely hairless. I mean bald, bald as a billiard ball—like he'd shaved, and . . . and, well, he wore a graduation gown. He was running real fast down the middle of the road. He had on flip-flops and was being trailed by a van load of . . . of angry old women from California."

"Van . . . van load . . . of old . . . uh . . . women?" Oyster interjected.

The Director's newfound enthusiasm suddenly plummeted. He seemed to momentarily hang there far above the earth like that cartoon coyote after having been tricked for the thousandth time by that smart-ass bird. Oyster bore the same sickening expression as the coyote knowing that he'd just been bested and was in store for a long plunge—a plunge which could not possibly end happily.

"Yeah, old women—but just two of them, actually. Not a whole van load. I guess I got a little carried away. Say, maybe he stole their money too. But, anyway, he was running away from that compound where he'd been staying—a place called the LEPI . . . LEPI-DOP-TER-IAN colony. You know, Ms. Bun-King's butterfly ranch. By the way, most of the LEPIDOPTERIANs are dead. Rex thinks it was suicide, and that Cash refused to go along with the deal, then took off running."

When Conan finished speaking, there was only silence at the other end of the line. Mr. Oyster sat mutely at his desk with the phone's receiver pressed slackly to the side of his head. A disturbing picture haunted the small man's thoughts. The director of EL-NO saw himself in a chef's outfit; he held a giant spatula in his hand and was struggling to flip a ten-pound hamburger sizzling on a hot grill. In the background ghoulish Dakotans sporting insatiable appetites and long, sharp, saliva-dripping teeth were lined up eagerly waiting their turn to dine.

Finally, the vegan squeaked, "You . . . you saw this?"

"Yeah, Rex called the police just now and reported the deaths. You'll read about them in tomorrow's paper. Probably hear it on the radio in an hour or two. Listen, it is very possible that Cash is going to try to contact your secretary pretty soon. He looked to me, and Rex agrees, as if he needed consoling. Will you warn her? If he calls, try to convince Miss Bun-King to set up a meeting with him and send her out here as soon as possible. We lost Cash and have been driving all over town looking for him. Haven't had any luck. Lydia Bun-King is our only hope!"

* * *

Much to Newton Oyster's surprise most of what Conan Kinnear reported turned out to be true. Shortly thereafter the news of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' mass suicide hit the airways, breaking with the force of a mega-tsunami sweeping all other stories aside. It was almost as if the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan did not exist or were the merest of trifles. The nation even forgot briefly about _American Idol_ and about the continuing sagas of Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AGENT ORANGE AND MAJOR TROUT

In 1979 the hippie parents of Tickles Orange searched high and low for a name for their newborn daughter. Ella and Ada headed their short list. But each time Mr. and Mrs. Orange cuddled their baby, she erupted in a convulsion of giggles so adorable that the new parents christened their firstborn child Tickles.

It was a mistake.

By 1989 Baby Tickles had changed. She had not giggled in five years. And having turned into a studious bookworm had, most recently, read and reread _In Cold Blood_ , _The Silence of the Lambs_ , and _Jamestown—The Untold Story_ , which some would consider unusual choices for a ten-year-old named Tickles. By this time in her life she labeled herself a political conservative and saw her first name as one of many unfortunate decisions made by her liberal, reformist parents.

As a young adult, Tickles attended the University of North Dakota lettering in Track and Field, majoring in Abnormal Psychology, and specializing in cult murder/suicides—writing two monographs and her Master's thesis on the subject. In 2003 Ms. Orange began a career with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. She liked her job with the Bureau but felt at times that she swam in a tank filled with sharks. Because she worked in a man's world, Agent Orange had to be tough, and with her "distracting" first name the young woman had to be double tough. But tenaciousness was an integral part of the red-haired agent's character, and because of the implied frivolity of her first name, she tended to overcompensate by being mirthless and hard-nosed as well. On the afternoon of Thursday, August 23, 2007, she was directed to proceed alone to Sedona, Arizona, to assist local authorities in the investigation of the deaths of the LEPIDOPTERIANs.

Agent Tickles Orange's assignment was to search through the crime scene hunting for notes, journals, diaries, graffiti—anything written—that would allow her to "get inside the heads" of those involved. From her experience cult leaders tended to be prolific writers, full of themselves and obsessed by the message that they wished to share with the rest of the world.

* * *

When Orange arrived at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane, she introduced herself to B. Allen Trout of the Arizona Department of Criminal Investigations, the person in charge of the crime scene. The young agent made it a point never to mention her first name because, frankly, it was a distraction.

Likewise B. Allen Trout was careful not to reveal that the B. on his ID badge stood for Brook, making his actual name Brook Trout, a fact that tended to divert attention from official police business. Trout had recently changed jobs. His new position entailed more pay, greater responsibility, and the rank of major—in fact, he was the youngest major in the agency's history. The possibility that his uncle, the governor, had contributed substantially to Trout's sudden rise from work-place obscurity was the subject of speculation by a few and considered a certainty by many.

Major Trout tended to swagger when he walked; plus he dressed sharply, so sharply that judging from his clothes alone, he could have easily been mistaken for a banker. When he spoke, he struggled to aim high striving to achieve a professional tone—a tone befitting his rank. However, to the ear of FBI Agent Orange, Trout did not sound at all professional. In a slow, southwestern drawl, which Orange found irritating and for which she showed little patience, he told the young cult expert that he was happy to meet her, that she had not been expected until the next day, and that they could use all the help that they could get.

Stone-faced and with arms crossed, Orange stood waiting for the Arizona detective to finish his formalities. From the man's voice and manner she assumed that Trout had been raised in the country—specifically in a barn in the country.

For his part Major Trout could tell from the start that the FBI lady was "no nonsense." She spoke quickly and radiated an inherent impatience that he could sense as tangibly as he could feel the heat from a bonfire. Consequently, he skipped a few of the pleasantries that he'd intended to include. Despite the redhead's stony demeanor, he was certain that down deep she wanted him. When he'd gotten his new job, he'd speculated then that the power of his position would make for heady stuff causing women to practically fall into his arms. On that topic sufficient grounds existed to suspect that Brook Allen Trout harbored undo optimism.

"How did they die?" Agent Orange asked the detective pointedly. She had not bothered to acknowledge any of Trout's cordialities nor did she offer any of her own and had asked the question before the Arizona investigator had finished speaking.

"Oh. Er . . . huh, most were poisoned. Looks like the poison was mixed with sugar water, and they all drank it at the same time."

"What kind of poison?" keeping her questions short and not terribly difficult, Orange spoke crisply rushing her words but punching them out cleanly and clearly—her clothes impeccable, her manner all-business, her distain frosty and intact.

Trout could see that Orange was not completely at ease like someone waiting for an appendectomy. "A cocktail of rat poison and Ricin," he said, then paused to judge the agent's reaction, but detecting no reaction, he continued, "Ricin's a poison extracted from the castor bean. There's a big patch of the stuff out back, and we found a small lab just off the dining hall where the poison was prepared."

Her thighs were too thick for his taste. But in the interest of inter-institutional cooperation he'd decided he'd be charitable: _I'd sleep with the lady. She's probably overdue_.

"Who reported the killings?"

A glint appeared in Trout's eyes and the hint of a smile, "It's odd. We don't know. The locals got an anonymous tip. On the recording the voice sounds like that girl from that old movie. The one with the tornado . . . the flying monkeys . . . witches. Yeh know, she leaves Kansas. ( _Heh, heh_.)"

The FBI agent did not chuckle nor did she return his smile. Brook Trout strained to come up with a name. "Let's see; don't tell me. Dorothy, that's it! From _The Wizard of Oz_. Real high-pitched voice."

Tickles briefly considered grabbing the investigator by the ear and giving it a twist thinking that the action might speed up his delivery or at least cause him to lose his country drawl.

While she considered ways to improve his speech, the Arizona detective wondered if the overly serious FBI agent had heard of the Great Oz. He had a hard time picturing her skipping down the Yellow Brick Road with Toto in tow. He then became distracted by the image of Orange wearing a gingham dress, her hair braided into pigtails, and then starting to seductively remove her clothing.

Tickles Orange backtracked, "What do you mean, 'Most were poisoned?'"

Beginning to sense that he'd said something wrong, Trout did his best to answer her question, "Yeah, nineteen poisonings, two stabbings. The two were stabbed repeatedly. We found a ten-inch butcher knife next to their bodies. No fingerprints. Knife was clean." The investigator stopped speaking long enough to retrieve a small note pad from his shirt pocket, and then he read the names of the two LEPIDOPTERIANs who'd died violently, "Ah, let's see now, the male was Red Admiral and the female . . . 'something' Azure . . . eh, make that . . . Spring Azure. Can't read my own writing. ( _Heh, heh_.) Sorry, we don't have their real names. They each went by the name of a butterfly. Their butterfly names were written on the tags that they wore on their costumes. They ran this place like everyday was Halloween. ( _Heh, heh_.)"

Orange was surprised to learn that Trout could read, however, the way the man laughed each time he made a feeble joke only irritated her further. Each snigger and grin caused her eyes to narrow and her nostrils to flare.

When she glanced in another direction, Trout gave Orange a closer inspection. _Sex is out_ —it was one promise that he was certain he could keep. Well, practically certain.

"The two that were stabbed, where were their bodies?"

"With the others . . . here in the dining hall."

Five minutes had passed since their introduction, and Trout's radar had begun to detect the redhead's consistent stream of negative vibes. If a woman looked at him with longing, well, that was the way nature had intended. If otherwise, he labeled the woman a "lesbo." He used the word quite a lot. It seemed to him that he'd met more than his share of lesbos, a condition that he blamed on Hollywood imagining the place to be a nonstop lick-fest.

"What else? Other than being stabbed, what was different about those two?" The agent while staring at her country counterpart decided to edge closer to him thinking that narrowing the space between them would sharpen his focus, and the maneuver began producing results.

Swallowing uncomfortably, the Arizona detective proceeded to tell Orange all he knew, "From the blood spatter they were killed last. And, well, except for the leader, all the poisoned victims were seated at tables or had fallen off their chairs. The two who were stabbed appeared to have been standing when they were attacked . . . at least they weren't near any chairs. Also the male was struck from behind. The female had defensive wounds . . . must'a been killed last. Oh, almost forgot. The two bodies were arranged side-by-side. The killer put their hands together . . . huh . . . made it like they were holding hands."

"What?"

"I'm saying that after they were murdered, the killer positioned the victims as if he cared about them. You know, sort'a wanted them to look like a couple even though they were dead."

After a scratch of her head, Tickles asked, "Where exactly were their bodies found?" She did not fidget but looked coldly while standing just two inches from Major Trout whom she thought well named, a trout being a slimy creature.

Painfully aware that she'd intruded upon his personal space, B. Allen Trout began to shift nervously and said to himself as he backed away: _God, woman! Do you have to do that?_

As he backed into a chair and while pointing, the detective hurriedly told what he knew, "They were found there . . . on the floor . . . over there."

She looked. Across the room a door hung loosely from one hinge.

Trout continued, "Yes. Huh, in front of the . . . of the door to the lab where the castor beans were processed. The door was broken, you see. It had been locked and was forced from the inside. Wasn't much of a door, like something that my ex-brother-in-law would have put together. ( _Heh_.)"

This time the young major attempted to rein-in his habitual laugh having observed a connection between its occurrence and the flaring of Agent Orange's nostrils.

"I'll take a look," the agent said.

_Sure, take a look—anything to get you to back off_.

The room the two investigators entered reminded both of a bad science-fiction movie. An ether-smell hung in the air prompting Trout to add, "Our chemist says that ether is sometimes used in an intermediate step in processing castor bean poison."

During the FBI agent's inspection of the "laboratory," she noted the splintered door jam, spied the deadbolt still extended, saw the key protruding from the lock, and felt the rotten wood as she entered. When inside she noted the one-way mirror that had allowed the LEPIDOPTERIAN locked in the lab to secretly spy on those in the cafeteria. On a shelf a box of rat poison along with several jars marked "ETHER" most of them empty. A mortar and pestle lay in one corner. A bed and small chest of drawers took up space along the far wall. On top of the dresser rested a washbasin along with wet, bloody rags, and in another corner lay a crumpled black robe from under which peeked a respirator mask attached to an oxygen bottle. On the very bottom of the heap she discovered a pair of bloody rubber gloves overlapped by flip-flops. Crowded on a 1950's-style table set in the center of the room were glass tubing, beakers, and test tubes.

Trout opened the top drawer of the dresser—empty. The bottom drawer— except for one crumpled sock, also empty.

Orange picked the black robe off the top of the pile. It seemed to her identical to those that the dead were wearing. She looked closely at barely detectable spots scattered on the fabric, took scrapings, and said to Trout as the Arizona investigator looked over her shoulder, "Blood."

Next the red-haired agent held up the garment to gauge its size. She then spotted a patch of white, a label. Written in a scrawling hand was one word, "HARVESTER," followed closely by two spots of blood—one long and below that just a dot, a pattern similar to an exclamation point.

"Now that's the kind'a punctuation that can grab your attention. ( _Heh, heh_.)"

Finally one of Trout's comments had hit its mark. Orange looked at the major; her expression grim, she gave a slight nod as if she concurred.

B. Allen Trout sensed an opening in the agent's stony personality—not a wide opening to be sure. But in truth Trout no longer cared if Orange warmed to him or not. He'd already crossed off sex, and besides, he'd received advanced word that this woman was brilliant. The body count was twenty-one—a figure that matched Phoenix on a busy month. He needed her mind. Her mind and not her body—the sensation was alien to the investigator, and he was not sure how to proceed.

* * *

That evening Tickles determined that none of the dead wore a robe the size of the blood-spattered one she'd found in the LEPIDOPTERIANs' laboratory, and soon an image began to play in her mind:

. . . a man they called the Harvester wearing a black robe . . . repeatedly thrusting a butcher knife into two cult members . . . then thoughtfully arranging the bodies and folding their hands together . . . retreating into the lab, taking off gloves, flip-flops, respirator, and robe in that order . . . cleaning up, changing clothes, throwing the remaining items from the dresser into a bag, and then making tracks . . . in a hurry leaving a sock behind.

While standing alone in the colony's laboratory, Tickles Orange framed the question she would ask the Harvester if given the chance: "The nineteen are poisoned; you kill the other two and lay them side-by-side; so why leave? Why did you not then join your companions by committing suicide?"

Later in a different room the FBI agent was to uncover the answer to her question. The information she sought had been waiting for her, shut away in the personal diary of Tito Abellard, chief of the LEPIDOPTERIANs.

* * *

Despite his insanity, the Grand Monarch had been able to attract a following. _Who were they?_ Orange had asked sadly, as she leafed through Abellard's diary making a ledger listing the names of the flock. By Tickles Orange's tabulation, including their deranged leader, the LEPIDOPTERIANs numbered twenty-three. The body count had been two shy. Two LEPIDOPTERIANs were unaccounted for. Because of the blood-spattered cast-off robe, she was sure of one, the Harvester, but who was the other?

Later, after comparing her ledger extracted from Tito's diary with the list of the dead provided by the coroner, she named the second missing cult member: "Western Pygmy Blue."

The young agent continued to scan through Abellard's writings searching for clues, descriptions, anything dealing with the two who'd avoided the fate of the other LEPIDOPTERIANs. According to the Grand Monarch's journal, Western Pygmy Blue had been with the colony for two weeks and one day, and the circumstances surrounding his arrival were murky: appearing at the gate on foot, dressed in a tuxedo and, having in his possession a storage locker key (she made a note to check all storage rental facilities in Sedona).

Western Pygmy Blue, the man would be an invaluable witness—to both the murder-suicides and to the workings of the cult itself.

The diary contained more information about the Harvester. Oddly, Abellard never used a pronoun when referring to the mysterious butterfly that he kept locked up. The writing was general, nothing concrete, just rambling, god-like praise with a few notable exceptions. For instance, Abellard had commented that the person was a genius; another example found in the diary was that the mystery butterfly had been "the instrument of ultimate mercy;" and finally, that he Abellard had known the Harvester ". . . on the Lowest Level." If Orange interpreted "Ultimate Mercy" to mean death, then the Grand Monarch knowingly had harbored a murderer. . . . _reason for the locked door perhaps?_

Things were adding up. Tickles grew simultaneously excited and alarmed when she read the last entry of Tito Abellard's diary dated the morning of the murder/suicides:

I have talked to the Harvester. It is agreed. The Harvester will not metamorphosis with the rest of us but will remain behind in current form to insure everyone's transition. Anyone still breathing after drinking will be sent on their way by the Harvester's merciful hand. Only when all are accounted for will my selfless lieutenant and long-time friend join us and with us enjoy a bliss that is everlasting. T. A.

_Jackpot! Using the knife Harvester sent Red Admiral and Spring Azure to the Next Level. Somehow they'd missed out on the poison. Could it also be? Did Western Pygmy Blue balk when faced with death? And now is this Harvester person hunting him down to kill him as well and then, the job done, will Tito's "dispenser of ultimate mercy" join the others by committing suicide?_ Agent Orange reread the passage, stood quickly, and hurried from the room. Soon she'd cornered Major Brook Allen Trout and explained to the Arizona detective what she suspected.

Trout's comment: "What say we start our own butterfly collection. ( _Heh, heh_.)"

He grabbed his Stetson and they both headed for the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

FROM TITO ABELLARD'S PERSONAL DIARY

DIARY — ENTRY DATED WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15, 2007

One week has passed since Western Pygmy Blue came to our door. Sadly, he is cynical, and there hangs about the man an air of mistrust. I am certain that he thinks that he is using us and does not yet realize that he is part of the grand design. He is most certainly on the run, maybe from himself. The poor man must be burdened by many secrets. At any rate W.P.B. is definitely troubled and is far removed from the contentment that all creatures crave but that few on This Level enjoy. May the Creator's love, which burns with the brilliance of a thousand suns, melt our new friend's resistance so that he submits and embraces the adventure that we are about to share.

W.P.B. has a locker key—will not give it up. I have assigned Tiger Swallowtail to sit next to him in the dining hall. T.S. is to report to me anything pertaining to the key which Western Pygmy Blue wears around his neck and which will impede his journey to the Next Level. When our glorious adventure begins, it will be imperative that we band together and that no one strays for I am the shepherd, and they are my sheep.

I am concerned because our new companion is not adjusting—losing weight. He looks confused—bites his nails. Perhaps I judged him wrong, and he is a Harvester, though it is rare enough to find even one let alone two within a population as small as ours. However, if I am reading the signs correctly, W.P.B. will not have long to wait. Soon the Creator will beckon, and we shall follow.

In His Name and by His grace we humbly abide. T. A.
CHAPTER TWENTY

TRACKING AN ELEPHANT

Having found the FBI agent's explanation compelling, Trout put out an all-points bulletin—two LEPIDOPTERIANs were on the run and one a suspected murderer. Later that afternoon he and Orange arrived at Vortex Storage in Sedona having arranged to speak with the owner, Mr. Morris Towns. Towns told them that mid-morning on Thursday, August twenty-third, the day of the suicides, a hairless man wearing a graduation gown cleared out a small storage unit and left in a hurry. Mr. Towns added that he'd never seen the like in his fifty-two years. The guy didn't even stick around to collect his deposit money.

Saying that the hairless character had left behind a valet parking sign, the helpful Towns also produced the form that the person suspected of being Western Pygmy Blue had originally completed. A "Preston Cash" had signed the one-page rental agreement on Wednesday, August 8, 2007—the day, according to Abellard's diary, that Western Pygmy Blue first showed up at 2121 Milkweed Canyon Lane. Towns explained that he'd been on vacation on the eighth and a call to his assistant provided further proof—the man (Preston Cash) had arrived on foot and was wearing a black tuxedo with a white shirt, and all that he had placed in storage was a medium-sized brown suitcase and the valet parking sign.

"On foot. That's strange, isn't it?" Orange quizzed Trout. She then suggested, "We should check with Sedona P. D. See if anything unusual was reported on the eighth."

Indeed, two things out of the ordinary had occurred. First, two tourists, after sitting in the sun for three hours waiting to speak with someone called the "Oracle of the Red Rocks," reported that they had been accosted by four individuals claiming to be hungry aliens from outer space. The "aliens" then demanded money and got away with both cash and credit cards. It turned out that the "men from outer space" were more thirsty than hungry and were arrested later that day after having run up a 300-dollar tab at a Sedona tavern, which they paid using one of the stolen cards. There'd been a lot of alien-on-human crime in Sedona up to that point in 2007, and local law enforcement hoped that the arrest would mark a drop in future occurrences. The case was closed, and it appeared not to be connected with Orange and Trout's material witness.

The other unusual event that took place the same day that Cash had checked his suitcase was the discovery of a late-model Porsche Cayman S. The upscale sports car had been abandoned two blocks from Vortex Storage. The Porsche was registered to a Valentino Jungermann of Santa Monica, California, and he'd reported it stolen on August 7. When called, Jungermann admitted somewhat reluctantly that he had voluntarily turned over his keys to a man posing as a parking attendant then watched the thief drive off in his new 60,000-dollar sports car. It was at this point that B. Allen Trout witnessed one of Agent Orange's rare smiles—barely recognizable as such; it consisted of an awkward upturn of the corners of her mouth—more of a flutter than an actual grin.

All three of the witnesses, Towns, Towns' assistant, and Jungermann, described Western Pygmy Blue as thin, nondescript, wearing sunglasses, and having a barely memorable face. When asked about the man's voice, none of the three described Western Pygmy Blue's voice as being unusual, not at all similar to Dorothy's from _The Wizard of Oz._

The rapid progress that the two law enforcement agents made in tracking down Preston Cash stood in stark contrast to their search for the Harvester. Obviously very careful and quite clever, the "killer caterpillar" had left few clues. In contrast tracking Preston Cash had been easy, and Trout stated it in terms that Orange could appreciate, "He's like following an elephant through fresh snow. ( _Heh, heh_.)"

The comment prompted Orange to add, "It appears that the Harvester is far smarter than this Cash person."

On that they agreed.

* * *

The only thing that the FBI had in their system on someone named Preston Cash was a Chicago restraining order issued two years prior enjoining the man from practicing the bagpipes and prohibiting contact with two women who lived next door. An enquiry conducted by an agent from the Chicago FBI office learned only that all three, Cash and the two neighbors filing the complaint, had moved out approximately one month prior. Cash informed no one in advance and gave no indication where he could be reached. The two women, however, had left instructions for their mail to be forwarded to Hermosa Beach, California.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NEWS OF MORE DEFERRED SUCCESS AND BUTCHER BIRD'S TERSE REBUKE

2:00 P.M., THE DAY OF THE SUICIDES

At precisely 2:00 p.m., on the afternoon of August 23 Loggerhead Shrike (a.k.a. Butcher Bird), from her home in Southern California, was to dial the number of the pay phone next to the Shell gas station in Sedona, and Painted Bunting was to pick up the receiver. After ringing three times, Sergey Ostrovsky reluctantly answered.

"Hello," Sergey's voice lacked its usual robustness.

"Hello!"

There was no mistaking the source of the harsh salutation, and Stupendous Sergey unenthusiastically replied, "Painted Bunting here."

"You'll have to excuse me if I . . . if I sound a little blue. Huh . . . er . . . this is, by the way, Loggerhead Shrike. I'm afraid we've received some tragic news."

Sergey let out a sigh as Butcher Bird spoke; however, he noted that the old woman sounded curiously and uncharacteristically tired. After pausing briefly, the raspy hag continued to speak, "The Grandma Millies have . . . have lost one of our own. We are in mourning, and as an employee you are required to wear a black armband for the next ten days."

_An armband will be no problem_ , Ostrovsky thought. After considering the circumstances, it occurred to him that his sassy, red bandana might no longer be appropriate. Feeling that the moment was right to offer condolences, he attempted to console, "You have my deepest symp . . ."

But Shrike cut off the assassin in mid-sentence, "In a way it was your fault. If you had done your job correctly in the first place—you know, the Mockingbird job—there would have been no need for us to plant our operative inside the LEPIDOPTERIAN compound."

"Your operative?"

"Yes! One of our people was posing as a LEPIDOPTERIAN. She infiltrated one week ago. And . . . and now . . . well . . . you saw what happened . . . the poisonings. She's dead . . . all because you dropped the ball."

Once more Painted Bunting felt the sting of a terse rebuke, and Loggerhead Shrike was again the censure's acrid source. He pictured a Butcher Bird fastening another piece of flesh to a thorn. However, never having seen a depiction of the gruesome fowl, the assassin imagined a frowning, gargoyle-like bird resembling what would result from a tryst between a vulture and a duck (specifically, a Venice, California, duck).

_One deferred success and now this—the death of a Millie_. Sergey could think of nothing to say to ease the situation.

After a long pause, Shrike continued, "Naturally, we know what happened this morning. I mean about the killings in the LEPIDOPTERIAN colony. Three days before she died our operative placed a listening device and a miniature camera in the cafeteria. We also had two of our people posted on a nearby hilltop. They were uplinking the signal to a communications satellite and were keeping an eye on things. Our people spotted you driving up. I must say that I AM pleased that you are keeping your expenses to a minimum."

The news about the surveillance equipment came as no surprise, and concerning his sticking to budget, Sergey suspected that Shrike was referring to the tiny car he'd rented. A man his size and shape needed to be coated with grease and then "shoehorned" to fit into a Geo Metro. It was cruelty—another indignation that he was forced to endure because of the unreasonable demands of a bunch of out-of-control senior citizens. _Is there a nation-wide shortage of tranquilizers?_ Sergey silently pondered.

Meanwhile the grief over the loss of her colleague was taking its toll on the Shrike, and she paused to regain her composure. The silence unnerved Ostrovsky, and he endeavored to fill the void with an explanation of what he'd seen and done that morning while inside the compound. Plus, he wanted it understood that, at least this time, he was NOT to blame. Despite the Grandma Millie's "supposedly reliable" intelligence, Michael McKinley was not in the LEPIDOPTERIAN colony when the assassin arrived, and Sergey offered the following statement, which he served up with just the tiniest hint of self-righteous indignation, "I checked all the bodies twice. Mockingbird was not there. Nope. Not on the prem . . ."

"OF COURSE THE BODY WAS NOT THERE YOU BOOB!" Loggerhead Shrike appeared to have recovered from her grief rather quickly, and Mr. Ostrovsky had a sneaking suspicion that something he'd just said accounted for her quick revival. The assassin did not have long to wait for an explanation. "YOU RAN INTO MOCKINGBIRD WHEN YOU WERE ENTERING THE PLACE! YOU BOTH SAT ON THE GROUND LOOKING AT EACH OTHER!"

Understandably, Stupendous Sergey took the startling news rather hard. The skinny guy he'd collided with did not look anything like the picture of Michael Mockingbird McKinley that he carried in his pocket, but Shrike's revelation did explain McKinley's reaction. Sergey recalled the hairless man's look of exasperation coupled with his frightened shout. It was obvious now. McKinley recognized him as they sat there in the dirt outside of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' dining hall. The assassin made a mental note— _cowboy outfit, poor choice. Does not adequately change appearance. However, weight loss, shaved head and graduation gown—very effective!_ He filed the information away for future reference.

After a prolonged period of silence, Ostrovsky's comment to the judgmental bird of prey was brief but to the point: "Oh."

His keen insight and astonishing sense of protocol told him that more was called for. But "oh" was all that the overmatched brain of the assassin could cough up at that particular moment. The inadequate solitary syllable seemed to just lie there like a single bean on an otherwise empty dinner plate—impossible to ignore and far short of a meal. And like a smoking World War Two Spitfire (engine shot away and missing a wing) his reeling career seemed to be spiraling out of control, careening ever closer toward rock bottom.

"After your 'encounter' with Mockingbird, our people followed him into Sedona. He got a suitcase from a storage rental business, bought some clothes, and took a bus to Flagstaff. That's where he is right now. Not more than five minutes ago he checked into a hotel called the Inn of the Painted Bunting. It's a few blocks north of the downtown on Mockingbird Avenue."

"Hold it," Sergey, not fully recuperated from the distressing news, felt certain that the old woman was confused. "Are you sure of your facts. I AM Painted Bunting, and Mockingbird is . . . well . . . huh, you know . . . Mockingbird."

"I know you are the Painted Bunting, Painted Bunting, and yes, I am well aware that Mockingbird is Mockingbird. WHAT I AM TELLING YOU IS THAT MOCKINGBIRD, OUR MOCKINGBIRD, IS, RIGHT THIS MINUTE, A LODGER AT THE INN OF THE PAINTED BUNTING LOCATED ON MOCKINGBIRD AVENUE IN FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA."

"Just a . . . just a second. Let me get a piece of paper from the car; I gotta write this stuff down."

While Sergey retreated to the Geo to retrieve the note pad that he kept handy for just such occasions, Loggerhead Shrike stayed on the line trying to recall her doctor's advice concerning the lowering of elevated blood pressure by using yoga relaxation techniques. She began a breathing exercise he'd recommended, which involved deep breaths followed by forceful exhalations.

Eventually, Ostrovsky returned to the phone booth and was getting ready to apologize for taking so long; the pad of paper had gotten shoved under the passenger seat. Picking up the receiver, which dangled at the end of its cord, Sergey could hear the sound of heavy breathing coming through the earpiece. It sounded as if Shrike was planning to make an obscene phone call and was taking advantage of the free moment to practice, "Ah . . . er . . . Loggerhead Shrike?"

"IT'S ABOUT TIME!"

"Sorry," the contract killer uttered feebly. "Now that was the Mockingbird Inn on Painted Bunting Avenue." The dyslexic Sergey Ostrovsky spoke slowly as he scribbled on the note pad, which had picked up quite a bit of Arizona dirt and someone's discarded chewing gum while residing below the Geo Metro's front passenger seat. He had discovered the gum too late and began simultaneously extricating both his right thumb and the tip of his pencil from the sticky substance.

"NO, NO! NOT THE MOCKINGBIRD INN ON PAINTED BUNTING AVENUE," Loggerhead Shrike could feel the pressure in her head rising to dangerous levels. "MOCKINGBIRD IS STAYING AT THE INN OF THE PAINTED BUNTING ON MOCKINGBIRD AVENUE! MY GOD, MAN!"

"Okay . . . ah . . . okay," Ostrovsky busied himself crossing off some of the marks he'd made and adding others. Momentarily left unattended, the gum seemed to advance across the page.

"Before you hang up, repeat what you have!" To Butcher Bird her request seemed trifle. But just then the battle for the assassin's limited attention happened to be tilting in favor of the wad of gum. As the seconds ticked by without a response, the elderly woman sensed that her systolic had rocketed past 300. "I SAID REPEAT WHAT YOU HAVE!"

But the gum had outflanked the frustrated Floridian by jumping off the page and onto the receiver. By a brilliant tactical maneuver (which caught Sergey completely by surprise), it had gained the heights of his red bandana. The advantage attained by the victorious wad of bubble gum kept the portly contract killer off balance and uncertain from what direction the next assault would come.

Loggerhead Shrike thought she heard a desperate squeal on the other end of the line before the phone mysteriously went dead. Despite several attempts to reestablish contact, Shrike's efforts produced only busy signals. Because there was no one in the room to act as witness, and because she thought that her doctor would wholeheartedly approve, the charter member, current president, and special operations chairperson of the Grandma Millies yelled at the top of her lungs, "THAT DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FLOSSIE SEGADOR

THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 2007

After Preston Cash collected the Lutheran's money from his locker at Vortex Storage, he immediately purchased less conspicuous clothing. His new wardrobe included a wide-brimmed felt hat, which he pulled low over his eyes to conceal the fact that he no longer possessed eyebrows. When Cash left the clothing store, he resembled a businessman but with a hint of mystery, no doubt owing to his prescription sunglasses and to the secretive slant of his new fedora. Next on his list, a ride out of town.

On his way to the Sedona bus station the swindler noticed a dusty van with California plates parked three doors down from the clothing store and pointed in the direction that he was walking. A satellite dish sprouted from the top of the van, and he could see an old woman inside hiding behind very dark sunglasses. She plainly glowered in his direction as he hustled past.

The line in the Happy Trails Bus Station was short, and the former "caterpillar" anxiously asked the agent what was the first bus scheduled to head out of town.

"Oh, that would be the Number Twenty-seven. It'll be leaving for Flagstaff in ten minutes. Be pulling out'a dock three."

Preston Cash signaled that a deal had been struck. He paid the man the fare, and, relieved to soon be leaving the land of the LEPIDOPTERIANs, he let out a loud sigh.

Cash picked an aisle seat in the middle of the Number Twenty-seven Bus and placed his suitcase next to him. Once settled, he scrunched low and pretended to sleep. Hearing a small commotion in the front of the vehicle, the ex-caterpillar opened one eye and spied a short, old lady laboring to climb aboard. As wide as she was tall the woman lugged a purse large enough to hold a set of encyclopedias and, judging from her strained expression, almost as heavy. Despite the fact that the bus was practically empty, the heavyset senior chose a seat across the aisle from him, placing her no farther than forty inches from his left elbow.

_Oh great!_ At that moment the surviving LEPIDOPTERIAN just wanted to be left alone.

Western Pygmy Blue secretively opened his eyes a second time when the driver plopped down behind the wheel, an act accompanied by the official rustling of papers, the adjusting of knobs, the throwing of a switch, and an announcement over the P.A. system: "This is Bus Number Twenty-seven, with stops in Flagstaff, Winona, Winslow, Holbrook, and Gallup, New Mexico. Thank you for choosing Happy Trails. Our business is getting you there on time and with a smile."

With that said the door closed, and the big bus began inching out of dock number three.

Preston Cash heard a distressed voice to his left, "Did he say they are going to serve chop suey?"

Cash looked across the aisle and was about to clarify when the old lady added, "Oh, I hope not. I have so much trouble digesting Italian food."

The former LEPIDOPTERIAN suspiciously searched the old woman's face for a hint of a smile but could find there only concern and sincere worry. He grimaced, closed his eyes, and returned to feigning sleep.

After sixty seconds, Western Pygmy Blue felt a light tap on his arm, and he looked again in the woman's direction. Facing him, the old lady leaned halfway across the aisle. Cash could not help but observe that she wore gobs of hastily applied make-up, had dowsed herself with flowery perfume, and had topped off all with an awful wig. The hairpiece did not sit purposely upon her head, guided and arranged there by a careful hand, but appeared to have gained its position by attack. The inelegant accessory struck Cash as having once belonged to a small animal, perhaps something in the cat family.

The lady seemed ready to speak, but instead she only stared at Cash, her mouth half open. Frozen in that position for at least ten seconds, the old woman suddenly came to life, "I'm sorry. I forgot what I was going to ask."

Preston smiled weakly, nodded his head, and filled the awkward moment that followed by asking the lady if she was from California, to which the old woman quickly responded, "Oh no. Not at all. I am Catholic."

"Umm," the swindler was not interested in clearing up the confusion, and, once again, he closed his eyes.

After the passage of an additional minute, Preston Cash felt a second tap. "I remembered what I was going to ask." The lady seemed inordinately pleased with herself as she delivered her temporarily forgotten question, "Do you like dogs?"

"Dogs?"

"Yes, dogs. Do you like them?"

"Yeah, I suppose I do."

"I have two, yeh know. My neighbor is taking care of them while I visit my mother in Flagstaff."

"Your mother?" To Preston Cash the lady sitting near him looked to be eighty. "Do you mind me asking? Just how old is your mother anyway?"

Once more the lady's expression turned blank. She rubbed her chin, made a vain attempt to straighten her wig, then confessed, "I can't remember. But I do know she was born in 1910. How old would that make a person?"

Cash hardly had to think. He was very good with numbers, "Depends, if her birthday is today or prior to today, ninety-seven. If after today, ninety-six."

She smiled queasily as if confused by Cash's answer. And rather than reveal the month and day of her mother's birth, she pointed to her humongous purse and offered him tea instead. Preston Cash respectfully declined.

Next, the woman changed the direction of their conversation as if she'd concluded that everything of interest had been squeezed from the topics of dogs and birthdays, "Where are you headed?"

"My ticket's to Flagstaff. I'm an accountant—have a job interview there tomorrow," Cash had pulled that last "fact" from his imagination.

"My name is Flossie, Flossie Segador. It's Spanish. What's yours?"

Preston Cash hesitated. He had not anticipated that the subject would come up and wasn't sure what he would go with this time. However, he knew that it was extremely important not to stumble over such a question, so, "Preston, Preston Cash," formed naturally on his lips.

Flossie Segador smiled, "Cash. What an appropriate name for an accountant."

The fact that the old lady made the connection between his fictitious name and his semi-fictitious occupation both surprised and pleased the swindler. He chuckled and complimented, "Very good. Your mother, is she in a nursing home?"

"Oh no. She's in business. Sharp as a tack, she is. Owns the Inn of the Painted Bunting just two blocks from the Flagstaff Bus Station."

"Do you visit her often?"

"Not often enough I'm afraid. This time I'm going to help her with finances. She's looking to invest, . . . has 200,000 dollars in her checking account, and, I must admit, I'm not sure what to tell her."

Flossie Segador had suddenly gotten Preston Cash's full attention. EL-NO's former fiscal officer was an expert at "investing" other people's money, and, at the same time, he thought it a shame not to help himself to a gratuity, though most took issue with his idea of the ideal tip, which, in Cash's mind, amounted to 100 percent of everything.

The proclamation that 200,000 dollars lay idle represented the turning point in their conversation. Afterwards Preston began to play his "trusted advisor" role; he started plying her with wit and charm; and he patiently listened to stories about Wags and Fritz, Flossie's two dachshunds, who'd been left with a neighbor back in Sedona. This she repeated several times, while he attempted to interject at every turn tales of his many experiences and successes in the field of financial planning.

Miss Segador appeared to be absolutely floored when she learned that the man sitting within arm's reach had actually talked Donald Trump out of investing in airline stocks and instead had convinced the man to pour his fortune into real estate. Her eyes sparkled at the rate of return that Preston's client Steven Spielberg was getting on debentures, though she herself seemed perplexed when Preston Cash explained the meaning of the term. Despite Flossie's understandable confusion Mr. Cash assured her that HE knew the in's and out's of debentures like he knew the back of his own hand, and that he could purchase them without incurring a sales charge. Plus he did not neglect to inform Flossie of the importance of sheltering one's profits from federal income taxes and how this was not difficult if one followed a maze of carefully timed requirements, which once had tripped up Allen Greenspan causing the famous economist to incur a substantial penalty and earning him a reprimand from the Internal Revenue Service.

Preston Cash was both surprised and delighted when his new acquaintance hit upon the idea that he stay for free at the Inn of the Painted Bunting in exchange for investment advice. Later he assisted Flossie by carrying her heavy purse, and she politely warned him to be careful because the large gaudy affair contained glass.

The swindler found it difficult not to laugh out loud as he escorted Ms. Segador to her mother's run-down hotel two blocks from the bus terminal. While the old lady went on about Wags and Fritz, he silently said to himself more than once: _This will be like taking candy from a baby._
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A PHONE CALL FROM HONEY BUNCH

FRIDAY, AUGUST 24, 2007 — FROM FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA'S, INN OF THE PAINTED BUNTING TO EL-NO HEADQUARTERS, CHICAGO

"Hello, Evangelical Lutheran - Nicene Offensive. Like, ah, how may I direct your call?"

"Lydia, it's me—Preston."

"OH! Ah . . . hi, Honey Bunch. . . . Er . . . great . . . ah . . . ta hear your voice. Like, hum, how, . . . how are things your way?" Bun-King's words could be heard loud and clear despite the persistent smacking of gum, a sound that the love-struck swindler did not find at all distracting. In fact in his mind he had categorized the constant snapping and popping of her Juicy Fruit as more melody than irritant.

"Could be better," the swindler attempted to sound suave. He pictured Indiana Jones but felt more like Daffy Duck. "But," he continued after an uncomfortably long pause, "things are beginning to look up. Um . . . er . . . are . . . are you ready for a little R and R?"

Bun-King had heard of S and M, but failed to work out in her head the two "R" words. Finally after hemming and hawing, she asked point blankly, "What's R and R?"

"Rest and Relaxation. What'd you think it meant?"

One thing Ms. Bun-King did not like about Preston was that he was very smart and could make a person like her feel stupid without actually trying.

The voluptuous office assistant thought it best not to answer his question and took another tack, "Like, ah, Honey Bunch, why do I get the feeling that if I spend time with you the last thing I'm gonna get is rest?"

"That's not so bad is it? ( _Heh, heh_ )," Cash lewdly chuckled.

"No, that's not bad at all. Like, ah, I can't think of a thing that I'd rather be doing right now." The curvaceous Lydia Bun-King spoke the words in her sugary, bedroom voice, which caused Director Newton Oyster, who was listening on another line, to begin producing saliva at the same rate as a tethered mastiff eyeing a T-bone steak resting three feet beyond the end of its chain. Having received Lydia's prearranged signal, both Oyster and the Toad-man Kermit Plaid had picked up in time to catch most of what their ex-fiscal officer had to say.

The following resulted from the Cash – Bun-King telephone conversation: Using accrued vacation days she would fly to Flagstaff and would take a cab to the Inn of the Painted Bunting on Mockingbird Avenue. Once there Lydia would explain to the ancient lady at reception that her name was Mrs. Lydia Cash, wife of Preston Cash—the Inn of the Painted Bunting being an establishment where such details mattered. In fact next to "vacancy" three other words were painted on the weather-beaten wooden sign in front of the venerable Flagstaff establishment: "Culture, Refinement, and Propriety."

After hanging up, Director Oyster and his toad-like henchman each dipped into their personal savings to purchase Bun-King's plane fare and to pay for new luggage and a wardrobe suitable for travel in the Great American West. She also insisted on a five percent finder's fee on any money recovered from the embezzler—a highly "Presbyterian" demand, to which Newton Oyster quickly acquiesced.

* * *

Not long after finalizing the negotiations, Oyster called Rex Von Tastic's cell phone and asked to speak with Rex's partner Conan Kinnear. Next the director of EL-NO updated the big man on the latest developments.

When the seven-foot (hair included) militant Lutheran hung up, he said to his flamboyant sidekick, "Well, the trap is set!"

The big militant gleefully wrung his hands then withdrew from his pants the picture of Martin Luther safeguarded by its wooden frame. Conan Kinnear pointed Luther's sour face skyward and gave a hearty, maniacal laugh similar to those which issue routinely from the basements of asylums throughout the world.

Rex looked at his friend and smiled uncomfortably.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ANTICIPATION

Preston Cash's stay at the Inn of the Painted Bunting was relaxing except for the fact that practically every time the "trusted advisor" turned around, Flossie Segador materialized as if by magic. Mainly she wanted to keep her new friend abreast of the latest news—most of which revolved around Wags and Fritz. Apparently they were exceedingly "clever" dogs but were shamelessly given to barking at the mailman and to lounging on her new velveteen-upholstered couch (it had a floral pattern and tasseled end cushions). Because of their behavior, she had to "constantly discipline 'her two bad boys.'" Plus she was always insisting that Preston sit with her and share a pot of tea—a beverage that Cash distained, and about which he was too polite to divulge his true feelings.

Each time they met, the smooth talking swindler would first respectfully decline Flossie's "generous" offer of tea, then he would skillfully maneuver the conversation in the direction of investments and sooner or later would get around to the "ancient lady's" idle 200,000 dollars. On one occasion he staged events so that the owner of the Painted Bunting, the ancient lady herself, was virtually certain to overhear every word, but still his conniving produced no results. Finally, Cash asked Flossie outright when would be a good time for the three of them to sit down over coffee and discuss debentures and triple "A" rated bonds. Flossie only managed to look uncomfortable and did not commit. She bit her lip and changed the subject by asking Preston if he required another look at her mother's directory of Flagstaff churches. The tactic caused Cash to stammer and successfully derailed the con man's smooth banter.

For some reason Preston Cash felt that Flossie's mother was satisfied with keeping her money in a checking account and did not relish accepting financial advice from a stranger. He could not quite put his finger on where he'd gotten the impression, but perhaps it was the way the old fossil would wake up and glare at him each time he strolled past her reception desk. Searching for a silver lining, the swindler thought to himself: _Well, at least I'm getting free housing and in a place that has little contact with the outside world_.

* * *

On the afternoon of the first full day of his stay at the Painted Bunting Preston Cash began to notice the odd, "up-tight" couple who'd checked in next door. Shortly after the man and woman moved into room 118, Cash discovered a hole in the wall that he shared with the pair. It was a freshly drilled hole. The presence of plaster dust on his desktop alerted him to its presence.

The swindler concluded that the two in the next room were voyeurs. Whenever he passed one or the other in the hall, he made it a point to avoid eye contact and not provide an opportunity to begin a dialogue— _no telling what might pass for conversation_. The Inn of the Painted Bunting was not in the best part of town, and the swindler assumed that, despite the sign over the entrance, which spelled out the high value that management placed on decency, various acts of defilement were probably not unheard of in the run-down establishment.

Using chewing gum Preston Cash eventually filled the hole in the plaster, and he made a point of checking for signs of fresh drilling. The hotel's walls were paper-thin yet he heard barely a sound out of the "peeping-toms" in the adjacent unit. Prior to repairing the wall damage and having quite a lot of spare time, Preston spent some of it peering into room 118. He was amused to discover that the well-dressed couple kept their clothes on the entire time—all of their clothes, including the man's dress slacks and matching coat and her gray, gabardine, two-piece suit. As the swindler took advantage of the hole's presence, it struck him that the occupants of 118 did not resemble perverts at all but instead could have passed for up-and-coming business executives like those that once prowled the halls of BDI during his halcyon days, and he reminded himself to keep one hand on his wallet at all times. However, nothing he observed awakened his highly tuned flight response, and he went about his business as if what he saw was not out of the ordinary. At the moment his primary duties entailed straightening the room in preparation for Lydia Bun-King's impending arrival and, ever the optimist, stocking up on fresh condoms.

After talking on the phone with Lydia, Cash could think of little else. Like a trained, high-strung hunting dog alerting its master to the presence of game, his penis stiffened and stayed "on point" for nearly twenty-four hours, a record for an Evangelical Lutheran. His erection, like the elephant in the room that everyone chooses to ignore, introduced an embarrassing element into his chance meetings with Flossie. He surmised that the phenomena may have tweaked Ms. Segador's curiosity and lead to the pick-up in the incidence of their _unplanned_ encounters.

Since Preston had been born a Lutheran, the duration and the persistence of his "condition" came as a surprise. But he speculated that because he no longer practiced his parent's faith, it was probably normal for the Evangelical Lutheran gene to unravel and be overridden by that streak of "Presbyterianism" that most people have encoded in their strands of double helix.

At any rate his noticeable protrusion and his ardent longing produced in the swindler a not unpleasant sensation—a sensation that Cash hoped Lydia Bun-King would share. However, the condition was not entirely pleasing because he experienced a shortness of breath and some chaffing when climbing the stairs. Further, Preston hoped that Lydia would be so absorbed with getting their reunion off to a "good start" that she would not notice that he'd become even skinnier and completely hairless in the weeks that had intervened since last they met.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE TEAM OF ORANGE AND TROUT

Though reluctant to admit the truth, B. Allen Trout learned quite a lot from FBI Agent Orange. Her intuition astounded him. And her drive, well, to say the least, she impressed. But as a partner, the young lady was as much fun as a toothache.

After calling Santa Monica, California, to inquire about the abandoned Porsche, she and Trout stopped by Sedona's tiny airport but turned up nothing. They next drove downtown and found a bus station agent who recognized Western Pygmy Blue's description; the lack of eyebrows tipped him off. The man working the Happy Trails ticket window recollected that the hairless individual was in a hurry to leave town and didn't care about his destination.

"He just wanted to go and as soon as possible," the station agent recalled.

After screwing up his face and rubbing his forehead, the man standing behind the counter remembered selling the hairless fugitive a one-way to Flagstaff.

From the Happy Trails' security camera the two law enforcement officers printed a grainy picture of the surviving LEPIDOPTERIAN whom Orange and Trout believed was being hunted by the Harvester. They'd had no luck whatsoever tracking the murdering caterpillar, but it was Trout who pointed out that if they found Preston Cash (i.e. Western Pygmy Blue), that they would not only have their witness to the suicides, but that the clever Harvester might be close behind ready to send Blue to the Next Level. They could use their guy as bait—a piece of cheese to trap a rat.

The pragmatic Orange approved. She looked at Trout in a whole new light after that—not as an equal, of course, but at least one step above "turd."

From a telephone interview with the bus driver who transported "The Cheese" to Flagstaff, the partners learned that Blue, Western Pygmy (Orange habitually referred to those she investigated by stating their last name first), had struck up a conversation with an older woman. The Happy Trails veteran driver added that the pair had gotten off the bus together and that Western Pygmy Blue had helped her with her things. The driver recalled seeing them leave the Flagstaff station on foot heading north, and that "their man" was carrying one suitcase and a woman's purse—quite large and evidently very heavy.

Trout and Orange concluded that Blue was escorting the old lady to a house or to an apartment close by, and early the next morning the detectives drove to Flagstaff to begin canvassing the neighborhood north of the bus terminal. After separating and each carrying photos of The Cheese, they began knocking on doors asking anyone and everyone if they recognized their material witness and hoped-for piece of bait.

At eleven a.m. Trout received a call on his cell phone from Orange. She was at a run-down hotel called the Inn of the Painted Bunting. Apparently the elderly lady behind the reception counter, after carefully studying the photo from the Sedona bus station security camera, made a positive identification. "Preston Cash," the old woman had hissed the name.

The Cheese was checked into room 116. FBI Agent Tickles Orange refused to explain to the hotel owner the nature of her lodger's crime—just that he was "a person of interest," which had the same impact as saying that Cash was a serial killer.

Despite a lack of hard facts, the ancient lady decided that having Preston Cash guide her investments was akin to stopping by Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment just prior to lunch. Added to that, past experience caused the owner of the Painted Bunting to mistrust her daughter's choice of friends. Flossie's track record had not always been good, and the old woman thought it best not to inform her only child of the presence of the police, thinking that Flossie might be imprudent enough to alert the scoundrel and scare him off before enough evidence could be collected to make an arrest.

On top of everything else, Flossie's mother was quite putout with her daughter. The alert ninety-seven-year-old shook her head in disgust. She'd overheard a conservation Flossie had had with the so-called investment counselor. For some unfathomable reason her misguided daughter had given Mr. Preston Cash the impression that she carried a 200,000-dollar balance in her checking account. _More like 200 dollars!_ the old lady huffed indignantly.

* * *

Agent Orange and Officer Trout checked into adjacent room 118 under the names Mr. and Mrs. Bob and Susan Jones. They drilled a hole in the wall, which separated them from The Cheese, and took turns listening to him and following his movements. The partners assumed that the Harvester, like the other LEPIDOPTERIANs, would be shaved from head to foot. So they kept a sharp lookout for the approach of a hairless individual wearing articles meant to deceive—like a wig, a big hat, or a shirt with long sleeves, clothing not typically worn during the month of August in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Their trap was set and appropriately baited.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A TALE OF TWO CHEESES

SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 2007

When the taxicab transporting Lydia Bun-King stopped in front of the Inn of the Painted Bunting, its arrival marked the happiest moment in the life of Preston Cash. In measures of pure joy Lydia's appearance exceeded even his best days at BDI. But little did he know that following two car lengths behind the woman from Chicago were the members of LUMP. Bun-King was the very same person who professed allegiance to Martin Luther but whose "equipment" and proclivities aligned her more with the teachings of Calvin and Knox—to quote Conan Kinnear, "The two men responsible for history's sad footnote censuring them for the social upheaval that today is known as Presbyterianism."

Conan the Librarian had been on the phone with EL-NO's attractive office assistant and had promised the woman that he and Rextastic would be right behind her. One minute tops, and the militant Lutherans would break down Cash's hotel room door to relieve the crook of the embezzled money and to relieve her of the odious possibility of engaging in sexual intercourse with the "horny" swindler whose expectations would undoubtedly be running high. She was, after all, the bait that LUMP was using to catch the "rat." The encouraging but false-hearted words, which she had cooed to Preston over the telephone, had been carefully scripted to insure that the swindler would remain at the Inn of the Painted Bunting to "nibble on a little cheese." The men from LUMP assured Lydia that they would personally return her to Chicago as soon as the stolen money was collected and counted.

Bun-King was well aware that she was being employed to help capture Honeybunch, but neither she nor Honeybunch realized that he, Preston, was also being used as bait—in his case to catch the Harvester. Trout and Orange were watching their cheese, while Kinnear and Von Tastic were keeping sharp eyes on theirs. Like two charged particles in the Hadron Collider the two cheeses were about to meet. Who could predict the outcome of such alchemy?

* * *

Minutes before arriving at the Inn of the Painted Bunting Ms. Bun-King ended her cell phone call. Turning her head, she spotted the brown Toyota following her taxi. Painted on its side were the reassuring words "Lutherans United for More Power." The promises made by the men from Peoria buoyed her confidence, which had begun to seriously flag. Lydia Bun-King thanked her lucky stars for two blessings: first, that Kermit Plaid (whom she referred to as the Toadmeister, but not to his face) had convinced her boss to request LUMP's assistance, and, second, that the Lutherans had not discovered that she was a Presbyterian placed in their midst to collect intelligence for an organization called the CALVIN-KNIGHTS (EL-NO's Presbyterian counterpart). The subversive Presbyterians were preparing a dossier of illegal and ill-advised Lutheran activities and were about to begin a new offensive designed to give the Evangelical Lutherans their comeuppance. What field agent Bun-King (codenamed Bosom Buddy) had been digging up for the past year provided "interesting" fodder in the CALVIN-KNIGHT'S planned assault poised to begin in two weeks.

At times spying on EL-NO had been extremely tedious. The Lutherans were a boring bunch who seldom laughed and who took themselves altogether too seriously. For quite some time Lydia Bun-King had been aware that the toad-like Kermit Plaid monitored the web site, _presby_nation.org_ , searching for secret messages and clues to the opposition's newest strategies. To spice up office routine Lydia would post her own phony notes on the site. She chose her words carefully, crafting messages designed to stir the pot and to befuddle EL-NO's leadership. "The wool suit is Oyster and Plaid," and "The 'el no' top taco _es muy caliente_ ," had worked extremely well throwing her bosses into a frenzy, which she found to be on par with watching a Stooges movie. Newton Oyster and Toadmeister Plaid accomplished next to nothing on the days that Lydia Bun-King invented a new communiqué.

As her taxi approached the Inn of the Painted Bunting, Lydia began to smile. She was about to earn a finder's fee for her efforts, and she could not stop doing the math. Her cut (five percent of 400,000) would amount to twenty thousand dollars—money which, upon returning home, she planned to place as a down payment on a new BMW Z-car. During the cab ride in from the airport, Bun-King gazed longingly at an advertisement that she had ripped from a magazine while on the airplane. She held in her hand a picture of a burgundy sports car and read the accompanying line, "Treat yourself to style!" Her smile broadened.

When the voluptuous Presbyterian spy spotted Preston Cash for the first time in over a month, three things struck her as alarming: first, he had lost a lot of weight and did not appear at all healthy. She could not suppress the unexpected and unfamiliar feeling of self-reproach that began to well inside her—self-reproach caused by the prospect of taking advantage of someone in Cash's vulnerable state. Secondly, as Honey Bunch (Lydia's pet name for "poor, dear Preston") walked toward her cab, which had come to a screeching halt in front of the Inn of the Painted Bunting, Bun-King observed that the man she had scheduled to meet appeared to be in the middle of chemotherapy—he was completely bald; even his eyebrows were missing. Not that Cash's hair was much to begin with, but other than treatment for a catastrophic illness or an unlikely explosion while visiting a depilatory factory, she could think of nothing else to explain his hairless condition. (The disarming con man was to confirm later in the hotel room that "cases like mine are, indeed, fatal over eighty percent of the time," though he did not get into specifics—such as what cases like his exactly were. And, he added innocently that it was the reason why he "borrowed" the Lutheran's money in the first place—to cover his anticipated medical bills.) Once again, she felt the pangs of guilt normally reserved for the duplicitous. And, lastly, she could not help but notice the ardent swelling in Preston Cash's pants. The bulge seemed to affect her admirer's walk, producing an obvious forward lean and at the same time fueling the red-faced Honey Bunch's awkward attempt to conceal the protrusion with his hand. Sensing correctly that his hand alone was not equal to the task, Cash grabbed a folded newspaper from a chair and held it clumsily in front of his zipper. But he failed to note that the front page headline, which read in full: _UNEMPLOYMENT—HARD ON FAMILIES_ , was folded in such a way that Lydia Bun-King could read only the middle two words.

* * *

Under the watchful eyes of Orange and Trout, Preston Cash eagerly escorted the lovely Lydia to his room. Dressed as one more interested in the pleasures of this life rather than in the rewards of the next, it was safe to say that the scantily clad woman was not the Harvester, and Trout provided an alternate explanation, which he whispered to Agent Orange, "No doubt a high-priced prostitute."

The FBI agent responded with a knowing smirk, which contained a hint of puritanical indignation. She was astounded that such "goings-on" continue to occur in a country where the ministry of the Reverend Pat Robertson is simultaneously broadcast on seven cable television stations. And she asked herself: _Will America ever win the war against lust and debauchery?_ The outcome did not look promising, for it seemed to her (as she looked through the peephole into the adjoining room) that the nation was about to loose serious ground.

A short time later Orange and Trout watched as two suspicious characters climbed out of a brown Toyota and stole over to the entrance of the Inn of the Painted Bunting. Trout suggested, and Orange concurred, that the little man was wearing a disguise—the blousy, long-sleeved black shirt, the red bandana, and that hair. Nobody had hair that extreme: brown, frosted, and fashioned into numerous "pointy things"—it had to be a cheap toupee, the kind intended to startle the faint-hearted and normally sold to trick-or-treaters toward the end of October.

And the other man—a giant wearing minister's clothing—who was HE trying to fool?!!! It looked as if a black French Poodle had been blow-dried then glued to his head.

B. Allen Trout glanced in the direction of his new partner and stated grimly, "I think this is it. One or both have got to be the Harvester! Get ready to roll!"

Once again FBI Agent Orange nodded in agreement.

* * *

Rex Von Tastic and Conan Kinnear spent that night in the Flagstaff City Jail. When Orange and Trout confronted the pair, there was some confusion resulting in Kinnear offering "token resistance" to which the officers of the law took exception. While Trout was busy identifying himself as a member of the "Arizona Division of Criminal Investigations," Orange was shouting "Federal Bureau of Investigations," and, to the two startled Lutherans, what the couple who were pointing guns at them were saying ran together and the gist of their message got lost in the heat of the moment.

Conan Kinnear carrying his picture of Martin Luther had turned it threateningly toward the pair who'd rushed out of room 118. But unfortunately Conan's lightning reflex did nothing to deter the onslaught. And because those challenging them had not been phased by Martin Luther's bilious scowl, Kinnear jumped to the conclusion that the heavily armed individuals were Presbyterians associated with the loathsome CALVIN-KNIGHTS—it being common knowledge that such people harbor a natural immunity to the power of Luther's image.

Apparently, in Arizona, when a suspect thrusts a drawing of Martin Luther to within inches of the face of an arresting officer, the act is interpreted as a challenge to the policeman's authority and is dealt with in a closed-minded, knee-jerk manner. The great warrior of the Evangelical Lutherans was quickly disarmed, and the portrait of Martin Luther placed in an evidence bag. In the process the sacred talisman was handled crassly with no deference whatsoever—an indignation which Conan immediately protested: "Why, it's a sacrilege. . . a desecration . . . a desecration tantamount to burning the flag . . . only . . . only . . . different!"

"Or to mixing paisley with stripes!" an excited Rextastic added contemptuously. Then, in a calmer voice, the little Lutheran proceeded to correct the male officer who'd arrested them by pointing out that the portrait he'd just mistreated was of the Great Reformer and not that of Osama bin Laden as the cretin had mistakenly claimed.

Having been read their rights, the two from LUMP were handcuffed and led away.

While Kinnear had initially been positive that they were being accosted by militant Presbyterians, his partner was not so sure. However, the fashion designer was certain of one thing—the woman's charcoal gabardine twill two-piece suit and satiny silk Charmeuse blouse were well tailored and possessed an understated elegance worthy of comment.

Shortly before being finger printed, the single phone call that the two Lutherans were granted went to their boss Newton Oyster of Chicago. In highly agitated tones Conan explained to the director of EL-NO that their arrest and impending incarceration made it impossible for them to intercede on Lydia Bun-King's behalf, and that the poor unfortunate woman was at that very moment in the clutches of the villainous and highly aroused embezzler.

* * *

By eleven a.m. the next morning, far too late to benefit Ms. Bun-King, enough information had been assembled to clear the Lutherans. Conan and Rex were free to go. Evidently, following twenty hours of deliberation, the police decided that Conan's displaying a picture of Martin Luther did not constitute an act of terrorism, and the portrait was returned to the leader of LUMP without apology.

As their night in jail came to an end, Rextastic handed one of the guards a napkin on which the fashion designer had sketched his suggestions for improving the orange jump suits that he and the other inmates had been forced to wear. He hoped that the appropriate officials would take his recommendations to heart because the present prison attire was truly an abomination and probably contributed to the high rate of recidivism experienced by penal institutions throughout Arizona.

* * *

Because both of the characters that they subdued and hauled to the Flagstaff City Jail showed no sign of hair loss, Orange and Trout were certain that the Harvester was still at large. As soon as the unusual Lutherans were behind bars, the two representatives of law enforcement hurried back to the Inn of the Painted Bunting intending to resume their vigil. As they traveled the length of Mockingbird Avenue, the perceptive Tickles Orange speculated aloud, "I'll wager that those two were the prostitute's pimps."

Trout offered an alternative theory, "Or part of a robbery setup. She gets the john naked in the room, and those two goons come along, work him over, then steal his money."

The FBI agent nodded, but she had trouble with the picture. The little man whom her partner referred to as one of the "goons" had complimented her twice on her outfit. He even knew the label and commented in detail concerning the quality of the gabardine.

Orange and Trout got back to the Inn of the Painted Bunting one hour after arresting the two suspicious men in the hall one door down from The Cheese. Upon returning to room 118, they were, thanks to the Inn's paper-thin walls, greeted by the sounds of passionate lovemaking. Their piece of bait was making up for lost time—a considerable amount of lost time. In uncomfortable silence Major Trout and Agent Orange endured listening to the squeaking bedsprings and fervent moaning coming from room 116.

Twice that night Trout and Orange intercepted strangers in the hallway outside their room. On both occasions the men they momentarily detained proved to be making deliveries from a nearby pharmacy. Evidently the couple in the room next door needed to renew their supply of lubricant and condoms and had called for reinforcements.

Except for the two deliveries, the lusty noises did not abate until early the following morning. All through the long night the envious Trout silently pondered: _Where does a guy get a whore like that? And what in-God's-name must she charge?_

By 2:00 a.m. the sweating B. Allen Trout had made plans to cash in his IRA, then, using comp-time, begin a search for the amazing prostitute currently servicing The Cheese.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE STRANGER WORE A TURBAN

SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007 (THE NEXT MORNING)

With much yawning and stretching the occupants of room 118, a Mr. and Mrs. Bob and Susan Jones (as recorded in the register at the front desk of the Inn of the Painted Bunting), greeted the new day. Next door The Cheese and his hooker were asleep; the Jones' (alias Orange and Trout) could hear the couple snoring through the hotel's walls. The sound reminded the recently divorced Trout of his former mother-in-law. After consuming a heavy meal followed by six beers, she generated the same number of decibels as the slumbering pair in 116.

"Wow, I'm glad that's over!" B. Allen Trout declared half-heartedly, too embarrassed to look his partner in the eye. He was, of course, referring to the loud concert of hot, "Lutheran" love, which had lasted the entire night.

Trout's sentiment was not lost on the stern FBI agent with whom he shared the memorable experience, she on one side of the room, he on the other (both fully clothed). The Arizona investigator wondered, fleetingly, if his severely repressed partner ever thought about sex, then reconsidered, figuring that the Federal Bureau of Investigations probably had regulations strictly limiting intimacy to procreation.

Suddenly the snoring next door stopped, and the lusty moaning recommenced.

"Holy shit! I'm going to the lobby and get us some caffeine." With these words Trout excused himself and set off alone on his mission.

Fifteen minutes came and went. Investigator Trout had not returned. A passionate chorus of "OH GOD's" and "AMEN's" sounded in the background, followed by, ". . . ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS, MARCHING OFF TO WAR . . ." Never having actually made love before, Orange wondered if hymns, prayers, and jubilant adulation always attended sexual intercourse. What she listened to was not unlike church services back home in North Dakota—or, more accurately, what she imagined church services would be like if the entire congregation were "under the influence of illegal chemical stimulants," a thought Tickles Orange found hard to bear, but, at the same time, toward which she was strangely drawn.

The FBI agent had been born and raised an Evangelical Lutheran, was about to turn twenty-eight, and was not quite sure what the whole business of sex was all about. Unlike her friends of other faiths, she had never felt the urge, though, admittedly, last night's "entertainment" did start her thinking.

Just then Orange heard a faint ruckus coming from a different direction. She thought she caught a man's voice angrily exclaim, "Arizona Department of Criminal Investigations!" but could not be sure. Leaving her post to look into the matter, Orange arrived in the hotel's reception area in time to witness B. Allen Trout wrestling with a small, middle-aged gentleman wearing a turban. The wound up bolt of fabric adhered to the man's head as if it had been applied with a tube of glue.

The turbaned individual bit and scratched while hollering, "Mind your own business, you filthy miscreant!"

Orange's sensitive ear detected the faint but unmistakable accent of the Dakotas. For an instant the young FBI agent waxed nostalgic before reviving and coming to the aid of her partner who was currently busy attempting to extract two of his fingers from the mouth of the scrappy Dakotan. Since she'd caught the little man in an impeachable position (i.e. having a portion of Major Trout clamped firmly between his teeth), it was clear to the agent that the testy fellow was guilty of resisting a peace officer, and even though they were in the Wild West, she felt certain that Arizona had statutes discouraging such behavior if not for reasons of maintaining civil order then at least for the sake of public hygiene. Consequently, her response was not long in coming.

Tickles Orange knew exactly what to do. Grabbing the criminal by the scrotum, she applied a measured amount of pressure, which quickly forced her adversary to relinquish his grasp upon Trout's two digits. After listening to the joyful supplications of fornicating protestants for over twelve hours, she held on to the man's genitalia for slightly longer than was necessary, letting go only after handcuffs had been applied and after Trout began pleading on behalf of the anguished son of the northern prairies whose turban had somehow remained squarely on his head despite his violent thrashing—thrashing due to Orange's firm grasp.

Later, while Tickles washed her hands with antibacterial soap, Trout excitedly explained that during the early stages of their tussle the turbaned man's false beard and mustache had come off and went flying across the room. The Arizona investigator was certain that this time they'd captured the Harvester, but the celebration was short-lived. When Trout with some difficulty removed the suspect's turban, he found what he'd hoped would be missing—hair.

Sensing vaguely that a mistake had been made, the manacled gentleman called the two who'd arrested him "Godless sons-of-Presbyterians," an epithet with which neither was familiar.

Trout, still winded, glanced at the I.D. in the perpetrator's wallet then asked between breaths, "So, . . . Mr. Newton Oyster . . . of Chicago, Illinois, . . . what brings you to . . . Flagstaff?"

At first Oyster was too mortified to say anything and opened up later while they were on their way to the Flagstaff City Jail. "I . . . I am here to check on my . . . my wife."

"Oh?" Trout broke in. Two of his fingers bore impressions of the man's incisors, and the young major was still plenty angry, "I heard you ask the lady at the desk about Preston Cash. Are you trying to tell us that you're married to him?"

"Well, ah. Yeah, that's right. I did ask about Cash. I believe that he . . .um, and my wife . . . ( _swallow_ ) . . . are seeing one another. This is hard for me to talk about. Yesterday, she . . . well . . . ran off to this place to be with him."

The false sincerity, which the director of EL-NO was able to muster, happened to be just enough to convince the law enforcement officials that he was telling the truth. For Newton Oyster the task did not require much of a stretch because he had strong feelings for Lydia Bun-King, and the thieving upstart Preston Cash had done the equivalent of butt into Newton's line. Besides, being a Lutheran activist meant having to bend the truth now and then; the two went hand in hand—all part of that "fight fire with fire" shtick.

Orange and Trout immediately recalled the immodestly dressed young women whom, until then, they'd falsely assumed was a prostitute. Unknowingly, both silently asked themselves similar questions: _What did a good-looking, well-endowed young woman like her see in this middle-aged, malnourished, rodent-like creature?_

The eyes of the law enforcement officials simultaneously narrowed, and Mr. Oyster sensed that an attempt to deceive was afoot. The two were withholding information, and he guessed that they knew for certain that Lydia had spent the night with Preston Cash—no doubt locked in intimate embrace.

When the realization set in, EL-NO's valiant director took a silent oath: _By all that is holy and as long as I draw breath, poor, sweet, innocent Lydia Bun-King will never have to face another night of sexual humiliation and forced debauchery._ As he made the pledge, the small man's salivary glands began to kick into overdrive, and drool started to form at the edge of his narrow mouth—similar to the reaction of an oversexed Yorkshire terrier when preparing to mount an ovulating German Shepard. To be sure, Bun-King was a whole lot of woman!

After conferring with one another, the arresting officers agreed not to file charges and instead took the former Dakotan to the Flagstaff Airport. They watched as Newton Oyster purchased a one-way ticket home and secured from the jilted husband a promise that he would be on the next flight to Chicago and, further, that he would not return to the hotel and risk routing The Cheese from their trap.

Orange and Trout drove back to the Inn of the Painted Bunting. Fresh coffees in hand, they entered room 118.

"OH GOD! OH GOD! YES! YES! YES! JESUS BE PRAISED!" was coming through the wall, and straightaway B. Allen Trout walked over to the window, opened it wide, and leaned out to inhale the thin dry air of northern Arizona. He considered jumping, but as their room was on the first floor, only three feet separated windowsill from pavement.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE HAZARDS OF JUNK FOOD

LATER THAT SAME DAY

The coffee was weak. Agent Orange nodded several times before drifting off. The amorous Protestants next door had fallen asleep as well. Officer Trout kept poking his head out of the window of room 118 hoping that the fresh air and sunshine would revive him. With the Harvester still at large, someone needed to guard The Cheese.

Around eleven in the morning Trout began combing through the Yellow Pages looking under "restaurants." He figured he should order a pizza but did not know what toppings Orange preferred. She was still dead to the world, and he did not want to wake her.

The Inn of the Painted Bunting is an old, mostly wooden structure, and because the floors produce as many squeaks as the hotel's rusty bedsprings, it is impossible for someone to pass by in the hall unnoticed. Suddenly Trout tensed. He slowly closed the phone book, silently tiptoed across the room, and pressed his ear to the door.

The soft footsteps that he detected in the hallway stopped one room over. Evidently someone was standing in front of 116 where The Cheese, known also as Preston Cash, was peacefully sleeping. Major Trout heard no knock; the individual must have been standing there listening. From the snoring, undoubtedly the mystery person could tell that the lusty Cheese and his sex-crazed paramour were asleep.

Removing his gun from his shoulder holster, Trout at the same time clicked off its safety. He could hear himself breathing even over the loud snoring coming from next door. In one swift move he thrust open the door, jumped into the hallway, and, training his gun in front of him, discovered that it pointed at a short, but very heavy, old lady who, too startled to say a word, immediately slumped to the floor. Later, after waking from her faint, she indignantly explained that her name was Flossie Segador, daughter of the hotel's owner, and that she was checking on her friend in room 116, having not seen him since his wife arrived.

"Wife? She's HIS wife?" In light of the statements made earlier by a Mr. Newton Oyster of Chicago, Illinois, claiming that the trollop in question was also OYSTER'S wife, Trout was understandably taken aback.

"Yes, he is an accountant and an investment counselor, here for a job interview. His wife flew in to join him. Today they plan to take a look at the city. I'm just glad that they did not witness your less-than-warm welcome. Now, why, may I ask, are YOU lurking around the place pointing guns at innocent people?"

He had already identified himself as a member of the Arizona Department of Criminal Investigations and, impressed by his partner's professional deportment, decided to stick with the same line that Orange had originally delivered to the lady's mother: "Preston Cash is a person of interest, and he is presently under surveillance." Trout swore Flossie to secrecy but was not convinced that the disgruntled senior citizen would keep her word.

Once Brook Allen Trout determined that Ms. Segador had only known Mr. Cash for a few days, and that they'd met while on a bus from Sedona, he'd figured out "what was what:" _Cash is covering up his act of adultery by claiming that he and his strumpet are married!_ Trout's indignation was exceeded only by his disappointment that he was not the one in the sack with the alluring tart.

The excitable old woman at whom, minutes before, Major Trout had pointed his semi-automatic was eventually able to negotiate the hallway unassisted; she looked back three times as she staggered off and glared hatefully at the lawman each time she turned around. Hardly two minutes had passed before Trout heard the telephone ringing in room 116. It did not take a genius to understand that this Flossie person was calling to warn The Cheese.

The snoring next door ceased. The Arizona investigator could hear sleepy chatter through the walls, then a drowsy "Hello . . ."

When an extremely agitated Brook Trout shook the foot of Tickles Orange, the FBI agent woke with a start.

"Get up! Get up! Someone's warning The Cheese!" Trout spoke in a loud, earnest whisper, except she heard "Someone's WARMING the cheese."

With her eyes half open and her red hair jammed into the pillow, Orange responded, "Yes. That sounds nice."

"NO! NO! Someone's calling our guy next door and warning him that we're here."

Tickles lifted her head, and Trout did a double take. Her hair pointed in several directions at once but mostly splayed like the tail feathers of a male peacock eager to impress. It appeared to Brook Trout that during her nap Agent Orange's head had somehow encountered a mysterious energy field—like the kind that at least once per episode plagued the starship _Enterprise_. He would have discreetly brought the problem to her attention, however at that moment, while glancing toward the window, Trout witnessed Cash and his girl friend climbing out of theirs.

First the absconding pair threw their baggage onto the ground, then they scrambled after, all the while fumbling to tuck in clothing and to button buttons. Having watched her arrive the preceding day, Trout recognized the woman's two large white suitcases bearing embossed letters, which glamorously spelled out "LYDIA" in sparkling rhinestones—as if Cash's sex-goddess girl friend was some sort of Nashville superstar. The third suitcase to hit the ground was brown, tattered, and predated the addition of wheels to luggage. Like a starving man snatching up a morsel of food, Preston Cash grabbed the brown bag and gripped it for all he was worth, causing the Arizona investigator to momentarily wonder what it contained.

Orange and Trout watched as the two struggled to run down the street. Evidently, the woman's cases weighed in the neighborhood of fifty pounds apiece. Investigator Trout was ready to exit the building and start the chase; however, the prudent Orange, not yet fully awake, calmly suggested that they wait and follow at a distance. "Let them think that they have given us the slip," she said while yawning and stretching. "Chances are they don't even know about me. Remember, that for now we're not out to catch Cash. We're just using him as bait." The self-possessed FBI agent counseled coolly while simultaneously blinking the sleep from her eyes.

Once the obvious had been pointed out to him, Trout understood. He stopped and took a deep breath. _Orange's smart_ , he said to himself. _Lugging all that weight around, Cash and company would be both easy to keep up with and easy to spot_. The horny Cheese and the steamy tart were only a hundred feet away, and were pulling and tugging on their possessions like a couple of looters exiting an appliance store.

No longer feeling the need to hurry Investigator Trout, for the second time in five minutes, was about to broach the subject of Orange's distracting hair when quite unexpectedly, he heard a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood. Evidently, someone had forced open the door to The Cheese's vacated room. A startled Orange and Trout listened. The loud report of footsteps could be heard. From the noise, a large person was obviously making a beeline from their neighbor's door straight to the open window from which Cash and his companion had recently exited. Even though Trout heard the footsteps, he jumped when a heavy man wearing a cowboy hat and a black armband appeared and leaned out of the window next door. Cash and his large-breasted consort were in plain sight and continued to struggle with their luggage as they attempted to make their getaway. Thus preoccupied, the couple had not noticed the fat man's arrival, and because the fat man's interest lay solely with the couple, he in turn had not observed Major Trout.

From his vantage point five feet away the inspector discovered that the stout cowboy carried only a bag of potato chips. Thinking it curious, Trout studiously asked himself: _Why would someone armed with potato chips break down a door?_ And he searched the cobwebbed corners of his sleep-deprived brain attempting to come up with an explanation.

The cowboy is big enough and looks mean enough; maybe Newton Oyster hired him.

Oyster was the turban-wearing weasel Trout and Orange had, earlier, presented with an ultimatum: go to jail or return to Chicago. _Perhaps Mr. Oyster has had enough time to engage the services of a local thug in order to give Preston Cash a few bruises as payback for running off with his tempting young wife._ The notion seemed plausible.

Trout had carried a picture in his mind of what the Harvester looked like and "heavy-set cowboy carrying junk food" did not come close to a match. Besides, the back of the man's hands bristled with thick, black hair—not a LEPIDOPTERIAN trademark.

Bracing himself, the Arizona investigator prepared to lean out of his window in order to tap the fat man on the shoulder. Trout planned to explain that the damages to the door, not to mention the act of breaking and entering, did not go unnoticed, and that he, the fat man with hairy hands, would be libel for any and all required repairs. But before Officer Trout could deliver his message, the hoodlum swore softly then stuck his sizeable mitt into the junk food sack as if he were grabbing a really large and heavy potato chip. With his other hand he yanked the bag away and callously tossed it to the ground, adding "littering" to his accumulating list of offenses.

The Arizona lawman froze momentarily. For the large man's hairy hand did not contain snack food at all but a very substantial gun on the end of which was attached an illegal silencer—one more statutory infraction. The heavy man drew a deep breath as he took aim in the direction of Cash and the women with big tits who Brook Allen Trout had judged to be exceptionally "humpable" (though Trout did not, in all honesty, think that he could duplicate Preston Cash's colossal performance by remaining "motivated" for twelve hours. Therefore, the young major feared, that if given the chance, that he might not do the Arizona Department of Criminal Investigations proud. Just the same, it was a risk he was willing to take).

Major Trout had always been taught to quickly intervene when witnessing a crime, and also, to make it plain to the criminal that he was, in fact, an officer of the law and had the legal authority to make an arrest. It was second nature—so much a part of his constitution that Trout did not think twice when, with his gun STILL in its holster, the following words automatically emerged from his mouth: "STOP! ARIZONA DEPARTMENT OF CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS!"

Appreciative of the fact that the police official leaning out of the neighboring window was a creature who acted reflexively without adequately thinking things through, the surprised cowboy used the opportunity to wheel and fire. The bullet hit the obliging officer in the right shoulder. Major Trout yelled as he felt the impact then fell over backward, temporarily pinning Agent Orange beneath him.

Despite the pain and despite the fact that the man who'd shot him did not match the picture that he carried in his head of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' secret killer, Brook Allen Trout thought as he lay on the floor: _I don't friggin' care if his hands are hairy; surely, THIS guy's gotta be the Harvester!_ After all Trout and his partner had already detained a substantial number of candidates—none of whom had panned out. Then for a split second he marveled at the incredible amount of interest generated by their Cheese. _Is there anyone who doesn't want this guy dead?_

* * *

Mr. Sergey Ostrovsky, codenamed Painted Bunting, was very good with a gun. He knew this to be true. The knowledge fed his confidence and his hubris as well. Plus, no one would have guessed that a fat man could strike so quickly—like a scorpion—a 250-pound scorpion. It was an advantage that played into his hand that day inside the Inn of the Painted Bunting.

After shooting the obliging character who'd graciously identified himself as a member of the law enforcement community, Ostrovsky laboriously climbed out of the window of room 116, accidentally inserting one shoe into the potato chip bag that he'd rashly discarded a moment earlier. He then began his pursuit of "Mockingbird." This time the assassin felt that his odds of catching the man who had twice humiliated him were in his favor, and Stupendous Sergey began to compose what he would say to Loggerhead Shrike after he had corrected his string of "deferred successes."

Gun in hand, Stupendous Sergey traveled twenty feet before stopping to free himself from the piece of litter attached to his foot. Once again he proceeded to swear when he discovered that the bag adhered to his shoe with a force rivaling that which links a pair of copulating Lutherans.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EL-NO'S AND THE FBI'S TRAGIC SETBACKS

It did not take Agent Orange long to crawl out from under her partner B. Allen Trout who'd been shot by the fat man wearing the black armband. Once assured that Trout's wound was not life-threatening, and at his urging, she climbed out the window of room 118 with cell phone in one hand and gun in the other.

As the determined member of the FBI began to follow the assassin, she punch in 911 and ordered that an ambulance be sent to the Inn of the Painted Bunting. During her tenure with the Bureau, Orange had never had occasion to shoot someone or, more importantly, to be the target of a shooting. The prospect was like taking amphetamines—not something she enjoyed. She found herself keyed up, turned from her normally cool, clear-thinking self into something quite different.

Despite being in Arizona, not many in the street were wearing cowboy hats, and Orange had no trouble keeping her quarry in sight. Deciding belatedly that the situation called for backup, she redialed 911 and reported that there was a person with a gun who'd shot a law enforcement officer in the Inn of the Painted Bunting. She gave the dispatcher her location and was about to describe the shooter and report the direction that he was heading, but her phone abruptly quit. A glance at the screen confirmed her suspicion— _dead battery_.

The agent from North Dakota still wore the charcoal gabardine twill two-piece suit and the satiny silk Charmeuse blouse, which the day before had drawn raves from fashion designer Rextastic Von Tastic. In the intervening twenty hours she'd slept in the same clothing and performed little in the way of personal hygiene.

Upon rising each morning, Agent Tickles Orange's normal routine was to spend an hour working to subdue her naturally unruly hair, an indulgence she, for lack of time, had neglected that particular a.m. After all, just minutes earlier she had been sound asleep. If the frenetic yet focused woman had passed in front of a mirror as she chased after the plump man wearing the cowboy hat, she would have confirmed what Trout had noticed earlier, that her red kinky hair appeared to have been arranged by lightning strike. One look at the woman whose eyes reflected rather accurately her wild "wired" state, and a bystander would have been less likely to conclude that she worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and would have been far more likely to guess that she was an indigent. And her new hairstyle—the electrocuted look—made her appear to be a crazed indigent at that.

After Orange's phone stopped working, very little time passed before she heard police sirens signaling that help was on the way. She was gaining on the stout cowboy who'd shot her partner and was at a point where she could also make out Cash and the slut in the distance. For an instant she thought that she glimpsed the little man who'd promised to return to Chicago—the slut's jilted husband, Newton Oyster. Then she was sure of it. _The little crumb has lied to us! . . . which is just totally out of sync with his Dakota roots!_ she silently and caustically observed. He had even retrieved his turban, for there it was plastered squarely on the scrawny weasel's head.

Positioned between the cowboy and The Cheese, Oyster was ducking behind light posts and mailboxes, anything that would screen him from the two he followed. In fact Newton Oyster was so intent on tailing Cash and the wanton Mrs. Oyster (who unknown to Orange, was not Mrs. Oyster at all but was only Mr. Oyster's employee, Miss Lydia Bun-King) that the lying scoundrel remained completely unaware of the two people who were behind him—namely the assassin and Agent Orange, in that order.

The sirens grew louder; Orange gauged that her reinforcements were one block away. Just then the man with the black armband withdrew the gun, which he'd stuck in his pants, and took hasty aim. She heard a faint puff, and a gaping hole immediately opened in one of the supposed Mrs. Oyster's expensive white suitcases. Bits and pieces of tawdry red lingerie flew everywhere.

Like a blow to the solar plexus, the sight temporarily stole Orange's breath. _Who but the shameless and the depraved would wear such whorish trappings?_ she sputtered silently. The flying debris made it appear as if terrorists had struck Victoria's Secret. Thankfully no children were present.

* * *

Upon turning, Preston Cash instantly recognized the shooter of Bun-King's fine Samsonite but did not see Oyster who happened to be crouching behind a planter box. Preston and his consort decided to jettison both of the white cases, figuring correctly, that they could cover more ground without them.

Cash had quickly explained to Bun-King that her choices boiled down to "traveling light and thereby enjoying a normal life span" or "living only five more minutes but spending the time in possession of _haute couture_ luggage." Lydia hesitated but chose wisely in the end.

* * *

As she ran, Agent Orange kept her eyes glued on the stocky cowboy whom she and Trout belatedly concluded was the murdering Harvester. She saw the man readying to take a third shot. Having previously dispatched B. Allen Trout and one of Lydia's fine suitcases, the suspected LEPIDOPTERIAN hit man clearly meant business. This time he knelt and carefully steadied his gun hand. The nearest siren wailed immediately behind the FBI agent, but the police were not yet out of their cars. Tickles had to act and had to act fast. Leveling her semi-automatic, she aimed at the fat man whom she figured was not planning to "take out" the other piece of Bun-King's topnotch luggage.

Next, things happened so quickly that it was almost too much for Agent Orange to absorb. Before she could shoot, the Harvester's gun kicked back. This time she did not hear the "puff" that attends the firing of silenced pistols. There was too much noise: wailing sirens, screeching tires, people yelling. Just as Orange witnessed the recoil of the assassin's gun, Mr. Newton Oyster stepped from behind a tree, and he immediately fell to the ground. A split second later the intensely focused FBI agent was startled by the deafening sound of gunfire—a single shot, directly behind her, and at close range. She felt the sting of a bullet as it tore into her after first making a hole in her smart charcoal gabardine twill suit coat and another in her satiny silk Charmeuse blouse, which had been her favorite and a Christmas gift from her parents. The damage that the bullet did to her left arm was repairable, but the suit coat and blouse were ruined. Tickle's gun went flying, rattling to a stop on the pavement ten feet in front of her.

To Orange's utter amazement, a Flagstaff Policeman declared loudly and hotly that she was under arrest! Another read her her rights; a third eventually had the red-haired agent whisked away by ambulance without offering to check out her assertions that there was a killer caterpillar named the Harvester; that the fat killer was one of the two surviving LEPIDOPTERIANs; that he wore a cowboy hat and a black armband; that he was going to murder The Cheese; that he'd already shot both her partner Major Trout and the turban-wearing Oyster; and that she was Agent Orange of the FBI; and . . . and . . .

But Orange noted that the more she carried on, the wider the smiles grew on the policemen's faces—some of the smiles had even turned into outright laughter.

"LEPI-what?" she heard from one of the cops as he not so gently cuffed her to the gurney she'd been placed upon.

Someone else added, "Be careful. Said her partner is a trout—but not just any trout, a MAJOR trout."

"What was that about a caterpillar wearing a cowboy hat?"

"Can't murder cheese. Cheese is already dead."

"Hey lady! Something you outta know, caterpillars don't wear armbands. They don't got no arms! Just feet. Lots'a feet."

"And oysters dey don't wear turbans neither. You know why? Dey don't got heads!"

Another officer incredulously: "Oysters got heads. Saw it on a documentary."

"No, I'm positive dey don't got heads."

"By god, five bucks says they do!"

As the cops debated the anatomy of a prominent member of the _Ostreidae_ family an infuriated Agent Orange realized there was nothing she could do or say. It occurred to her that she'd left her identification in room 118 of the Inn of the Painted Bunting, and it was a safe bet that none of the policemen, even if she asked politely, would trot over to the hotel and retrieve her purse. Besides, at that moment they were busy taking bets on whether or not oysters have heads.

Twenty-four hours elapsed before the agent was exonerated and offered a brief but humble apology. By then she was out of surgery. Analgesics controlled her pain, but the doctors could prescribe nothing to diminish her frustration.

Tickles Orange learned later that Mr. Oyster was the director of a quasi-religious organization that went by the acronym EL-NO, though no one she questioned could tell her what the letters stood for. And the truly baffling thing was that the turban-wearing Oyster was NOT married to the woman whom Preston Cash had slept with as the little man from Chicago had falsely claimed. Indeed, records showed that Oyster, in fact, had never been married—this Orange could understand perfectly well.

She swore under her breath in a manner consistent with the sensibilities of an enraged Evangelical: "Fiddle-faddle!"

* * *

When he heard the shot, which sidelined Agent Orange, the fat cowboy ducked from view. But there was no need. After lying low for one minute, he realized that the cops' attention was turned elsewhere. From his hiding place, he could hear them in the distance arguing about oysters. Shifting his gun to his side in order to keep it out of sight, he began again to pursue Mockingbird. Sergey felt bad about shooting the person wearing the turban—but not because the little guy was an innocent bystander but because the bullet had been on target and would have meant the end of his differed successes, which by the way, were continuing to pile up.
CHAPTER THIRTY

SERGEY'S GUARDIAN ANGELS

FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA

JUST PRIOR TO THE SHOOTINGS OF TROUT, OYSTER, ORANGE, AND BUN-KING'S SAMSONITE

SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007

Having followed Preston Cash's bus (or rather Michael Mockingbird McKinley's bus) from Sedona, Arizona, a few days before, the Millies parked their van across the street from the Inn of the Painted Bunting. The vehicle's two occupants wore black armbands and tired expressions. Certain that the man they called Mockingbird was holed up inside, each took turns training binoculars on room 116.

Their hired assassin, code-named by a bizarre coincidence "Painted Bunting," had just minutes before, entered the front door of the inn which bore the same name. With fingers crossed, the old ladies watched as their chubby killer disappeared into the bowels of the run-down hotel—his gun concealed in a large, otherwise empty, potato chip bag. As the seconds ticked away, the two Grandma Millies guessed that Sergey Ostrovsky had entered the interior hallway and was nearing the room in which their nemesis, McKinley/Cash/Mockingbird, was hiding.

For the van's elderly driver the only thing that mattered was that Painted Bunting reverse his string of "deferred successes"—for her anything less would mean continued disgrace. She knew full well that the action currently underway would be their hit man's third attempt to kill the slippery conman because the old woman, known as Granny Eileen, had witnessed his first two blunders from the shadows. In the cold, steely eyes of Loggerhead Shrike, Eileen shared a portion of the blame.

Having slipped down her nose, the worried senior pushed her sunglasses back snugly into place; she then nervously and repeatedly began gripping the van's steering wheel. The glasses had set her back seven dollars and thirty-nine cents and were made of heavy black plastic with opaque side panels—they were the kind of sunglasses recommended by AARP to prevent cataracts and were thick enough to double as welder's goggles.

"Well, Granny Hildegarde," Eileen announced anxiously to her mirthless partner sitting beside her, "we should be hearing a gun shot any minute now." The bleached-blonde Granny Eileen nearing her seventy-fifth birthday glanced at her watch, bit her lip, and then went back to gripping the steering wheel. While on assignment or when attending social functions all the Millies used the title "Granny" followed by their first names—a club tradition.

Granny Hildegarde set her binoculars on her lap then turned in Eileen's direction. An expression of exaggerated dismay replaced the fatigue that had shown on her face a mere moment before. Hildegarde was like a hawk waiting for movement in the grass. Nothing revived her faster than the opportunity to set someone straight. Along with food, water, and oxygen, the act of correcting kept her alive.

"Oh no! No, my, my no," the severe and overly serious Hildegarde shook her head back and forth causing her to resemble a terrier dispatching a rat.

One not used to Hildegarde Lightfoot would have thought that the old lady was objecting to something far more serious—like the assertion that it's proper to invite a Nazi to a Bar Mitzvah. "Painted Bunting's gun has a silencer. Hear it, you will not. No, my, no. . . ( _snort_ )."

Mrs. Lightfoot possessed a unique nasal problem, which, compounded by Flagstaff's dry air and 7,000 foot elevation, caused her to interrupt her own endless drivel by producing periodic "moose calls." Fortunately Arizona faced a scarcity of the large mammals so Hildegarde's condition was putting none of the Millies at risk.

"Why, a person would have to be standing in the same room, . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . and, even then, if people were talking, you still might not hear the discharge clearly. . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . And even if you did detect a sound, the first thing out of your mouth would likely be, _gesundheit_. . . ( _snort_ ) . . . Then how foolish would you feel? Bodies dropping left and right, . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . and you wishing the shooter 'good health' in German. Hard to live something like that down. . . ( _snort_ ) . . . Loggerhead Shrike would surely find out, and you . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . would be assigned to work with someone hard to tolerate. Shrike does that you know. . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . When a Millie bungles, being placed with someone insufferable . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . like that awful Granny Hannah or that dreary Granny . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . Fannie is the way the offender is punished. . . ."

White-haired Granny Hildegarde put on her reading glasses and then from force of habit proceeded to look over the tops of their wire frames as she continued her dreadful chatter, ". . . I, personally, do not know of a specific example, you understand. . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . What I am saying is purely the subject of rumor . . ." Not unlike Christ converting a few loaves into enough bread to feed the multitude, Hildegarde could take the most trivial issue and feast upon it for hours, except it was no miracle—it was just annoying.

Granny Eileen recalled a recent mission in Venice, California. She and another had been appointed to follow and assist (short of actually pulling the trigger) the Millies' hired assassin that first time he attempted to kill Mockingbird. But the sorry events that had unfolded (which included both a foot to the testicles and a swim in a canal for their dim-witted assassin) occurred too quickly for Granny Eileen to react, and she was forced to passively look on and later to personally report her observations to a furious Loggerhead Shrike. All the while, Shrike unsuccessfully attempted to quell her anger with a succession of Hindu breathing exercises—a display that, had he been present, would have inspired Stephen King to put pen to paper.

Eileen's previous partner had drawn the assignment to go undercover and become a LEPIDOPTERIAN. Now she was dead. _Assignment or punishment?_ Eileen wondered to herself as Hildegarde droned on about what happens to Millies who drop the ball.

_It could have been me in the LEPIDOPTERIAN commune_ , Granny Eileen considered silently. Shrike had flipped a coin—her former partner lost. By comparison, listening to "moose calls" did not seem half bad.

Breaking out of her reverie Eileen said to her current associate, "I stand corrected," and then proceeded to repeat the statement eight more times, acknowledging her offense, and at the same time slowly releasing the air from the talkative Hildegarde's current grievance. Once Ms. Lightfoot had built up a head of steam, it was easier to stop a train.

Though she no longer kept count, Granny Eileen estimated that Hildegarde had corrected her at least a dozen times that morning. A quick glance at her Timex revealed that one hour remained of the early shift. The noon rotation could not come soon enough. Granny Abigail would replace Granny Hildegarde. Abigail, substantially older, tended to fall asleep. Her closed mouth and quiet snoring would be a welcome change of pace.

* * *

Of course Eileen, Hildegarde, and Abigail were members of a group known as the Grandma Millies. Formed serendipitously in 1992, the Millies began as a social club for older, retired women. Once a month members wore silly hats and attended outings. The group grew in number and soon began championing political causes—out front on such issues as community beautification and the legalization of no-limit bingo.

But time and events radicalized the Millies. Larceny was becoming an accepted business practice, and like a vacuum cleaner from hell, big oil and the pharmaceutical giants had sucked much of their bingo money out of their purses. Members grew to greet capitalism with mistrust, then finally the last straw; the costly antics of Benjamin Dover, Inc. lead California and nearly all of the Millies to the brink of financial ruin.

Individuals, prominent and not so prominent, were running roughshod over society. You want to make headlines? Crudeness had become the quick answer. Entertainers regularly parleyed vulgarity into popularity. It was illegal to pray in public schools yet profane men like Leo Toast and James Bond (BDI energy traders who'd ripped off millions) were having their hands gently slapped and, after disingenuous apologies, were sent on their merry way. Then there was that greatest of scoundrels, Michael McKinley, the worst of the lot—author of the infamous line: "We are stickin' it to Grandma Millie, etc. etc." He managed to elude punishment altogether by skipping town and moving to Chicago where the Millies tracked him down and eventually monitored his sudden return to California. Not trusting the American judicial system to be harsh enough, the Millies' planned their own retribution.

* * *

When Preston Cash (alias Michael McKinley, Mockingbird, Western Pygmy Blue, and, most recently, the Cheese) recorded his scurrilous Grandma Millie line, he was not aware that the Grandma Millies Social Club of Coastal Southern California even existed. Why he picked that particular name, he could not say—it just popped into his head, for him an unfortunate turn of phrase in, oh, so many ways.

The prim and proper Millies assumed that the comment had been directed at them. The abominations voiced by Michael McKinley that were eventually broadcast to the nation festered for six years and in the end proved too much. The thought of sodomising elderly women, though not entirely unpleasant to a few of the Millies, exceeded the sensibilities of most. The majority ruled, and, throwing down the gauntlet, they voted that Mr. McKinley and his two cronies had to die. While members of the Millies' Special Projects Committee kept an eye on Mockingbird, their leader Loggerhead Shrike hired Sergey Ostrovsky to do the actual killing.

Supposedly Ostrovsky was "cheap but reliable." However, the latest joke to circulate amongst the Millies was that they could have killed Mockingbird faster and for less money by getting him hooked on tobacco and then buying him a lifetime supply of Camels.

* * *

When Preston Cash and Lydia Bun-King's suitcases came flying out the open window of room 116, Eileen jerked her head around so quickly that the move could have given her whiplash. Close behind the luggage followed Mockingbird and his woman. Not long after and from the neighboring window appeared a man in a wrinkled suit coat who the California women were to learn later was an Arizona police official. The Millies had been watching him stick his head in and out of the window much of that morning as if he was the demented bird in a cuckoo clock.

_Where is Painted Bunting?_ Eileen nervously asked herself.

The oblivious Granny Hildegarde, having lost interest in the topic of guns with silencers, had begun an even more tedious soliloquy on the U.S.'s relinquishing its sovereignty over the Panama Canal.

Granny Eileen did not have long to wait before spying the Millies' assassin as he, weapon still concealed in a potato chip bag, leaned out of Mockingbird's window. Eileen pointed, and Hildegarde looked in time to see their man reveal his silenced gun, wheel on B. Allen Trout ("The Demented Cuckoo"), and fire.

Granny Hildegarde declared, "There! See that, . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . you didn't hear a thing! Did you?"

The Millies saw the Arizona investigator wince in pain. He grabbed his shoulder and fell back into his room. Their assassin shrugged then proceeded to scramble out of the window and lower himself onto the sidewalk. After a tussle with a piece of trash, the stout contract killer began the chase.

"That Painted Bunting sure runs strangely. . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . Makes me tired just to watch . . ." With these words Hildegarde signaled that she'd punished the people of Panama sufficiently and was beginning a discourse on proper running form.

Eileen agreed about the killer's awkward gait, but at least she recognized the root of Painted Bunting's problem. Having disposed of the empty potato chip bag and endeavoring not to attract attention, their assassin had stuffed his gun into his pants. Because of its presence, he was currently mimicking the uncomfortable canter of a constipated chimpanzee. Despite the fact that Mockingbird and Bun-King were navigating with three pieces of luggage, whether or not Painted Bunting would earn his final payment was a tossup too close to call.

With more than a simple academic interest the old ladies watched the race unfold. The experience provided Granny Hildegarde with several clear examples of "how not to run." As the know-it-all Millie hit upon issues of posture, arm swing, and knee lift, the emotionally drained Eileen looked back at the hotel in time to witness the emergence of a young woman whose fiery red hair resembled a grenade blast frozen in mid-explosion then flattened into a gigantic fan-shape with a mangle. The woman, wearing a wrinkled gabardine suit, carried a gun in one hand and a cell phone in the other, and ran in hot pursuit of their assassin. When Hildegarde, at Eileen's urging, turned and spotted the lady effortlessly sprinting and simultaneously punching numbers on her small phone, Hildegarde excitedly exclaimed, "Now, see! . . . ( _snort_ ) . . .That's what I call the proper way to run!"

Anyone could tell at a glance that the red-haired lady would easily catch poor Sergey Ostrovsky, and mindful of the punishment (i.e. being paired with Hildegarde Lightfoot) that had been dished out to her for botching her last assignment, a desperate Granny Eileen asked, "What can we do?"

Hildegarde's first suggestion was to follow with the van and run over the woman carrying the gun before she overtook their assassin.

"No way! They put people in jail for that, even old people," Eileen nixed the idea then chewed a fingernail.

"Well, Dear, how about we drive up behind her, . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . and I'll lay her out with my binoculars?" Granny Hildegarde was good at slinging her weighty field glasses, having earlier K.O.'ed a child delivering newspapers whom she'd accused of leering at her indecently. It turned out that the unfortunate youngster had only recently lost his glasses and was wondering if the blurry object in front of him was a tree stump.

Eileen vetoed Hildegarde's second idea as well, and then, struck by inspiration, she quickly snatched a cell phone from her purse and punched in the numbers 9-1-1.

"Nine-one-one, emergency response."

Grimacing, Granny Hildegarde sitting three feet away could faintly hear the operator's voice, which sounded like a Munchkin speaking from inside a metal pipe.

Eileen began, "Listen, I'm on Mockingbird Avenue, where Mockingbird crosses Third Street. There's a lady gone mad. She's shot a person in the Inn of the Painted Bunting, and now she's after somebody running west down the middle of the street. The shooter's got unruly red hair and is wearing a gray two-piece gabardine suit. Very wrinkled—quite untidy really. Get down here now before someone gets killed!" Granny Eileen spoke distinctly then abruptly hung up her phone, closing it with an audible snap.

"All we can do now is wait," she sighed, happy to have acted decisively and hoping that Loggerhead Shrike would agree.

Granny Hildegarde began a heated oration that could have been entitled, _What's Wrong with 9-1-1_. Secretly, she'd preferred her binoculars idea and was opposed to involving the police—a point that Ms. Lightfoot included later in her written report to Loggerhead Shrike.

It wasn't long before the Millies could hear sirens. Ahead, Painted Bunting took quick aim with his pistol. The gun produced a slight recoil, but all their assassin managed with his errant bullet was to (a) put a hole in a suitcase, (b) alert Mockingbird and Bun-King of his presence, and (c) encourage them to drop most of their baggage and run even faster.

The sirens were closer. The assassin, now desperate, knelt to take another shot, and as the slug left the barrel of his gun, a slender man wearing a turban (one Newton Oyster, a resident of Chicago and a Lutheran of some prominence) stepped into the line of fire and caught the bullet meant for Mockingbird.

The unforeseen event prompted Granny Hildegarde to exclaim angrily, "Where the hell did that Towel-head come from? . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . The dumb son-of-a-bitch just pulled Mockingbird's fat out of the fire!"

Meanwhile the local cops had arrived. Frantically, they identified themselves to the woman with the wild hair who had her back turned. She was in the process of aiming her gun at the Millies' assassin, and when she did not voluntarily disarm, a policeman (following standard law enforcement procedure) shot her.

As the shot rang out, Granny Eileen started up the van and edged it slowly down the block. She and Hildegarde passed by the police and the wounded woman in gray gabardine whom the cops were Mirandising despite the young lady's assertion that she worked for the FBI. The Millies watched Mockingbird and Bun-King double their lead on Painted Bunting. Realizing then that Mockingbird was about to get away, Eileen gunned the engine, pushing her short, veiny leg as far as it would go on the gas pedal. With her right hand she adjusted her support hose and got more leg extension plus five extra miles per hour out of the Grandma Millies' mobile communications vehicle. Soon the van passed their laboring assassin. Next Eileen barely glanced at the slim man wearing the turban as she whizzed by where he lay in the street gripping his bleeding leg. The cloud of exhaust coming from the van's tailpipe engulfed the wounded director of EL-NO and left him wheezing and coughing in a polluted haze.

* * *

As Mr. Oyster lay in agony on the side of the road, he was vaguely aware of two things: first, that his leg hurt like hell, and, second, that as a van roared past someone inside hollered, "Stupid son-of-a-bitch'n . . . ( _snort_ ) . . . Towel-head!"

* * *

When the Millies got to within one block of the absconding Cash and Bun-King, Eileen spotted the couple dart into a bus. She pulled the van over and watched. Hildegarde was in the middle of a tirade hammering the ACLU and the absurd procedures that the police have to observe to insure that a criminal's rights are not violated. Training binoculars on the bus Granny Eileen saw only vague forms moving around inside. After three minutes, the bus pulled forward. It turned the corner directly in front of the Millies' van, and Granny Eileen read the sign on its side, "GRAND CANYON ZEN ADVENTURE RIVER TOURS – A SPIRITUAL ODYSSEY."

Allowing the Zen Adventure people a one-block head start, the Millies followed for 135 miles all the way to Lee's Ferry, Arizona, the starting point for rafting trips on the Colorado River. Not one rest stop was made the entire journey, and each of the elderly Californians had to resort to an "emergency bathroom measure." For Eileen, who drove the entire distance, her maneuvering bordered on the acrobatic, and in a better world, her heroic accomplishment would have been roundly heralded.

Because the two Millies went "above and beyond," they were able to stick with the bus and were able to confirm what they'd gathered by reading the lettering on the side of the bus: Mockingbird and his consort had apparently signed on to raft through the Grand Canyon.

From a bluff high above the river Grannies Eileen and Hildegarde watched with field glasses as the man who'd sullied the Grandma Millies' good name climbed into a raft. Soon the Zen Adventure party departed sending Preston Cash on a "spiritual odyssey" and placing the scoundrel, at least temporarily, out of their reach.

One thing troubled Eileen. About the same time that she saw Mockingbird and his woman get aboard the bus back in Flagstaff, she also spotted a brown Toyota. Since the Toyota had parked directly behind their van just inches from their bumper, it had been easily observed. She could see in her rearview mirror two men: the driver was a large, muscular minister with an allotment of curly hair that could only have been described as "generous." Next to him sat a small, slender fellow. The pair in the Toyota also followed the bus to the upper end of the Grand Canyon.

The brown car's windows were rolled up. Eileen could not hear anyone in the Toyota, but it appeared to her that the little guy sang the entire trip, all the way from Flagstaff to Lee's Ferry, except, of course, on the two occasions when Granny Hildegarde threw full cups of urine out of the van's passenger window.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007

"Preston. Preston, are you awake? I've brought some tea."

Flossie Segador thought it strange that her friend had left his door ajar. She carried a tray with plates, napkins, cups and saucers, and of course, a teapot. On one of the plates sugar cookies were piled high.

Hearing no response, she stuck her head in the room and called again, "PRESTON?"

Nothing.

Ms. Segador hesitantly pushed past the open door and set her tray on top of a chest of drawers. The bed was unmade; clothes littered the floor; a tube of toothpaste lay on the counter next to the bathroom sink.

_He'll probably be right back_ , she thought and stood awkwardly in silence. Soon she realized that Mrs. Cash's two pieces of white luggage were not in the room; neither was Preston's ratty, brown suitcase. Preston Cash and his young wife had left, and apparently they'd left in a hurry.

Flossie Segador could understand why. The day had been quite chaotic. First a city policeman wounded one of the inn's female guests, the redhead who'd checked in the day before—the sounds of sirens had been cutting through the air for close to an hour and had only just abated. Minutes after the commotion began, a breathless cop informed Flossie's mother that the 911 operator had received two separate calls claiming that a person had been shot on hotel premises. The ancient lady had heard no gunshots and thought: _Surely this is a hoax_. Understandably, the discovery of a bleeding man had started quite a stir.

The man was found lying on the floor of the room next to where Flossie stood as she pondered the days unsettling events. Ms. Segador had not been surprised to learn that the victim was the same person who'd earlier stuck a gun in her face and had claimed to be a member of the state police.

_State police my foot! If that's the case, then hiring standards must be pretty damn low. He probably accidentally shot himself_ , Flossie thought disgustedly as she felt her anger rise again. In hindsight her feelings were mixed about having warned Preston Cash about the gun-happy policeman. She hoped that it was not her tip that had prompted Cash and his bride to vacate so suddenly: _Perhaps I made a mistake_.

Flossie gave a deep sigh and concluded that Flagstaff was turning into a kind of "Baghdad." _Going to hell in a hen basket_ , was her brief take on the matter.

_What to do?_ Flossie asked herself as she chewed on a sugar cookie. Preston Cash was gone. Furthermore, Flossie Segador had no idea where her friend and his young wife were headed.

As she poured her special tea into the bathroom sink and washed it down the drain with water from the faucet, she said aloud with what easily could have been confused with obsession: "Preston Cash and I have unfinished business."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SERGEY'S SHORT FALL TO ROCK BOTTOM

2:00 P.M., SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007

The payphone rang. Sergey Ostrovsky glanced at his watch. The mouse's outstretched, big hand pointed to the twelve while the other aimed squarely at the number two. He grimaced as he read the time: _Two p.m. on the button_. The assassin picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, but not wanting to be the first to speak, he hesitated.

In her usual gravelly tone the leader of the Grandma Millies enquired gruffly, "Painted Bunting, is that you?"

"Ah, yes M'am. It's . . . it's me." From the sound of Sergey's voice the admission was one that the killer was neither eager nor proud to make—almost as if the forty-year-old Ostrovsky was confessing to wetting the bed.

Loggerhead Shrike did not speak again for fifteen seconds. She had trouble deciding where to begin and, at the same time, did not regret making Painted Bunting sweat.

"WELL ! . . ," she grunted then paused once more. The way she "punched" the single syllable reminded the assassin of a cat pouncing on a doomed mouse. Ostrovsky could make out the sound of papers being shuffled.

"I . . . I guess you . . . you heard," Sergey stuttered, and as he did so, he bore a striking resemblance to a prisoner awaiting the gallows.

"HEARD?"

This Shrike pronounced with a happy, upbeat inflection. The noise that followed could have been either a sadistic laugh or the bark of a watchdog gleefully getting ready to sink its teeth into an intruder.

The deceptively spoken word did not fool Sergey Ostrovsky. Having survived two divorces, the Millies' assassin recognized Shrike's phony light-heartedness for what it was—contempt, pure and simple, and about as light-hearted as the sound of an executioner's gun being cocked before a bullet is fired into the brain of the condemned.

"Let's see. I have today's list of 'deferred successes' written on a piece of paper. Hmm." Loggerhead Shrike's voice dripped with molten sarcasm. "Yes, here it is. . . . Oh, this can't be correct! No, no. Why right at the top of the page it says you shot a suitcase. Could that indeed be accurate? Because if it is true, that would make you a positive menace to anyone reckless enough to be toting luggage.

"And here. Oh my, oh my, YOU SHOT AN ARIZONA POLICE OFFICIAL!" Shrike's voice had become shrill and had risen to a crescendo. Ostrovsky drew a parallel between what he was hearing and a passage sung by Lady Macbeth in Verdi's opera modeled after Shakespeare's tragedy. The chief of the Millies took several deep breaths then delivered her next line through clenched teeth, "What was he doing? Carrying AMERICAN TOURISTER?

"And last but not least, YOU SHOT A LUTHERAN FROM CHICAGO.

"But, guess what! Guess what is NOT ON THE FRIGGIN' LIST! THE LIST DOES NOT SAY THAT YOU FINISHED OFF MOCKINGBIRD! BUT THAT HE ESCAPED — GOT AWAY! IMAGINE THAT! A COMPLETE SURPRISE! RIGHT NOW YOU COULD KNOCK ME OVER WITH A FEATHER!"

"S . . . sorry," Sergey felt truly chastised and wished at the moment that he had a feather, a really large feather made out of concrete because, just then, he would have liked nothing better than to have followed through with Shrike's suggestion.

"Fortunately, our agents were able to trail Mockingbird. After he ELUDED you, he got aboard a bus and traveled to Lee's Ferry, Arizona. As we speak, he and his _friend_ are rafting on the Colorado River with a touring company called Grand Canyon Zen Adventure.

"Now you listen, buddy. I do NOT care how you get the job done; just make sure that Mockingbird's little vacation is cut short. Oh, and we're just about out of travel money; so it's your dime from now on.

"And I want to alert you to a new development. It appears that you are not the only person interested in Mockingbird; our members observed two men, one tall and the other short, who are following him as well."

Sergey thought for a second before asking, "Did the short fellow have a red bandana tied around his neck?"

The chief of the Grandma Millies consulted her notes before answering, "Why, . . . why yes. Yes he did." Having concluded long ago that Painted Bunting was brain dead, that he had assembled even this one tiny fact, left Shrike mildly surprised.

Before hanging up, Loggerhead Shrike got in one final dig, "The Millies are normally not in the business of shooting Lutherans. So please do your best not to plug another one."

Ostrovsky signed off, walked back to the Geo Metro, and squeezed in behind the wheel. After catching his breath, the assassin bit his lip and rubbed his chin. He was certain that the little man with the red bandana was none other than Rextastic Von Tastic, the renowned fashion expert—the very character that he'd spotted in the LEPIDOPTERIAN colony. But Stupendous Sergey could think of no earthly reason why the famous designer from Peoria, Illinois, would be following Michael McKinley / Mockingbird / Cash.

The frustrated assassin, after considering his options, returned to the payphone and began leafing through the directory.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

MORE Q. THAN A.

11:00 A.M., SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007

As soon as Conan Kinnear and Rex Von Tastic were released from the Flagstaff City Jail they jumped in their Camry and headed toward Mockingbird Avenue. First on their list was a visit to the Inn of the Painted Bunting. The two members of Lutherans United for More Power were anxious to learn whether Preston Cash continued to call the rickety, two-story tenement home, or whether the man they were tracking had moved on, taking the Lutheran's 400,000 dollars with him. Plus, there was the matter of the woman, Lydia Bun-King, on whose behalf they'd been unable to intercede thanks to the misunderstanding that had landed them behind bars.

When Conan started the Camry, his sidekick began belting out a rendition of "Moon River." The number had won an Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1962—a fact that Rex did not merely gloss over. Kinnear thought the song sounded familiar, except Von Tastic's version was laced with vibrato lending it an operatic quality, with which the militant Lutheran was not entirely comfortable.

Opening his eyes after finishing a particularly high falsetto, Rex observed an odd couple in an obvious state of panic. The pair, a man and a woman, were dragging luggage down the street. Two of the pieces (sparkling white valises with matching rhinestone inscriptions) caused the fashion designer to stop mid-note. The sequined bags were absolutely stunning. Rextastic Von Tastic's heart fluttered.

But Rex was not ready for what was about to occur. With the exception of seasoned airline personnel, no one is quite prepared for the shock of witnessing the wanton destruction of quality luggage. Suddenly, one of the white suitcases virtually exploded, and pieces of red nylon rained down upon Mockingbird Avenue. Rex noted that the fabric was sheer, of a style patterned after Belgian lace similar to the hand-stitched product currently coming from the Flemish district of Antwerp. But of course what he saw falling to the pavement was machine-made and tawdry—a cheap knockoff, which even a plebian could tell was not the genuine article.

Von Tastic announced his disapproval: "Ugh!"

At that point the panic level of the couple running in the street doubled, and they abandoned their two expensive bags while retaining a third—a ratty, brown leather affair. Of course Rex was appalled that the man and woman would crassly leave behind their exquisitely sequined twosome and retain their ratty leather (with which no person of breeding or anyone possessing even a modicum of taste would be caught dead). As the couple sprinted past the Toyota, the frantic fellow gripped the leather bag as tightly as a python squeezes its lunch.

Initially, Von Tastic was not certain of the man's identity because his brimmed hat had been pulled low, and he was wearing sunglasses, but the woman's identity left no doubt. She was Lydia Bun-King! Rex relayed the startling news to Conan the Librarian who looked up in time to announce excitedly, "It's him! It's Preston Cash!"

For the big Lutheran it was the second bite of the cherry, and this time Conan was prepared. Since failing to recognize Cash as the frantic embezzler ran down the center of the road the day of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' mass suicide, Kinnear had spent hours staring at Preston's photograph vowing never to fail again.

Conan jammed on the brakes stopping the car in the middle of the street. The two from LUMP turned in their seats, looked through the rear glass, and watched the backs of the pair as they fled down Mockingbird Avenue heading in a direction which took them away from the Inn of the Painted Bunting.

"Drive around the block. We'll cut them off!"

Von Tastic's suggestion sounded reasonable, but when Rex and Conan swiveled to face forward, they were confronted by none other than Newton Oyster, who in the midst of darting from behind a tree, held one arm in the air signaling for his associates from Peoria to remain stopped. For reasons they did not understand he'd donned a false beard and mustache and had wrapped a towel around his head causing Conan to momentarily mistake him for Zoltar while putting Rex in mind of a Punjabi carpet merchant. It was a wonder that the members of LUMP even recognized the man.

But in the blink of an eye, Oyster fell to the ground and began clutching his leg, which immediately began spurting blood. Conan looked up and saw running toward them a stout cowboy wearing a black armband. The man held a gun and scowled like a retiree vested in the ENRON pension fund.

No one really knows how they will respond when under fire—whether they will stand and fight despite overwhelming odds or whether they will choose discretion and wisely quit the field when a situation is assessed as hopeless. The sensible person withdraws to return later when circumstances are favorable. On issues centering on violence, Rextastic generally leaned toward the "sensible" and Conan otherwise. But that day they agreed, and each knew the other's take on whether to flee and to save themselves or whether to stand fast and be killed by the rotund cowboy toting what impressed the Lutherans to be a cannon.

Conan the Librarian took his foot off the brake and, following Rex's original instructions, circled part way around the block until the Toyota pointed in the direction that Cash and Bun-King were headed. By the time LUMP had tactically withdrawn and then redeployed, the aforementioned Cash and Bun-King were far in the distance. In response Conan Kinnear hit the gas. Newton Oyster, the owner of several certificates of perfect attendance, would have to rely upon his own resources for the time being.

One minute later the man with the gun appeared to be just a speck in the rearview mirror, and Cash and Bun-King were a mere two blocks in front of them. With success at hand the founder of LUMP once again began his maniacal cackle, which he broke off suddenly when the big Lutheran spied the harried couple climb aboard a bus.

Unexpectedly foiled, the militant Lutheran gave vent to his surprise, "Huh?"

Deciding to wait and see what would happen Conan pulled over and parked behind a white van with California plates and enough dirt to raise corn and, as such, qualify for a government subsidy.

Soon Rextastic voiced a suspicion that had been nagging him. Because Lydia Bun-King did not appear to be running away from Preston Cash so much as running with the embezzler, fashion designer Rex speculated that she'd had a change of heart.

"I've had my doubts about that woman from the very start," Kinnear declared.

To which Von Tastic added, "Yes, why should she settle for five percent when she could get half by partnering with Cash?"

With that off his chest Rextastic next picked up "Moon River" right where he'd left off—lyric and note.

The militant Lutherans' wait was brief. Rex hadn't even gotten to the second "my huckleberry friend" when the bus pulled forward and turned the corner in front of them—on its side large, black letters spelled out: "GRAND CANYON ZEN ADVENTURE RIVER TOURS—A SPIRITUAL ODYSSEY."

The white van, which the men from LUMP had parked behind, inched from the curb, turned the corner, and got into position two hundred feet behind the bus. Rex and Conan followed van and bus all the way to Lee's Ferry, Arizona, making not one rest stop the entire 135 miles—obviously, the bus came equipped with its own facilities.

Von Tastic sang continuously the entire journey, except on two occasions when the people in the van threw cups of liquid out of their passenger-side window. The Toyota's speed plus the direction of the wind caused the yellow fluid to hit Conan's windshield both times, prompting Rextastic to mumble something about "lemonade going bad in the heat." Fortunately they had the air conditioning on and the windows rolled up.

At Lee's Ferry, while standing some ways off, the duo from LUMP observed Preston Cash and Lydia Bun-King climb into rafts clearly destined for the Grand Canyon. The embezzler continued to clutch his ratty brown bag as he settled into his seat. Since the area of the landing swarmed with people, including two conservation policemen with guns strapped to their hips, the Great Warrior did not confront the man who'd stolen EL-NO's money, and could only watch as the Zen Adventure party pushed off from shore.

Kinnear thought: _We must find a way to follow!_

While Von Tastic silently mused: _A float trip on the Colorado River, how romantic!_

There were several questions, which troubled the men from Peoria:

One: _Who were the old women in the van?_

Two: _What business did they have with Preston Cash?_

Three: _Was it the same van, which they'd witnessed following Cash the day of the LEPIDOPTERIANs' suicides?_

Four: _How was Newton Oyster?_

Five: _Just exactly who was the stout cowboy with the large gun?_

Six: _Why was the cowboy so eager to shoot Lutherans—a skill he'd regrettably mastered?_

After listing their valid concerns, Rex and Conan looked at one another and at the same time announced, "PRESBYTERIANS!"

Despite assurances from the people of EL-NO (specifically Oyster and the toad-man Plaid), it naturally occurred to the members of LUMP that Cash might not have Lutheran blood after all but was instead an agent for the other side. In every way possible Presbyterians opposed the Evangelical Lutheran agenda and were a people renowned for embracing a comprehensive list of vices, including drinking, politics, and _Jerry Springer_ reruns (no doubt Springer himself was angling for membership in the Presbyterian Hall of Fame).

Could the character with the black armband be their man too—a sort of Presbyterian version of the Knights Templar only with the profile that put one more in mind of Kris Kringle? Could the shooting of Newton Oyster mark the first sign of a holy war, a Presbyterian jihad?

During a visit to a carwash in nearby Page, Arizona, Conan and Rex pondered their questions and tried to figure out how they could pursue Preston Cash into the Grand Canyon.

CHAPTER-THIRTY-FOUR

THE PENITENT GRANNY EILEEN

TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 2007

Two days after a Flagstaff police officer mistakenly shot FBI agent Tickles Orange, Loggerhead Shrike, the formidable leader of the Grandma Millies Social Club, reassigned Granny Eileen. Eileen's new orders directed her to leave Arizona at once and return to the Millies' home base in Southern California. Once there she was to team up with Granny Hannah and Granny Fannie and undertake the task of fund raising selling cookies door-to-door in a part of Los Angeles which the Chamber of Commerce, at a loss for a better adjective, labeled "risky."

Loggerhead Shrike had been displeased with the fact that the police had become further involved in the Benjamin Dover "project," and the proactive Shrike had taken it upon herself to both punish the offender and to protect the Grandma Millies from closer scrutiny. So far her moves had been carefully scripted.

Arriving home after driving the Millies' van 600 miles, the penitent Eileen slept for twelve hours straight, waking only when the police rapped on the door of her condominium. They questioned the old woman about a bogus 911 call that had been made in Flagstaff, Arizona, using her cell phone. But since Granny Eileen had reported the phone missing, and since the old lady had no clue as to who'd stolen it, the police did not arrange for a second interview. Also, no fewer than twelve of the lady's friends stepped forward the next day to support her alibi that at the time the 911 call was placed she and the others were in a bingo parlor in San Pedro, California. They provided receipts, ticket stubs, and a group photo with Eileen smiling broadly while flanked by her companions, all of whom were wearing silly hats.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

WHY HONESTY MAY NOT ALWAYS BE THE BEST POLICY

Preston Cash was not likely to forget his passionate rendezvous with Lydia Bun-King. After he explained to her about the "cancer" and how his oncologist had given him little hope, she fell into his arms, and soon he found himself excitedly fumbling for the soon-to-expire condom. The Inn of the Painted Bunting provided the setting for their evening, night, and morning marathon of practically nonstop enchantment.

But sexual intimacy was not all that the amorous couple shared. Desiring to start life afresh and to create a relationship where truth and honesty are placed upon a pedestal, the lovers opened both their hearts and their mouths revealing their deepest secrets. Preston confessed to an astonished Lydia his many sins (except the lie about having cancer, of which the embezzler was rather proud. This one case excepted—Cash normally tended to be dimwitted around beautiful women).

Amongst his confessions the conman disclosed how he and others, while employed as energy traders for Ben Dover, Inc., had ripped off California consumers to the tune of hundreds of millions. Cash went into intricate detail explaining the company's many scams: "Fat Boy," "Death Star," "Wheel-out," "Ricochet," and "Get Shorty." At times her larcenous lover almost seemed to be a stranger, and Lydia momentarily lost track of whether Preston was unburdening or boasting.

As if cancer alone were not enough, the swindler included how two of his former BDI coconspirators had recently been murdered, and how surely he would be next. Already one attempt had been made on his life, and he knew for a fact that the same killer was still on the hunt and would likely strike again.

Lydia assumed that the medications the doctors had given her poor, exhausted Preston to combat his malignancy produced the unforeseen twin side-effects of paranoia and exaggeration, and the sympathetic woman believed that, at best, only a fraction of what he revealed could possibly be true. Not to be completely outdone, and in a vain attempt to pull even with her delusional lover, Bun-King spoke contritely, "Preston, I have secrets too."

After a night of herculean lovemaking, 6:00 a.m. is a dangerous hour—a time when the brain can easily become addled. As the clock struck six Lydia stroked her lover's hairless head, and in a soft voice divulged that not only was she a Presbyterian but that she also served as their agent assigned to help expose EL-NO's many clandestine and questionable operations. Not unlike a hibernating toad sensing the first warm drafts of spring, the news awakened loyalties buried deep within the muddied soul of Preston Cash.

Bun-King's confession represented a turning point in their brief relationship. After all, for whatever else Preston Cash claimed to be, down deep still lurked the heart of an Evangelical Lutheran (to be sure, a Lutheran led astray—but a Lutheran none-the-less). His reaction to her revelation surprised even himself. A person might have easily been fooled into thinking that the look that suddenly clouded his normally bland face was a product of indigestion.

Lydia Bun-King's treasonous admission rocked his very constitution, and because he had "lain" with a pariah, the sickening feeling that he was "soiled" began to creep into his nervous system, killing its host, namely: Preston's rapturous love.

However, Mr. Cash found it fortuitous that he felt neither "too sick" nor "too soiled" to prevent him from having one more "go" with this "whore of Babylon" before being rousted by Flossie Segador's timely telephone call. The loyal Flossie revealed that the man checked into the room next door to Preston's had a gun and was there for the express purpose of spying upon him. Cash concluded as he hung up the phone: _Perhaps the time to run is at hand_. He quickly summarized the gist of the telephone message to the wanton slut who'd shared his bed, and Ms. Lydia Bun-King agreed, that the window would be an appropriate point from which to depart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BACK AT EL-NO HEADQUARTERS

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

THE SAME DAY DIRECTOR OYSTER IS SHOT

It was Sunday. Church services were over. Kermit Plaid did not have to report for work, but he showed up just the same. Since dedicating his life to Lutheran activism, he'd pursued no hobbies, cultivated no friendships, and participated in no sports. Besides, on the issue of whether or not to engage in physical activity, he was opposed. Toadmeister Plaid felt it made much more sense to take breaks well in advance of becoming tired. For him the onset of fatigue typically began shortly after standing—so he avoided the practice whenever possible.

His boss, Newton Oyster, had flown to Arizona to help EL-NO's office assistant get out of a jam. As yet Plaid had not heard from Oyster, and he was mildly curious to learn if the director had made any headway. In the meantime, Kermit pondered how to wile away the afternoon: _Maybe I'll solicit donations or monitor the Presbyterians for indications of subversive activity_.

Operatives frequently communicated with one another on the Internet by posting cryptic messages. Plaid had made one of "their" locations, _presby_nation.org_ , his home page, and it was the first thing to pop up on his screen after logging on at work. EL-NO's second in command constantly intercepted intriguing hints and nibbles from this particular sight, but he had a devil of a time figuring out their meanings. In some cases they named him personally, and he secretly felt flattered thinking it a sign that his reputation had grown in the camp of the enemy.

The previous year he'd spotted a dispatch from a heretofore-unknown agent codenamed "Bosom Buddy" stating simply, "The mole is in her hole." The obscure message prompted Director Oyster to send out a communiqué alerting all Lutherans to be especially vigilant and to guard against infiltration and espionage.

Since Kermit was basically lazy and since no one was present to scrutinize, he did little in the way of actual work that memorable Sunday in late August. Instead he purchased a newspaper and sipped coffee (three sugars and heavy on the nondairy creamer). Around noon he checked the office refrigerator looking for a snack, but his vegan boss kept it stocked mainly with tofu creations, which resembled compost but tasted far worse—Kermit poked at a leftover lump of meatless tofu "meat" loaf, spied a flaccid brick of dairy-less tofu "cheese," and turned up his nose at what appeared to be tofu excrement. The latter, for the time being, had put the Toadmeister off his feed.

"No wonder the boss is so skinny," Kermit snorted then shut the refrigerator door a little harder than was necessary.

Later, while spending a quarter of an hour in front of the restroom mirror, Plaid carefully hand-smoothed a wrinkle in his brown serge uniform. Afterwards, he repositioned his camo-colored beret four different ways until settling on a slant that hinted simultaneously of danger and of high adventure. When back at his desk, the EL-NO lieutenant discovered that the holes in the soles of his black, imitation-leather, "storm-trooper" boots had become larger, and he promised himself that he would take a break and purchase a new pair similar in style. For a number of reasons he could afford to relax. As of late, the Presbyterians were lying low, and Kermit was confident that both the Lutheran's current offensive as well as his own constant vigilance had the Calvinists stymied and against the ropes.

When the Toad finished reading the _Tribune's_ advice columns, he took a short snooze and woke around two p.m. Deciding that it was as good a time as any to shop for shoes, Plaid locked up and headed toward Halsted Street.

Returning two hours later, Kermit carried leftover food and a shopping bag. While passing Bun-King's desk, he noticed the red light flashing on her telephone—someone had left a message. Picking up the receiver, he punched in a code and was greeted by the masculine voice of Conan Kinnear, the Lutheran's Great Warrior—the man whom Kermit Plaid would follow to the very gates of Hell and there lay siege to the enemies of the One True Faith. Plaid listened several times to Kinnear's shocking news:

Kermit Plaid, it's me, Conan, Conan Kinnear. Carefully follow what I have to say. Newton Oyster's been shot. I repeat, Oyster's been shot. Rex and I were witnesses, but we're not completely sure who's responsible—possibly the Presbyterians—but that's just a guess. We're okay. But if you see a heavy-set cowboy wearing a black armband, then head in the other direction. He's the guy who shot your boss. Do you know of any Presbyterian jihadists whose members wear black armbands? Think about it.

We were unarmed, Rex and I, and we had to clear out in a hurry. The guy was coming straight at us. We'd just spotted Preston Cash and Lydia Bun-King at the time, and we were getting ready to nab them. Came really close to recovering your money. Will say more about that later.

Kermit, you call the hospital in Flagstaff. Flagstaff's where we were when Oyster was shot. Call the hospital; try to find out how he's doing.

It seems to us that Cash and Bun-King are in this together. I'm not a hundred percent certain; we could be way off base. She was with him and didn't seem to mind so much. We followed them to Lee's Ferry, Arizona. They are on a raft trip right now with an outfit called Grand Canyon Zen Adventure. The company is probably headquartered in Flagstaff; that's where Rex and I saw your embezzler board their bus. They're on the Colorado River, took off no more than ten minutes ago and will float through the Grand Canyon. Rex and I are trying to find a way to follow, but we haven't had any luck so far. I am sure we will eventually, but by the time we do, they might have too big of a head start—just don't know.

We need you to call these Zen Adventure people. Find out from them when and where they exit the river. When they do finish their trip, you be there to intercept—get back your 400,000 dollars or . . . or secretly follow and tell us where Preston Cash ends up. Whatever you think's best. That's just in case Rex and I can't catch up to him. In a way the man's trapped. We talked to a guy just now who's fishing; he says trips like the one Cash is on can last two weeks and more. So there's plenty of time for you to find out the information and fly out here.

I think that's all I need to tell you. Just a second. Rex, can you think of anything to add?

(Mumbling).

Rex says that he thinks that Preston Cash is carrying your money in a shabby, brown leather suitcase.

The way that Cash was holding on to the suitcase when he was running, I'd have to agree. Okay, that's it. Good luck.

Conan Kinnear ended his lengthy phone message with: "Yet it not means inward repentance only, nay, there is no inward repentance which does not outwardly work divers mortifications of the flesh."

A wide, euphoric grin spread across Kermit Plaid's frog-like face, and he said to himself: _Ah, Thesis Number Three_.

Next Plaid attempted to call Kinnear, but no one answered. And so it fell to Kermit to leave a message:

_Rex and Conan, you can rely on me to do what you ask. Also, I have a retired uncle, my mother's brother. He lives in the town of Page not far from where you are, and he owns a boat_  _one that can handle the rapids. He's told me before how all the time he fishes that stretch of the Colorado below Lake Powel. Rough water doesn't stop him. After I hang up, I'm going to call him, see if he can give you a boat ride. My uncle's name is Vladimir Frisbee—he's a dedicated Lutheran. I'll explain to him your mission. I truly believe that the Great Reformer is looking down upon us, and that we are protected by his power and by his good grace. Hope you get this message. Oh, and lets see . . . "With souls in purgatory it seems that horror should grow less and love increase."_

Kermit Plaid had never been able to put his finger on exactly why, but Martin Luther's Thesis Number Seventeen had always been his favorite.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A VISIT FROM MR. AH-BUNTING

2:15 P.M., SUNDAY, AUGUST 26, 2007

After learning from Loggerhead Shrike that Mockingbird had escaped on a bus belonging to an outfit known as Grand Canyon Zen Adventure, the frustrated assassin hung up the payphone and walked back to his small rental car. Five minutes later he returned to the booth and began leafing through the directory. First, he found the rafting company's listing and next jotted down the address. Ostrovsky walked to the corner to check street signs and only then discovered that the rafting company's office was directly in front of the phone booth.

The Millies' hired killer took a deep breath and composed what he was about to say. He entered the building and climbed the stairs. The task left him winded, a reminder that the elevation of northern Arizona was considerably higher than that of his south-Florida home. The stairs led to a long hallway, and the first door he encountered had the words "GRAND CANYON ZEN ADVENTURE RIVER TOURS" stenciled on the outside.

Painted Bunting knocked. He heard a cheerful, feminine voice call from within, "Come in."

Upon entering Ostrovsky could hear the trickling of water, as well as the calm, soothing sounds of oriental music overlain by the gentle trill of bird song. The scent of flowers that filled the air and the tranquil pictures on lavender-painted walls transported the killer to another place and time. It reminded him of a whorehouse called the Naked Lotus that he'd frequented while doing a job in Nevada. Sergey liked Nevada.

The comparison ended there. Partially hidden behind a computer screen sat a woman—pretty, petite, blonde, and noticeably pregnant. On her desk rested a small sign, _Victoria Cannon, Business Manager_.

"When's your due date?" Sergey asked while smiling warmly. He liked babies—other people's babies. He never cared to have one of his own.

"Another three months," Mrs. Victoria Cannon answered. Her sublime face radiated contentment, and the assassin immediately felt comfortable.

After a brief calculation, Ostrovsky asked, "Twins?"

"A boy and a girl."

"Well, from experience, don't call the boy Sergey. My name is Sergey . . . I was always getting teased," and while extending his right hand, he added clumsily, "Sergey . . . ah . . . Bunting."

Mrs. Cannon grinned, shook the man's hand, introduced herself, and then added, "Well, Mr. Sergey Ah-bunting, I promise that I will not tease. What can Zen Adventure do for you?"

"I have a very unusual request actually," Ostrovsky smiled and started slowly. "My favorite nephew is on your float trip that left today, and I want to surprise him. His birthday's coming up, you see, and I'd like to be there to help him celebrate. Is there a place where your group always camps that is also accessible to someone on foot?"

The pregnant Mrs. Cannon thought for a second then led Mr. Sergey "Ah-bunting" over to a large wall map. She pointed, "On day six, they always stop at Bright Angel Beach but not for the night—spend about three hours. It's a fairly easy hike, and you'll have lots of company. It's a very busy trail."

Sergey pondered the "lots of company" statement and asked, "Anything before then?" Besides, he had already decided that on this occasion it would be best to conduct his "business" late at night.

With her finger Victoria traced the course of the river upstream from the beach at Bright Angel Creek. Her smile brightened, and she said excitedly, "Here, day five, the Tanner Rapids. It's the location of what we call the Big Vortex—lots of very positive energy. Somehow it has escaped the attention of our competitors. Our guru, Baba Duncan Fungee, his mother is Scottish you see, always performs a purification ceremony there. I understand it is very inspirational." She next moved her finger an alarmingly long distance to the south and away from the river, "This is the trailhead, the Lipan Point Overlook. You park here and walk to here." As she spoke Mrs. Cannon traced a sinuous path, which linked the Lipan Point Overlook with the Colorado River.

"How . . . how far is that?" the assassin asked. His enthusiasm posted a noticeable dip.

"Let's see. About nine miles give or take. It's not an easy trail. Some people break it up into two days. This time of the year heat is a problem. As you descend it becomes a furnace. You must take lots of water."

Sergey "Ah-bunting" sucked in his substantial gut, and in an effort to convince both himself and the mother-to-be, he asserted, "The wilderness is my second home."

After a curious glance at the heavyset cowboy, which Mrs. Victoria Cannon hoped was not impolite, she dug in a filing cabinet until finding a description of the Tanner Trail. She photocopied the two-page narrative then presented it to Mr. Ah-bunting free of charge and sold him, at cost, a detailed topographic map of the area he planned to hike.

While the pregnant lady rummaged, Ostrovsky had time to consider. _At least_ , he thought, _THIS time there won't be any Millies on my tail_. Tending to be superstitious, Stupendous Sergey had hit upon the idea that the constant presence of old women was the cause of his run of bad luck.

While folding the papers she'd handed him, Ostrovsky thanked Mrs. Cannon profusely, and, as he opened the door to leave, he asked directions to the nearest outdoor store. Luckily it lay just around the corner.

Descending the stairs the assassin felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the kind lady's information would allow him to kill one of her customers. A Zen "adventure" punctuated by a not-so-Zen-like murder would generate headlines and would make for the wrong kind of publicity, but that could not be helped. He'd sworn to put an end to his streak of "deferred successes," and in so doing, he would show the Grandma Millies that he was made of sterner stuff! Wagner's "Flight of the Valkyrie" began playing in his head. When he wished to perform heroic deeds, Sergey tended to sing in German.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ENMITY GROWS

It started small. Preston Cash began correcting Lydia's grammar. Later the manner in which Ms. Bun-King smacked her gum began to weigh upon him as well, and, that too, he insisted she curtail. Their relationship struck the other Zen Adventure clients as "strained."

At first Lydia said nothing. However, she made sure that her infinitives were always split, that her modifiers dangled defiantly, and that the wad of gum, which she masticated with the same enthusiasm that a meth-addicted cow reserves for its cud, was carefully measured to produce the maximum amount of annoyance. Plus she kept her mouth open when she chewed so that her smacking would in no way be muffled.

For her part Lydia noticed how "Honey Bunch" resembled a hungry mouse when seated at the dinner table. Seeing and hearing him eating crunchy foods, such as crackers or carrots, drove her insane. He would take a small nibble and begin precisely working his jaws—short, mincing, up-and-down movements, almost as quick as those of a sewing machine needle and the first few bites very loud. Though his brisk rate of chewing remained the same, the noise level decreased evenly and smoothly as Preston milled and blended the contents of his mouth into a mush-like slurry. It appeared to Lydia that a rheostat precisely controlled the volume—the sound lowering and, at the same time, her blood rising.

Nibble, CRUNCH, Crunch, crunch, crun..., swallow. Nibble, CRUNCH, Crunch, crunch, crun..., swallow. The rhythm, the regularity, the consistency—all conspired to compel the normally placid Bun-King to grind her teeth and to walk away from the table before the call for desert.

Eventually things deteriorated to the point that the crunching continued into her dreams. He, too, would occasionally wake in the middle of the night with the echo of Lydia's smacking resounding loudly inside his brain.

A split was inevitable. Both Preston and Lydia suspected, but were afraid to admit, that the root of their problem was ecclesiastical, he Lutheran, she Presbyterian. On the issue of their religious differences, for the obstinate Bun-King and the pig-headed Cash, there was no room for compromise. And after an evening of heated discourse, the following morning no reconciliation appeared on their horizon—no rising sun to signal a fresh start and a new day.

Of course they wanted to believe that they were enlightened, that they resided on a higher plain—far above that common, everyday schmuck whom they both regarded with equal disdain. The people they saw when they looked in the mirror could transcend parochial considerations—they even deemed such issues primitive and base. However, when push came to shove, neither could discard their principles any more than a leopard could shed its spots or a skunk its stripe.

* * *

Looking back Cash marveled at Bun-King's thick-headedness when they first jumped aboard the bus right after the hired killer shot her luggage. The swindler had never seen anyone quite so slow on the uptake. Maybe a portion of Lydia's lack of mental acuity could have been written off to the trauma of seeing her bullet-shredded lingerie raining down upon Mockingbird Avenue.

The experience must have rattled the woman, and Preston Cash noted that she had not been the same since they'd left Flagstaff. Despite his probing, she refused to speak of the incident, preferring instead to suppress her twin feelings of loss and violation. Cash was afraid of the consequences of harboring so much raw emotion, and he figured that psychologists had a name for her condition. Preston recalled that pivotal day's traumatic events.

* * *

As they ran down the street while being chased by the portly gunman, it became apparent that Bun-King's ponderous breasts were poorly secured. Soon her big tits, like containers breaking their lashings on the deck of a storm-buffeted ship, began swinging independently of one another. Top heavy to begin with and now unstable to boot the effect was to throw off Lydia's balance causing her to list from side to side and dramatically slowing her forward progress. Rollover was a distinct possibility.

Perhaps if she'd had more warning, the EL-NO office assistant could have bungeed her chest into place and prevented her load from shifting. But Bun-King and Cash had had little time to prepare before finding themselves in a sprint down the center of Mockingbird Avenue. Occasionally one of her gigantic udders would bump her on the chin and after a particularly heavy blow to the jaw, she'd begun to stagger. Preston was not certain that Bun-King could continue much longer.

Desperate to find an alternative, Cash spied a bus parked a few feet in front of them. The big vehicle appeared ready to leave, and he figured that it might be their "port in the storm." Lydia could certainly use a rest (if only a brief rest), plus the fat man with the gun would think twice before killing the last of the Ben Dover trio in front of so many witnesses. For those reasons they breathlessly climbed aboard the Grand Canyon Zen Adventure luxury tour bus.

Standing there in the aisle just inside the door Preston Cash clutched his brown-leather valise, and despite seeing stars, Lydia Bun-King immediately went to work readjusting her skimpy tank top.

To those on board, Bun-King appeared to be rearranging basketballs in an undersized gym bag, and any number of the men who stared open-mouthed would have been happy to have lent her a hand. As she tugged and poked, laboriously restoring alignment, Lydia kept looking out of the window because she thought she caught a glimpse of her boss, the vegan Newton Oyster. _But it could hardly have been him_ , she told herself. The man she mistook for Oyster was wearing a turban and just then happened to be rolling around in the street—a decidedly un-Lutheran-like activity. Also, there was the fat assassin to consider. For obvious reasons Bun-King wanted to monitor the progress of the man who had been chasing them with a gun. Fortunately, the character who shot her luggage was an exceptionally slow runner and in the distance resembled a winded hippo as he trudged in their direction. Still she wished that the bus would begin to move sooner as opposed to later.

Someone had been playing a guitar, and the music abruptly stopped as Bun-King and Cash came aboard. While in the midst of poking and prodding, Lydia was taken by surprise when she realized that a person was speaking to her and Honey Bunch.

"Ah, at last. You must be the Johnson's . . . er . . . the JOHNSON'S," the man who addressed Cash and Bun-King stood over six feet tall, held a clipboard in one hand, and sounded slightly annoyed, but also relieved because he believed that the two who were holding up their departure had finally arrived.

Before Cash could answer affirmatively, Bun-King turned with a start and blurted out, "Oh! Excuse me. No, my name is Lydia Bun-King."

"Zack Cannon, owner and chief of operations," said the man with the clipboard. He looked puzzled trying to figure out just exactly who the flustered and disheveled pair was that had boarded his bus. He ran a finger up and down a list of names vainly searching for Bun-King.

"You're not the Johnson's?"

Lydia could see what Mr. Cannon was doing and prepared to point out to him why her name could not possibly be found on his roster.

Abruptly cutting off EL-NO's top-heavy office assistant before she could do more damage, Preston Cash spoke quickly and with no hint of deception, "Sorry for the confusion. I am Mr. Johnson, and this is my executive secretary, Lydia Bun-King. You see, Mrs. Johnson has taken ill, and Ms. Bun-King has graciously consented to be her stand-in. She takes excellent dictation."

A man in the back of the bus could plainly be heard to say, "I bet she does!" And it was about this time or shortly after that most of the Zen Adventure male clients and staff started drooling, while the females on board hissed like cats possessed by the devil.

Lydia's eyes widened, and her mouth closed. She nodded and for the first time realized that Preston Cash was an accomplished liar—and that he could fabricate fluidly and with grace. From then on she would prudently wonder if anything coming from his mouth in any way resembled the truth.

The attempt by the Zen Adventure's owner to hide his astonishment was not a total success. Before anyone could say another word, Cash added, "I hope that is okay."

"Oh, why . . . no problem . . . as long as you have paid in full . . . ," trying not to stare at Lydia Bun-King's prize rack, Zack Cannon gave a quick, nervous laugh, which sounded like someone striking a washboard with a file, and he began self-consciously searching for something in a box on the seat next to where he stood. When the nonplussed man found what he was looking for, a sheet of paper filled with names and numbers, and after a brief glance, he finished his statement, ". . . and you . . . let's see . . ," holding up the list, ". . . and you are, indeed, all paid up."

While the owner and chief of operations of Grand Canyon Zen Adventures was preoccupied with the hunt for his "accounts receivables" ledger, Preston Cash took the opportunity to steal a glance at Cannon's clipboard, curious to learn the first name of the Mr. Johnson whom he claimed to be.

Preston and Lydia took a seat together just as the bus began rolling forward. Cash could see the heavy-set assassin sitting on a curb several blocks away. He felt confident that the mysterious gunman had not spotted them stepping onto the bus, and that problem aside, he found himself hoping that the real Mr. and Mrs. Johnson would not suddenly materialize. He'd not given proper consideration as to what would be the best way to handle a case of "too many Johnson's." And as for where the bus would take them, what did it matter? They were ditching the killer, and the Lutheran's money was resting on his lap.

Cash looked over at Lydia as their "Zen adventure" got underway. He leaned toward her and whispered, "Call me Jerry, Jerry Johnson. Whatever you do, don't call me Preston."

"Will Honey Bunch do?" she whispered while shielding her mouth with one hand.

Preston Cash thought for a second before saying, "Perfect."

* * *

While floating down the Colorado River during the lazy days that followed, the enmity shared by Lydia and Honey Bunch multiplied. Neither could please the other. She cursed herself for believing his lies and, as a consequence, forgoing a 20,000-dollar reward. Adding to her injury, Lydia kept picturing herself in the sporty BMW, which she would have purchased had she not fallen for his line of Lutheran crap. And Preston was not happy with her "revealing" clothing, complaining constantly that she was "making a spectacle of herself." He did not, however, voice what he felt to be the truth of the matter: That given Bun-King's religion, a substantial change in her scandalous behavior was unlikely to occur.

Generally Lydia's response to Preston's complaints dealing with her inappropriate dress was to turn and flash her substantial cleavage in the direction of one of the Zen Adventure boat handlers. On a recent occasion it was a handler nicknamed Zigzag who was on the receiving end. The poor man happened to be innocently walking past while lugging a portable commode intending to deploy the "convenience" behind a thicket. He took a direct broadside from Ms. Bun-King. Having caught a glimpse of her humongous tits, which included a peak at her nipples, the deliriously happy Zigzag promptly tripped over a boulder and slid face-first fifteen feet down a gravel embankment. She laughed as he skidded to a painful stop. The tattooed Zen Adventure's employee got up and dusted himself off while grinning like a hyena. Because he felt privileged, he did not care that he was bleeding. It was as if God had looked directly into his eyes and had smiled.

* * *

Early in her teens Lydia Bun-King had learned a great lesson: _It is difficult to draw boundaries around the power of great cleavage._ To her, men haplessly dangled from strings, the ends of which Lydia could jerk and pull by displaying to advantage and/or by strategically jiggling her ample breasts. People often said of the woman "the force is strong in that one," and Lydia's Presbyterian blood compelled her to lean toward the dark side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

FLAGSTAFF MEDICAL CENTER

EMERGENCY ROOM

SHORTLY AFTER THE WOUNDING OF ORANGE, OYSTER, AND TROUT

The bullet wound in Newton Oyster's leg bled profusely and hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced. When delivered to the emergency bay, Oyster thrashed and carried on so much that he required heavy sedation. Soon the wounded director of EL-NO lay on a gurney completely unconscious. Oblivious to the presence of those around him, he dreamed fitfully of clandestinely liberating cows from a pen outside a slaughterhouse in his hometown of Pierre, South Dakota. But the dream turned into a nightmare when the cows, excited by the prospect of freedom, stampeded—trampling the vegetarian instead of filing past him in a calm, safe, and orderly manner.

An ER nurse noticed her patient wince a time or two, and she suggested to the attending physician that the poor man's pain medication be upped several notches. But she had guessed wrong. The source of the Lutheran's twitch was the turbulent picture he had in his mind of cows joyously skipping across his lifeless body as they surged out of their holding pen.

* * *

Twenty hours later Newton Oyster lifted his heavy eyelids, unveiling a room and a stoop-shouldered man slouching stock-still in a chair. In slow motion Oyster rotated his eyeballs. It was as if they were weighted with lead.

The furniture, the sterile pictures on the walls, the I.V. bottle, which dangled from thin, metal scaffolding and dripped fluids laced with pain-killing narcotics directly into his bloodstream—everything his heavy eyes recorded added up to one thing— _hospital_. _But how the hell did I get in here?_ he asked himself.

Suddenly the figure, which slouched in the chair beside his bed, came to life, "Director Oyster, are you okay?"

In a drug-induced stupor Newton Oyster thought he saw words coming out of the mouth of his toad-like second-in-command—literally saw the words. It was as if the stoop-shouldered Plaid had somehow become part of an animated cartoon—the sounds sailed through the air, now and then breaking apart. Some of the syllables hit their mark while others floated past and settled on the floor; a few ended under the bed. He thought that if he had more energy, he would stand, go over to where the sounds and syllables lay, and hold them to his ears. They would soak in, disappear inside his head, like water droplets absorbing into a sponge and, only then, would he get the entire message. The sounds "DIE . . . TOR . . . KAY" were all that had registered so far.

It next occurred to the drugged leader of EL-NO that arranging the sounds in the same order that they had exited Kermit Plaid's wide mouth would be impossible. Therefore, it followed that their meaning was irretrievably lost. The realization devastated him. The director never thought to ask Plaid to repeat, partly because, at that moment, Newton had lost his power of speech. Kermit addressed his boss a second time but with the same result. Oyster could not bear to watch as Plaid's words accumulated on the floor. Though the director could not talk while in his altered state, he could, nevertheless, think, and suddenly he found himself looking globally; the whole world was probably filling with broken words that no one would hear— _On the outside beyond the hospital's walls they must be piling up, useless, like dead leaves in Autumn_.

Later Oyster witnessed Kermit Plaid make several more attempts to communicate, but by then, thankfully, nothing emerged. Newton Oyster lay on his side for a full thirty minutes trying to recall the unlikely string of events that had landed him in his present position.

Finally Oyster whispered in a rough, dry-throated voice that his longtime employee would not have otherwise recognized, "Kermit." Plaid leaned forward, and Newton Oyster issued his first directive since arriving in the Grand Canyon State, "Tell them . . . tell them Kermit . . . that I . . . that I don't eat meat."

* * *

Sometime later a candy striper brought in a covered box containing Oyster's possessions, but because the gunshot victim was sleeping at the time, she handed the container to the toad-like gentleman sitting in the chair next to the bed. Plaid could not resist a peek inside, and when he lifted the lid, he caught a glimpse of a small writing tablet.

Kermit Plaid's personal tussles with temptation did not always end victoriously. Case in point, he knew that the notepad belonging to his sleeping boss was private and none of his business. While back in Chicago he had, often enough, walked into the office as Oyster thoughtfully scribbled away. On each occasion Newton Oyster would quickly close the notebook and slide it out of sight, unconvincingly pretending that he had been working on something official. Kermit wanted more than anything to have an innocent glance inside—just one peek.

EL-NO's second in command soon succumbed, and opening the tablet to page one, Plaid read silently: _"Lyrics to Lydia_."

Verse? The boss is a poet?

Thumbing through the pages Kermit sampled a poem at random:

Oh, my lover,

do not forget

my coffin

_and my silhouette . ._ .

Of the Director's use of the pen as a cudgel to bludgeon the written word, Plaid said only, "Morose."

He glanced at his unconscious boss then returned his eyes to the scene of the crime. That half of the poems contained references to Lydia Bun-King was no surprise. The Toad-man observed: _No one can accuse Mr. Oyster of having a poker face_ . . . ( _heh, heh_ ). The depth of Director Oyster's affection was clear. The very sight of Bun-King triggered a reaction equivalent to being dealt a royal flush, and an enthusiastic declaration that the director was, "All in!"

The box of Newton Oyster's possessions rested on Kermit's knees. EL-NO's assistant director used it to block the chief's view of the notebook just in case his boss chose an inopportune moment to awaken. Once started, Kermit Paid could not stop reading and followed each poem with a, "Pew," or an "Ugh," and in one case a, "Jesus Christ!"

"What'sss in the boxxx?" Not five minutes passed before Kermit heard the slurred words coming from the vicinity of the hospital bed, and the Toadster slowly and silently closed the unpublished book of poetry without raising his head.

"What'sss in the boxxx?" Oyster persisted.

"Oh, . . .er . . . eh . . . what box?"

"The one on your lap."

Plaid looked up as if he were startled to find a cardboard box resting on him right where Director Oyster said it would be, "Oh, this box," he opened the lid pretending to inventory its contents and at the same time secretly returned the notebook to the container. "Let's see, . . . belt, shoes, shirt, pen, car keys, socks, underwear, uhm . . . turban (which Kermit held up with the same alacrity as if he had fished a dead squirrel out of a hot tub), wallet, er . . . notebook, and pants with one leg missing."

"Crap, what am I gonna do with those?" Newton Oyster hated to shop for clothes partly because he was impatient and partly because of the humiliation of having to wear children's sizes.

"Er . . . Cut off the other leg. Convert them to shorts," EL-NO's lieutenant suggested feebly.

* * *

That afternoon Newton Oyster returned to his normal, lucid self, and he and his attentive right-hand man spoke in depth about the phone message left by Conan Kinnear. It was decided that they would acquire a handgun. Rather than just follow Cash, they would personally take back the money that was rightfully theirs. Assured by the doctor that the director of EL-NO would regain much of his mobility by the time Preston Cash's rafting trip would end, Oyster and Plaid solemnly pledged to one another that in seven days they would begin a vigil on the shore at South Cove, Arizona, ready to confront the embezzler if Kinnear and company had not gotten to him first.
CHAPTER FORTY

THE RECUPERATION OF ORANGE AND TROUT

After initial visits to the emergency room and subsequent trips to surgery, FBI Agent Orange and ADCI Major Trout were assigned hospital beds. Though just two doors separated them, neither visited the other. Both had received reprimands from their respective agencies for becoming sidetracked and abandoning their primary assignments. Also, Orange's wounded arm did not permit her to subdue her unruly hair (hair that, when left unattended, would quickly revert to a wild state, becoming the feral animal version of hair, resisting every effort to domesticate). Deprived of her morning custom of "caging the beast," she elected, out of consideration for others, to remain in bed.

Tickles Orange was released from the Flagstaff Medical Center after only three days and flew directly to her parents home in North Dakota to take advantage of the two weeks of paid medical leave granted to her by her boss. During her fourteen-day stay she met and fell in love with a thirty-year-old seminary student and experienced firsthand the rapture of Lutheran love (having only vicariously "sampled" it through the paper-thin walls of the Inn of the Painted Bunting).

Officer Trout was not so fortunate. His wound was much more severe, requiring a second surgery and an additional three weeks in the hospital. When finally released from doctor's care, he immediately drove to Las Vegas in search of a professional with a body and a work ethic matching those of the appealing lady who'd serviced Preston Cash. Sadly, arriving on the same day as the start of the Congress of Presbyterian Laity's annual convention, he failed in his quest; all the good whores had been booked months in advance.

Running into his ex-wife's mother, who was dancing topless for shots in a seedy bar three blocks off the strip, only added to Trout's misery. The thirty minutes he spent puking in a portable toilet at a nearby construction sight were barely enough to relieve the surge of nausea unleashed by the exposure to his former in-law's sagging tah-tahs. Subsequently, as he crawled out of the porta-john, B. Allen Trout was arrested for trespassing.

Fortunately the frustrated member of the Arizona law enforcement community was set free after giving a detailed account of the disturbing chain of events that had led to his downfall. Those in night court were reduced to tears of laughter by his tale of woe that could not have been better told had it been Samuel Clemons who was caught puking his guts out on private property.

Trout and Orange talked to one another only once after both were shot on Mockingbird Avenue. She called from North Dakota one week following the incident and advised him to watch the national news.

Orange's phone call led him to The Cheese, to the Harvester, and to the stocky cowboy with the black armband. The three of them (Cheese, Harvester, and stocky cowboy) were closer than Brook Allen Trout could have ever imagined.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

VLADIMIR FRISBEE

10:00 A.M., MONDAY, AUGUST 27, 2007

As promised Kermit Plaid had called his uncle in Page, Arizona, and explained how the Lutherans could use a helping hand, . . . and a boat, . . . also a guide, . . . as well as some food, . . . extra life preservers, and a dozen other items, mostly incidentals. Vladimir Frisbee, without hesitating, said yes—primarily because of the unpleasant Mrs. Frisbee whom Vladimir preferred to avoid as much as possible; but also because Vladimir Frisbee possessed a keen sense of adventure, a daredevil's courage, and exceptionally poor judgment. Of course, Kermit's uncle could think of 400,000 other reasons as well.

It was ten o'clock in the morning when Frisbee arrived at the Lee's Ferry boat ramp outside of Page. He brought with him 100 gallons of gasoline and towed his twenty-foot cruiser, the _Nostromo_. The Zen Adventures' rafts had a fifteen-hour head start, a lead the cruiser would, like as not, gobble up well before reaching the Cave Springs Rapids twenty-five miles down stream.

Vladimir Frisbee located the brown Toyota with "Lutherans United for More Power" painted boldly on its side, and he parked the _Nostromo_ next to the drab import. Because Frisbee did not approve of foreign cars, he took an immediate dislike to the Lutherans he had yet to meet.

Having received Kermit's phone message, Rex and Conan came running. They'd assumed that Plaid's uncle would share a few family traits—looks and temperament—with his pallid, stoop-shouldered, and emotionally flaccid nephew, but they were dead wrong. Kermit's seventy-ish Uncle Vladimir did not resemble a toad in the least, but had more in common with a rabid bat. He was mean-spirited, wiry, and exceedingly tan—his weathered look, a byproduct of avoiding Mrs. Frisbee who hated boats, could not survive without air conditioning, and seldom ventured beyond her own front door.

As Frisbee reached the earth after the long climb down from the cab of his monster pickup, he staggered. The old man clasped a beer in one hand, and through the open truck door Conan spotted several empties littering the big truck's floorboards.

"You guysss friendsss of Ssstub?" Frisbee asked. His voice wavered possessing that special timbre imparted by consuming a rise and shine breakfast consisting of twelve beers and a piece of toast.

Rex silently observed: _The man's breath is flammable_.

"Who?" Conan enquired.

"Ssstub . . . ah . . . my nephew, Kermit, Kermit Plaid. People in the family call him Ssstub 'causss he'sss got sssuch a sssmall dick." Kermit's Uncle Vladimir spoke candidly. His face was troubled by none of these: sarcasm, amusement, or animosity. The members of LUMP were witnessing a level of frankness to which they were unaccustomed.

Conan received the information stoically and vowed to himself not to mention the word "stub" in front of EL-NO's second in command. At the same time Rextastic Von Tastic raised his eyebrows and made a mental note: _Apparently there are few secrets amongst members of the clans Plaid and Frisbee._

Despite Kermit's assertion that his uncle could be numbered amongst those dedicated to the tenants of Lutheranism, Conan began to suspect that Mr. Frisbee's spiritual views were not as advertised. Rex, on the other hand, wondered from which thrift store the straight-shooting "Uncle Vladimir" had purchased his heavily "ventilated" coveralls. Plus, Von Tastic, after standing downwind of the captain, thought in disgust: _The man's "harried" schedule obviously leaves him little time to bathe._

"Er, yes. We are friends of Kermit. My name is Conan Kinnear and this is my partner Rex Von Tastic."

Neither Kinnear nor Von Tastic detected Vladimir's warily raised unibrow upon hearing the word "partner." Despite the old man's jaundiced eye, hands were shaken and beers were offered—beers which the members of LUMP tactfully declined.

"Right, more for me then," Frisbee announced with a smile.

Soon after the introductions had ended Vladimir began an ascent intended to place him back behind the stirring wheel of his truck, an adventure whose outcome was in doubt. On the climb up, Kermit's unsteady uncle slipped twice and managed to blaspheme Jesus, the Lord, and all twelve Apostles. Once safely in position the drunken Lutheran began backing the boat trailer into the river and hit his target after only four tries.

Conan, too, had climbed aboard the vehicle and in a gravely serious tone proceeded to explain to Frisbee the philosophy and aims of LUMP. Goals, objectives, statements of mission—none of these indispensable tools of business seemed to interest Uncle Vladimir. He quickly became bored and soon began adding color to Kinnear's narrative by belching each time the big Lutheran paused to take a breath.

The Great Warrior sensed perceptively that he was not holding the weather-beaten fisherman's attention. But he noted a turnabout and rally when the subject of the Lutheran's 400,000 dollars was broached—at least that was when the old man stopped producing explosive bursts of gas from the region of his stomach and esophagus and began farting meditatively instead.

After donning life preservers, Rex and Conan stowed their gear aboard the _Nostromo_. As the trio pulled away from shore under full throttle, Conan the Librarian stood straight and tall. The wind whipped his hair, which like a giant Brillo pad strapped to a paint shaker, did not whip so much as vibrate. The scene reminded the admiring Von Tastic of George Washington crossing the Delaware (only the little Lutheran had to imagine the Founding Father hatless and with hair teased into a giant Afro).

Kinnear held aloft the portrait of Martin Luther and recited, "The dying are freed by death from all penalties; they are already dead to canonical rules, and have a right to be released from them." He ended his dramatic quotation of the Great Reformer's sacred words by joyfully shouting, "Thesis Number Thirteen!"

Vladimir Frisbee, at the wheel of the _Nostromo_ , turned and with a scowl asked, "What the hell is dat ssshit?"

Rextastic correctly interpreted Kermit's Uncle's heretical question to be a bad omen.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

A CHANCE TO REKINDLE YOUR SPIRIT

Catering exclusively to the rich who, at the same time, considered themselves somewhat left of center, Grand Canyon Zen Adventure was not your typical rafting company. Frequently their customers led busy, hectic lives, and when a vacation rolled around, they were eager to reconnect with themselves as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Zen Adventure specialized in "quickie reconnections."

Their fare—strictly vegetarian—could only be described as gourmet, and they served epicurean coffees, teas, and chocolates. But what set the company apart more than anything was their spiritual approach to running the river. Since the Grand Canyon naturally inspires quiet reflection and thoughtful contemplation that no one had thought of the idea before was a wonder. The following passage appeared in a company brochure: "The scenery, the ethereal sense of space and time, and the changing angles of the sun create a temple of light and rock. One has only to reach out to touch life's vital essence." Zen Adventure management viewed the canyon as a catalyst for spiritual enlightenment and provided an advisor to see to it that catalysis proceeded smoothly and without interruption. After all, when one touches "life's vital essence," one does not forget. The result produces referrals, repeat business, and full bank accounts for the rafting company's owners.

The duties of the Zen Adventure spiritual advisor included leading daily meditation sessions, conducting purification ceremonies, and discussing spiritual issues with those clients so inclined. In the six years of the company's existence they had run through a number of spiritual advisors finding them, in some cases, too assertive and, in other cases, too weird (and on one occasion both too assertive and too weird), but the person currently filling the position maintained a credible balance—soft-spoken and not pushy; imagine Gandhi without the law degree. The boss, Zack Cannon, was quite pleased with the manner in which Baba Duncan Fungee discharged his duties.

The Zen Adventure guides (also known as boat handlers) earned less satisfactory evaluations. In the words of management: "The whiners complain more than blind men at a strip club."

Many of the "whiner's" gripes centered around the company's unwavering policy of providing only meatless meals. To compensate for being deprived of animal protein the boat handlers were guilty of routinely hiding jerky, sardines, Vienna sausages, and cans of Spam amongst their personal belongings as they prepared for their fifteen-day stints on the river.

After having subsisted on grains, fruits, and vegetables for a week, most customers found the smell of animal flesh easily detected and rarely offensive. The guides' circumvention of the ban on eating meat inadvertently created an underground economy; there were instances where opportunists within the boat handler caste turned to profiteering by selling their smuggled contraband to wealthy clients not deeply committed to the cause of animal rights.

Another objection voiced by the guides concerned their orange "dresses," which management mandated that they wear. The dresses were not dresses at all, but represented an attempt by the company to create an "Eastern Religions" theme. The orange Buddhist-style robes, or zentras, added ambiance and supported the company's objective of having each customer attain western-style nirvana (spiritual enlightenment quick and colorfully packaged).

* * *

Baba Duncan Fungee was a quiet, unassuming man. No matter what life threw at Guru Fungee, he received it with the same placid expression, which was almost no expression—blank, as if Mr. Fungee had been hypnotized not to respond. In situations requiring Baba to pass judgment he would vacantly collect evidence, would allow the facts to digest, and while sitting in the Lotus Position would deliver his decision soberly and without flourish.

When asked by two clients to settle an argument concerning a brand of luxury car, the expressionless Baba Fungee answered with a parable:

A boat handler carried an inflated raft down a trail, but was forced to stop when he encountered a tunnel where the trail passed through solid rock. No matter which way the man turned, the raft would not fit through the tunnel's narrow opening. There happened along the same trail a fool, and the man carrying the raft asked the fool how to pass the raft through the tunnel. The suggestion was to take a knife and cut the raft into small pieces, which the boat handler did.

With a gentle sweep of his hand Fungee dismissed the clients and quietly pronounced as they turned to leave, "May the Current of Divine Power nurture true enlightenment."

The two clients, after patiently listening to the words of the humble Fungee, bowed to him and walked away. But they were confused by the Guru's answer and returned later to ask what was the point of his story.

In an accent that hinted simultaneously of South Asia and of Scotland, Baba Duncan Fungee answered slowly, "If one asks a question to an unqualified person, and that person answers, it will be difficult to determine which is the bigger fool."

The two clients were extremely satisfied with the counsel they received that day from Guru Fungee and were to tell the story on numerous occasions. Soon they began referring to their teacher as "Great Soul" (or Mahatma Fungee).

Spiritual Advisor Fungee wore the menial attire of a Hindu ascetic and occasionally smeared his body with ashes. His only concessions to western dress were a tartan sash and a pair of Armani sunglasses; the sunglasses he'd received as a gratuity from an appreciative client; his maternal grandfather had bequeathed him the sash.

While the Zen Adventure spiritual advisor found the customers to be agreeable and receptive, the boat handlers, on the other hand, were a different matter. They somehow blamed Fungee for having to wear zentras, and as payback the resentful guides blessed him with many namesthe least offensive of which were: "Hollywood" and "The Mushroom."

But the boat handlers were not limited simply to name-calling. Their derision scaled lofty heights to where the air is thin and the brain hypoxic. For example Guru Fungee often referred to the company's large, communal tent as his ashram, which literally means, "a place of shelter from the heat of life." In its shade Baba Fungee frequently dispensed advice, conducted ceremonies, and led clients in meditation. Wearing the same placid expression on his dusky face, "The Mushroom" routinely corrected the boat handler's faulty diction explaining patiently that the word was pronounced "AUSH-raum" and not "ASS-ram."

* * *

Though Preston Cash and Lydia Bun-King grew apart on their days spent floating the Colorado River, they did not lack for things to do—especially Lydia. Under the direction of Spiritual Advisor Fungee, the woman from Chicago immersed herself in meditation. Later she memorized in English, in Hindi, and in Gaelic the verse entitled " _Bharat Mata_ " or "Mother India." Bun-King found Baba Fungee to be fascinating and frequently sought his advice on matters of faith. In fact she and Baba developed a close relationship but not in a Presbyterian sort of way—her liaison with the Zen Adventure's guru remained strictly spiritual and on a higher level. It might have been otherwise except for the fact that "The Mushroom" seemed to be on disconnect when it came to large breasts expertly displayed.

From the start, however, Lydia Bun-King became the favorite of the boat handlers since they, as a group, possessed no immunity whatsoever to her considerable charms. After taking care of their daily chores, they solicitously waited on Bun-King as if she were the queen bee. Ben Bucket, guide and cook's assistant, took great pains in explaining to her each of the chef's many dishes; what they were called, their ingredients, and their preparation.

Zigzag made it his pet project to teach Lydia the art of rowing an eighteen-foot inflatable raft through whitewater. It did not displease the Presbyterian spy that learning to handle a raft involved quite a bit of hugging and incidental rubbing, nor did she mind knowing that Preston Cash was watching, though the swindler pretended not to care.

Soon Zigzag began to regard Bun-King as his personal territory—a claim disputed by the older Benjamin Bucket. Zigzag's domination of Lydia's rafting lessons began to rankle Bucket. The dual boat handler - cook's assistant asserted privately that many of Zigzag's instructions could be improved upon and that some were downright wrong. Bucket argued publicly that rights to Lydia should be determined by seniority alone, and since he had worked for Zack Cannon longer than anyone, that he should have first dibs. Eventually the men agreed to submit the question to arbitration and abide by Baba Fungee's decision. As a result Benjamin Bucket was forced to withdraw his claim in exchange for two cans of Spam, three tins of Vienna sausages, and one pound of beef jerky, all of which Zigzag forked over with a disgusted "Humph!"

As for Preston Cash, from the very beginning the swindler felt that he had stumbled onto a gold mine. Each of the rafting company's customers seemed to be loaded. With dollar signs in place of eyeballs he began to play his "trusted advisor" role and play it to the hilt. Beginning on day two he'd started compiling a "suckers list." In thirteen days he would decide which of Zack Cannon's lucky patrons would have the privilege of his company after their Zen adventure was over. God made him the way he was, and for the time being, the swindler saw no reason to deny his natural tendencies.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

REX AND CONAN WALK THE PLANK

MONDAY, AUGUST 27, 2007

In hot pursuit of the rafting party, the _Nostromo_ sped down the Colorado—a river hemmed in by towering palisades of stone. Conan and Rex planned to strike lightening-quick. No way could the enemy's defenses withstand the Lutheran juggernaut. The Walls of Jericho were about to come tumbling down.

Even though outnumbered, they would have on their side a secret weapon—the element of surprise. Plus undoubtedly, a high angel of the Lord, Martin Luther himself, would insure their success. Both the Great Warrior and the fashion expert from Peoria brimmed with confidence sure that this time they would recover EL-NO's 400,000 dollars. Word would spread, and soon enemies of the One True Faith would know and fear the name of LUMP.

The Great Warrior smiled broadly, breathed deeply, and savored the golden sunshine that played upon the canyon's sheer, rock walls. In the meantime Rex Von Tastic trained his critical eye on Vladimir Frisbee's shabby apparel noting several adjustments and simple alterations, which he wisely kept to himself. Somehow, he sensed that the cantankerous captain would not take kindly to any of the fifteen recommendations that Rex considered appropriate and that could potentially place Frisbee amongst the legions dubbed "Marginally Sassy." The ill-tempered fisherman's crude vocabulary and reluctance to bathe had placed "Full-blown Sassy" well beyond reach.

The Colorado River is dangerous and has little regard for people's dreams or for their plans, realistic or otherwise. Lying snake-like under the Northern Arizona sun, she can strike fast, and the unwary pay the price. Despite his elevated blood-alcohol level and his case of double vision, Frisbee knew this to be true, and he proceeded accordingly.

Because the very top of Vladimir Frisbee's weather-beaten head extended barely five and a quarter feet above the deck of his similarly weather-beaten cruiser, and because Conan's head rose at least fifteen inches higher than Frisbee's, the grizzled captain of the _Nostromo_ ordered Kinnear to stand beside him, "Hey you, yeh big lubber, git over here! Keep a weather-eye out for logs and shit!"

Frisbee's command of archaic nautical terminology astounded the Lutherans. It was as if he'd walked straight out of the pages of _Treasure Island_. That aside, Conan understood the captain's point; hitting a heavy object at top speed could play hell with the prop and could suddenly turn the _Nostromo_ itself into hapless flotsam. As ordered, Conan Kinnear moved to the fore of the boat and took his position next to Frisbee. A triumphant conclusion to their mission depended upon his concentration, and after considering their circumstances, Conan made a calculated decision to stuff the picture of Martin Luther into the front of his pants and devote 100 percent of his attention to looking out for logs . . . and, well, other floating objects.

After thirty minutes and with his eyes fixed upon the river that stretched before him, Conan the Librarian laid out his battle plan to the salty Vladimir Frisbee, "Captain Frisbee, sir, whenever we catch up to them, I'll point out to you which raft the man with the money is in. Then you pull along side. I'll board them; I'll hand the suitcase to Rex and then jump back onto the _Nostromo_ before they have a chance to react."

"Yeah. Whatever you say Conard."

"Ah, that's Conan, Conan Kinnear."

"Yeah, right."

Conan was too caught up in the moment to notice Frisbee's treacherous sneer.

Two flagpoles adorned the rear of Vladimir's cruiser. On one of the poles a tattered skull and crossbones whipped loudly, but the other pole happened to be vacant—sporting only a few faded threads. While keeping his eyes glued on the river, Kinnear shouted to his long-time friend who rested on a small bench directly behind Frisbee, "Okay, partner, it's time. Time to show these people who we really are. That flag you've been hiding in your duffle bag, how about getting it out and displaying our colors!"

Before Conan could finish giving his order Frisbee jerked his head fore, aft, port, and starboard casting dagger-like stares in each direction. "What people?" he asked suspiciously.

For whatever reason Uncle Vladimir was uneasy about the prospect of witnesses, and Conan quickly explained what he'd meant, "For the Zen Adventure people when we catch up to them."

"Well, yeah. . . . Guess that's okay," the captain mumbled.

Rextastic bit his lip and asked sheepishly, "You, . . . you mean the one I made?"

"Yes, of course. The flag you made for LUMP. The one you've been holding back in order to surprise me."

The prospect of going into battle led by the official "Banner of LUMP," which had been hand stitched by Peoria's famous fashion designer was almost too much for the Great Warrior to contain. As Von Tastic rummaged through his duffle, Conan imagined a triumphant and glory-filled future, and the big Lutheran fought valiantly to hold back tears of joy.

Five minutes passed. Vladimir and Conan continued to look in the direction that the _Nostromo_ pressed. Kinnear pointed to a board in the water in plenty of time for Frisbee to veer left. Von Tastic, his red scarf whipping in the wind, reluctantly attached his colorful and clean banner to Vladimir's soiled pole. Those in the front of the intrepid boat were only vaguely aware of Rex's movements.

"Okay, you . . . you can look now," came the uncertain voice of the Rex Von Tastic.

Rextastic's primary purpose when he volunteered to create the Banner of LUMP was not to assemble fabric that would inspire men to fight—quite the opposite actually. He'd had more in mind a finished product that would declare to the oblivious Kinnear his undying love and that would awaken in the asexual Lutheran yearnings more consistent with the teachings of John Calvin.

Conan, attempting to stay focused on the river ahead, gave only a quick glance at Rex's banner. When he did, the tall Lutheran's reaction was comparable to the gyrations of someone receiving 220 volts delivered directly to the scrotum. Conan Kinnear, mouth agape, wheeled about and faced the fluttering ensign. For the Great Warrior the river and the peril posed by its floating objects no longer mattered. If at that instant the Colorado River would have reached the end of the earth and the _Nostromo_ would have gone over the edge like the proverbial barrel-riding daredevil challenging Niagara Falls, Conan would have noticed none of it—neither the change in direction nor the sudden acceleration—preoccupied as he was with the Banner of LUMP. Proudly flapping before him five feet above the _Nostromo's_ transom was Von Tastic's pledge of love—letters across the top spelled out boldly "LUTHERANS UNITED," across the bottom "FOR MORE POWER"—in the middle, painstakingly stitched in graphic detail, two naked men were depicted engaging in heated anal sex. The smaller of the two men, the one receiving, wore only a red bandana, which was tied sassily around his neck.

Standing awkwardly between the Banner of LUMP and the _Nostromo's_ faded skull and crossbones, Rex Von Tastic adjusted his red scarf, which had suddenly become uncomfortably tight.

At that point the captain had not yet turned around, but he knew something was amiss. Aware only that the big Lutheran had abandoned his post, Frisbee pivoted in order to learn the cause of his lookout's desertion. Next he cocked his head, tilting it to one side as the banner's full meaning seeped into the little-used neural pathways comprising his brain—a brain which the good captain had been striving to embalm that morning (and every morning) by the nonstop application of beer. Having begun drinking at the age of thirteen, the embalming process had been underway for fifty-seven years and was progressing smoothly and without interruption.

Von Tastic's explicit banner confirmed the captain's earlier suspicions. After killing the engine, Frisbee declared sarcastically, "Well, I guess two Lutherans can't git anymore united than that! Yeh sure the name of your group ain't HUMP?" Besides Mrs. Frisbee, there were two things Vladimir could not tolerate—they were in his words, "Queers and park rangers," not necessarily in that order.

Conan Kinnear stood speechless.

Drawing a gun, which he'd hidden near the _Nostromo's_ steering wheel, Vladimir Frisbee, ordered the two Lutheran sodomites to immediately jump overboard.

Rex Von Tastic sensed accurately that things could be going better.

The fashion designer's protestation that he did not know how to swim exacted no sympathy from Kermit Plaid's intolerant uncle who offered this reminder, "You're wearing a friggin' life preserver Numb Nuts!"
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

A PROPHECY IS PUT TO THE TEST

MONDAY, AUGUST 27, 2007

Conan Kinnear was the first to go over the side of the _Nostromo_. Because the water had been drawn from the bottom of Lake Powell before being released to flow through the canyon downstream, the river was freezing—far colder than anything the Great Warrior had ever experienced. As he bobbed up and down, he could see Rextastic still aboard the _Nostromo_ futilely negotiating with that greatest of scoundrels, Vladimir Frisbee. Frisbee raised his revolver threateningly and poked the skinny fashion designer, using the gun's barrel as a prod to edge Von Tastic closer to the side.

_Poor Rex_ , Kinnear thought. He watched his gifted friend climb gingerly over the _Nostromo's_ railing and then pause briefly to stick a toe into the swift current. Conan continued to ponder: _All this time the man has been in love with me, and I did not know._

Even though their mission was in jeopardy, Conan Kinnear could think only of Rextastic's hurt feelings, and of the disappointment that his partner was sure to bear. Rex's banner brought their progress to a screeching halt. Kermit Plaid's unstable uncle had gone postal—postal with extreme prejudice. (Years later Von Tastic would describe Frisbee's reaction this way: "You'd have thought that I'd dumped out all the captain's beer then ordered him to take a bath.")

The Evangelical Lutheran's Great Warrior treaded water waiting for Rex's imminent splash. He figured that the little guy would probably panic and forget to head for shore.

Due solely to Frisbee's ultra-persuasive prodding (an ancient form of motivation perfected and frequently applied by pirates who once plied the Caribbean), Von Tastic jumped into the river. The plunge was not a thing of beauty. With arms and legs flailing, the fashion designer hit the water face-first and continued to thrash while the current carried him south.

Meanwhile, Vladimir Frisbee wasted little time. Firing up his engine, the pirate-like homophobe pointed her downstream and shot off like an arrow. Conan Kinnear thought it odd. He had assumed that Kermit's rabid uncle would have headed in the other direction, back toward the Lee's Ferry boat ramp where he had parked his truck and trailer.

It required five strokes for Kinnear to reach his buddy.

Despite employing all of his appendages, Von Tastic had made no headway in his quest to encounter dry land; his arms seemed to work in opposition to the efforts of his legs; and he slapped and kicked at the water as if the river had done him a great disservice.

Conan's touch seemed to calm Rex, and the big guy, with his friend in tow, began swimming toward the closest shore. A sand beach and a slackening current lay in that direction.

Kinnear felt bottom just in time. Hypothermia set in. His strength ebbed, and his body became numb and helpless. The tables had turned. It was up to Rex Von Tastic to come to the aid of Conan Kinnear. With considerable flourish and a smile on his face the fashion designer went to work, proceeding the way Judy Garland might have proceeded had she been in Rex's size six blue suede Fenatos. Eventually he succeeded in pulling the big Lutheran away from the waterline and up to the dry, hot sand, no small feat for such a little man. Exhausted, Rextastic settled beside his big friend, and he let the sand's warmth, like a balm, sooth his tired muscles. While there Rex, still smiling, contemplated what the future held in store.

Conan lay shivering until his temperature returned to normal.

* * *

Five minutes was all that had passed. In those five minutes the Earth at its equator rotated east eighty-six miles; across the planet 143 people died of starvation; and worldwide McDonalds sold 42,531 hamburgers. In the same short interval the Banner of LUMP had revealed all. Frisbee had pulled his hidden gun; both Kinnear and Von Tastic walked the plank; and while Rex blindly thrashed about in the water, Kinnear had swum over to assist. Like a lifeguard saving a distressed swimmer, he made a beeline for the closest shore. In the process Von Tastic's hand had, quite by accident, brushed against the front of Conan's beige slacks not far from his zipper. Rex felt there something long and hard, and the small Lutheran fell to thinking that maybe his efforts were about to bear fruit. It was this that accounted for his coy smile and his happy contemplation of the moments and of the years that lay ahead.

* * *

When Conan recovered from hypothermia, and he no longer shivered and was able to speak coherently, he looked at his friend and asked, "Is . . . is that really the way you feel about me?"

Rex Von Tastic, still smiling, confessed, "Yes," then with a finger traced a heart in the sand.

"I have to tell you Rex, that I don't feel that way about you; . . . I . . . I don't feel that way about anyone really. Honestly, . . . sometimes I don't think that I'm normal. I've never loved, and to my knowledge, you are the only one who has ever loved me." The great warrior kept his voice low and tried not to sound in anyway harsh or judgmental (as so many people in the past had described the big man to his face).

Kinnear could see that Von Tastic was beginning to both redden and tremble, and he continued, "Rex, of all the people I know, you are the one most deserving of love. And I mean that. You're sensitive . . . You're talented . . . You care about others . . . You're everything that I am not . . . Rex, I'm not a . . . a very nice person . . . You deserve so much, much more."

Rex Von Tastic's eyes moistened, and he started to stutter, "B . . . but . . . wh . . . what about . . ." The fashion designer stopped trying to speak and slowly reached for Kinnear's crotch and felt once again the hard bulge in the big Lutheran's pants.

Looking surprised Conan quickly reached into the front of his damp trousers. He then fished from its place of storage the portrait of Martin Luther rimmed by its wooden frame. It had been the frame that Rextastic had mistakenly pinned his hopes upon.

The picture had gotten wet and the ink had run. Luther's face had morphed into something reminiscent of Edvard Munch's painting entitled _Scream_.

Kinnear did a double take and started to smile. Rex too smiled, then said as he wiped his tears, "That reminds me of Frisbee's face when he first eyed my banner."

And that, in turn, reminded the charter members of LUMP that when Vladimir tore off down the river, the "Banner of the Sodomizing Lutherans" still flew prominently at the top of the _Nostromo's_ soiled flagpole.

Soon the two were laughing. They hugged. Conan held his friend tightly and rocked him gently. Their relationship never progressed beyond hugging; thus the prophesy of Nostradamus was not entirely correct. Undoubtedly, it was the image of Rex's graphic banner that the great sere had sensed through the veil of 450 years.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

AN INSINCERE APOLOGY

MONDAY, AUGUST 27, 2007

Having dumped the two sodomites, Vladimir Frisbee sped down the river. He hoped to rendezvous with the rafting party before darkness forced him to tie up for the night. Being out on the river after dark was a contingency for which he'd neglected to prepare.

_That no good nephew of mine! I should have guessed he would hook me up with a couple of perverts!_ Frisbee had no peers when it came to dishing out blame and condemnation—the two commodities never seemed to be in short supply as long as the cantankerous fisherman strutted like a rooster on the _Nostromo's_ small deck.

For a full ten minutes the old man kept up the same internal harangue, coming down hard on his nephew Stub and on Stub's mother, Vladimir's only sister. _They raised that boy all wrong! Discipline, boys need discipline._ Frisbee made the point to himself several times. In his mind he lectured his sister as he'd been doing in person for the last five decades. For some reason she no longer had much to do with him.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, the captain realized he'd committed a grave error. Having accepted Stub's request to help recover EL-NO's embezzled thousands, the nefarious Frisbee next mapped out a strategy somewhat different than that proposed by his trusting nephew. He'd made two major changes: first and foremost, he planned to keep the 400,000 for himself; and, second (which, by the way, happened to be the current sticking point), after they'd retrieved the money, Vladimir had intended to THEN pull his gun and "invite" the Lutherans to go for a swim. Afterwards, he, his boat, and the entire proceeds were to have "disappeared."

The flaw was obvious. Frisbee had no idea what the embezzler looked like. Without the Lutherans along how would he be able to spot the man with the cash?

As he sped down the Colorado, the captain silently conceded: _Well, seems I got things out of order._

For Frisbee, dependent upon his quarrelsome wife's Social Security check and upon her small inheritance, acquiring the Lutheran's 400,000 would have meant freedom. Buying weekly lottery tickets had, thus far, netted him zero, and just moments before receiving his nephew's phone call, Vladimir had been casting about for other get-rich-quick options. None of the options he'd considered involved physical exertion nor did they in any way resemble work—a word that the skipper of the _Nostromo_ found unsettling. From Frisbee's point of view, acquiring EL-NO's cash would have required little actual effort, and he'd rated his chances for success as "superior." He'd even gone so far as to quietly mouth: "No way can I possibly screw this up!"

Though reluctant to admit the truth, Vladimir Frisbee was painfully aware that in the past he had "screwed up" regularly and routinely. In fact Mrs. Frisbee had been quite diligent throughout their married life, taking it upon herself to post daily reminders that this was indeed the case. Her capacity to remember her husband's many blunders—places, names, dates, etc.—never failed to impress her irascible husband.

From the time that Stub's proposal had fallen into his lap until just before realizing that his premature eviction of the Lutherans had been a mistake, it seemed clear to Vladimir that God had finally gotten around to granting him a wish. But now, in light of his most recent miscue, all was in jeopardy, and it was beginning to appear as if the Supreme Being, like some officious bureaucrat, had sent him to the back of yet another line.

After mulling over his choices, Frisbee ground his teeth, spat, swore, and let out a loud and anguished, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

He would have to find the Lutherans and apologize. Vladimir recalled that the one thing he hated more than "queers and park rangers" was having to apologize—he was bad at it—really bad, from lack of experience, mostly. Even when dead wrong, he never engaged in the practice, considering it demeaning and unmanly. An apology coming from his lips felt as unnatural as true sincerity coming from a politician. Still, he realized that until he committed the "unwholesome act," his plans for complete independence and a permanent vacation would, for reasons of practical necessity, remain on hold.

Sensing in its aluminum heart that the unspeakable awaited upriver, even the _Nostromo_ seemed to resist turning around. However, since there existed no recourse, boat and captain were soon laboring against two separate but equally oppressive tides—on the one hand, physical, on the other, mental. Just as the water, which relentlessly pushed against the _Nostromo_ , tested the strength of her stringers and bulkheads as she worked her way back upstream, the impending apology tried the honor and pride of Vladimir Frisbee.

How low would the old-Lutheran-gone-bad stoop in order to secure his freedom? Apparently, there was no limit.

* * *

While lying on the sand talking softly and laughing gently, Conan and Rex heard the far-off hum of a motor. The speck they saw laboring against the current held out the promise of placing them back at Lee's Ferry where they could return to the hunt for Preston Cash. The members of LUMP began waving and jumping up and down as the speck grew in size and the noise of its engine increased. To their relief the boat turned and headed straight toward them. The Lutherans danced and high-fived but stopped celebrating when they realized that the person at the helm was the same person who'd stranded them in the first place.

Having previously forced the Lutherans to walk the plank, Captain Frisbee now enthusiastically waved from behind the wheel of the _Nostromo_. The hideous expression on the captain's face might have been a smile, or possibly the man suffered from a mild form of food poisoning. Von Tastic and Kinnear's debate on the matter was cut short when Frisbee called out to the two men whom he'd so recently marooned.

"Ahoy there . . . er . . . mates! Ah, s . . . sorry 'bout . . . the, uhm . . . mix-up just now. I promise I won't shoot you or nuthin.' . . . ( _heh-heh_ ) . . . It's . . . it's just that I . . . well . . . I can't abide queers . . . queers and park rangers. If the truth be known, I believe both are condemned in the _Holy Bible_ to spend eternity in hell. Now, not you boys, of course. I'm certain you'll git tired of it soon enough—see the error of your ways. Bless your misguided hearts.

"Now as for me I tend to overreact. I know that—to be sure I do. You don't have to tell me twice. No sirree, Bob! I'm just afraid what I'll do if I ever come across a homo park ranger. Whooee! JES-us H. Christ!"

Frisbee shuddered as the thought's effects spread outward from the epicenter of his brain. Next he blew his nose, cleared his throat, and then correctly interpreted the sodomite's stony faces and crossed arms to mean that he was not so easily forgiven.

Continuing to navigate in uncharted waters Captain Frisbee pressed on, "So . . . so you can see why I . . . uhm, acted the way I did. I mean I'd never had a fag on my boat before, let alone two fags at once. Why I was afraid I'd have ta change the _Nostromo's_ name to the _Fudge Packer Express_.

"By Jiminy and a good God damn to boot. I'm here ta tell you; for me that was an awful lot ta take in! Christ Almighty, yes indeed, a lot ta take in! Damn! Damn! Damn! And double DAMN!"

Despite sounding as if Vladimir Frisbee had fallen victim to Tourette Syndrome, the Lutherans remained unmoved.

"I'm an old dog; yes, I am, and you know what they say about us old dogs; . . . ( _heh-heh_ ) . . . it was more than a bit much for me to handle; you can take that ta the bank; I'll tell you. But . . . now, now that it's out in the open, I'm ready ta move on . . . I want ta make things right . . . set things straight as it were . . . well, er, uhm, straight might not be the best word exactly . . . Anyway, I'm a reasonable man; ask anybody; they'll tell you true; they'll say, 'That Vladimir Frisbee, he sure is a reasonable man;' and above all else, I consider myself a Christian; I do. Yes, I do. What I done, well, it just wasn't right. Not right by a country mile by golly! And so, here . . . here goes: I ap . . . I apol . . . I apol-o-gize." Captain Frisbee produced the word with the same ease and delicacy as a house cat coughing up a grapefruit-sized fur ball.

Anyone could see that Frisbee felt a great deal of relief having passed the objectionable lump. His apology seemed to lay there, festering in the sunshine, difficult to ignore.

Sufficiently distracted, it was at this point that the Lutherans slightly softened, and the captain correctly read the sign.

"Now, if you two will just climb back on board, we'll be on our way. Git your money back for you Conard."

Vladimir then looked directly at the little fellow standing before him and added as if he were lecturing a hearing-impaired first-grader, "YOU WILL HAVE TO TAKE DOWN THAT THERE . . . ER . . . FLAG O' YOURS, HOWEVER. AND NO SEX IS ALLOWED ONBOARD THE _NOSTROMO_. NOT PERMITTED. NO. BUT, I SUPPOSE . . . ( _SWALLOW_ ) . . . IF YOU AND YOUR . . . UH . . . BOYFRIEND WANT TA . . . TA HOLD HANDS, THAT WOULD BE OKAY.

"Now git on over here; git aboard. We're losing valuable time. Hurry along. Gotta catch those rafts. Git my . . . er, uh . . . YOUR money. Times a wastin'!"

Still stunned into silence Conan and Rex cautiously climbed back aboard the _Nostromo_ , both careful not to make any sudden moves. In slow motion Von Tastic went about his assignment, which consisted of striking the colors of LUMP and permanently stowing the banner in his duffle bag.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

SERGEY'S MEMORABLE HIKE

AUGUST 27-30, 2007

After speaking with the pregnant lady in the Grand Canyon Zen Adventure office, Sergey Ostrovsky finalized his plan to kill the man codenamed Mockingbird. He would hike down the Tanner Trail; secretly pitch his tent above the spot where the Zen Adventure outfit planned to camp; scope out Mockingbird's sleeping arrangements; and finish the job at night—a job he'd been struggling to complete for nearly three weeks.

Sergey pledged over and over that this time he would succeed, and thereby, vindicate himself in Loggerhead Shrike's cold, steely eyes. At least he imagined that she had cold, steely eyes. Never having actually met his current employer, he could only guess. After debating the pros and cons, he'd decided that, just in case his best wasn't good enough for the hypercritical lady, he would not trouble her for a letter of recommendation.

"Collect my money and be done with it," he said to himself firmly.

When the hired assassin left the rafting company office back in Flagstaff, he'd headed straight for a camping supply store. Once Painted Bunting had made his purchases, he donned his new tricolor backpack. Stuffed with six days of provisions, the ponderous pack weighed as much as a major kitchen appliance and was comparable in size. To get a feel for things, he then went for a short hike in downtown Flagstaff. After ten minutes, he lightened his load by discarding a folding chair, an extra pair of hiking boots, a six-pack of Perrier, and a field guide to edible mushrooms.

Recalling that the lady in the Zen Adventure office had characterized the Tanner Trail as a full-day's hike, and that some tackle the route in two days, Ostrovsky, a plodder and not a race horse, covered the distance in three and coordinated his methodical descent so that he arrived above the Tanner Rapids on August twenty-ninththe same day as the Zen Adventure party.

While on the trail, it rained two out of the three days, a blessing in retrospect—cooling the ordinarily hot afternoons and restoring his water supply as well.

As planned, on day three, while singing the part of Giulietta (Juliet) from Vincenzo Bellini's opera entitled _I Capuleti E I Montecchi_ , a nineteenth century takeoff on _Romeo and Juliet_ , he spied with his field glasses seven colorful rafts rounding a bend upriver.

Stupendous Sergey had been in the middle of an aria where Juliet tells Romeo to go easy after hearing his bold and lusty professions of love. Evidently, she was stirred but not shaken. Ostrovsky's rendition lent a unique bravura that only a hairy 250-pound tenor can bring to a number written for a 100-pound teenaged soprano.

Training his binoculars on the rafts, Ostrovsky watched them land one at a time a half-mile below his overlook. He saw five men in orange robes performing the laborunloading gear, erecting tents—small tents for sleeping, a huge one for cooking, and another large tent, its purpose he could not guess.

The assassin caught sight of the woman with the big tits whom he had no trouble recognizing having chased McKinley and the lady just a few days before. She shamelessly flirted with the men in orange, and Sergey licked his lips as he recalled inspecting her red lingerie as he ran past where it lay on Mockingbird Avenue. Facing in Ostrovsky's direction, the buxom woman bent over, and as a consequence, he broke into a sweat while adjusting his Bausch and Lomb's, vainly seeking higher powers of magnification.

Suddenly below him the clear image of Michael Mockingbird McKinley appeared through his lenses—skinny, sunglasses, bur-headed (his hair had partially returned)—there was no mistaking the slippery character who'd been making his life miserable and at the same time had been calling his competence into question.

Sergey snarled then summarized how he would proceed: _Like a cat—quick, silent, precise._ Unfortunately, Sergey Ostrovsky in no way resembled a cat.

Throughout that afternoon and evening Ostrovsky watched McKinley enter and exit the same small tent, which he apparently shared with two older men. As the sun dipped low in the sky and the shadows lengthened, the Millies' assassin recalled the time he'd dispatched a television evangelist. The circumstances were practically identical— _wilderness, . . . nighttime, . . . large group, . . . victim sleeping in a tent he shared with others_. It was practically _deja vu_. The members of that group were older and one would pop out of bed every five minutes to go to the bathroom. The night he killed the televangelist Sergey had hid in the bushes for nearly ninety minutes before taking his shot, and while in hiding, he barely avoided being peed upon twice. He figured he could get in, do the Mockingbird job, and get out in five minutes unless everyone in camp decided to empty their bladders around zero hour.

_If things go as planned, by the time they discover Mockingbird's body, I'll be packed and on my way out of the canyon_. The assassin could see the confusion in his mind's eye—those in the Zen Adventure party would be pointing fingers at one another, convinced that one among them was a killer. What he visualized amused him, and his chuckling sounded like the clucking of a hen resting on a clutch of eggs.

McKinley's tent had been setup on the beach at the end of a row of similar small tents and would be easily located in the dark. The killer smiled realizing that he would make very little noise when tiptoeing across the sand—sand lit by a gibbous moon. In his mind's eye he could see himself, gun in hand, silently entering Mockingbird's sleeping quarters. Being the last tent in the row would lessen his chances of bumping into someone answering nature's call. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

Assured that all was ready, and that he'd sufficiently prepared himself for the task at hand, the final action taken by the Millies' hired killer before turning in for the night was to set the alarm on his wristwatch for 3:00 a.m. Before falling asleep, he pictured himself as James Bond, gun in hand, impeccably dressed, imperially slim, and gliding stealthily toward his nemesis. But an image of a fifteen-year-old Cerdo Ostrovsky wearing a tee shirt announcing "Tons of Fun Fat Camp - 1982" kept crowding out "007" and blurring the image of the famous secret agent.

_God, that was twenty-five years ago!_ Sergey Ostrovsky pleaded with his psyche to let go of the past.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

THE LOTHARIOS: ZIGZAG AND BUCKET

After only two nights of sharing the same tent, Bun-King and Cash had a blowup and a formal parting of the ways. Alternative sleeping arrangements were agreed upon where Cash shared with two wealthy gentlemen who did not seem to mind the intrusion once Cash let it slip that he was the grandnephew of former President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Lydia remained in their original tent—by herself. There wasn't much choice. The rest of the ladies on the trip had instantly despised her, labeling the woman a "home-wrecking whore" and a shameless seductress. It was as if all the women came equipped with built-in radar able to detect the "slut factor."

Meanwhile, Preston Cash played the role of trusted financial planner. He cozied up to anyone whom he thought might be rich—his two tent-mates especially. Both were rumored to be industrialists with family money.

Cash's "suckers list" was up to eight. At the top of the list resided his two captains of industry and also included a former mayor of San Francisco, an original member of the cast of the long-running Broadway hit _Miss Saigon_ , and a lobbyist employed by a pharmaceutical giant plus the lobbyist's three guests who were all members of the U.S. House of Representatives. The congressmen explained to everyone who asked and to several who did not ask that they were conducting official business—a fact-finding mission for the U. S. Department of the Interior. It had something to do with the National Park Service. Apparently the need for secrecy kept them from revealing more.

Cash decided that the fastest way to make an impression was through Baba Fungee's meditation sessions and spiritual instruction seminars. He'd been blessed with a photographic memory, and not for the first time his ability promised to propel him to the top of the class.

Memorizing several _Vedic_ hymns turned out to be a snap, and before long he was able recite like a Hindu priest . . .

Limitless Earth, whom the Gods, never sleeping

protect forever with unflagging care,

may she exude for us the well-loved honey,

shed upon us her splendor copiously!

Blah . . . blah . . . blah . . .

Preston Cash's potential suckers could only marvel.

* * *

For two weeks and one day the responsibility of guiding the souls of the floating community known as Grand Canyon Zen Adventure would be in the capable hands of Guru Fungee. He believed that his ashram, which he'd named The Current of Divine Power, could lead even the most entrenched sinner onto virtue's shining path. If he'd had the foresight to ask Balrama, the Hindu god of Human Resources, to first eliminate Presbyterian and fallen Lutheran from the passenger manifest, Fungee's job would have been much easier.

* * *

When "Jerry Johnson" and his executive secretary, Lydia Bun-King, announced their mutual desire to maintain separate quarters, it signaled the beginning of a rush that easily could have turned into a stampede. Most of the men, married and single, experienced visions inspired by Bun-King. Typically, their daydreaming featured her naked while she performed incredible feats of sexual acrobatics. The two men most taken with the alluring Ms. Bun-King were the boat handlers Zigzag and Bucket who already had a history of conflict over the issue of filling Lydia's spare time.

In his late forties Bucket had recently divorced and was currently wrestling with a mid-life crisis—a struggle that he sensed he was losing. It may have been hormonal, but for whatever reason, Benjamin Bucket viewed Lydia Bun-King as the only antidote powerful enough to arrest his slide toward the inevitable—a place on the roster of the AARP.

Zigzag, fifteen years younger, was numbered among the marginally handsome and could sing and play the guitar. In fact his talents were such that Zen Adventure's management encouraged the unmarried amateur musician to bring his instrument and purchased for him a special waterproof carrying case with the understanding that he would play softly at night while clients mused around the campfire. Over the years that he wore the orange zentra of a Zen Adventure guide, Zigzag had discovered that the splendor of the canyon not only allowed visitors "a chance to rekindle their spirit" and to "touch life's vital essence," but also turned single women into "horny love monkeys" (Zigzag's own words, not found in any rafting company literature). His prized Martin acoustical guitar, which had been handed down to him from his father, combined with three glasses of "Canyon Punch" (made by mixing water, Tang, and grain alcohol) normally assured success.

Late at night, Zigzag would croon to a prospective "Love Monkey" such favorites as "Time in a Bottle" and "I Can't Fight This Feeling," while doing his best to sound like Barry White. Once he sensed that her passion had fully ripened and that she was ready to pluck, he would follow this sequence: (1) lay down guitar; (2) retire to the nearest inflatable raft; (3) remove all clothing (his and hers); and (4) begin mutually satisfying bouncing activity.

In the contest for Lydia's affection the experienced Zigzag had every advantage over Benjamin Bucket. The only things Bucket had going for him included the fact that he was cook's assistant, that Bun-King liked cooking, and that he was male. When it came to men, Lydia pushed few doors completely shut. She even left a door slightly ajar for Baba Fungee—an opening The Mushroom, to his credit, had been wise enough not to enter.

There was little that Bucket could do to improve his slim chances with Lydia Bun-King, other than, perhaps, engage in sit-ups—an activity counter to his nature. His body type was more on the order of doughy and rounded, which meshed perfectly with his usual state of mind—also doughy and rounded. Despite insurmountable odds, he did not give up. After all, the sexy woman starred in all of his fantasies. In those silent reveries he was younger, taller, thinner, more muscular, and had retained all his hair.

Benjamin Bucket settled on a three-part strategy: be ultra nice, be attentive, and be her defender and champion. If Lydia were ever threatened, in trouble, or in danger, he would be there to intercede on her behalf.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

AN UNLIKELY TRIO

AUGUST 30, 2007

Apologizing to the two sodomites had been odious. But it was over, and Captain Frisbee had gotten what he wanted. The two Lutherans were back on board the _Nostromo_ , and the unlikely trio, after an awkward one-hour interruption, was once again in pursuit of the rafting party.

When Conan Kinnear returned to his station, which involved looking out for hazardous objects floating in the river, Vladimir silently congratulated himself on his "nearly flawless," exhibition of diplomacy. _Well now, I done that purdy damn good_ , he said to himself and then began to contently hum.

Frisbee conceded that he did not always come across well to others—it was a failing—a failing he pledged that he would NOT attempt to overcome. Fish—he got along well with fish, and after acquiring the Lutheran's money, fish would be all that would matter—fish, beer, and gas for the _Nostromo_. For the moment the grizzled fisherman was sublimely happy and would have cackled like a crazy man had he been alone.

Of course, after their adventure was over, Vladimir Frisbee would have to bathe—a dip in the river (or maybe even two dips—he would see how he felt). Having committed the sin of "apology," some contrition would be in order. Perhaps soap would do the trick. This was a great concession because over the years Frisbee had had little truck with soap. He'd use cleanser—the heavy duty stuff—to scrub away the feeling of profound defilement that comes as a result of publicly excusing one's self. _But still, 400,000 dollars can buy a lot of penitence_ , he concluded with a grin. And anyway, defilement was nothing new to the old Lutheran who, quite some time ago, had strayed from the path of righteousness. Having committed truly egregious forms of iniquity on numerous trips to Mexican border towns, he had built up a degree of immunity to the feelings that often attend debasement.

Vladimir licked his lips. Shortly he began to happily recite what he could recall of "Thirteen Men on a Dead Man's Chest."

* * *

Though Conan Kinnear felt that a joyful recitation of Martin Luther's Thesis Number Thirty-seven would have been an appropriate way to kick off the second leg of their voyage, he chose not to quote the Great Reformer. Instead, the leader of LUMP elected to divide his time equally between watching for floating debris and silently monitoring the other source of hazard on the Colorado River, namely, Kermit Plaid's erratic Uncle Vladimir.

* * *

After Frisbee's insincere apology, things turned quickly sour. But this time the culprit was the _Nostromo's_ twice re-built engine, replacement parts for which were last manufactured in the 1990's. While in Page, the captain was forced to make repairs using what he could scavenge from a local junkyard, but being stranded on the river required both invention and genius to get the old tub underway. There were numerous examples: once the particle of dirt had been removed from the fuel line using a wire coat hanger, the surly fisherman discovered that the exhaust manifold had cracked. This he kept from growing wider by attaching two rusty "C"-clamps. Shortly thereafter, the timing chain slipped just enough to cause the cruiser to sputter and to randomly backfire so that the engine sounded as if it were being fed a steady diet of nitro and beans. Shear pins were severed twice and the clothes hangar, once again, was pressed into service. Conan Kinnear pointed out to Rex Von Tastic that duct tape had been a major component in past efforts to keep the _Nostromo_ afloat.

All of the ancient boat's mechanical troubles were eventually repaired but at the cost of considerable time—each procedure exacted long delays, and captain and crew were forced to spend several nights on the river with just one blanket between them. Under such spartan conditions, Rextastic and Conan described their sleep as "adequate but not satisfactory." Frisbee, however, had a terrible time. Knowing that he shared the same bedcover with a pair of "deviants," even a small matter like shutting his eyes caused him so much trepidation that sleep, when it came, was the restless, unfulfilling kind. AND he adamantly refused to spoon—a practical requirement if one wished to remain under the cover. Frequently during those long nights on board the _Nostromo_ , the captain wondered if 400,000 dollars would be adequate compensation for the considerable risk to which he was exposed.

Rex and Conan found the many shades of crimson that Vladimir Frisbee turned each time the _Nostromo_ ceased to function both amazing and awe inspiring, and the two would sit down together to enjoy the dazzle of Frisbee's segment of the electromagnetic spectrum. It was as if the members of LUMP were a retired couple with time on their hands and were pausing to watch a particularly colorful sunset. The swear words were another part of the spectacle. The offensive phrases and smutty terms employed by the captain caused Von Tastic to blush and made Kinnear wonder if Vladimir Frisbee was located at one end of a conduit that lead directly to the realm of the prince of darkness.

It took the _Nostromo_ and crew four days to travel sixty-eight miles, and, rounding a bend just above the Tanner Rapids, the team of Frisbee, Von Tastic, and Kinnear spied seven rafts pulled onto the river's southern bank. A banner hung limply from a pole, and Rex could make out "Zen Adv . . ." before the rest of the letters stitched onto the banner disappeared into a fold. But what the Lutherans observed was most curious, for people were scurrying about the Zen Adventure encampment like ants whose hill had been plundered by an animal in search of a meal.

Vladimir Frisbee ran the prow of the _Nostromo_ onto the sand and waited in the boat, his hand on the throttle. As soon as the Lutheran's money was safely stowed, he planned to slam her into reverse and takeoff upstream—hopefully his and the money's departure would take place before the two "perverts" had had a chance to scramble back aboard. But maybe that was asking too much, and since he still carried his gun, he could always wait until later to say _hasta la vista_ to his nephew's depraved "butt buddies." In either case he would not miss their company. Besides, he looked forward to getting a worry-free night of sleep.

Von Tastic and Kinnear left the _Nostromo_ and waded through the shallow water. But before getting wet, Rex removed then held aloft, his 400-dollar shoes and began to wonder if wearing the Fenatos had been a mistake. With the sleeve of his shirt he attempted to buff out a scuff in the suede as he pushed for dry ground.

In the lead Conan the Librarian, a righteous fire smoldering in his dark eyes, felt that triumph was at last within his grasp. For the big man, who possessed angular features and Brillo-pad-like hair—hair which was the approximate size and shape of a bed pillow—only the absence of two things kept the moment from being perfect: first, a waterproof picture of the Great Reformer and, second, a more appropriate banner—he had in mind a banner showing two fully clothed adults—adults resembling Beaver Cleaver's father—maybe saluting one another but not touching—definitely not touching.

Hurrying to catch up after re-tying his shoes, Von Tastic courageously hummed the final movement of Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture." But the little man's true level of courage was betrayed by the fact that, like a centipede walking through a minefield, he perspired profusely and treaded lightly.

Having been safely stored in Rextastic's duffel bag, the picture of the embezzler Preston Cash had escaped the dip in the river and, therefore, remained in reasonably good condition. After reaching shore, Kinnear stopped and looked for the millionth time at the swindler's photo. He then scanned the campsite in search of the genuine article. However, none of the excited people who were running here and there like chickens with their heads cut off were a match.

The big Lutheran's next move was to look for a helpful, friendly face and show that person the embezzler's eight-by-ten glossy. But soon Conan was scratching his head because, in his opinion, none he surveyed met the criterion of "helpful and friendly." Somewhat at a loss he glanced at Rextastic. Rex nodded toward a gentleman seated nearby, and Conan interpreted the nod as a suggestion that he show that man Cash's picture.

Conan and Rex strode in the direction of a dark-skinned character who bore a striking resemblance to Gandhi in both looks and dress (except he wore sunglasses and had a plaid sash tied around his sackcloth vestment). The man stared expressionlessly while sitting with legs crossed, back straight, and arms resting on his thighs.

"It's the Lotus Pose—the pose of the Hindu holy man or sadhu," Rex confided softly to Conan. And after a thoughtful scratch of his chin, he added, "I believe the tartan is of the Clan Duncan and the sunglasses are Armani."

The big Lutheran signaled that he understood.

Knowing that his friend originally hailed from rural Indiana, Von Tastic routinely took it upon himself to fill in the blank portions of Kinnear's fragmentary worldview. Born and raised in Peoria, Illinois, Rextastic had received more exposure to that which is considered cosmopolitan by the planet's intelligentsia.

The holy man kept repeating over and over a long drawn out single syllable, "Ahmmmm. . . Ahmmmm. . ."

"He is practicing transcendental meditation, and that noise he is making is what is known as a mantra," Von Tastic quietly explained.

Despite standing directly in front of him, the Gandhi character took no notice of the two Lutherans and their picture. Even after Conan had addressed the man politely: "Excuse me, Mr. Sadhu, sir. Can you tell us where we can find this person?"

The dark-skinned man in the midst of meditation stared through the two members of LUMP as if his gaze could penetrate not only Lutherans but solid rock as well. After a brief pause, Kinnear and Von Tastic decided to skip the Scottish version of Gandhi and go onto another man seated fifteen feet farther along. There they fared only slightly better. The second man wore an orange dress.

"It's called a zentra, the robe or shawl worn by a Zen Buddhist monk," Rex whispered to his muscular friend. "This particular one is a silk and cotton blend dyed with saffron, which is of course a natural dye made from the stigma of the crocus. I've worked with this material. Elegant but not opulent, it retains a certain organic richness, wouldn't you say?"

Conan nodded, however, to him the person and his orange robe did not appear at all elegant. Kinnear had to agree, however, that the man in the strange outfit, from certain angles at least, did possess "an organic richness." But, he conceded silently, _Rex is a better judge of such things._

Looking beyond organic richness, Conan spotted at least two other things that set the man apart: a deep tan, and across one of his biceps, the word "ZIGZAG" had been prominently tattooed. The Zigzag specimen looked profoundly depressed and cradled in his arms and on his lap a mangled guitar.

"It's a Martin acoustical," Rex quietly notified Conan of the brand and style. It was a wonder that Von Tastic could tell because the Martin had been smashed into a thousand pieces.

Conan did not say anything. While strategically placing his thumb over the face of Ben Affleck, Kinnear held the picture of Preston Cash in front of the unhappy "Zigzag" who sat rocking the broken guitar like someone mourning a dead child. At first the swindler's photo elicited no response. Conan moved it closer and the words, "You just missed him," issued trance-like from the mouth of the man with the broken Martin. Nothing lay behind the words that he uttered—no passion, no feeling, and no indication of thumbs up or of thumbs down. Apparently, that was all, and no more information appeared to be forthcoming.

Only then did the members of LUMP notice the scratch marks—some older, some quite fresh—on Zigzag's face and arms. Von Tastic saw the dried bloodstains on the orange zentra and felt compelled to recommend a thorough washing in cold water, but he thought better of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

A SOUR NOTE

THURSDAY, AUGUST 30, 2007

Rex Von Tastic and Conan Kinnear, with the assistance of Vladimir Frisbee, had only moments before caught up with the rafting party. The two militant Lutherans had waded ashore, but their efforts to track down the swindler, Preston Cash, were going nowhere. The lack of progress left the leader of LUMP noticeably upset. Kinnear had just asked "the Zigzag character," if he had seen the man they were tracking, and his response left the uber Lutheran highly agitated.

"We just missed him? How'd we just miss him? These guys are on rafts in the middle of nowhere; like, where the hell could he go?" Conan Kinnear asked his questions to no one in particular. Zigzag had become unresponsive, and the Gandhi-look-alike's mind was on tour somewhere between Jupiter and Saturn. Kinnear looked to Von Tastic who, obviously, had no insights that could shed light on the present enigma: WHERE IS PRESTON CASH, AND HOW COULD WE HAVE JUST MISSED HIM?

Turning in the direction of the _Nostromo_ , Conan the Librarian, after catching the eye of Vladimir Frisbee, gave a shrug meant to convey, "We don't know what the hell's going on."

Von Tastic looked down a row of small tents. The first one in line was a mess, and two older gentlemen were sitting on its remains. "Let's try these guys," the sassily dressed fashion designer suggested hopefully.

The Great Warrior still shaking his head over the unanswered riddle, walked another fifteen feet until he stood in front of two aristocratic-types who rested on the remnants of what clearly had once been a tent. One glance at Conan was all that was necessary to understand that this was one angry Lutheran. The big man did not say a word. With a snarl he shoved Preston Cash's picture uncomfortably close to the nearest gentleman's face and waited for a reply.

"I guess I've always been the curious type. Explain to me just exactly why are you showing us a picture of Ben Affleck," said one of the aristocrats sarcastically while the other innocently cocked his head and looked to Kinnear for an answer.

The response clearly did not set well with Conan, and he rapped the picture with his index finger and practically shouted, "NOT HIM! HIM! HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?"

"Oh, ah, yes. Why that's our tent-mate, Jerry," the first man said somewhat reservedly like he felt uncomfortable speaking to a total stranger without first being handed a letter of introduction and also without observing certain other formalities such as an exchange of names and a proper handshake.

"JERRY?" Conan snapped.

"Ah, why yes. Jerry Johnson from a very respectable Memphis family," the first gentleman was being civil, but Rextastic could see from the man's expression that he was not accustomed to being addressed so artlessly.

The second person sitting on the tent did not appear as particular and chimed in while pointing at Preston Cash's photo, "Hell of a good meditater, and that boy really knows his Vedas too—sharp as a tack. Why, when this trip is over, and he gets out of the hospital, I'm going to have him fly up to Boulder, put him in charge of my investments. I'm here to tell you, he's a genius—the genuine article!"

"HOSPITAL?" Kinnear exhaled like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Yeah. They choppered him out . . . what say . . . an hour ago?" For confirmation the personable aristocrat looked toward his sour friend.

"No, I'd say more like an hour and a quarter," gentleman number one spoke haughtily and, after a quick glance at his Rolex added, ". . . yeah, an hour and fifteen minutes ago."

Conan Kinnear exploded, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HIM?"

"You a friend of his?" the first man asked suspiciously, beginning to wonder what business it was of the rude, crass giant who stood challengingly in front of him.

But before Kinnear could come back with a combative reply, Von Tastic butted in, "Yes we are. We are his friends."

"Well, I am sorry to have to inform you, but some fat guy shot your friend late last night, a fat guy with a black armband. Like we said, Park Service choppered him out."

"DAMN!"

"Who are you anyway?" It looked as if the first aristocrat was about to pull the plug on their conversation.

Rex answered as affably as possible, "Well, see, we are with a syndicate that goes by the letters L-U-M-P." The skinny Lutheran chose to spell out the acronym rather than pronounce it and resorted to an inaudible mumble when he came to the last two letters.

"Hum, . . . I think I've heard of you. You fellas have a seat on the New York Stock Exchange, don't you?"

"That's us," Von Tastic decided not to correct the misconception or to embellish further.

The second aristocrat who seemed a lot chummier was soon busy explaining how it came to pass that Jerry Johnson had a run-in with a bullet:

Late last night this guy—fat, like I said—comes sneaking into camp. He has a gun. It's dark. He's hungry. Wants to steal some food—or so he says.

Well, Zigzag over there became intoxicated last night like he usually does, and left his guitar lying on the sand. Along about 3:30 this stranger steps right on it. Puts his foot all the way through the thing. Strings are twanging. Waking up the dead. And he can't get the damn thing off his foot. He's shaking it every which way. Next the man falls on our tent here.

I'm about to have a heart attack.

Right away the four of us are struggling; the guy with the gun's trying to stand up. We three in the tent, we're trying to get out. Johnson manages to free himself first; he looks over at the fat man, and starts running toward the river. I hear this whisper of a gunshot; Johnson screams, took a bullet right in the ass.

Meanwhile the guitar has this fat guy so tied up that you'd have thought it was a bear trap. He manages to stand with the guitar still attached—looks like a one-footed duck to me. He's waddling after Johnson.

Don't know why. It's not like Johnson was carrying food.

About this time, Zigzag, wakes up from his drunk, sees his guitar walking off while it's wrapped around this stranger's foot, and poor old Zigzag goes ballistic. I mean really nuts!

He runs over, tries to rip it off the man's foot, but he comes away with just the neck. Then he starts beating the fat guy over the head with his guitar neck.

_The fat guy is trying to protect himself with one hand and raises his gun with the other, getting ready to take a shot, but Zigzag is on him like a buzz saw. The man's fretwork was simply amazing . . . just wailing away_.

Now, here's the REALLY strange part. About this time Ben Bucket comes running out of his tent yelling, "Unhand that woman," then the gun goes off and strikes Bucket in the shoulder. I swear to God!—I'm not making this up. He's actually yelling, "Unhand that woman," and I have no idea why.

Before the fat guy can get off a second shot, the gun goes flying out of his hand and falls right at the feet of Miss Bun-King, Jerry's secretary, whom I didn't even see until I heard her yell—now I don't drink or anything—but I'm sure I heard her holler something like, "Jews-shot-my-Sam-tonight!" She must have been in the middle of a dream when she woke up. And the dream sort'a carried over. That's what I figure anyway.

At this point the first gentleman, while shaking his head no, interrupted, "That's not what she said. It was more like, 'YOU-shot-my-SAMSONITE.' You know, that brand of luggage. But either way, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

The second gentleman nodded and punctuated his friend's comment with, "Amen to that, brother; we've all had crazy-ass dreams."

Then he continued where he'd left off:

Well anyway, Lydia Bun-King's holding the gun; it goes off. The fat guy drops like a ton of bricks, and that was the end of the fight. If you ask me, it was lucky for us Lydia shot him. No telling how much damage a hungry fat man can do even with a musical instrument attached to his foot.

The Park Police were here—they're gone now, of course. They questioned her and took statements. We all vouched for Miss Bun-King.

Three of our people are U.S. Congressmen—they pull a lot of weight with the Park Service; you know—oversight, budgetary approval. All that. They had especially glowing things to say about the lady's character, so the Park Police said they had all they needed and didn't take her in.

After Ms. Bun-King shot the fat guy, we went over and found Johnson. He was hiding in the water between a couple rafts. Johnson, Bucket, and the fat guy are all on their way to the hospital in Flagstaff. Of course they handcuffed the shooter. Read him his rights.

So now we're kind of stuck—short a boat handler. That was one of Bucket's jobs. Don't know what Mr. Cannon plans to do about that.

I'm telling you, that guitar worked like a charm, better than any security system I've ever owned. I think I'll buy a couple of cheap guitars when I get home, lay them around the estate at night.

After the second aristocrat finished his story, Conan Kinnear, his eyes alight, asked, "When they took Cash . . . er . . . I mean, when they took Mr. Johnson away in the helicopter, did he leave behind a small suitcase?"

"That! Hell no! He never let that out of his sight. Get this! The man's lying there bleeding, see; he makes me go to what's left of our tent, find his precious suitcase, and bring it to him then and there. That suitcase is on its way to Flagstaff, and you can bet old Jerry's got a hold of it like a scared kid hugging his Teddy Bear."

The light of hope, which had shown briefly in Kinnear's eyes, flickered then went out. When Vladimir Frisbee heard the bad news, the door to the conduit, which the two Lutherans believed connected the wizened fisherman with the underworld, seemed to fling wide open and out gushed a torrent of poisonous invectives worthy of the nastiest of black-hearted scoundrels.

Von Tastic and Kinnear were taken aback. It seemed that Frisbee, was even more disappointed than they that LUMP's mission had ended in failure. In fact Kermit Plaid's uncle's disappointment was so profound that he uttered not one word on the return trip to the Lee's Ferry boat ramp.

Rex Von Tastic's day, however, was not a total loss. Before climbing back aboard Frisbee's cruiser, he spotted one of the original cast members from the Broadway production of _Miss Saigon_ , and the little Lutheran with the broken-but-resilient heart serenaded Conan and Vladimir with "I Still Believe" for the remainder of the time that they spent aboard the _Nostromo_.
CHAPTER FIFTY

FLOSSIE STAYS ABREAST OF THE NEWS

Without exception at ten a.m., while visiting her mother in Flagstaff, Flossie Segador, the extraordinary daughter of the owner of the Inn of the Painted Bunting, would sit down to tea, sugar cookies, and a newspaper. Miss Segador's normal order for devouring the minutia reported in the _Northern Arizona Daily Spew_ began with a flit through the obituaries, which she found agreeable reading second only to the police reports. Flossie's tastes were her own, and few others shared them.

Only after the tea was gone and long after she had swallowed the final bit of cookie, would she get around to the more "meaty" articles customarily found in section "A." Close to the end of August in 2007 the headline that caught her eye read: "Three Injured in Grand Canyon Shooting." Finding them perversely absorbing, Flossie relished articles chronicling murder and mayhem. She pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose, settled in, and began moving her lips:

For the second time in three years members of a rafting party in the Grand Canyon have fallen victim to foul play. Three people, while camped on the beach near river mile 68, were shot last night in an altercation allegedly over food.

Sergey Ostrovsky of Hollywood, Florida, stands accused of attempted murder and malicious damage to property. Ostrovsky, a hiker, claimed he was only looking for something to eat when a person wielding a guitar attacked him, and he used his gun in self-defense.

Shot were Benjamin Bucket, an employee of the Grand Canyon Zen Adventure Company; insurance executive Jerry Johnson, a Zen Adventure client; and hiker Ostrovsky. All three were flown to the Flagstaff Medical Center where Bucket and Johnson have been listed as stable while Ostrovsky's condition is reported to be critical.

* * *

The next morning as Flossie finished the obituaries and sipped the last of her tea, she turned her attention to section "A" and discovered a follow-up to the shooting story reported the day before:

WILL THE REAL JERRY JOHNSON PLEASE STAND UP

The recent shooting incident in the Grand Canyon has developed a surprising twist. As published yesterday in the Daily Spew, one of the persons reported wounded claimed to be insurance executive and financier Jerry Johnson, an assertion disputed by the real Jerry Johnson who, along with his wife, had been scheduled to attend.

Due to a family emergency the authentic Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had to withdraw. Their names, however, remained on the Grand Canyon Zen Adventure client list. A person claiming to be Johnson arrived at the last minute, and the man's assertion that he was the actual Johnson was taken at face value by tour owner/operator Zack Cannon.

The latest development begs the dual questions: who is the imposter, and why is he claiming to be Jerry Johnson?

As of this writing the phony Johnson is recuperating from a wound described by a hospital official as "quite survivable."

One small complication: the imposter is said to be suffering from amnesia though this reporter has been told that the bullet entered far "south" of the man's brain.

The police are running the bogus Johnson's fingerprints through the Federal Government's database, and results are expected before press time tomorrow.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Miss Segador was at it again. But this time she headed straight for the "A" section bypassing police reports, obituaries, and sugar cookies, but not the tea. She learned on page two the imposter's true identity: Michael McKinley.

It turned out that Mr. McKinley was a fugitive from justice—and a rather famous fugitive at that. McKinley had begun employment with the energy giant Benjamin Dover, Inc. two years before the company filed for bankruptcy under a storm of controversy involving accusations that the corporation had conspired to defraud utility customers in California and other western states. McKinley had been front and center in the deception.

The _Spew_ article described the wounded man's former position with the out-of-business firm as an "energy trader," and Flossie Segador was not clear what that meant. One thing she was sure of, however, was that the published photo of Michael McKinley was, also, that of her friend Preston Cash.

Stemming from allegations of fraud, charges had been filed against Cash and others back in 2001. Some of his coworkers had received prison sentences for the part they played in the deception. But it seemed that Flossie's friend, after posting bail, had promptly left town.

Preston Cash had been a very bad boy, and Flossie Segador planned to pay the man a visit once he was well enough to receive callers. After all, they had unfinished business.

* * *

The following day's _Spew_ revealed an eye opener. Less than one month earlier two men who'd once worked along side Preston (Michael McKinley) Cash at Ben Dover, Inc. had been murdered in Baltimore, Maryland. Both killings were professional hits. A check of the bullets removed from the Baltimore bodies proved that the same weapon was used in both instances. The reporter for Flagstaff's daily newspaper wrote that the FBI had entered the case, and insiders were speculating that Sergey Ostrovsky, recuperating in the Flagstaff Medical Center, might not have been stealing food that night in the Zen Adventure camp after all, but had been attempting to murder the last of the three Benjamin Dover west coast energy traders.

The FBI's next move was to test fire Ostrovsky's gun and determine whether it was the same weapon used in the other killings. The fact that the semi-automatic came equipped with an illegal silencer made the supposition a distinct possibility. The Flagstaff policeman guarding Mr. Ostrovsky's room was informed of the development and was ordered to stay extra alert allowing only hospital staff and law enforcement officials to enter. At the same time reporters, cameramen, and news trucks began to converge upon Flagstaff's only hospital.

* * *

The following day the _Daily Spew's_ front-page headline declared boldly: "GUN IS A MATCH!" It appeared that the National Park Police had collared a contract killer. More scurrilous publications described Sergey Ostrovsky as a "deranged serial killer," and the guard outside Sergey's door received yet another warning.

All of the highly charged events that swirled around the heavy-set patient from Hollywood, Florida, unfolded without his knowledge because Ostrovsky's bullet wound was such that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness, and when he did come to, the killer showed signs of confusion and a lack of coherence.

About the only thing that registered with Stupendous Sergey was that each time he awoke, he discovered that the police had attached yet another manacle. From this line of evidence he concluded that the news was not good, and that they were not buying the "I-was-hungry—They-hit-me-with-a-guitar-so-I-shot-them" defense.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

LOGGERHEAD SHRIKE LEARNS OF A FINAL DEFERRED SUCCESS

MANHATTAN BEACH, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2007

As the headlines grew the coverage of the story also grew, from local, to regional, to national, and beyond. Soon people were reading about Michael McKinley and Sergey Ostrovsky in places as far away as Japan. But no one kept up with the latest disclosures as intently as a certain retired nurse living in Manhattan Beach, California.

Initially the old woman read just two lines regarding the shootings in the Grand Canyon, and she guessed the rest. After finishing the article in which the character known to her as Painted Bunting played a major role, the elderly woman (and charter member of the Grandma Millies Social Club) put down the paper, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. The former registered nurse, alias Loggerhead Shrike, walked across her living room, opened a window, felt the cool caress of an ocean breeze, and then released a string of expletives that would have staggered Vladimir Frisbee.

She knew exactly what had to be done and began to steel herself for the task.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL — HAUTE COUTURE LUGGAGE

ANOTHER ACCOUNT OF THE SHOOTING OF SERGEY OSTROVSKY

3:30 A.M., THURSDAY, AUGUST 30, 2007

Despite what the others thought, Lydia Bun-King knew exactly what she was doing that night in the Grand Canyon. Providentially she had ended up with the fat man's semi-automatic. It was a 9mm Beretta—the very gun that the Presbyterians used for training. In her mind there was no mistake; her action had been divinely endorsed and her aim, dead on.

Six days had gone by since the fat man put a bullet through one of her white, sequined suitcases. The Starlet by Samsonite had "L-Y-D-I-A" spelled beautifully in rhinestones. Bun-King recalled more than once: _Oh, how the people at the baggage carousel of the Flagstaff Airport jealously stared at me and my matched set!_ In her mind spotlights had followed her every move and confetti had rained from the airport's cheap suspended ceiling.

* * *

With Sergey Ostrovsky's gun clasped firmly in her hand Lydia Bun-King had taken aim and had expertly squeezed the trigger. The man with the black armband dropped like a bag of cement, and the fight drained out of him faster than flatulence escaping from a drunken vegetarian.

"YOU SHOT MY SAMSONITE!" So keyed up was Lydia Bun-King—so beside herself—that she did not realize what she had yelled or even THAT she had yelled. Nightmarish images of jagged shards of white plastic and scraps of red lingerie falling in slow motion to the pavement flashed white-hot through her brain. _Where are they now, my two large cases? Probably providing shelter for a homeless person in Flagstaff. Oh, if it were only true—at least some good would have come from my tragic loss_ , Bun-King pined forlornly as she stared at the expanding bloodstain, which grew from the wound in the fat man's chest.

Lydia Bun-King saw her act of violence as "tit for tat." _He shot my luggage; I shot him. That is simply the way things work in the world of haut couture valises and rolling luggage._ Few could blame her. _When you are in the ring with a heavy weight, you either swing or you step aside._

Her job done—vengeance successfully exacted—it was time for "damage control." In case there were those amongst the Zen Adventure clients and crew who did not know how the game was played—how things went down amongst the perfectly attired—Lydia Bun-King decided that her best bet would be to act dumb and to claim that she did not know what she was doing—that she was just as surprised as the next person when the gun spontaneously discharged. Despite her youthful appearance she'd had plenty of experience dealing with both: playing dumb and spontaneous discharges.

Fortunately, the two National Park Police investigators who arrived on the scene were young males and were too overcome by Lydia's humungous tits to be completely objective. Owing to the unseasonably warm weather, Bun-King was quite generous when it came to revealing her substantial cleavage, so generous in fact that the young investigators kept losing track of what they were going to ask her next.

Like magic she was able to call upon her "enchanted" nipples to harden and to protrude in such a manner that blood was withdrawn from the men's brains and redeployed elsewhere. Women had once been burned in Salem, Massachusetts, for less.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A MIGHTY HEDGEHOG OF HATE

THE MOTEL ROOM OF KERMIT PLAID

9:30 P.M., SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2007

Kermit Plaid felt out of place in Flagstaff; there were not a lot of Lutherans in Arizona—not a lot of good ones anyway. When introduced, the minister at St. Omar's on North Humphreys Street did not recognize a single one of the theses that Plaid had rattled off. The surprised pastor managed to capture that befuddled look that momentarily crosses one's face when they meet someone new and suddenly realize that the person they are speaking with is not quite right in the head. The reverend's handshake felt similar to grabbing a piece of raw liver, and during services that first Sunday in September, many of St. Omar's parishioners starred blankly at the toad-like gentleman dressed in the one-of-a-kind, brown, serge uniform.

To top it off people laughed when a small child asked Kermit innocently enough, "Hey mister, whose side are you on anyway?"

The ensuing laughter was not the accepting, sympathetic kind, but poor Kermit Plaid (recalling his high school days when he frequently found himself on the wrong side of laughter) felt certain that the parishioners' amusement contained a hint of "you are not one of us"—not an invitation to return and worship but quite the opposite. Back in Chicago he'd heard others speak in hushed tones of such things, but he did not believe that it could possibly be true: _That sometimes when Lutherans are in the minority, when a congregation feels itself to be an island of faith surrounded by a sea of secular humanists, that they become distrustful of strangers and are slow to accept_. Flagstaff, a university town, was then and remains today virtually awash in godless freethinkers.

Kermit had visited his boss Newton Oyster everyday while the director recovered from his gunshot wound. They mainly discussed Conan Kinnear's recommendation that the pair travel to the end point of the Zen Adventure raft trip and wait for Preston Cash to make an appearance. If LUMP's attempt to recover EL-NO's money did not succeed, Oyster and his second in command planned to back them up. Newton and Kermit had been warned that their 400,000 was in a brown suitcase, and that Preston Cash would be gripping it as tightly as a guilty man grips a _Bible_ when throwing himself upon the mercy of the court.

Since EL-NO's top two were not exactly "physical" specimens, and since they were certain that their ex-employee would not voluntarily hand over the money he'd embezzled, the duo of Oyster and Plaid discussed the possibility of purchasing a firearm. Newton Oyster, a vegetarian, had previously sworn never to kill a member of the animal kingdom, however, he'd declared hotly and with much bravado (typical of a little man with a combative nature—a human version of a Chihuahua), that in the case of Preston Cash "necessity outweighed principle." The fact that Cash had no doubt forced himself upon Lydia Bun-King had the unforeseen consequence of turning Newton's code of ethics upside down.

Neither Oyster nor his underling, Kermit Plaid, had fired a gun before, but like everyone else they'd viewed movies where guns had been featured. The concept appeared easy to grasp: load, aim, pull trigger, in that order.

In secret the toad-like Plaid worried about the prospect of handling a firearm. As portrayed on the big screen, they seemed quite heavy and made a distressingly loud noise when fired. That was one of the reasons why he was so happy when he picked up a day-old copy of the _Daily Spew_ and spied Preston Cash's picture on page two—except the face in the photo was reported to be someone else's face. Initially Plaid laughed out loud when he read the sordid details of Cash's life of crime.

Preston, it turned out, was recuperating from a gunshot wound and was a patient in the very same hospital as was Director Oyster. Their embezzler resided right under their noses (and probably also—EL-NO's money!). _What are the odds?_ Kermit asked himself as he put on his fuzzy pajamas with matching footies and prepared for bed.

It seemed like practically everyone whom Toad-man Plaid knew had gotten shot of late. Of course, his circle of acquaintances was not a large circle, and the perimeter of said circle had actually appeared to shrink in the years since linking up with Oyster. Plaid had expected just the opposite to occur. He'd even hoped that, after signing on with EL-NO and as his reputation grew, an article would appear in _Lutheran Lifestyle Magazine_ listing his many exploits and would reveal to a grateful public that his strategies had sparked a Lutheran resurgence—a resurgence yet to materialize. As he nestled in bed and pulled the covers snuggly to his chin, he thanked God (as he did without fail every evening) that Martin Luther had fought the good fight and had found the courage to correct the course of Christianity.

Kermit pictured himself at the head of Luther's legions; stretched before him for as far as the eye could see, lay the enemies of piety: greed, jealousy, avarice, and a smattering of Presbyterians. Charging into the fray on a mighty steed, the warrior version of Kermit Plaid was afraid of nothing, including heavy weaponry and the loud sounds produced by heavy weaponry. "Imaginary Kermit" in no way resembled a toad.

Early in Plaid's illusory battle his alter ego took a bullet. Despite the mortal wound, he valiantly fought on against piety's formidable foes until he could no longer hold his mount. As Luther's lion-hearted legionnaire fell to earth, an adoring crowd of infantry gathered around (all were handsome men with bulging muscles, muscles that their tight clothing did not conceal). They grieved and implored God not to let him die. But just then the Supreme Being was preoccupied—probably jotting down suggestions dictated to Him by a prominent Christian conservative—and the supplications of Kermit's muscular men went unanswered.

Despite his injury, warrior Plaid shouted over the din of battle addressing his words to the enemies of the Great Reformer who obligingly had stopped to listen. His robust voice faltered only slightly, "WHAT IS IT THAT THE POPE REMITS, . . . ( _cough_ ) . . . AND WHAT PARTICIPATION DOES HE GRANT TO THOSE WHO, . . . ( _wheeze_ ) . . . BY PERFECT CONTRITION, HAVE A RIGHT . . . ( _ugh_ ) . . . TO FULL REMISSION AND PARTICIPATION? . . . ( _choke_ ) . . . THES . . . THES . . . THESIS NUMBER . . . EIGHTY-SEVEN."

Imaginary Plaid coughed then exhaled for the last time. In tribute, his opponents laid down their arms, and at the same time pledged their allegiance to Martin Luther—piety's victory secured.

Returning to reality after his daydream, Kermit sat up in bed and reread the piece about Preston. The newspaper article glossed over Cash's checkered past. To summarize, EL-NO's ex-fiscal officer had swindled many and, as a result, there existed an outstanding warrant for his arrest. No doubt the police had handcuffed the felon to his hospital bed and guarded him around-the-clock.

Preston Cash was not simply a bad Lutheran, but was a professional confidence man as well. The lion-hearted Plaid wearing his fuzzy pajamas with matching footies suddenly reddened. The indignity flashed through his mind: _And we hired the S.O.B.!_ The stooped-shouldered butterball bristled—a mighty hedgehog of hate— _Preston Cash will pay for his sins!_
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

A TENSE CONFRONTATION

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2007

The following morning with the newspaper clenched firmly in his hand Kermit Plaid charged into Newton Oyster's hospital room and promptly bumped into the cart used to transport Oyster's breakfast, which that morning consisted of pork prepared three different ways. The doctor, originally from Missouri, insisted that his peaked patient increase his intake of protein and saturated fat. Amongst the professional staff of the Flagstaff Medical Center, carbohydrates had recently been placed on a list along side arsenic and strychnine.

Without comment Kermit Plaid passed the news story on to Director Oyster. The scowl on Oyster's face deepened with each sentence that he devoured. It went pretty much the same way when the Director ate bacon. By the time Newton Oyster finished the last line, he raged demonically. However amongst Lutherans demonic raging lacks the same asperity and depth of feeling as the form of demonic raging found in the general population. His single comment was, "Well, we must pay Cash, or whatever his name is, a visit!"

The toad-like Kermit agreed and departed for the nurse's station to find out in which room EL-NO's ex-employee was quartered. Ten minutes later Plaid returned with both the information and with a wheelchair, plus a candy bar, which he'd selected for himself. The smell of Oyster's bacon had reminded him that he had not eaten breakfast.

When Kermit entered the room, he spotted an object in the corner that had previously escaped his attention, and he asked using his half-eaten Milky Way as a pointer, "What's that? A suitcase or something?"

"What's what?"

"There, in the corner," Kermit pointed to a poorly lit area of the room where a small suitcase rested, and he went over to have a closer look.

"I'm not sure how that got there. It's not mine. Nurse must have brought it in when I was sleeping."

Kermit Plaid, being naturally curious, picked up the brown-leather valise and remarked, "It sure is in ratty shape." Plaid was about to open the mysterious piece of luggage when a flustered candy striper hurried into the room.

The young lady grabbed the suitcase providing little in the way of commentary, saying only, "So sorry. We are all confused today. Can't get anything right!" and, suitcase in hand, she quickly departed.

On the way to Preston Cash's room the two men groused constantly. Their most vehement denunciations fell squarely on the shoulders of the man they were about to confront. When the blustering pair turned the final corner, Kermit and Newton faced a large and very bored policeman who greeted them with jaundiced eye and mocking smile.

"Yes?" the cop asked as he slowly stood. The man was a human "Berlin Wall."

"Ah, . . . well . . . er . . . we need to see the prisoner you've got in there," Oyster said with a meekness that stood in stark contrast to the elevated position he held in Lutheran society.

"You his lawyer?" the Wall asked with a sneer. Since Cash's public defender had paid an earlier visit, it was a question for which the large cop already had an answer.

"Well no, you see, we are his . . . ah . . . spiritual advisors . . . Evangelical Lutherans," Director Oyster kept his eyes glued to the floor as if he had been placed in charge of inspecting vinyl tile.

The Toad-man and Mr. Oyster had a continuous streak of bad luck that stretched back to before the start of the second Gulf War, and quite unexpectedly the streak ended. The Wall happened to be an Evangelical Lutheran who'd moved to Flagstaff from Ottumwa, Iowa, and had desperately missed the Midwest. His heart went out to the Lutherans who stood before him; history repeated itself as the Berlin Wall parted, and the two "spiritual advisors" were permitted to pass.

The Iowa native did not, however, understand why anyone needed two such advisors. Having more than one would, surely, leave the small, stuffy, windowless room cramped. Oyster reminded the policeman that the felon within had a long rap sheet (a phrase he'd parroted from a television show). The sympathetic guard immediately understood, and to make sure that some air would reach those inside, he left the door wide open and observed from the hall.

Strangely Preston Cash did not act surprised to see his former associates. Putting down paper and pen he addressed his visitors, "Well, boys, come on in. You caught me writing my autobiography. Just finished the chapter involving your little Chicago operation. Have a seat. Ah, Oyster, I see you brought your own chair. What happened? You run into the same guy that I ran into?"

No one knew, least of all Newton Oyster and Preston Cash, that this was exactly what had happened. The Director of the Evangelical Lutheran - Nicene Offensive glared. Meanwhile, Kermit silently declined the invitation to sit, and out of defiance remained standing directly behind his boss' wheelchair. The Berlin Wall stood in the hall mildly curious to learn how spiritual advisors go about their business.

The toad-like Plaid started things off, "What's in the suitcase Preston?"

"What suitcase?" the embezzler countered brusquely.

"Oh right, nice try. The brown one under your bed of course."

"My underwear. You interested?" The truth was that Cash did not actually know what had become of his suitcase, which contained the Lutheran's illegitimate money. He and the bag had become separated in the Emergency Room, and ever since he'd worried about its whereabouts. Preston Cash silently offered an explanation: _Someone on the hospital staff must have delivered it while I was sleeping._

"We want our . . . ah . . . 'stuff' back, you filthy miscreant," despite intending to pull no punches, Oyster's voice failed to qualify as menacing. At the last second the director of EL-NO decided that he best not say the word "money" what with the policeman in position to eavesdrop, and his detectable hesitation as well as the use of the word "stuff" brought the perceived threat level down a notch.

The Berlin Wall thought that it was an odd way to begin conducting the Lord's work thinking that prayer would have been more apropos, but he also realized that he was clearly not one to judge.

"Stuff? I don't know what you're talking about," Cash said while smiling sarcastically.

"You know perfectly well, you lying hypocrite!" When Kermit spoke he was careful to remain parked squarely behind his boss' wheelchair. As usual some of the defiant Toad-man's courage seemed to have abandoned him, but his indignation had remained firmly intact.

The Flagstaff cop was wondering when the topic of religion would be broached. So far things had gotten off to the kind of start he'd come to expect from Maury Povich.

Returning to the subject of money, Oyster verbally jabbed, "Oh, I think you do! You know perfectly well what 'stuff' we're talking about!" With that Newton Oyster literally made the big wheels of his chair spin, and his personal "chariot" hit Preston Cash's bed with a jolt. In the aftermath the smell of burnt rubber lingered in the small room. Next the EL-NO Director bent forward and reached for the suitcase, but discovering that the ratty, brown case was beyond his grasp, he retreated empty-handed.

When the little man rammed the prisoner's bed with his wheelchair, the Flagstaff cop began to doubt that the two visitors were who they claimed to be. The Wall considered intervening, but was a fan of professional wrestling and the showdown he witnessed bore certain parallels. Besides, if he broke up the "action," he would have to resume sitting in the hall by himself with no entertainment, not even a television. So, like the Emperor Nero watching gladiators from his personal box, he absently waved a hand as if ordering the games to continue.

Leaning around the rear of Newton Oyster's wheelchair Kermit Plaid barked, "If you do not give us back the 'things' you stole, you will be extremely sorry." Despite possessing an enormous mouth, Kermit did not have a voice to match and was only able to produce an intimidation level equivalent to the plaintive yelp of a clinically depressed Peekapoo.

"Really? What are you Plaid, a fruit or a vegetable?"

Misunderstanding Cash's comment concerning his sexual preference and his lack of physical vitality, Kermit huffed, "My politics are none of your business!"

Having seen both of EL-NO's men in "action," the embezzler felt no need to put their threats on the top of his "things-to-worry-about" list.

"What did you do to Lydia Bun-King you godless infidel?" Oyster lashed out and at the same time launched another wheeled assault on Preston Cash's hospital bed crashing into it with the full force of his 125 pounds.

Preston smiled indecently, "Anything I wanted to!" He enjoyed taunting the two from EL-NO but especially the middle-aged Oyster who early in the confrontation had turned beet-red and had remained that way. Long ago, Cash had heard Director Oyster, while consumed by rage, call someone "a cad and a prodigious fornicator."

The embezzler had learned that Oyster's buttons were many and that all were easily pushed. Just as Cash prepared to push those buttons, playing the director as if he were a hypertensive steam calliope, the Berlin Wall intervened. While looking at Newton Oyster the big cop called a halt to the "spiritual advisors'" consultation—ending the proceedings this way: "Okay, back off, Tiger. Don't want my prisoner getting scratched."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF PRESTON CASH

. . . _Of my many assets perhaps the quality that tops the list is an accurate photographic memory, which I have turned to my advantage on numerous occasions. Lamentably, my largest failing is a compulsion to consistently but creatively gloss over the truth. Because I find the truth expendable and convenient to set aside, I see my character "flaw" as a minor blemish only. However, to be completely honest, the defect has been a source of considerable pain and anguish for the aged couple whom I refer to as Mom and Dad._

Though I freely admit to committing numerous acts of larceny, I look upon myself as the victim of a disease somewhat akin to alcoholism—and not as others might portray—as a criminal. My efforts to overcome these felonious urges have thus far been halfhearted and, therefore, largely ineffective. However, I am certain that if someday I truly embrace the tenants of Lutheranism, the faith that my parents attempted to instill, that my coveting of other's assets will become a thing of the past. But for now it is an engaging and lucrative enterprise that I am reluctant to abandon.

_The compulsion to bilk and to steal has been with me for as long as memory serves. While a youngster I recall carrying out regular assaults on my brother's piggy bank, and on Sunday mornings I consistently made unauthorized withdrawals from the church collection plate to which I had ready access, my tormented father being the minister in charge. As you see I have a history of stealing money from Lutherans_  _in fact one might look upon it as a tradition._

I was originally pointed in the direction of post-secondary education by a caring judge who allowed me, after I'd gotten myself into a bit of a jam, to pick from two alternatives: community college or department of corrections. I chose the former, and decided that for me the ideal major would be Accounting, figuring correctly that obtaining a degree in the field paired with coursework in Finance would be a winning combination guaranteed to place me close to other people's money and inside their circle of trust.

_Long ago, after laboring for hours in front of a mirror, I perfected the manner and deportment of a principled advisor intent on conscientiously discharging his fiduciary responsibilities with accuracy, honesty, and sincerity. I am told that many of Hollywood's famous go about capturing the nature and nuance of a character in ways not too dissimilar. Later as a fledgling confidence artist I discovered that wearing_ _prescription glasses and foregoing expensive eye surgery or troubling with contact lenses says to a mark, "Here is a respectable gentleman for whom the successful administration of his duties overrides cosmetic issues . . . "_

. . . Following the debacle at Benjamin Dover, Inc., which provided me with much unwanted publicity, I went into seclusion shunning the spotlight, dodging process servers, and ignoring repeated phone calls from the California Attorney General's office. Additionally, I changed my name from Michael McKinley to Preston Cash and secretly moved to Chicago.

Since the government had done me the disservice of freezing my bank accounts, life in Chicago was lean. I floundered those first two years in the Windy City, eking out a meager existence by selling religious tokens on the Internet. For next to nothing I would purchase boxes of rosaries manufactured by Chinese orphans while the youngsters were no doubt held at gunpoint. In order to move the merchandise as quickly as possible and at premium prices I claimed that the rosaries had been handmade by Italian monks living ascetic lives in the basement of the Vatican, and that the Pope had personally blessed each and every bead. According to my version, His Holiness referred to the miraculous rosaries as "Passports into Heaven," rendering them more potent and placing both good and not-so-good Catholics closer to eternal peace should the unthinkable occur.

Later I discovered that by doctoring a toasted cheese sandwich to produce a crusty image vaguely resembling the Virgin Mary that I could turn a fifty-cent investment into a two-thousand-dollar profit. The enterprise sustained me until I got wind of the fact that the Lutherans were looking for an accountant.

After brushing up on the works of Martin Luther, I personally submitted my application to the Lutherans. As soon as I took one look at their receptionist, Miss Lydia Bun-King, I knew that EL-NO was the place for me. I got hired in a minute and shortly thereafter began dividing my time between Lydia and my new pet project—transferring money from the Lutheran's secret account into the leather suitcase, which I kept under the bed in my dingy, south-side apartment.

While the transfer of EL-NO's financial assets progressed smoothly, I made little headway in securing Lydia's affections. I don't suppose I helped my cause when, at a loss for words, I asked the woman if she thought that she could win in a fight with a full-grown raccoon.

Yes, I understand that the inquiry was, as they say, "lame," and judging by the startled look on her beautiful face and by her lack of a ready reply, I surmised at the time that my question may have prompted a setback in our hoped-for relationship. Later it occurred to me that Lydia might be an advocate for animal rights and, therefore, politically averse to grappling with nature's small, furry creatures.

_Be that as it may, while working for EL-NO, I found myself hopelessly fawning and stumbling, making futile attempts to bemuse, impress, and astound the lady of my dreams. Finding out that her ancestry was Scottish, I began wearing kilts to the office and earnestly set about learning to play the bagpipes. But the latter concluded disastrously when late one evening, after practicing nonstop for three hours, two music-hating neighbors forced open the door to my apartment and then proceeded to take_ _turns beating_ _me with my instrument. Tragically the altercation rendered my pipes irreparable._

Stopping to rest and to search my refrigerator for a couple of beers, the assailants briefly turned their backs. The move proved injudicious allowing me just enough time to get to a phone, dial 9-1-1, and report that a crime was in progress. Soon both of the old women were placed under arrest and were obliged to spend that night in jail.

The two hags (whom I later learned hailed from California and were in Chicago reputedly to work with the poor) countered by successfully obtaining an injunction naming me as respondent and serving notice that the noises coming from my bagpipes constituted "felonious assault." By order of the court I was enjoined from further practice. Left with little choice, I abandoned my musical aspirations and began searching for a less obtrusive alternative.

Thinking that Lydia might prefer muscular over skinny (and in order to protect myself from future run-ins with my short-tempered neighbors), I enrolled in a gym intending to "bulk up," but only succeeded in contracting a nearly fatal case of athlete's foot. For six weeks I reported to work with medicine-soaked cotton balls wedged between my toes and proceeded to limp around the place barefooted (that is until Oyster made me wear hermetic rubber booties to insure that he and the rest of the staff did not contract my infection).

Each morning I brought my beloved coffee and frequently presented her with small but tasteful gifts—a few examples follow: a chocolate truffle, a single red rose, a picture of me standing next to Ben Affleck (in the original photo the person on Affleck's right was Matt Damon. I simply Photoshopped my head onto Damon's body). Ben and I each held wine glasses, and the Eiffel Tower rose majestically in the background. All in all it made for a convivial scene, and appeared rather convincing, more than making up for my careless slip of the tongue, which revealed to Bun-King that I possess a reckless indifference for the health, safety, and dignity of raccoons.

Since the first picture went over so well, I presented Ms. Bun-King with yet another. In the second photo I was dressed in running clothes and triumphantly held aloft a large trophy—a trophy that I had actually borrowed from an acquaintance who grew up in rural Illinois and who evidently had been quite active in his local chapter of the Future Farmers of America. The picture's impact was somewhat muted when Lydia asked why the trophy was topped with a golden pig. She looked askance when I explained that I was the only three-time winner of Chicago's "Run for Pork."

I hesitate to admit the truth, but by now it is undoubtedly evident. There was something . . . something about Lydia, which drew me foolishly to her like the proverbial moth to a flame. During those months in Chicago and next in California and yet again later in Arizona, I could not stop thinking about Miss Bun-King. Two things sustained me while I served my time in the LEPIDOPTERIAN compound: first, was the thought of Lydia, and second, the fact that the Lutheran's money resided in storage and that I wore the key around my neck.

I apologize for digressing, but you can see the unnatural hold that Bun-King had upon me, and my obvious impairment when it came to translating my feelings into actions. Possibly this will help to explain some of the poor choices that I made, choices which allowed me to be so easily traced.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

TEA AND SUGAR COOKIES

THE SAME MORNING AS THE TENSE CONFRONTATION

Flossie Segador borrowed a picnic basket from her mother. The basket had been in the family for as long as she could remember; seeing it triggered memories, recalling a time less complicated, when parents could raise children and not worry about their future. In the basket she carefully arranged cups, plates, napkins, sugar cookies, and a thermos filled with her special tea, which she had brought from Sedona. When satisfied that the items would not shift, she called the cab company and explained to the dispatcher how her troubled friend was in the Flagstaff Medical Center . . . and how his problems would be a thing of the past if she could just get to see him . . . and that visiting hours were about to begin. Ten minutes later the taxicab arrived in front of the Inn of the Painted Bunting.

Flossie had a dickens of a time negotiating the hospital's corridors in an attempt to locate room 110. When the determined woman finally succeeded, she discovered that a large Flagstaff policeman was sitting by himself on a chair blocking Preston Cash's door. To Ms. Segador the poor patrolman looked exceptionally tired and, fortunately, very hungry. It cost her six sugar cookies, one paper plate, and a napkin to get the man to step aside. She had anticipated the transaction, which is why she'd had the foresight to pack extra. In some ways Flossie Segador was very clever.

"I see your hair is growing back," Flossie said jauntily to a very surprised Preston Cash as she pushed her way through his door and then made sure that it closed tightly behind her. The woman acted as if nothing were different—as if Preston Cash still resided in her mother's hotel, and that he had not left via an open window without the courtesy of saying goodbye.

Cash spied the wicker picnic basket, which Miss Segador carried, and he immediately saw an answer to a problem that had been gnawing at him for the past twenty minutes—ever since Kermit Plaid had unintentionally done him the service of pointing out that a certain brown suitcase had been placed directly under his bed, out of his line of sight, and without his knowledge. What had been bothering the embezzler was how to get the money that it contained out of the hospital and into a secure hiding place. Soon he would be well enough to be taken to jail. While there, his suitcase would be opened, its contents inventoried, and that would be the last he would see of the stolen money.

Appearing as affable as humanly possible, Cash returned Flossie's smile, pinched at the quarter-of-an-inch growth of hair that sprouted evenly from the top of his head, and joked, "By Christmas I'll have enough hair to pass for Santa Claus' skinny, younger brother."

"I can do something about the skinny part," Flossie Segador absolutely beamed as she spoke. She seemed entirely too happy for someone who was just visiting an acquaintance in the hospital. Cash would have thought from her jubilation that she'd just won the lottery or was about to embark on a tropical vacation.

Wearing a cheap wig, hastily applied makeup, and flowery perfume the old woman hummed as she opened the basket and began doling out her goodies. Soon Preston Cash was staring at a napkin, a plate with three cookies, and a full cup of tea, which for the first time, he had agreed to drink. Flossie's Segador's persistence had paid off.

Cash looked closely at the picnic basket and estimated that it would require Flossie two trips to smuggle out the entire 400,000 dollars. As she chatted about this and about that, he wondered what would be the best way to initiate his peculiar request.

Lifting her cup of tea, Ms. Segador offered a toast, "To a happy and safe journey."

"Salud!" Preoccupied with the favor he was about to ask, Preston spoke the word automatically then took a big gulp of Flossie's "special" tea.

The concoction possessed the consistency and the color of tea but had an unusual, medicine-like taste. Flossie explained that it was herbal and was reputed to speed the healing process. In order to humor the old lady whom he was about to enlist as a "mule" to sneak out his money, Preston Cash ate one of the three cookies and downed the remainder of his tea.

Suddenly he became confused. Seized by a stabbing pain, he bit down hard. Beads of sweat broke out on his face, and his skin tingled as if his body crawled with ants. In a panic he looked over at the kind old woman bearing tea and cookies because he was certain that she'd called him "Western Pygmy Blue." Outside of the colony, no one knew him by his butterfly name— _NO ONE_!

Preston Cash could see that Flossie Segador's reactions to drinking the tea were the same as his own, and he recalled the looks on the faces of the LEPIDOPTERIANs when they began their journeys to the Next Level. Cash winced like a kitten that had received a swat on the nose from an unexpected source.

But soon the swindler felt neither pain nor panic. He breathed deeply. It was as if his body had lifted free of his bed, and he began rising skyward—no longer confined by ceiling and walls, but in the open floating upward toward a brilliant, white light. In front of him loomed a being with the wings and the body of a butterfly but with the face of Tito Abellard.

A glance to his right and Preston Cash was startled to see Flossie drifting heavenward as well. The last thought to flash though his mind before the light grew dim was that Flossie Segador too must have been a LEPIDOPTERIAN, and because he'd never seen her prior to the bus ride from Sedona, that she was the mystery caterpillar that they'd kept behind the locked door . . . all those requests of hers to share a cup of tea—just her maneuvering.

* * *

And so it was—the scammer had gotten scammed. Flossie Segador had conned Preston Cash into taking his own life.

He did not fully appreciate the irony.

* * *

Meanwhile the big guard posted in the hallway on the other side of the door finished the third of his six sugar cookies. The morning hadn't been half bad, first bogus "spiritual advisors" and now excellent cookies. As he swallowed he absently wished that something else would occur to make the time go even faster.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

TWO MINUTES LATER

MAJOR TROUT IS "PUT AWAY WET"

The large policeman guarding Cash's door was in the middle of his fifth sugar cookie when a gray-haired old nurse with a lean, hawk-like face, barged past him and entered the prisoner's room. She offered not so much as an "excuse me" or a "how do you do?"

The cop had settled back down on his chair and had taken the last bite of cookie number five when the same old lady exited. Again there was neither sign nor salutation to indicate that the raptor-like woman possessed a personality, and hostility, like a bad smell, lingered in the air after she passed. The Berlin Wall only grumbled as the nurse disappeared down the hall.

A short while later, having finished all of the cookies that Flossie had given him, the Flagstaff policeman commenced a series of deeply satisfying belches and was wondering why there were no sounds issuing from the room that he guarded. Earlier there had been the faint hint of voices coming from behind the closed door as his prisoner and the source of the outstanding cookies conversed. With the exception of the coming and going of the mysterious "hawk-woman," he'd heard and seen nothing for the last five minutes.

The policeman was picking at his teeth with a finger attempting to remove the larger chunks of doughy residue when he heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He looked and saw the ghost-like silhouette of a patient dressed in a hospital gown and wearing slippers. The apparition slowly shuffled in his direction and got to within fifteen feet before the Berlin Wall realized that it was B. Allen Trout, a former associate.

"Trout, what are you doing out of bed? They told me you were hurt pretty bad." The Wall continued to pick at his teeth and, from time-to-time pressed his tongue into service, using it to plum the depths of the openings between his molars for bits of stray cookie.

Earlier Trout had gotten off the phone with Tickles Orange, and he had reason to believe that The Cheese remained at risk. Brook Trout cut to the chase, "That prisoner of yours, has he had any visitors?"

"Lets see, his lawyer; then there was the guy in the wheelchair and his frog-like buddy—that's three. The lady with the picnic basket, she's four . . . and then that hawk-lady that was in and out just now . . . makes five. Five in the last two hours."

"The what-lady?"

"Hawk-lady. Some old nurse. She reminded me of a hawk is all."

"Oh, ah, right. Can I see him?" Trout's request seemed curiously urgent.

"He's with the picnic-basket-lady right now." The Berlin Wall thought about the wonderful cookies. He planned to compliment the woman when her visit was through. Perhaps, if he was friendly enough, she would return and more cookies would fall his way.

The Wall rose from his chair and knocked on the door. Hearing no response, he knocked again. Trout and the Wall entered the room and found the prisoner and his guest absolutely still—he on his bed, she slumped over in a chair—neither breathed.

Major Trout gave the following order: "Don't touch anything!"

The Wall, who'd been standing there digging at his teeth, promptly removed his hand from his mouth and began awkwardly dangling his arms at his sides.

B. Allen Trout recognized the old lady sprawled on the chair—she was the daughter of the woman who owned the Inn of the Painted Bunting. He leaned over the dead woman and saw that she'd been wearing a wig. The hairpiece had slipped partway off her head revealing short hair, which looked like a bur haircut. Trout glanced at the lifeless Cheese and observed that his hair was exactly the same length as the deceased female's. The last thing the crime scene investigator did was sniff the drink that remained in Flossie's thermos—then he was certain.

The Berlin Wall did not understand what Trout meant when he said while looking down at the dead woman: "Well, ride me hard and put me away wet! SHE is, or she was, the god-damned Harvester!"
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

THE FOOD CHAIN

FLAGSTAFF MEDICAL CENTER

THE HOSPITAL ROOM OF PRESTON CASH, RECENTLY DECEASED

Trout announced with finality, "She murdered him and then committed suicide. You'll find rat poison along with something called ricin in that thermos bottle."

The Berlin Wall screwed up his face and said, "If you say so Sherlock. Guess I better call this in."

He did not look eager. The big man brushed cookie crumbs from the front of his uniform. After brushing twice, he wished that he hadn't because the crumbs falling to the crime scene floor on the other side of the room from where the victims had eaten their last meal were bound to attract attention and to generate embarrassing questions.

Reaching an arm toward the deceased prisoner, the Wall grabbed one of the two cookies that remained on Preston Cash's plate, and said to Trout, "Don't guess he'll miss this."

The Flagstaff policeman then left the room to report the murder/suicide that had taken place during HIS watch and under HIS nose. As he exited, he noticed in the hallway around his chair that the cookie crumbs were piled high enough to remind him of a light dusting of snow, and he began to feel queasy as he considered the consequences. _Maybe I'll move back to Iowa_ , he said to himself as he took the first bite out of sugar cookie number seven.

Detective Trout remained behind. Left alone with the two dead LEPIDOPTERIANs, he began to snoop. Careful not to touch anything, he spotted a large wad of paper next to the head of the lifeless Western Pygmy Blue known to him as Preston Cash and also as The Cheese (and after reading the article in the newspaper, as Michael McKinley as well). Trout leaned forward getting his face close to the paper.

The investigator read the first line, "We are stick'n it to Grandma Millie, and it feels . . . ohhh . . . sooo . . . good! Right up the . . ."

Naturally, he recognized the words. Who in America would not? Preston Cash's Grandma Millie manifesto had once been plastered all over the news and had grown to symbolize the Ben Dover, Inc. debacle. The famous quotation had established a new benchmark for corporate sleaze.

Last month two of The Cheese's former co-workers were murdered and similar papers had been left with their bodies. The accused killer, Mr. Sergey Ostrovsky, was in another room in the Flagstaff Medical Center. Trout did not have to be reminded that it was Ostrovsky who'd shot him.

The whole Ostrovsky-Cash story had been spelled out in the newspaper. A bright reporter working for the _Flagstaff Daily Spew_ had fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Prompted by FBI Agent Orange's phone call, Trout watched the television news and then read the latest _Spew_ article before getting out of his hospital bed to begin his painful shuffle down the hall to room 110. Ostrovsky was not the Harvester, but was instead a professional killer hired by someone with a grudge against Ben Dover, Inc.

Major Trout looked at the lifeless LEPIDOPTERIAN that he and Orange had hoped to trap. He bit his lip and said to himself: _I was right about one thing; if we kept a watch on The Cheese, it would lead us to this one. Too bad I didn't get here sooner_.

The crime scene investigator's eyes fell once more on the large wad of paper on Preston Cash's pillow. Suddenly a startling thought occurred to him— _Ostrovsky!_ The paper with the dead Cheese's quotations pointed a finger at the fat cowboy. _The Harvester wanted only to deliver Western Pygmy Blue to the "Next Level;" she probably knew nothing of Cash's days at Benjamin Dover._ _Did Ostrovsky somehow have a hand in this? Did he, the fat man with the black armband, slip his cuffs, sneak past both his own guard and Cash's guard, and then leave the wad of notes on Preston Cash's pillow?_ It hardly seemed possible unless the man was some sort of modern-day Houdini _._

One other thing did not set right _. Who was the old nurse with the hawk-face? The guard who'd just stolen the dead man's cookie said she was the last of Cash's five visitors. If she found the bodies, why didn't she speak up? Or had the Harvester not yet administered her poison?_

In the newspaper it had been reported that this Ostrovsky person was "critically injured," but that his chances for a full recovery were good. Trout decided that it was time to pay the fat man a visit.

The investigator's second surgery had made even the slightest movement excruciating, and he hoped that none on the hospital staff would catch him wandering the halls. If so, he was certain that they'd force him to return to his room—leaving his questions unanswered. Fifty painful steps saw him as far as the elevator; another fifty after that would have him standing in front of Ostrovsky's room.

Trout shuffled aboard the empty elevator. He heard the rush of footsteps followed by a forceful: "HEY YOU! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOIN'?"

But instead of the "Open" button, B. Allen Trout pressed "Close," and the doors shut on the person's fingers—fingers which were quickly withdrawn when the major rapped them sharply with his knuckles. He heard a squeal and a muffled expletive.

The short journey from Cash's room to Ostrovsky's took Trout a total of ten minutes. He recognized the guard posted outside the assassin's door and was sure that the guard, likewise, knew him.

"Has Ostrovsky had any visitors?" The investigator grimaced as he spoke.

The sojourn through the halls of the Flagstaff Medical Center had plainly set him back. His stitches had opened, leaving spots of fresh blood on his dressing.

Absorbed by the contents of a novel, the guard belatedly looked up and answered, "No, . . . er . . . hold it. There was a nurse with meds. Maybe half hour ago—maybe less. In and out in about five minutes. That's all he's had during my watch, and I've been here since seven. Hey, should you be out of bed?"

Ignoring the question, Trout asked, "Mind if I stick my head in the door?" It had occurred to him while in the elevator that, since it was Ostrovsky who'd shot him, that there might, indeed, be an objection to his visit.

"Nah, go ahead. But you're not going to get anything out of him. He sleeps most of the time." The guard stood and opened the door for the injured Trout.

Drawn curtains kept the room surprisingly dim. Next to the bed stood an I.V. stand with tubes leading to the prisoner's arm. Next to the stand a monitor displayed Ostrovsky's vitals, except the killer had no vitals. All the lines were flat, and an ominous buzzing came from the machine. Sergey Ostrovsky, too, had died. Had someone killed the killer? If so, it was not how the food chain was supposed to work.

Trout asked, "The nurse who looked in on him, was she old, and did she have a face that reminded you of a hawk?"

* * *

After a short investigation, an all-points-bulletin went out for a gray-haired old woman wearing a nursing uniform. In the bulletin she was described as having a lean face resembling that of an angry bird of prey. Considered dangerous, anyone intercepting the hawk-lady was instructed to "proceed with caution."
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

THE SHRIKE'S FATAL VISIT

FLAGSTAFF MEDICAL CENTER

THE ROOM OF SERGEY OSTROVSKY — THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER

Sergey Ostrovsky dreamed of a strange, winged, dragon-like animal that impaled its human victims on large stakes then flew off returning later to devour the rotting flesh. Every part of his body ached, and no matter which way he turned he found no comfort. Suddenly it felt like an electrical charge was surging through his body. The fat man opened his eyes and made an undecipherable sound.

There was a nurse at the foot of his bed. She was old, gray-haired, and had a thin face with a penetrating gaze. Her eyes narrowed when she discovered the assassin staring back at her plainly conscious and aware of her presence.

"There, there, it will all be over soon," she cooed in a harsh, gravelly voice.

If the woman's words were meant to calm Mr. Sergey Ostrovsky, they did not produce the desired effect. Sergey had never seen the old lady before, but he instantly recognized the voice of Loggerhead Shrike—the woman who had hired him to murder the Benjamin Dover trio. All of their communication had been by telephone—he had never actually seen her face.

Ostrovsky struggled, pulling futilely against his handcuffs. But the poison that Shrike had injected into his I.V. drip proved her statement to be correct, and it was, indeed, "over soon."

Loggerhead Shrike hurriedly left the room brushing past the guard posted there. The uniformed man sat in a chair reading a paperback and had hardly stirred each time she passed through the door that he lackadaisically guarded.

Shrike glanced at the book in the policeman's hands. It was written by an author for whom she held little regard largely due to his use of foul language and to his inclusion of graphic descriptions of sex, which had little bearing on the author's plots, plots that had the thinness of water but which flowed in random directions completely immune to the laws of both gravity and logic. She'd had half a mind to grab the paperback and deposit the piece of trash directly in the nearest garbage can, but she wisely concluded that making a scene would introduce an unnecessary element of risk into her current mission.

The severe woman with the hawk-like face had one more stop, and she mused as she hustled down the hall of the Flagstaff Medical Center: _After I finish off the last of the Ben Dover trio, I wonder if the Grandma Millies would be interested in improving the moral tone of American literature? This country is long overdue for a book burning, and public floggings of salacious authors could be turned into a family-oriented activity warmly received by the Christian Right._

When the leader of the Millies' had decided to "do it herself" and murder Mockingbird as well as their bungling assassin, she'd thought it would be dangerous and difficult. Neither word applied; instead she found the enterprise absorbing and, if anything, rather bracing. Killing the energy traders was part revenge and part social engineering. Sergey Ostrovsky had to die for a different reason. No one could say for sure whether or not the fat man would implicate others in a court of law; but she was certain, and her opinion came down to this: _He would blab—and he would blab both loud and long._

Loggerhead Shrike left the hospital that day whistling a happy, light-hearted tune. _What had all the fuss been about?_ she pondered. Of course, in the case of Michael McKinley, someone had beaten her to the punch. Mockingbird was already dead when she entered his hospital room. But that was okay. "One less thing to do" did not disappoint the indomitable Shrike, and his death came as no surprise. She silently considered while walking to her car: _Probably a lot of people wished him out of the way—besides, Michael McKinley was living on borrowed time having already exceeded the life expectancy of a RAT by a factor of six._

A passerby thought it strange that the old lady with the hawk-like face was laughing out loud when he walked past her in the hospital parking lot—he coming, she going.

The passerby said, "Hi."

Shrike said nothing as she continued her fiendish cackle.

While the retired nurse was in Mockingbird's hospital room, all she had to do was place the list of quotations on the lifeless man's pillow. The old woman had considered being consistent and shoving them into his mouth, but seeing for herself, she was certain that the wad of paper would not fit.

When Loggerhead Shrike arrived outside Mockingbird's hospital room, the large cop guarding the door was covered in crumbs, and was noisily devouring a cookie. The manner in which crumbs exited the big slob's mouth reminded her of a chain saw spitting sawdust. Even though the situation called for an immediate lesson in manners, the boss of the Grandma Millies was able to muster enough self-control to successfully quash her innate and powerful compulsion "to correct."

With her tasks in Flagstaff complete, Loggerhead Shrike climbed into her Toyota Prius and drove all the way back to Manhattan Beach, California, stopping only for gas, coffee, and restroom breaks—and to lecture a truck driver at a rest stop for spitting on the sidewalk.
CHAPTER SIXTY

LUMP AND EL-NO, REUNITED

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2007

Things were buzzing at the Flagstaff Medical Center—two murders and one suicide discovered in a ten-minute time span. Until then the hospital staff had nothing more violent to report than a purse snatching during which the victim had suffered a broken finger nail and a small scratch, which might have become infected but didn't. Now everyone was ordered to lockup all drugs and anything sharper than a pencil.

Kermit Plaid heard the news as he walked back from the hospital cafeteria carrying a drink and a bean-sprout sandwich. For the second time that day he wheeled his boss, Newton Oyster, to the room of Preston Cash, arriving just as Cash's dead body was being removed on a gurney. Positioned next to the embezzler was the ratty, brown suitcase.

Temporarily abandoning Oyster, Plaid secretly followed the gurney down a short flight of stairs and out a side entrance. He watched as Cash and his suitcase were loaded into a hearse that had "Benn and Garry's Mortuary" painted on its side. Not far behind, came another corpse, which was laid along side of Cash's. Kermit Plaid noted that the new arrival was a short, fat woman of advanced years. The attendant pushed and shoved on the second body until it fit along side the embezzler. In the process the old woman's wig had fallen to the ground. It was hurriedly picked up, given a quick fluff, and tossed into the rear of the vehicle.

Witnessing what those in the mortuary business call a "two-fer," Plaid smiled and silently observed: _Saving time and gasoline—very commendable_. His mind drifted back to his funeral-home-days in Chicago and to his former employer, Fast Eddie Frisco. He recalled the year that the German-American Society served gravy over bratwursts at their annual Wurst-fest. He and another were able to pile three new clients, still warm and pliable, into the bed of Fast Eddie's pickup truck—tying a company record and setting for him a personal best. Kermit turned, ambled penguin-like into the hospital, and reported to Newton Oyster what he had seen.

Just as the Toad-man finished telling Oyster about Benn and Garry's, his cell phone rang. He'd programmed it to play Christian music when the men from LUMP dialed his number. Recognizing the tune, Plaid spoke without identifying himself, "The director and I are here in Flagstaff. Where are you guys?"

Rex Von Tastic answered, "We just got off the river. Give us a little over two hours; we'll meet you. Where will you be by then?"

Plaid did not know how to answer the question, so he suggested that the militant Lutherans call again when they were about to pull into town. Newton Oyster's hospital release had been scheduled for late that afternoon; maybe if EL-NO's top brass hustled, Oyster's discharge could be moved up. Sometime soon they needed to locate Benn and Garry's Mortuary, but more importantly, they needed a plan—a way to acquire the suitcase and what the suitcase contained.

Before hanging up, Kermit gave Von Tastic a rundown on all of the latest "Preston Cash news," which included aspects of the swindler's errant past. Rextastic was also updated on the fact that the brown suitcase had been spotted. But the Toad-man saved the shocking news of Cash's murder for last.

"GO ON!" Rex could not believe his ears.

Kermit Plaid figured correctly that the undertaker would perform an autopsy. Provided the funeral home was not in the middle of a burial service, the procedure would occur shortly after the body arrived. The embezzler's vital organs would be removed and sent to a lab. The toad-like Plaid knew the undertaking business backward and forward and had wisely kept his mortician's license current in case his stint with EL-NO had not panned out.

* * *

Two hours and fifteen minutes passed, and just as Von Tastic had promised, Kermit's cell phone began to play "Closer My God to Thee." LUMP was back in town. Plaid instructed the militants to drive to the hospital. Newton had left his insurance card in Chicago and was having a devil of a time verifying his coverage.

EL-NO's second in command next explained to the Peorians what he and Oyster had determined was their best bet. Later they drove to the car rental agency and traded Plaid's compact Ford for the largest SUV the company had on the lot. Next the four of them motored over to Benn and Garry's in the new rental called the Monstro 4000.

"Let me do the talking," Plaid said to the others as they entered through the establishment's ornate double doors. On account of his wound and also because the director was wearing pants with only one leg, Oyster waited in the car.

A bland gentleman in his sixties greeted them and introduced himself as Roderick Benn, Sr.

Plaid, feeling as if he were on home turf, confidently showed Mr. Benn, Sr. a Fast Eddie business card and a copy of his mortician's license, which Kermit, because he was so proud, never went anywhere without. Next the Toad-man explained that he was an undertaker from Chicago and those accompanying him were cousins of Michael McKinley whose remains they had been informed were delivered to Benn and Garry's earlier in the day. The yarn that Plaid spun was that the three of them were boating on Lake Powell when they received word from Mr. McKinley's widowed mother that her son had passed away, and that his body was in Flagstaff. She prevailed upon them to bring her son back to Illinois for interment, and they'd agreed.

While on the drive over, the toad-like Plaid had explained to his co-conspirators that such requests were routine in the mortuary business, and Mr. Benn's reactions seemed to support Plaid's assertion. Roderick Benn, Sr. said that the body would probably be released in twenty-four hours, just as soon as the Flagstaff Police Department gave the okay. He added that he hoped they were not inconvenienced by the delay, and Plaid assured the man that there was absolutely no problem.

"We'll return tomorrow," the EL-NO lieutenant chimed, appearing in no way anxious or upset. Everyone smiled and courteously shook hands. The two morticians demonstrated more politeness and obsequious bowing than the entire staff of the Tokyo Hilton.

As the four Lutherans drove away in the Monstro 4000, Kermit Plaid proudly and enthusiastically asked the members of LUMP, "Well, what'd you think of my Uncle Vladimir?"

Rextastic and Conan answered evasively, "Ah . . . an interesting gentleman." "Umm . . . a very unique individual."

Sensing vaguely that an attempt to equivocate was underfoot, Kermit prepared to enquire further; but before the Toad-man could press for more detail, Rex Von Tastic pointed toward the curb and exclaimed excitedly, "Did you see that cat?"

Plaid quickly turned his head but saw no sign of a cat and said so.

Rextastic indicated that the spectacular feline had just jumped down from the hood of a parked car and was currently out of view then added that he was especially sorry that Kermit had missed the exquisite animal because, as the famous fashion designer explained in his high-pitched voice, he guessed Plaid to be a cat-person, and, well, it was a most unusual specimen.

Kermit asked disappointedly, "What did it look like?'

Von Tastic described the fabulous Persian tabby (which, as Rex related, had long tawny and silver fur, weighed in the neighborhood of twenty-five pounds, and possessed a brilliant red scarf, which, he added, was tied about its neck with such flare that it far exceeded the panache of any cat accessory that the designer had yet seen while touring the American West). Afterwards he told numerous stories about other cats and one about his neighbor's clever Peekapoo named Silverback. Fortunately, most in the car had forgotten that the original question concerned LUMP's impression of Kermit's uncle, and nothing more was said on the matter of Vladimir Frisbee.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

A SUITABLE SENDOFF

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2007

Sure enough, the following day Roderick Benn, Sr. received permission from the Flagstaff Police Department to release the remains of Michael (Preston Cash) McKinley along with McKinley's personal effects. While two of the deceased's "relatives" served as witness, mortician Kermit Plaid signed for the body. Kermit's signature consisted of an illegible scribble, a detail overlooked by the senior Mr. Benn. The corpse, enclosed in a bag, was loaded into the back of the rented SUV and the long sought after suitcase was placed next to its dead owner.

With Plaid behind the wheel the four Lutherans then drove to a neglected industrial park south of the city and pulled the Monstro 4000 along side a large dumpster. On the huge receptacle's rusty front, faded letters spelled out "C. and E. Sanitation." Believing the coast to be clear they transferred the body of Preston Cash, placing the bagged corpse inside the dumpster. Next the Lutherans covered the former embezzler with newspapers, cardboard, and various sundry trash before closing the garbage bin's gigantic lid.

Strictly from force of habit Newton Oyster offered a prayer:

Oh Lord,

we commit the body of Preston Cash

to the safe keeping of the C. and E. Sanitation Company.

Please see to it that our brother, Preston,

is buried and not recycled.

In His name we pray.

Amen

No reports of human remains ever surfaced, so the combined forces of LUMP and EL-NO assumed that Preston Cash, the last of the Ben Dover trio, ended up in a landfill somewhere in Northern Arizona where presumably the operators of C. and E. Sanitation covered it with an impermeable layer of dirt. Once more the enemies of piety had been foiled—good prevailed, and for the time being at least, Lucifer's grasp had been loosened.

On the drive to Kermit's motel Newton Oyster solemnized the occasion by reciting the final of Martin Luther's ninety-five theses:

And thus be confident of entering into heaven rather through

many tribulations, than through the assurance of peace.

The sacred words seemed to resonate. Each of the four Lutherans had experienced many tribulations, and all felt that their experiences had earned them free passes into Eden. They basked in the glow of Luther's brilliance—a light that had not dimmed (at least for them) despite the passage of 500 years.

After parking the SUV, the Lutherans, like high priests bearing the body of a departed king, carried with dignity and without sound the golden idol—the suitcase—the repository of the stolen 400,000. Next they ceremoniously laid the coveted, yet much-abused, piece of luggage on the bed in Kermit Plaid's cheap motel room and chose from amongst themselves the Great Warrior of the Evangelical Lutherans to do the honors. With expectations raised and while holding his breath, the librarian stepped forward to open the shabby brown valise.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

THE HARVESTER

BENN AND GARRY'S MORTUARY

ONE DAY EARLIER, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2007

After Roderick Benn, Sr. had finished autopsying the young gentleman picked up that day at the Flagstaff Medical Center, he asked his assistant Miguel Sanchez to wheel in the old lady who'd arrived at the same time and in the same hearse—a move that the senior Benn had not approved of, saying to his young assistant that it was not dignified.

When Benn got around to lifting the sheet from the dead woman's face, he exclaimed, "Holy . . .! This is Flossie Segador!"

About to leave the room, Miguel changed his mind, curious to learn what caused his boss' startled reaction. "Holy" was the closest he'd heard Mr. Benn come to swearing.

"What's up, Mr. B?" As he asked the question, Miguel positioned himself directly in front of the co-owner of Benn and Gary's Mortuary but with the body of the dead woman stretched out on a gurney in between them.

"It's Flossie, Flossie Segador. I thought she'd been put away for life!"

Roderick Benn looked rattled, and Miguel Sanchez thought he would calm the old man by mentioning a piece of trivia that he was sure his boss did not know, " _Segador_ , that's Spanish. It means 'harvester.'"

Benn absently nodded yes despite the fact that the message had not hit its mark. The old mortician just stood there staring at Flossie's lifeless, but smiling, face as details of a bad memory came flooding back to him.

Having become impatient, Miguel finally asked, "So, who's this Flossie person anyway?"

"Oh, . . . she's . . . she's before your time. Thirty-five years ago, maybe forty. Murdered her husband and her two children. Right here in Flagstaff."

"No shit?" Miguel Sanchez spoke the two words slowly and inched closer to the body, peering into the sublimely happy face of Flossie Segador to see if he could detect there some sign, some telling feature, which would indicate that the dead woman had been capable of committing murder. But all he saw and sensed was an old lady who smelled mildly of cookies and heavily of cheap perfume.

"Tell me more Mr. B." Miguel said while leaning over the body,

"I don't know much. She was born and raised here. Exceptionally bright. She taught chemistry at the university. I believe her husband was a lawyer. Like I said, two kids. On the surface everything was fine. Then one day she puts poison in their tea, and they're dead. It was my understanding that they'd sentenced her to life."

"Hey, anymore life means twenty years—tops. I got this cousin, you know, in Phoenix . . . real mean . . . killed a guy in a fight—messin' with his woman—five years and he's out on the street."

Mr. Benn nodded. He was never surprised by what came out of Miguel's mouth. As the old man went to work on the body of Flossie Segador, he began to wonder what he would read in the next-day's newspaper.

* * *

The following morning Roderick Benn, Sr. sat down to breakfast and unfolded the _Daily Spew_. He found several articles dealing with the events, which, the preceding day, had turned the Flagstaff Medical Center "on its ear." One report dealt with the killing of an assassin; another described Flossie's murder/suicide; a third detailed the short life of Flossie's victim, an ex-Benjamin Dover employee; and, finally, he found the information he was looking for—a bio on Flossie Segador. The mortician began to read.

Mr. Benn gleaned from the piece on the widow Segador that she had murdered her family using a poison derived from the castor bean, and that she was not sent to prison as he'd supposed but instead had been declared insane and resided for thirty-three years in an asylum where she met and eventually became the constant companion of the recently turned infamous Tito Abellard, founder of the LEPIDOPTERIANs, a cult whose members had committed mass suicide less than one month earlier.

Partially due to state cutbacks, both Flossie and Abellard had been discharged from their asylum in 2001. The article went on to declare that Flossie's deviant behavior first manifested itself at the age of ten when she poisoned her two pet dachshunds, Wags and Fritz, with a meal that included ground up castor beans—a detail the old mortician found curious.

The senior Mr. Benn put down his paper and stared at nothing. He recalled that day in 1967 when he performed autopsies on the Segador children.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE GOLDEN IDOL IS OPENED

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2007

Rextastic Von Tastic, Director Oyster, and the toad-like Kermit Plaid gathered around Conan Kinnear as the big Lutheran stepped forward to open the brown suitcase, i.e. the Golden Idol, the prize that accompanied the body of Preston Cash. To Rex and Conan it meant that their reputations would be secure—they and their fledgling organization, LUMP, would be the subject of a grand tale told around the campfire at Luther League cookouts for many years to come. For Oyster and the Toad-man, success translated into several things at once: first, EL-NO would remain a symbol of virtue—a beacon of faith surrounded by Chicago's sea of sin and vice. Second, Director Oyster would stay in Illinois and not have to retreat to South Dakota—there to engage in the grisly business of selling the cooked flesh of animals. Finally, Kermit Plaid would not be forced to turn his back on Lutheran activism and, therefore, would be saved from having to resurrect his career as an undertaker.

The Great Warrior of the Evangelical Lutherans easily broke the lock on the leather case. But before exhibiting the missing money, he hesitated thinking that the occasion deserved some commemoration, or at the very least, a few well deserved acknowledgements. Like an Oscar-winning actor at the annual awards show, a deeply touched Conan Kinnear cleared his throat and declared in his most gallant voice, "Before I open this, I want to say 'Thanks' to my good friend Rextastic. Thanks for believing in me; thanks for being there at every turn." The big Lutheran paused and looked at Rex. Tears streamed down the fashion designer's cheeks, and the little guy began absently sopping them up using one end of his red silk bandana, which, as always, he had tied sassily around his neck.

"My thanks also goes out to you, Newton Oyster, and to your able colleague Kermit Plaid for inviting us to share your burden. May EL-NO continue to be a bastion against the forces of darkness. How well I know that being a partisan in the struggle for Lutheran supremacy can be a lonely and thankless job and that our good work often goes unappreciated and unrewarded."

After stopping briefly, and because he knew that such things meant a great deal to Director Oyster, Conan added, "You can look for a certificate of appreciation to come in the mail next week."

Newton Oyster straightened and smiled manically—the way he might have reacted had Lydia Bun-King seductively swayed her hips in front of him and then stroked his big, stiff armadillo while he and she tarried alone in his office back in sultry Chicago where the sea of sin and vice constantly probes—continually tempting both saint and sinner.

The formalities officially over, Conan the Librarian placed his strong, sinewy hands upon the Golden Idol, and as if by magic, the big Lutheran's face appeared to glow. Perhaps it was an unseen angel's light or maybe the gleam came from within, generated by Conan's own perfect faith—no one knew. A crystalline stillness filled the motel room as palpable and as beautiful as a frosty winter morning.

Rextastic struggled to comprehend and to put what he felt and what he observed into perspective: _It must have been the same for those gathered in the town of Appomattox Court House that April afternoon in 1865 when Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant accepted the sword of surrender from the Commander of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, General Robert E. Lee—or for those present at the births of Gianni Versace, Coco Chanel, and Louis Vuitton._

Conan, Rex, Director Oyster, and the Toad-man Plaid were about to witness history or, rather, were about to MAKE history. Rextastic's tears came steadily—the cascade leaving wet streaks down both his cheeks. Kermit Plaid held the fashion designer's hand and patted his shoulder soothingly.

* * *

Unfortunately the ratty piece of luggage yielded only disappointment for it did not contain money at all, but clothing, toiletries, children's toys, and a book of Christian music. On the inside front cover of the hymnal appeared a stamp, which identified its rightful owner to be the St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church of Ash Fork, Arizona.

Rex Von Tastic's tears immediately ceased flowing. Shocked and bewildered the little Lutheran with the big heart stepped forward and reached into the shabby brown suitcase. He pulled out a pair of underwear. After a quick inspection, Rex declared them to be cheap cotton manufactured in China. He further offered his opinion that, judging from the size, they were looking at clothing belonging to a young boy, possibly early grade school, and therefore, this was not the suitcase of Preston Cash.

Rextastic's dramatic pronouncement precipitated a robust and somewhat angry chorus of "No shit!" which was rather strong language considering that the small motel room was populated entirely by Evangelical Lutherans. The refrain prompted Rex to wince, and he began fiddling nervously with the wet end of his sassy red bandana.

Their hopes laid waste, the four devastated souls debated for quite sometime different explanations that could account for why they were inspecting children's clothing instead of counting Lutheran money. One theory, quickly discarded, was that Roderick Benn was behind it. That he or one of his employees discovered the money and then substituted the garments. To Von Tastic that explanation did not make sense because all of the clothing found was consistent to that belonging to a male child weighing in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. If someone had taken the money then added the clothing, Rex postulated that they would more than likely have put in clothing similar in size to Preston Cash's.

Von Tastic then suggested a more plausible account: "There was a mix-up at the hospital."

Following a moment of silence both Plaid and Oyster confirmed that some on the hospital staff seemed quite confused, especially when it came to matching patient with personal effects.

Soon after ending their discussion, the Lutherans checked out of the motel and returned to the Flagstaff Medical Center to conduct an investigation. While there they learned that during the hour that Cash was brought in by helicopter, also admitted to the emergency room were the hired killer, Sergey Ostrovsky; an employee of the rafting company named Benjamin Bucket; and an uninsured young boy suffering liver failure who was able to both secure a compatible liver and was able to pay for the 400,000 dollar operation in cash despite the fact that he and his young parents lived in one of Ash Fork, Arizona's seedier trailer courts.

Word amongst the hospital staff was that God had performed a miracle by turning a child's underwear into money. The revelation softened the convictions of three agnostics causing one drop to her knees and shout, "IT'S A SIGN; OH, LORD GOD IN HEAVEN; IT'S A SIGN!"

Since the four Lutherans did not lodge a complaint, no one was the wiser.

After dejectedly leaving the Flagstaff Medical Center, Conan and Rextastic dropped Mr. Oyster and the Toad-man off at the airport. Next the militant Lutherans returned the SUV to the rental company and, in Conan's brown Toyota, began the long drive back to Peoria, Illinois. Mindful that the name of LUMP would not go down in the annals of Lutheran history, Conan said barely two words and Rextastic performed no show tunes on the entire journey home.

Later that day when Oyster and Plaid stopped by their EL-NO headquarters on the way in from Chicago's O'Hare Airport, they discovered that an eviction notice had been posted on their front door.

Knowing that they had been the primary contributors to saving the life of an eight-year-old Presbyterian did nothing to ease their disappointment.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CONCLUSION

Bankrupt, EL-NO's honchos had nowhere to turn, and despite their optimism, no one stepped forward to bail them out. It hardly seemed possible that Windy City Lutherans did not care about the plight of Oyster and Plaid. Plus EL-NO took some pretty solid hits delivered by an unknown source that possessed rather accurate and embarrassing inside information. Exposés were published in several Protestant scandal sheets. The organization, which had fought selflessly for the rights of Evangelical Lutherans, was forced to disband in disgrace.

Unable to make it in Chicago, Newton Oyster packed his certificates of perfect attendance along with his lacquered armadillo and returned to South Dakota where his worst fear was realized when his father placed him in charge of an "Oyster's All Beef Burger Barn." He wore a different uniform at the Burger Barn. His new outfit included a small beanie and matching red shirt and slacks, and would not have passed inspection had Rextastic been called upon to offer an opinion. Stitched on the back of his shirt was the company slogan: "YOU HAVEN'T EATEN BURGER, IF YOU HAVEN'T EATEN AN OYSTER BURGER," but since Newton's small back was more "poster-sized" than "billboard" the slogan on him resembled the fine print on a timeshare contract.

Newton Oyster did his best to change the system—even inventing a meatless sandwich—a horrendous concoction, which he created by mixing small amounts of cellulose with soybean paste and chickpea residue then pouring the resulting slurry into a dehydrator. The "Veganburger" resembled damp papier-mâché but appeared far less appetizing. In a blind taste test two out of three volunteers, after gagging, spit Newton's offensive substance onto the pavement.

Sadly, the only dream of Oyster's to come true was the one where he was killed by a cow. It happened when Newton had an unfortunate run-in with a small herd of livestock a year after he'd returned to his hometown. Six in number, the cattle had escaped from an overturned truck.

Witnessing the accident as he drove to work, Samaritan Oyster leapt from his car intending to calm the frightened animals and to protect them from speeding motorists. However, he failed to note that, in addition to possessing testicles, each animal appeared rather brutish and ill tempered.

Newton's red uniform coupled with his herky-jerky style of running helped to draw the animal's attention and perhaps increased their ire. Quickly reshuffling priorities and, acting as one, the fugitive bulls delighted in chasing down the son of Pierre, South Dakota's hamburger king.

A reporter for the local newspaper saw the irony in the matter, and his resulting article was picked up by a wire service and printed in papers throughout the nation. The headline read: "Vegan, Killed by Beef."

Oyster's father insisted that his son be laid to rest wearing the colorful Burger Barn ensemble, and before the coffin was closed for the final time, the old man placed Newton's lacquered armadillo next to the body along with a certificate of perfect attendance acknowledging the fact that his son had not missed a single day of work since returning to Pierre.

* * *

Kermit Plaid, on the other hand, was not that unhappy with his new circumstances—initially at least. The Toad-man took a job with a nationwide funeral home chain. The company had introduced an interesting concept. Potential clients were presented with the option of being buried with an Internet connection, and, for a fee, surviving relatives and friends could log-on and "chat" with the dead. As part of the sales pitch, customers were shown "research" supporting the assertion that, while the dead clearly cannot speak, a surprisingly high percentage can type as many as thirty words per minute. After six months of tracking, the company discovered that the most commonly asked question was, "Honey, where did you leave the keys to the Buick?" Whenever the toad-like Plaid took his weekly turn at the keyboard he would answer the question by typing, "Sorry, I have them in my pocket,"

Later that year Kermit Plaid was arrested and charged with fraud.

His trial was brief and its outcome harsh. The Toadmeister, after being summarily stripped of his mortician's license, was sent to prison, and is currently a guest of the Illinois Department of Corrections where he is a member of a gang of Lutheran skinheads.

* * *

Of those counted amongst EL-NO's administration and staff, Miss Bun-King fared the best. No charges were filed against Lydia for shooting the assassin, Sergey Ostrovsky. In fact she was later cited for her assistance in capturing the dangerous killer and was given a 20,000-dollar reward. After Ben Bucket, the boat handler and chef's helper, was shot leaving the Zen Adventure Company one crewmember short, Zack Cannon, at Zigzag's urging, hired Ms. Bun-King for the duration of the trip. She proved to be a hard worker and an excellent cook, skilled with both skillet and oar.

Zigzag eventually came to terms with the destruction of his favorite guitar, and when he did, had the best float trip that he could remember. Lydia was quite receptive to his constant attention and to his gifts of canned meat, which he "borrowed" from the stores of Benjamin Bucket figuring correctly that since Bucket was recuperating in the hospital, the man would neither need nor miss them.

Once she finished her brief stint with Grand Canyon Zen Adventure, Lydia Bun-King returned to Chicago. There she used her reward money to place a down payment on a BMW Z-car. She had little to do with the Presbyterians after that and went to work instead for the dealer from whom she'd purchased her new wheels. Employed as a "model," her primary assignment was to sit in the showroom's sports cars, flirt with prospective clients, and display generous amounts of cleavage, thereby planting a seed in the fertile minds of impressionable buyers that a woman like Lydia would become a BMW accessory shortly after purchase. Z-car sales immediately tripled.

* * *

Upon his return to the Midwest, Rextastic threw himself into his work with an intensity described by friends as frenetic. His renown as a fashion designer grew until he had outstripped even Peoria, Illinois. He became in the eyes of the world of work-place attire what is known as a _Gallactico_ —a super giant, which necessitated his move to Bayonne, New Jersey, the Kaaba of utilitarian fashion, where the barons and the sophisticates of his industry naturally gravitate. From such places trends and tides sweep across the planet changing the way humans live, feel, and how they work.

Plus, Von Tastic branched out, introducing two entirely new product lines. One was nautical wear, which he dubbed Captain Vladimir's Locker, styling products meant for the carefree day sailor. The second creation was of _haute couture_ valises. These he labeled Lighthouse Luggage—they were sequined and had built-in low voltage electric lights, which flashed on and off when the owner pushed a button on a hand-held remote—perfect for spotting luggage on airport baggage carousels or for drawing attention to oneself when hailing a cab.

Rextastic eventually found a partner who could fill the void left by Conan Kinnear. Today he and his love share a home with a Peekapoo named Silverback and a gigantic Persian tabby they affectionately call Lump.

* * *

Conan, also, moved from Illinois. When he returned to Peoria after his misadventure in the Great American West, he did NOT find his librarian job waiting for him. Though his quest to recover the Lutheran's money ended in failure, it did not diminish his zeal—not permanently anyway. After two weeks of soul searching, the big man packed his bags and headed to Las Vegas, Nevada, where today he earns a living as a professional wrestler. Known as "Conan — Champion of the Evangelical Lutherans," he circles the ring taunting and confounding opponents by shouting the words of Martin Luther. Rumor has it that he has signed a lucrative contract and will soon face-off against Andre the Presbyterian.

Kinnear remains single but is beginning to appreciate the company of women. In his spare time he continues to engage the enemies of piety.

THE END.

###

View my author profile at: **https:www.smashwords.com/profile/view/NLAckerman**
