

### Cry For The Mercenary

By Gabriel Wright

Copyright 2015 Gabriel Wright

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

About Author

### Chapter 1

Not one, not two, not three or four, but five. Not one experienced, well-trained, smart and tough, tried and tested, field agent, but five. Not one mobile phone to check-in, report, or call for help, but five. Not one loaded gun to threaten, deter, draw and fire, to defend themselves and each other, but five. Five FBI Special Agents sent on one simple assignment, to one small town, for one day, and weeks later none of them had been seen or heard from again. Not one.

Special Agent in Charge, Nicholas Prisko, stood on the stage in the large auditorium of the small building. Farthest from the podium, where the large crowd in front of him was currently being addressed, but closest to several members of the media. They were only feet from him. Multiple camera lights and flashes focused solely on him, despite the speaker speaking at the podium. They were waiting for him. Hearing his name called and not wanting to, he made an involuntary scowl the cameras could not have missed. He had been announced from the podium by the son-of-a-bitch. Ordered to do this press conference, Prisko didn't know if he could pull it off and tolerate having to look in the gloating face of the man who had just called his name.

That man, Sheriff Hailey Tulley, now watched him intently. Prisko could see his impatience waiting for him at the center of the stage. It made him seethe all the more. He returned Tulley's gaze, pursing his lips. Then after a few seconds and a long breath, he walked the short, narrow, path to the podium. Having to snake his way between fellow law enforcement officials that lined the distance. There were several of them from various agencies. As he reached the podium, there was a brief but tense moment as he slipped past Tulley, just as the man stepped aside to let him through. The two passing only inches from each other. The friction between them was obvious. Prisko was extra careful not to make contact with him, because if they made contact – well, it was just better that they didn't make contact.

They were in a town hall. The biggest space available. Appropriate for the size of the town but not the size of the crowd. It was currently holding close to two hundred, jam-packed, members of the media and their bulky communication equipment, along with several other members of law enforcement. All uncomfortably housed in a building designed to hold maybe half the number. A huge rainstorm had soaked the small town for the past twenty-four hours. Precluding this press conference from being held outside, as had all the others.

Prisko's underlying fury had little to do with the press conference itself, he had been holding them daily since he got there. It had to do with the fact that, under orders, this would be the last. He had to confirm to the press what Tulley had just told them.

". . . the investigation is ongoing." Prisko said a few seconds after he got to the microphones. Slow, choosing his words carefully. He was given too little notice to have any statement prepared. ". . . but for now, Sheriff Tulley is correct. I have been instructed by the Attorney General to call off the search." Prisko said and then paused for several seconds to let the sudden, stunned, grumbles from the crowd settle. "That's all. Thank you."

He took a few steps back to let Tulley get back to the microphones, but a bevy of questions were hurled at him from several reporters. He stepped forward again, gesturing his hand in a single cutting motion, "no questions, thank you."

Again he stepped back. This time deliberately ignoring the ensuing questions. After several more, awkward seconds, with the questions still flowing, a miffed Sheriff Tulley slowly stepped back up to the microphones, looking back at him.

". . . is that all?" Tulley asked him, incredulous.

Why is he talking to me, Prisko thought. He couldn't respond the way the he wanted – by punching Tulley out – so instead he grudgingly nodded his head, just once. His eyes burning with such fire no one in the room could have missed it. With an annoyed sigh, Tulley turned back to the crowd.

"Well, ok, then. So that's it people. You heard it directly from the big man. There's nothing else to say. It's over. Go home." Tulley said.

Reporters continued to call out their questions, their shouting voices overlapping in a loud, indiscernible prattle. Then, one voice carried over the rest, ". . . do you still maintain that the missing FBI Agents were never here?" Was heard, then the room settled down.

"I never said that", Tulley answered, not really knowing who asked. "That would be calling Special Agent Prisko, and the entire FBI a bunch of liars. I have too much respect for them to do that. What I said was that those agents never reported their presence in this town to me and none of the town residents recall ever seeing or interacting with them. Now, if they say their agents were here, then I take them at their word."

"So how do you explain the disconnect?" Another reported yelled.

"Disconnect? Is that some kind of big city word? Look, the only thing I can say is that these agents are not in Cole. And if they ever were, it seems to me after all this . . .", Tulley motioned his arms to indicate the entire room and everything and everyone in it. ". . . there's no way they would not have been found by now."

"Are you relieved that the search is being called off." A reporter asked.

". . . as I said, I have the utmost respect for the Bureau and everyone in it. They're the best law enforcement agency in the world. But they never bothered to inform me that they were sending any agents to Cole. Or that they were looking for this fugitive, Sorenson . . ."

Sorenson? Prisko thought with surprise and some unexpected amusement. He had forgotten all about that name.

"And had they informed me. . .", Tulley continued. "I could have told them myself that Sorenson was not in Cole, nor has he ever been. Now I understand they're concerned about their missing people, I have a deputy, if he was missing I'd be just as concerned. But as I've said before, what I don't understand is why, for over a month now, they had to turn this town upside down and treat everyone in it like criminals. Cole has a little over 400 residents. All of them are law abiding, tax paying, God fearing citizens. They did not deserve to have their lives disrupted in this manner. Nor do they deserve this cloud hanging over their heads with respect to these missing agents."

With that Prisko stormed off the stage, bursting through the crowd and heading for the exit. Tulley watched him pushing his way through.

". . . but of course, if any harm has come to them", he continued, still watching Prisko, "my heart goes out to their families, and the bureau . . .".

That was the last thing Prisko heard and all he could stomach. He walked into the drenching rain and stood motionless without bothering to cover himself. Then he noticed a contingent of press had followed him, along with their cameras. Before anyone could ask any questions, he proceeded to the FBI's command trailer in the center of town. Having to dodge several media and law enforcement vehicles in the minuscule town center to get to it. All of which were transplants from Albany, New York City, and beyond. None of which would normally be found anywhere near here.

The small upstate, New York town of Cole was in the northernmost section of the state, near the Canadian border. A little less than three hundred miles from New York City. Like most of the state, it was a woodland area, full of forest and lakes. Having wide patches of uninhabited land, scarce roads, many of them even unpaved, and ultra-rural townships that loosely governed the residents. It was a part of New York many didn't know existed unless they lived there. For those that did, Cole had seemed to become the center of the universe in the last few weeks. Ever since the FBI had come to town.

Prisko shook his head as he thought of the first time he ever heard of Cole, New York. It was a little more than five weeks ago that the assignment came in. Seeming like nothing more than a waste of time, it barely registered with him. A far cry from the setting of what now had the potential to be one of the greatest losses in the history of the FBI.

One of the Bureau's statutory functions was to check on domestic leads from other federal agencies tasked with national security but not legally allowed to operate within U.S. borders. Agencies like Central Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, or National Security, among others. When those agencies had domestic business, leads to follow or other investigative measures to take, by law they must submit a request to the bureau for follow-up. Such requests were not altogether routine but not unheard of, either. Prisko had even been assigned a few when he was a junior agent. So when he received one of those requests, now as head of the FBI Albany Division, he thought little of it.

The call came from a man named Brett Burdick, a Deputy Director at something called the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA). A little known and often overlooked Defense Department agency whose job, Prisko discovered, was to combat the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction around the world. It was such an obscure little agency, Prisko himself, had to look them up. After verifying Burdick's credentials through proper channels, Prisko heard his request, which required sending agents into Cole.

They were to investigate a report that a man wanted by DTRA was living in Cole. This man wasn't wanted for any crime. It was only that the agency had some kind of prior relationship with him, and had somehow lost contact. They had been looking for him since 2003. Several leads on his location over the years never panned out. Burdick said the man was being deliberately elusive. It was thought that he had been out of the country when they received new reports of him living in Cole. The assignment was simple enough. The agents were to go to the town, determine if he was there or not, then report back to Burdick. That's all. If the agents confirmed he was there, DTRA would send in their own people for further interviewing.

The man was American but known to have many ties in the Middle-East. He had lived and done business in various countries over there for decades, Syria, Jordan, and particularly Iran. The country with the rogue nuclear program. Which, Prisko assumed, was probably why DTRA wanted to see him. The Middle-East was also where the man had supposedly made his substantial fortune. He was said to be a multi-billionaire. From what Prisko had read in the file they had on him, the man was known to be a little anti-authority, but not in a violent way. With already two lawsuits pending against the Federal government for harassment, he seemed much more the type to deploy an army of lawyers to fight his battles should he feel violated, than taking up arms. Aside from that, the man had more of a knack for avoiding government officials than confronting them. There didn't seem to be any reason to feel that he was any kind of threat.

So Prisko, as he was required, assigned two junior agents to spend a day heading into Cole. He resented having to give up man hours to track down someone DTRA basically only wanted to say 'hi' to. Still, he was content to do it and get it over with. He would allow it a day, no more. The FBI had real and actual crimes to investigate, real and actual criminals to pursue. Two agents, twenty-four hours – that was all. Prisko made the assignment, honoring the request. And then Burdick amended the request.

It seemed that this time DTRA was quite confident that the reports of the man being in the town were true. So confident, they didn't just hope he was there, they expected him to be. When Prisko asked what made these particular reports more credible than others, Burdick told him it was because of two reasons. One, the town of Cole, New York, had only existed since 2004, only a year after they had started looking for the man. And two, more obviously, the man's name is Cole Bennington.

In light of that, but for no other logical reason Prisko could discern, Burdick recommended that a minimum of ten agents be sent, ten senior agents. Ten senior agents? Why would this kind of assignment require ten senior agents, Prisko asked. Was there some kind of danger involved that was not obvious from the file? Burdick assured him there was not. It was only because Bennington had eluded them before. A sufficient number of agents would preclude him from slipping out undetected. If they covered all of the exits out of town before Bennington realized they were there, they were sure to make contact with him if he attempted to leave.

That was absurd, Prisko protested. Without evidence of a significant threat or any kind of crime, there was no justification for deploying so many agents. Without being a wanted criminal or terrorist, they couldn't even legally enter Bennington's home let alone detain him in some kind of roadblock. Should he, in fact, decide to drive out of town after they drove in, what were his agents going to do, wave?

Burdick however, insisted on the ten agents just as much as Prisko refused. Thereafter followed several days of what can only be described as an intergovernmental standoff. Prisko was obligated to honor Burdick's request, but Burdick had no authority to tell him how to complete it. He didn't know what DTRA's business was with Bennington, but the days of national security people pushing around law enforcement people went out with the Iraq war. Prisko wasn't having it. He put his foot down. After some back and forth between superiors at both agencies, a compromise was reached. They ended up sending the five agents.

When those agents got to the town, they found out Cole had no cellular phone service and had to report in from a satellite phone they were issued. They reported that they had just entered the town and, as per proper procedure, were looking to make contact with local law enforcement authority, the town Sheriff. Soon after making that report, the signal from their phone stopped transmitting altogether. The agents were never heard from again. That was thirty-five days ago.

Thirty-four days ago, in his very first contact with the man, Prisko put in a call to Sheriff Hailey Tulley. He explained that he had sent five agents into Cole and lost contact with them just before they were due to report to his office. Right from the start, Tulley was belligerent and irreverent. Denying any agents ever reported to him and showing no concern for them. Instead, he demanded to know why they were sent to his town in the first place. Although Prisko didn't provide him an answer, he was more than respectful, even apologized for Tulley's perceived slight. After having to appease Tulley even more, he told Prisko that he would investigate and get back to him within twenty-four hours.

Thirty-three days ago, Prisko called him back. Tulley told him that, after a thorough investigation, he had found nothing. That he was pretty sure no FBI agents had ever entered Cole. That Prisko should try checking for his agents in some of the other townships in the area or contacting the State Police to see if their vehicle had met with some unfortunate accident on the road. Still respectful, he told Tulley that was just not true. For one, the agents were traveling in two vehicles, not one. He couldn't see how an accident would have affected both vehicles. More significantly, they had the GPS record from the satellite phone the agents used to check in when they arrived. There was no doubt, they were definitely in Cole.

Tulley got even more belligerent. This time for Prisko not telling him about the two vehicles or the GPS record from the beginning. Then he complained that he had more important things to do than look for incompetent FBI Agents. Actually using the word 'incompetent'. Nevertheless, Tulley said, he would investigate further and get back to him within another twenty-four hours. Prisko bit his tongue and waited.

Thirty-two days ago he called Tulley back again. This time Tulley told him he couldn't account for what their GPS record said or how many vehicles they used, but he had covered the entire town and no one had seen, spoke to, or otherwise made any kind of contact with any FBI Agents. They just weren't in Cole and there was no indication they ever were. Tulley said he didn't know what else to tell him. He didn't know what else to do. Prisko told him he did.

Thirty-one days ago, Prisko came to Cole with fifty-four agents. That was only for starters. Over the next few days the operation grew to over three hundred law enforcement personnel. Not only FBI but the New York State Police, the U.S. Marshall Service and even the New York National Guard. With such a large operation, the media quickly got wind and less than twelve hours after that, they too had bombarded the town.

Since then, Prisko's army had, much as Tulley described, completely disrupted the town, and Prisko wasn't apologetic about it. Five armed, FBI Agents in two official FBI vehicles had gone missing with no evidence of any serious accident or other unintended calamity. That left only foul play. Overpowering those agents and covering up their disappearance could have only been a group effort. There was a belligerent local sheriff more concerned about why the agents were there than what happened to them. In Prisko's mind, he couldn't disrupt the town enough.

He set up their command trailer dead center in the town square, and as many support vehicles as could fit. Deliberately cutting off all civilian traffic and only making room for the press vehicles when they arrived. The rest of the law enforcement vehicles he had surround the perimeter of the town. No Cole resident was barred from the town center, they just had to walk in, not drive. He commandeered the local restaurant as a makeshift field office and had all of the personnel that couldn't fit in the command trailer headquarter there. Cell service had suddenly been added to the town since their command trailer had a built in cell tower. Along with built in listening software for every call that went through it. Every public structure was searched. He set up other search teams and scoured the woods surrounding Cole for a 25 mile radius. They had air searches, satellite photography, infrared, and bloodhounds. When that turned up nothing they put every home, some sixty-five residences, under surveillance, planted bugs and phone taps, stealthily and in some cases openly, tailed residents as they drove to and fro. All while giving daily press conferences on their progress.

Prisko refused to speak to Tulley again as a colleague. Except for that curt exchange at the podium, the two of them had never had a face to face conversation. He swore if he ever spoked to Tulley in person, it would only be when he had him in an interrogation room. Yet they needed some level of cooperation with him. If for no other reason than to act as a liason between the FBI and the local residents. So Prisko had his Assistant, Special Agent in Charge, Andrew Nguyen ct as a buffer between him and Tulley. No surprise, as militant as he'd been over the phone, Tulley was the complete opposite when he had half the FBI Albany Division in his face. He promised that every town resident would be at their disposal with complete cooperation. Also no surprise, he confirmed that Cole Bennington did, in fact, live in the town. Not only did he live there but he was the town patriarch.

In the press conference, Tulley said Cole had over four hundred residents. To be exact, there were four hundred and thirty-six. With the exception of Bennington himself, every single resident was present in the town and accounted for, just as Tulley said. They all voluntarily allowed their homes to be searched without warrants. As for Bennington, although there still had been no contact with him, all accounts were that he had been out of town on business since before the missing agents ever arrived. His home was the largest house in the town but Tulley told them Bennington had given permission for it to be searched as well. So they did.

However, for all their efforts after 31 days, their results were absolute zero. No agents, no sign of any agents, no sign of their vehicles or other equipment, not a single trace. If it wasn't for the GPS record, there really would be no indication that they were ever in Cole at all.

Prisko walked into the command trailer, his suit drenched from the rain. Water pouring off of him and puddling at his feet. He pulled off his suit jacket, wrung it out without regard to being in the middle of the trailer then hung it on a hook next to the door. Taking off his tie and unfastening the top button of his rain soaked shirt, he took a seat next to the computer on a dash. It had been his usual command spot since they arrived in town. That was when he noticed his cell had been vibrating.

Half surprised that it was still operating despite being drenched, he pulled it out of his pants pocket. "Motherfucker", he muttered as he looked at the caller id and immediately answered the call. "Where the fuck have you been?!" Prisko yelled.

"Agent Prisko", said the calm voice. The voice of the man who had almost as much of Prisko's ire as Sheriff Tulley. The voice of the man who had given him this assignment and had been ducking his calls since the agents first went missing. It was the voice of DTRA, Deputy Director, Brett Burdick. Feigning concern, "how are you?"

"What the fuck do you mean, 'how are you'?! I got missing agents. That's how I am. I've been calling you for four weeks! Where you been?"

"I haven't been under a rock, Agent Prisko. I know what's going on."

"You told me to send ten agents, you son-of-a-bitch. You knew something was gonna happen. You fucking knew it!"

"Prisko, I understand you're upset. If anything happened to your people, I feel for you. I truly do."

"What the fuck happened to my agents?!"

"What makes you think I know?"

"You told me to send ten!"

". . . and you didn't!" Burdick snapped back.

Prisko got up and started pacing around the trailer with the phone to his ear. That thought had been gnawing at him ever since the first time the agents didn't check in. He accepted responsibility but he couldn't let that guilt stop him now. There would be plenty of time for it later.

A little calmer, Prisko said, "who is Cole Bennington?"

"I wanted to thank you for not bringing his name into it."

"Don't thank me. The Director ordered me not to. Who the fuck is he?"

"You have the same file on him I do."

"You found him, didn't you? Cause it's kind of funny you gave us the assignment to find him but never followed-up to see if we ever did."

Burdick doesn't respond.

"Did he contact you? Is that the reason we got the order to clear out?"

"Prisko . . ."

"If I find out he harmed my agents, and you covered up for him, I'm gonna find you. I might find you, anyway."

"Agent Prisko, there really is no need to resort to those kinds of threats. You've been ordered out of the town. That's all. Nobody told you to stop looking for your agents. Nobody told you to shut down your investigation. Nobody's covering up anything. But after thirty days of turning that place upside down and not finding anything, does it really seem so outrageous that someone says 'maybe it's time to look somewhere else?'"

"Bullshit."

". . . you really need to leave now."

"You're not my superior."

"I'm repeating the message from your superior."

"We're still wrapping things up. It's gonna take some time."

"You're stalling."

"What if I am?" Prisko said but didn't wait for a response. He pressed the soft button on the phone to close the call.

Then for the first time, he noticed everyone in the trailer. As well as the glaring inactivity and dejected look on all of their faces. There were ten agents there including his second in command, Special Agent Nguyen. He hadn't told them about the order to call off the search. So they only found out during the announcement like everyone else. Prior to that, a peek into this command trailer would've looked something like a crisis center. With full digital map displays lining the walls, multiple crisscrossing phone and radio conversations, incessant keyboard tapping, bright lights of computer displays rolling across everyone's faces. Now, it was all still and silent. The mood, somber. The group wasn't quite sure what to do next. Prisko took a seat.

"They caught Sorenson in Seattle. About an hour ago." Nguyen said after a minute.

Prisko nodded in acknowledgment, not caring in the slightest. Rudolph Sorenson was a suspected, three-time, abortion clinic bomber who was on the run. Had been on the FBI's ten most wanted list for months. He never had anything to do with Cole. Prisko had been ordered by the Director not to mention Bennington. So when the media asked why those agents were sent to Cole, Sorenson was the first name that popped into his head, so he blurted it out.

"What now?" Asked Agent Marlon Henson who was seated at the far end of the trailer. He was the youngest agent on this assignment, a four year bureau man in his mid-thirties.

Prisko looked up at Henson. Then did another sweep of the faces in the room. Most of them now more blank than dejected. They were looking to him for guidance. He had none for them. All he knew was that, despite his orders, he wasn't going anywhere.

### Chapter 2

Standing in the well of the courtroom, his hands cuffed behind his back, his triceps in the firm hold of a heavyset court officer, he waited. Noting the cold, hard, stare down from across the room originating from the cop that arrested him, he ignored it. Turned his head away from the man the instant he saw him. Everyone else in the room were oblivious of him, even the court officer whose grasp he was in. He waited for the flinch he knew he would make when his name was called. He didn't want to hear his name called. He never did.

The room was large and easily seated over a hundred in the audience gallery. The building having gone up in the 1930's, it was an old fashioned courtroom with beige walls and black, vinyl tiled, floors. Golden-stained oaken woodwork dominated the room. Making up the bench structure for the judge, witness stand, court clerk and several feet away, the lawyers tables and podiums. It also comprised the thigh high guard railing that lined the front of the room and even benched the audience in seven long, split, rows.

The audience was scarce in the gallery this morning, normal for these routine proceedings. Most of the people in the room were inside the guard railing, clustered at the front near the bench. The players. They were the judge, the lawyers, the court clerks, the court officers, and the group he belonged to, the defendants. They were in a long line fed into the courtroom from a secure waiting room that essentially started from Central booking.

It wasn't unfamiliar to him. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been in this situation, standing in a court room somewhere, waiting to be judged. This may have been the first time he was in the Bronx Supreme Court. He was used to the Bronx Family court where they handled juvenile cases, but to him a court was a court. Considering he'd also been in the juvenile courts of Kings County, New York and Suffolk counties as well. Maybe he didn't lose count after all, maybe he just wished he had.

Wanting to throw his head back, spread his arms and drift away, the handcuffs made that impossible. He could only close his eyes, roll his head, and take in successive deep breaths. He knew they were watching him, and what their thoughts would be. His lawyer would think he was crazy, the judge would think he was detached, the prosecutor would think he was disrespectful, and the cop would think he was mocking him. He didn't care.

It was reflexive. As he heard the judge call for the next case, which he knew was his, his name about to be announced. As he felt the grip of the court officer tighten around his triceps to walk him to the podium. As he saw the cop sit up on his seat, anxious for him to stand in front of the judge to be judged. He yanked his arm away from the officer and rammed his shoulder into the burly man. Sending him barreling over the guard rail that separated the players from the spectators - and into the lap of one of the spectators. More enraged than hurt, the officer immediately tried to regain his footing but he attempted to do so without fully regaining his balance and only ended up falling further, completely to the ground.

He braced himself for the next wave of court officers who would come at him, standing poised for anything except what he couldn't see. He was grabbed from behind by at least two pairs of hands. Not knowing who they belonged to, he tried to shake them off for several seconds to no avail before seeing the court officer he had just thrown over the guard rail coming back at him, baton raised. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he was defenseless. He braced himself for the blow. Then . . .

"What the hell is going on here!!" Came an outraged voice from the center of the southern end of the room. In essence, the center of the room. It was from the judge, who was now standing.

All motion in the room stopped for several seconds. Then the officer, who was about to bash him over the head with the baton, put it away and only walked up to him, forcefully grabbing his triceps again.

"Who is this?!" The judge yelled, looking at his clerk.

"Your honor, this is Jester Masterson." The clerk replied.

That was it, his name. Jester hated his name. Some woman who didn't raise him, or care for him, saw fit to name him after a clown. And the system that did raise him but never cared for him, saw fit to let him keep it.

". . . he's being charged with aggravated assault", the clerk continued.

"No surprise there." The judge said, looking at Jester and taking his seat again. "Apparently this young man is too stupid to know that this is his arraignment hearing where I'm to decide if he gets out on bail or stays locked up until his case is dispensed. Does he have an attorney present?"

With that Jester's court appointed lawyer, a man he'd never met until less than an hour ago, announces himself.

"You're not going to try to argue for bail after that, are you?" The judge snapped at his lawyer.

"Your honor," the lawyer started, "my client is a juvenile . . ."

"Oh . . . look at this record!" The judge cried out while looking at his computer screen, cutting him off. He was referring to Jester's juvenile record.

"Your honor", the confident prosecutor started, "the defendant was found standing over his victim, beating him mercilessly. Had police not pulled him off, he surely would have done a lot more damage. Possibly have even killed him."

"Who is the victim?"

"The victim?" The prosecutor asked.

"Yes, the victim. Who is it?" The judge asked after several seconds, looking up at the prosecutor. Surprised he didn't get a complete answer the first time he asked.

A little less confident, "well, the victim was uh . . . well, the victim . . . was one . . . a Mr. Tyshiek Morgan, your honor." Said the prosecutor.

The judge looked up from his computer, "Tyshiek Morgan? Really?" He asked. His demeanor instantly changing from frustration to surprise – maybe even a little impressed. "I thought that guy was locked up."

"Paroled, your honor." Replied the prosecutor. "The defendant attacked Mr. Morgan . . ."

" _He_ attacked Morgan?" The judge cut the prosecutor off, pointing to Jester.

"Yes, your honor."

"Your honor, my client disputes that." Jester's lawyer added.

"We are talking about the same Tyshiek Morgan, right? The one who's been in my courtroom many times? Forty-something, 6'5"- 6'6"ish, 280 - 300ish pound, Tyshiek Morgan?"

"Um, yes, your honor. The same one." Answered the prosecutor.

"Notorious drug dealer? Suspected in at least three murders that I can think of, and even more assaults? The guy your office had to settle for convicting of simple possession because you couldn't get anyone to testify against him for the big stuff? That Tyshiek Morgan?

"Your honor, please." The prosecutor said, now embarrassed. "Mr. Morgan suffered a severely fractured jaw, a broken collar bone, fractured sternum, and numerous . . ."

"All that?!" The judge interrupted and then pointed at Jester again, "but he doesn't have a scratch on him." Now the judge takes a minute to check his computer screen again, "I don't see that any weapons were used. Did he attack Morgan in his sleep?"

"Uh, no, judge. It was a street fight."

The judge sits back in his chair, peering at Jester. This time, unmistakably impressed, "a street fight. Wow".

"Your honor, Masterson is also charged with assaulting the police officer who arrested him." The clerk said.

"Yes, I saw that in the report." The judge said, that news snapping him back to reality. He straightens his posture and begins typing on his computer. "Well, assaulting a police officer is very serious. Who is the officer and how are his injuries?"

"I'm here, your honor. I'm Lieutenant London Rose of the 44th precinct." Rose said as he stood up and gazed over to Jester, then back at the judge.

"You're here? That's unusual for an arraignment. Well, are you alright, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, your honor." Just barely, Rose thought after he answered.

Although it wasn't a requirement for an arresting officer to be present at a routine arraignment, Rose had been in court for this since early morning before it opened. Had cancelled on a weekly meeting with his Precinct Captain just to make it.

"Glad to hear that. I don't often hear of a Police Lieutenant making a street arrest. How did you come to be in a position to arrest this defendant?"

"Your honor, I was the supervisor on duty. I was called to the scene of an auto accident. I was in route to that location when, on the way, I happened to stumble onto the scene where I spotted this defendant standing over the victim, beating him. I stopped my car and went to grab him from behind. He elbowed me in the face and then turned on me. I reached for my gun and he knocked it away, then he proceeded to assault me."

Rose recalled and recited. He could describe the events of the other night in clear, unambiguous, police vernacular as he had been trained to do and had done countless times in his NYPD career. He could describe the sequence of each person's actions, their words, their movements, their positions, even their clothing and hairstyle. But what he could not describe was the very thing that urged him to drop everything today and make it to this hearing. He could see what it was, recognize it as he had, but describe it? How do you describe a wordless thought? Like the thoughts that run through the head between the time seeing a gun fired at someone, then the person going down. You know what's going to happen before it happens, but not in words.

"How did you get control of the situation?" The judge asked.

"Well, truthfully, I really didn't. The perp just stopped. It's like he suddenly realized I wasn't Morgan. He turned away from me and went back to him. That's when I tackled him and was able to cuff him."

"I see. Well again, I'm glad you're alright, Lieutenant Rose. But let's just put that aside for a second."

"Well, your honor . . ." Rose tried to interject.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant." The judge said with force and then turned to Jester's lawyer. "What I want to know is what started this altercation with Morgan? Because I'm not seeing any drug arrests on Mr. Masterson's record. A lot of violence, no drugs. It doesn't seem to look like a drug rivalry situation. So what started this?"

"Your honor, my client insists that Mr. Morgan who, as your honor has stated, is a very dubious fellow, instigated this altercation. My client was new to the neighborhood, he had just reported to a new group home . . ."

"Group home, so he's a foster kid?"

"Yes, your honor. My client has no one in the world. As I was saying, he was reporting to a new home for the first time. At the time my client arrived, Mr. Morgan was trying to gain unauthorized entry into the home. Allegedly to visit some female resident inside that he has some kind of relationship with. He demanded that my client let him inside. Not knowing the rules, my client refused. Mr. Morgan subsequently began physically threatening my client and that's when the altercation ensued."

"Mr. Prosecutor?" The judge asked as he turned to the other side of his bench, looking more for contradiction than corroboration.

"The cause of the altercation is still under investigation, your honor. But what is clear right now . . ."

"Wait. So this was really just a random encounter?" The judge now turning back to Jester's lawyer. "Your client had no idea who he was getting involved with?"

With that question posed, Jester's lawyer looked at him, along with every curious eye in the courtroom. Jester, noticing all eyes on him, only shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"Sounds like Mr. Morgan got a taste of his own medicine, for a change. Mr. Prosecutor, is this really the crime of the century? I mean, it was a street fight." The judge asked.

"Well, there's the matter of the assault on the police officer, judge."

"Right. Well, Lieutenant Rose, what have you to say about this defendant?"

"Your honor, I can't stress enough how I feel this defendant is an extremely dangerous individual. I'm not shedding any tears for Tyshiek Morgan but this kid . . ."

"Lieutenant, didn't you say he stopped himself from assaulting you?"

"That's not the point, judge. My point is he's very quick to violence. Look at how he went after the court officer."

"Yes, I saw that." The judge said looking back at his computer. Then to Jester, "young man there's an awful lot of violence on your record. It doesn't look like you've done any permanent damage to anybody yet, but it's only a matter of time with the way you're going."

Jester's lawyer started . . . "Your honor, I want to add that my client has also been a victim of abuse on numerous occasions."

". . . Oh, here we go", said the judge as he threw up his hands.

"Your honor, he was abandoned as an infant, found outside of Lincoln hospital. It's quite conceivable . . ."

. . . Jester had stopped listening – for some time. Just seconds ago when everyone thought he shrugged his shoulders to indicate he didn't know who Tyshiek Morgan was before he put the man in the hospital, it was actually not. Although that was true. But what Jester really didn't know, was what the question was in the first place.

The people in the room had morphed into faceless, featureless, silhouettes. Their words had become meaningless, indiscernible, chirping sounds. All he was aware of was the slow passage of time and how much slower it had gotten since he'd been in this room. Were they going to lock him up now? What were they waiting for?

Jester had been in this very court house yesterday, fully on his own power. Nobody had to cuff him or drag him in against his will. And he had planned on coming back tomorrow, again of his own volition. He was visiting the Civil part. That was where he needed to file the paperwork to legally change his name. He had to wait until he was eighteen and for the last year he'd had the paperwork already filled out. He only needed to hand it in and pay the fee. However yesterday, they refused him because the date on his birth certificate said his eighteenth birthday was tomorrow, even though Jester knew that wasn't true.

His real birthday was unknown. They made his official date of birth the date he was found abandoned, but he was told he was at least three months old then. So he must have been eighteen for at least three months already. He came two days early because he figured if he could change his name, why not his date of birth? He almost made a scene when they told him he still had to wait. He'd been waiting for eighteen years. Waiting with the knowledge that the mother, whoever she was, who burned him and then chose to dump him in someone else's yard like old furniture, still got to name him – and named him a clown.

As the faces came into view again, Jester saw a new one. A short, muscular Latino face that was now standing in the well speaking to the judge. The face of a man Jester had spent a lot of time with the last few weeks. He was Sergeant Major Anthony Burgos. Burgos wore a uniform but it wasn't NYPD, or the Unified Court System. It was of the U.S. Army. The last face Jester ever expected to see here. The cop, Rose, was looking at Burgos in exasperation as he spoke. Whatever he was saying, it was clear Rose was afraid the judge was listening.

" . . . and I can give you my assurance the Army will take full responsibility for Mr. Masterson. As I said, he's not a bad kid . . ." Burgos was saying.

"Your honor!" Rose cut in curtly, "with all due respect to Sergeant Burgos here, I've been on the police force for seventeen years, whenever I've witnessed someone display the kind of savagery that kid displayed – it only got worse. Never better. Only worse."

The judge sat silently for a minute, looking back and forth between Jester and Rose, Jester and Rose. "Lieutenant, you really don't appear to be seriously injured. I mean . . . come on. I can't help but feel there's some kind of vindictiveness going on here."

"Your Honor . . ."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you. Please step back now." The judge said and then waited for Rose to back off. Then he turned to Jester, "Mr. Masterson, it almost escaped me that tomorrow you'll be turning eighteen."

"I am eighteen."

"What . . . oh never mind. Are you prepared to go with Sergeant Major Burgos, here?"

"Excuse me? Go with him? For what?!" Jester snarled.

"To join the army."

"No! I never said I'd join no damn Army. He took me to take some tests for some, stupid-ass flight training to be a pilot or whatever, but that was all I said I was doing."

"Uh, yes . . . and he just said that you passed those tests, handily, as a matter of fact, and you've been accepted into the program."

"No fucking way?!"

"Hey! You don't use that language in my courtroom!"

"Sorry."

"That's better. Now, in light of this, and in light of the nature of the so-called 'victim' in this case, and in light of the fact that this was a random street fight in which Mr. Morgan had every chance, and I'm sure, intent, to inflict the same damage on you as you did on him, I'm prepared to drop all of the charges against you but only if you agree to sign up. You can't do it today because you're not eighteen yet but tomorrow morning, you sign. Do you agree?"

Jester looked at Burgos, then around the courtroom, then at Rose. "Ok."

"Good then. Now tomorrow, Sergeant Burgos calls me and tells me you're not where you're supposed to be – thirty seconds later a bench warrant goes out and you'll be right back here with the charges fully reinstated. You understand?"

"Yes."

"Sergeant Burgos, I strongly suggest Mr. Masterson not go back to that group home. Morgan has friends."

"Yes, your honor. We'll make arrangements for him to spend the night somewhere else."

* * *

Monroe almost jumped out of his skin as the previously unseen, pigeon flew off just as he was passing. The sound of its frantically flapping wings stopping him dead in his tracks and sending his heart into his throat. He must have scared it as he turned the corner. It scared him right back. After taking several deep breaths to collect himself, he continued down the street, never keeping his eyes in any one spot for more than a few seconds and even checking behind him several times. It was dusk. The end of a very hot, muggy, New York City, summer day. He had spent much of that day driving into the city, traveling south and only entering the Bronx about fifteen minutes ago. Had parked his pickup only two minutes ago.

He didn't have far to walk, just as he turned the corner the building came into view. The main entrance to North Central Bronx Hospital had automatic glass doors that swung open the second Monroe approached them. He entered the building amidst several other people both coming in and out. Eyes still shifting, he approached the information desk. As he did, a man suddenly ran up to him, Monroe jumped back a step and stared at him.

"Oh I'm sorry, were you here first?" The man said to him. It turned out he was only approaching the information desk, himself.

"No, it's alright, go ahead." Monroe told him.

A few minutes later, when he reached the clerk at the desk he was given directions to the Women's Health ward. After receiving a visitor's tag, he took the elevator up to the fifth floor as he was directed.

Mattie was the first thing he saw as the elevators doors opened. He let out a huge sigh of relief as he ran up and hugged her. His wife hugged him back. Their embrace lasted several minutes and the sheer passion of it attracted the attention of everyone on the floor who saw them. It was as if they hadn't seen each other in an eternity and never expected to again.

"Are you alright, baby?" He asked her as he briefly let go of the embrace to face her.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Really." She replied.

The hug continued for another few minutes until Monroe let her go and for the first time since seeing her, noticed his surroundings. Mattie had been sitting in a large, public, waiting area in the center of the floor. The actual wards where the patients were, branched out from there. Mattie seemed to have been waiting there for some time. She was not admitted, even though she had been there for three days. She was wearing the same clothes as she was when they separated.

He looked up and down at her, smiling, "wow, you're really alright!"

"It wasn't as bad as it looked. They took really good care of me."

Noticing the spectacle they had made, Monroe looked over to the Nurse's station. Several nurses and other hospital staff were watching them, smiling. Holding Mattie's hand and gently pulling her with him he walked up to the station and held out his hand to the first person he reached, a woman sitting at the desk.

"Hi, I'm Mattie's husband, Monroe Hudson. Thank you for taking care of my wife."

She took his hand and then Monroe went all around to the five people in the area. Also shaking their hands and thanking them in kind. Such an outlay of gratitude wasn't an everyday occurrence for the staff. They took to it well. It brought good spirits to everyone on the floor.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in an office on the floor having a meeting with Mattie's GYN surgeon, Dr. Thomas.

". . . your wife had something called an 'abscess' in her vaginal area. It's a buildup of pus underneath the skin. It got a little infected. We performed a very simple, procedure to drain the abscess under local anesthesia and prescribed an antibiotic for the infection. That's pretty much it. Not a huge medical problem. She's absolutely fine." Dr. Thomas said.

"My God", Monroe said. "When she left she was in so much pain. She could barely walk, she had a fever and she was screaming. I didn't know if I would even see her again. "

"Well, some abscesses can cause quite a bit of pain. Where it was located is why she had trouble walking. And the infection caused the fever. I can understand how it would appear more serious than it was. It might've been a problem if she didn't get help in time but she did. We actually released her from the ward two days ago. The rest of the time she was waiting for you."

"Thank you, Doctor. So much. We'll never forget what you've done for us." Monroe said as he reached both of his hands out and shook his.

Monroe and Mattie started to leave the office. Their arms still wrapped around each other.

"Excuse me, umm . . ." Doctor Thomas said. He was no longer able to resist the urge to ask the question that had been on his and everyone else's mind on the floor since Monroe came in. "I'm sorry to ask but, you seem to love your wife very much. How is it that you let her come here on her own, all alone and wait for three days?"

Monroe and Mattie looked at each other. Their smiles finally fading. Mattie put out her hand to Thomas, "thanks again, Doctor." The smiles returned.

"Oh . . . ok." Thomas shook her hand again, "well, remember we talked about you visiting the administration office before you leave?"

"What? What's that?" Monroe asked.

"Well, your wife said she wasn't sure if you had health insurance. She said you would take care of it when you got here."

"Oh, you mean we have to pay. Of course." Monroe said as he reached for his wallet.

"Well, no. That's not my area, Mr. Monroe, but you can take care of that in the administration office. It's on the first floor."

"Sure." Monroe said, and put his wallet away. Yet again he reached out his hand to shake. Thomas took it. Monroe and Mattie left the office, still smiling.

Hours later, Dr. Thomas was called to the Emergency Room. On his way he passed the ER's waiting area. This area was never empty and during business hours it was often standing room only. However, even in the overnight hours there was always a small crowd of people. Tonight, there were at least a dozen. A wall mounted television that was always tuned to the twenty-four hour news station served as entertainment. Thomas was in the third year of his residency. After running through so many patients faces in his three years, he hardly took notice of the anonymous ones in the ER anymore. However tonight, two of those faces immediately jumped out at him.

Mattie and Monroe Hudson were sitting at the back of the waiting room, holding hands, Mattie's head on Monroe's shoulder. Their faces, far from smiles now. Each had a look of apprehension, worry. Whatever it was, Thomas knew it didn't have anything to do with Mrs Hudson's hospital bill. He had checked with the administration office. Monroe used his credit card to pay their over four thousand dollar bill in full. So he wondered why they were still at the hospital.

Monroe couldn't stop looking all around the room and he caught Thomas almost immediately as he started to approach them. He motioned to Mattie and she looked up at him too, sharp, fast. As if an explosion just went off in front of her. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.

"Hey," he greeted, concerned. "Is something else wrong?"

Monroe looked up at him, "no, Doctor. We're fine, thanks."

"Well, why are you still here?"

"Just . . . waiting."

"You're waiting to see a doctor?"

"No."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Monroe didn't want to answer but didn't want to be rude, "just morning".

"Morning?" Thomas asked and then couldn't help but frown. He could tell he was prying and that was the last thing he wanted to do. No matter how weird these people were, he still felt sympathy for them – and a little gratitude for their brightening up the ward earlier.

"Well, I can offer you a better place to wait. It's cleaner, quieter, more private. I'm sure you'd be more comfortable."

"That's ok, Doctor. We like it here." Mattie said, looking at him but not lifting her head from Monroe's shoulder. "Is it ok if we stay?

"Sure, but, well . . ."

"Hey, you seemed to be on your way somewhere when you saw us. Please don't let us keep you." Monroe said.

With a sigh, Thomas walked away from them and proceeded to the ER to see about his call. He couldn't help but to look back at them as he started going through the door. Mattie's head was down again. He heard her muffled sobs.

### Chapter 3

". . . did the AG really order us out?!" Said an upset, Agent Leslie Gomes as he stormed into the command trailer after having previously been out on assignment. Obviously he had just heard the news. Although he could've gotten his answer from anyone, he trotted directly over to Prisko's station. All but standing over him.

Prisko didn't look up from his monitor. Not ignoring Gomes, but was reviewing the logistics he was just given. It had been a little over an hour since the press conference. Just enough time for him to meet with all the other agency commanders, get their deployment positions and their exit timetables. He now knew what he wanted to do next and he wasn't going to be distracted.

"Did he really do that?" Gomes asked again, this time leaning down closer to Prisko.

Again, not looking up, "he said 'unless you have clear and convincing evidence that a crime was committed here, you're to refocus the investigation into other areas.' His exact words." Prisko replied.

"That's bullshit!" Gomes snapped as he picked up a clipboard on Prisko's desk and threw it across the trailer. He was a ten year bureau veteran in his early forties. Like everyone from the Albany branch, he knew all five of the missing agents personally and he was known for wearing his heart on his sleeve. Prisko glanced over to his second in command.

"Sit down, Leslie", Nguyen snapped. Choosing to overlook the rest of Gomes outburst. Mostly because everyone in the room agreed with him.

"What did Burdick say about Bennington?" Nguyen asked Prisko after watching Gomes take a seat.

"Nothing we don't know." Prisko replied.

"Well, I found out he lived in Tehran for five years, until 2002. He built up a lot of assets there working with the Iranian, state-owned, oil company. But he left suddenly."

This time Prisko looked up, "what do you mean, 'suddenly'?"

"I mean overnight."

Prisko thought about that for a few seconds, "did he have some kind of falling out with someone?"

"That's not clear but he definitely got out fast. And get this, all of his assets left with him. The same night." Nguyen said.

"What does that mean?"

"He left with a check from the Iranian government for a little over half a billion dollars."

"The Iranians liquidated all of his assets, overnight?" Prisko asked, incredulous.

"It looks like. I saw an electronic copy of the check he deposited into his U.S. account, myself. It was signed by the Iranian Minister of Finance."

"Why would they do that?" Asked Prisko.

"I don't know, boss."

"How was he even doing business in Iran?" Agent Henson cut in, "U.S. sanctions went into effect in 1995. All American businesses were supposed to be banned from operating there. So how was he still there in 2002?"

"His company received a special exemption from the State Department." Nguyen answered.

"Why?"

"I don't know that, either."

"How much is Bennington worth, exactly?" Asked Gomes.

"He owns an international oil services company", Nguyen started. "Not a big one but when you're in oil, you don't need a big company to make a shitload of money. His U.S. bank accounts that we know about total over ten billion. Cash."

"He has ten billion dollars in cash? Wouldn't that put him in, like, Forbes or Fortune or one of those? How come I never heard of him before this?"

"He's one of those 'under the radar' billionaires. The kind that don't like attention. Some say people like him pay publications to not list them. You won't find him on anyone's rich list." Said Nguyen.

"Plus, we know he has other accounts in Switzerland, Bermuda, and other money laundering-type countries that we can't look into. How much he has in those? God knows." Henson added.

"Well, I don't give a shit how much money he has. Who the fuck is Bennington to get the AG to sell out our people?!" Said Gomes.

". . . that's not productive", Prisko said as he looked up at Gomes first, then at the entire group. "Look, it doesn't matter what deal anybody made. We get evidence, any evidence, that something happened to our people right here, in Cole, it'll blow whatever deal whoever made with who, out of the damn water. That's what we need to focus on."

"Well, without any physical evidence, the best we can do is get someone to talk." Nguyen said, taking his boss's cue to get back to business.

"No one's talking!" Gomes said, frustrated. "436 residents. 102 different families. Man, woman, child, we've interviewed the whole damn town. We asked nice, we asked hard. They all say the same thing. They never saw our people."

"Did we miss anyone?"

"Bennington." Henson said.

". . . besides Bennington."

"Except for him, every town resident that we have a record of is present, accounted for, and available."

"More than that, they're all too available. Nobody's left the town since we got here. Some haven't even left their homes. And we know some of them have work outside of Cole."

"Not that it matters. None of these people really need to work, anyway. With a little more infrastructure, this place could be the Hamptons or Martha's Vineyard. Everyone lives in newly built, multi-million dollar homes, drive late model, high end vehicles and have six or seven figure bank accounts." Said Henson.

"But most of them don't have six and seven figure occupations. I mean, there's a few lawyers, engineers, software developers but other than that, you got plumbers, carpenters, auto mechanics, even career clerks. No entrepreneurs. Bennington owns all the local businesses." Said Gomes.

"All of the residents are either employees of Bennington, former employees of Bennington, or related to them. They're all on his payroll somehow."

"Ok, fine, but why wouldn't any of them leave?"

"Because of us", said Nguyen, and then waited for all eyes in the trailer to turn to him. "They've all been ordered to stay in place while we're in town."

"Why order everybody to stay put?" Asked Henson.

"In case we need them", Prisko said. "Given my phone conversations with Tulley and how aggressive he was, when I made the decision to come here in force, I was afraid we just might end up in a standoff situation like they had with those Montana Freeman or the Branch Davidians in Texas some time back. That we'd face massive armed resistance and have to dig in, surround the town, and either wait them out for weeks, or possibly even having it end in a tragedy, a huge shootout, or something.

"But they didn't do that", Prisko continued. "In fact, what they've done is the complete opposite. They're giving us their fullest cooperation. They've all freely given interviews. Didn't mind being recorded, didn't mind being polygraphed, didn't mind being called back for multiple follow-ups. They've all consented to let us search their homes. Didn't mind if we called on them at off hours, didn't mind us coming back for follow-up searches. And all of them have this extra nice and helpful demeanor. They all show concern for the agents. They all say they wish they could do more. And except for Tulley, not one, single, complaint about us being here. Armed resistance? They're not resisting at all."

"They want us gone." Nguyen said.

"Exactly. And unlike those other groups, they're not idiots. They're not going to get into a standoff with law enforcement. They know the best way to get the authorities out of your face is to cooperate with them."

"If that's what they're doing, then why isn't Bennington here?"

"He's the one guy who doesn't need to be. Every resident swears he's been out of town since before our agents even arrived. And we can't prove otherwise." Said Nguyen.

Prisko sat up in his chair, rubbing his chin, resting his elbows on his knees and letting out a long breath. They were now in an area he had tried to avoid in every case he ever worked. Speculation and imagination were invaluable tools to any detective. Taking in a crime, like murder, then imagining the crime, the victim, what happened to them, how it happened, and why. Speculating on those answers often led to who. Yet there should always be evidence in which to base that speculation. Here there was none. This was blind speculation. As a Supervisor, Prisko had always forbid his subordinates from engaging in it, even casually. It wasn't an invaluable tool, it was a double-edged sword. A detective could get too entrenched in his or her theory from blind speculation, and overlook anything that didn't fit into it. Yet it was all they had left.

"The agents called in as soon as they reached town and less than fifteen minutes after that call, their satellite phone stopped transmitting. So whatever happened, happened fast." Prisko said. "How many people would it take to overpower five armed agents in less than fifteen minutes?"

"Well if they had something like an automatic weapon, just one guy could do that it in less than a minute, boss." Said Gomes.

"Scratch that." Nguyen said. "Another extremely weird thing about this town, in all of our searches, we haven't found a single, solitary, firearm of any kind, anywhere. Except for the sheriff and deputy. Those are the only two people in Cole who are armed, and then, only with lone, standard, revolvers, each. If you think about per capita gun ownership in the United States, especially in rural areas like this, for there not to be one . . ."

". . . that can't be by accident." Prisko said.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean they didn't have automatic weapons and got rid of them after they took out our guys." Gomes argued.

"They could only do that so fast, if they knew the agents were coming and were waiting to ambush them. But nobody knew they were coming . . ."

"Wait . . . what about Burdick? He could've tipped them off", Nguyen said.

"No. Burdick's a piece of shit but I'm pretty sure he wanted to surprise Bennington. I think he was using us to intimidate Bennington into getting back in touch with him. That's why he originally requested ten agents – a show of force. He wouldn't have tipped them off."

"So you think the town didn't know they were coming?"

"They didn't. So our guys get here, it would've taken the perps time to figure out there were unwanted agents in town, then go retrieve their automatic rifle – if that's what they used – and then open fire on them. But by then the agents would've dispersed. They would've gotten out of their cars, taken note of their surroundings and started their investigation. They wouldn't have been in a tight group so easily taken out quickly. At least a couple of them would've had time to duck for cover, draw their own weapons, and return fire. And we would've found evidence of that shootout. They can't hide that. Even if they cleaned up all the casings and the bullets, there would've been high speed, blood splatters, bullet holes or nicks in the buildings and trees, or even if they made repairs, we would spot the repairs. Yet there's no evidence of any shootout of any kind. But let's say there was a shootout that took out all five agents . . . in less than fifteen minutes? Including the time it would've taken the perps to get the satellite phone and disable it."

"So they didn't use guns?"

"No way. So how many people would it take to overpower five armed agents in less than fifteen minutes, without guns?"

"Quite a few."

"Right. More than five, probably more than ten. Yet after interviewing everyone, nobody is talking or even raising a flag with us. That's a statistical impossibility. Conventional wisdom tells us that no three people can keep a secret. Especially when confronted under skilled police interrogation. Maybe two people can both keep their mouths shut if they're both hardened criminals experienced with being on the hot seat in front of seasoned cops – but these people have no criminal records. Even if we couldn't get any of them to outright confess, it's guaranteed one or two would've raised a flag with us that they knew more than they were saying. Either out of guilt or out of fear that someone else would talk first. But that's not happening here." Said Prisko.

"Are you saying you think none of them are involved?"

"I think all of them are involved," Prisko said. "I think all of them know what happened and I think all of them are completely assured that none of them will talk."

"What about the guilt?"

"That's being trumped by something else."

"But you were just saying somebody should've talked."

"We've seen the dynamic in urban areas where a local crime lord, a drug kingpin or mob boss, or whatever, can exert control over an entire neighborhood through intimidation. Everyone in that neighborhood knows not to cooperate with the police. Ever. Under penalty of death. Now throw into that the additional dynamic that everyone in that neighborhood is also financially dependent on that crime lord. And that crime lord has them all living far above their means."

Silence filled the trailer for the next minutes as the group pondered over Prisko's theory. He had hoped to inspire them to come up with their own ideas to generate new leads but he could see that he had effectively shut them down. It was another hazard of blind speculation. Sometimes it led to a black hole.

"We need a rift", Prisko said. "A breaking of the bond. We're looking for non-conformity. We need to hone in on someone in this town whose behavior is not entirely in sync with the rest of the group. That will be our flag. So we're going to go over all the interviews, all the statements. Then we're going to do more interviews. We're going to review all of the surveillance tapes and double-down on tracking the movements of every resident since we came to town."

"Are we doing all of this back in Albany?"

"No. We're doing it right here."

"What about the order to vacate?"

"That's my problem."

"You're going to disobey an order from the Attorney General?" Asked Nguyen. Prisko answered him with a stern look. "Ok." Nguyen said.

"Even if they get me out", Prisko said, "they wont keep me out."

* * *

Forty minutes after making his fateful choice, Jester was rubbing his wrists after the handcuffs had been taken off. Removed by the same court officer who had been in charge of him since he arrived from Central Booking – the one he threw over the railing in the courtroom. The officer took the cuffs and walked around Jester to stare at him face to face.

"What!" Jester barked, standing his ground.

Sergeant Burgos, who was in the room, quickly walked around the officer and pulled Jester away. "Excuse us", he said to the officer as he grabbed Jester by the shoulders, forcefully pulling him out of the room and subsequently down the hall.

"What the hell is the matter with you? You gotta fight every-fuckin' body? You just got the break of your life and you trying to fuck it up?"

"Yo, he stepped to me." Jester replied, defensive.

"I don't give a shit. There's no rule that says you got to throw down with everyone that challenges you."

"That's not what it's about."

"Then what's it about?"

Jester thought about answering. He knew exactly the reason but also knew he would never be able to explain it. He let out a breath.

"We need to get out of here. Now." Burgos said after realizing Jester wasn't going to answer.

The courthouse hall wasn't altogether crowded but was still well occupied. As in most, save for staff, this was where all the people who were not in front of the judge right that moment, congregated. It wasn't impossible to walk a straight line through the people present but it was difficult. So avoiding the difficulty, Burgos zigzagged down the hall and turned right to the elevator bank, thinking his troubled but lucky recruit was right behind him. It was only when he got to the bank did he realize Jester wasn't.

He threw up his arms in wonder. The elevator bank was in the center of the building from which all publicly accessible entrances led from, and all exits led to. There were the elevators and a set of staircases next to the elevators. It was the only way out of the building. After just getting released, he thought Jester would've beaten him here and already been down the stairs and halfway out the door by now, not lingering behind.

He made the left around the corner he just came from and saw Jester peering at a direction sign on the wall. As he approached him, Jester then started heading toward the bank.

"I have to go there." Jester said, pointing to the wall as he passed Burgos.

"What? Where?!" Burgos asked and then looked at the wall. It read, 'Civil Part' and listed another section of the building. "Are you serious?!"

Jester didn't answer as he turned the corner. Burgos ran to catch up to him. He caught him in the elevator going down.

"Why do you have to go to the civil court? You suing somebody?" Burgos asked in a low voice. The elevator was full.

Jester glanced over at him, "just something I gotta do."

"What?"

"Just give me a minute."

"I'm just asking . . ."Just then, the doors opened on the first floor.

* * *

Lieutenant London Rose had essentially caught a local elevator down. Being that it's occupants beside him had pressed every floor between his and the ground. It bothered him because he had stormed out of the courtroom in frustration after the judge had completely disregarded him. When you're in a mood to storm off, you hate being slowed down by the elevator.

Still he didn't blame his frustration on the judge. He had thought about it all morning. Just what was he going to say to make him understand? There were no answers. He couldn't explain the look. What he saw in Masterson's eyes that night – the look that he had only seen once before.

Rose remembered the last time. In a Brooklyn bodega, in the eyes of another young man. Next to that young man were three bodies, a man, a woman, a child. Three corpses that young man, in that bodega had just created. That look in his eyes, what it meant, there was no conveying that. Still he had to try, for his own peace of mind. And he had to try still.

The elevator bank had four elevators, two on each side. The doors opened parallel to each other so that whenever two cars were on the same floor, they lined up and the doors opened directly opposite the car on the other side. As the doors opened on Jester and Burgos's car, they opened to the car opposite them, the one Rose was in.

Oblivious, Jester flew out of the bank and off towards the other wing of the building, dashing ahead of the crowd. Rose eyed him and watched as he disappeared around the corner. Then he turned to Burgos. They made eye contact. Burgos acknowledged him with some alarm before starting to follow Jester.

"I want to talk to you." Rose said as he put his hand in front of Burgos's path.

"Yeah, sure." Burgos replied but he was caught between wanting to stop and also wanting to catch up to Jester. He took a couple of steps before running into Rose's hand.

Rose, stern, "I said I want to talk to you."

"Look, I'm not trying to start any trouble with you, officer . . ."

"Lieutenant." Rose corrected him.

"Lieutenant."

"Whatever the army's got planned for that kid, you need to take it back. It's gonna end up bad for you and probably for a lot of other people."

"What? Lieutenant, seriously. I hear you but . . ."

"No! You're not hearing me. You're making a mistake."

"The Army's got a lot of history turning around troubled kids . . ."

"Troubled? You think he's just 'troubled'?"

"You have some kind of personal history with Jester or something?" Burgos asked, perplexed. He didn't know what this was about with Rose, but it seemed far from normal and was making him uncomfortable.

"I just . . . I know the type, Sergeant."

"Look, with all due respect, lieutenant. The judge heard you and he made his decision." Burgos said and made a move to step around Rose, who was blocking his path.

Rose, making the same move to stay in front of him, "I'm telling you, you have to take it back!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Burgos snapped and this time more forcefully stepping around Rose.

Starting to cause a scene, Burgos had managed to get around him until Rose grabbed his arm around the bicep and threw him back behind him.

However he would've reacted under normal circumstances, Burgos would never know. Because whatever feeling of shock, violation, anger, or something else he might have felt that he didn't have time to recognize, all went immediately away once he saw Jester turn back around the corner looking for him. He knew Jester saw the shove. He knew Jester recognized Rose. He also knew Rose didn't see Jester.

Rose took a defensive position as Burgos sprung towards him, but it was unneeded. Burgos wasn't going for him. Maybe if he had moved a little faster, Burgos could've prevented contact altogether. Instead, he was only in time enough to stop Jester from connecting a full-on swing to the back of Rose's head. Instead of possible brain damage, considering the severity of the swing, Rose was only knocked off his feet from the momentum. Burgos held Jester back from charging further.

On his butt, Rose looked up at Jester. Suddenly realizing the position he was in, he immediately jumped back to his feet. Fearing that Burgos wouldn't be enough to keep Jester back, he reached for his gun – and didn't find it. He forgot he was in a courthouse. Nobody carried guns in a courthouse except court officers. "Nobody' included cops. He took a couple of steps back.

"Fuck you, you punk, ass cop!" Jester yelled. "Come on!"

Burgos, trying to calm him down, "It's cool, man. It's cool. Calm down."

By this time, it had turned into a complete spectacle. A crowd had gathered around the three of them that was closing in and getting larger. A slew of court officers soon entered the scene, pushing their way through the crowd. Given the optics of the situation . . . young, black, male, trying to charge at a white, uniformed, police lieutenant, it was only natural that they threw Jester to the ground and restrained him. On his stomach, with his arms pinned behind his back, Jester cursed, screamed, and struggled as they held onto him.

"Wait! Wait!" Burgos screamed at the officers. He knelt down next to Jester and gestured with his hand for the officers to halt. "He was just released. He was just released! We're leaving. We're leaving!" Burgos pleaded.

One of the court officers walked up. He was not in on Jester's restraining, but looked to be in charge.

"What's this about?" He said.

"Just . . . a misunderstanding, sir. He was just released. We're leaving right now."

"He just assaulted this officer." The court officer said, pointing to Rose.

"No, no, that was me. Me! I hit the officer by accident." Burgos said and then looked back at Rose, "sorry, Lieutenant".

Burgos wasn't lying. It was actually him who had made contact with Rose. In holding Jester back, he was pushed into Rose and that's why he fell. Technically, Jester never touched him. The court officer looked at Rose.

"The judge just released him", Burgos said and then pointed at Rose, "right?"

After a few tense seconds, Rose let out a sigh, "that's right."

"And I hit you, not him, right?"

Rose nodded.

"See, that's what happened! Me and him are leaving now," Burgos stood. "We're all good. We're good. Can you let him get up, please."

As if seeking approval, the head court officer looked over at Rose. Well, he didn't object.

"Alright let him up."

The court officers pulled Jester to his feet and released him.

"So you have no other business in this courthouse today, correct?" The officer asked Burgos.

"No, sir. No, we're leaving right now."

"Please do."

The officer stepped to the side as if revealing the path to the exit. Burgos took Jester by the wrist and tugged him, "come on."

Jester walked with him to the end of the elevator bank. The exit was opposite the corner they had turned that Jester had been heading for. He stopped as he reached the corner and looked longingly in that direction.

Burgos, who had taken a few steps to the exit, "Jester! We have to go now."

Jester, pained, flinched his head and joined Burgos, headed to the exit.

### Chapter 4

Twenty minutes after leaving the Bronx Supreme Court, they were in Burgos's minivan driving down the Bronx's Grand Concourse. On their way to Jester's group home to pick up his things. Burgos had wanted to take him straight to the recruiting office to get his enlistment paperwork signed but Jester refused and insisted he wouldn't do it until tomorrow afternoon, providing no explanation. Aside from that, there was a lot of dialogue between the courthouse and here, but little exchange. Burgos had done most of the talking.

"I'm gonna drop you off. I want you to get packed and meet me back downstairs in fifteen minutes." Burgos said.

"It won't take that long. I never unpacked. I just gotta grab my bag. But where am I supposed to go?"

"I'm gonna put you up at my place tonight. Tomorrow, after we get you signed, I'm gonna find you a room or a hotel or something for you to wait it out until you report."

"Yo, not that I mind leaving that place but I ain't running from nobody."

"You ain't running. You're staying the night at my place until I can find you a room or a hotel or something for you to wait it out until you report."

"What kind of place you got?"

"You will sleep on the couch. I have a wife and two daughters and while you're there, you will maintain the utmost respect for them, is that clear?"

"I don't have a problem with that, yo."

"And if I catch you in my daughter's rooms, you won't have to worry about Morgan's crew, I'll kill you myself."

With his eyes still on the road, Burgos heard Jester snicker. Surprising him. It might have been the first time the young man had ever displayed evidence of having a sense of humor. He glanced over at Jester, who never took his gaze from the changing scenery of the passenger window. He appeared calm but for him, appearance was the closest he could get. There was too much rage in his heart. Too much looking ahead for the next fight, too much looking back at the previous ones, and too little time in between, for him to achieve any real calm. At least, not without enough time removed from such drama.

In his ten years as an Army recruiter in the inner city, Burgos had met plenty of young men full of anger. Some were from broken homes, some from abusive backgrounds, some from neglect, some all or any combination of. But none from a background quite to the degree of the young man who sat next to him right now. When they met at his then high school some three months earlier, he asked the boy what he asked every potential recruit, just to tell him a little bit about himself. He had never heard an answer like the one he got from Jester. In fact, his answer so shocked Burgos, he was sure the kid would fail the psychiatric evaluation and so, brushed him off as a bust. But later when he looked at the record, he realized Jester's answer was not only sane, it was accurate.

He said he was born in fire.

As an infant, Jester Masterson had been found with 3rd degree burns on over 30% of his body. He was abandoned on the doorstep of a Bronx firehouse with nothing but a blanket and a note that had his name attached. Ironically, simply being abandoned in New York City would not and did not make it enough of a story for the media to catch on. But it was his injuries, specifically, that had made Jester the most famous baby in New York City. Burgos vaguely remembered the story from his high school days. They called him 'Fire Boy'.

At issue with the discovery of fire boy was New York State's 'Safe Haven' law. The law that allowed mothers or other individuals to leave a child in the hands of a responsible care-giver and walk away with no questions asked. That law would have normally precluded any investigation into who it was that left him, or why. Yet clearly the child had been harmed. So as the cops made the decision to pursue the person or persons responsible, his case had become controversial.

The law's advocates demanded the investigation cease immediately else other mothers would feel like they would be persecuted if they did the same thing and might resort to discarding their babies. Which was the whole point of the law. But other child's rights advocates demanded the mother/perpetrator be found because no one should ever get away with harming a child.

They never found whoever left him or an answer to why and how he got burned. The controversy eventually died down. Once the media got it's fill of that hunger, it took Jester six weeks in the hospital to heal up. Then he was put in the system.

It turned out those burns were only the start of a lifetime of abuse. His first foster mother and her boyfriend were convicted of assaulting him when he was just three years old. The boyfriend had beaten Jester into a coma and he almost died. He recovered and was put back in the system. Then he spent time in two other foster homes where he was further abused by older foster kids. By the time he was twelve he'd become well acquainted with hospital emergency rooms. Through those years and on separate incidents he'd suffered injuries like a broken arm, two broken ribs – he had been walking around with those for at least a week before someone thought to take him to a doctor – cuts that he received stitches for, and even a severe concussion once. There were many other, less severe injuries as well.

But also by his twelfth year, something else happened to Jester . . . he had gotten big enough to defend himself. From then on instead of visiting emergency rooms, he visited court rooms. His first juvenile case at twelve was for an assault on two sixteen year olds. Though that case was dismissed, two years later at fourteen, he did serve time in a boys correctional facility for an aggravated assault on a 20 year old. It was a common street fight but Jester knocked his opponent unconscious. He did the same to one of the adult guards at that correctional facility and that got his stay extended and him placed in isolation for the duration of his sentence.

At fifteen, Jester threw his then foster father out the window of his apartment. Luckily, they lived on the first floor. No case was filed because the father was drunk when it happened. Less than a year later Jester went to another correctional facility for another assault, the victim he assaulted then was later convicted of murder. There had been plenty other scuffles in between but since the first confrontation that landed him in juvenile court when he was twelve, Jester had never visited another emergency room again.

"What happens . . .", Jester started.

Burgos waited a few seconds for him to finish but then realized he wasn't going to, "what happens with what?"

"People who die in the army with no family?"

"That's easy, you get a military burial with full honors. But even before you die, we become your family. And you become ours."

"I know people in the military don't go to regular prison, they go to like, a military prison, right?"

"Uhh, yeah. They do. Why?"

"The guys who die there with no family, what happens to them?"

Burgos thought for a few seconds, "I don't really know the answer to that. And I definitely don't like the question. That's the wrong thing for you to focus on."

Jester resumed his gaze out of the window.

"Listen, we get you signed up, get you out of the city, all of this drama is behind you." Burgos said.

He saw that Jester had disengaged. He didn't know if he was still listening but he knew he wouldn't reply anymore. In the short time he'd known this kid, he had picked up that when Jester didn't want to talk, he didn't talk. He wondered what goes through the young man's mind as he often sat silent staring at nothing in particular. Then he thought of Lieutenant Rose, what he said.

The group home was a two-family house in the Tremont section of the Bronx on the corner of Jerome Avenue and 181st Street. Overhead ran the elevated Number 4 subway line. It was one of the few actual houses in the neighborhood. Most of the real estate there were larger, four to six story, tenements. There were no traditional 'project' like residential buildings in the area but the neighborhood had one of the lowest income levels in the country so there might as well have been. Though the block the group home was on was flat, the area itself was hilly and there were stair streets that often connected blocks located at different elevations.

A New York City summer meant schools were out. There were always many people on the street at any given time. Since the Cross Bronx Expressway cut through the area, there was also a lot of vehicle traffic on their way to and from the expressway. The streets were noisy and at this hour, the middle of the day, the noise, the traffic, auto and pedestrian, would be at their peak.

Jester had a nomadic lifestyle, changing residences on average once a year since he hit his teens. He never had a chance to get acclimated with this particular neighborhood. Having only been at the home less than a day before he was arrested. As a matter of fact, he didn't recognize anything in the area at all until Burgos entered the block. As soon as they did, he tensed up. His eyes scanning the block like a hawk. Burgos watched him.

"It's gonna be alright." Burgos said.

Jester didn't reply but looked back at him for a second and then the street again. Not ignoring him but disregarding him. Tyshiek Morgan might've still been in the hospital but, since he had been told Morgan was the local drug kingpin, Jester knew he would have a crew. His crew would probably know by now that he had been released. And if they knew he had been released then they would also know that at some point he would have to return to the group home. They would probably also guess that he would be likely to leave the home for good. Which meant if they were coming for him, they'd have to come now. In Jesters' mind, 'they' were always coming for him.

"They're not gonna come after you in broad daylight."

Jester sighed, "Whatever. I'm gonna jump out and run into the house as soon as you pull up. I'm gonna grab my bag then come out and jump in the back seat. Then you pull of fast, ok?"

"Jester . . ."

"Can you just do this for me?"

"Alright, fine. But you can't take this paranoia into the service with you."

Jester shook his head. When Burgos was trying to sell him on the Army, he said he knew Jester was from the streets. Burgos proclaimed, he too was from the streets. He too, knew the streets. Like everyone Jester had ever met that told him they knew the streets, Burgos did not know the streets. It was a standard lie that must have been taught to everyone whose job it was to 'reach' so-called, troubled youths, that he knew the system had classified him to be.

Because of the parked cars, Burgos was unable to pull up directly next to the curb. Instead he pulled up alongside another car. Jester jumped out of the passenger side even before it stopped completely, and briskly walked around the front of the car into the home. Looking all around him for signs of threat. If there was a shooter waiting for him on the street, he knew they'd already be making their move. Nobody was. He took that as a good sign.

There was a wrought iron, gated-in, concrete, stairwell that led to the front door of the house. Jester looked around both sides of the steps before opening the gate and trotting up, feeling vulnerable as he did. Staircases were enclosed structures that offered no avenue of escape if one got ambushed on them. He reached the top. The home was expecting him. With any luck he could grab his bag and run right out. With his back turned to the door he knocked behind him, still watching the street.

The door opened and Jester turned around to see a middle-aged Hispanic woman. She looked him up and down, disapprovingly, and he did the same to her.

"You're . . .?"

"Masterson. Somebody here got my bag?"

"Yes, come in."

As Jester followed her into the house he looked back down at Burgos in the car. He made a face and gesture with his hands to signal, 'I told you so'. Jester turned and followed the lady into the house. She led him past a foyer and a staircase towards the back of the house. He saw a girl standing at the top of the staircase, staring at him. Her eyes, hate-filled, and fixating on him. That must be the girl Morgan was trying to visit when they got into the fight, Jester thought.

"I'm glad you're not staying", the Hispanic woman told him. "We don't need the kind of trouble here that you had last night. There's enough trouble here already."

Jester didn't reply. With his eyes still on the girl at the top of the staircase, he saw that the woman was leading him through a long hall to a kitchen area. Towards the end of the kitchen was a back door.

. . . an open back door.

Jester looked up again at the girl at the top of the stairs who was now directly above him peering down on him. A lookout.

"Hey, what are you doing in here?!" Jester heard the Hispanic woman say.

Then he looked at the doorway to the kitchen and two men were now standing there. Jester had never seen either of them before in his life, but he recognized them. Had never uttered word one to either, but knew them all the same.

"I said what are you doing here?!" The woman yelled to the two men again. She was standing between them and Jester.

"You think I can't do to you what I did to your punk-ass boss?" He yelled to the men.

The conviction, the certainty in Jester's voice was no act. It wasn't arrogance, even though he had never lost a fight since he was old enough to fight back. It wasn't confidence, even though on sight, he knew these two men couldn't touch him in a fight. It was that Jester knew he had a built in advantage.

"Oh, you think we're here to fight you . . ." The taller man on the right said as he stepped into the house and reached behind his back and drew a silver plated handgun. Although he didn't step in, his partner pulled a gun as well.

Jester knew he was stuck. There was too much distance between him and the gunmen for him to cover before they fired and also too much distance for him to go back out the front door before they did the same thing. His only chance was to use the only cover he had. He ducked behind the woman and forcefully pushed her towards the kitchen. Faster than she could've ever possibly went on her own power. Jester even had to hold her up so their momentum wouldn't throw her down altogether. This wasn't a human shield situation. Jester knew they would have no qualms about killing her to get to him. He just hoped her coming at them so fast would disorientate them enough for him to reach . . .

The first shot rang out as Jester grabbed the gun barrel and deflected the shot into the wall. He threw the lady to the side, who was now screaming frantically now at the top of her lungs. He started wrestling with the gunman. Knocking around the woman, who was caught amidst the struggle. Successive shots rang out from his weapon but Jester had control of the barrel and they went wildly all over the room. With the two of them locked in combat, the second gunman kept pointing his gun but held fire. Aiming back and forth trying to fix a target on Jester as he and his opponent kept switching positions.

Incidentally, the first gunman was well under control. Although he was feigning a struggle with him, it was the second gunman Jester was really focusing on. He was the bigger threat now. Jester noted his position being perfectly in front of the open back door that he surmised, must have led in from a staircase just as the front door had. Jester moved the first gunman around the room long enough for him to get close enough. Then he kicked the second man out the door. He heard him squall as he fell back and then tumble down the iron staircase.

Most people in a fight think they have only one goal. That was to defeat their enemy, to hurt them, humiliate them, perhaps even, annihilate them. Jester knew that was a misperception. Knowing that was why he never lost a fight since he was big enough to fight back. He knew most people engaged in a fight didn't have just one goal, they had two. They wanted to hurt their enemy but they also wanted to not get hurt. Jester's advantage was that he never cared if he got hurt.

With the second gunman gone for the moment, he pinned the first gunman's shooting arm, and thus his gun, against the stove and was able to commence banging his head into the appliance until he let go of his weapon. The gunman had been firing the gun the whole time and by the time he dropped it, it was only making harmless clicking noises. He wasn't done with him, but Jester knew he had to leave him when he heard the phrenetic footsteps of what had to be the second gunman running back up the stairs. Jester knew he would come in shooting and he had nothing but an empty gun.

He took off running. Carrying the empty gun, he went back out the front entrance. He heard the shot wiz past his head as he hit the front doorway. He looked back and saw the second gunman turn around and head in the other direction out of the back entrance of the house. Jester knew he wasn't withdrawing, he was circling.

* * *

Burgos was ducked behind his car. He'd heard all the shots and started to run into the house, wanted to run into the house – but couldn't run into the house. Instead he retreated to his current position and used his cell to call 911. Calling out for Jester. He didn't know how much time had passed from when the first shots rang out and when Jester darted down the stairs, bypassing him, heading up the street. He didn't know if Jester heard him calling. He only saw the silver plated gun in his hand.

He walked out from behind his car and looked up at the entrance to the house. He waited for a few seconds before walking up the stairs. He went into the house cautiously asking if anyone needed help. He saw the Hispanic lady lying on her stomach, not moving, blood pooling from underneath her. He saw the second gunman propped up against the stove, blood running down from his head from some unseeable wound. Maybe he was alive but certainly not conscious. He saw the girl standing over both of them, now screaming.

He saw nothing else.

* * *

Having ignored Burgos because he knew he had to, Jester ducked around the corner at the end of the block and was now running north on Jerome avenue. He knew it wasn't over. His remaining assassin had went out the back exit to catch him on the run and the man had just, at that moment, come into his view. In pursuit of him but really no where close to him. With his murderous pursuer a good thirty yards behind, he knew the man could never catch him.

. . . but Jester wanted him to.

He turned the corner West on 174th street, pressed against the wall of the building, and waited. If he was being chased by cops or anyone with any kind of tactical skill, being unarmed, this would be a suicide move. All his pursuer would have to do is take a few steps wide and lead the corner with the gun. Jester would be dead or captured. But with a pissed off drug dealer who was used to everyone in his corner of the universe cowering before him, who's only motivation was to impress his boss so that he could, hopefully, gain position. Where in that same universe the only requirement for success and advancement was met by being bold – not smart. Jester waited patiently.

When the barrel came around the corner, Jester grabbed it. The shooter had slowed down a bit to maneuver the corner but was still moving fast enough for Jester to use his momentum to throw him into the brick wall, head first. Helping his momentum along with a shove to the man's back. If this had been a fight, it was over. The shooter was too dazed to do anything else and even if he wasn't, Jester had the loaded gun now.

He held the gun on him as the man squirmed around on the ground in pain for a few seconds, his hands now on his bloody forehead. Then he focused in on Jester and the gun. He held his hands up and tried to stand.

Jester didn't let him get to his feet. He changed his grip on the gun, holding it on it's side and began beating his face with it. He kept repeating the blows even after the man hit the ground. Again and again until his skull caved in and his head was nothing but a bloody pulp. Then he beat him some more. He beat him until his body twitched and then stopped twitching. Then he beat him some more. Then he started stomping him.

It was like he was in a trance. He never heard the crowd screaming in horror behind him, never heard Burgos yelling frantically for him to stop, never heard the sirens of the cop cars approach or the cops themselves telling him to freeze.

He didn't know who the next shots came from but he assumed they were from more of Morgan's crew. Jester heard the fire and felt the bullets whizzing by him before ricocheting off the wall in visible sparks. He changed to a firing grip on the gun and turned.

Two targets. Two shooters standing on either side of their blue and white patrol car pointing and firing their guns at him. Two shots from Jester. Two men dropped. Two cops.

. . . now he heard the screams.

Jester saw the two officers fall and then looked at his feet and saw the body, now corpse, of his would-be killer. The man's blood running down the hill from several points, his blood on the gun, on his clothes, on his hands, his face. What had he done?

He heard Burgos yell out, "Jester, put the gun down!"

Jester pointed it at him. He guessed Burgos must've have been trailing the chase. Then he pointed it at the gathering crowd. There was a collective scream as everyone ducked for cover. Then he turned and pointed the gun at the crowd that was behind him. They did the same. He looked back at Burgos and knew . . . there would be no Army for him.

He ran up the hill away from Jerome avenue, still holding the gun.

* * *

Born in fire.

Jester didn't make that up himself. It was applied to him by one of his former correctional facility mates when his story got out. He was fourteen. The story spread around the facility when one of the adult guards had berated him with his life story in front of every resident as he went for morning breakfast. Spoke the facts of his life to him as if he was calling him a lowlife, a piece of shit, nothing. Fighting words. The facts of his life were fighting words. It was after he smashed the guard's head into a lunchroom table that the term was coined.

He had run east to the top of the hill on 174th street, then turned left and ran north down the next block, running aimlessly. He wanted to put the gun away, tuck it into his back waist but he was still too close to the scene. He needed it for the intimidation factor. Without it people might've gotten in his way. Instead when they saw it, they got out.

It wasn't until he got to the end of the next block that he stopped, leaned over and rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. That's when the sirens came within earshot, or at least when he was calm enough to hear them. Cop cars weren't in sight yet but they were fast approaching. There was no chance if he stayed on open streets. It was only a matter of time before the cops spotted him and as soon as they did, it would be the beginning of the end. They would easily chase him down in their cars until they were close enough to jump out and either tackle him, run him over, or shoot him.

The only thing in his favor was that there was little need to worry about being seen by anyone but the cops. The South Bronx, like many, poor, inner city communities, were no friends to police. Even if they were, when it came to criminal matters, they tended to have a strange mixture of apathy and fear. Anyone who wasn't at the scene wouldn't know anything about why he was running from the cops, or what he or whatever accomplices he might have, were capable of doing to any witnesses who talked to them. Their apathy would compel them to not come forward if they saw him, and their fear would compel them to deny it if they were asked. He took off east towards the Grand Concourse.

If he died today, it was pretty close to how Jester envisioned. He thought it might've been something like a shootout, maybe a hostage crisis, but he knew it would be in either a standoff, or a chase. He knew when it happened he would not be the only one dying. He knew when it happened that everyone would want it to happen to him. He knew when it happened he would be in a crowd – all alone.

It wasn't his desire, he didn't wish for it. He may have even wished against it but he could still see it coming from afar. The same way a speeding driver on the highway can see the slower moving cars in front of them. Only Jester couldn't swerve. His felt his life was like being in that car going down the steepest hill 100 miles per hour with no steering or brakes. You know it's going to end in a crash.

He reached the Grand Concourse without incident and, even though he could still hear the sirens, he thought he was far enough from the scene to put the gun away. There were people on the streets but he didn't care who saw him. The gun was a Glock 17 pistol but Jester didn't have any clue of that. He didn't know about guns. Although this wasn't the first time he'd fired one, it was the first time he'd ever fired one at another human being. He only knew it was too big to completely hide but he wasn't giving it up. It was his only protection. He tucked it into his jeans behind his lower back and pulled his t-shirt down over it. Anyone who saw him from behind would know it was there but at least he could conceal it from the front.

Cops were looking for him on the street. He went into one of the tenements on 177th street. It was a six story, low-rise, apartment building. It had twin structures and an open courtyard that Jester wandered into at a slow pace as if he belonged there. Running for his life and the hot sun of midday had taken it's toll. The sweat had soaked through his clothes from head to toe and he appeared completely drenched, puddles of sweat still dripping off of him. It helped wash away much of the blood on his hands and face but there were still large splotches of it staining his clothes.

The building provided adequate shade in the courtyard, so there were people loitering there, which was common in New York City. One group was playing dominoes on a folding table in the right corner of the yard, another group of early teen youngsters seated on a concrete stand at the front of the yard, two people on cell phones on opposite ends, a third group seated on the short steps that led into the building.

Nobody was fooled, Jester knew. The sirens throughout the area, his sweat-soaked, blood-stained, disheveled, appearance, and the bulge in his lower back broadcasted what he was doing there. Some of the people even backed away as he passed them. Jester went into the building, it was cooler there. He made a left and randomly went to the North wing, looking for a back exit. That would have taken him off the Grand Concourse. He found the exit and it led him to a rear courtyard on 177th street. There were no more sirens that he could hear, but he didn't know what that meant.

There were dirt openings along the edges of the concrete in the courtyard. Meant to grow grass and trees to have some hint of greenery in the concrete jungle. For now it was mostly plain dirt with only an assortment of exposed roots, patchy grass, and litter, besides. Jester removed his wet shirt and wiped it along the soil thoroughly until it covered the blood. Figuring a muddy shirt was better than a bloody one.

With nowhere to go, no one he could turn to, he decided he was more at risk wandering the streets than being where he was right now. The cops would still be looking for him but they hadn't spotted him since he left the scene and he was pretty confident no bystanders had reported seeing him, or else the cops would be in front of him. They would have expected to make contact with him within minutes of the shooting, 15 - 20 minutes tops. It had been over 30 minutes. By now, they wouldn't have a clue where he was. He could've got into a car or on the subway and be miles away, he could have taken refuge with a friend, or he could be hiding in any of the dozens of buildings in the area. Their best chance of catching him now was to spot him walking the streets.

He sat on a bench in the rear courtyard that was under a shade tree. Unlike the front courtyard, this area was deserted. He knew why. This area was narrow and there were three, huge, smelly, trash bins used by the building located there. The sweet, putrid, stench, permeating from them overran the entire area. He was exhausted and still soaked – he was also hungry and had to use the bathroom but he didn't think about that. It was cool and there was a breeze blowing that was comforting even with the smell of the bins. After looking around to make sure no one was watching, he took the gun out, used a plastic bag that was free-flowing trash in the area to put it in, and rested it underneath the bench. He wrung out his wet, muddy t-shirt, and laid it flat next to him so it could dry out.

Jester sprawled out on the bench, arms and legs extended, and laid his head back. Might as well relax, as best he could, he thought. Maybe this was going to be the spot for his last stand, he didn't know.

He waited for whatever.

### Chapter 5

It was dusk when Jester woke. Only the change in the day's lighting let him know he'd been asleep. The sun had been big, bright and yellow atop the middle of the sky. Then he blinked. Now it was a dim, burnt orange, half-circle, fading to the west of him. He had spent the night before locked up in the Bronx Central Booking and remembered he never got to sleep.

'What the hell', he thought as he tried to lift his head and felt the resistance as if he was being held down. It wasn't that. His neck was stiff and slow to follow commands. He had slept with his head leaning over the back of the bench. Moving it felt like he was lifting a stack of bricks. Slowly, painfully, he positioned his head upright. Then he rolled his neck to make sure it was still working properly. The day was much cooler though the lower temperature did nothing to quell the stench coming from the trash bin. If anything, it was stronger now. He stood up and did an involuntary stretch of his legs by going up on his tiptoes and taking a few, drunken ballerina-like steps.

To his surprise, there were no cop cars pulled up in front of him with flashing lights. No cops in front of those cop cars with their guns pointed at him. No cops with their guns pointed at him barking orders to get down on his stomach, and his back, and his knees (Jester had been taken into custody by multiple cops before, they always gave conflicting orders). He didn't even hear any sirens anymore. Not sure how long he'd been out, Jester walked the short distance to the end of the courtyard to check for activity. It seemed like normal. People were coming and people were going and people were staying, but there was no urgency, no sense of danger or disturbance. It seemed quiet, even still.

He walked back to the bench, his t-shirt was dry now so he put it back on. Then he started to leave the courtyard and got about halfway until he remembered the gun. Was it even still there? He walked back and looked under the bench. The bag he had put it in was still there and as the light breeze of the dying day blew, he could see the imprint of the handle outline the cheap, thin, black plastic. He thought of walking away and leaving it right where it was but couldn't think of any scenario where that was a good idea. He could still be spotted by a cop or someone else. He picked up the bag by the handles and unrolled it to it's full length. Letting the gun drop all the way to the bottom where it was much less obvious that it was a gun. He left the courtyard and entered the street.

As he walked east towards the Grand Concourse, he wondered how he could've gotten passed by. He wasn't out in the open but it wasn't like he had been in perfect camouflage, either. However many hours ago it was, he didn't know then what he was going to do when he was confronted. Whether he was going to give up or shoot it out or run again if the option was available, but he had definitely expected to be confronted. There really was no plan in his head beyond that. Now that it didn't happen?

Rush hour wasn't quite over and the Grand Concourse, never very idle, was busy with traffic. Though it was clear Jester had missed the peak of it. Fortunate too. The more cars, trucks and other vehicles passing him by, the more chance one of them might be a cop that would recognize him or someone else who recognized him and would call the cops. There were a number of people on the streets but no one seemed to be minding him. Keeping his head down, he walked to the corner and waited for the traffic light to change.

Even if he wasn't worried about cops at the moment, there was still Tyshiek Morgan's crew, he thought. They would know he hadn't been caught and could be out looking for him too. He didn't need to be in another shootout. What he needed was to get out of the neighborhood. He reached into his back pocket and was relieved to find that his wallet was still there. He remember he had a metrocard with one fare on it. Across the street there was a bus going north that was one block away from it's next stop. It was being held by the traffic light. Without thinking he ran for the stop, beat the traffic light and was waiting when the bus pulled in. He got on.

The number of people on the bus matched the volume of vehicle traffic in the waning rush hour. There were more people than you would've found in non-rush hours but not as much. There were seats available. Jester walked down the aisle of the bus going around a few people preferring to stand. He was careful not to make eye contact with anyone but also careful not to look away completely. He took a seat in the middle of the bus and noted the direction. North was good. South would've taken him into Manhattan where there were a lot more people. North took him further into the Bronx into the suburban areas and less people. He had no place to go but he knew wherever he went, less people was better.

The Grand Concourse rolled by in sections. The point Jester got on the bus was the older but renewing sections. Formerly the notorious South Bronx, this section had undergone a massive renaissance in the last few years. It seemed that no amount of gang activity or urban decay could change the fact that the South Bronx was only a bridge away from Manhattan. Developers had moved in and paved the way for more modernized buildings, more upscale, trendy businesses, more, higher, rents, and ultimately, more white people. It wasn't the South Bronx Jester remembered from his early childhood. Further along, subsequent sections along the route represented the urban but suburban quality of the North Bronx. Still no one or two story homes in view but the buildings were smaller and spaced further apart. The big, nationally recognized, commercial chains gave way to smaller, mom and pop-styled shops. It was familiar to Jester, as he had been through these sections before, but still foreign, as he had never done more than pass them by.

He wondered about the cops he shot. Did he really shoot two cops? Were they dead? Both of them? He was afraid to try to check the news on their condition. Fearing he might have killed one or both of them. He always had a propensity to avoid bad news. Jester had handled a gun before. Even shot one. There was a time where he was being recruited to join a local gang in Brooklyn where one of his former foster homes had been. Guns and access to them was one of the perks the gang used as a recruiting tool. They took him to an abandoned lot late at night and let him fire at a bunch of targets. Jester took several shots and never hit one of them. They told him that was normal, that he did really well, but he knew they were full of shit. Inner city street gangs were not known for their emphasis on marksmanship. He ended up changing foster homes before the recruitment went any further.

The gun he had on him now was totally different. With the gangs, they gave him a revolver, this one was some kind of automatic but he didn't see how it could be that different. He remembered the recoil when he shot with the gangs. How he couldn't manage to compensate for it enough to get his shots anywhere close to his targets. No matter how much he thought he anticipated the recoil, it always surprised him. Yet when he fired at the cops – did he really do that – he could remember no recoil at all. He saw, he shot, and both bullets seemed to hit center mass. He didn't even remember aiming.

Maybe he would have done well in the Army, after all. For the first time he thought about the news he had gotten about being accepted for flight training. When Burgos approached him about it at his then, High School, he almost completely laughed it off. Jester was polite to him but had no interest. Yet somehow Burgos caught onto his interest in flying. It had to have been some sort of telepathy because Jester knew he never mentioned it to him. Burgos told him about the Warrant Officer program where he could do helicopter training and become a pilot, straight out of high school. Jester went along but only half-heartedly. Burgos had to push and prod him at every step. Taking him to every appointment and giving him study guides for the tests. So he filled out the forms, answered the questionnaires and took both the written and practical exams. Forgetting about them all once they were done. He never dreamed that he would be accepted.

Why did Burgos stick up for him in court? Jester remembered the look he saw on the man's face as he ran out of the group home, gun in hand, shots been fired. It wasn't fear, it wasn't even shock, it was extreme disappointment, disheartenment. Burgos was wrong about him. Jester tried to tell him.

* * *

". . . I had just dropped him off. We were only supposed to be there 10 - 15 minutes, tops." U.S. Army, Sergeant Major, Anthony Burgos said, rubbing his forehead, exasperated. It was the third or fourth time he'd explained that.

The Bronx's 46th Police Precinct station was a two-story, old-style, red brick building with several large, double-hung windows on it's front face. Almost all of them fitted with massive air conditioning units as the building far predated central climate control. It had a rounded top door framed entrance and sat in the heart of the Morris Heights section of the borough. Only a few blocks from where the shooting occurred.

The police had brought him there after. Technically, it was voluntary, as he hadn't been officially placed under arrest. Yet it was made clear to him that he was coming one way or the other. Now sitting in the Detective Squad on the second floor, Burgos was seated at a chair to the side of one of the detective's desk. It was the third detective's desk he'd sat. After each interview where he thought he was done, he was then asked to speak to another detective. The one that occupied this current desk seemed more senior than the occupant of the last desk Burgos sat. The last one more senior than the one before that. Each desk getting closer and closer to the Unit Commander's office, which was immediately behind the desk he was now. It seemed Burgos was going up the food chain with each interview.

He supposed he should be grateful he wasn't in an interrogation room, judging from the scornful attitudes he was getting from every single cop he'd come in contact with since the shooting. They all seemed to know that Burgos had vouched for Jester in court that morning. Though that wasn't a surprise. The 46th was the home precinct of Lieutenant London Rose, Burgos learned. The Detective's Bureau, directly under his command. Rose wasn't in the office right then but Burgos figured he had probably let the entire precinct, if not the entire NYPD, know what his role was in getting Jester released from custody.

The two cops that were shot were officers Berger and Singh, both patrolmen. They had survived the shooting, at least long enough to be taken to the hospital. If they hadn't, Burgos figured he wouldn't just be sitting at a detective's desk. He would be in a cell.

"How long after he went into the building, did you hear the shots?" The detective asked. This one named, Standish. He was the oldest of the three Burgos had spoke to. Early to mid fifties, he guessed.

"A minute, maybe two, no more than that."

"And how long after that did you see the suspect running out of the building."

"I told you guys before, less than a minute."

"And how many shots did you hear?"

With a sigh, "just two."

"But you didn't see a gun on him before he went into the building?"

"He didn't have a gun on him before he went into the building."

". . . not that you saw." Standish said.

"No, detective", Burgos said shaking his head. "He was just released from Central Booking. We had just come from court. You don't think the courts would release someone with an illegal gun in their possession, do you? He didn't have a gun on him before he went into the building."

"You didn't make any other stops after leaving court?"

"No."

"The young woman at the scene was an eyewitness to the actual shootings. She says that Masterson went into the home, immediately shot the male victim and then shot the older female victim when he saw she was a witness."

"Then why didn't Jester shoot her? She was a witness. Or me? I was a witness right after. Look, I don't know who shot who in that group home, but I guarantee you, those guys attacked him first. Maybe . . ."

Just then, everyone in the room went still, silent. Standish stood up and looked towards the end of the long office, along with everyone else. Burgos turned around and saw that Lieutenant London Rose had walked into his Detective Squad. Everyone knew he was at the hospital where the two officers had been taken. Rose's eyes immediately fixed on him for a split-second. It wasn't a friendly look. He recognized Burgos but didn't acknowledge him. Then his gaze spread across to everyone in the room.

"They're both still fighting," Rose began to announce. "Officer Berger lost his spleen but he's out of surgery and it looks like he's going to pull through. Officer Singh is still in surgery. No word on how it's going. His condition is still listed as critical."

Everyone acknowledged his announcement and most returned to their business. Rose called over one of the Detectives that Burgos had spoken to previously and motioned his head towards Burgos as they talked. As he turned around to face Standish again, Rose called him over, as well. Detective Standish went to him and the three of them conversed inaudibly at the end of the room. Burgos didn't know whether to turn back around to face the desk or keep watching. Then the three of them approached him. Burgos went to stand up but Rose motioned with his hand for him to remain seated.

"Lieutenant." Burgos greeted as they reached him. He knew better than to hold out for a handshake at that moment.

"You brushed me off this morning, remember? You couldn't get me out of your face fast enough. Do you want to talk to me now? Want to hear what I have to say about your boy now?"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I'll do anything I can to help."

"Tell us where we can find the little punk."

"I . . . I don't know." Burgos said, confused. Why would he say that? "Wait, you guys think I'm hiding him?"

Pointing to the man on his right, Rose said, "you told Detective Quinones here, that you were taking Masterson to stay at your house."

"Yeah but that was just for the night until I could find him another place."

"So would he go to your home now?"

"He doesn't know where I live. We never made it there."

"I want to search it. Do you give your consent?"

"Uh . . . yeah . . . sure. I'll just call and tell my wife to make sure her underwear isn't hanging in the bathroom." Burgos said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

"Write down your address." Rose replied, ignoring the jest.

Burgos put the phone aside and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. Then pulled a piece of paper from Standish's desk and wrote down his address. He gave it to Rose.

"Get a unit over there." Rose said as he handed it to Detective Quinones, who briskly walked off with it.

Rose looked down at Burgos, contempt fully in his eyes. It seemed like he wanted to say something but either wasn't sure what to say or wasn't sure if it should be said.

"Are you done with me?" Burgos asked.

"No. I want you to wait here until we check your house. Maybe longer." Rose said and then started to go into his office.

"I don't think he killed those people in the group home."

Rose stopped, "well, we damn sure know he shot two police officers in broad daylight in front of a street full of witnesses."

"With respect, Lieutenant . . . they did shoot at him first."

"He also pistol-whipped a man to death."

"A drug dealer who was probably trying to kill him."

"Tell me something, Sergeant . . ." Rose said and Burgos knew this was going to be what he wanted to say a few seconds earlier. "Does character assessment factor into your job at all? Because if it does, you have to be the shittiest recruiter in the history of the Armed Forces."

Brushing off the insult, Burgos replied, "Lieutenant, Rose . . ."

". . . you heard the judge this morning talking about his juvenile record. Did you even look at that before you signed him up?"

Of course, Burgos thought but didn't say. Of course, he knew the flags were there. Of course, he hadn't missed them. Had he stopped looking after only the first glance he might've formed the same conclusion as Rose. Yet he didn't stop after only the first glance and he knew those flags only told part of the story. When he looked at the entire record, the full story of young, troubled, Jester Masterson, Burgos realized that he could sum him up in four, simple, words – rage but no malice.

Every violent encounter Jester had ever been involved with, were always one time incidents, at least on his end. There were a few times when his enemies came back for him but not once did he ever go back after them at a later time. With Jester, once it was over, it was over. Anyone filled with rage could do major damage to the object of that rage, at that moment. However, to actually plot out and plan a course to do damage to someone at a later time, that took more than just rage. That took malice. Jester had plenty of rage, no malice.

So he decided to pursue Jester's recruitment, despite his record. It only took one other meeting with him for Burgos to notice Jester peering at every passing aircraft that flew over them. He told him about their flight training program and he took to it. Slowly, even reluctantly at first, because he didn't have the confidence to believe he could actually get in, but he took to it. Then he got in. If I could've only gotten him out in time, Burgos thought.

"No answer, huh?" Rose said, not realizing that Burgos had drifted.

"What?" Burgos asked.

"You're gonna be here for a while, Sergeant. I'll have someone send out for food, if you want."

They want to kill him, Burgos knew. He could tell from the activity that had been going on ever since he was brought in. Aggressive language, senior officers anxiously coordinating search efforts, talking to others over radios, seeking permission from high command to perform door to door searches because they suspected someone was hiding him, and most significantly, so many of them checking their weapons and protective equipment. He saw two of Rose's own detectives do that as they went out on assignment just to check for leads on Jester.

"I don't need to go anywhere, Lieutenant. Can you show me the delivery menus?" Burgos said as he sat back in his chair. "Anyone else want to interview me?"

* * *

Jester reached his destination. It was an impromptu destination but now that he was there, he felt good about it. By the time his mind had stopped wandering, he realized he had been on the Bx1 bus. By the time he was comfortable enough to realize no one recognized him, or was going to, he checked it's route that was posted at the front of the bus behind the driver. It had a stop close enough to Van Cortlandt park for him to walk there. The stop was Dickinson avenue. The walk to the park from there turned out to be much farther on foot than the impression he got on the map, but he had made it.

He'd slept overnight in parks before. Usually when he was escaping some foster or group home for the night. He had also visited Van Cortlandt, so he was familiar with it. It was huge, the third largest park in New York City. At least three hundred acres larger than Central Park. It had great, wide open lawns, dedicated fields for almost every team sport that was played on a field, woods, pools, lakes, even a golf course. Three major highways ran through it and there were subway stations that touched upon it's east and west borders. It was easy to get to, and easy to get away from.

Fortunate that the nearest entrance was the same one he used when he visited the park prior so even though it was night, he knew exactly where he was. He'd taken a field trip from school and visited the Park's Nature Center where they offered horseback riding and hiking tours. It was on the southern end near Moshulu Parkway. Once inside the park, he felt almost completely comfortable. Every cop in the city at large that was out looking for him could be redirected into the park and it wouldn't be any easier to find him. So if they didn't know he was there at all, it was next to impossible. It wasn't a permanent solution. He didn't have a permanent solution, but it would do for now.

Hunger was on him but that wasn't new. He was usually hungry those nights he found himself having to sleep in a park and just like on those nights, he also had no money to buy food. His last meal had been what they fed him when he was in Central booking the night before. He wasn't starving, though. For some reason he actually felt refreshed. He wasn't sure if it was because he felt relatively safe or because of the sleep he had earlier. Still, he was restless. He tried to take a seat on a bench and relax but found he couldn't stay there for long. He started to walk. Finding the trails they had taken him through when he went hiking, he followed them.

The trails were through the wooded areas and out of the lit sections of the park. It was darker than he would've liked but only because he couldn't see. It wasn't fear. Jester wasn't afraid of the dark. To others, it may have felt like danger. The thought of someone or something being in the shadows where they couldn't see, watching them, waiting to prey on them. To them, darkness was fear. To Jester, darkness was peace. No one ever attacked him in the dark.

As he slowly walked through the trails, his eyes properly adjusted and he could make out shapes and spot movement. By then, the discomfort of not being able to see faded. He walked for over an hour then found a tree. He took a seat at the base on the off side of the trail where he wouldn't be easily spotted.

He felt paper crumpling in his back pocket as he sat. Pulling it out, he knew what it was without being able to see it. He'd forgotten he had it but having it now made him feel comfortable, for some reason. It was the name change form that he was going to file in court earlier. Even without a photographic memory, he knew every inch of the page. He rubbed his finger across the space where he had printed his new, chosen name. This name wasn't just a whim. He had thought about it for years before he finally made the decision. It was how he thought of himself now. It wasn't a phase like a tattoo that he would later want removed. He was proud of his chosen name. Had even begun introducing himself as it. Despite all of the events of the day, he still felt not being able to get that filed, was his biggest regret. He wondered, if he got caught, would he be able to get his name changed from within prison. Those thoughts whirled around his head until he slept again.

The next morning he was woken by a pair of loud runners at they ran through the trail in heated conversation. They must've been seasoned runners, he thought. They were talking to each other as freely as if they were sitting across a breakfast table, only slightly winded. Jester was impressed. Neither of them saw him behind the tree. He watched them as they passed. Then he stood up. This time with not much stiffness, only the area of his upper back that was leaning on the tree felt slightly sore. He rubbed the spot as he walked onto the trail and headed west back in the direction he had come.

He was very hungry now. He wished he was one of those outdoor-type guys who had the skills to live off the land. Catch, kill, and cook his own food as needed. There were squirrels available, and birds. Probably other animals too if he had looked. It was a park after all. But it was no good. Jester was a city boy through and through. He'd had experiences most others his age never had, and shouldn't have. Yet he just couldn't imagine himself skinning, gutting, and cooking an animal and then still having the appetite to eat it. Even if he had the skills to catch one, which he didn't. Even if he could start a fire and cook it, which he couldn't. He would have to start thinking about getting a permanent solution.

He made it back to the nature center in a little over thirty minutes. It was a Saturday and that meant this would be their busy day. There had been a large crowd gathered in front of it in groups of eight to twelve people. Class fields trips, Jester thought, just like his had been. He decided he wouldn't shy away from them. Deliberately shying away from crowds was acting suspicious. People drew suspicion when they acted suspicious. He walked directly through them, excusing himself where he had to.

When he was past the nature center, he found himself walking along a paved public trail along a football field, lined with benches spaced about twenty feet apart. The signs said this was supposed to be a walking trail but there were mostly runners on it. Several of them had already passed him in both directions. It was somewhere around 7am, Jester figured.

The benches were empty except for a couple sitting on one about three benches ahead of him. Jester was approaching them. They weren't a young couple but not old, either. They appeared to be in their mid to late 30's, maybe early 40's. Jester walked to the edge of the trail where he would be farthest away from them as he passed. He tried not to look directly at them but he couldn't help but glance at them through his peripheral vision. The man was on a cell phone. He was relatively calm but he was pleading with someone. He said 'please' a few times and frustration was plain on his face. But it was the woman that worried Jester. She was looking at him, intently. Not shy about following him not just with her eyes but her full head, as he passed them. Did she recognize him? He didn't know what it was but it made him uncomfortable and he picked up his pace to get past them. As he reached the end of the trail he looked back at them. She was still watching him.

He left the trail but only slipped in through the trees where he knew she wouldn't see him anymore. He had to know if she recognized him. As fast as he could, he circled around and came back to that trail, not directly behind them, they were still about thirty yards away, but he was to their rear where they wouldn't see him without looking behind. He expected to find her on her own cell phone, frantically calling in his sighting, or pleading to her husband/boyfriend what she had just saw, but she wasn't doing either. She was sitting there just as stoically as before he walked in front of them. He checked to see if she gave anyone else who passed them by the same attention she gave him. Several runners had passed them and even another walker. She payed them no mind at all.

Jester watched them and waited for about ten minutes for the man to finish his call. When it was done he only looked at her, shook his head, and they hugged. Then they spoke. Jester couldn't hear them but if she was telling the guy about seeing him, he wasn't reaching for his phone to call the cops. Satisfied that he was not going to be reported, Jester suddenly started to feel like a peeping tom. He departed.

Taking the path through the woods, he made it to the eastern edge of the park near the street. Emerging from the park on Broadway. The same famed street with all the theaters that ran the entire length of Manhattan, also extended deep into the Bronx. The Bronx's version of Broadway was physically broader than Manhattan's. It had six lanes and a tree lined divider that separated the north and south roads. It's surroundings were more rural and residential, in keeping with the park.

He didn't feel comfortable walking on the open street and was fighting the urge to duck back into the park every second, but he had to find food. He didn't have money, but he had a gun. Using it to commit armed robbery wasn't something he'd had a lot of experience with, but there weren't a lot of choices available. His one strategy was to steal money, not food. With money, he could buy food and other things – like some kind of transportation out of the city, if he was lucky. Plus he would only have to do it once, at least for a while.

For now, he would have to deal with the hunger. Put it out of his mind. Since Van Cortlandt was his refuge, he knew it would be pretty stupid to rob someone or some business near it. As camera saturated as modern society had become, he had to assume he would be caught on one somewhere. He didn't want to let the cops know he was near the park. He needed to travel somewhere, hop on another bus, or the subway. The subway, he thought.

He had no more money for fare on his metrocard but he knew he could probably get someone to let him on the platform. He'd done that before, a few times. Someone always took pity on a poor, young, soul, just looking for a way home. Walking south on Broadway would lead him straight to the number 1 subway train. Heading in that direction, he threw the bag over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Came a male voice from across the street.

Jester continued to walk. Maybe whoever it was, wasn't calling him. He was the only person on that side of the street but maybe they weren't calling across the street. He fought the urge to look around, run, or even pick up his pace. He had to remain casual.

"Hey, kid." The voice came again.

That narrowed it down, he thought. Jester continued walking, not wanting to turn around. His breathing picked up rapidly. It would only take one more time for him not to react to the call, where he would officially be suspicious.

"Excuse me, you. In the grey t-shirt!" The voice called one more time.

With a deep breath, Jester turned around and found his worst fear. It was a cop. He was on foot but his hand was on his shoulder radio and he looked like he had just run up on the block. Should he pull out the gun or run? He wasn't sure and was in the process of deciding when he noticed something major. The cop didn't have his own gun drawn.

"Did you see a guy running through here, about 5'5", 5'6", a little heavyset? He was wearing jeans and a brown hoodie." The cop said as he crossed the quiet, early morning street. Looking all around him for the suspect he was pursuing. He was coming towards Jester but wasn't trying to catch up to him. It was more like the cop wanted to get closer only to hear his reply.

"Uh, no, I haven't seen anyone." Jester replied. Shrugging his shoulders. The cop hadn't recognized him.

"It would've been in the last ten minutes or so. He just robbed an old lady over on Bailey. Maybe you saw somebody run into the park?" The cop said as he reached Jester's side of the street but didn't come toward him, or even look at him. He went to the edge of the park and looked through it.

"I didn't see anyone, except some joggers." Jester said

"No, this guy wasn't jogging", the cop said, still looking inside the park. Then for the first time he looked at Jester and kept his gaze on him for a few seconds. "Were you jogging?" He asked.

"Me? No."

"Why are you breathing so fast? You ok?" The officer said, now he was approaching Jester.

"Yeah, sure. I didn't know I was breathing fast."

"You seem nervous. Something wrong?"

"No . . . I"

"Can I see some id, please?" He asked, still about ten feet away. Still not drawing his gun. He was suspicious of Jester but he hadn't recognized him.

This was it, Jester knew. He still hadn't decided if he was gonna run or pull the gun. Neither seemed like viable options. Neither were his natural instinct. His natural instinct was to stand and fight. Wait until the officer got close enough and then physically pound him. No gun, just the weapons he was born with and yielded without thought. That's what he decided. The cop came forward casually, neither quickly, nor slowly. Only three more feet or so. Jester waited for him.

"Officer!" Came a new voice from within the park. It was female.

Both Jester and the cop turned towards the direction of the voice. The woman was about twenty yards into the park, just west of them. Just on the edge of being audible.

"Somebody's hurt!" She said, both hands cuffed around her mouth as she called. When the officer looked, she waved for him to come. "Here, over here!" She waved even more frantically.

Jester knew who she was. She was the woman who had stared him down from the bench. The officer immediately darted past Jester and ran several yards down the street towards the entrance to the park. Giving him no more thought. Jester watched as he reached the entrance and caught up to her.

Wait. Did she just pull that cop off of him?

No, it couldn't be. She was alone, without her boyfriend/husband. He must've been the one who was hurt. Jester decided he would never know as he continued his path down Broadway. Although he had forgotten all about the subway, his robbery plan – and his hunger. He just needed to get away from the park for a while. No more destinations, plans, or strategies. He would just walk. Walking was safe.

It had only taken him about two minutes to get to the end of 240th street. That was when he saw the boyfriend/husband. The man had casually exited the park and was walking to a car he had parked at the corner, not a care in the world. Not at all acting like a man who's woman had called the cops for an emergency less than two minutes ago. If he wasn't the one who was hurt, at the very least he should've been where she was. Yet here he was. The man didn't seem to notice him as he used his smart key to click open his car doors and got in his car. He didn't start the car once he was inside, he just sat back. Jester, stunned, stopped and looked behind him to where he had been confronted by that cop, and where the woman called him off. Neither were in view anymore.

He didn't like this. What were these people up to? Jester briskly walked over to the front of the man's car. It was actually Cadillac Escalade, model EXT, pickup truck. It had a cab but it was so small it looked like it was only on the vehicle so it could technically qualify as a 'pickup truck'. Knock that off and it was a high end SUV. Jester looked through the tinted windshield at the man. The man looked back at him – and smiled.

Jester pulled the gun from his bag and pointed it at the man. Then walked around to the driver's door, tapping the window for the man to let him in. He opened the door and Jester pushed the gun into his side.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Jester demanded.

"You're gonna have to ask my wife", the man said, raising his hands and shaking his head. "I'm about as lost as you."

### Chapter 6

Flipping through all the twenty-four hour news channels, news shows on the major networks, local and national newspapers, he could see the story of the missing FBI Agents finally seemed to be dying down. This morning, there had been some kind of cop shooting in New York City. The shooter had gotten away and now there was a massive, statewide, manhunt on for him. Local media had predicably jumped all over the story and even some national news. The new tragedy was well on it's way to supplanting the old one.

Sheriff Hailey Tulley was more than a little relieved. After that big city, big shot, Prisko, and his minions had practically taken up residence in Cole, no one in the country could go more than thirty minutes without seeing extensive news reports anywhere news reports were given. Especially on those twenty-four hour, so-called, 'news' channels. Some of those insipid networks had even aired hour long specials. All featuring profiles of the missing agents, interviews with their families and colleagues, their grief, their loss. Then after that, it was nonstop speculation about those poor, innocent, helpless, FBI Agents in the mysterious and wicked little town of Cole.

Having only five square miles of area, the over-saturation of law enforcement and media within Cole's borders might have served to completely usurp the residents who called the town home – if it wasn't that those law enforcement and media were all clambering to get a hold of them. The locals were bombarded by reporters everywhere they went, even at their doorsteps. When they did manage to take refuge in the comfort of their homes, that's when law enforcement came knocking.

The last time he could remember a case where small town America had been under such siege with so much attention from so much law enforcement and media for something so nefarious, was Neshoba County, Mississippi, 1964. The hunt for the missing civil rights workers.

Three days after announcing the search was ended, Tulley stood looking out the front of his office window. His arms folded in satisfaction knowing that what ultimately happened in Neshoba County, wouldn't happen here. He watched as more and more of the undesirables left his town. Almost all of the press had departed by now. The rest were either leaving or soon would. Having nothing new surface since the announcement, however dissatisfied the media were, they really had to move on. There were too many other stories in the world.

Tulley wasn't always so sure, but it made sense now. He realized all of the news he'd seen in the past month was about covering the FBI in the hunt for their missing agents. Call off that hunt and there was nothing left to cover. It turned out it really hadn't been the missing agents that were driving the story, but the search for them. With that, Mr. Bennington had proven him wrong. He eyed his set of packed luggage in the corner of his office knowing he could undo those now.

He took a seat at his desk, keeping his gaze out of the bay-style, window, so large that it offered a full view of the street and made little difference looking through it standing or sitting. He was no architect and never thought he'd be in a position to design his own home or workspace, but the window was specifically his input. Like every Cole resident, he had a hand in the design of where he would dwell. There was an apartment in the back of his office that served as his home. The structure was a small, three story building that sat on the southernmost edge of Cole's main street. The tallest building in the town, it enabled him to look down on everything.

The term "main street" was misleading. There was only one street. The town was essentially an open square, a 'C' shape. What would have been a tiny subsection of a big city, served as a whole town for Cole. With resident's homes and property scattered within a five mile radius of the center, the only way into the town was from the south. The state capitol of Albany was south. The national capitol of Washington D.C. was further south. All entities of authority that might ever want to come to Cole, would be coming from the South. And Tulley's office was the first structure anyone entering the town encountered.

In succession, next to the Sheriff's office was a convenience store akin to a 7-11, a giant hardware store akin to a Home Depot, a bar, a beauty shop, a barber shop, a clothing store, and the Town Hall, where they had announced the end to the search. Next to that was a construction site where, just prior to this FBI business, they had broken ground on what was to be a new full service medical facility. Not quite a hospital but once completed it would serve all the medical needs of everyone in Cole. That construction was on hold. As well as Tulley's search to find the medical personnel to staff it.

After that site was a non-denominational church that also doubled as a school, then a gas station, a small office building for town officials like the lawyer, engineer, waste manager, etc. Then there was the town's only restaurant. The one Prisko, or as Tulley liked to call him, 'prick-so', had unlawfully commandeered. From there was open space for, what Mr. Bennington liked to think of as growth. A space for putting in something they hadn't thought of yet. Finally, just across from Tulley's office, completing the open square that was the intended design of the town, was the spacious, two and a half story home akin to the White House in D.C., or the Governor's Mansion in Albany. No less opulent, no less symbolic, no less relevant, it was the Town Executive's residence. The occupant of that residence was currently the only Cole resident that was not home.

Mr. Bennington would not return as long as the outsiders remained. Having departed only hours before prick-so and his flunkies arrived in their cheap, and ultimately pointless, show of force. Tulley didn't know where Mr. Bennington went or what he was doing exactly. He'd had no contact with him since he left town. No one in the town did. Though, Tulley knew from the moment the man left, his sole purpose, his every effort, was focused on the massive influx of intruders who had entered his town uninvited – and ejecting them.

Mr. Bennington had succeeded, Tulley thought with some awe. They weren't completely out of danger but it was clear the worst was behind them. It wasn't just whatever Bennington did, either. It was also the town, it's residents. They held the line. All of them having more confidence than even he, as attested by his ready-to-go luggage.

He remembered, as Mr. Bennington had invited each, hand picked, family and resident to live in Cole, he told them that he couldn't care less about ever having their loyalty. He didn't want it, didn't need it. Loyalty, that thing that so many powerful men and women throughout history seemed to value, covet and demand as if that was all that would ever be required to keep them safe – meant nothing to Mr. Bennington. He thought of those men and women of history as complete fools. Loyalty was superficial, it could be bought or intimidated into giving. Anything so easily acquired is so easily lost.

What Mr. Bennington wanted was their faith. Faith couldn't be bought or forced into giving. The knowledge that, no matter the storm or calamity, everything would turn out perfect, that was faith. Loyalty, you had to prove to them. Faith, they had to prove to you. Sometimes loyalty could be earned but in a man, faith could only be earned. Loyalty was running into the burning house of the one you serve and burning with them. Faith was running into the burning house of the one you serve and knowing they won't let you burn. Mr. Bennington always said loyalty was a pale, pathetic, useless, trait, next to faith. He told them all he would earn theirs. Now he had earned Tulley's.

He had three immediate tasks to get ready for Mr. Bennington's return. One was checking in with all the residents to make sure they remained settled. Which he had his deputy, Garrett, doing regularly all throughout. Although he wasn't too worried about that anymore. The constant contact they had maintained with them since the FBI came into town never gave him cause to be concerned. However, the second task was overseeing everyone's departure and making sure they actually departed. That gave him quite a bit of cause.

Like the media, most law enforcement had also left Cole. When they announced that the search was called off, what had been left out of that news was the fact that tactical control of the operation had been completely removed from 'prick-so'. His army had been disbanded. Tulley thought the omission was probably a courtesy to save him the embarrassment. The National Guard, the U.S. Marshall Service, and the State Police were already gone, having no longer needing to answer to him. However, Prisko retained control of his own FBI people. And they had not left. Not only had they not left but several agents were still scattered about the town limits acting as if they'd never been ordered out at all. Tulley wanted to remain in his office watching them until it finally dawned on prick-so that he had no choice but to leave, as ordered. However, he had to take care of the third task.

Law enforcement and media weren't the only interlopers in town. Since about day five of the siege, Cole had also been descended upon by various groups of unstable, anti-government, 'patriots' or, as Tulley thought of them, lunatics. They had heard about the FBI incursion on the news and came running from all four corners of the country. All armed to the teeth and ready to do battle with the agents of the tyrannical, gestapo, regime in Washington. Tulley rubbed his forehead in bemusement as he thought of his talks with them.

He exited his office and walked down the stairs to the street. It was nearing the time he told Deputy Garrett to meet him on the outskirts of town where he had stored them. The closest thing the group had resembling a leader was a man named Merriman, which was the only name he would give Tulley. Merriman's group of nine were the first to arrive and had been respectful enough to ask if Cole needed their assistance in the fight. Politely, Tulley told him a fight was the last thing they were interested in.

Merriman called him naive. He said the people of Cole didn't know the evil of this socialist, communist, administration in D.C. That this President in the White House was capable of anything. They flatly refused to leave and Tulley wasn't in a position just then to force them. So he told Merriman to have his group wait on the outskirts of town to "act as a reserve force to engage the enemy from the rear once the battle was joined". That seemed to appease him. Since then, close to thirty more patriot lunatics had joined them. All of them, as well, armed to the teeth.

Thankfully, once the search had been called off, many declared victory and left. A number of others, even before that. New York State wasn't as conducive to the likings of an anti-government, militant force. The area in which they carved out Cole was within a cold, unfriendly, woodlands with dirt roads, trees, vines, and lakes. Enjoining a great, epic, fantasy battle against evil big brother lent itself more to states with warm, wide open spaces. There, one could aim their gunsight many yards away and pick off those sinister, freedom stomping, jack booted thug, federal agents with righteous glee. However, a close quarter battle in the forest against a force over three hundred in size and just as armed as you, as Prisko had brought, was much less a romantic prospect. There were only about half the number of die-hard, militiamen left, including Merriman.

Tulley wasn't going anywhere near them without Garrett. So when he didn't see the deputy's Lexus SUV anywhere, he walked towards the end of the street and waited for him. The FBI command trailer was directly in front of him. He knew Prisko's people were watching him but it didn't matter. It wasn't like they didn't know the lunatics were back there. A few minutes later he saw Garrett driving in. Tulley waved his arm for him to continue driving on to the back of the town. He walked over and met him there.

Deputy Garrett stepped out of his SUV. He was a big man. Physically imposing, he stood 6'4" and weighed at least 280. His short sleeved, deputy shirt didn't cover his bulging biceps, or his jailhouse tattoos from the Aryan brotherhood. They spanned well below both elbows. Mr. Bennington expressed reservations when Tulley suggested him for deputy. Cole was a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic town with whites, blacks, latinos, jews, asians, east indians, arabs, etc. An eclectic bunch that would impress any big city in the world. Mr. Bennington wanted it exactly that way and didn't want a racist policing them. Yet Tulley assured him that Garrett would be fine. Thus far, Garrett hadn't made a liar out of him.

"They still haven't left?" Garrett said to him, motioning his head towards the FBI trailer.

"They're just stalling. They'll leave."

"Well, we have a problem." Garrett said and then told Tulley what he meant.

Ten minutes later, Tulley was in a much worse mood. They walked around to the outside of town and headed to the back of the square where the militiamen were. They were spread out in about eleven tents. Some were visible sitting in folding chairs around a simulated campfire – it was really a store bought, propane powered, open flame campfire gadget. None of them had their guns drawn. They saw Tulley and Garrett as allies. Merriman wasn't visible so Tulley called out to him. A few seconds later Merriman emerged from the woods zipping up his pants.

"What's up?" Merriman said, pleasant enough.

"I see seven of you. Where is everybody? I need everybody, all of you here, in front of me, right now." Tulley said. His voice, grave.

"It's coming down?" Merriman said, excited. Too excited for Tulley's taste.

"I gotta say this to all of you."

Merriman starts to call out, several other men climb out of their tents, others come from the woods. All gathered, there were sixteen men, some in camouflaged outerwear but most in dirt-covered, jeans with and without jean jackets, various designs of worn work boots, and lumberjack shirts with and without hunters caps.

"Is this everybody?" Tulley said, "I thought there was more."

"That guy, Dennis is still out there somewhere." Merriman said, pointing towards the woods.

"Dennis? Dennis, who?"

"Dennis Romero. He's from Idaho. He was a Marine sniper. He dresses up in his full camouflage and sets up somewhere to pick out targets. He can sit for hours."

Tulley looks over at Garrett and then makes an exasperated gesture with his hands, sighing, "I told you to keep everybody right here. I wanted to know where to find all of you when I needed you."

"Well, you can't really tell Dennis what to do. He always sort of goes his own way. This is the third operation I've been on with him."

"Operation", Tulley muttered, rubbing his forehead again. Then he turns to Garrett, "knock down all of these tents."

Garrett walks over and starts kicking tents over as he passed, ripping up the stubborn ones. As Merriman goes to stop him, Tulley draws his gun on him. Stopping him in his tracks.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Merriman protests.

"I want all the guns in a pile in front of me, right now!" Tulley commanded. With that Garrett stopped working on the tents and drew his own gun.

"What is this?" Merriman pleaded.

". . . all the guns in a pile in front of me NOW!" Tulley repeated.

Carefully, all of the men start placing their weapons on a pile in front of Tulley. When they were done, Garrett added several others to it that he discovered after knocking down the tents. There were over forty weapons in the pile.

Shaking his head, "sixteen men, all those damn guns. Unbelievable". Says Tulley then takes a few steps back. Still pointing his own gun, "now. Pack up all of this shit and get the fuck out of here. ALL of you!" Tulley yelled.

"What?"

"I want all of you at least fifty miles from my town in the next hour."

"What about our weapons?!" Merriman said.

"Those stay here."

"We came to help you."

"We don't want your damn help! I told you that from the beginning."

"Hey, you can't just shoot us", one of the other men said. "The feds are back there."The man took a few steps toward the pile of guns to retrieve one. Garrett walked up to him and knocked him on the back of his head with the lower handle of his gun. The man fell to the ground, rubbing his head. Too close to the guns for Tulley's taste so he kicked him and the man tumbled over.

"Now he's looking to the feds to help him", Tulley said to Garrett. "The same people whose heads he came here to blow off."

"We took time out of our personal lives . . ." Merriman started.

"What about that?" Tulley cut him off. "Nobody can just pack up, travel all the way to New York and camp out for twenty-fuckin-something days? Nobody with a damn job, anyway."

"We're standing up for the constitution and for gun rights for Cole residents. . ."

"The residents want nothing to do with you. You scare the shit out of them. They think you're a bunch of fucking maniacs. So do I. Now pack up and get the fuck out of here. I'm not going to say it again."

Merriman and the rest of the group didn't respond. They just stood still for the next several seconds, stunned, unsure, silent.

"You're not packing." Garrett said, breaking the silence as he took intervals pointed his gun from man to man to man.

* * *

The militiamen, he observed, started to gather up their unfolded tents and other gear and taking them over to their vehicles. Making several trips while Tulley and Garrett kept their guns on them the whole time.

"Hey, it looks like Tulley and Garrett are clearing out those militiamen." Agent Henson said. He was still in the command trailer looking at a monitor for a series of surveillance cameras they had fixed on the rear of the town.

"Good." Prisko said, not looking up from what he was doing. Then he thought about it and looked up at Henson, "does it look like they're having any trouble?"

"Uhm, nope. The militia guys seem to be complying."

Prisko nodded. He sat with the radio that had been practically glued to his hand for the past twelve hours. There was little else to wait for. Their command trailer was custom made for emergency responses. Built to serve as a field headquarters for an indefinite amount of time in the most inhospitable of places. It may have looked like a fancy RV but it wasn't a 'get in and go' type of vehicle. It had to be assembled and disassembled for travel. He had told the technicians to take their time wrapping it back up, and they had dragged it out for as long as they possibly could. Before that, he told all of his field agents about town to take their time coming back in from whatever last minute assignments they were on. Before that, he gave them all last minute assignments.

Prisko didn't care about his orders or that he'd been stripped of overall command of the operation or that his people were the only ones left in town. He wasn't leaving until he got 'the call'. It would be coming soon enough. He'd been ordered to clear out. His superiors would give him time to wrap everything up and hit the road. When he didn't do that in the expected amount of time, they would give him more. Leeway. He was the head of a field office. A senior, loyal, decorated, twenty-four year, bureau man, after all, who had lost agents in the field. He was entitled to leeway. When he exceeded that allotment, his superiors would be out of their comfort zone but wouldn't immediately know how to respond. Phone calls would be made back and forth. They would ask each other if any of them knew what he was doing, why he was still there, and if any of them spoke to him personally. When that all got sorted out, when it was established that none of them had a clue what he was doing, one of them would be appointed to make 'the call'. The 'what are you doing' call that would turn into the 'you're pushing your luck, get out now or else' call. Prisko was waiting for that.

"You still there? What about the rear of the house?" Prisko said into the radio.

"We started from the rear, sir. No reaction."

"Well go back and try again. This time act like you know what you're looking for."

"Yes, sir."

Prisko checked his chart and looked for the next team on his list. Then checked their location on the map. He called them on the radio to check their progress, as well.

"Agent, Ross?" Prisko said.

"Yes, sir?"

"Anything?"

"Nothing."

"Did you slowly walk the dogs to a specific spot in full view of the window?"

"Yes, sir."

Prisko sighed and bit his lip, "go to the next house."

"Yes, sir."

Prisko leaned back in his chair and looked over at Nguyen, "anything on the phone lines?"

"Nothing. Nobody's making any calls." Nguyen replied.

He sighed. This was pointless but he was desperate. The order to clear out may have been a slap in the face but, given how their search had produced nothing, it was an inevitable one. Having supervised countless investigations in his career, telling agents what avenue of investigation to pursue and what not to due to little chance of gain, he had to admit there was little chance of gain on their current avenue. Yet there were no other avenues except Cole. Being there seventy-two hours after being ordered out wasn't an act of defiance, although he felt defiant. It wasn't an act of insubordination, although he was deliberately disregarding orders. What it was, was simply all he had. To leave without at least having somewhere else to go felt like leaving those agents behind forever.

All he needed was a reason to justify staying. Evidence, a single good, solid lead. No one would order him out if he had a line on the agents' whereabouts, or on whoever it was that was responsible for their disappearance, or even if he could show someone in the town might be responsible. The problem was after so many days of exhaustive search and investigation, there were no more leads. They had left no stone unturned. So he was turning them all again.

With no ideas except bad ones for generating new leads, Prisko had resorted to pure shots in the dark. Three days ago he had descended into the pit of blind speculation. Today he was going even lower. He was having his team try to make the residents think they were onto something. They would approach the property around residents homes with cadaver dogs, flashlights, and shovels. Hone in on a specific spot. Act like they had specific knowledge and were about to break the case wide open. The idea was to make someone nervous enough to react. Anyone who made any kind of suspicious reaction such as watching them intently or making sudden phone calls or abruptly leaving their home, that would qualify as a lead. But after three days, their ruse was a bust. Like everything else they tried, these people just wouldn't budge. He sighed, checked his chart again and then radioed the next team.

* * *

Tulley saw the militiamen into their trucks and safely rolling out of town with Garrett following them in his SUV for the first twenty miles. He took all of their information and promised he would ship them their weapons. He definitely would because he didn't want them to have an excuse to come back. For now, he wasn't at all worried about them making an immediate U-turn and returning after Garrett broke off his escort. He knew something about those types. They felt completely naked without their firearms. They would, at least, have to get all the way home to retrieve more of them before they felt secure enough to come back to Cole and make more trouble. By then Mr. Bennington should be back.

He had just turned the corner entering the town center, approaching his office. The FBI's command trailer having not moved at all and didn't look like it was going to anytime soon. Knowing that prick-so was under orders, Tulley had been content to wait him out. Eventually he would have to leave, the choice had been taken away from him. However, the news that Garrett had just given him before confronting Merriman and his men made it necessary to speed things up.

This wasn't going to be pleasant. With a deep breath, he slowly walked over to the command trailer. There were no windows but he could hear voices inside as he approached. He knew prick-so was there and reports he'd received said there were at least four other agents in there with him. He walked up to the entrance and knocked. Waited a few seconds when there was no answer, and then knocked again.

An agent opened the door. It wasn't Prisko. It was a younger man in his early thirties. Tulley had seen him around but had never spoke to him before and didn't know his name.

"Yes?" The agent said.

"I just wanted to check to see if there was anything else you guys needed."

"We're fine."

"Well . . . can I speak to Agent Prisko?"

The agent looked behind the door over to his right, and then back at Tulley, "he's not available."

"Well look, you guys know you're supposed to . . ."

As Tulley was speaking, Prisko suddenly came to the door carrying a radio in his hand. He pulled the younger agent back in the trailer and then slammed the door on Tulley's face. Not even bothering to look at him.

"Fucker." Tulley said under his breath.

* * *

Prisko hoped that message got through. He directed Henson to return to his station and not answer anymore knocks on the door. Then he returned to his own station, checking his map. He wanted to call his team on the radio again but decided not to. Checking on them every few minutes wouldn't help them find anything. They would let him know if something happened. Harassing them wouldn't make anything happen any faster.

Sitting back in his chair, he wondered if there was anything else they could do to shake things lose. Then his cell phone rang. He knew it, 'the call'. Finally. Who had they elected to make it, he wondered. Prisko stared at the Washington D.C. number that lit up on his phone display. He was very familiar with the area code and prefix. It was from the Justice Department headquarters although he wasn't sure who the caller was, specifically.

"Prisko." He said after answering the call on the third ring.

"Hey, Nick." Said a female voice he hadn't heard in about four years.

"So, it's you." Prisko replied.

"It's me."

"How you been, Maya?" Prisko said.

"Not bad." Answered Deputy Assistant Attorney General, Maya Larue.

"Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thanks, Nick."

Maya had only been in her current position for less than a year. Prior to that she was a rank and file Federal Prosecutor for the New York Southern District that covered New York City, which was where she and Prisko met. When he was assigned there as a junior agent, they worked on several cases together. They parted when Prisko's career path took him to Albany where he was subsequently promoted to head the division. Maya's path took her to D.C. where she was subsequently promoted. Their relationship had always only been professional but it was known that each had a high degree of respect for the other. Prisko could've guessed they'd choose her.

"Sorry they involved you." He said.

"Have you found anything new?"

"Nope."

"I can't imagine what you must be going through, Nick. I have people I supervise too but none of them ever . . . actually go into harm's way." She says and then pauses to wait for his reply. When he doesn't she says, "I've been reviewing what you got so far. I think even you have to realize it's nothing."

"With respect, Maya. It's good to hear from you and all, but I have stuff going on. Get with the threats, already."

"I wouldn't have made this call if they wanted me to threaten you. They can get someone else to do that. I'm making this call because I want to find those agents, or at least find justice for them, as much as you. But at this point you're being there hurts this investigation more than it helps."

"This is my investigation, Maya. How can you or anybody else tell me what helps or hurts my investigation?"

"There are things going on. Behind the scenes. I'm trying to help you."

"What does that mean?"

"I need you to get out."

"I'm gonna need more than that, Maya."

"I can't tell you more, right now, Nick."

"Does this have something to do with Bennington?"

Maya paused, choosing her words, "I'm . . . I'm just going to say that nothing in this investigation is going to get moving while you're still there. Things might get moving if you leave."

That was plea for trust, Prisko knew. He knew Maya. She was a downright crusader when she was a Federal Prosecutor. No superior could order her to back off a murder. Not then, at least. However, it had been four years since he knew her. And she was in Washington now. He couldn't chance it.

"Maya . . . we're trying to wrap things up as fast as we can here. I'm not sure when exactly, we'll be ready to go but. . ." Prisko said.

"Nick!"

"No fucking way, Maya! This is the only . . ."

* * *

Tulley was still standing outside of the trailer door and heard the yelling coming from inside. Knowing instantly what it was about. He'd never seen prick-so lose his cool with any of his subordinates to carry on shouting at the top of his lungs like that with any of them. One of his bosses must've called him and was putting the hammer down on him. Telling him to get out of Cole now. It was about damn time. He was wondering if the whole FBI was so afraid of prick-so that they let him get away with spitting their orders back in their faces for so long.

He never moved three feet from the trailer door since prick-so had slammed it on him. Mostly because he was unsure what to do next. He and Garrett had adopted a radio silence strategy since they knew the FBI would be listening in on them. The entire town was on phone silence so he couldn't call anyone. Not that he knew how to get in touch with Mr. Bennington anyway. Prick-so's yelling was the only thing that gave him some comfort but that was far from enough. Something had to be done.

How much time would it take to get those agents they had currently deployed all around Cole back in their trailers, Tully wondered. No, it was too good to hope for. Even if it was an immediate cease and desist order prick-so was receiving, he would at least wait until morning to depart. That's just the way the bastard was. All throughout the now, thirty-four day siege, never once did Tulley worry about where prick-so's minions looked or what they would find. There was nothing to find. Until now.

Since he couldn't get in to see prick-so, he figured his best bet was to go out and check on what exactly those agents were doing and where. He started to walk to the front of the trailer heading to his office building. His car was parked in the driveway. He had only gotten about three steps when he heard several running footsteps approaching from the other side of the trailer.

Four agents turned the corner of the trailer running to the door. So fast and so determined, Tulley had to step aside to give them room to get past him. The last agent spun around to keep his eyes on Tulley as he ran past. Looking up and down his whole body with an expression of sheer disgust. Then the agent spun around again and headed to the door with his colleagues. The first agent opened the door and Tulley could see prick-so turning toward them with the phone to his ear, stunned at the sudden approach. The last agent entered the trailer and shut the door behind him.

They know.

Within seconds, the engine on the trailer started. Seconds after that it started rolling. Again Tulley had to jump out of the way as it roared past him with no regard for his safety. Then he watched it speed off towards the town limits. The first time he'd seen that thing move in thirty-four days.

"Shit!" He shouted.

* * *

News, good, bad or indifferent, it didn't matter. What his agents had just reported to him was a development. Prisko didn't know what to make of it but at least he had something to make something of. After giving his driver the order to move out, he had everyone strap in. Using his tablet device he fingered his way through the interview records of the town residents. They had recordings of all of them. Prisko would look at those later but now what he wanted was the summaries of those interviews. It was a quick view into what the agent who did the interview thought of the subjects. How did they miss something so significant?

Whoa, Prisko thought. Before he got to the subjects he was looking for, he remembered that he still had Maya on his cell. He had put her on mute when his agents rushed in. He asked someone to pass him his phone, which was still on the table. She was still there. He pressed the button to open the call again.

"Yeah, Maya, you know what? You're exactly right", Prisko said into his cell. "Sorry for going off on you like that. I guess it's just the stress and everything, you know. Yeah. So we're leaving right now. Yep, we just started rolling. Should be at the town limits in another minute. Thanks for setting me straight, Maya. Listen, I don't wanna keep you anymore. I'll give you a call from Albany. Bye, Maya." Prisko closed the call on his cell.

"Tell the agents still out on assignment to stop what they're doing, get in their vehicles and drive back to Albany", Prisko said to Henson in the trailer. "I want all of them out of this town. Right now."

### Chapter 7

It was an overcast day. Scattered rainfall was forecasted all throughout the D.C. area. Though it seemed like the showers were all scattering towards the Federal Triangle. That historic section of the capitol that housed a small cluster of Federal agencies. The raindrops rolling down the windows were back dropped by the graying fog of the city scape that was beyond the Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building. It didn't seem inappropriate.

The mood in the conference room was cold if, nevertheless, business-like. None of the occupants particularly wanted to be there. Consistent with the rain tapping its unrhythmic beat on the panes, the four people watched the clock, in between glances at each other. Silence and anticipation filled the room. They had been there for at least, twenty minutes and had given up hope of a quick start. After two no-answers to their attempts at dialing the phone number they were given, and having this meeting rescheduled twice already, the mood was quietly going from business-like to fury-like.

Brett Burdick knew he was the object of that fury. He didn't need to see the iron looks on the faces of the three others in the room to know that. It was he who had arranged this meeting, and the two missed ones before it. He was sitting at the head of the conference table. Though the seating didn't denote any semblance of rank or authority. All in the room were peers. Growing nervous, he caught a cold glance from the casually dressed woman seated in the middle of the table in front of the conference phone. Then he checked his watch.

"Wanna try now?" He asked her.

Without reply or expression, she pressed the redial button. They heard the rapid succession of key tones once again. For the third time the line on the other end rang. Once, twice, thee times, all the way up to eight rings. There was clearly no voice mail on this line. There would either be a live answer or none at all. Infuriated, the woman was about to press the button to close the line when, for the first time, the rings stopped on their own. Looks were exchanged all around the room. Was this it, finally? They heard a faint click. That was followed by several low, rumbling sounds. Then several seconds of what sounded like plain, open-line, silence. Nobody was sure if that was an answer or not.

"Hello? Is someone there?" The woman said. Then there were more rumbling sounds, another faint click, then more silence. "Is this you?"

After several moments, " . . . this is Cole Bennington."

Burdick let out an audible sigh of relief hearing the deep, smooth, voice from the conference phone speaker that he'd heard countless times before. The voice so smooth, it might've been described as slippery.

The woman said, "hello, Mr. Bennington. Did we get the times mixed up? This is the third call in twenty minutes."

"The time was correct. I'm on a cell phone and I didn't have good coverage. I think it's fine now."

"A cell phone? My understanding of the agreement is that you would do this meeting from a land line."

"A land line is not available to me, right now."

"How is it not available, Mr. Bennington? You were supposed to give us a phone number to a land line. But you say the number you gave us is to your cell?"

"The number I gave you is to a land line. I currently have it forwarding to my cell. If you insist on a land line, we'll have to reschedule this meeting for another time."

"That would be the third time, Mr. Bennington."

"Yes."

The woman turned her head up from the phone and glared accusingly at Burdick. He checked the other two faces in the room. It was clear neither of them were anxious to have to do this again. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured his hands to her, indicating it was her call.

With a sigh, she said into the phone, "are you sure you're in a good enough coverage area that it will not disrupt this meeting?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Mr. Bennington . . ."

"Please introduce everyone in the room." Bennington blurted out, cutting her off.

"I was about to. My name is Maya Larue, I am the Deputy Assistant U.S. Attorney General. With me are John Mahl of the Central Intelligence Agency, Brett Burdick, Deputy Director of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency, and Jeffrey Coombs of the Department of Homeland Security."

"Mr. Mahl, may I know your title, please?" Bennington asked.

Mahl, uncomfortable, not expecting to be addressed, "I'm . . . with the Intelligence division."

"But you're not willing to give me your exact title?"

Maya cut in, "Mr. Mahl, as well as Mr. Coombs are only sitting in on this meeting to observe. They are not going to be asking you any questions. It was through Mr. Burdick that you arranged this meeting, so I can only assume you and him have a prior relationship. This is my inquiry, Mr. Bennington. I am the only one who will be asking the questions. And if you have any questions from here on, you should direct them to me. Understood?"

Burdick listened for Bennington's reply. He had been worried about Maya Larue conducting this meeting, but the Attorney General and the FBI Director insisted on her. She had been a tough, hard-nosed, New York City Federal Prosecutor, with a bulldog mentality. She would be confrontational. He knew if she was too confrontational and Bennington got offended, he would hang up. What worried him most is that he didn't know what would happen after that.

". . . is there anyone else in the room with you?" Bennington said after a few seconds of silence.

"There is no one else in the room with us." Maya answered.

"Very well."

The next few minutes was spent verifying Cole Bennington's identity to Maya's satisfaction. She had him give his physical description, confirmed his date of birth and social security, dollar amounts he had in various bank accounts, recent specific transactions from those accounts, his whereabouts on certain dates, as well his relationships with certain individuals. The fact-check went on for so long, even Maya's colleagues in the room got a little annoyed with her but finally she was satisfied.

"I know it's tedious but I have to do this because you refuse to meet in person or even do a video meeting, Mr. Bennington."

"Understood, Ms. Larue."

"I have to say, from your voice, you sound like a much younger man than your age."

"I've heard that before."

"Have you now." Maya said, then she put down the papers she was referencing and pulled a laptop computer out of a sleeve and opened it. She scrolled through the screen for a few seconds, "This meeting is being recorded . . ."

"Eh . . ." Came the start of a statement from the phone, then silence.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Bennington?" Maya asked.

Burdick looked at the phone, anxious. Recording the meeting hadn't been discussed prior, he didn't know how Bennington would react.

"No. Please, continue."

"Very well. Mr. Bennington can you confirm that your primary address is the Town Executive Residence in the town of Cole, New York?"

"I can confirm that my sole address is the Town Executive Residence in Cole, New York."

"And how long have you resided there?"

"Since 2004."

"And what is your net worth, sir?"

Few seconds of silence, then, "excuse me?"

"I asked what is your net worth, Mr. Bennington. You can give me an approximation, if you're not exactly sure."

"Maya, I don't think this is . . ." Burdick tried to intervene.

". . . excuse me, Brett. This is my interview. Please don't interrupt again." Maya snapped. The words accompanied by a hard, icy, stare that she kept fixed on him for several seconds. Then she looked back down at the conference phone, "Mr. Bennington, there's a question pending."

"Why do you need to know that?" Asked Bennington.

"I just want it for the record." Maya replied.

"The record. I see. Ms. Larue, I'm not sure what the value of my holdings have at all to do with this meeting. However, I can honestly tell you that I really have no clue as to my net worth. Approximate or otherwise. It's not something I spend a lot of time reviewing. If it's something you must know, then I have accountants. Both personally and who are employed in my company. I'm happy to put you in touch with them and I'll instruct them to tell you whatever you want to know. Plus, I'm sure you have my tax filings on hand."

"No, as a matter of fact, I do not." Maya said.

"Of course not", Bennington said, more than skeptical. His tone alone practically called her a liar. "I will provide the information for you to reach my accountants. Can we move on?"

"Sure", Maya said and then scrolled through the screen on her laptop until she found the notes she was looking for. "Now, my understanding is that DTRA has been looking to get in touch with you for some time. How is it that they were never able to find you until now?"

"You'll have to direct that question to them. All I know is that I was never aware they were trying to contact me and I was never in hiding ."

"They've made considerable efforts to get in touch with you, Mr. Bennington."

"I can't account for their efforts. As I said, I was never aware anyone was trying to contact me. That is, until recently, and that's when I contacted you."

"Are you sure you just didn't want to be contacted, and so ignored all attempts to reach you?"

"I do value my privacy, Ms. Larue. It's true I wouldn't have been very anxious to speak anyone associated with the government but nonetheless, had I known anyone was trying to contact me, I would not have ignored them."

"You were not aware that several phone calls, emails, even hard letters were sent to your known contact info."

"My last contact with the CIA was when I resided in Iran. When I left, all lines of communication I had with them were closed. Aside from that, the entire reason for my contact with the CIA had been information I acquired due to living in Iran. Since I no longer lived there, it really never occurred to me that there would be any need for us to continue contact."

"That's right, you were a spy for the CIA when you were in Iran, is that correct?"

Annoyed, "I was never a spy. I have no training in being a spy. I was never paid for being a spy. I simply provided information to the CIA from time to time, where I could. My contact was Mr. Burdick, who was with the agency at that time."

"What kind of information did you provide?"

"Did you just hear me say Mr. Burdick was my contact? Did you say he was in the room with you? I leave it to him to provide those details."

"Fine, but you left Iran rather abruptly didn't you, Mr. Bennington?"

A brief pause then Bennington said, "yes . . . I did".

"Can you tell me why?" Maya asked. After several seconds of silence she realized he wasn't going to reply. She continued, "in February 2002, the Iranian government precipitously froze all of your bank accounts and other assets in the country, a sum totaling a little over half-a-billion dollars. They declared you and your company enemies of the state and tried to place you under arrest. Is that correct?"

Burdick said, "Maya . . ."

"You're out of line, Brett. I won't tell you again."

"I was not expecting this line of questioning." Bennington said.

Maya continued, "you were never captured. You eluded the Iranian authorities. You seem to have a talent for that. Then over the next twenty-four hours, seven Iranian officials were suddenly and mysteriously murdered. The last one being the Chief of Security to the Ayatollah. That's the Ayatollah. The Supreme Leader of Iran. Within one hour after that last murder, all of your assets were unfrozen, liquidated into a single check from the Iranian government and issued to you. You were then freely allowed to leave the country on your private jet."

"I'm sorry. Is there a question?"

"What happened in Iran?"

Burdick stood from his chair and walked over to the conference phone, "excuse us, just one minute, please". He said as he placed the call on mute and then pulled the conference phone away from Maya's reach..

"What the fuck are you doing, Brett?!" Maya screamed as she rose from her own chair.

"Maya, this guy is doing this interview as a courtesy. It's supposed to be about Cole. What's all this Iran shit?!"

"This 'Iran shit' is that man was implicated in over thirty murders when he was living in Tehran."

"Thirty? You just said seven."

"Seven after they tried to arrest him. There were twenty-three before that. Men, women, children, in one case a whole family of four. That's why they wanted to arrest him in the first place. I was getting to that. Give me the got-damn phone!"

"How did you get this information? We have no diplomatic relations with Iran. Who did you talk to?"

"Funny thing, that. I called Iran. I googled 'Iran', got the number to their U.N. mission in New York and just called. I figured, 'what the hell'. All they can do is tell me to 'fuck off', right? Well, they didn't. They couldn't talk to me officially, because apparently Bennington made them sign a non-disclosure agreement before he left. But that agreement only applied to government officials. So they put me in touch with a retired national police officer who worked the case. He said they could never figure out any motive for the murders. For all they knew, Bennington killed them just because they were there. They only tied him to the killings because he was the last one seen with a number of the victims. And guess what? In eight of them, they never, ever, found the bodies. To this day."

Burdick lowered his head. If he had a reply, he didn't make it.

"You knew?!" Maya asked.

"I was aware of the allegations. I don't know shit about whether they're true."

"You knew." She said, this time not a question.

"This is national security. You don't have the slightest clue the insight this man has given us into the inner workings of the Iranian government over the years. And now, especially about their nuclear program. The function, the players, who influences who. He was tied into all of that. And he still has contacts there that we can use. That's my job, Maya."

Maya walked over to him, "give me the fucking phone!" She snatched it from him and laid it back on the table in front of her. Then she hit the mute button, "Mr. Bennington are you still there?"

After another several seconds, "yes."

"There's a question pending. Would you like me to repeat it?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Then please answer."

"I don't know what information you have, Ms. Larue. Perhaps you know there were some ridiculous allegations against me that were never close to proven."

"Well, you fled the country before they could be proven."

"Would you like to be tried in the Iranian justice system? The allegations were baseless. I was fleeing for my life."

"False allegations in twenty-three separate murders, Mr, Bennington?"

"Is that the number they gave you?" Bennington asked in a bored tone. "Look, there were some delicate negotiations occurring regarding payment for services my company rendered to the Iran state-owned oil company. I was getting the better of those negotiations. That's when the murder allegations surfaced."

"I see. Not one or two murders but twenty-three. They really piled it on, didn't they?"

"With respect, Ms. Larue. My understanding of our agreement is that I'm to provide Mr. Burdick and whomever he delegates, the information I have, what little there is, pertaining to the Iran nuclear program. I have done that in a separate interview and, as per the agreement, I will make myself available for any and all follow-up they may require. This interview was to be about my knowledge of the events currently occurring in Cole, New York. So I'm a little confused as to why you're bringing up Iran. Especially things I have no knowledge of, like murders and such. Now, can we please stick to the agreement?"

"People were killed in Iran. There are missing, possibly dead, FBI Agents in New York. Both cases involving you, Mr. Bennington."

"That's a false correlation, Ms. Larue. Again, I know nothing of any murders in Iran or anywhere and again, I was neither hiding from nor avoiding anyone when I returned home to the states. So I had no reason to harm any FBI agents that might have come looking for me."

Maya sat back in her chair and pushed her laptop away. "Your statement is that you were away on business when those agents arrived in Cole, correct?"

"I was away on business when those agents arrived in Cole."

"Yet you refuse to give this statement to the FBI Agent in charge of this case?"

"Special Agent Prisko? No. I will not speak to him."

"Why not?"

"His conduct has been reprehensible. He's created a national spectacle using bullying, nazi-like, tactics and subjected a lot of good, innocent, people to undue pain and stress. Everyone who resides in Cole are personal friends of mine. I'm having my attorneys seriously look into bringing legal action against him and the entire FBI. It's outrageous."

"Outrageous?!" Maya shot back. "There are five missing FBI Agents, Mr. Bennington! Four men, one woman. All with family, friends, loved ones . . . Did you say outrageous?!"

Bennington didn't reply.

"Maya . . ." Burdick called to her again, sitting up in his chair. His voice gentle, soothing. She cut her eyes toward him, as if a warning. He settled back in his chair. There was a few tense moments of silence in the room as Maya took a minute to collect herself.

"Mr. Bennington, you say you weren't in Cole the night the agents entered your town. Fine. Where were you?" She asked and again, received no reply, "Mr. Bennington, please answer the question." Still no reply, "Mr. Bennington the terms of the agreement is that you fully cooperate with this investigation. If you do not answer, you will be in violation and I must report that to the FBI Director and the Attorney General."

". . . Mr. Burdick, are you there?" Bennington asked after another several seconds.

"I'm here."

"How much of the agreement is Ms. Larue aware of?"

With a sigh, "not all of it."

"This has been a waste of my time. I'm hanging up now." There was a faint click from the phone indicating a line was closing.

"Hello? Mr. Bennington? Did he just hang up? What the fuck?!" Maya said standing up and pressing the call button on the phone to check if the line was really closed. "What is he talking about, Brett?!"

Rubbing his forehead, "he was already cleared of any wrongdoing in this case, Maya. That was in place before this interview was scheduled."

"What?"

"It was the only way we could get his cooperation."

"You gave him immunity?!"

"It was cleared by the Attorney General and the FBI Director."

"Did you two know about this?!" She said to Mahl, and Coombs. Both kept their cold, stone faces which made it clear that they both did.

"Then what the fuck am I here for?"

"We needed his statement and like he said, he won't speak to Prisko or any of his people."

"I'm supposed to be briefing Prisko about this interview."

"Brief him."

With a sigh as she pointed to the phone, "this guy has a history of people getting dead around him. He managed to intimidate the Supreme Leader of Iran, in Iran. And you gave him immunity?"

Burdick didn't reply.

"I hope whatever information he gives you is golden." Maya said as she began to pack up her things.

"The agreement is void if he lies to us about anything or if any evidence turns up that he did have something to do with the disappearances. He's not getting away with murder."

"He already did." Maya said as she proceeded to leave the room, "because he did kill those agents. But I don't think Prisko's going to see it that way."

* *

The command trailer had been driving down Interstate 87 for the past few hours. They were headed south but not back to Albany. The news his four agents brought him had possibly been the break they were waiting for. Two Cole residents had abruptly left town. Their names were Monroe and Madeline Hudson. A married couple. Prisko shook his head. Normally two people who were not immediate suspects, who barely registered on the 'persons of interest' list, suddenly being on the move, wasn't something that made a whole FBI division jump. However, they had been specifically looking for any behavior that was out of conformity with the rest of Cole, and here it was. So here they were, jumping.

A hit on Monroe Hudson's credit card revealed that he paid a medical bill yesterday morning at North Central Hospital in the Bronx. They called the hospital. Patient confidentiality prevented the staff there from revealing the nature of the bill, however they knew it was for medical services rendered to Madeline Hudson and they knew it wasn't for any scheduled visit. The high cost of the bill revealed that whatever it was for, it wasn't routine. She had already been discharged but had stayed there for a few days.

If he wanted to pull anymore information out of North Central, he knew he needed to get live bodies over there. People were much more forthcoming when you were standing in front of them. However, the Bronx was well out of his jurisdiction. He needed help. Again.

Pulling out his cell, Prisko dialed the personal cell of the head of the FBI, New York, Field office. Belonging to a man named Jonah Quincey, or "Quince", as Prisko called him. Quince had been a friend and colleague for fifteen years. Even without that, their two offices operating in the same state would be expected to cooperate regularly with one another. However their friendship made that cooperation seamless. Of the original fifty-four agents Prisko took into Cole, fifteen of them were from Quincey's office, including Quince himself. He only left a few days before the search was called off.

The phone answered immediately, "hey, Nick. How you holding up?"

"Good, Quince", Prisko said. "I want to thank you again for everything. I know . . ."

"Say no more, Nick. I'm just sorry I couldn't do more. The way they just cut your legs out from under you, I don't know what I'd do if I was in your spot."

"I'm coping. That's about it. Listen . . ."

"Nick, with what you been through, you shouldn't have to do this. If you want to designate someone else to work with us on this, nobody will hold it against you."

"What are you talking about?" Prisko asked, perplexed.

"The cop-killer – in the Bronx. That's why you're calling right?"

"Uhm, no."

"No? Well, you heard about it, right?"

Prisko remembered one of the agents mentioning the cop-killer case in the Bronx. It hadn't been a formal briefing. He was doing something at the time, he forgot what, exactly, but the news did register with him, but only barely. A man shot two NYPD officers and got away. Now he was a fugitive on the run. He was supposed to be a very, very, bad guy, public enemy number one. Prisko got it. Yet he didn't give it much attention, figuring there was quite enough law enforcement on it already.

"I heard, but I'm calling cause I need you to get some agents down to North Central Hospital in the Bronx, asap. It's about a patient who was there. I'm gonna relay you the info."

"Sure, I can do that, but what are you gonna do about the fugitive?" Quincey asked, himself now a little perplexed.

"What am I suppose to do, Quince?" Prisko asked, annoyed.

"Well, we think the shooter might've gotten out of the city."

"Anyone think he might've gotten out of the state? 'Cause that's when it would be a bureau matter." Prisko said, referring to the technicality that the bureau only gets involved in local crimes when there's evidence a suspect crossed state lines.

"Nick, you know we always lend assistance . . ."

"I don't have time to 'lend assistance' right now, Quince. You know what I'm working on."

"I'm just saying . . ."

"Quince, I'm gonna send you the info. Can you just get some guys out to North General for me, please?"

"Fine, Nick."

Prisko closed the call. Noting that now he wasn't only alienating his superiors, but now also his peers. Yet he felt compelled to throw all other business and considerations aside. He would apologize later. All that mattered now were the Hudson's.

They were traveling at the 55 mile per hour speed limit, no more. They didn't know where the Hudson's had gone from North General. They were tracking Monroe's credit card but until they had a definite fix on their location, Prisko wanted to remain mobile. There was even a chance they might catch them on their way back to Cole.

"Monroe Hudson drives a 2013 Cadillac Escalade," Prisko said into the radio, disgusted. "So how did we miss a high end, late model, pickup leaving town the night before last?"

"We lost a lot of manpower the last few days, boss. We didn't have all the roads covered." Answered Nguyen, from the radio. He was riding in one of their support vehicles. "One of the team noticed his truck wasn't in his driveway anymore. No answer when she knocked on his door. Then she looked around the property and found fresh tire tracks."

"The wife left before him, right? How did we miss her vehicle not being there?"

"She kept it in the garage. It wasn't in open view."

"So, that means she could've left at any point after the last time we interviewed her. Which was . . ." He used a tablet device to go over the interview records of all the Cole residents. He looked up the date on the record for Madeline Hudson. "Five days ago."

"Sounds about right."

Prisko reviewed the information they had on her. Madeline was thirty-eight years old, originally from the Bronx. She grew up in the Little Italy neighborhood, having been an only child to her father, a barber, and her mother, a social worker. She was a confirmed high school dropout. Had filed the formal paperwork to the NYC Board of Education when she was sixteen. She later received her GED when she was twenty-three. Her work history had been mostly in clerical positions but the last one before moving to Cole was in Manhattan at a management office for Bennington's oil services company. Currently, she was an assistant manager at Cole's sole auto repair shop, drawing a salary of 150K. As per the usual inflated salaries of all Cole residents.

"She was sick." Prisko observed.

"It looks like. The town has no local doctor but I'm not sure why'd she travel six and a half, seven hours all the way to the Bronx, though."

"She's from the Bronx. She went where she knew. People do that when they're sick."

"I guess."

". . . and then he followed her. The hospital bill was payed yesterday morning, so he left at least, two nights ago. He must've stayed in Cole as long as he could to keep up appearances."

Monroe Hudson was forty-two years old and had been a small town boy all his life. Even though he was from Billings, Montana, Prisko thought. Billings may have been the largest metro area in the state of Montana but to a Philadelphia product like him, who spent the whole first half of his career in New York City, any place with only a little over 100K population had no right calling itself a big city. Monroe was raised by a single mom who was now deceased but he had two brothers who still resided in Montana. There was no record of him ever graduating high school. He'd been an auto mechanic by trade but there was no record of him having any formal training in that either, just a string of employment at auto garages. The last being at Bennington's oil services company, which had an office in Montana. Currently, he managed the same auto repair shop where his wife was an assistant. His salary was $250K. The shop was owned by one of Cole Bennington's subsidiary companies, as all of the businesses in the town.

"You think Tulley knew they were gone?" Nguyen asked.

Prisko thought about that. He remembered the look he caught on Tulley's face as the trailer roared past him on the way out of town. He was clearly unnerved. Then there was the way he came knocking on the trailer door shortly before the agents reported the discovery. In over thirty days of that trailer being in Cole sitting in that exact spot, he'd never done that.

"No, he didn't know they were gone. He was as surprised as we were," Prisko said with certainty.

He opened up the interview files for the Hudson's and perused them. Both Madeline and her husband had been interviewed twice. Nothing jumped out at him anymore now than when he read them before. Their interviews were consistent with everyone else's. The standard auto-reply – they never knew of any FBI agents ever being in the town and Cole Bennington had left the town well before any of the controversy broke.

"I need to get them in an interview room outside of Cole. Put a bulletin out on both of their vehicles. They are not, repeat not, suspects. If any law enforcement finds them, I just want them to detain them and give us a call. Say we're concerned for their safety."

"Are we concerned for their safety?"

"He picked her up yesterday morning. They should've been back by now. If they're coming back. I think they're afraid to. Yes, we're concerned for their safety."

Prisko's cell rang. He checked the number. It was the same Washington, D.C. number as before.

### Chapter 8

Cole didn't have official law enforcement vehicles. Tulley and Garrett used their personal vehicles affixed with official Cole Sheriff's Office decals. Both drove SUV's. They were also equipped with magnetic sirens they never had occasion to use. The two vehicles had crossed each other through town at least a dozen times since the FBI departed. Each paying visits to different resident homes, covering the town.

To the outsiders, the residents had been low key, under the radar, having none stand out to Prisko or any other. They spoke only when spoken to and when they spoke, they said the same thing. Whether it was by design or accident, whether they had the faith or was motivated by something else, like fear or greed, Tulley didn't know. Especially since his own motivations were once unclear to him.

However, the outsiders were now gone and that meant the veneer was gone with them. The residents became real people again. The ones he'd come to know in the last ten years since the town was established. They had hopes, fears and ambitions. They had likes, dislikes, and resentments. In short, they had personalities and they weren't shy about displaying them.

He could imagine what prick-so thought. That the residents were a bunch of mousy, submissive, automatons, who took to orders the same as downtrodden slaves. If he knew the real dynamic, it would blow his mind. Of course, there were rules the residents had to follow. Boundaries to stay within. However, barring that, Cole residents were not at all what they led the world to believe. They were not low, they were high. They were not suppressed, they were empowered. They were not mute, they were vocal.

They all knew what they were getting into when the town was established, but none had signed up for the ordeal they had just went through. Many were none too pleased about it. Tulley's ears were still ringing from the tongue lashing he'd gotten from the visits he'd already made. There were demands to know when Mr. Bennington would return. With inquiries about when they could resume their normal lives. Would there be compensation for their troubles? Vacations had been cancelled, would they be reimbursed? One family's eldest son had designs for a law enforcement career and wanted to know how this would affect him, and on and on. Tulley listened to them all as long as could until he could hear no more. Then he dropped the news about Monroe and Mattie. Only silence followed that.

He'd pieced together that Mattie had been sick and that Monroe must have left sometime after her but neither of them had told anyone they were leaving. Tulley could understand why but it didn't change the situation. He needed to know where they went and when they would be returning. And he needed to know before Mr. Bennington got back to town.

Cole had a social scene. It was a social town. There were frequent parties, luncheons, dinners, and other events. Many for different occasions, some for no occasion – someone just felt like throwing a get together and serving food. They were a rich town so there were different charity groups that gave to worthy causes. There was one group for the homeless, another for world hunger, another for cancer research, etc. There was a theater group that often put on productions in the town hall for whoever wanted to attend. There were book clubs, athletic clubs, chess clubs, and others. No one kept to themselves in Cole. And like all societies in all the world, for all time, some citizens were more prominent than others.

One of the most prominent was Seth Berkowitz. Seth was a computer scientist and the administrator to Cole's secret intranet website that the whole town used. Were required to use, in fact. It was how they passed information to each other. Seth's original design, the site was impossible to access without a special decryption key that had to be installed on the device trying to access it. If prick-so had known about that site, Tulley thought, 'wow'.

Seth's home was ultra-ultra, modern. It looked like something from the future. At least ten years ahead of every other home in Cole – and on earth. His computer science background made him an expert in computer aided design software. So when he was given the opportunity to design his own house from scratch with an unlimited budget, he went crazy. It was a full story smaller than Mr. Bennington's house but because his design was so quirky, it actually cost more to build. It had a trapezoidal shape but was broken at the roof into two structures. The left side having it's own bedroom and being taller than the right side, which he had as a guestroom. It had a brick and glass exterior with a mix of brown and white bricks. There was a canopy over the front door that doubled as an open deck accessible from the second floor.

That was where Seth was sitting as Tulley drove up to the front of his house. The first time he'd used that deck since the FBI came into town. He had a mobile tray set up and was typing on his laptop. Tulley wasn't sure what work he was doing. Seth was one of the residents that still actively worked for Mr. Bennington's oil services company. So he could've been doing that or work for the town of Cole. He was listed in the town charter as the IT Director. Tulley knew Seth saw him as he stepped out of his car, but he didn't bother to look up, or rather, down, at him. Tulley walked as close to him as possible.

"It's open." Seth said, still not turning away from his laptop.

Tulley went into the front door and ventured his way to the second floor to join Seth on the deck. There was no extra chair so Tulley stood behind him.

"How is everything?" Tulley asked him.

Seth turned his chair around to face him, "I'm good. Glad all that shit is over. You think they're coming back?"

"I doubt it. As a matter of fact, I'm sure they're not."

"A lot of people are pissed."

"Yeah, I gathered that." Tulley said, tapping his ear.

"Some are talking about bailing."

"And you know what to tell them, don't you?"

"Don't worry", Seth said as he turned around and looked at his laptop again. "They're just bitching. Nothing serious."

"Ok. Look, there might be a lone, psycho, militia guy still lurking about town. Probably in camouflage."

"I thought you ran those guys out?"

"Most of them. It seems we missed one."

"That's not good." Seth replied, concerned. He looked all around, especially towards the woods.

"No shit. I've been asking everybody, you seen anything?"

"Are you kidding? You think I wouldn't have reported that? Of course, I haven't seen anything. Why are you just telling me this now?!" Seth said, agitated. He then gathered up his things and went inside. Tulley followed.

"Don't get excited. He's probably cleared out by now." Said Tulley.

"But you're not sure?"

"All his buddies are gone. What's to stick around for?"

Seth didn't reply with words but his skeptical expression answered.

"Alright. Put it on the town intranet. Tell them to report anything suspicious."

"I will, right now." Seth set his laptop down and began using the mouse.

"Wait a second. There's something else." Tulley said.

"What?" Seth asked, looking up as he stopped typing.

After a few seconds, "I know you know about Monroe and Mattie."

"What?" Seth said again, this time in a different tone.

"Don't fuck with me, Seth. You know they left town. You know how serious this is."

He could see Seth starting to think of a lie but then he could see him think better of it.

"Mattie was sick, Sheriff", Seth relented. "And there's no doctor in town. What was she supposed to do?"

"They called you. You've been in touch with them." Tulley asserted.

"No way. I know we're supposed to stay off the phones. The FBI is listening in."

"You're fucking with me, Seth. I know you can duck an FBI tap, easy. Now I'm not looking to fuck you up with Mr. Bennington. I just need to know where they are. Before he gets back."

"If I had talked to them, you're not going to tell him about me?"

"No!"

"She went to her old hospital in the Bronx."

"How sick was she?"

"Some kind of female problem. I didn't need the details."

"Is she still there?"

"No, she said they straightened her out."

"Monroe left two days ago. Why aren't they back?"

Seth answered that question with a look that was unmistakable.

"Yeah, ok. Dumb question", Tulley said. "Well, I gotta talk to them. Do you need to set up the call here to duck the FBI tap?"

"No, the phone in your office is voip. We all use the same T3 line. I can set up the same encryption."

". . . whatever the fuck that means."

"It means I can have them call you at your office."

Tulley started to walked off the deck, "I'll be there in ten minutes." He said and then proceeded to leave.

"Wait." Seth said. Then Tulley stopped and looked back at him. "What happens now?"

"I don't know." Tulley answered and then departed.

* * *

It took another twenty to thirty minutes before they met the wife. First, they waited in the man's truck outside of the park on Broadway, right where Jester jumped in. Pulling the gun wasn't a bright move, Jester knew. It was early morning daylight and he had just been confronted by a cop. An ignorant cop, but nevertheless, a cop. Anyone could've seen the gun. However, he wasn't thinking about the risk. He was only thinking about somehow being set up, and how he wasn't going to be set up. When he jumped into the back seat, at the point of his gun, he reached around the back of the drivers seat and pushed it hard into the man's side. Demanding to know what he and his wife were up to. Why were they helping him? What did they want from him?

The man repeated that he didn't know exactly what was going on. He was only acting on his wife's instructions. His story was they were both leaving the park when she suddenly told him to meet her at the car, then ran off. She never said why, the man said. When Jester pressed the gun harder into his side, he said the exact same thing, only louder. His wife would meet them soon and she would explain. He took the man's wallet and looked at his I.D. His name was Monroe Hudson from some place in New York.

"Cole, is that somewhere in Queens?" Jester asked. Though somehow he felt that was wrong. The name still sounded familiar to him. He sat back in the seat.

"No, it's a little farther upstate." Monroe replied.

He took the cash from the man's wallet, only thirty-two dollars, and gave it back to him. In Jester's mind, he didn't mess with these people, they messed with him. So why not take their money? He would get them to drive him out of town somewhere but waiting for the wife made him nervous. If she was coming, where was she? Was she bringing the cops back with her?

"Drive." Jester told him after sitting up and again pressing the gun into his side.

It was the first time Monroe Hudson offered resistance, even though it was passive. He didn't move on Jester's command nor flinch from the gun being pressed into his side. Jester repeated the command and pressed harder.

"We're waiting for my wife." Monroe said, stern.

Jester took the gun and knocked him on the side of the head, then he pressed the point hard against his temple, tilting Monroe's head. "Drive!" he shouted.

Rubbing his temple as he recovered from the blow, Monroe glanced back at him. Then he started the truck and pulled off. It only took a few seconds for Jester to see he was deliberately driving slowly. He pressed the gun to the back of Monroe's head and told him to speed up. He did. When he asked where he should go, Jester said just go.

Moving made Jester feel comfortable. Mostly because he could see it made Monroe uncomfortable. If they were acting on some plan, he had just disrupted it. That was good. 'Fuck the wife', he thought. Monroe could drive him out of the city. Then Monroe's cell rang. He went to pick it up and answer before Jester had a chance to tell him not to.

"Hey, HEY!" Jester said and pointed the gun.

Ignoring him, "hey. Yeah, he's here. Yeah, he is. He didn't want me to wait. We're driving now. Down Broadway." Monroe said into his cell. Then a few seconds later, "uhm, I don't think he wants me to do that."

"Who the fuck is that?"

"My wife. Her name is Mattie."

"Hang up the fucking phone", Jester commanded, "now!".

"Ok, so we're just driving. He wants me to go now." Monroe said quickly into the phone and then closed the call. Jester demanded the phone and Monroe handed it to him over his shoulder.

"What was that shit about 'he's here'?" Jester asked.

"What?"

"You said, 'yeah, he's here'. That was about me, right?"

"She . . . she wanted me to pick you up. I should've said that before."

"What the fuck for?!" Jester moved from behind the driver to the middle of the back seat. He started looking all round him and specifically out the back window to see if they were being followed. Then he raised the gun straight at Monroe's head, "I am not fucking with you."

"I . . . I really don't know anymore than that, son. Seriously. She just said there was a young man in a dirty t-shirt that I should pick up. She said you would be running away but you weren't running. You were just walking fast."

". . . and you said, 'yeah, he is'. What was that about?"

". . . she asked me if you were armed."

At that news, Jester told him to open the glove compartment and pull out all the contents, then the same for the compartment under the arm rest. He watched intently as Monroe pulled everything out and dumped it on the passenger seat. He didn't see what he was looking for. Keeping the gun on Monroe, he looked under both front seats and then the back seats. Then he made Monroe use the controls to move the passenger seat all the way forward. He reached to the front and checked the compartment in the passenger door.

"There are no guns in here," Monroe said, realizing what he was looking for. "You got the only gun."

Jester settled down a little but he hadn't forgotten the compartment on the drivers side door. He moved back over to behind Monroe and tried to look in that direction. Monroe, noticing him, reached his hand into the compartment and pulled out a handful of some old paperwork, brochures, and trash. No gun.

"See."

Moving back to the middle of the seat, Jester sat back, calmer.

After a few minutes of silence, Monroe said, "so you really want me to leave my wife stranded?"

"You look like you got money. I saw the bitch had her purse with her . . ."

"She's not a bitch. Don't call her that!"

The two made eye contact through the rearview mirror. Jester could see the intensity in the man's eyes, the angry frown on his face. It wasn't worth arguing over, he thought. "She'll be alright", he said.

It was only another couple of minutes after that, that a red Jaguar sped by them in the left lane. It went about fifty feet in front of them before switching over to their lane. Then it gradually slowed down. Deliberately forcing them to do the same. Jester didn't notice until he felt the truck slowing. By the time he looked forward to see the new car, Monroe was bringing the truck to a stop.

"What are you doing? What are you doing?!" Jester said, pointing the gun at Monroe more emphatically.

"That's Mattie. Calm down" Monroe said.

He saw Mattie Hudson jumped out of her car and ran up to Monroe's driver side window. She gave Monroe a peck on the lips and looked at Jester in the back. The two made eye contact for several seconds.

"You hungry?" She asked Jester, "I know you're hungry. You slept in the park, right?"

"Wh. . . what?" Was all Jester could say. Too stunned to think of anything else.

"We're going to get breakfast. Monroe, follow me." She said and then ran back up to her car too fast for Jester to protest. She got in and started driving off. Monroe followed.

"She's driving? How did she even know where we were?" Jester asked, still stunned.

"GPS" Monroe replied.

Mattie had driven to a restaurant she knew. She planned for them to all go inside to sit down and eat. But when they had the cars parked, Jester ordered her into Monroe's truck and insisted on going to a drive-thru. Abandoning Mattie's flashy, red, jaguar in the restaurant parking lot. Jester noticed that neither of them protested very heavily about leaving it behind. Though it seemed increasingly unlikely the Hudson's were looking to turn him in, Jester wasn't letting them get him into a public place. He was also, like before, happy to disrupt their plans, whatever they were. Like Monroe's, Jester had taken possession of Mattie's phone. He had rejected several calls to both of their phones from someone named Seth, who had been calling them incessantly.

When they got to the drive-thru, Mattie took Jester's order and doubled it before ordering for her and her husband. She wouldn't let Monroe drive off until she asked Jester twice if he needed anything else. When the food came, she didn't give Jester the bags, she took each individual dish out, unwrapped them for him and handed them to him with a napkin. When his hands were full she told him not to worry, to eat what he had. She would hold the next one until he was ready. She even wrapped his drink in a napkin before handing him the paper cup. She watched him eat and when he was done she had him give her the wrappings that she threw into the garbage.

There wasn't much conversation. Prior, Jester had been aggressive, full of threats and demands for answers, but not since Mattie joined them. He wasn't altogether passive, just quiet. It was clear he didn't know what to make of her and wasn't very comfortable around her. He hadn't asked a single question since she joined them. He also never pointed or threatened them with the gun. Though he always held it in view, mostly on his lap.

"Full?" She asked him after he handed her the last wrapping.

Jester didn't answer, only stared at her. Then he moved all the way behind Monroe and kept the gun on his lap with his grip still around it. Then he stared some more.

"I recognized you in the park." She said as she brushed some food crumbs away from the back of her seat, "those officers aren't dead, you know. You didn't kill them."

". . . are they going to be alright?"

"They were still in the hospital last report I heard. If you give me my phone, I can check."

"No, I'll hold on to this." Jester replied, "there was another guy?" He asked, referring to the drug dealer he pistol-whipped.

Mattie shook her head.

Jester took in a deep breath. That only confirmed what he pretty much knew. He wanted to kill the man, he guessed. Though he realized there was a difference between 'wanting to' and 'having done'. "What do you want from me?" He asked, "and don't say 'nothing'".

"We can't go home. Somebody is looking for us. I think they want to kill us."

"What do you want from me?" He repeated, the only question that was on his mind. Mattie's statement hadn't formed any new ones.

"We're running. You're running." Mattie answered, swaying her hands back and forth in a gesture to signify there's a connection between them. Figuring the gestures said it better than words.

Jester made the clumsy connection she was relaying, but he was far from moved and was ready to say it loud. However, just then Mattie's cell phone rang again. He looked at the display.

"Who is this 'Seth' guy that keeps calling both of you?" He asked.

"Can I take the call? He knows our situation."

Not sure if it was the right thing, he handed her the phone. Then tightened his grip on the gun but didn't point it.

"Hey. I'm here," she answered. Her and Monroe exchanged looks as she did. Then she continued the conversation looking back at Jester, nodded and said, "they're looking for us?". Then she listened, "does Mr. Bennington know?" Then she listened, then "Ok, we'll call him." Listened, then "soon, Seth." Then she closed the call.

"We have to get off the road." She said to Monroe. Then she reached over to Jester, "you want the phone back?" She offered and Jester shook his head.

"Why do we have to get off the road? It's safer on the road. What did he say?" Monroe interjected.

"No, it's not that. The guy Prisko is looking for us. Seth says they left the town." She answered.

"They left?" Monroe asked, surprised.

"Last night. And now they're looking for us. They know our cars. We have to get off the road." Mattie said and started looking to her side of the truck for a place to pull over.

"No, we're not stopping nothing. Keep driving!" Jester commanded.

Mattie looked back at him, "Jester, we . . ."

"Don't call me that", he snapped. Sitting up in his seat and leaned closer to her, "ever!"

She was taken aback and for a second couldn't think of what to say. She looked over at Monroe and could see he was just as startled.

"Hey, you ok back there?" Monroe asked. Eying him through the rearview. Jester only returned the gaze.

"Young man, if we don't pull over, we're going to be picked up by the FBI. Do you want that?" Mattie stressed.

"FBI? You said someone wanted to kill you. Why would the FBI . . ." Jester started and then stopped. Abruptly. As abruptly as the thought entered his head. The words. Cole. New York. FBI. "Holy fuck!", he cried out.

These people were from that crazy town, Jester thought. The one where the FBI agents went missing. He was never a big television watcher or regular consumer of modern media. In the past, big news events had occurred that he missed altogether. He didn't know the military had killed Osama Bin Laden until days later. He didn't know singer, Whitney Houston had died until weeks later. Yet even he heard about the events in the town of Cole, New York.

Realizing he had placed the connection, "we are good people. Decent people, Jes . . . I don't know what to call you." Mattie pleaded.

Jester ignored her and looked at Monroe, "pull over!"

Monroe pulled the car over to the side of the street. Jester opened his door and took a single step out of the truck. They had left Broadway some turns back and were now in a residential area lined with apartment buildings that were embedded with local neighborhood-type stores, groceries, local cleaners, ninety-nine cents places. It was one of the areas Jester had passed through before but never stopped in. By then they were well within the morning rush hour and there were a number of people on the street. With the spectacle of the sudden stop and the quick door opening, some of them were already looking towards them. If they looked hard enough . . .

He stepped back in the truck and closed the door. He was too exposed here. He ducked his head halfway down so anyone happening to be looking at them wouldn't be able to make out his face. For over a minute the three sat in the truck in silence. Jester having not moved an inch since closing the door. He didn't even look up at Monroe and Mattie, only stared at the closed door.

"The media says you're an evil, cop killer. Are they right about you?" Mattie said.

That made him look at her. She was doing it again. Trying to draw a comparison between their situation and his. Trying to say that if the media was wrong about him, why couldn't they be wrong about them. She wanted to connect with him again. She wanted him to understand them, to empathize, to relent. The only problem with her tactic was that the media wasn't wrong about him. He was a cop killer. He shot two bullets into two cops without regard to whether they lived or died. Before that he beat a man to death. Premeditated. Well, somewhat. Then fled from justice. Fleeing still. It was a poor contrast she made. A pitiable contrast. He relented, anyway.

"Just drive", he said, low. "You can't stop here. You need to find a garage or something to get this truck off the street."

An hour later, they were in a used car dealership on Boston Road. Unlike Broadway, Boston Road did not run the entire length of the Bronx. Yet within the Bronx, it was a longer avenue. Taking a much more scenic north/south route through the borough. Starting almost from the edge of the eastern border and cutting all the way across to the western edge until stretching north into the suburb of Westchester.

This dealership was on a section of Boston Road rife with many used car sellers and rather known for them. They lined up along the western side of the street opposite the Metro-North commuter railroad line. Stretching out for miles with one or two dealerships per block. The vehicles they offered weren't exactly top of the line. Mostly well-painted and polished clunkers with some vehicles as old as ten years. It was where the poorer Bronx residents generally bought their cars.

Jester waited outside the dealership with Monroe as Mattie was inside talking to the salesman. Monroe happily told him she was the one in the family with the business sense. It looked to Jester that she had more than just the 'business' sense, but he didn't say that. It was clear the Hudson's were wealthy people. Jester couldn't imagine having enough money to buy a whole car on a whim the way one might decide at the last minute to pick up something for dinner.

Yet they didn't seem to act like people with money to him. Or rather, people accustomed to money. It wasn't just that they were dressed down, with Monroe wearing worn coveralls, and Mattie wearing only jeans and a casual blouse, it was something else. The way they cavalierly abandoned Mattie's jaguar without a complaint. They way they're now fixing to trade-in Monroe's Escalade truck for what could only be a major downgrade. Doing it almost happily. Patting themselves on the backs for their cleverness in ditching a wanted vehicle rather than suffering on the money they're losing. They seemed to really rejoice in having money, like people having it for the first time, totally unaccustomed to it. But what did he know, Jester thought. It wasn't like he had a slew of rich friends.

Monroe had been on the phone for the past several minutes after excusing himself shortly after Mattie went into the dealership. Casually asking him for his phone back as if Jester had just been holding it for him. Just as when he'd first seen them in the park, it looked like Monroe was having an intense conversation with someone. Probably that Seth guy, Jester thought. For as much as he payed attention to it. The gun was still in the black plastic bag he was carrying but the more time he spent with the Hudson's, the more it felt extraneous. Maybe because they didn't seem particularly threatened by it. Or maybe it was because they seemed threatened by something more than his gun.

Mattie's cop-killer remark had gotten to Jester, but not the way she intended. She meant it as if to find an identity between him and them, a common ground, an abstraction. Yet he took it literally. These people took in a man they knew only as a wanted cop-killer and then begged him to stay. They had to be in trouble. They had to be desperate. Whatever they wanted from him, he sensed they meant him no harm. That's why he relented. He didn't know if he could give them what they wanted, but he could stay with them. At least, for a while. And what choice did he have, anyway?

### Chapter 9

The car Mattie bought was a 2004 Dodge Neon with 74,000 miles on it. It was gray. The body was flawless yet it wasn't the body they would be relying on. It was the engine, the transmission, the electrical system, and other systems they couldn't see and may not look so pristine if they could. When Jester relayed that to Mattie, much later when they were already on the road, she brushed it off.

"If it breaks down, we'll just buy another one." She had said, sounding as if she looked forward to it.

There was that 'rejoicing in having money' aura again, Jester thought. Then asked, "what do you guys do for a living?"

"Oh, we manage an auto repair shop in our town." She replied. To which, Jester nodded, politely.

Although this particular purchase wasn't a decadent one, if the FBI was looking for them, then they had to buy a whole new car rather than rent one. Car rental places only took credit cards and those purchases were easily tracked. However, a used car dealership, especially one on Boston Road, would be more than happy to take a check once they called the bank and verified the funds in the account. To those guys, any straight purchase without having to do credit checks and undergo financing headaches was a thing to be celebrated. Especially when they've received Monroe's brand, spanking, new Cadillac Escalade as a trade-in.

Mattie pulled their new car to the edge of the lot and honked the horn for him and Monroe to join her. Then waved them over, grinning ear to ear. She was a cheerful woman, Jester thought. For someone who, not two hours ago claimed someone wanted to kill her and her husband, she smiled a lot.

Monroe had long finished with his call and in contrast to Mattie, he had a grim look on his face. He was nearer to her than Jester was and as he casually strolled over, Monroe trotted. Deliberately to reach her before him. When he did, he tried to pull her to the side out of Jester's earshot. Jester couldn't hear them but he saw she resisted and motioned for him to get in the car. She pointed for Monroe to get in the back seat.

"No way. You ride in front." Jester said as he reached them, then jumped into the back seat, placing the gun on his lap, still in it's dirty, black, plastic bag, that was becoming increasingly worn.

Monroe walked around the rear of the car to get in the front passenger seat. "I have to talk to you", he said to Mattie.

"Talk in the car." She said as she started pulling all of the sale signs from the dealership off the car. She was also unwrapping the temporary license plates she'd gotten from the dealer to place in the windows. Monroe pointed to Jester in the car to indicate to her that he was there. As in, he could hear them. She waved him off. "Talk in the car", she repeated.

They drove off with no particular destination. Monroe looked back at Jester then Mattie and alternated the looks a few times. He really didn't want to have this conversation in front of him.

"Just say it." She told him.

"Tulley said we can come back." Monroe said.

"Just like that? That's all? Just come back. No problem, huh?" Mattie said, giggling.

"I know you're afraid, baby. But I don't think we can do what you wanted. We can't just hop on a plane and disappear. We'd need new identities, would probably have to change the way we look. Neither of us know how to do that. And even if we did, I don't think it would stop us from being found. Not from him."

"He's still away?"

"Yeah, Tulley said he hasn't gotten back yet."

"I'd rather hear from him."

"They don't know how to contact him. Tulley doesn't think he knows we left. It's better if we're back before he does."

"Tulley never knows shit."

"He said . . .", Monroe started and then looked back at Jester. With regret in his voice, "he said if we're not back by tomorrow, he's going to cut off all access to our accounts."

Giggling again, "well, we knew that was coming." She said, winking at Jester through the rearview mirror.

"Baby, whatever you want to do. If you want to go to the banks right now, get as much cash as we can, and just go . . . I'm fine with that. But I think it'll be alright if we go back." Monroe said.

Again, Mattie glanced at Jester through the rearview, this time extra long, "hey, how long you been wearing those clothes? They're filthy."

It took a second for Jester to realize she was addressing him. He had been fascinated by their conversation. "Huh?", he said.

"We need to get you some new clothes." Mattie said.

"Baby . . . what do you want to do?" Monroe asked.

"I want to go get the young man some new clothes." Mattie said, started looking at the passing scenery for a clothing store.

"Mattie, this is serious."

"I don't sound serious? Actually we could use a change of clothes too, you know. And we could all use a shower. We'll find a store and then a hotel."

Three hours later, they were in a hotel just off the Bruckner Expressway. Though they had no plans to stay the night. The plan was to shower and change and meet back at the car in two hours. All of them felt better being on the move rather than sitting still. They had with them five new sets of clothing. One outfit each for Monroe and Jester. Their shopping was done within thirty minutes from leaving the dealership. The rest of the time and outfits was spent on Mattie. While Jester was impatient, pressing her to move on from their impromptu shopping spree, Monroe was resigned to it and told Jester not to fight it. He wouldn't win.

Despite Monroe's persistence in trying to press the issue, Mattie just kept brushing him off and acting like there wasn't a care in the world. Whenever he tried to pull her aside, she turned him away. Whenever he whispered in her ear, she recoiled. Whenever he talked about anything but the next outfit to look at, she cut him off. He was perplexed with her. So much, he even whispered to Jester that he didn't know what was going on with her. Just the day before, she was so afraid, she didn't want to do anything but stay in public places.

They had rented two rooms while Jester waited outside. He had one to himself. There was a television in his room but he didn't want to turn it on. He maybe wanted to catch a story about Cole but didn't want to see any stories on himself. He finished his shower and changed within the first twenty minutes, deliberately rushing. If he was going to be caught, he wouldn't be caught in the shower. After, it made him feel refreshed. Perhaps even a little relaxed but only to a point. Ever since he'd met the Hudson's he couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding, anticipation. As if waiting for the shoe to drop.

The rest of the time he simply waited, lying on the bed with his hands folded behind his head. He wasn't sleepy and wouldn't have slept even if he was. His room was adjoined with the Hudson's and he could hear them talking but he couldn't make out the words. The conversation was animated at times, but he wouldn't say they were altogether fighting. Sometimes their voices were raised but not to a screaming level.

The hotel was two story but their rooms were on the first floor with the Neon parked directly outside of Monroe and Mattie's door. There was still fifteen to twenty minutes to go when Jester went to the car. He didn't have a key so he leaned on it to wait for them. He was expecting Monroe to come out first but it was actually Mattie, only a few minutes after him. She was carrying her purse and a smile, wearing one of her new outfits.

"Hey, you look good", she said to him as she walked over to the driver side and opened her door. Jester nodded in response, even cracked a bit of a smile. "Wow, look at that." She said, referring to it. "Get in", she told him.

Jester got into the back seat, placing the gun to his left side. Not gripping it but keeping it within reach.

"Still got your little, dirty, black, plastic bag, huh?" She said.

Ignoring her joke, "you guys ok?" He said as he motioned his head towards their room where Monroe was.

"Oh yeah, we're fine." She answered as she got in behind the wheel.

"Your husband's worried about you."

"He's always worried about me. That's why I love him." She put the keys in the ignition and then started rumbling inside her purse. "Even if he doesn't understand some of the things I do sometimes, he never questions me, or judges me."

"Some of the things you do – like finding me?"

Not using the rearview this time, she turns and looks at him, smirks and nods. "Monroe is a good man, the best man I ever knew, really. But he's not . . . much of a . . . protector, you know?"

"You think I'm your protector?"

"No", she says abruptly but then, "well . . . I do feel safer with you around, I won't lie. But that doesn't mean I think you're my protector."

"What else could that mean?"

She groans, looking for the words but in the end can't find any, "I just feel safer with you around."

He wanted to tell her that he was no protector. That he was the one people needed to be protected from. That she was a fool, but he said nothing.

"Hey, what are we supposed to call you?" Mattie blurted, wanting to change the subject.

It was also a welcome change for him, as well. He explained to her his aversion for his name, and the reason for his aversion. The history of his name, how he got it, what it represented to him. He even told her about his attempt to change it at the Bronx Supreme Court before it failed. Why he spoke so freely to her, he wasn't sure. He'd never told anyone. Not even Sergeant Burgos and Burgos had a real need to know in order to sign him up for the army under his new name. Yet here he was telling it to her. He even showed her the name-change form. Along with the new name he'd chosen.

"I understand", Mattie said solemnly when he was done. "I'll tell Monroe."

Her husband came out of the room ten minutes later, yawning, his hair in a muss. Mattie teased him about it as he got into the passenger seat. Then she told him the proper name to address Jester going forward. She didn't give Monroe the full details of their discussion, only the name. Monroe nodded and yawned. She was amused by his drowsiness and told him he could sleep on the way. That raised the question of where they were on their way to. Before Mattie started the car she leaned over the back seat and looked at Jester.

"Would you like to come home with us?" She asked him.

"I thought you said you couldn't go home."

"We're going home. And we'd like you to come with us."

"So I can protect you?"

That question prompted a quizzical look from Monroe and he and Mattie exchanged a glance. "So we can protect you", she said, turning back to Jester.

"Protect me?" Jester asked, surprised at the sudden role reversal.

"How long can do you think you can be on the run until they catch you?" Mattie said. Jester didn't answer, only stared. She could see he was uncertain. "We live in a small town. We'll introduce you to everyone. Everyone will know you. The people there are . . . they'll understand your situation. I promise, no one will ever report you."

Looking into her eyes, Jester felt her concern, and her sincerity. There was a warmness about her. Although he'd been denying it all along, he finally had to admit that. He didn't know if he altogether believed her, but he wanted to. Then he switched his gaze over to Monroe who was also looking back at him.

"You'll be safe there." He said.

"What about the problems you were having?"

"We're working those out. I'm sure we'll be fine." Monroe said.

"Please", Mattie said. "I don't want to hear on the news a week or whenever from now that you were gunned down somewhere."

Jester looked back and forth between the two of them. Then he nodded. The gesture being somewhere between willing and reluctant.

It took Monroe five and a half hours to drive into the city from Cole in his Escalade, he bragged. Normally, it was a and six and half, seven hour drive but he cruised at about eighty-five miles per hour, and topped over one hundred miles for as long and as many times as he could get away with it. Cutting two hours off the trip. However with the speed of their new, used, Neon, topping out at around seventy miles per hour, it was clear the return trip was going to take at least eight, maybe ten, he cursed. Although the curse was less about the loss of time and more about the loss of his Escalade. It wasn't the financial loss he was complaining about, it was the speed and comfort of the vehicle. He was cranky. Mattie told him to stop complaining. She was doing the driving. The weather was good, the traffic was low, the drive was pleasant. She told him to get some sleep. Monroe set his seat back as far as it could go and nodded off.

They were into the third hour and driving along the New York State Thruway. Which, according to Mattie, was the second largest leg of the trip. The sun had gone down over an hour ago so there was no scenery except shadowy foregrounds and silhouetted backgrounds. That and the other vehicles on the road. Silence filled the car with the exception of the steady sound of the wind rolling across the windows and the occasional whoosh of them either passing other cars or being passed. With the Neon, it was usually the latter.

Jester knew at end, this would be the longest drive he'd ever taken but he was wondering if it reached that already. When he tried to remember a longer one, he couldn't think of any. Was this what family trips were like, he wondered. He'd never had one of those either. He imagined being a child riding in the back seat watching the mother drive up front, as he watched Mattie. Not a care in the world as 'mommy' was in control, that child must have felt. And she would never let anything happen to you. He brushed off the silly thought.

At least he was getting out of the city. That had been one of his goals. Though he was going to Cole, New York. That had not. He wished he had paid more attention to the news a few weeks back when the story was hot. From what he could recall, it had played like the whole town was in on the missing FBI agents. Though that seemed unlikely. How could a whole town kill five people and nobody comes forward? Also, he couldn't see the Hudson's as killers. They wanted something from him, more than they were saying. That only made them manipulators, but then who wasn't, he thought. More thoughts swirled around his head. Thoughts about the Hudsons, about Cole, about dead cops, about Burgos, about the army and more. So many thoughts, so fast, they stopped playing in words and only ran through his mind only as pulses. Pulses that made him blink.

The car was pulled along the side of the road when he opened his eyes again. He woke to the sound of a car door slamming shut. There was a red flashing light blinking through the windows from behind them. Jester rose up and turned around to see an unmarked car. The red flashing was from a magnetic, light attached to it's roof. It was still night so he couldn't make out the type of car or it's color.

There were two men who had just exited that car and were walking slowly towards them. They weren't wearing Police uniforms of any kind. They were wearing suits. Yet they were coming towards them.

So this was it, Jester thought. So be it. He reached for the gun in his lap but didn't find it. It must have dropped on the floor while he was sleeping, he thought. It was too dark in the car to see so he felt his hands along the floor mats in the back seat. Hoping his fingers would brush against either the gun or the plastic bag that carried it. When he found nothing he reached under both the drivers and passenger seats but didn't find it in those places, either. What the hell, he thought. Then he heard the tattering of the plastic bag.

He looked up in the front seats and saw Monroe holding his hands up on the passenger side. Mattie was tossing his gun, bag and all, out of the driver side window.

"That's a gun there." She yelled out of the window as the gun hit the ground..

"No!" He yelled as he reached too late to stop her. He grabbed her arm.

Mattie grabbed his arm right back and said, "I'm not going to watch you die."

Jester pulled away from her. The closest man to them was on the drivers side so he jumped over and exited the rear passenger side door. The two men had seen the gun Mattie threw out and by then they had their own guns drawn. Jester ignored that and ran out of the car. He heard Mattie call him but ignored that too. They had stopped on a short shoulder in the road. Beyond that was only dark woods. Jester wanted to bolt for the woods but knew his eyes weren't adjusted to the dark and he would likely run headfirst into a tree or worse and break his neck. Running across the road was out because there were too many cars. Instead he ran straight down the road going in the direction of the traffic. At his top speed.

"Hey!" Jester heard one of the men shout and then his footsteps giving chase.

Jester was far faster than the man in the suit and was several yards in front of him within seconds and getting farther away from him with every other second. But the exits on the New York State Thruway were miles apart and it was all straightaway. There was no turnoff. Nowhere to go to get away. It seemed the faster he ran and the more distance he opened up, the more he realized there was no escape. Yet Jester kept running. Looking behind him he saw the man chasing him wasn't dashing at top speed like he was, but was trotting at a moderate, steady pace. Yet Jester kept running. In glances behind him he saw the man getting steadily, and steadily closer. He ran until the air felt hot running through his lungs, until he lost the feeling in his legs, until he was too exhausted to even lift his arms. His last glance behind him saw the flicker of lights from the two cars where the chase began, barely in view even just beyond the horizon. When he was tackled from behind and laid on his stomach, he had no strength left to fight. So he fought.

The man caught Jester's spent arm as he clumsily tried to swing it at him. "F . . ." the man started to say as he was catching his own breath. He pinned both of Jester's arms behind his back and zip-tied his wrists, "F . . . FBI. You're under arrest". The man was able to finish.

### Chapter 10

Prisko was sick of seething, sick of brooding, but most of all he was sick of being shell-shocked. He was shell-shocked when his agents went missing. Then he was shell-shocked when he was ordered to call off the search for them. Then he was shell-shocked, recently, when he was briefed by Maya Larue. Then he was shell-shocked, even more recently, from the call he received from the FBI Director. Though the call itself wasn't the shell-shock. The Director reminded him, in case it was in any way unclear, that he was not to return to Cole in regards to this case without prior approval from his office.

Respectfully, Prisko told the Director, his boss, that he didn't know it was possible to be reminded of something he had never heard before. Then he asked how it was that he wasn't allowed to interview a person of interest in his own investigation. Why was an official statement taken from Mr. Cole Bennington behind his back, he asked. His boss didn't really answer that question but he pointed out that Prisko had been given the transcript of the interview. That there was no new evidence. That Cole Bennington was cleared of any involvement in the agents disappearance. That he should move on, as the entire Bureau had.

Then Prisko asked him for the recording of Bennington's interview. Official interviews were always recorded and the recordings, whether audio or video, usually accompanied the transcripts. What happened to Bennington's, he asked his boss. That was when the Director told him he was risking his career. The Director knew that Maya had given him the formal, official, briefing on her interview with Bennington. She made the call to him from her office at the Justice Department building. Her verbal briefing had coincided exactly with the formal, official, transcript Prisko was provided.

However, what the Director didn't know was that Maya had given him a second, informal, unofficial briefing. She made a dictation of her account of the interview, the actual account. Recorded that into an audio file, encrypted it, then passed it to Prisko via a private website. That was how he knew to ask the Director about the recording. She said the actual recording of her interview was destroyed but she told him about the murders in Iran connected to Bennington. Prisko would thank Maya and apologize later for ever doubting her, if he ever got the chance. Now he knew his superiors were either outright covering for Bennington or – more likely, in Prisko's mind – turning a willful blind eye to him. That was his final shell-shock. There would be no more, he vowed.

The only reason the case was still open at all was because Prisko had made it too public to shut down. That was also the only reason his career hadn't already been sacrificed, he knew. If they could sacrifice five agents' lives, what was his career compared to that? Nothing. It was just that they knew if they fired or demoted him, he would've went straight to the media. He had been a half-step from doing that anyway. He was contemplating on taking the next half when he received the first good news he'd gotten in a long time. The Hudson's were picked up.

Now he was driving South on the New York State Thruway racing towards the only card he had left to play. This time traveling much faster than the speed limit. They were in an official Bureau SUV. When they passed Albany some time back, Prisko decided to ditch the Command Trailer back to it's base. The big, slow, clumsy, vehicle had served it's purpose but what they needed now was speed and mobility.

After the call from the Director, he decided to dismiss several of his agents back to Albany, as well. Even though they wanted to stay, there was no sense in putting their careers at risk right along with his. Besides, he no longer had need to be in force. For what he had in mind, a handful of agents would do. In the SUV with him were Agents Nguyen, Henson, and Gomes with Henson at the wheel.

They had been tracking Monroe and Madeline Hudson's bank and credit cards and knew they had been making regular purchases in the Bronx. Aside from the hospital bill, they made purchases at a couple of restaurants, then at a clothing store early that afternoon. That told him that the two were alive and well, to Prisko's relief. It also told him that they weren't abandoning Cole. Madeline left the town to go to the Bronx because she was sick, but she never left the Bronx. After so many days since leaving, if they had been abandoning Cole, their purchases should've been much further away. They had to be going back.

Prisko had the forethought to put all of their bank accounts on monitor. With a bank account monitor, any activity on the account is reported, not just purchases or withdrawals. It seemed there had been a fifteen hundred dollar balance inquiry from a used auto dealership in the Bronx. The Hudson's had bought a used car with a check and used Monroe's Escalade as a trade-in. A call to that dealership told them the make and model of that car along with the number on the temporary license plates they were issued. With that information and the knowledge that they were returning to Cole, Prisko was confident that they could catch them on the roads. Not only that but they could do it with a bureau-only alert instead of amending the previous alert they put out with all law enforcement. That would insure that only their people would pick up the Hudson's and no other agency would have a record of encountering them.

When he made that decision, Prisko thought only to save himself possible headaches fighting with state or local law enforcement over jurisdiction. Also to avoid questions about why the FBI wanted these people in the first place. That was all. He never, not in his wildest dreams, thought it would put them in the predicament they may have been in now. The Hudson's were picked up with a guest. If what had been reported to him about the identity of that guest was true, it would be a major complication.

Ninety minutes later they arrived at the location where his Agents were holding the Hudson's, plus one. Prisko was grateful the agents who made the pickup were from his Albany office instead of New York City. He would've had less options then. This location was just next to the thruway off of exit 21. It wasn't any detention facility. Nothing that had any bars or cells or places of confinement. It was a motel. A two story, twenty-four room, sprawled out building, with poor lighting and most of the square footage of the property dedicated to the parking lot. To call it 'cheesy' wouldn't have been inaccurate, Prisko thought.

Taking suspects to short stays wasn't an unusual practice at all. The Bureau often conducted interviews, interrogations, even stings, in hotels or motels. Their jurisdiction was national and official bureau facilities were commonly inconvenient. This motel was nearest to where the agents made the pickup. The FBI was now occupying three rooms of it. One for the Hudson's, another as a spare in case they needed to split up the Hudson's, and the third was the Hudson's guest. Prisko would go to that one first. He greeted the two agents in the motel parking lot and had them point out the rooms. Then he proceeded to that one.

There were two more agents inside the small, dimly lit, room with the suspect. Both of their suits were a bit mussed. He could tell there had been a few struggles with the suspect despite him being handcuffed to the bedpost. He was sitting on the left, front end of the bed next to the night table and looked to be catching his breath, probably from the struggles. He didn't say anything when Prisko walked in, just looked up at him, defiant, ready for another fight, or maybe waiting for Prisko to say something first. Upon first glance at the kid, he knew. Not that he ever had reason to doubt what his agents told him, but he still hoped there had been some mistake. There wasn't. He was looking into the face of Jester Masterson. The recent, notorious, New York City, cop-killer. The cops he shot were still alive but that was only a semantic. Anyone who shoots cops were cop-killers, at least, according to cops. At that moment, Masterson was arguably the most wanted man in America. Prisko sighed, commended the agents for doing a great job, then exited the room without saying a word to him.

Once the door closed behind him, he rubbed his face, hard. Nguyen had accompanied him to the room and was waiting outside the door for him.

"Is it him?" Nguyen asked.

Prisko nodded first to answer him. Then shook his head in bemusement, "how the hell did they hook up with him?"

"Should I call the NYPD?"

"No." Prisko answered, short. "Go in the room. Don't talk to him. Make sure no one else talks to him, either." He ordered, ignoring the confused look on Nguyen's face. Then before he could reply further, Prisko proceeded to the rooms where the Hudson's were.

Monroe and Madeline Hudson were seated on the edge of the bed when Prisko walked into their room. Arm in arm, almost as if they had posed for him. This would be his first conversation with them. Their interviews in Cole, as most, were conducted by subordinates.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson. We never spoke before, but I think you know who I am." He said. Neither said anything but both nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

There were another two agents who had been guarding them when Prisko arrived. He handed them his weapon and had them both leave the room. He pulled up a chair from the desk and sat in front of them.

"Is the boy alright? The other guys wouldn't tell us." Madeline started, anxious.

"He's fine. He's in another room."

"What's going to happen to him?"

"You know who he is, right?"

"We know."

"Well, he shot two NYPD Officers, Mrs. Hudson. What do you think's gonna happen to him." Prisko replied with the rhetorical question. His tone curt. He was impatient with this subject.

"We knew . . ."

"Forget about him, right now", he said, dismissive. "I'm here to talk about what happened in Cole." He said and then let that sink in for a second to gauge their reaction. They exchanged looks. Then both became reserved, stoic but neither said anything. The fear was obvious, but he could see they were solidifying. Drawing strength from each other. He needed to break that. He sat back in the chair, "how do you feel, Mrs. Hudson? I know you were in the hospital recently. Everything ok?"

"Everybody calls me Mattie." She replied.

"Feeling better, Mattie?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Anything serious?"

"You didn't check with the hospital? You don't know?"

"No ma'am. Even the FBI can't crack doctor/patient privilege. All I know is that you spent some time at North Central Hospital. I don't know why. I hope it's not serious."

"I thought it was, but it looks like I'm ok."

"I'm glad. Really." Prisko said and then paused for several seconds until, "you weren't supposed to leave Cole, were you, Mattie?"

Again, they exchanged looks. Mattie started to say something but seemed to stop herself.

"You were told to stay in town, no matter what, correct? Come hell or high water, you were told to stay put. And then you left. Yeah, you were sick but you still left. And you were told not to", Prisko then turned to Monroe, "and then you followed, didn't you, Mr. Hudson? Or can I call you, Monroe?"

Monroe nodded his head.

"You both left when you were told not to, and you didn't know if it was safe to come back. So you took a few days. You thought about running away forever – but somebody told you it was safe to come back." He could see he was getting to them. "Do you know how we lose most people in the witness protection program, Monroe, Mattie? Because somebody told them it was safe to come back."

Prisko alternated eye contact between the two of them. Back and forth. "You know what happened to those agents, don't you?"

Neither answered.

". . . you know the most frustrating thing about this job? It's that sometimes we need someone to talk or give evidence against someone, we know they're under threat of death if they do. And we can make threats of our own – say, to lock them up for the rest of their lives, maybe lock up their significant others, friends or family, whatever. But no matter what we threaten, they know we can't match that threat of death. We can't. We're law enforcement. The good guys. We just can't do that. So what we usually do is the opposite of threats. We offer to protect them. And a lot of times that works.

"But sometimes ", Prisko continued, ". . . and we've seen this in cases of like, drug cartels, terrorist cells, that kind of thing, the people we want them to give evidence against are soooo bad – I mean, they don't just kill people, they kill people horribly. They torture them, they rip apart their bodies, burn down their homes, they do all sorts of evil shit to them. In the worst cases, not just to the witness, either, but other family members, maybe even their entire family. And then these witnesses know those bad people have soooo many resources – they'll just never know who might be working for them. We could relocate the witness somewhere and they might look at their new neighbors, the new people they work with, or just any random person traveling down the new street they're walking on, and they know it could be someone who was sent by those bad people to do them harm. I mean, those bad people are sooo intimidating, they absolutely convince that witness that, no matter where we hide them or how well, that one day, someone will come to do them harm. It's just a matter of time. And so, no matter how much we promise to protect them, they just don't believe we can.

"And when that happens, we in law enforcement, well, we just lose. That's the immovable object, the unbreachable barrier. We're done. Gotta move on." He sat up in his chair and leaned forward, closer to them. "Unless, and this is rare but it happens, unless we decide that the crime that was committed was so heinous, so reprehensible, so fundamentally an attack on the very fabric of our being, that nothing else matters to us except getting that criminal. Nothing. Not what happens to ourselves – and not what happens to any witnesses."

"So you can keep doing the polite, cooperative, 'fuck you' thing to me, right now, that everyone in that got-damn town has been doing to me ever since those agents went missing. And you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to call a press conference. I'm going to announce that the case has been blown wide open thanks to Monroe and Mattie Hudson. Indictments are imminent, arrests are forthcoming, all the truth will be coming to light. Thanks to Monroe and Mattie Hudson. And then I'm gonna send you the fuck home.

"If I can't move you with my threats, then I'll move you with theirs."

Prisko finished and looked at the two of them intently. They started with dumfounded expressions on their faces, which is what he expected first. They both fidgeted, looked uneasy, unsure. Then the looks turned to what Prisko wanted, grim. He wasn't bluffing them and they knew he wasn't. He waited. Waited. Waited.

"Say something!!!" He shouted.

Then Mattie spoke.

* * *

Masterson was lying on the bed, sleep, the next time Prisko walked into his room. He could tell there had been more struggles with his two agent captors because now both of his hands were cuffed around an opening in the bedpost. Prior it was only a single hand. Also, his agents now had their suit jackets and ties off, their top buttons undone, and their shirt tails out. They seemed to had gotten acclimated to the constant state of combat around him.

Masterson looked uncomfortable with his muscular arms folded awkwardly in order to lie his head back. He's just a boy, Prisko thought. A big boy, but still a boy. Prisko walked to the side of the bed and stood over him.

"Careful, sir. He might not be sleep. He likes to kick." One of the agents said. His voice a hopeful whisper, in case he was wrong.

Prisko looked back at both of the agents. Removed his gun and handed it to the one closest to him. He reached out his hand, "give me the key", he said low, but not quite a whisper.

The agent hesitated with a miffed expression on his face. Not quite sure what was going on.

"Give me the key", he repeated. Then the agent handed it to him. "Wait outside", he said and didn't make another move. He watched them until both had left the room and closed the door behind them.

He walked over to the bedpost and held the cuffs in the middle as he unlocked both of Masterson's wrists. Holding the right wrist so it wouldn't drop too suddenly when he released it and then gently rested it by his side. No doubt, the kid was really sleep. Prisko was far too exposed to pass up a cheap shot, if Masterson had been awake. When he freed the left wrist, he let the arm drop naturally. The jolt woke him and he started to jump up. Prisko held his hand to his chest to keep him down.

"Wait. Wait!" He said.

The kid calmed down enough for Prisko to start to release the pressure on his chest. Masterson saw that the cuffs were off and there was no one else in the room with him. He didn't know what exactly was happening but he wasn't protesting. Prisko backed away from him slowly. Holding his open hand out in front of him as a 'wait' signal. Masterson remained on the bed, still resting on his elbows, as Prisko continued to back up all the way to the door. When he reached it he turned and opened it and stepped through. Then turning back to face Masterson.

"Good luck." He said as closed the door behind him.

* * *

Prisko told the agents who picked up the Hudson's to write a full report of the night's events at the motel as they saw fit. Only forget to file it for as long as they felt they could. Prisko suggested seventy-two hours but stressed it was really up to them. He thanked them for their exemplary work. Then he sent them home to Albany along with young, Agent Henson. Andy Nguyen had been a rising star in the bureau for a number of years. Well on his way to heading his own office one day, perhaps higher. Prisko ordered him home too.

From the time he released Masterson, he and Gomes waited in the motel parking lot inside the suv. Pulling the vehicle to the edge of the lot so as to be as much out of view as possible, but the lot was too wide open to be out of sight completely. They saw as Mattie ran to Masterson's room as soon as they were released. Which was shortly after Masterson.

Monroe Hudson, with a look of extreme relief, wandered out of the room and went straight to their used Neon and waited for them. Minutes later Mattie and Masterson came out of the room with her arm as much around his broad shoulders as they could go. She looked to be trying to console him but he didn't look like he needed consoling. He stopped when he eyed the suv, arms spread out, hands into fists. Mattie pulled him away. They got into the Neon and drove off. Heading North.

Gomes was at the wheel of the suv, "we going after them?"

"Nope." Prisko replied.

"So what are we doing?"

"You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Let's go."

The Director told him not to return to Cole in regards to the case of the missing agents. However, the FBI had a sworn duty to apprehend a wanted fugitive anywhere within the United States. Even Cole, New York. Mattie Hudson would let Prisko know when her town patriarch had come home. Maybe when he went to retrieve the fugitive, Prisko just might cut around all the excess of lying witnesses and fake, complicit, lawmen and go straight to the source, Cole Bennington.

It was time to do some shell-shocking of his own.

### Chapter 11

Now he's calling me, he thought with some irony. Brett Burdick was watching the display light up on his cell phone. The number read 'unknown' but only one person ever called him from an unknown number. Yes, it could've been any random call, but he knew it wasn't. It rang two times, three. How many times had he been the one making the call and listening to the ring from the other side of the phone? Four, five. The call went to voice mail after the fifth ring. It wouldn't take long for it to start again. Less than a minute, as a matter of fact. 'Keep calling, you son-of-a-bitch', Burdick thought.

His office was at the Pentagon. The exact location within the Pentagon, undisclosed, yet it had an immaculate view of the center courtyard. It was square and spacious, had a huge oaken desk and conference table, large digital world map display on the north wall, even a bathroom. It wasn't the type of office a former CIA field operative would've ever expected. Especially one who was once on the verge of being booted out of the intelligence world altogether. He remembered when they first showed him this office and told him it was his, he thought it was some kind of mistake. Yet he got acclimated to it and in little time, was flaunting it. He felt like he belonged in it, invited colleagues to have lunch in it, held as many meetings as he could in it. Now he was hiding in it.

The whole Cole, New York, affair had essentially made him a pariah throughout almost the entire national security apparatus of the United States. Particularly in his own little corner of it. There was no avoiding the looks of scorn and disgust he received just walking through the halls. For his everyday work since Cole, the people he interacted with interacted with him, but reluctantly and only as little as possible. That attitude came from everyone, even his own staff. He never thought he'd miss his old job, but at least at CIA there was a certain acceptance of the dark side of the work. It was known that tragedies sometimes occurred but that doesn't make them intentional. That one having a hand in a bad outcome doesn't make one a bad person. That agency knew that, but this one?

The Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA), where he was a Deputy Director, was all about weapons of mass destruction (wmd). Any and all, including nuclear, chemical, biological, high yield explosives, or any other new or emerging technology that could be used to kill lots of people in little time. Find them, destroy them and/or control them, that's what they did. It was their niche in their corner of the universe and they were nothing less than full gung-ho about it. It was noble work, Burdick knew. However, for most of his new colleagues, there was right, there was wrong – there was nothing in between. Anything and anyone that led or contributed to five missing people, particularly law enforcement, particularly federal, fell on the wrong side. Although the full details of Burdick's role in the Cole affair wasn't widely known in the agency, the whispers throughout the Pentagon halls was all it took to make him spend most of his days taking refuge in his beautiful office.

A third series of rings started on his cell. Burdick held it in front of him, "fuck you! Fuck you!! Fuck you!!!" He yelled at the word, 'unknown' on the display. Let it ring.

Being a small pond in the big ocean that was the Pentagon, DTRA for the most part, was purely a technical agency, full of technical people. They employed scientists, computer specialists, doctors and engineers. None of which Burdick had any skills or training in. They had little to do with intelligence or intelligence gathering, but there was an element of that in their overall mission. They had an in-house think tank. A group that discovered and tracked wmd's, or unique, essential, components used to make wmd's, all around the world. Trying to anticipate any possible threat they may pose to the United States. That was Burdick's area.

Any number of factors might've led to his recruitment as Deputy Director, he guessed. Yet he knew it wasn't the advanced degrees he held in the Arabic and Persian languages. Those got him in with CIA. However, the people he worked with now discussed nuclear fission, chemical analyses, and advanced electrical circuitry, the way most people discussed their favorite TV shows. Having a couple of degrees that showed he shared the same proficiency in the Arabic and Persian languages as the average Arabic and Persian teenager, wouldn't impress them. What they wanted was his known prowess in acquiring high value intelligence. That was the reputation he earned while in the CIA but then, only while he was stationed in Iran. Burdick laughed at the thought. He was stationed in Iran for the last four years of his tenure. He was in the CIA for twelve.

Prior to Iran, he spent his first two years toiling at Langley, training for field work. Then the next six he spent bouncing around various parts of the Arab world. The agency was known to be patient with new field operatives. Allowing them sufficient time to develop a productive intelligence network. Yet their patience only ran so far. Burdick was constantly being transferred due to inefficiency. Never able to dig in any roots in any one place. During those years, the field evaluations he received from his superiors described him with words like 'passive', 'inadequate', and 'ineffective' and had phrases like 'unable to perform proficiently without direction'.

It was far from the stellar intelligence career Burdick had pictured for himself. After seven years in six different posts, the agency had reached the end of their patience. The forces were aligning against him. He knew he was well on his way out. So he returned to school to learn Persian, the primary language in Iran. He knew the agency desperately needed people there. It was his last ditch effort to save his CIA career. Else he would've had to go teach at some college somewhere.

When he received the post, Burdick was ecstatic. He figured there he would have more time than usual to develop assets. New international sanctions had been imposed on the country, U.S./Iran relations were zero, and the agency had dozens of new operatives on the ground. They needed information on the Iran government and their nuclear program. As long as he sent back pretty much anything at all, he could stay there for years and never have to worry about being booted out of the agency.

So he thought. However his previous ineffectiveness had put a flag on his head. The superiors were watching him closely and still didn't like what they saw. Again the forces aligned against him and it didn't seem like there was anything else he could do to stave them off. Then he met Cole Bennington.

He never found out how Bennington even knew he existed, let alone that he was CIA. As a field operative, Burdick was supposed to be the one recruiting assets, but Bennington recruited him. Approaching him out of the blue one night while he was having a late dinner at a restaurant in the Abbas Abad section of Tehran. Bennington walked up to his table and presented himself as a fellow American. It surprised him because he thought he knew most of the Americans still on Iranian soil after the sanctions went into effect, at least the ones in Tehran. However, he had never heard of this man. Bennington sat across from him without invitation but he didn't mind. It had been several weeks since he had even seen another American. It wasn't long after Bennington sat that the tone of the encounter turned from a chance meeting of fellow countrymen on foreign soil, to something else.

Not only did he know who Burdick was, but Bennington also knew his tenuous situation at the agency. He said he could change that. Offering to provide him certain Iranian officials from the energy industry as intelligence assets. Other officials he couldn't provide directly, he would give Burdick compromising information on that he could use to turn them into intelligence assets.

Once he got over the initial shock of what he was hearing, Burdick asked him what he wanted in return. Bennington never answered. Only saying that he could accept the offer or be sent home. Never making the most obvious threat, to expose Burdick as a spy to the Iranians. Somehow Bennington knew being sent home in disgrace was his worst fear. He departed shortly after that without making any plans to meet in the future.

The next few days, Burdick looked into Cole Bennington. The information on him from Langley was scant, but he did find out that he was an industrialist. He owned an oil services company that had some low level contracts dealing with the Iranian oil industry. Nothing major, all were subcontracts from larger, private, firms. No direct dealings with the state-owned National Iranian Oil Company. None of Burdick's own Iranian contacts had ever heard of a Cole Bennington. The man didn't seem to be in a position to provide what he said. Burdick brushed him off as a kook and forgot about him. Thinking also, that Bennington had forgotten about him.

Then months later, Burdick was contacted by a high official with the Iranian Ministry of Energy. This official was one Burdick knew the agency had been trying to gain access to for years, and here the man was contacting him. What was more amazing was the contact method he used. It was through an espionage method Burdick had developed only with his own, personal, contacts. The few he had. The message was left for him at a location in a supermarket he routinely used to retrieve clandestine packages. It requested a meeting. When Burdick arranged that meeting, the man told him he was referred by Bennington. The intelligence he provided immediately and greatly impressed the bosses back home. For once, Burdick was seen to be producing. A stop was put on his being pulled from the field.

Over the next year and a half, seven more officials with various Iranian government agencies including it's own Ministry of Intelligence, had contacted Burdick using the same method. Each saying they had been referred by Bennington. Each providing even more sterling information that not only made him look productive to the bosses at Langley, but more like an intelligence superstar. Suddenly, instead of being on his way out, he was the top field agent on the ground in Iran. Also considered one of the top in the world.

That newfound clout made it an easy task for Burdick to get the special exemption from the State Department to allow Bennington's company to operate in Iran, despite U.S. sanctions. Which was the only reciprocation Bennington ever asked for. However, once that exemption was granted, within one week, Bennington's company was announced as the new chief contractor for providing oil services directly for the Iranian State oil company. Supplanting the Russian company which had held it previously. That was when Bennington made his largest fortune and became the most prominent foreigner operating in Iran. Achieving a status in the country equal to it's most highest officials.

Then at one point he learned that some of the intelligence he was provided by Bennington's contacts compromised executives at the Russian firm that he took over for. He wasn't only advancing Burdick's interests, but his own. However, for the most part Burdick had to say he benefitted far more from the relationship than Bennington did. Then one day, it all came to a sudden, horrifying, stop.

He answered the phone on the third ring of the fifth call, "yeah."

"Is there something wrong with your phone?" Answered the smooth, slippery, voice of Cole Bennington that Burdick had heard so often.

"Now I'm supposed to take your calls. If you had taken my calls anytime in the last eleven years, we wouldn't be in this shit."

"Brett . . ."

"You don't know the position you put me in. Everybody here hates my guts."

"I put you in? I didn't come looking for you. You came looking for me."

"You just cut me off!"

"I chose to cut my ties to the Middle East and live a quiet, uneventful, life in my home. My decision had nothing to do with you."

"You didn't say a word to me. One day you were just gone. Your phone, email, everything went dead. I couldn't find you."

". . . which should have told you I was no longer interested in continuing our arrangement. You should have respected that. Instead you hunted me down for eleven years."

"All it would've took was one simple phone call."

"And all it would've took was for you to move on. Instead, you sent government agents TO MY HOME!" He snapped, at the last part.

Burdick was taken aback. An outburst like that from Cole Bennington was a very rare thing indeed. It scared him. Bennington had always been a strange bird, but whatever his idiosyncrasies, he had always been a stalwart of control.

After a few seconds, the air a little calmer, "I got this job because they expected me to deliver. But everything I had came from you. As soon as you left Iran, none of those contacts you put me in touch with would communicate with me anymore. What was I supposed to do?"

"You are not a child, Brett," Bennington said stern, sharp, losing patience. "I was under no obligation to accommodate you just because you feared your colleagues would learn you're incompetent."

"And those Agents I sent. They were only supposed to get your attention. What the hell . . ."

". . . don't", he ordered.

"Well, you got what you wanted." Burdick started, his tone now, tired, defeated. "They're all out of your town, even Prisko. I convinced everybody that you're going to break all of Iran's nuclear secrets. It wasn't hard. I just told them that you were the source of all the info I provided before. They all signed off on it."

"Did anyone hesitate?"

"I thought the FBI Director was gonna spit in my face, but he agreed. He ordered Prisko not to return. I was there when he made the call."

"Very well."

"So. That's it, then."

"You got what you wanted too, Brett. For me to save your job again. I wanted to be done with all of this, but now I have to take the time and energy to deliver on my agreement. Not too many people force me to do what I don't want to do. You did. But you don't ever want to test me like this again."

"You can go home now, you know."

"You only have one job now. You can sit on your ass and take the information I provide you back to your superiors, but that's not your job. Your job, your only job, is to keep them out of my town. Do you understand me, Brett? Keep those motherfuckers out of my town."

"I understand."

"You have no idea how lucky you are."

Burdick thought of the five FBI agents, maybe he did have an idea. "I understand."

* * *

There was the sheriff again, smoking his pipe as he stood outside of his office building. Looking smug as hell, he thought. The big, tough looking, deputy was with him. Dennis Romero alternated putting each of them dead center in the scope of his sniper rifle, as he had at least a dozen times. Sometimes even putting the laser sight on them. Both of them oblivious every time. He could've dropped each of them anytime and they'd never know what hit them.

Just like since he'd arrived with Merriman and all the other patriots, he'd sighted all those FBI thugs in his scope, as well. Those were the real targets. The ones he came here to kill if they stepped over the line. Well, any more over the line. As he identified each and every one of those federal government lap dogs, with their navy blue field jackets and yellow lettering that they paraded around in like drunken peacocks, he deplored the flaunting of their tyranny. So he created his own checklist that he marked off every time he sighted one in his scope. The only one he knew by name was the top dog, Prisko. The one who'd been shooting off his mouth in the media everyday. The rest he assigned his own code names. There was 'chink', who looked to Dennis to be the second in command. Then there was 'box-face', and 'mad lapdog', and 'blondie', there were 'uglies', that he numbered one to eight, and others. He had code names for all of them and he'd sighted all of them in his scope at least once. If they had started trouble, he could've taken out a dozen of them before they even realized he was there, let alone mark his position. Unfortunately, the pigs left the town peacefully before he got the chance.

He now watched the town center perched from his prime firing position atop a tall eastern cottonwood tree that offered a full 180 degree view of the town. The cottonwood would've been considered a poor spot to set up a firing position with it's slim trunk, light wood, and scarce leaf cover, but that was only to a lesser sniper. Dennis had created his own custom-made camouflage suit specifically for the cottonwood. It was a brown tarp that had protruding twigs from top to bottom that blended into the surroundings. His boot spurs dug into the trunk to hold him in place and his do-it-yourself thigh spurs secured his position as he wrapped his legs around. Hugging the tree tightly to making himself as small as possible. For his M24 sniper rifle, he had a cottonwood trunk patterned, urethane mold, made to order, that he wrapped around the stock. The rifle itself was secured in a hollowed, false branch that he also made himself. Anyone who viewed him from below would see nothing but tree.

That wasn't a theory, it had been tested. Ever since the Sheriff and deputy ran off his patriot comrades, the two of them had scoured the woods several times looking for him. Both of them passing right under him more than once and neither spotting him. They probably believed he was gone by now. No, Dennis thought, he was right here, assholes. He was a real sniper. As deadly as any there ever was. He could sit perfectly still for hours while controlling his appetite, his urine and his bowels for as long as needed until the opportune time to move unnoticed. Just like he'd read about the discipline a good sniper must possess.

He told Merriman and the other patriots that he had trained in the Marines sniper school. It was only a small lie. It would've been true if he hadn't failed the psychological evaluation. What did it matter? He was just as good if not better, anyway. Besides, the lie wasn't meant to puff himself up. He just didn't like to be questioned about his methods. Saying 'this is how we did it in the Marines' went a long way to shutting up the know-it-alls in the group who were real ex-military. It helped especially when Merriman would presume to give him an order. Dennis would tell him to kiss off. He knew what he was doing.

They had removed the patriots two days ago. Dennis watched the whole thing from his perch. They trusted that sheriff and he used that trust against them to steal their weapons and throw them out like a bunch of freeloading squatters. At the time, he was too stunned to do anything. Merriman had organized the group to mobilize from all over the country to drive up to New York just to help them fight the fascist government. He thought they and the sheriff were on the same team.

Dennis had been thinking about how to pay back the ingrates in this shitty little town. A small retribution before he hiked it back to the next town where he left his truck, and headed home to Idaho. A bullet through Sheriff Tulley's head or the deputy's would serve, but it was too much. As bad as they were, they weren't the same as those federal dogs. Those were the ones his bullets were meant for. Still something had to be done. So he watched them for two days thinking of a well placed, shot that wouldn't kill anyone but send a clear, unambiguous, message.

He watched the first day after the FBI left as over a hundred of the townspeople gathered in their town hall. It was the first time he'd ever seen so many Cole residents gathered in one place. Since he got to town, most of them had been locked down tight in their homes, except for a few who went out sparsely for supplies in town. He thought about shooting one of them in the arm or leg, but his rifle was much too powerful for that. A shot in any limb would make it useless for the rest of the target's life. Again, that was too severe.

Then he watched this afternoon when the whole town, at least three or four hundred, he estimated, gathered for a big cookout. For that, all the men, women, and children of the town attended. He took that as the perfect opportunity. A shot to cut through the celebration and scatter the crowd in terror would've sent the exact message he wanted to send.

So he took aim and fired. Several times, as a matter of fact. He shattered glasses, china, put bullet holes through tables, chairs, walls, even the ground, but there was too much noise and excitement. None of his shots ever got anything more than a curious glance from nearby bystanders. After six or seven shots, he just couldn't get enough of the crowd's attention. He realized, the stealth of a sniper that was so effective when going for the kill, actually worked against him when only trying to put a scare into someone. It turns out, until someone actually gets shot, no one realizes they're being shot at. The cookout went on with everyone totally oblivious.

He cursed his luck. Now hours later, well after midnight, he was developing what he knew were the two main enemies of the sniper, fatigue and frustration. He needed to do what he wanted to do and get out. Finally, he decided on a foolproof plan. He would put a bullet through the sheriff's windshield when he was in his suv. There would be no mistaking what that was or the intent of it. It also sent the message directly to Tulley, the source of his frustration.

That shot was lining up in front of him, right now.

Tulley had said goodnight to his deputy and was walking towards his suv. Leaving the deputy to go back into the office. Dennis didn't know where Tulley was going so late. He knew his apartment was right in his office. Yet there he was getting into his vehicle. Dennis made sure to aim for the passenger side. His rifle was too powerful to cause any significant glass shattering that might fly off and injure Tulley, but he didn't want to take any chances. This was only supposed to be a message. Tulley started the vehicle and he saw the brake lights brighten as he pulled it into drive. He turned on his laser sight and saw the beam pierce the windshield and land on the headrest of the empty passenger seat. He wanted to catch him just as he was driving towards the end of town. Just another few seconds . . .

Something grabbed Dennis's ankles.

He was suddenly being pulled down from his sturdy perch. So sudden, he lost his grip on his rifle and it went flying downwards into the pitch black night. Cutting the night's silence with it's loud clanging off the branches on its way to the ground. The grip around both his ankles was like a vice, but it happened too fast for him to tell what it was or to register anything but the pain. It couldn't have been a man. No man could've climbed high enough into the tree to grab him without him hearing. He was being dragged to the ground in stages, his boot and thigh spikes that had secured him to the tree ripped through the trunk and he could hear the soft, wood splinter and crack in resistance, but not enough to stop his descent.

Eventually the steel spurs must have bent out of shape because the fall became one, smooth, steady drop. It wasn't a freefall, something was weighing him down by his crushed ankles. Something that seemed to weigh a ton. He lost his handgrip on the tree and fell backwards, his arms flailing. His middle back impacted on something other than the ground because when he hit, his arms and legs continued down. Although he was no longer in control of them. He never realized his back was broken or his lungs had collapsed. The black night was the last thing he saw before he completely lost consciousness. Shortly after, life.

He never knew what hit him.

### Chapter 12

It turned out the low, cruising speed of the Neon after leaving the dealership was just a hopeful, temporary spurt. Possibly a used car merchant's trick to get a satisfactory rating from the buyer to get them on their way and far enough away from the lot to ever consider coming back. Since leaving the jail motel, as Jester had come to think of it, the Neon's average speed seemed to drop 10 mph. The trip up I-87 had become something akin to a parade where the three of them were like spectators watching every other vehicle on the road pass them by. Several honking their horns at them in frustration for slowing down traffic. Even, ever cheerful, Mattie complained about missing her Jaguar. A few times she snapped at Monroe to drive faster until he finally convinced her he just couldn't.

Four hours had passed since the motel and still they were only halfway to their destination. Monroe was at the wheel while Mattie sat in the back with Jester. At first nursing him, since there was some bruises and puffiness on his face from fighting with the FBI Agents. They had stopped at a convenience store to get ice packs and aspirin. Since then, she'd been assuring him they were not being followed and no one else was going to pick them up. Jester couldn't stop looking behind them for the first hour or so and he hadn't been able to put the gun down at all.

That he still had the gun at all, was a shock. It was waiting for him on the back seat of the Neon once they left the motel, as if the FBI couldn't be bothered with it. Mattie had offered it to them when they were stopped. Even if she hadn't, Monroe was waiting in the drivers seat several minutes for him and Mattie before they all left the motel. He must've saw the gun laying there. When he first saw it, Jester picked it up, pulled it out of the bag, and immediately wanted to check to make sure it was still loaded. He didn't want to get caught sleeping like that again. Except he didn't know how to check to make sure it was still loaded and didn't want to look foolish trying to figure it out. So he left it alone and was running on hope. He asked Monroe why he didn't take it.

"Well, you looked like you were more comfortable with it." Monroe replied.

Jester didn't have a clue what happened at the motel, although it was clear the FBI wasn't interested in him. They didn't even talk to him. When he was first captured, after he had been subdued, he asked when he would be taken back to the city. The agents just told him their boss would speak to him. Then when the boss got there, he only peeked in at him and then, he presumed, went to talk to the Hudson's. After that they were all released. A few minutes after the boss left, Mattie came running into the room with all concern and hugs.

The encounter did offer some verification for what the Hudson's told him. The FBI really were looking for them. Still there were so many questions in his head. Why didn't they turn him over to the NYPD? Who were the Hudsons that they could get them not to turn him over to the NYPD? Who were Monroe and Mattie so afraid of? There were many more. However, the biggest question on his mind was why wasn't he asking those questions and demanding answers. He'd been thinking about that the past four hours. The answer was obvious but he wasn't acknowledging it, at least not consciously. Consciously, he told himself it was because the answers wouldn't make any difference. There were no other options for him, anyway. He had nowhere else to go. However, the obvious, subconscious, answer was that what they offered him, he actually wanted. He wanted to be someplace where he wouldn't be hunted down, where he could live openly. Most of all, someplace where he could have peace. The illusion they offered, if that's what it was, appealed to him. To have answers to those so many questions in his head risked shattering that illusion.

After nursing his minor wounds, Mattie spent the rest of the time on the phone. She was checking in with people in her town. Even in the middle of the night she made at least a dozen calls. Apparently, she had been sick recently because she told them all she was out of the hospital, doing fine, and on her way home. He heard her tell them about him. That they were bringing a guest back with them. That they would like him as much as her and Monroe did. She told them his name was what he told her. She told them that he had a tough exterior but was really a 'sweetie' once they got to know him. It amazed him how this woman seemed to have such a familiarity with him. As if she'd known him for years. The funny thing was, things she told them was spot on accurate. She told them he was shy. He was. She told them he was fond of traveling. He was, kind of – although he couldn't think of anything he said or did that would've tipped her off to that. She told them he liked the outdoors. That was also true. These stories of him told by a woman he just met, in a conversation with people he never met, struck him as more than strange. Yet he also felt something sort of like comfort from it.

But then there were moments in her conversations where the pleasant, catch-up, chit chat, turned darker. He could tell the person on the other end was asking her about things she didn't want to discuss in front of him. She would tell them she'd talk about it later. In some conversations, she said that multiple times. Everyone she spoke to, she asked if 'he' made it back to town yet. Without any further clarification or reference as to who 'he' was. Jester never heard the reply but he deduced that all of them told her no. Mattie always seemed relieved by that. Then he gathered that she was lining up a big meeting when they returned. Yet that meeting seemed to be dependent on if she and Monroe could make it. Though there was no mention of what could possibly stop them from making it, Jester got the feeling both parties knew but deliberately left unsaid. Mattie was much more somber during those stretches in the conversation.

"Everyone's so excited about meeting you." She told him as she finished her last call.

Jester made a half smile, and nodded. No doubt these people were playing him. "You were in the hospital?" He asked her.

"Yeah. It was just a female thing."

"Are you ok?"

"I was in a lot of pain. I didn't know how bad it was, but it turned out, the doctor said it was no big deal. I'll spare you the details, but I'm fine. That's why we were in the Bronx. I was at North General. I grew up around there. I'm from the Bronx."

"Ok." Jester replied, he could think of no other response.

"You know, I've learned in my life that some people don't talk much because they don't want to. And some don't talk much because they don't know how to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they just never had a lot of practice with it. Never had anyone they could relate to enough, or trust enough, or whatever. Maybe they're afraid of being judged or disliked."

"You're saying that's me?"

"Maybe."

Jester wanted to reply that he always found that observing people told him more about them than what they said. Yet he didn't feel comfortable enough to say it to her. So maybe there was some truth to her words.

Daybreak came in the next hour. The sun rising up just above the trees and it's clear light just hitting the highway. None of them had slept overnight but none of them felt particularly tired or fatigued. Most likely because of the ordeal of having been picked up by the FBI. After that, none of them expected to be driving free on the open road now. It gave them all a second wind. It had been silent in the car when the sunlight hit them for the first time. Jester saw Mattie looking at him from his peripheral vision for the last several minutes. More than that he could feel her eyes on him. Not staring, but peering for long intervals and then turning away. Then peering again. He tried to ignore it but she persisted so long he found he just couldn't.

"You want to tell me something?" He asked her. Breaking the silence in the car. Monroe was still at the wheel and he glanced at him through the rearview.

"I was pregnant once, you know. A long time ago. Before him." Mattie started, motioning her head towards Monroe. Jester noticed him glance back at her and then look back at the road. "I can't even picture his father's face now. "

If she was waiting for Jester to reply, he disappointed her. He was too busy asking himself where was this going.

"It was the only time." She said solemnly.

"What happened?" Jester relented. He was more than a little uncomfortable with this line of conversation.

"It was a stillbirth. Not a miscarriage. You know the difference?"

He held out his hands to indicate he didn't. He didn't even know there was a difference.

"A miscarriage is when the baby dies like, really early in the pregnancy. The first trimester or maybe the early second trimester. Most of the time it happens before a mother even starts showing. Before the baby grows to the point where it looks like a real child and before anyone could even think of it as a real child. "

Starting to sob, "but a stillbirth is when the baby dies after the pregnancy goes to full term. A mother carries a living, breathing, moving, growing, absolutely alive, precious little angel, right up to the point where you think you're going to have a birth and be able to see and hold that angel and look at his little face . . . and then the doctor tells you he died." She wiped tears from her eyes.

"Why are you telling me this, miss?" He asked, moved by her story but not the way she clearly intended. Why the hell would this woman pour her heart out to him like this? "I just met you yesterday!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . it's just . . . he would be around your age now?"

"Are you telling me I remind you of your son you never fucking knew? A black son!" Jester pulled away from her as far as he could and found himself resting on the car door.

"Don't you talk to me like that!" She snapped. Instantly going from emotional to stern. Though she was still crying.

Now she was chastising him? After that? He thought. "Pull over. I'm getting the fuck out of here." Jester commanded to Monroe. Turning his attention away from her.

"Wait, son. Just calm down." Monroe said.

"I said pull the fuck over!" He pulled the gun from the bag and pointed it at Monroe, not Mattie. She continued her sobbing.

"Oh come on . . .", Monroe said. "Is that really necessary now?"

"Just wait a min . . . " Mattie started.

"Don't talk to me!" Jester snapped at her, then to Monroe,"I am not fucking with you. I said pull over now." He pushed the gun to the back of his head.

"Ok, so we're back to this." Monroe said, surprisingly calm. Then he gradually pulled the car across two lanes to the shoulder and stopped.

Jester opened the car door, wrapped the gun up in the bag and started to step out. They were in the middle of nowhere on I-87 with scant vehicle traffic in the dawn hours. There really were no accommodations for pedestrians , only more road. He got out anyway. "Fucking crazy people." He muttered as he slammed the car door behind him.

"Mattie, just show him." Monroe said loud enough for Jester to hear as he walked away from the car. He moved the car forward slowly to keep up with his pace.

Mattie reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She opened it up to the picture compartment and tried to hand it to him but he brushed her off. "Fuck that", he snapped. Not even looking at her. Monroe waved his hand to her for her to pass it to him. She did. Monroe pulled the car several paces in front of him and held the wallet open so that the picture was visible and would come into view as Jester approached it.

Curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't help but focus on the picture as he got closer to it. He thought he knew what it was but the outline was faint. As he got closer, it was confirmed. It was a picture of a baby. He stopped just in front of Monroe's outstretched hand holding the wallet and looked at Monroe.

Monroe pushed the wallet towards him, "just look".

Jester took it from his hand and examined it closer. It was a newborn wrapped all in baby blue. There was a blanket and the head was in a tiny cap. He guessed the blue meant it was a boy. A glimpse of the tips his tiny little knuckles were just visible from beneath the blanket. It took him a few seconds to guess what it was.

"Is this . . .?"

". . . that's Mattie's son." Monroe answered before he could finish the question. "When we first met, you thought I was looking at you like that because I recognized you from the news. It wasn't that."

"This baby is dead?"

"Yes. Mattie's family had the hospital make up that picture of him before . . ." Monroe said but didn't want to finish.

It could have fooled him, Jester thought. The child looked as alive as any newborn photo he'd ever seen. His eyes were closed but that wasn't unusual with newborns. Maybe it was only the lighting, but he had color in his cheeks. He could've just as easily have been asleep.

Jester looked in the back seat at Mattie. She was looking away from him, peering out the other side of the car window, resting her chin on her hand. Tears were still visible but she wasn't sobbing anymore. Then he looked back at the picture. Then at Mattie. Then the picture.

The child was black. Or rather, Jester thought, mixed. He didn't know anything about his own parentage. For all he knew, he could have been mixed too. There were no baby pictures of himself that he'd ever seen. He didn't know if any ever existed. Maybe no one ever cared enough to take any. However, with his complexion and possibly his hair texture, if someone had shown him this very picture and told him it was his own, he couldn't have disputed it. At least not outright. This dead child looked like it could have grown up to be him. Or rather, look like him. That was why Mattie stared at him in the park. That was why she'd been mothering him ever since they met. That was what she was trying to tell him.

"His father?" Jester said.

Mattie didn't answer and after a few seconds Monroe looked to the back seat. She was still peering out the window.

"He asked about his father." Monroe said.

Mattie turned around looked at Monroe. Then ducked her head down to make eye contact with Jester through the car. "He was more of a sperm donor than a father." She said with some scorn.

"Do I . . ."

"You look a little similar to him, but not too much." She started and then her lips curled into a slight smile, "if you looked too much like him, I probably would've turned you in."

Jester laughed.

### Chapter 13

Mattie drove the rest of the trip. The last hour off the interstate. In the tristate area, night driving along the interstate was little different than driving in the city, in that there was plenty of lighting along the roads. However, the further they drove up I-87 the less lighting there was and the more they relied totally on their headlights for visibility. Yet as long as they were on the interstate, with the wide roads, three lanes, multiple vehicles traveling alongside them, and the occasional road light, they could still get along with their regular beam headlights. For Jester the whole concept of high beam headlights found on every vehicle seemed redundant, even nonessential. He couldn't imagine a scenario where they would ever be needed. That is, until they started traveling the secondary roads to Cole.

Cole had no primary roads leading to it. It was all through woodlands with rows of dense foliage on each side of them in the black of night. High beams were the only way to get through. Anything less seemed to absorb into the darkness. That and they served to give advance warning of and to, oncoming vehicles. The road was wide enough to fit two, average sized, vehicles passing, but only barely. High beams served to notify oncoming traffic far sooner than normal beams. Without oncoming traffic, a vehicle would drive near the center of the road. Moving to the right side only when there was another vehicle going the opposite direction. Because of that, you had to drive slow. To Jester, even the Neon seemed too fast going through, but Mattie maneuvered with ease. There had been no oncoming traffic.

For the full final hour, they seemed to go through a full maze of those kinds of roads before coming to their destination. Along the way, Jester barely noticed they passed a sign with a white background that said 'Welcome to Cole, New York'. He had hoped to map out the route in case he needed to find his way back alone, but that was impossible without having a built-in GPS in his head. He knew electing to go home with the Hudson's would, at least partially, put him at their mercy. But he now realized it was far more than he thought.

Their destination came upon them suddenly and without notice. They were just driving along the black night, with no change in scenery except more of the dark silhouette of the woodlands on each side, when they made an abrupt right turn. Only when they made the turn did Jester see the lights of a large, weird shaped, house. It was well off the road and couldn't have been spotted from it unless you knew exactly where it was. Only when the car turned and the headlights shone on it, did Jester noticed the very long driveway that was paved in a much higher grade asphalt than the normal road. It was so long, it took them another minute to reach the edge of the garage next to the house.

Mattie stopped the car in front of the large, two car, garage, and honked the horn. Jester pulled the gun from the bag and gripped the handle. He wasn't expecting to be met by anyone. The noise from the bag made both Monroe and Mattie turn around to look at him. Both saw the gun in his hand but neither reacted. Mattie turned back around.

"Yeah, it does get kind of spooky up here at night." Monroe said, before turning around, himself.

Lights from the garage suddenly turned on, bright, halogen lights. They illuminated the entire driveway and probably half the road beyond. The house looked even weirder up close and illuminated than it did from the edge of the driveway engulfed by darkness. 'What the hell kind of house is that', Jester thought.

Seconds later, a man came walking from down a gravel trail from the house. He was middle-aged, relatively thin, but he had a big stomach that he seemed to not have a care in the world about showing. His t-shirt hung over it, the end protruding out from his waistline. He wore dark, bermuda shorts but Jester couldn't tell the color. The man stopped a few feet away and peered disapprovingly at the car, itself. Then he held out his hands as if to say, "what's this". He approached the passenger side window, leaned over and looked over at Mattie..

"Mattie, are you alright?"

"Yeah, Seth. I'm still fine. Thanks for asking, again."

"What is this thing you're driving? My God!" He said, referring to the Neon.

"Emergency vehicle. We didn't have time to be choosy." Monroe answered.

Shaking his head, the man then looked in the back seat at Jester, "hello". He greeted.

Jester didn't reply but he made sure to show the gun without pointing it at him.

"He is friendly. You were right, Mattie." Seth said.

To Jester, calling him by his chosen name, "It's ok. Seth is a friend. You have to stay with him until we can sort some things out. We can probably take you to our place tomorrow." Mattie said.

"You didn't say anything about that." Said Jester.

"Sorry. You can keep the gun. Seth won't mind."

Seth opened the passenger side rear door for him. Jester, hesitated at first. Then he decided to step out rapidly. He took two steps back to create distance from Seth. Then pointed the gun into the air and fired. A shot went off. The noise cut through the quiet, cricket song, peace, of the night. Mattie, Monroe, and Seth all jumped.

"Hey!" Seth said, jumping back and started rubbing his ear.

"What are you doing?!" Said Monroe.

"It still works." Jester said, looking at Seth, warning him.

Mattie leaned over Monroe to peer out of his passenger window at Jester, "they don't like guns around here. You can't do that."

"Who?" Jester asked, combative.

"We're trying not to attract attention, young man." Seth pleaded.

"From who?"

"Just please don't fire it again. I told you, I let everyone know you were coming. You knew you were going to meet them. Seth is one of them. What's the problem?" Said Mattie.

Jester pointed the gun down, a little calmer.

"I have a room made up for you." Seth said, "If you want to go in and check the house or something, go 'head." Jester pointed at the gravel trail. "Yeah, that way", Seth told him.

He looked back at Monroe and Mattie in the Neon.

"We'll see you tomorrow." Monroe said.

Jester slowly walked up the trail towards the house.

"Just go on up the trail to the house. No one is there. If you see anyone, feel free to shoot them." Seth said. Then as Jester slowly started to leave, "nice to meet you, by the way."

Jester turned back briefly, then walked up the trail to the front door of the house but didn't go in. He waited outside to see how long that Seth, guy would stand at the car talking to Monroe and Mattie. It took a few minutes. As he watched, he saw Seth shake Monroe's hand from the car. Then placed his hand on Monroe's shoulder, the two of them nodding to each other as unheard words were exchanged. It was a solemn handshake, woeful. As if they weren't expecting to see each other again or wasn't sure if they would. Jester thought he might've misinterpreted it. However, then Seth walked around the front of the car to the drivers side. Mattie got out and hugged him, for several seconds. She was crying. What the hell? He thought. Should he go back down there? He decided not to. Seth stood in front of the car as Mattie started it and backed out of the driveway. He waved at them until they were out of sight. Jester waited at the door for Seth, who started towards the house.

"You didn't go in?" Seth said as he turned the corner from the garage, cheerful again.

Jester didn't reply, he just watched the empty driveway, frowning. He looked at Seth.

"Come on, son."

"You first." Jester motioned with the gun for him to come forward.

"Wow, you spoke to me," he replied as he walked past Jester.

The front door was unlocked. Seth turned the knob and went inside the house. He stood behind the door and held it open for him. Jester looked back at the driveway one last time and then started in.

"When you're comfortable enough that I'm not going to cannibalize you, maybe you can stop pointing the gun at me?" Said Seth.

Forgetting about the driveway for the moment, Jester held the gun on him with both hands and fully entered the house. He checked the immediate open areas of Seth's living room. Cop style, he led with the gun everywhere he went. Then he turned back to Seth.

"Really, son. Look at you and look at me. Do you really need that gun to keep me under control?"

His lightheartedness infuriated Jester, "this is not a damn game!" He snapped, but he also lowered the gun.

"I know it's not. But I can't hurt you and the fact that you think I can is a little funny to me."

Jester shook his head. Between Monroe, Mattie and now, this guy, he couldn't imagine what might've happened to those poor FBI agents in this town. "This is some crazy shit," he said.

"Come on, point the gun again, I'm gonna show you the rest of the house." Seth said as he walked in front of Jester to the tip of the staircase. He took a few steps up and waited for Jester to follow. He did but he didn't point the gun. He held it down. They started up the stairs, slowly.

"Oh, and later on, I can show you a better way to check if that gun is loaded without having to fire it." Seth said.

Seth showed him the room he made up for him but Jester didn't use it for several hours. As he said, the house was empty. After verifying that, what had started out as a security check became a guided tour. Instead of running through all the rooms checking every opening for sinister forces, Seth was all too happy to slow down and showoff his custom living space.

He told Jester how he designed the house from scratch. He showed him the livingroom, with the ultra modern furniture, and state of the art entertainment system – all, he also custom designed. His foyer, which he chose to go with more traditional furnishings. He said it was Victorian but that meant nothing to Jester. It looked like something he'd seen in old movies or movies set in old times. His game room had a pool table and dart boards, along with all the latest game consoles, all laid out in sections. The kitchen had a built-in greenhouse attached that Seth grew his own herbs and vegetables from. The home office was the most impressive. His computer was a little white box and the monitors were all touchscreen, liquid crystal displays set up on mobile mounts, that he could move back and forth with his fingers. They were all over the room. He had at least a dozen. Then Seth took him outside to show him how he pointed the entire house to the east to catch the rising sun. Even showed him the software he used to do all the designing for it and the architectural websites where he got the ideas. It was all fascinating to Jester – and hideous. Every bit as ugly on the inside as it was on the outside.

"Nice job." He told Seth.

"Thanks." Seth replied, beaming.

They spent the remainder of the evening on Seth's deck that was outside of his home office on the second story. He showed Jester how he could roll most of his computer equipment onto the deck when he wanted, so he could work outdoors. That was where he spent most of his time in the summer, Seth told him. He did nothing but work, anyway. The cool, night air felt refreshing. They were trying to wait for the sunrise so he could show Jester what he meant by catching the rising sun. Jester told him he would try but he couldn't guarantee he'd make it. Seth made them coffee. Jester took it although he wasn't a big coffee drinker. He had nothing against it, it just wasn't his first choice of beverage.

"Do you want me to taste it first?" Seth said, referring to his coffee.

Jester shook him off and took a sip. It wasn't bad.

"I love this stuff. I drink it all day long." Seth said.

"What's that?" Jester said, fascinated, pointing to the West.

Well off in the distance, there was a very aggressive display of white and yellow, mixed lighting that shot up from the treetops into the sky. They were coming from what was clearly a broad opening in the woods. The brightness rivaled that of a sports stadium where the home team was playing a night game.

"Oh, that's the town center," Seth replied. "All shops and streetlights and stuff. Every night that's always the brightest thing around for miles. It's disgusting. Light pollution, if you ask me."

"Light pollution? What do you mean by that?" Jester asked. Being from New York, one of the brightest lit cities in the world, the concept of 'light pollution' was foreign to him.

"It's just too damn bright. I'm far enough away where it's not so bad, but anyone who lived within a few miles from it, say they want to look up in the sky to see the stars. They can't, because of all that shitty, artificial, light. I've been complaining about that for years but they don't listen."

Jester nodded. He understood the concept but was still wrapping his mind around it. Imagining if he was trying to look at the stars, he could see how that light would impede his vision. Then his mind floated elsewhere.

"Why did they have to leave me with you?" Jester asked, cutting to the question that was on his mind since he got there.

Seth's pleasant demeanor changed to uncomfortable. "There's . . . some things they have to work out."

"They said that. What 'things'? And with who?"

"The sheriff and . . ."

". . . and what? Who is the sheriff?"

"You're not going to meet him. Look, this town . . . there are a lot of good people here. Monroe and Mattie are two of the best. And they . . ."

"They're in trouble."

". . . a little bit."

"A little bit? I saw you at the driveway. It looked like you were saying goodbye to them."

"It wasn't . . . well, in truth, we don't really know. What's happened with them, has never really happened before in this town." Seth's tone had suddenly become a little more forceful. As if he was tired of trying to sidestep the issue.

"Are you saying they might not come back?"

After Seth took a sip of his coffee, he nodded, "it's possible."

Jester stood up on the deck and looked toward the driveway. Then looked all around him. He was trying to find a quick way down. Wait, why was he doing that? He thought. The sun was just peeking up in the east. Not yet visible but the light from it was just coming into view. Still, full daylight was at least an hour away. It was more night than day and the light wasn't nearly enough to shine a way through the dense woodlands or even along the roads.

"You don't know where their house is, son." Seth said, alarmed.

Jester went to reach for the gun to put it in Seth's face and force him to tell him. However, he didn't have it anymore. He had left it somewhere back on the tour. He went to grab Seth by the front of his shirt but Seth jumped out of his chair and backed up to the edge of the deck, just avoiding his reach. Jester started to go after him.

"You can't help them!" He yelled as Jester took his first step.

Jester stopped in his tracks, breathing heavy, "why not?"

"You just can't. Not tonight. I'm sorry. I wish you could. I wish I could. But we can't."

"So what happens to them?"

"They'll either come back, or they won't."

"What the fuck is going on, here?"

"Like you said, this is some crazy shit."

### Chapter 14

The concept of 'home' had always been a dynamic one to him. One thing, one day, something else, the next. Most days, he could better describe what it wasn't, than what it was. It wasn't a haven, nor a dungeon. Wasn't near, nor far. Wasn't here, nor there. More than a dwelling, less than a continent. More than property, less than a soulmate. Somewhere in between where words couldn't describe. Whatever it was, it had always escaped him. Yet he craved it, the idea. The definition. If he could define it, then he could possess it. As he had so much else. Had he found it? He wasn't sure, but it felt close, within reach. As if just at the tip of his finger. Cole, the town, was in front of him. He had fought for it, protected it, and sacrificed for it, but was it home?

Cole Bennington, the man, arrived little more than an hour ago at the town that was his namesake. Frowning at the thought, he never wanted it named after himself. Despite his wealth, he had never been the vain type that needed to see his name all over everything. In fact, he was more the opposite. Preferring to stay behind the scenes. He resisted the idea. Right up to the point where they went to apply for a charter with New York State. That was the point when they absolutely had to choose a name. A small group of residents had been pushing to name it after him and no one else had any better ideas. He relented. Had he known his former associate would use the town name to track him down, he wouldn't have. He should've known better. Well, there was no going back now, he thought.

His late model, top of the line, Audi Sedan had been sitting on the outskirts of town. Headlights off, the black sedan was just off the road that led to its Main street, in the shadows. In the daylight hours, he would've been spotted immediately, but not at night. If he had been visible to anyone who happened to pass by, no one gave any indication of it. Several had already, including Tulley and Garrett. He had been there for most of the past hour, just sitting. Having been away so long, to just drive on in, seemed strangely inappropriate. Even in knowing that all of the interlopers had been removed. So he sat.

He noted some things. The lights from the town center polluted the night in a sickly, white with glints of a yellow, phosphorescent, tint. So bright, it seemed to stain the air, itself. Clouding out the stars in the skies. He couldn't see them clearly from his car and he should have. The modern, LED, lighting that emitted through the clear glass windows of the town's closed convenience store were far too bright. The whole town knew the store hours. They knew when it was closed. To maintain such obnoxious lighting overnight was absurd. People should see the stars. Seth was right about that, he thought. He would have that corrected.

Also their growth space, the parcel of land they'd reserved for unplanned, future, development, stood out like a missing tooth. Some kind of placeholder would have to be put there in keeping up the aesthetics. Perhaps a playground for the kids, he thought. He would solicit ideas from the townsfolk on that. They were pretty good at offering town improvements.

Then there was the unfinished medical center. That's what got most of his thoughts. Yes, there were logistical problems in getting it built and functioning but still, he realized they'd been dragging their feet on it for too long. It's construction timetable was directly correlated with their ability to get the necessary personnel to staff it. Along with the necessary medical equipment and supplies to stock it. None of the current residents were qualified to make those decisions, including himself. He didn't want a medical facility standing uselessly with no one to operate it. They needed experienced doctors, nurses, technicians, and administrators. This would be a unique recruitment in that these would be the first people who would be residents of the town that he had no prior, personal, relationship with. Which meant they would all need to be vetted.

The few people they had already looked at, proved inadequate. Either lacking the necessary experience to take on the task, or the tact needed to join their community. The search wouldn't get any easier. He needed the minimum amount of personnel to provide the maximum amount of healthcare. Plus, the facility had to be built just right. It had to look as nothing more than a local clinic but perform as a world class hospital. It had to be effective enough to fully treat 90% of whatever might ail the residents including providing major surgery, and mental health. Yet it couldn't be so effective that it would attract outsiders from surrounding towns and beyond. It was a delicate balance. That's why it had been taking so long. He would have to expedite it. Maybe take the project over himself.

Other than that, he did enjoy the look and feel of his town. Besides being its benefactor, he also held the official position as Town Executive. Which was another term for Mayor. Except he felt Town Executive was a title more befitting townships with lesser populations. With Cole having less than five hundred, it seemed appropriate. Technically it was an elected position, though there had been no election. Still, that made all of the Cole residents his constituents. So the observations he made this night weren't power mongering, they were his duty.

The original concept of the town was somewhere between big city decadence and small town blandness. He wanted a little of both. The city aspect was more difficult. The town would never have the raw square acreage of an Albany or a Peekskill, but it could have art and culture. Maybe they could never be a big city, but they could mimic one. For the small town aspect, at first he felt that was sort of built in. They were a town and they were small. What else was needed? However, what he learned from the residents raised in other small towns was that it wasn't about what the town had or didn't have. It was about community. Having everybody know everybody. Not just knowing them but looking out for them. Having them look out for you. Bennington was starting to feel they had that, as well. Perhaps that was his missing element of the concept of 'home'.

He arrived just after sundown on a day that had been overcast to begin with. The clock was ticking and he still had some cleaning up to do. After being absent for over a month and having no contact with anyone in it, it was time to reconnect with Cole, the town. He started by turning on his headlights, the high beams. He flicked them over and over. Close enough at the sheriff's office so it wouldn't be missed. That was the signal he had worked out with Hailey. Then he started the car and drove in front of his house, the town executive residence. Parking in his assigned space.

He saw Deputy Garrett step out of the office and peek across the town center. Bennington's residence and the sheriff's office were directly opposite each other. Confirming that it was him, Garrett ran back inside. Seconds later he and Hailey were briskly walking over to him. As they came within a few feet of his car, both grimaced and grabbed their noses.

"Whoa", Hailey said. The stench that caught his nose stopped him in his tracks. He collected himself and continued to the car. Respectfully taking his hand off his nose.

"Mr. Bennington, welcome back." Tulley said.

"Hello, sir." Garrett said, his hand still on his nose.

"Gentlemen." He replied as he stepped out of the car. "Hailey, you can hold your nose too, if you want."

"That's ok." Tulley, replied, still grimacing.

"So, obviously I need to deodorize the car. Scott, would you mind?" He said and then threw Garrett his key fob to start the Audi's keyless ignition.

"No problem, sir." Garrett said as he caught the key fob and went to jump in the drivers seat.

"It's worse inside." He said as he moved to the side so Garrett could get in.

"I can handle it." Garrett said, jumping into the car and closing the door, frowning.

"The smell is coming from the trunk mostly. It's empty now. Douse it with bleach and some kind of fragrant detergent, use the whole bottle of both. Then run a hose through it thoroughly for at least ten minutes. Don't worry about the carpeting. I'll have it re-upholstered later. After that, just park it somewhere in the open and leave the trunk and all the doors and windows opened. The sun will bake out the rest of the smell. It should be fine after a day or two. Just leave it in front of the house when it's done."

"Yes, sir." Garrett replied, then, "uhm, are you talking about washing out the entire car?"

After a couple of seconds, ". . . just the trunk, Scott." Bennington replied.

"Ahh, gotcha." He started the car and pulled out. Tulley and Bennington watched him drive off. Then Tulley saw the disapproving look Bennington was giving him.

"He gets a little nervous around you." Tulley said.

"What's to get nervous about? He's a 42 year old man. He's had bosses before. All his life, I expect."

"Not like you."

Bennington didn't reply, only watching Garrett drive off. Following the car with his eyes until it was out of sight. Then he turned back to Tulley.

"There was some nutty, militia-type guys that came up here from all the publicity", Tulley started. ". . . called themselves helping us out. They were packing all sorts of high powered weapons and other shit. They wouldn't leave at first, so I had them camp out around the rear of the town for a few weeks. Garrett did a great job in helping me run them off."

"Not perfect." Bennington said, lowly.

"What?"

Ignoring that, "I hope he hasn't been harassing any of my non-aryan constituents while I've been away."

"No, sir. Not at all. I told you that wouldn't be a problem."

"Hailey, I don't want to hear he's been rude or dismissive to them, either."

"Absolutely not. You made that very clear from the start. Ask anybody. You won't get any complaints about him."

"Very well." Bennington said and then started to walk up the stairs to his executive residence. Tulley walked along with him. "I had some ideas about the town I wanted to . . ."

"Well, there's something I have to tell you."

"Tell me." He stopped in his tracks.

Five minutes later, they were in the sheriff's office. Tulley led him through the front of the office and then downstairs. Bennington was more than a little annoyed. He knew what was downstairs.

As they reached the basement they walked past the walls to the first cell. Bennington saw Monroe and Mattie Hudson sitting there. They saw him. Mattie shrieked and the two of them hugged each other tightly. He exchanged a look with Tulley.

"You told me they were in your office. You didn't tell me they were in a cell. What the hell are they doing in a cell?" Bennington asked Tulley, ice in his voice.

"Well, I wasn't sure what to do with them. I knew you would want to see them and . . . and . . . well, I wasn't sure what to do with them." Tulley said, nervous.

"How long have they been here?"

"Since yesterday when they got back."

Bennington cut his eyes to him, "open it."

Seeing his irritation, it took a few seconds for Tulley to comply. It was rare when Mr. Bennington was upset with him. He opened up a panel on the wall and entered a key code. The door to Mattie and Monroe's cell opened up. Bennington walked inside.

Mattie Hudson not only hugged her husband but she was also half-hugging the wall. Trying to get as far away from him as possible. Bennington could see their grave fear as he approached them. With the next step, Monroe stood up to shield her from him. He stopped in front of Monroe. There was a brief stare down between them before Tulley ran into the cell and forcefully moved Monroe aside. Literally having to pin him to the wall as he screamed and cursed violently in protest.

With her husband not shielding her anymore, Mattie slid over and curled up in a ball next to the wall at the end of the bench she was sitting on. She screamed as he approached. He held out his arm to soothe her. She stopped screaming but didn't appear to calm down anymore than that. He touched her left arm. She shrieked again and pulled it away. He gently slid his fingers around her triceps. Not so much pulling, as he guiding her to stand, using no force. Again he held out his hand to soothe her. She was sobbing, shivering, even convulsing.

When she was on her feet, he pulled her by the shoulders, close to him – and hugged her gently. Then held her for as long as it took for her to believe it. When she stopped sobbing, stopped shivering, stopped convulsing, she returned the hug. Finally he released her.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

She nodded her head, still fearful but calming down.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded again and opened up a big smile. Relieved that this was his reaction.

Bennington noticed Tulley still holding Monroe, "Hailey, let him go."

Monroe went to return to his wife's side. Bennington stepped aside to let him get to her. They hugged for a second and then looked at him.

"Did you think I'd want to hurt you for being sick and seeking help?" He asked them.

"No . . . well . . . we . . ."

Bennington grabbed his forehead and shook his head, "I guess I have to be more careful about the messages I'm sending." He said and then removed his hand. "You know, I was just thinking about how we should've finished that damn medical facility." He turns to Tulley, "Hailey, I want a doctor in this town no later than next week. I don't care what it costs. Pay them whatever they want. Just get 'em up here. We'll worry about all the other formalities later. Find a space for them to set up a temporary medical office and stock it with whatever they tell you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Tulley replied.

Bennington turns back to her, "and I promise you, Mattie, we're going to have that medical facility up and running in six months, if not sooner. But whenever it happens, starting next week, there will always be a doctor available in town."

Mattie nods and smiles, "thank you, Mr. Bennington."

Minutes later, he and Tulley were walking the Hudson's to the door out of the sheriff's office. He tried to exchange pleasantries with them to make them feel more at ease. They were polite in their replies but he could tell they were still afraid. Yet their fear didn't strike him the same as when he approached them in the cell. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, if it was anything. He was a little dismayed that they thought what they thought of him. It troubled him. So maybe his perceptions were off.

Tulley opened the door for them and they all stepped onto the street.

"I apologize for what you went through, both of you." Bennington told them.

He offered to have Tulley drive them home just as he had drove them there, but they declined. Their house was close enough to the town center and they felt like taking the stroll, even in the dark of night. They thanked him again and walked off. Ecstatic.

As he watched them walk off, "you did call the hospital in the Bronx and confirmed she was a patient there, correct?" He said to Tulley.

"Yes sir, I did. It's confirmed. She was there. She had some kind of minor surgery. And I even double-checked the charge on their credit card for the bill."

"I'll have a check cut to reimburse them for that."

"Ok."

The Hudson's were still in view. He could see their excitement and relief as they were walking and it saddened him that they were so happy walking away from him. He wondered how many of the residents felt the same way. He sighed. He had some fence-mending to do.

"How did everyone like the cookout we threw them?" He asked Tulley.

"Pretty good. Everyone had a good time."

"We're throwing another one. Tomorrow. After dark. Let everyone know."

"Uh, ok. I don't think they were expecting to have one again this soon."

"They need to hear from me. I need to extend the apology I just gave them to the whole town."

### Chapter 15

Two days in Seth Berkowitz's weird house and Jester couldn't imagine ever getting used to the place. Not that he had any fear of Seth anymore. It was just that his house was so bizarre. It was only slightly larger than the average size, rural, home but it had full north and south wings identified by dimples built into the building structure. That was just the exterior. The interior had oval shaped rooms, circular staircases, and low ceilings. Jester could only barely walk upright. If he stood on his tiptoes, he bumped his head.

The first night Jester slept in the main guest room. Which was it's own tower in the house's north wing. He had the full run of the home and property. Seth lived well away from the town center and the nearest neighbor was at least a mile and a half away. He said no one ever came over unannounced so there was no need to hide. Jester even spent a couple of hours after dark wandering through the woods by moonlight. Trying to see if he could find his way, he found a neighbor's house a few miles south. It was also ultra-modernized but, unlike Seth's, it looked like a normal house. Beyond that however, the woods were vast and he never reached any other property, but felt he could if he needed to.

The next morning, he was half sleep when he heard the door to his room thrust open and agitated footsteps charging towards his bed. Still shaking off sleep, he rose up and jumped back on his knees, eyes squinting to gain focus, and fists up. However, It was only Seth. Jester's sudden, defensive, flurry startled him as much as he startled Jester. They had frightened each other.

"I have to move you to another room." Seth said after calming down.

"Why?" Jester answered.

"The town executive is back. He's the one we need to avoid."

Seth was no longer his jovial, wise-cracking self. He was apprehensive and fearful. It was from more than the past moment.

"Here? Now?" He asked, jumping down off the bed.

"No. Back in town. He'd been away for a while but he's back now. " Seth said and then started to gather Jester's things, including the bed dress. He motioned for Jester to follow him.

"Is he coming here?" Jester asked, following.

"I hope not. You need to stay away from the windows from now on and stay in the house. Especially at night."

"At night? Don't you mean the daytime? It's a lot easy to spot someone in the daytime."

Seth stopped in his tracks and looked back at him, gravely, ". . . especially at night."

Jester was still trying to figure that out when Seth led him to another bedroom. This one hidden behind a false wall on the same floor. A complete surprise to Jester. He never would've spotted it. It had no windows inside but other than that, it was no downgrade from the other room. Seth started pulling linen from a closet to make up the bed.

"Did you hear from Mattie?" Jester asked.

"I keep calling. They're not answering their phone."

"So what does that mean?"

"They're not home."

"What about their cell phones?"

"Cell phones don't work here. No service."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm serious."

Jester watched as Seth finished making up his bed. The silence was tense as both were anticipating Jester's next question. It hung in the air and stayed there until the next day.

The next morning, Jester asked it. It was around 5 am. This time he charged into Seth's room while he was asleep. Although Seth didn't wake up until Jester pulled him halfway up by his pajama shirt. Even then he had to shake Seth a few times until he was lucid.

"Where the fuck are they?!" Jester yelled.

"Wh . . . what?" Seth muttered.

"You heard me!"

"Let me get my glasses."

His glasses were on the night table next to the bed. Jester handed them to him with one hand still gripped on Seth's shirt. Fumbling around to put them on around Jester's knuckles, he managed to, and then looked up at him.

"I know you have a lot of questions. There's gonna be a meeting. We're going to tell you everything. We're just waiting for the meeting. That's all."

"I asked you about Mattie and Monroe."

"Mattie said to wait until the meeting. I'm just doing what she said."

"Where is she?" Jester said as he tightened his grip on Seth's shirt.

"I don't know! She could be in the sheriff's jail. But I don't know."

Jester didn't know what to do next. Whether he wanted to beat Seth to let him know he was serious, or throw him back down and walk away cursing, he wasn't sure. He didn't feel Seth was lying. So what would be the point of beating him, he thought. Cursing seemed appropriate but not very fulfilling. For several seconds he held Seth there. Then there was a series of car horns.

Bright and sunny, even in the early hour, the Hudson's drove up into the driveway. Beeping their horn incessantly, almost in celebration. They hadn't changed clothes but both were looking exuberant. After seeing them from the window, Jester and Seth met them at the garage,

Mattie stepped out of the car raising her arms and demanding hugs. Seth ran into her arms and attempted to lift her up but couldn't, then he just hugged her where she stood. Then she ran over, hugged Jester and rolled him around. It felt good. Seth and Monroe also exchanged hugs and then when Mattie was done with him, Monroe walked over and shook Jester's hand, grabbing his shoulder as he did. Hard, as if he wanted to hug Jester but wasn't sure if it would be welcome. Despite that, the whole scene had the feel of some kind of victory celebration to Jester.

The gathering for the meeting Seth referred to occurred shortly after that. Within thirty minutes after Monroe and Mattie arrived, several other people did, as well. As large as it was, Seth's driveway wasn't large enough to accommodate all of their vehicles. Some of them had to park on the road alongside the house. It ended up being about twenty people in total, not including Jester. There were a few couples but most of them were single people. Mattie said the singles all had families of their own at home. She personally introduced him to all of them. He couldn't help but notice they were a very ethnically and internationally, diverse group. So much so, in his mind it couldn't have been random. It had to be designed.

In the group, there was Arash Talebi, an Iranian national who was an engineer. There was Moses Kiplimo, a Kenyan who was a recent naturalized U.S. citizen, who was also an engineer. Isaac Gonzalez was the town barber. Matt Cresent worked in the town convenience store. Jignesh Singh was an Indian computer technician who worked with Seth a lot. Susannah Soo and her husband Bruce, both worked in the town cleaners. French Lawson, was an accountant. There were several others. Jester couldn't possibly remember all of their names. However, as Mattie promised, they were all excited to meet him. They all knew about his past but didn't seem to care. Several even asked if he was alright from the experience.

Seth made breakfast for everyone and served it in his dining room. Which was more than large enough to accommodate everyone. When the meeting started, it wasn't what Jester had envisioned. He imagined it would be something like a briefing where he would be the center of attention and everyone would be talking to him, letting him in on the big secret. Instead it was more like a strategy session where everyone spoke to everyone else but him. He was nothing more than a fly on the wall.

It was mostly an inside conversation, as many of the things discussed were references Jester didn't know. Then the Hudson's described the events of the past two days. The group learned that the sheriff had held them in the town jail the whole time. Although there was no mention of any particular crime they committed, no one expressed any shock or outrage about it. Mattie said they had tried to talk to the sheriff.

"Something's different about Tulley", she said. "He was cold. He didn't have anything to say to us. He was never like that before. Before, if someone broke a rule, he was a little more easygoing or, at least he didn't treat it like it was a big deal. This time, I could actually feel how pissed he was at us. Until Mr. Bennington got there. Then he changed."

"What did Mr. Bennington say?" Seth asked.

"He was different too, but like, the opposite. He was nicer than usual. A lot nicer", Monroe answered, there was shock in his voice.

"Nicer? Mr. Bennington?" Asked one of the townspeople.

". . . even charming. He apologized to us." Said Mattie, incredulous.

"Mr. Bennington? Apologized?!" Said Susannah.

"He said he was sorry there was no doctor to go to in town and that I had to go all the way home to get help."

"No way?"

"He did." Monroe said.

"I know what that's about," Mattie said, cynical. "He knows he put us through a lot of shit. So he's being apologetic."

Jester jumped in, "what kind of shit?"

All in the room went silent. They looked around the table at each other, then at him. It went a long way to confirming his suspicions.

"Did he have those FBI Agents killed? Is that the 'shit' you're talking about?" He asked, starting to get excited.

They all remained silent except this time there weren't the exchanged glances around the room. It was as if all of them looked into themselves. Each, either not knowing if any of them should answer, or not knowing which of them would. Their reticence made his blood boil.

"I'm not fucking with you people anymore. I'm sick of this shit. What did you bring me into?!" He snapped. Looking primarily at Mattie.

"Yes," Mattie answered after a few seconds. Calling him by his chosen name. "Mr. Bennington killed them."

Monroe added, "then he dumped their bodies in the trunk of his car and drove off."

Jester's heart skipped a beat. It always seemed strange to him how there are moments when one could know the answer to a question, anticipate it, resolve themself to it, yet still be thoroughly stunned when hearing it out loud. Like when Mattie told him the drug dealer he beat was dead. Like now.

"Who helped him?" He asked. Mattie didn't answer, she looked around the room again. He forgot that question when a new, more pressing one popped in his head, "did you tell the FBI that at the hotel? Is that why they let us go?" He asked.

Mattie, shook her head, no. "If I did that, we wouldn't be here. We'd probably be in protective custody somewhere and you'd be in real custody."

"What hotel?" Someone asked and was ignored.

"We didn't actually see anything, anyway", Seth said to Jester. Cutting off the previous questioner, "we were all at our homes when it happened. We were told about it after. So it's not like we were eyewitnesses."

"Then a couple of days later, all hell broke loose. The whole world came to town looking for them. All the FBI, news, media, all that." Arash said.

"So the whole town knows it?" Jester asked, looking at Monroe, who nodded in reply.

"It's not that we approve, young brother," said Moses. The only black man in the group.

"Don't call me that!" Jester snapped at him. Realizing what the man was trying to do. Using their shared skin tone as a means to find some kind of false identity with him.

"He meant no offense", Arash said, "what he's saying is, if you're wondering why we didn't tell the authorities, Mr. Bennington isn't someone you just report on. He's a very powerful man. I'm from Iran. He lived in my country for a time and . . . he's a very powerful man."

Jester took in the information. The picture had become clear. It wasn't hard to put together. Befriending him, a wanted killer, a cop-killer, bringing him home, showing him every hospitality, telling him he could stay. He looked at Mattie.

"You want me to kill him, don't you?" He asked and saw the surprised but guilty look on her face. As if she had been caught red handed. Then Jester looked around the room, "That's why I'm here. That's what this shit is all about. That's why you're all being so cool with me."

Mattie didn't reply. She only returned his gaze. Her face, blank.

"He doesn't know?" Somebody asked.

"All that shit about me reminding you of your son." Jester said.

"That wasn't a lie."

Jester nodded in cynicism. Right, he thought. Though he wasn't altogether surprised. It was obvious from the beginning they wanted something from him. There was no disputing their reasoning for recruiting him to be their hitman, their mercenary. He had been waving a dead mean's gun at them since he met them. Had beaten that man to death with it. Shot two cops with it. He definitely had the credentials, and the gun. Sure, he could be their mercenary. Easy.

"Fuck you", he said to Mattie and then turned to the whole group, "fuck all of you. Do your own damn killing." He stood up and started to leave the room.

"You didn't tell him yet?" Asked a voice from behind him, to Mattie.

Mattie, ignoring the question, to Jester, pleading, "if you do it, you can stay."

"I don't want to stay." He replied without turning around and continued walking.

"Those two police officers died." She said. That made him stop. "Why do you think the FBI let us out of that hotel?"

Jester turned around and looked at her.

"What hotel?" Someone asked again.

Ignoring that question the second time, "Prisko's coming back to town. He's coming under the pretense that it's to get you, but it's Bennington he wants." She said.

"Who's Prisko?" Jester asked.

"The one who released you. He said if Bennington is dead when he comes back, he won't find you. And he'll make sure no one ever finds you."

"Mattie . . ." Someone started.

"Shut up!" She exclaimed, not really mindful of who it was she was snapping at. "If you do it, you can stay. Forever. If not – he's coming for you."

Jester kept his gaze toward Mattie but he wasn't really looking at her anymore. He also didn't even notice the hopeful looks of almost everyone in the room directed at him. It wouldn't have mattered if he did. He turned towards the back door. "Let him come for me, then." He said. Then he ran away. Out the back door and into the woods.

"Hey!" Monroe said, and started to give chase. Seth followed but not really to chase him. He went out the back door but stopped just at the edge of his deck. Monroe continued into the woods.

It was no use. Although Jester was still in sight, Monroe knew there was no catching him. He was much too fast. He tried calling out to him but was ignored. Jester might've even been too far away to hear him, by then. When he turned around, his wife was at his side. She called to him, as well. He kept running until he was out of sight.

"Maybe he'll come back." Monroe said, catching his breath.

"If they find him . . ."

"They won't find him, come on. Nobody's even thinking about the woods now."

"He hates me."

"We can't worry about that now, baby."

Seth called them back inside. As they went back into Seth's dining room, the hard stares they were receiving were unmistakable.

"What hotel, Mattie?" Moses asked. Sternly, this time. As if he was not going to be ignored again. She realized he was the one who had asked previously.

With a relenting sigh, "we were picked up by the FBI on our way back. That's when we spoke to Prisko." Mattie said and there were audible gasps in reply. That seemed to be a shock to everyone in the room.

"You spoke to him? Outside of town?" Moses asked.

"Yes." Mattie replied.

"You told him?!" Seth asked, looking at Mattie, heated.

"He knew." Monroe said, in defense of Mattie.

"Knowing is not the same as being told!" Snapped French Lawson, the accountant. "This is why my wife doesn't like you, Mattie. She doesn't even know I'm here today and because of you, I just put her life in more danger!"

Mattie didn't respond. She only looked downward.

"And you met with Mr. Bennington, after that?" Asked Susannah.

"It's alright, Sue. We're here, right?" Said Mattie, looking up again.

"It's not alright that you didn't tell us this before we came here, Mattie", Susannah started. "You don't know what he knows, what he thinks, what he suspects. He could just be trying to see which of us is with you. And here we are meeting with . . ." She stopped and started breaking into sobs. Her husband Bruce tries to console her. She jumps up from the table, "we have to go."

Almost everyone at the table were rapidly getting up to leave. All without saying another word. It was as if someone had rung a fire alarm and everyone instinctively knew it wasn't a drill.

"Listen", Mattie started, "Prisko knows he'll never see Bennington inside of a cell, or even a courtroom. He doesn't care about the law anymore. Nothing's changed." She pleaded on deaf ears as they all continued to leave the room.

"Everything's changed, Mattie." Said Arash just before he exited the dining room.

"Wait." Monroe tried but there was no reply.

In succession, all of them were marching to Seth's front door. Susannah was the first to reach it and opened it on her own. When she did, she screeched at what greeted her on the other side. Many of those behind her gasped, as well. All of them stopped in their tracks.

Deputy Garrett had been standing outside the door, hand ready to knock when it opened, "I . . . I didn't mean to scare anyone. Everyone ok?" He said to Susannah, almost as surprised as they were.

"Oh . . ." Susannah said, and then smiled faintly, "no, it's fine. You just startled me."

"Sorry about that." Garrett replied.

"Hi, Deputy Garrett." Seth said. As he scurried to the front of the group that had collected at the door. "Wow, you never come out to my place. What's going on?"

"What's going on, here? What's the big meeting?" He asked suspiciously.

"It's no meeting. We're all just welcoming Monroe and Mattie back." Seth replied.

"I see. It just looks kind of funny with all those cars sitting out there like that."

"What brings you out here?"

"Well, you know the boss is back. He wants to do a cookout tonight after sundown."

"Another one? So soon?"

"That's what he said. He missed the last one."

"No problem then, but you couldn't just call?"

"He still wants to avoid using the phones. We put the announcement on the town website, but he wanted me and the sheriff to tell everyone personally. I hope it's not a problem."

"No problem. Thanks, Deputy." Seth said. He stood in front of the group who were all behind him, not moving.

"So . . . weren't you all getting ready to leave or something?" Garrett asked.

"Yeah, definitely." Seth said and then moved aside. As if on cue, all of the people started filing out of his front door. Greeting Garrett as they passed him on the way to their cars. Monroe and Mattie stayed behind. Mattie walked up to the door behind Seth.

"Good to see you again, deputy." She said.

"Hello." He replied, still standing near the door. Then he watched the group behind him go to their collective cars. Some of them looked back at the door before getting in and driving off. Most didn't. Garrett waited them all out. Then turned back, "it sure looks like it was some kind of meeting."

"People visit with each other and enjoy each other's company all the time, Deputy Garrett. They don't even have to be the same color. Not surprised you find that so unusual, though." Seth said.

"Keep being a smart-ass, you damn ki . . ." Garrett started and then stopped himself. "Excuse me."

"No problem." Seth replied.

Garrett looked at Mattie, "so you and your husband not leaving right now?" He asked.

"They're hanging out. We'll see you tonight, deputy. Thanks." Seth said and then abruptly closed the door on him. He looked through the door window to make sure Garrett was walking back to his car. It took several seconds but then Garrett walked away.

"That white, supremacist, piece of shit, hates my Jewish guts. I swear."

* * *

Cole Bennington hated this, to the depths of his very being. The indignity, the suffering, the debasement of it. If he tried to think of how many hours he had invested in such tasks, it was more than he wanted to admit, or recall. Hadn't he'd gotten his hands dirty enough? Every time he thought he was done, there was yet more dirty work to do. It will never be done, he thought. Never.

Three pages into reading the legal brief forwarded to him from his lawyer in D.C., he still had fifty more to go. Why do they call them "briefs", he wondered. It was the start of the civil suit he was filing against the FBI for their raid on his town. There was a second brief waiting for his review that was to be filed against the Justice department. He sighed. Both documents were, long-winded, single-spaced and fraught with the kind of legalese jargon lawyers used that he thoroughly detested. He always had to read each sentence at least three or four times before he even began to figure out what they were trying to say.

He cursed. Not only at the task but also because he was on the third page of the brief and he still hadn't seen the name,'Prisko'. He jotted down the note to admonish his lawyer about later. Over two million dollars in retainer he paid that law firm and he, with no legal training whatsoever, had to make these basic corrections. Sometimes he felt like he was the only competent person in the universe.

He was sitting in the office of his Town Executive residence. He didn't like to think of it that way, but the house was nothing less than a mansion. Three stories with over ten thousand square feet of living area. It had five bedrooms, four baths, a kitchen, an outdoor kitchen, foyer, veranda, cabana, even the office he sat in was only a section of the master suite. Easily the largest home in town. He hated decadence, even with all of his wealth, but he knew he needed to send the right signal. Everything associated with him in relation to the town needed to be better, above, over the head of all others. That was the only way it could possibly work. It occurred to him that everything he did these days, was for the benefit of the town. If it wasn't for that, he'd just as soon live in a cave.

Aside from reviewing the briefs, he was also thinking about the fence-mending he had to do. Drafting the speech that he was going to make in his head. Hailey told him how upset the residents were with him. They had a right. He had lost his cool and the town suffered for it. Greatly. There was a time when he wouldn't have cared in the slightest how his actions might've troubled someone else, but those days were gone. They had to be. He couldn't be selfish anymore. If the town was going to work, he needed the faith of every resident. You don't earn someone's faith by being selfish, you lose it. He had to let the residents know that if he could retain their faith, he would never compromise it again. That message had to get through to them.

The phone rang. He winced at the number that popped up. It almost sent him into another rage but he tempered his feelings. He had learned his lesson about losing control. He took in a deep breath and picked up the phone.

"Brett, it is far too soon for you to be calling me. You need to give me . . ." Bennington started, calm.

". . . I can't keep those motherfuckers out your town if you're harboring cop-killers!" Burdick cut him off, yelling.

He stood up, "what?!"

"I got information that the cop-killer from New York is there. The one on the news."

"I don't watch the news."

"He's there! One of your people must've brought him. As long as he's there nothing can stop Prisko or anyone else from coming in. I'm not gonna be respon . . ."

Bennington hung up on him. Someone brought him. There were only two people besides himself, who had left the town in the last month. The only two who would've been in a position to bring someone here.

The rage was at it's peak. Control, he thought. Control.

### Chapter 16

There he was again. This time in full open view. Sitting in his car, almost directly in front of his home, the man was double-parked across the narrow street. Leaving only room enough for passing cars to slowly squeeze by. Earlier he had been trying to be clandestine, but Sergeant Anthony Burgos had spotted his Honda sedan tailing him, three cars behind on the Deegan expressway. It was morning then, when Burgos was on his way to a recruits home. For most of the day Burgos looked for him, when he was at his office, and later when he took his daughter to her acting classes. He hadn't seen it again. He assumed, or rather, hoped, that it meant the man had given up for the day. Yet as he was returning from those classes with his daughter, here again was Lieutenant London Rose. Outside of Burgos' apartment building in Queens. Far from the jurisdiction of his precinct in the Bronx.

This was the fourth straight day. It took a couple of days to convince Burgos that these chance sightings of him were more than eery coincidences, and that Rose was deliberately following him. It took another day for him to realize that this surveillance wasn't official. Rose was a Lieutenant, the head of an NYPD Homicide division. He wouldn't be doing the grunt work of following suspects in an official capacity.

Burgos spent half the night in Rose's division the day of the shooting. It was somewhere around 2 am when he left the 46th Precinct that night. Having been interviewed in succession by three of Rose's detectives. Then lastly, by Rose, himself. The last being the most aggressive interrogation. Units were sent to search Burgos' home. Then the next day, his office. Followed by subpoenas for his recruiting records on Jester and all of his phone records. For the first forty-eight hours after the shooting, he had been their hottest lead on Jester's whereabouts. It was almost like he was the criminal.

Then two mornings later, Jester had been spotted in Van Cortlandt Park – by an NYPD Officer, no less. Though that officer was slow to report the encounter due to his failure to recognize Jester at the time. They didn't get the report till the next afternoon. By then Jester was well gone. A search through the park revealed where he had made a makeshift camp and had been sleeping. Subsequent canvasses through the park turned up a few witnesses who positively identified him as being there. They tried to stake out the park in case he returned. For all Burgos knew, that stakeout may have even been ongoing, but Jester hadn't returned.

There weren't any new leads on where he had gone, but it was pretty clear to almost everyone that Burgos couldn't have been helping him. Almost everyone. His life seemed to return to relative normalcy. Until four days ago when he started spotting Rose following him.

Burgos wasn't without sympathy for the man. That night in the precinct, Rose told him a story. That he was once part of an inner city mentoring program. Dealing with troubled youths in much the same way Burgos did as an Army recruiter. There was a particular young man in his program. Like Jester, in his late teens. Like Jester, had a long juvenile record with no shortage of violence. Rose said he took to that young man. Had spent a lot of time with him, even saw promise in him. Thought he could be reached. The boy was showing signs of turning his life around. He stayed out of trouble, graduated from high school, held down a steady job for over a year, and was even thinking about community college.

Then one night it all changed. The boy used a gun to try to rob a bodega in his neighborhood – and got cornered. Someone had called the police and there was a unit nearby. They were on the scene before the young man could clear the store. There were three hostages inside and it ended up being a standoff. The boy requested him. Rose went out to Brooklyn to try to talk him down. He went into the store unarmed. He said he pleaded with the boy, told him he would get another chance, that it wasn't too late for him. However, the boy was only interested in one thing, getting away scot free. When he finally, truly, realized that was just impossible, he killed all three of the hostages, one man, one woman, one child, and then himself. The only reason Rose survived was because the boy told him he wanted him to see it.

The biggest affect on him, Rose said, even more than being forced to witness those cold-blooded, murders, was that he never knew the reason why the boy took up an arm and tried to rob that bodega. When Rose looked into it, he found the boy wasn't in trouble at work, there weren't any sudden, significant, problems he could find in the boy's personal relationships, and he had over three hundred dollars in his bank account waiting for him. It made no sense at all. Rose had come to the conclusion that the boy was just bad. That there are people in the world born bad, beyond redemption or reaching. He particularly remembered the look in the boy's eyes just before he shot those three innocent people. He said he saw the same look in Jester's eyes.

So maybe in Rose's mind, tracking down Jester was like making amends for those three victims. Burgos wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it had gone too far. He would be willing to put up with being followed, if Rose was only harassing him. However, this time his thirteen year old, daughter was with him. This had to stop.

He spotted Rose's car just as he turned onto the street of his apartment building. His building had an underground garage. The entrance was on the left side of the street just beyond the spot where Rose was parked. His car was parked illegally, but Rose was a cop, so it really wasn't. Burgos had to squeeze his minivan by on Rose's right side. As he did, the two were almost face to face, where Rose's passenger seat was the only short distance that separated them. They made eye contact but there was no more acknowledgment than that.

He took his car into the garage and sent his daughter upstairs through the elevator. Normally he would've went with her but this time he elected to walk back out the driveway where he drove in. Rose hadn't moved and saw him immediately once he cleared the entrance. His windows were up. On the hot, summer day, he had his air conditioner on. Burgos walked up to the drivers window and motioned for him to let it down. Instead, Rose signaled for him to walk to the passenger side and get in. Burgos complied.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant Rose?" Burgos said as he jumped into the car, agitated.

"Has he contacted you?"

"No, he hasn't contacted me. I told you he wouldn't. And I told you if he did, I would call you."

"His trail's gone cold. Somebody has him. He couldn't have avoided us this long on his own. We checked with all of his former foster homes, all the group homes he'd been through. He wasn't close enough to anybody for them to be helping him now."

"I only knew him for about two months."

"And yet you vouched for him in court."

Ignoring that, "I can't have you following me around when I'm with my family, Lieutenant. That was my daughter in the car with me just now."

"I'm not trying to intimidate your family, Sergeant Burgos. I'm trying to find a cop-killer and . . ."

"STOP saying that," Burgos snapped and the sudden outburst silenced Rose. "You know both of your officers are going to be fine. Yet every statement on Jester from every cop who ever talks to the media, it's 'cop-killer' this and 'cop-killer' that. It's bullshit. He didn't kill any cop. If he didn't kill any cop, he's not a 'cop killer'."

"I don't want to get into arguing the semantics."

"It's not a semantic, he's not a cop-killer."

"Have it your way, Sergeant. Whatever he is, I know you're the only friend he's got in the world. So even if you're not in touch with him, my guess is he'll be in touch with you. And I'm gonna be here."

"Now look, lieutenant. This is harassment and I know you're not doing this with the department's blessing. If I see you again, I'm filing a complaint." Burgos said and then started to get out of the car, he stopped with the door open, "and he's not going to be in touch with me. So you're wasting your time, anyway."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He doesn't form attachments."

"You want him to get away, don't you?"

"He's not that boy in Brooklyn. I'm sorry."

"You're wrong."

"Fine, I'm wrong. Don't let me catch you following me again." Burgos said and then slammed the car door shut.

* * *

'The woods are lovely, dark, and deep . . .'

Where had he heard those lies before? Was it a movie? Jester didn't know but the words weren't helpful. What he did know was that these were the woods, and they were far from lovely. It wasn't Van Cortlandt park he was hiking through. There, no matter how lost you got, you knew if you picked one direction and stuck to it, eventually you would find your way out. However, he wasn't in a park now. Parks were usually some rich persons vanity project, conceived, designed, and constructed in the middle of a sweeping metropolis to give city dwellers the gift of the illusion of the experience of being in the woods. This was no illusion. These were actual woods. Conceived, designed, and constructed by nature. With no thought whatsoever put into the experience anyone had in them. Here you had to pick the right direction, not any. Failing to pick the right direction would only give the gift of more woods.

He wondered if it was possible to be lost if you had no particular destination. He remembered driving through the back roads with Mattie and Monroe. He was lost within minutes, and they were on the roads. Here he was in the foliage, the brush, the trees, the streams, and the puddles, and he didn't even have the choice of every direction. In some areas the trees and vines were so dense, there was no passing through.

It was his own fault, Jester thought. He had ran from Seth's house without thinking ahead. Without thinking at all. Grabbing only the gun and then, only by instinct. When he put it all together as to why Mattie brought him here, and it was her and her alone who brought him here, he just couldn't think of anything else to say but what he said. He wished he could have expressed his shock, his outrage, his indignity, but those words never even ran through his head, let alone out his mouth. Then or now. All he knew was that he wanted to get away. Then and now. So like a little girl, he ran. He did think to stay near Seth's house to keep his bearings, then maybe return once they had all left. He could've gotten Seth to give him a ride out of town, forced him, if necessary. But when he saw Monroe chasing him, he just kicked in the afterburners and before he knew it, he had gone too far to figure out his way back.

There was a new plan. The problem was that it was still early in the day. There was a good eight to ten hours before sundown. When he went exploring through the woods and found Seth's neighbor's house, it was night. All he did was follow the lights. Orientation was different between night and day. He didn't know what it was that made him more comfortable at night – the stars, the shadows, the silhouettes in the shadows – but he was confident he'd be fine after dark. Like before, he'd just follow the lights.

Until then, he had a lot of time to kill. He walked through the woods at a slow pace. Reminding himself not to go too far in any one direction. He didn't have a clue as to how vast these woods were, but he had a feeling they were pretty vast. If he had only bothered to look at a map of the area, he thought. Seth had a bunch of computers he could've easily pulled one up on, but he never did. It was more than conceivable that he could walk too far away to see any lights from the town center by nightfall. The smartest thing would've been to rest up somewhere and sit still. But he always had trouble sitting still.

It was a hot, humid, day. The forest canopy gave him plenty of cover from the sun, but not the humidity. Jester was susceptible to high humidity. It made him sweat profusely with very little exertion. If the humidity was high enough, he could even sweat with no exertion at all. Just sitting was enough. He could see the moisture stain on his t-shirt, that started in the center of his upper chest, was expanding out to his shoulders and down to his navel. Pretty soon the shirt would be soaked. At least he wasn't worried about dehydration. There was water. Numerous streams ran through these woods. So many, the ground was moist. Even when he couldn't see the streams, he could hear them. He hadn't tried any yet because he wasn't sure how safe or clean the water was, but he knew when got thirsty enough, he would drink.

He didn't know what kind of trees he was among but one type seemed to be dominant. It was tall, with a wide trunk, and the wood was whitish. The leaves on it seemed to group in bunches and had rounded lobes. A very climbable tree, Jester thought, even liveable. Sturdy enough to make a treehouse, if someone wanted to. Whatever kind of trees they were, they were all over the place. There were other, smaller, trees of different types. Most had thinner trunks, not much leaf cover and they seemed to settle out over the forest floor wherever the big ones felt generous enough to leave them space for.

Jester wasn't a naturalist. As he tried to take note of the trees and bushes around him, his thoughts kept coming back to what Mattie told him. The cops were dead. He shook his head as he finally allowed his mind to enunciate those words. Although he suspected it, even assumed it, he never wanted to know. That was why he avoided computers and televisions and newspapers, since the shooting. Also, he just now realized that was why it never occurred to him to check Seth's computers for a map. Maybe the homepage of Seth's browser might've opened to a news site featuring that story as a huge headline. Underneath that headline would be his picture set in a darkened background with an ominous shadow over his face – real or photo-shopped. It would tell the world, 'kill this man on sight'. He didn't want to see that, even inadvertently. Now, the news had reached him. He was a three time murderer. Not just three normal victims, but two cops. There was no escaping that. He might as well build that treehouse and live there in the woods. He couldn't ever hope to make a life for himself in civilization.

So where was he going then? What exactly was he going to do once he followed the lights and went where they took him? He only thought of that plan to get him out of the woods. What about after? He guessed if he reached someone's house, he could use the gun to steal their car. He didn't have his drivers license but had taken a driving lesson once. Maybe he didn't feel completely comfortable behind the wheel after that lesson, but he had been accepted into a program to receive training as a helicopter pilot. So if the army thought he could fly helicopters, he should be able to drive a car. It was too risky to force someone to drive him. They would know where he went once he let them go. Then again, he could just kill them? What difference did it make now?

No, he thought. To start murdering for survival would be an endless road. He'd have to kill pretty regularly, people who recognized him, people who question him too hard, people who were suspicious of him. Not just those, but people who even might recognize him or might be suspicious of him. He'd have to kill those too. Each kill might close a trail behind him, but they would open up whole new ones when cops investigated each one anew. Plus, with all that killing, he'd have to be on the run all the time. Which meant the killings themselves would become a trail. Then everywhere he ran there would be new people who might recognize him, question him too hard, be suspicious of him. Who knows how many he'd have to kill?

Or he could just kill one? Be the town's mercenary. Jester thought about that too. Who was this 'Bennington' guy and if they wanted him dead, why did they need him to do it? If he really killed those FBI agents, why didn't the town just report him to the FBI? They were right there. And he couldn't have killed five agents by himself. Who helped him? The foreign guy told him that Bennington was a powerful man. It was really weird the way he said it too. So maybe they were all that afraid of him. Jester knew he could do it. Kill Bennington. He was the type.

Then he could stay here. Live in peace and be safe, secure. Wasn't that why he came here? The hope of that. He could wander these woods night and day at his leisure. They would become as familiar to him as his former city blocks in Crown Heights, or Astoria, or the South Bronx. He wouldn't need to see any lights under the night sky to find his way. He could do it blindfolded. Everyone in that meeting only pretended to be nice to him because of what they wanted from him, but once he'd done what they wanted, he didn't see why that wouldn't continue. He could even take trips down to the Adirondacks on occasion. Nobody recognized him the first time. It wouldn't be a bad life.

Wait, why was he even considering that? He was a killer. Had always known he was a killer, even before he became one. But he wasn't that kind of killer. He wasn't anyone's mercenary.

Enough over-thinking, he decided. Enough planning. Why did he have to have a plan? He didn't. He would just wait until dark and then follow the lights. Then see what happens. That's what he would do, he thought. See what happens.

### Chapter 17

Cole residents were land rich. With nothing less than a full acre of undeveloped, real estate, accompanying every home. Mr. Bennington had the largest estate, at over sixty acres. However, that was only in his personal name. Technically, the entire town was his property but when Cole was established, he legally transferred ownership to the town corporation and specific ownerships to the residents for their individual homes and estates. His gift to them.

When a town event was thrown, they were held at the rear of the Town Executive residence, essentially Mr. Bennington's back yard. It was approximately the size of two football fields, all sprawled in thick-blended, Kentucky bluegrass, with a tree line perimeter. From above, it would've looked like a great, well manicured, lawn, cut out from the dense wilderness. It was an outdoor venue that would impress the high society in any locale in the world.

Large, rounded, tables, draped in fine, heavy linen, damask patterned tablecloths, were placed in up to three rows that spanned almost the full width of the field. Surrounding the tables were transparent, square seated, rounded-backed, chairs made of a polycarbonate material that had the look of crystal, but were lightweight and elegant. Tiki torches aligned the perimeter and, after dark, the normal field lighting would be adjusted to give the torches prominence. For this celebration, the table layout was shaped into a half-circle with the opening facing the town executive residence. With a podium being set up at the steps of the residence, it gave the impression of being an extravagant awards dinner.

The population of Cole made for a very small town, but a fairly large party. When the set up was complete, a glance at it might remind someone of a banquet on the lawn of some fancy hotel. Mr. Bennington hated decadence, but these gatherings of the residents were the only times he demanded it. They were infrequent, but still occurred with some regularity. There were about two or three a year. Although no explicit word was ever given, every resident knew they were required to attend. However, this was the first time they had two of them within a week. The previous one had been held to mark the FBI leaving town. This one? Well, he wasn't too sure about this one.

Sheriff Tulley oversaw the setup this time, as he did the last. With most of the work performed by volunteers from the town, it had taken a little over four hours to complete. About two hours longer than the setup for the last one. That was due to Mr. Bennington being present this time to nitpick over every little detail. Although he never left his residence, he kept sending out notes with 'corrections', as he called them. He wanted particular tables moved around to insure the occupants had a good view, he wanted the podium set in the right spot and raised higher, he didn't like the choice of napkins, or the wine glasses, or the torches. Those all had to be changed. At least an extra ninety minutes was spent on accommodating his corrections.

Tulley also had to go over the seating arrangements with him. Mr. Bennington was always meticulous in the seating arrangements. Yet his seating philosophy had always been consistent. The town officers, including Tulley himself, and executives from his company, generally sat at his table, closest to him. That was followed, in descending order, by residents according to their salaries. Those were only loose guidelines, however. They were subject to change and very often did. If a resident or residents had some sort of occasion, like a birthday, or a wedding anniversary, or a promotion, that might move them closer to the front. Then there were certain residents who Mr. Bennington wanted as far away from him as possible. Those might've been people he was angry or annoyed at, usually only in the short term, that he wanted to send a message to, or they might've been residents who simply rubbed him the wrong way. Deputy Garrett, for instance, was always seated somewhere in the back. These little nuances in the seating was why Mr. Bennington wanted to review them for every gathering.

Today, however, he made some very particular changes to the seating arrangements Not only that, but when they had these events, he was always in a very high, festive, mood. Looking forward to them. Which stood to reason, because if he was in any other mood, he would just cancel it. He'd done that a few times over the years. Today, though, he was in a very sour, surly mood. He wouldn't see anyone except Tulley and that was only because of the preparations. His attitude was short, impatient, he even snapped at Tulley a few times. That was more than unusual. Mr. Bennington was almost always cool as a cucumber. Even if you knew him well, even for years, you'd still have to be especially astute to know he was upset about something. That is, until he wanted you to know. However, today you'd have to be a complete dolt to not know something was bothering him. Yet despite that, he was still going forward with the gathering. Tulley knew none of that was a very good sign.

Dinner would be laid out, as always, in buffet. One of the residents and her husband served as the town caterers and had done an excellent job having all the food ready on such short notice. Unlike the menu last week, which was more of a traditional barbecue-style, the menu for tonight was to be more upscale. The main courses would be lobster, filet mignon, grilled salmon, chicken marsala, and roasted veal. Those would be accompanied with an assortment of high end vegetable dishes, starches, pastas, and deserts. Mr. Bennington hated hard alcohol drinks so the beverages would be limited to wine, beer, and soft drinks. He actually hated beer as well, but he tolerated it for the resident's sake.

The preparations had begun at the latest point of the day, when it was starting to cool off. The heat and humidity were too high to do it any sooner. Still, they were done in plenty of time before the caterers needed to get in to do their work. With them having arrived, Tulley knew his supervisory duties had been served.

Dress requirements weren't really specified for these gatherings. They weren't altogether formal but everyone knew better than to show up in jeans and t-shirts – or uniforms. He knew Mr. Bennington wouldn't want to see him sitting at his table with his sheriff's shirt, and especially not with his gun belt. He hated guns even more than beer and hard alcohol, but like beer, he tolerated them for Tulley and Garrett as necessary for their jobs. Though no one else in town was allowed to own them and for these events, even Tulley and Garrett were barred from carrying them. Still wearing his and his uniform, Tulley knew he needed to go get ready, himself. The sun was starting to go down.

He left and returned about forty minutes later wearing civilian, business casual, attire. By then, some of the residents had already arrived but only a handful. These early birds usually wanted to take advantage of the expensive appetizers Mr. Bennington had the caterers lay out. Which he insisted, should always greet the guests as they first walked in. Tulley saw that everyone so far, were in their assigned seats. There were no name markers at the tables but the volunteer residents, who acted as ushers until everyone arrived, carried the seating plans with them and knew where to put everyone.

Within an hour after dark, all of the residents had arrived. Whole families were seated, lines formed at the appetizer and beverage tables, and the chatter in full swing. Tulley gave the volunteers permission to leave, get dressed, and come take their own places at their tables. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, as best he could tell, but there was some apprehension about them, as well. Tulley received some polite greetings and minor small talk but really didn't converse with anyone except Garrett and his wife. There was a certain boundary between them and the normal residents. He noticed some of Mrs. Garrett's arm tattoos were exposed and he reminded her to keep them covered. Mr. Bennington didn't like them.

It was another hour before Mr. Bennington, himself, walked out from his town executive residence. No one could miss his arrival. The elaborate, multi-colored, porch lighting, at his back door made it a bit of a grand entrance. For a lot of the residents, this was their first time seeing him in over a month. Unlike his guests, he was in full, formal attire, wearing a Brooks Brothers suit made in Italian wool. Though the heat of the day went down well with the sun, the humidity transferred to the night almost unfazed. Yet there wasn't a hint of perspiration on him. In contrast to his earlier mood, he stepped out with all smiles and arms raised in greeting. Then after descending the stairs to the ground, immediately started mingling with everyone. Tulley watched him as he made his way around to every table that was occupied and chatted with almost everyone in attendance. He could be quite charming when he wanted, Tulley thought.

After finishing up his brief talk with Deputy and Mrs. Garrett, Tulley walked to his own table just in front of the podium, and took a seat. Grabbing a glass of wine on the way. At his table was one of those particular seating changes Mr. Bennington designated. The table seated eight but the other occupants must've been out mingling. Mattie Hudson sat alone. He saw her husband when they arrived but didn't know where he had went. He hadn't seen Monroe out mingling in the crowd anywhere.

"How are you doing, tonight?" He asked Mattie as he took his seat, grateful it was three chairs away from her.

"Good, thanks." She replied, politely, and then looked towards the woods and then back at the party.

"Nice to be at the big table, huh?"

"Yes, it's a real honor. We're thrilled." She said with a fake smile and then looked out at the party again.

He did a fake smile of his own and a nod in reply. She didn't seem to notice either, let alone acknowledge them. That was the extent of their interaction. He could understand why she wasn't so talkative with him. Aside from the fact that they never were very friendly in the first place, he'd also, just the night before, had her in his jail. What he couldn't understand was why she wasn't out interacting with everyone else. Mattie Hudson was one of the more popular Cole residents. She was friends with everyone and everyone seemed to be genuinely fond of her. In all the times the town held these gatherings since it's inception, he couldn't recall ever seeing her sitting at a table alone. Maybe she knew, he thought.

He wondered how long he could put up with the silent tension. They both sat for a little over ten minutes before Monroe approached, from the direction of the woods. He politely greeted Tulley as he took his seat next to Mattie.

"What were you doing in the woods?" Tulley asked him.

"Oh . . . just taking a leak."

"Well, you know you can go in the house, that's why we leave it open."

Pointing to the woods, "it was closer." He said.

Tulley nodded. The table was large enough, and the Hudson's were far away from him enough, that if they kept their voice low, they could speak to each other without him overhearing. They did just that, and he saw Monroe shake his head at her. She seemed to plead with him and he shrugged.

"Everything ok?" Tulley asked them.

"Yeah, we're good. Thanks." Monroe answered. Then they seemed to let the subject go. They stopped talking to each other.

It was a few minutes later when Mr. Bennington made his way over and spoke to them. Not saying a word to Tulley as he walked by.

He cradled Mattie's hand but addressed both of them, "are you two feeling better?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks for asking. And thanks for putting us at your table." Said Monroe. Excited at the last part.

"No problem, at all," Mr. Bennington replied and then looked at Mattie, "and you?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Bennington. And we're sorry again about . . . everything. We . . ."

". . . say no more. I hate unnecessary apologies. I'm just glad you're well. And that you're home." Mr. Bennington said and backed away from them. "Ok, we'll talk later. Let me attend to my hosting duties."

As Tulley watched him leave them, he thought, he never had anything major against the Hudson's. They did cause him some trouble when they left town, but they settled that. They weren't bad people. God bless them.

Mr. Bennington went to the podium and turned on the wireless microphone that was set up. Instantly sending a brief feedback pitch through the dozens of speakers that were aligned along the perimeter.

"Hi", he said briefly into the microphone. He waited a second to make sure the sound quality was correct. Everyone cheered and clapped as he did. "Thank you. Well, good evening, everyone." Again, cheers and claps. "I know I've been away for a while, but I'm glad to see everyone here, and doing well. The food is being brought out now. Can we all just take our seats, for a minute, while they do that? Thanks."

The caterers starting bringing out trays of food and began lining them up on the tables while everyone was making their way to their seats. Tulley saw Seth Berkowitz take his usual place at Mr. Bennington's table. He was seated next to the Hudson's. He knew Seth was pretty good friends with them but they only made a polite greeting to each other as he sat. He received no greeting from Seth.

Tulley also watched the occupants seat the three tables adjacent to theirs. Horrid looks were on their faces as they realized where they were sitting and who they were sitting with. Those families, the Soo's, the Kiplimo's, the Singh's, the Talebi's, the Gonzalez's, the Crescents, and fourteen more, all found themselves sitting closer to Mr. Bennington's table than they ever had before. And they were all sitting together for the first time. The Hudson's, with them being away and Mattie having been sick, their presence at the table could've been expected. However, these families? They kept their composure but they had to know they weren't being honored. Tulley thought, God bless them too.

Mr. Bennington waited patiently. Once everyone sat, "again, good evening, everyone, and welcome. I'm sorry if anyone feels put out by tonight's event. I know we had one of these last week. The purpose for that one was to show my appreciation to this town and everyone in it. We had been through an ordeal. We were put a little under siege – or maybe a lot under siege." There were giggles from the crowd. "That siege had just been lifted. I was still several days away from returning, but I thought, 'why should they wait for me? They need to unwind now.' So I told Sheriff Tulley to go ahead without me, give the you guys whatever you want. You earned it."

Everyone clapped and applauded .

"And Hailey did a great job. He conveyed my message. I wanted everyone to have a good time that day and I understand everyone did. But when I did return yesterday, I thought, 'you know, that get together last week was entirely insufficient. You can't properly thank someone through a messenger. I really need give everyone my appreciation, personally, face to face'. And that's why I've asked you all here tonight. I wanted you all to know that I have never been so proud of my town. Everything we've been trying to establish, everything we've all worked so hard for, it was under immense threat. It all came so close to being destroyed. Gone forever. Yet because everyone stuck together, everyone stood fast in the face of incredible, almost insurmountable, pressure, you did not move. You did not let our dream be destroyed. You didn't let it happen. I want you all to know that you astonish me, and you amaze me. And I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you."

Applause.

"And I am, as well, apologizing to you. All of you. I know I alone, caused this. It was my rage, my callousness, my thoughtlessness, my . . . I don't know, maybe arrogance. Some have said I'm arrogant over the years. Maybe even some of you, behind my back." There were giggles. "However, you didn't just stick by each other, or by the town, you stuck by me. Again, I thank you. And to the extent that, I know for at least some of you, your faith in me may have been tested, maybe even a little shaken. My only goal going forward is to rebuild that faith, and strengthen it. And if I can do that, I promise you, I will never, ever, ever, jeopardize your faith in me, again."

Some applause, some mumbling, but mostly there was a solemn silence from the crowd, that followed.

"By the way, in case you were wondering, I'm going to be using more than words to thank you. I'm aware of the many hardships, many of you have undergone. Hailey's told me about some of your concerns. I'm sure there are more I haven't heard yet. For now, I'd like to hold off on vacations and other travel requests. For now. There are reasons for that but at some point, those too, will be lifted and everyone will be able to come and go as they please, just as always. However, for anything else, please, submit all of your issues to my office or feel free to come to me, personally. I promise, no reasonable request will be refused." Applause and cheers, again. "The most important thing now is that we put the past behind us, we move forward, we make the recent past, the distant past, and we carry on with the dream. So with that, everyone, please eat and enjoy. And again, I thank you."

Mr. Bennington bowed and stepped away from the podium amid the biggest cheers and applause. Many gave him personal praise on his way to his table and then again, once he sat next to Tulley. Most of the guests started getting up to head to the buffet tables, including those at their table, including Monroe and Mattie. Their table was just on the edge of the tree line perimeter. Mr. Bennington smiled at them all as they walked off.

"Make sure none of them leave this gathering." He said to Tulley as he took his seat. His voice low but not quite whispering. The ambient noise made whispering unnecessary.

"Got it." Tulley replied and rose from his seat.

The dinner lasted for over an hour. Absent Deputy Garrett, who Tulley instructed to keep watch on the parking area to make sure no one went to their cars. Mr. Bennington spent the time roaming from table to table chatting with the occupants. Sometimes he took a seat and stayed a few minutes but mostly he moved around. He spent no time at his own table or the three adjacent to his, and it was clear those tables took notice of it. The occupants all ate and acted as normal but he could see their nervous anxiety. Tulley had gotten his own food but didn't eat at the table. He walked the perimeter carrying his plate. Once, he thought he heard sounds in the woods and went to check them out but he found nothing and thought he might have imagined it. He never saw anyone leave the party.

After instructing Tulley to have Garrett return from the parking area, Mr. Bennington went back to the podium. He turned on the microphone and called everyone's attention again.

"Everyone? Everyone. Excuse me," he said, and then waited for the crowd to settle. "I hope everyone's enjoying themselves. I'm afraid there is some town business. So right now, I'm going to ask that we have all the children head up into the house for a little bit." He pointed to the backdoor of his Town Executive Residence. The door was open. Volunteers were there to take charge of the children. "It shouldn't be too long. I have the playroom set up. It's for all ages. Just head right on in. Feel free to take your desserts with you." He said and then noticed how the crowd was a little startled, and hesitant, "now, please." He added, stern.

The volunteers went out in the crowd and started herding the children together. Families were reluctant to let them go. Many of the children sensed that and were reluctant to leave themselves.

"It's fine, children. We just have some adult things to discuss. No need for concern." Bennington said. The volunteers started leading the groups of children up to the house. He watched as they all went up the stairs to his backdoor. When the last of them went through he waved his hand to signal for the last volunteer to shut the door. When they did, he turned back to the crowd and turned off the microphone. He nodded his head towards Tulley.

Tulley stood, walked around to everyone at the table, tapping them on the shoulder and asking them to move. When they did, it left only Monroe and Mattie at the table. Then he walked behind the Hudson's and stood while Garrett walked up and stood generally behind the three adjacent tables. Though both were still clearly unarmed, small sounds of dread started coming from the four tables, particularly from Susannah and Mattie. They both started holding onto their husbands hands. Bennington walked from the podium and stopped just a few feet in front of their table. The rest of the crowd didn't particularly know what was happening but they knew to remain silent and still.

"Where is he?" Bennington said, looking at Mattie. Then at Monroe. Then at Seth. Then he switched his gaze over to the next table and looked at each individual there. Then the next two tables. As if he was identifying the culprits to everyone. Mattie and Susannah's sobs continued along with others in the group.

"Shut up!" Bennington commanded. They lowered their whimpers, slightly but some had to bite their lips to do it. He turned to the rest of the crowd as he pointed at the four tables, "these ones, they brought an interloper into our town. A wanted fugitive. They thought that was the way to bring those government agents back to take me away." Then he turned to Monroe, again, "wasn't that the plan, Monroe? Oh, wait, I should be talking to the one in charge. Wasn't that the plan, Mattie?" He said as he switched his gaze to her. She didn't reply. "You think anybody is going to take me away from my town?" He looked at the other tables, "any of you?!"

He walked up to the edge of Monroe and Mattie's table, "I know this started with you. You think Prisko is going to save you, now?"

When neither of them answered, Bennington grabbed the table and threw it aside, giving him a clear path to Mattie which he started to take. Monroe jumped up to shield her but Tulley grabbed him from behind and put him in a choke hold. The crowd was more than alarmed, many of them stood up, and some even started to run.

"Don't nobody fucking move!" Bennington yelled as he looked at the crowd, who were behind him. Everyone stopped in their tracks. "Sit down!" He commanded. Everyone did. Then he turned back to Mattie, walked up and wrapped his hands around her throat, but didn't apply any pressure. He pulled her towards him,

"If you saw what I did to those agents, you'd know better than to think they could help you. Now where is the motherfucker you brought here? He's not in your house, we checked. Where is he?" He slapped her and then started too squeeze his hands around her throat. She struggled at first but then, after several seconds, went to her knees. "Somebody better tell me or I'm gonna squeeze the life out of this bitch. Tell me Monroe." He said, looking at Monroe who was still in Tulley's hold. Then he looked at the other tables, "Arash? Moses? Bruce? Where is he?!"

Mattie began to struggle less and less as her face started turning blue and she sank further to the ground. Monroe cried out, begging him to stop. "You're next, Monroe. And then you, Susannah. Tell me where he is. WHERE IS HE?!"

"Here."

The voice came from behind them and the gunshots rang out immediately after. Before anyone could even think to turn to see where the voice came from. There were four shots. Two sets in rapid succession. The first bullet went through Bennington's forehead, and the second, through his side just below his rib cage. Then when he turned from the impact, the final two went into his back. First upper, then lower. Bennington gasped in pain as he fell to the ground. Still.

The crowd stood in shocked silence. Many mouths were agape as they saw his body laying still on the smooth lawn. Most still hadn't thought to check the source of the shots. They could only stare at the body.

Jester emerged from the forest that was behind the table. The gun was held out in front of him in firing position. Still smoking. He had been firing as he walked forward. Was ready to fire again if Bennington moved.

Tulley, having just processed what happened, released Monroe and moved towards Jester but stopped when he was met by the gun barrel. Jester pointed the gun at him, and also at Garrett, who had also tried to move on him. Both of them stood still as he moved forward.

* * *

Jester saw Monroe run over to Mattie as soon as the older guy let him go. That creepy looking guy's choke on her had been so severe, she made a strong gagging sound at the first few draws of breath. She clutched at her throat as Monroe cradled her but within a few seconds was starting to regain her color.

He had to get his own bearings. Having trekked through the forest since nightfall, he followed the biggest lights in the darkness. Remembering that was where Seth told him the town center would be. When he finally reached it, he could see that there was some kind of party going on. His first peek at the town through the woods was at the parking area where there had been a whole host of modern, swanky looking, cars lined up. He was wondering if he could be lucky enough to break in and steal one but he had to wait. That big, mean looking, white guy, that he was now keeping at bay with the gun, had been standing watch.

As long as he had to wait, he swung around to see what all the festivities were about. When he reached the big lawn, he saw the crowd. He saw the speech. Most especially, he saw the food. He hadn't eaten since breakfast at Seth's. When he spotted Seth at the party, his plan was to wait it out and somehow get hold of him. Then make him get him some food and drive him out of town. That's what he had been waiting for when the creep went after Mattie. At first Jester froze as he watched. Even as he started choking her. Wondering why nobody was doing anything. Then when he saw her seeping to the ground and turning blue, it dawned on him that he was actually going to kill her, and everyone was just going to let him. At that point, he didn't think, he just reacted. Now, here he was.

There was this stillness that lasted for several seconds, or possibly more, as Jester faced the crowd with the gun pointed. No one seemed to know what to do next, not even him. Some of the crowd were looking at him but he noticed most of them peculiarly kept their gaze on the body. As if that was a bigger threat then the gun in his hand. Why was that? Then another question popped in his head.

"Is that him?" Jester asked, looking at Monroe. Asking if that was the man they wanted him to kill. With Mattie still recovering in his arms, Monroe looked at Bennington's body but didn't reply.

What happened next was something totally inexplicable. He saw Moses, who was at the next table, slap Arash on the chest.

"We have to finish him." He said as he grabbed a steak knife from the table and started to run over to the body. "Come on!" He yelled back as he got halfway, waving his arm for Arash, and possibly others, to follow him.

The man's body was laying on his stomach. Moses ran over, leaned down, and began stabbing the corpse about the head and upper back. A few seconds later he saw Arash joined him with a knife of his own, yelling for even more help. Although no one else moved. The old guy and the big white guy looked like they wanted to stop them but weren't sure if they were free to. Jester still had the gun pointed at them.

"What are you doing?" Jester yelled at them.

This was crazy, he thought. The man was dead with the first shot. He saw the bullet pierce through his forehead and shoot out from the other side. Taking a clump of hair, flesh, and brain matter with it. Yet both Moses and Arash continued to stab the corpse mercilessly, mostly through the neck. Then after a while, Arash started sawing at it, clearly trying to sever his head. Moses saw what he was doing and joined him but the smooth bladed steak knives in their hands were insufficient to cut through the vertebrae from behind.

"Turn him over. Come on." Arash said, panting. Then he looked behind him at the other table, "help us!". He pleaded to them. Then he stopped cutting, grabbed the dead man by the shoulders, and began to flip his body around. Moses helped him.

As the body turned on its back, it's hand rose and went around Moses' throat, just underneath the chin. The act stopping Arash, and his eyes widened. Staring in astonishment – and terror. In a single half-twist of the hand, Moses' neck snapped with the huge unmistakable, cracking, sound of thick, shattering, bone. His head flipped sideways into his left shoulder so absurdly, it was if folded paper. Jester could see the snapped bone protrude from the right side of Moses' neck. He first slumped, lifelessly, on his knees, and his body would've rested there forever, if not for the twitching. It twitched it's way fully onto the ground.

Then the hand switched to Arash's shoulder as he was still fixated on Moses. Again, there was the unmistakable sound of breaking bone as Jester saw the fingers dig into the flesh and bone of Arash's right shoulder and disappear inside of it, letting blood seep down his knuckles and then to his wrist. Arash screamed. His shirt prevented the blood from splattering but it was immediately soaked in it, with drops falling through the cloth..

Then the man he had just shot four times, once even through the forehead, suddenly sprang back to life. He sat up. Arash was still firmly in his right hand but he focused only on Jester. His eyes burning into him. And he wasn't a man anymore. His face was now darker and twisted into a monstrous scowl, his eyes were fiery red, his mouth was agape and there were two, long, razor sharp, fangs extending down from his upper teeth. His head, which should've had at least, a bullet-sized hole through it, was fully intact. His skin, which from the stab wounds should've been in shreds, was undamaged. The monster hissed as he got to his feet with Arash still in his grip. Lifting him off the ground by the shoulder. Still staring at Jester, the thing bit into Arash's neck, taking a mouthful sized, chunk of flesh away, and spitting it out. Releasing a spate of gushing blood.

"R . . . R . . . Run!" Was the last thing Arash said, barely audible. He was looking towards the table where his wife was. He had children as well, but they were in the mansion. The creepy man turned him sideways, bracing his body across his forearm, that left Arash's legs dangling. Letting the blood gushing from his neck pour sloppily into his mouth. Arash's eyes then glazed over and Jester could see the life fade from him.

Everyone knew what to do, then.

The crowd scattered in all directions. Jester, instinctively, emptied the remaining bullets from the gun into the thing. Clicking threw the empty chamber at least four times before he realized there were no more bullets to fire. Unlike before, this time the man didn't react to the wounds at all. He kept taking in Arash's blood, almost obliviously, as the last bullets shot through him.

Jester felt two arms wrap around him. When he looked, he saw it was the old man. He beat him off with the butt of the gun to his head, and he fell to the floor. Then he saw the big, white guy charging at him. Just as he was about to reach him, Monroe threw his body into him and knocked him aside.

He felt a hand grab his. He looked up. It was Mattie.

"We have to go!" She yelled, pulling him hard.

Though some went straight into the woods, most of the horrified crowd were headed towards the parking area. However, there was another sizeable group that ran to the door of the town executive residence to retrieve their kids. The door was locked and they were pounding on it. Jester never saw if it ever came open for them. Mattie pulled him towards the parking area. Calling for Monroe as she did. He followed them. It took them past the thing that was drinking Arash, but it didn't seem to notice them at all. By then Arash's blood had stopped pouring and he had pulled his neck directly to his lips, seeming to suck out the rest. Taking more bites as necessary to open a larger wound.

"Fuck . . . Was that . . .Was that a . . .?" Jester started.

"Vampire." Mattie finished.

### Chapter 18

"What the fuck was that!?"

Jester yelled after another few seconds. For the sixth or seventh time in a row – or tenth or twelfth. It had been incessant since they escaped the lawn and the group had lost count. He'd been hyperventilating and, in between breaths, repeating that question over and over. No matter how many times anyone tried to answer it for him.

Seth got to his car first when they all ran from the lawn. Knowing Monroe and Mattie's car was buried amongst those of the rest of the town and couldn't get out, he waited for them. Frantically waving them to him as they reached the parking area. Mattie had to guide Jester to his car. Since the incident, he'd been moving in sort of a daze. Somewhere between voluntary and involuntary. He moved under his own power, but only when he was directed. Now in Seth's back seat with Mattie, and Monroe in the passenger seat, they drove through the back road. Their only destination, away from the mansion.

They all wanted to move faster, but there had been a parade of vehicles fleeing the scene right along with them. As much as everyone in every vehicle wanted to floor their engines, the dark, narrow, road from the town center, made that impossible. Though that didn't stop many from trying, anyway. There had been more than a few collisions in the flight. Both in front and behind them. Seth had to dodge around a few just to get where they were. However the latest mishap, just in front of them, had served to clog everything. It happened between two BMW SUV's. The front one hadn't been moving fast enough for the one tailing it, so the second BMW tried to ram into it's rear to help it along. Instead of pushing it forward, it rolled under the rear carriage, forcing the back tires on top of it's hood. Eventually wedging the front SUV into a dirt hill. Then the second BMW spun around, wedging itself across the span of the entire road. With the two ensuing vehicles piling into them, all passage had stopped.

Due to the relatively slow procession, all of the following vehicles were able stop in time to avoid further collisions. Seth pressed his brakes to stop. Then the three of them peered at the sudden, impassable, road.

"What the fuck was that?" Jester repeated, shaking his head. Still in his daze, he wasn't screaming it anymore but the words came with higher frequency.

Ignoring him, "what now?" Monroe asked, to no one in particular.

He kept his eyes ahead. People were clearing out of their cars and filling the road. There were brief gatherings in separate, smaller, groups as everyone discussed what to do next. Then they did what was the only option they had. They all headed into the woods.

"Follow them." Mattie said. She had her arm around Jester's shoulder. She removed it to open her door to get out.

"It's pitch black out there! Once we clear the roads and can't see the car lights, what then?" Seth asked, not moving from his seat.

"You wanna stay here? Just come on!" Mattie replied from outside the car. Then ran around to the rear drivers side to retrieve Jester.

Monroe ran around to join her, opening Seth's door to urge him out. Once they were all out of the car, they proceeded into the woods. With Mattie still guiding Jester with her arm around his waist. Their direction was north, although none of them realized that.

They spent the first, thirty or forty yards only following the people in front of them, but then the crowd started to spread out in a wide pattern. It became a choice of which group to follow. Heading deeper into the forest, all of their paces slowed as they got farther away from the car lights on the road. That's when Mattie realized all of the people in the woods with them were adults.

"You think they got the kids out?" She asked, stopping in her tracks and turning around to Seth and Monroe, who were behind her.

"He can't kill all of them." Monroe answered as he caught up to her.

"No, he can't. But Moses and Arash's families, we know they're all dead. If not already, then soon." Seth said.

"Maybe they got away." Monroe said, hopefully.

Seth, shaking his head, "I saw both of the wives go towards the mansion. He'll catch them there. He knew they wouldn't leave without their kids."

"Why didn't you help them?!" Mattie exclaimed to both of them, accusingly.

Monroe and Seth stood silent for a few seconds. Both knew she wasn't referring to the families, but Moses and Arash themselves.

"I . . . I just froze, baby. I don't know why." Monroe said, shaking his head and looking down.

"I didn't even know what the fuck was going on, Mattie," Seth started, "we had a plan. We were going to set it up at a specific place, at a specific time. We were supposed to know when it was going to happen. We were supposed to be prepared. How the hell were we supposed to know he was going to come out of the woods shooting like that? "

"Moses and Arash knew what to do." Said Monroe.

"We didn't have the weapons with us, Monroe."

"Neither did they." Mattie, cut in.

Seth, now looking down, himself, "yeah".

There was little to see in the forest but shapes in the darkness. However, once their eyes adjusted, they could recognize each other by voice and body type. Faces could even be made out if they were directly in front of them. They saw the shapes of the people still scurrying about them but they didn't move any further.

"What the fuck was that?" Jester said again, almost a whisper now.

"Why does he keep saying that?!" Seth asked, annoyed.

"He's scared!" Mattie snapped.

"We're all scared, Mattie."

"We knew what he was. He didn't." She said and then grabbed Jester's face with both hands and forced him to look down at her. Calling him by his chosen name, "you're alright." She said, soothing. "You saved my life." She wrapped her arms around his arms and waist, and rested her head on his chest.

Jester looked down at her. His breathing slowed. He started to regain his senses. Checking his surroundings, he realized he'd been through this area before. When he was hiking his way towards the lights of the town center.

"Did that just happen?" He asked.

Monroe walked over to him, "it really happened. He is a vampire. A real vampire."

"Those . . . those things are real?" Jester asked.

"Apparently." Seth answered.

"But he's the only one any of us know. Anyone in the whole town, really." Said Monroe.

"The whole town knows about him?"

"Yeah, you could say the whole town was established for him", replied Seth.

"What?"

"To protect him."

"Protect him?"

"He gets to live openly without having to hide what he is, and everyone in town safeguards him from outsiders. In return he takes care of everyone's financial needs."

"And what, he drinks your blood like he did that dude?!"

"No. No, he doesn't prey on us. Well, not usually." Answered Seth.

"Well, who does he prey on?"

"We don't know, really. He takes these, what he calls 'hunting trips' every so often. But we don't know. Nobody asks those kinds of questions." Added Monroe.

"Really, in all the time we've known about him, we never knew or even heard about any of his victims – until those FBI agents." Said Mattie.

Jester stopped asking questions for a second, processing all of the information. What he was just told, and what he saw. He remembered the way the . . . vampire – he would have to get used to that – stood up after he shot it. A new question popped in his head.

"You thought I could kill that?"

"No, son." Seth started, "we knew you couldn't kill him. But we thought you could wound him enough for us to gang up on him. All of us together might've killed him."

"Why couldn't you have just done that yourselves? Why did you need me?"

"It's . . . hard to explain. He knows us. Anyone he gets to know, he can read. Basically, if any of us meant him any harm, he would know before we ever got the chance." Seth said.

"He can read your minds?"

"He doesn't read minds but somehow he can read intent. Bad intent. He knows when someone wants to hurt him. I don't know how he does it, he just does."

Mattie said, "early on, before the town was incorporated, there was a guy named Warring. He was an executive with Bennington's company for years, one of the original town founders. He knew about Bennington, just like we all did. He had some kind of falling out with him. We never knew why. One day, he went to a town meeting and took a shotgun and a bowie knife. Bennington got to the meeting first, took his usual place at the head of the table. Then Warring drove up and got out of his car. As soon as we heard his car door slam, Bennington just announced that he was gonna come in and try to kill him with a shotgun and a bowie knife. Sure enough, thirty seconds later, Warring walked into the meeting carrying the shotgun in full view. Didn't try to hide it at all, and shot him in the face. Bennington stood up, buckshot all in his face, said 'I told you so' and bowed. Then he took the knife from Warring and cut his throat with it."

". . . and then he went back to Warring's house and killed the rest of his family. A wife and three young girls." Monroe added.

"But you just said he never killed anyone from town." He said to Seth.

"I said he never preyed on anyone from town. He didn't feed off of them. He just murdered them."

Damn, Jester thought. He stood silent for several seconds. When he was watching the scene from the woods, he wondered how they could just stand there while he was choking the life out of Mattie. However, with all he saw and just heard, that question answered itself.

"We needed an outsider to make the first move on him. Take him by surprise." Said Seth.

"And then what?"

"Well, then we had a plan. For all of us to be there and be ready when you took your shot at him. Once he was stunned, we'd have our saws, our axes, and whatever other weapons we could use to . . . well, decapitate him. But the whole thing happened so fast. You took us by surprise and we . . . well, we blew it."

The three of them stood in solemn silence for the next few seconds. Without seeing the expressions on their faces Jester could feel their despondence. They felt that opportunity was the only chance they would ever have.

"It would've worked if we could have taken advantage." Said Mattie. "The way you laid him out. Warring hit him with a full shotgun blast in the face and he laughed it off. I heard those FBI agents put something like forty/fifty bullets in him and didn't even slow him down. But you shot him like only three or four times and it actually knocked him out for a few seconds."

"Yeah, you know – that was kind of weird." Said Seth.

Jester didn't hear the last exchange. He had tuned it out. It was a lot to wrap his mind around but he felt he'd gotten enough information for the time being, or maybe he just didn't want to hear anymore.

"Where are we going?" He asked them.

"We don't know." Mattie said.

"I can get you back to where I was this morning. It was close to his house." He said while pointing at Seth.

"In the dark?" Asked Monroe.

"Yeah."

"I know the woods around my place. If we get close enough, I can find my way." Said Seth.

"They might be waiting for us." Said Monroe.

"How fast can you get us there?" Mattie asked Jester.

"It would be faster in the daytime. Maybe twenty - thirty minutes?" Jester replied.

"And then I gotta find my way from where he takes us. So figure an hour, at least." Seth added.

"There's only three of them, Bennington, Tulley, and Garrett. They're going to find our car still in the parking area but it'll take them time to realize Seth's car got stuck on the road. And then they'll probably head to our place first. We might be able to reach Seth's before them."

"But baby, even if we do, then what? There's no getting away from him. He'll track us down wherever we go. However far we get."

"We just need to get to a phone."

"What the hell good is that going to do?" Seth objected, "who can you call?"

"Prisko."

* * *

If he could actually lose his breath, he guessed he'd be trying to catch it right now, but in fact, he had no breath to lose. Vampires inhale and exhale, but they don't breathe. They use the air intake to have something to expel when they spoke. There were no functioning lungs converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. There was no oxygenation of blood. There was no blood. He supposed the thick, black, ashy, substance that now stained his clothes was what used to be his blood, but it didn't flow, it pooled. It wasn't liquid, it was ash. It must have replenished itself but he wasn't sure how. Else as many wounds that had been opened up on his body over the years, deep, penetrating, otherwise devastating, wounds – from knives, arrows, bullets, even a grenade once – that black substance would've exhausted long ago. Yet with every new wound, there it was again.

Cole Bennington, the vampire, sat on his grand lawn, his suit, ruined, watching the rest of the town residents. The ones who had not fled. Many were surrounding him, feigning concern, seeing to his well-being. Others were gathered at the door to his mansion, having just retrieved their children and not knowing what to do next. Others stood around in various groups, discussing the night's events and wondering aloud, what happens next. Still others coordinating with Tulley on a plan to find the ones who had fled.

Himself? He had not moved five feet since he was shot. He didn't even respond to the residents currently hovering over him who thought they could do something to help him. He only brooded, staring straight ahead. Also, as much as he would never admit it to anyone else, only barely able to admit it to himself, he was recuperating. Getting shot had taken a lot out of him, and it wasn't the bullets.

Moses Kiplimo and Arash Talebi, were the two that attacked him. Their bodies were still lying in front of him, almost right at his feet. Someone had thought to throw tablecloths over them. Talebi's body was drained but he could see Moses' seeping bloodstain growing larger in the cloth covering his body. With each passing second within his corpse, his blood was spilling, cooling, congealing – wasting. He wanted to reach out and take in the nourishment while there was still time, but to do it in front of the residents would've been unsightly. He'd only taken Arash out of immediate need. Moses, he had to let go to waste. He wasn't worried. There would be more.

What he had been trying to build without definition, he felt slipping away. That concept of home that he thought was just within his grasp, was dissipating at the point of contact. All of his wealth, all of his power, that he had carefully accumulated over time, he had invested into the town. It was more than property. He handpicked every resident. Gave them wealth if they didn't have it, secured it if they did. Promised them safety and luxury. Not only for them but for their children and their children's children. He wanted to earn their faith and he believed he had. Now some of them had turned on him. Despite all of his efforts, they turned on him. The irony of it , he thought, was that it wasn't all of their fault.

He lost their faith. Shaking his head in regret, he remembered the events that led to this. The night those five FBI agents came to town looking for him. If only they hadn't arrived at night. In daytime, the sunlight would've confined him to his day chambers deep within his mansion and kept him from reaching them. He might've collected himself before he reacted. There would've been time for him to calm down and consider what a reckless, monumentally stupid, act he was about to commit.

Yet they didn't arrive under the sun. They arrived after dark. All he could remember thinking was, who were they to come to his town, uninvited. Their presence enraged him in a way he thought, after so many years, he was well beyond. Then he saw them using that satellite phone, communicating unsupervised, with the world beyond, when he had taken such extremes to cut off all cellular service in the town. He just snapped.

The one with the phone was dead first, maybe three or four seconds after he closed his call. It was quick but agonizing as Bennington deliberately crushed the man's trachea so he would die in suffering, gasping for breath. The other agents were taken so off guard, and so stunned, they actually took the time to watch their colleague slowly slip away directly in front of them. Right along with Bennington. They waited until the doomed man stopped consciously struggling for air and his body began twitching involuntarily, before any of them thought to draw their weapons. When they did, he showed his true face, his fangs, and let them put at least a dozen bullets in him. When he didn't fall after the shots, he felt their fear grow and it empowered him. He took the second with a slash to the head, taking half of it away. The other three ran to the sheriff's office but they were locked out. They pounded on Hailey's door desperately, but he would not answer. The agents didn't try to run any farther. They valiantly took a stand at the door and, as he slowly approached them, fired. The third one he killed with a slash of his claw to the throat. The fourth kill was the most merciful. By then the bloodshed had excited him and he could feel the thirst. He didn't want to take the time to feed and then have to chase down the last one, so he simply snapped the man's neck. The last one, the woman, was the only one he consumed. Opening her carotid artery with his fangs, and ingesting her sweet, coppery, fear enriched, blood with a satisfaction long since forgotten on his routine hunts.

That act for him, had been so out of control, so out of character, that after it was over, even Hailey, the ultimate adulator, expressed shock, disgust, even a little disapproval. That was when Bennington realized just what he'd done. But by then it was too late to turn back. Through Hailey, he issued his directives to the town. No one was to leave under any circumstances and everyone was to fully cooperate with the imminent investigation by the government. Fully cooperate but reveal nothing. There was no time for the tact or diplomacy he would've normally used, so he issued those directives under threat of death. Then he had Hailey and Scott help him load the bodies into his car and drove them away that very night. The bodies were hundreds of miles away now. Never to be found.

He crossed another line that night. Since the town's inception, he had always taken his hunting trips. At least, four to six times a year. Traveling away from town via his private jet to different, distant, locations. Those were the only times he fed. Until that night, no one in his town had ever seen him take prey. Had never even been aware of any prey he'd taken. He never wanted them to. There was a difference between knowing what he was, and seeing what he was. People could fear a monster but they could never have faith in one. He learned long ago the way to engender faith from people so that they never turn on you, was to deploy a mixed tactic of threat and reward. He had offered the rewards and hinted at the threats to where he felt there was good proportion of each. However, he knew if the town ever saw him feed, no matter what rewards he offered, they would only ever see threat.

When he drove away from town that night, three bodies in his trunk, two stuffed down under blankets in his back seat, he hoped he could preserve the faith he'd earned, but now he could see that was impossible. Now it had all devolved into what it had always been before Cole, the town – survival.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you." He said to the ones around him as he stood. Shaking off their helping hands.

Time to survive, he thought. He stood slowly, making sure he was sturdy. He didn't want to stumble in front of the residents. Agitated, he waved them all away and they scampered off, in his mind, like roaches. He kept his position for another few minutes.

Last night when he saw the Hudson's in Tulley's cell, he sensed a strange brand of fear coming from Mattie, but he couldn't identify it. Monroe's fear was all too clear. Admirably, it was all centered around the terror of any harm coming to his wife, not himself. That never altered from the moment Monroe saw him until the moment he released them. However, Mattie's fear changed. At first it was fear from what he might do to her. To Bennington, that was the most familiar fear of all. Yet after he'd made it clear to her that he didn't intend to hurt them, that particular dread faded into something else. He didn't know what it was, exactly, but he didn't think it significant. Now he knew what it was, fear of discovery, of him discovering her betrayal.

After the call from Burdick, Bennington thought he knew what that betrayal was. That Mattie had brought a fugitive stranger to his town, a mere boy from the Bronx. A young, stupid, wannabe thug with a gun. Mattie was from the Bronx. She knew that place had all too many of those. She probably had to do no more than hail one down like a cab. Except this young, stupid, wannabe thug she hailed down, had been lucky enough to use that gun to shoot down two NYPD officers. Making him the most wanted man in the country. He thought her plan was to use him to lure Prisko and his minions back and, under the pretense of apprehending the boy, they would come for him. Bennington knew that Prisko would again, bring such an army, that he couldn't possibly kill them all. Once he was cornered and had to fight his way out, however many he had to kill to escape, the survivors would make sure he was a wanted man till the end of time. There would be no place on earth where he could show his face. The town would be gone, access to all of his money would be gone, the power that went with that money would be gone, and no possible deal he could ever hope to make with the government would change it. So he thought.

However, it wasn't until Moses and Arash attacked him that he realized just how wrong he was. That Mattie's plan had been much more ambitious. He knew from Garrett's report that she had enlisted allies and that those two were among them. However, he thought the others to be nothing more than cheerleaders, with little to no functional role to play. Their attack told him different. Only an outsider, someone he'd had no previous contact with, would have a chance to catch him off guard. So she brought an outsider. That outsider shot him, he went down, then Moses and Arash attacked. That could only have been coordinated. As soon as he realized that, he knew. Mattie Hudson didn't mean to just run him off. She meant to kill him.

He felt his strength returning. There were tasks at hand. The mansion was first, he thought. He slowly walked up the steps to his backdoor where he had told Tulley to wait for him. Garrett had retrieved their arms from the Sheriff's office. As he reached the top of the porch, the crowd who had gathered there, parted for him. With just two looks, first at the crowd, then the bottom of the stairs below, the people knew to clear the porch. When they reached the ground, only the sound of the chirping cicadas filled the night as he looked out over them. He wasn't ready to speak yet. They would wait.

Like humans, there were traits all vampires shared. All vampires were made, no vampire was ever born. They all subsisted on blood. It didn't have to be human, but human blood was the most nourishing so all of his kind preferred it. Sunlight destroyed them. All had great strength. Some had more than others but the weakest vampire was considerably stronger than the strongest man. They did age and eventually die a natural death, but very slowly. A vampire aged one year for approximately every twenty-five for a human. They were purely supernatural beings. There was no science to them. All physiological signs would indicate they should not be alive. Yet there was some unexplained, paranormal force that compelled them to animation and self-awareness. It could have been something based in religion or it could have been something else entirely, Bennington never knew. Whether a deity existed was as great a debate in the vampire community, to the extent there was one, as anywhere else.

Unlike their portrayal in modern folklore, vampires don't cluster. They never dwell or travel in groups. They were lonely, solitary creatures. By definition, they were predators, and as such, were highly territorial. One taking prey in another's territory was an act of war. When two vampires met, either one fled from the other or was destroyed by the other. Bennington lost count of how many vampires he killed, as well as how many he avoided being killed by, in his younger days.

Also like humans, vampires had variances apart from shared traits. Different vampires developed different abilities. Being of the supernatural themselves, so were these abilities. Some vampires, in fact, could metamorphose into animals, like bats. Others could scale walls like an insect. Some could fly. Others developed telekinetic powers to move objects with their minds. Some could take control of others minds. The range of abilities were enumerable and if ever studied, could very well, read like a comic book gallery. These abilities developed and strengthened with the age of the vampire.

Bennington's vampire existence was close to four hundred years. Of his kind, he was now an apex predator. Akin to a king cobra, he ate other cobras. No other vampire would ever challenge him. He couldn't shape-shift, he didn't have telekinesis, he couldn't fly. What he did have was heightened intuition and the ability to read intent. Knowing what his prey or enemy was going to do before they did it. He was also keenly sensitive to emotion. Being able to identify them as easily as recognizing an object on sight. Fear, in particular, was like a steroid to him. It gave him strength like sustenance. Once he had sustained contact with another, human or vampire, they were never a threat to him. Which was the main reason for establishing a town and populating it with only people he knew. However, for each individual, it took time for him to develop that intuition. Which was why Mattie Hudson needed to bring an outsider to attack him.

"Did everyone get their kids?" He finally asked Tulley.

"Everyone except . . ." Tulley replied, deliberately stopping there, and pointing to the mansion.

Bennington nodded, getting his reference. He looked through the crowd, "go home, everyone." He said.

"They can't. The road is blocked." Said Tulley.

"Why is the road blocked?" He asked, agitated.

"Those other people crashed into each other trying to get out. We got a bunch of cars jamming the road. I'm having someone get a tow truck to clear it."

"Do we know how many got out before the jam?"

"Not yet."

"Well then, everybody wait in your cars until the road is clear, or whatever. Just get out of here. Clear the lawn." He said as he walked by them.

Following his cue, Tulley commanded everyone to leave and began herding them. The crowd all started to walk around the side to the front of the mansion where the parking area was. To make sure they all understood how serious he was, Bennington stood watch at the tip of his porch, eying them as they all filed by. It took about five minutes for the hundred or so people to all leave and the lawn was finally clear. When they did, he looked at Tulley.

"Most of the traitor families we already got locked up in the mansion. We had their kids so they weren't going anywhere. But the ones that didn't have kids, ran off. Garrett saw some of their cars on the road, empty. We think . . ." Tulley said.

". . . Mattie Hudson." He said after an irritated wave, cutting Tulley off.

"Their car is still in the parking area. It never moved. Witnesses saw them get into Seth's car. Seth's car is one of those stuck on the road, also empty."

"So they're in the woods."

"Yeah, we're pretty sure they're in the woods. We got some people who want to help. We can send them . . ."

"Yes. Send whoever. I want those 'traitor families', as you call them, rounded up and brought right back here to this lawn. Tonight. As many as you can get. Whoever gets away, we'll deal with later."

"Ok."

"Did Scott get to the Hudson's house yet?"

"No, he couldn't get by the road, so he's on foot. He said he'd call on the radio when he got there. But you don't think we should be worrying about this kid they brought? I mean, as long as he's here, prick-so and his goons can come in anytime."

"Forget about that. Did you cut off all the phone service?"

"Except for here at the mansion and my office, like you said."

"Go out to that road and supervise the cleanup. I want it cleared as soon as possible. Tell Scott if the Hudson's aren't home to come right back."

"You don't think he should wait?"

Bennington answered him with a scornful look. Annoyed that he was being questioned again.

"Yes, sir." Tulley said and then started to leave.

"Wait", he called. Then pointed at the closed back door of his mansion.

"We separated them from the rest. They're locked up in the playroom." Tulley said.

He had Tulley hold all the remaining members of the Talebi and Kiplimo families. Two wives, six children.

"All of the volunteers get out?" He asked, referring to the mansion.

"Yeah, they're all out."

Bennington shooed him away with his hand and opened the door to go into his mansion.

"Are you alright, sir?" He heard Tulley ask.

"I will be." He walked in the mansion and closed the door.

### Chapter 19

Another twenty minutes and Jester was guiding the group through the woods, at a snail's pace. He may have known the general direction they needed to go, but the dark, moonless, night offered no insight into the terrain they were walking. There were ditches, hills, fallen tress, mudholes, and other unseeable obstacles that could turn into dangers if they weren't careful. Almost every step had to be tested before taken. The group was almost single file with Jester in front. Even as slow as they were, they were the only escapees in the woods who seemed to know where they were going. As such, they picked up a number of stragglers who had also fled the lawn. Their group of four had grown to seventeen.

Many of the new arrivals at first, expressed hostility towards Seth, Monroe, but especially at Mattie. Accusing her of turning Mr. Bennington's wrath on them. Said that all of their lives were in danger because of her. However, as they moved along, she explained to them how it all started. She got sick when the FBI was in town and, despite Mr. Bennington's expressed orders not to, she had to leave to seek help. To Jester's amazement, that was all she needed to say. It seemed that they all knew simply violating Bennington's order made it a matter of survival. They weren't altogether satisfied with her explanation, but they accepted it. The same way a person might not be satisfied with, but still accept, the results of an election. They even stopped blaming her.

Jester knew how they felt. He understood why they did what they did, but he was wholly unsatisfied that they brought him into it. On top of all the trouble he was already in, now because of them, there was a monster after him. One he couldn't fight. That's what scared him so much that it put him in a daze, he realized. Not what he saw, not the flaming red eyes, or the fangs, or the bloody carnage it wreaked on that poor foreign guy. It was that. There was no fighting it. Since he was twelve years old, no bully, gang banger, cop, or drunken foster parent, ever made him feel like that.

All he wanted to do now was get away. Things weren't moving fast enough for him, even with him leading. Despite their slow pace, he felt that he they had traveled enough of a distance to be close to Seth's house. Yet Seth hadn't spoken up about recognizing anything. Jester asked him if anything was looking familiar. He replied that he still didn't know where they were.

"What the fuck? Didn't you say you could recognize the woods around your house?!" Jester snapped as he stopped and turned around to look at him.

Seth, a little startled by his sudden hostility, "is this around my house?"

"It's close. You should be recognizing something by now."

"Ok, calm down. Let me take a look around." Seth did a 360 to try to get his bearings. However, all of the trees and the leaves and the darkness looked the same to him. "I . . . I'm not seeing anything familiar, yet. I'm sorry."

"Fuckin' asshole!" Jester said with an untoward sigh and went and leaned on a tree.

"I don't have your night vision. I'm not as young as you, and I wear glasses."

"Wait, wait," Mattie stepped up, "is everything alright?"

"He said he could find the way to his house." Jester said, accusingly.

"Well, are we back to the spot you said?"

With another angry sigh, Jester stood up from leaning on the tree and started walking ahead, "just come on." He commanded.

"Is he losing it?" Asked an exasperated, unidentified, voice from somewhere in the middle of the group, "he can't lose it. We need to get out of these woods."

"Hey fuck you people! I didn't ask you to follow me." Jester yelled towards the direction of the voice.

"Hey, hey, we're ok." Mattie said to him, soothing. She then turned towards the group, "shut up, back there." Then turned to Jester, "you're doing good. You're doing fine. Just get us back to the spot you said. Seth can find his way from there, ok?"

"It's taking too long." He replied, shaking his head.

"We're making good time." Monroe jumped in, for the first time.

"They're gonna be waiting for us."

"If they are, we'll see them from the woods. We won't go. That's all." Said Mattie.

He looked at Seth, who seemed to him to be the most knowledgeable on the subject that was foremost on his mind, "tell me something, are you sure that's the only, uh . . . vampire? How do you know that?"

Seth took a second, now surprised at the sudden change of subject, then, "I didn't say he's the only vampire. I said he's the only one we know."

"How do you know there aren't more around here? They could be all over the fucking place." He said and motioned to the crowd behind them.

Seth turned and looked at the crowd, and then back at him, "None of these people are vampires, son. I guarantee you, there are no more around here. There's only one vampire we have to worry about."

"You said the only way to kill it is to cut off it's head?" Jester asked.

"That might not be the only way but we're pretty sure that would do it." Replied Seth.

"So you don't even fuckin' know?"

"How are we supposed to know? We just knew it was him or us."

"Can we please, just go?" Mattie asked. "The more time we waste here, the more time we give them to find us."

"Yes, please, come on." Said another, different voice from the group.

Next all of them joined in, urging for him to lead them. Not in an antagonizing or demanding manner, but pleading. Even though he couldn't see their faces, the earnestness in their voices, the hope, it moved him. In that instant, he stopped seeing them as hangers on who were mooching off of him. He realized these were desperate people were actually depending on him.

"Ok, come on." He said with an unseen smirk, and then continued forward.

* * *

Agent Gomes was known around the bureau for being impatient. However, it wasn't until now, after having to spend so many hours alone with him, that Prisko realized the man was an incessant complainer. Any senior agent in any office would have their station chief's ear, as Gomes had his, but he had never had such exclusive access to it. Gomes took full advantage. He politely let Prisko know every single mistake he thought was made since the case began. Right down to certain details Prisko gave in talking to the media. He never should've withheld Bennington's name from the press. Never mind the Director's order, he should've just leaked it out anonymously. Then he absolutely should have put Tulley and his deputy under interrogation, never mind that they had no probable cause. He also should have had the interrogators use more aggressive tactics when interviewing the residents. Maybe a few face slaps, or a phone book over a few heads, would've been productive. Never mind it was against the law. Of course he should never have agreed to doing the press conference calling off the search. Threatening to resign would've put an immediate stop to that. The bosses never would've let it get that far, Gomes told him.

It got to the point where Prisko, not so politely, banished him from the car. Having to wait for Mattie Hudson's call was bad enough without also having to put up with the Gomes whiny rants. They were at a rest stop, as they had been since shortly after leaving the hotel. After eating in the local fast food restaurant, they spent most of the rest of the time sitting in the car. Which is where Prisko was now. He sat in the passenger seat as he watched Gomes actively avoiding him. He was off to his side, standing in front of the rest stop entrance. Smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell. Probably talking to his wife or some other poor soul that was used to listening to him, Prisko thought.

Not that there weren't legitimate mistakes. Prisko found himself second guessing his own decisions. He didn't need Gomes' two cents. Yet for all of his mistakes, there were none so much as the one he thought he might've made most recently.

"Try it again." Prisko said into his cell phone. He'd been on this call for the past ten minutes.

After a few minutes he received a reply, "it still says no service, sir."

"Hold on", Prisko said after an exasperated sigh. He took the phone from his ear to switch screens on the device. He found the information he was looking for and relayed a phone number into the phone. It was the number from a landline.

After another few minutes the reply was, "also says no service."

Prisko repeated the previous actions and gave the agent on the other end of the phone three more phone numbers. All landlines. Then he waited in nervous anticipation.

It wasn't looking good. He had the Hudson's in his hands, right where he wanted them, outside of town. He could've exerted the leverage he threatened against them in that hotel room. Took their statements implicating Bennington and whoever else and that would've been at least, enough to press the investigation. While also getting the superiors off his back. Doing that was his first instinct. The one he had from the moment he walked into that room.

However, somehow he had let Mattie Hudson talk him into releasing them. She admitted that the agents were murdered. Admitted that the perpetrators were Bennington, Tulley and Garrett, in concert. Even admitted the whole town knew. She said she didn't know where the bodies were but she offered her plan. Which Prisko couldn't deny offered a far better outcome than his.

With Bennington's history of escaping authorities, even if Prisko could prove he killed those agents, he might never be able to apprehend him. Her plan not only enabled a direct confrontation with Cole Bennington but, on her statement, the opportunity to arrest him. She promised that once he was in custody and no longer a threat to anyone, the whole town would turn on him. He would have Bennington, Tulley and Garrett locked up with over four hundred witnesses ready to give testimony against them. Maybe then, she said, he could find the bodies of those agents and give their families some level of closure.

Nothing Prisko might have done on his own could possibly match that. It was against his better judgment but he decided to take the risk and let the Hudson's go. Along with Masterson, who would only serve as the pretext for him re-entering Cole. Yet as that plan was now in waiting, there was one major hitch he had overlooked altogether.

Cole had no cell phone service but they had land lines. Since, in developing the town, it was Bennington who had installed all the communication lines in the first place, Prisko assumed he was likely to have those lines tapped. Not only for listening but for metadata as well. That meant he would be able to tell who was calling who and when, whether the two parties spoke to each other or not. Any calls to or from Prisko's cell, Bennington would know. Any calls to or from any FBI number, Bennington would know. Any calls to or from any number Bennington didn't already know, Bennington would know. Because of that, Mattie couldn't call him directly. They needed a signal. Prisko thought they'd cleverly worked that out. He had an agent head to home of Mattie's mother in the Bronx. There he would wait for her call and then relay it to Prisko's cell. Any call to or from Mattie's mother wouldn't raise suspicions. That agent in the Bronx was who he was speaking to right now. What Prisko never counted on was Mattie not being able to make the call.

He never considered that Bennington could cut off all phone service in the town. He didn't know why that possibility escaped him. He knew enough about modern telecom systems. Setting up an off switch on them was child's play. Now it was looking increasingly like the off switch had been pulled on Cole's land lines. The agent in the Bronx had dialed the Hudson's home phone several times. Each time only receiving a 'no service' message. The last three phone numbers Prisko relayed to him were the home phones of three other Cole households.

"I just tried all of them", the agent in the Bronx came back. "I'm afraid they all say no service, sir."

"Fuck!" Prisko screamed while banging his fist on the roof of the car several times. He just couldn't seem to get a break in this case. "Just stay there in case the call does comes in. And keep trying to dial them. Let me know if anything." Prisko barked and then closed the call.

From outside, Gomes had noticed his outburst. He closed his own call and ran over to the car. Approaching from the driver's side, he opened the door.

"Everything ok?" Gomes asked as he leaned into the car. To which Prisko answered with an eye roll. "Uhm, is it ok to talk to you now?"

"Get in." Prisko told him. Gomes jumped in and closed the door behind him. "And no, don't talk to me." He added.

Prisko went to dial his phone again, this time calling the Albany office. Agent Nguyen answered the phone. "Call whichever phone company is supplying service to Cole and find out what the fuck is wrong with their lines."

"Well, sure, but they probably have the service cut off from the local pbx." Nguyen answered.

"Then confirm that."

"No problem. So I guess we're cut off from Mrs. Hudson?"

Ignoring the question, "tell the techs to set up the trailer and put everyone in the office on standby. I want them ready to roll on a moment's notice." Prisko said.

"When are we going back in?"

"Not yet. You can't roll out of there en masse again without attracting attention."

"Yeah, but so what? Masterson's gotta be in Cole by now. That's all we need, right?"

"No! We have to get Bennington. This is all about Bennington. If we roll into town and he's not there, we're in the same shit as before. No one will talk as long as he's walking around. We have to get Bennington."

"Well, boss, if she can't call us, how are we supposed to know he's there?"

Prisko leaned over and reached into the back seat of the SUV. He fumbled about and then pulled up a yellow, hard, case. He opened it to reveal a satellite phone. This was the newest model on the market. It was about the size of the earliest cell phones. Smaller than the ones the five agents had with them but still too large for what Prisko had in mind. Still, it would have to do. He looked at Gomes.

"I'm going back, you coming?" Prisko said to him.

"Hell, yeah." Gomes answered.

"Then drive", Prisko said and then put his phone to his ear as Gomes started the car, "we're going back to Cole."

"Just the two of you? Alone?" Nguyen asked, exasperated.

"Listen, Andy. I got the sat phone. I wish I could swallow it or stuff it up my ass or something but it's too fucking big. So I'm gonna tape it somewhere on my body. Tight. If I call you from it in the next hour, I'll let you know if it's time to send in the cavalry. If I can't, if you don't hear from me, track the phone." Prisko said while looking over at Gomes, "you ok with that?"

"Whatever." Gomes replied.

"Wait . . . boss . . . this wasn't the plan." Nguyen pleaded.

"Later, Andy." Prisko said and then closed the call.

* * *

Their situation changed dramatically, and then changed again. Minutes ago, Jester thought he and the seventeen fugitives of the lawn had made it through the hardest part. It wasn't getting through the woods. It wasn't even where, it turned out, Seth couldn't find his own house. Jester had taken the group closer and closer to the vicinity of where he fled the meeting in Seth's kitchen that afternoon. However, Seth never did recognize the area. Jester had to take the group in agonizingly slow, circles until he remembered where it was, himself. It wasn't until they broke through the plane of the woods directly into his backyard, that Seth knew where he was. There was more than a little contention through that episode. Each moment not reaching the house, heightening the group's fear of being caught, Jester included.

Of all of the battles he'd had with drug dealers, common street punks, even his shootout with the cops, none of that had been as gut-wrenching as the experience of approaching Seth's house from the woods. Jester had the group stay back while he and Seth went first, alone. With each soft, silent, step around the perimeter of the house and eventually, Seth's back door, he couldn't get it out of his mind. Ever since they told him of what the vampire could do, the way he read minds or whatever they said, he had imagined the monster casually waiting for all of them to come to Seth's house so he could slaughter them at his convenience.

He pictured the thing lying somewhere in a leisurely pose on it's back, hands under his head, watching the stars for the duration. Maybe even checking his watch from time to time, wondering what was keeping them. Then when they arrived he would jump out saying, 'about time', and commence to the carnage. Pressing ahead despite that image was the hardest part. Luckily, that didn't happen. The house was clear. Though it wasn't until they all made it in and had been there for several minutes that Jester felt assured it wouldn't.

They had made it through the woods in the dark of night. Made it to Seth's place. No one was there to accost them. Everyone was inside. Some took positions at the window, others made use of Seth's bathrooms, others his kitchen, but most took refuge in his livingroom in silent, solemn, hope. They too thought they had made it through the worst. Mattie was at the phone and would place her call. Help would come. They would be saved.

Jester had taken a seat on the end of Seth's sofa. After a full day of trekking through the woods, it felt good to sit on fine furniture. The cushion hugged his back and seemed to soothe his fatigue. He found himself trying to sink deeper and deeper into it. Then came the next change. He noticed that everyone's attention had turned to Mattie. When he looked at her, she was holding up the phone as if to show everyone in the room. A look of horror on her face.

"It's dead." She said.

"Wait . . ." Seth started.

He never got the chance to finish. People in the room started to panic. One man snatched the phone from Mattie to see for himself it was dead. Then another woman snatched it from him.

"Check the other phones!" Someone yelled. Then people started scurrying about the house to look for other phones.

"I said wait!" Seth yelled, holding up his arms, trying to get the group to listen. Everyone in the room stopped to look at him. "Of course, they cut off the phones. What do you think? Just calm down. I can turn them back on."

Seth was able to finish that time. He went into his office. Having to excuse himself to get around people who had went there to grab a phone. Seconds later he returned with his laptop. After running over to the sofa, he again excused himself to the person who had the seat next to Jester. He sat down and placed the laptop on the table in front of it. Throwing aside the centerpiece so forcefully it flung off the other side of the table. He began typing furiously on his keypad.

"Seth, if you go into the system, won't they know you're there?" Mattie asked.

"Mattie, what difference does it make? If the phones were on and you placed the call, they would've known that too."

"Yeah, but I told you we set up a signal so they wouldn't know."

"A signal doesn't matter now. He already wants to kill us."

Mattie took a few seconds to take that in.

"You said Prisko is right outside of town, right?" Asked Seth.

"Yes, he is."

"So we turn on the phones and place the call."

"Are you sure you can?" Monroe asked.

"I designed this system." Was all Seth replied.

Jester watched Seth type in long intervals with short respites to work the mouse, then back to typing. Seth opened up a website and tried to sign in.

"That was expected." He said, calmly, just as his password was rejected.

"What?"

"They revoked my credentials", Seth answered. "It's fine. Figure it was Tulley that cut the phones. There was a slight chance he would've been too stupid to remember to cut my credentials. It would've been faster that way, but Bennington's probably directing him so . . ."

"Bennington knows the system?"

Seth spoke as he worked, "he knows all of this shit. He just hates working on it. He doesn't know more than me, though. That login screen was just the idiot interface. The one software designers make for laymen to be able to operate complex systems without having a computer science degree. I have a computer science degree. I don't need the idiotic interface. I can dial directly into the controller. Give me two seconds . . ." It actually took about another minute or so before Seth said, "try the phones now."

Since they had discovered the phone was dead, it had been tossed aside. It took another minute after Mattie called for it for the group to find it again and pass it to her. She closed the already open line and then opened it again and put it to her ear. She looked at Seth, nodded her head and smiled. She took the phone down and began dialing. As she did, people nearest Seth patted him on the back and he got a bunch of 'thank you's and 'go Seth's from all across the room.

It was only another few seconds before Mattie inexplicably pressed the button on the phone to close the line, then pressed it again to open it. She repeated that a few more times then looked up, "it just went dead again."

"There's no dial tone?" Seth asked.

"Nothing."

Seth looked down at his computer again, intently. This time using only the mouse, Jester saw him change the screens several times. Then he typed in a few commands but stopped. He scratched his head.

"It should be on."

"It's not, Seth!" Mattie screamed.

"Hold on." He replied and started using the mouse again.

Jester saw the anger rise in him. The keystroke taps got heavier, the mouse-clicks more violent. This wasn't just a problem to him now. He was offended.

Again, as he typed, "I know what he did. He rerouted the fucking line through the backup controller. So I opened the system on the main controller but there's no line there to run the traffic through."

"Can you fix it?" Monroe asked.

"That's what the fuck I'm doing!" He snapped as he continued to work.

No one else bothered him. Seth continued to type along as everyone in the room watched in anticipation. No one was really sure how long it went on like that before the phone rang in Mattie's hand. It took her by so surprise, she dropped it. Then she, along with the entire group, watched it in dread, on the floor for two or three rings before she finally picked it up.

"No!" Someone said when it was clear she was going to answer the call.

Mattie only replied with a look before she opened the line and placed the phone to her ear. She didn't say anything but it was obvious she was being spoken to. Her eyes started tearing but she fell to her knees before anyone heard her sobbing.

"It's him!" She screamed and then dropped the phone and backed away from it.

Seth stood up, along with Jester. Monroe ran over to console Mattie. He picked up the phone on the way.

"Hello?" Monroe said as he wrapped his arm around his wife, he listened for a second then he looked over at Seth. "How do I put this on speaker?"

"You press the button that has the picture of a speaker." Seth replied.

Monroe took the phone from his ear and looked at it for a second before finding the button. He pressed it.

"Am I on speaker now?" Said Cole Bennington, his voice calm.

"Yes, you are." Monroe answered.

"Can everyone in the room hear me?"

With a sigh, "yeah, I think so". Monroe said.

"Listen to me. All of you. You will not be leaving Cole tonight. You will not be placing any calls to Agent Prisko. It will be far, far, worse for you if I have to expend the time and effort to retrieve you."

Seth had retaken his seat and from then never bothered to quit what he was doing on his computer. He continued to work as Bennington spoke and his keystrokes were audible.

"Seth, stop typing." Bennington said.

"Kiss my ass!" Seth replied, never looking up from his computer.

"So I guess we've lost all pretense of civility then." Bennington said.

"I guess that's what Moses and Arash thought, huh?"

"When they decided to try to stab me to death? Yes, probably."

"And their families? You finish them off yet? It's been enough time." Said Seth which was followed by a few seconds of silence then, "feeling replenished?"

There was another several second silence that followed. Then, "the only reason I am not there right now is because I wanted to give you all this opportunity to come to me and make it easier on yourselves. None of you have been making very good decisions lately but maybe, at least a few of you, are still capable."

Seth, still typing, "you cut the voice lines from the main controller and you're calling my house from the backup. You have respectable tech skills for a vampire. But you're not a tech. You're a vampire. I'm a tech."

"Seth, you don't know . . ." Bennington started but then the line cut off and went straight to a dial tone.

"Bye now." Seth said after typing one final key on his laptop.

The mood in the room picked up immediately with Mattie leading the way. She jumped up and started praising Seth and almost everyone followed. Even Jester patted him on the back.

"Mattie, make the fucking call!" Seth snapped, not partaking in the celebration.

"Oh, right." She said. Taking the phone from Monroe, she started to dial. Then with the phone to her ear, she smiled and said, "it's ringing."

That's when the power went off.

"Hello? Hello?!" He could no longer see her, but Jester heard Mattie scream futilely in the now once again, dead phone.

The house went completely dark and suddenly blended seamlessly with the black of night that surrounded it. There was a new line of screams and panic that filled the room. Jester deliberately sat still. Partly, to let his eyes get adjusted to the dark but mostly, to avoid getting run over. Everyone else in the room were scurrying about. Including Seth. Jester didn't see where he went but he felt his weight being released from the sofa.

His next instinct was pointless. He wanted to run to the window to see if the lights were still on in town. It would've been the perfect indication that only the power was cut off to Seth's home. It would also leave no doubt that it was deliberate. However, there was no need. Even from the couch he could see the only visible lights shining faintly through the front windows were the distant illumination from the town center. The power there was still on.

"I . . . I didn't know he could do that." Seth said. Jester heard his voice through the ruckus but he couldn't tell where he was.

Then he found out. Bright lights, much brighter than from the town center, suddenly cut through the house from outside. Though the beams were broken from the opaque walls and other objects, they still illuminated the entire first floor. Jester could see through the windows that lights were coming in pairs. They were from vehicles that had been parked silently around the perimeter of the house. At one of the windows was the unmistakable silhouette of a skinny man with a large stomach staring hopelessly through the lights. Bright enough to shine a gleam in Seth's horrified eyes.

### Chapter 20

Bennington closed the laptop in front of him and shoved it away. Not anticipating needing it again this night. Still on the porch, he was sitting at his patio table. Staring still at the crowd in front of him, all were still in uneasy silence.

There was a whoosh of static, then, "we just announced ourselves." Came Tulley's voice from a radio that sat in front of Bennington, cutting the silence.

Picking it up abruptly, "stay off the radio." Bennington said.

He turned his off altogether and threw it in frustration to the other side of the table. Prisko was somewhere in the area, he knew, and could be monitoring the frequencies. There was no need to give him any more information. Tulley knew what he had to do. There was no need to relay every little detail over open air.

The warm, night air was rife with fear. The feel of it. The scent of it. The taste of it. Being out in it strengthened him but gave him no comfort. He was facing the grand lawn. Right where the evening started. Many of the tables and seating set up for the dinner, had been thrown aside, leaving a wide, gaping, space. Filling that space were the remainder of the traitor families they had caught in the mansion, all knelt down. Spread out before him, there were about twenty-seven people, counting the children. Some of them were praying, some held onto each other, others were swaying back and forth on their knees sobbing in low whimpers, but fear emanated from all of them.

They weren't the only ones. Flanking them were the faithful residents, who were holding watch over them. Armed only with household items like bats, shovels, hammers, etc., they outnumbered the traitors six to one so there was no struggle or threat of one. The fear coming from them was different. It wasn't for their personal safety. It was more along the lines of dreading what happens next, but not knowing exactly what. They would be surprised to learn that Bennington didn't know, either.

"We're still waiting." He said, calm but loud enough for all on the lawn to hear. There was some acknowledgment in words and others in nods but the replies were kept short. No one was speaking. He told them he wanted to hear nothing but the cicadas buzzing.

Sitting back in his cushioned chair, he watched the absolutely ridiculous scenario in front of him. This wasn't it, he thought. In no reality was this ever his concept of home. Having plots initiated against him and having to combat those plots? No. Not 'home' at all.

For all of this, he might as well be back in the Middle East. At least there he never had the slightest intention of making his home, only his fortune. There, his guard was never down. His trust was never up. There, the threats he faced were almost always in opposition to his own plans to further his business interests. Having made that fortune and then built on it, facing those threats seemed a fair exchange. They never depressed or disappointed him, like now.

Even in Tehran, when his enemies had finally managed to mount a sufficient enough campaign to destroy all of his interests in Iran and come after him, he wasn't disheartened. He had made more than enough money. So he simply decided to move on. Of course, it was after having to persuade a certain Iranian Supreme Leader not to arrest him. Then allow him to leave and take his assets with him. He thought about when he received word that the Iranian national police were coming to arrest him. The police, he knew, were only the instruments of the plot. The conductor was the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. They had always hated his influence over the executives of the state-owned oil company. He had put down a number of their previous attempts to undermine and destroy him. It seemed they had finally got something on him that stuck.

The funny thing was, he never knew the full details of the charges they had on him. Not until he heard them from Maya Larue in that meeting with the Justice Department. When she told him it was for twenty-three murders, it almost made him laugh out loud. Yes, he took prey when he lived in Iran. He was a vampire, of course, and the real number was a lot higher than twenty-three. The first trick learned by any successful vampire was to avoid getting caught in the act of taking prey.

Yet vampires had no distinguishable DNA or fingerprints that any CSI tech could ever collect from a murder scene and match back to them later. Even if they could, no remains of any of his victims had been found in about fifty years. The charges were a complete farce. If the National Police actually had twenty-three physical bodies, he knew Iranian Intelligence must have pinned a bit of their own dirty work on him. It amazed him that he was essentially run out the Middle East for something he didn't actually do. In contrast to all he did.

The art of acquiring wealth didn't come naturally to him. It had taken quite a number of years and a greater number of missteps, before he found his footing. Under his last, legal, identity, he had four bankruptcies. Had he only a single, natural, life span in which to achieve wealth, he would have surely died a failure. So maybe establishing a home, like acquiring his wealth, would also take a few failures. He didn't know. Maybe Cole, the town, could be saved. That would depend on the people standing before him. The ones that weren't on their knees.

If it was going to be saved, the young thug had to die. That was the first thing. His body would then have to be found far away from the town. He didn't know what lies Mattie Hudson told to get him to follow her, but she had to know she was leading him to his death. One way or the other. Prisko would have to go, as well. Not only because he could corroborate that the thug was in Cole, but because Bennington knew the man had clearly fixated on him. He would never let it go.

Bennington's phone rang. The only item sitting on the table in front of him that he hadn't thrown aside. He looked at the number on the caller id. On the other hand, he thought as he recognized the number, if the town couldn't be saved, that meant he would get the satisfaction of swinging by D.C. and ripping Brett Burdick's head off. That had some appeal.

He answered the phone.

* * *

Hailey Tulley was frustrated. If Mr. Bennington would allow the residents to use some small number of firearms, they would've had this wrapped up by now. He could understand if they didn't have any extra guns on hand, but they still had the arsenal from the patriots. Those were boxed up in his office ready to ship back to Merriman. However, under the circumstances, what was the big deal with opening it up? They could've been packed up again. Yet Mr. Bennington refused to give permission to use them. Tulley couldn't understand how a guy who wasn't threatened by a gun could have such an aversion to them.

So instead, he and the other residents have Seth's house completely surrounded but the only one with a gun, and just a six-shot revolver at that, was him. Garrett was off on another assignment. The residents were armed only with bats, crowbars, hammers, or whatever other household item they could get their hands on that looked menacing. There had to be at least a dozen traitors in the house. Nobody wanted to go in after them. So now they were at a standoff. And then in another five minutes, he thought, Mr. Bennington's gonna call on the radio and ask what was taking so long, he just knew.

"Everyone", he said over the loudspeaker built into his SUV, "why don't you guys just come out? Mr. Bennington said he's willing to hear everyone out. Some of you may be allowed to just leave town." Wait, he thought. That was a stupid thing to say then, "hell, I don't know. Maybe all of you can just leave."

Tulley didn't think they would fall for that but it was worth a try. There might've been some hope for some of them but Mr. Bennington was very emphatic that he wanted Mattie Hudson, and the kid, brought back to him alive. Everyone else, he didn't care if they were brought back alive – only brought back. Those two had to know they were marked. If they were still leading the bunch, this wouldn't end peacefully.

A window opened on the second floor in the darkened house, for the second time. Seth had yelled out of that window earlier that they would never give up. Here, he was again.

"You think we're fucking idiots?!" Seth yelled.

"What choice do you have?" Tulley answered over the loudspeaker.

"We can take a few of you motherfuckers with us."

"Seth, you couldn't take one of these fucking, noisy, ass, cicadas with you. Now, be reasonable. If you come out, nobody will be hurt. My assignment is to take everyone back to the mansion. That's all."

"What then?" Seth yelled.

"I told you. Mr. Bennington said he's willing to hear everyone out."

"What then?"

Slow to answer, "Seth . . ."

A window opened up on the lower floor. A man's voice yelled out, "Sheriff, some of us had nothing to do with trying to kill Mr. Bennington. We just ran when all the commotion started. We were just scared."

Tulley recognized the man and lowered his head to speak to him, "well, that's why he wants to hear everyone out, Vince. You know him. If you weren't in on it, he'll probably know. So come on out." He looked up again at Seth, who was still in the upper window. "Seth, you're not going to keep people locked in there who want out, are you?"

"Who said I'm in charge?"

"Fine."

Tulley watched the front door. It took another couple of minutes and he heard some arguing inside but the door did finally open. Out walked four people, two men, two women, holding their hands up. Tulley nodded to one of the faithful and then several of them ran up and dragged them away. The door remained open.

"Is that all?" He called over the loudspeaker.

Seconds later, three more came out. Two women and a man. Their hands were also up. He nodded for more of the faithful to take control of them. When they did, the front door closed.

"Only seven?" He called.

"No more talking, Tulley." Seth said from his window and then closed it

Ok, then, Tulley thought. This had to end. Soon. Mr. Bennington was waiting for him and he wasn't the patient type. He had been speaking from inside of his SUV. Now he stepped out and checked the bullets in his gun. He called over to a bunch of the residents and gave them instructions. This was what it had come to.

Ten minutes later, he started his SUV and backed it a few feet down the road. Then he swung it around and pointed it directly across from Seth's front door. He put the vehicle in drive, beeped the horn a few times, and then spoke again on the loudspeaker.

"Last chance. After this, I can't guarantee anyone's safety."

He saw the doorknob twist. When the door was pulled slightly ajar, he pressed the gas all the way to the floor.

The SUV rammed through the door.

* * *

The truck came through and didn't stop until it was completely into the house, at least three or four feet. Bringing the full door frame and about of a third of the left side of the wall along with it. The sudden impact sent some debris – brick, plaster, and metal – shooting through the front hall almost like giant bullets. The rest settled behind, on or around the truck, along with the woman who had tried to open the door. She had taken the full brunt of the crash. Her petite body was so broken up, so instantly, it hadn't even been enough time for her to bleed. Jester could see her bone, tissue, and organs exposed, but little blood. Her now, lifeless eyes glazed over in the headlights of the truck. She never had a chance.

Though she gave Jester one. He wriggled his torso violently enough to free his arms from the grip the man had on him. Then he swung his elbows behind him in combinations repeatedly until he hit something just soft enough to feel like the man's face. He stood and turned around to see the man grabbing his bleeding, broken, nose from the pain. Reaching behind his head, Jester pulled it down and kneed his face several more times until he fell down, unmoving.

Monroe was struggling with his own captor but Mattie's had her in a bear hug and was trying to lift her up. Her legs kicking wildly in resistance as she screamed for him to let go. Jester rammed into the man, knocking all three of them to the floor.

The sheriff sprung out of his SUV just in time for one of the seventeen, a man, to run up to him. Hands raised up to indicate surrender.

"We were coming out! We were coming out!" He tried to plead.

The sheriff shot him through the chest.

He wasn't lying. After those first seven had decided to leave, the remaining ones strategized that, instead of merely throwing themselves on Bennington's mercy, why not offer him the ring leaders, as well. That would surely save their lives. So they overpowered Monroe, Mattie, Jester, and Seth. Held them at bay with Seth's own kitchen knives. Were ready to invite the sheriff and the others in to take control of them. That's when the truck came crashing through the door.

The residents who were outside with the sheriff, followed his truck into the house, club-type weapons raised, and began beating everyone in sight. Everyone who was nearest to them. Of the seventeen in the house who were nearest to the door, who were all about to surrender, they found themselves immediately pounced upon. Having to cower on the ground and cover up as they were being savagely attacked by two, three, sometimes four, at a time.

The ones with the clubs were ordinary citizens, engaged in a seize operation. They weren't a trained battalion or swat team. No thought was given to taking tactical control of the entire structure. They had no further plan than to simply beat everyone in sight. So with Jester and the rest being held at the rear of the house, they had an opportunity to escape.

With the fall, Mattie's captor had released his grip on her. Jester crawled over and jumped on him before he could gain his footing, and pounded him in the head. He stood and pulled Mattie up while still kicking the man in the ribs. Pushing her to a clearing in the rear of the house, he went to help Monroe. He and his captor were both within each other's grip. Each were trying to shift their weight enough to gain the advantage but neither being able to. Jester punched the man in the stomach to get him to release Monroe. Then they both beat him into submission. There was still enough confusion at the front of the house for the three of them to go out the back door. Jester guided them both there.

That was when he heard the second shot.

It was too fast for him to see who the sheriff was shooting, but the next shot clearly revealed Seth lying on his back. The fourth shot went in his head as he was struggling to get up. It laid him flat.

"Oh my God!" Mattie said in shock but in a low enough voice not to attract attention.

Jester pushed her out the back door with Monroe following. With Seth's power having been cut, the back of the house was illuminated only by the beams of the vehicle lights that had surrounded it. However, with the structure being so close to the woods, the vehicles couldn't cover the entire circumference. There was a dark spot straight into woods that was distinctive enough, it practically announced itself to Jester as safe. He ran towards it. To his shock, the path was clear. Where only minutes before, the residents themselves had them completely surrounded. For some reason, the ones who had the rear covered were now gone.

He wasn't going to stop to wonder why. They had to get back into the woods. He dashed towards the dark spot but not at top speed. He knew if he did that, he would easily leave Monroe and Mattie behind. Looking back, he saw Monroe was only a few feet behind him. He was looking back at Mattie. She was still only a few feet outside the back door, not running. She was trying to peek inside.

"Mattie!" Monroe called her in a whisper shout.

She held her hand out in a signal for him to wait. She was still trying to peek inside.

"Come on!" He said.

She turned around, putting her back flat against the side of the house. Then she ran her hand through her hair, shaking her head. 'What was she doing', Jester thought. Just then, he heard several heavy foot steps rapidly approaching the back door. That's when Mattie started to run.

By then it was too late. She had only gotten about five feet before the first resident bolted out the back door in full chase. That one was followed by another. Both were faster than her and ran her down easily. The pursuer grabbed her, first by the back of her pants to slow her down, and then pulled her in and wrapped her in a bear hug. The other ran up and caught her kicking legs.

"No." Monroe yelled and ran back to her.

By then, residents had started coming out the back door in more numbers than Jester had time to count. Monroe had engaged the two on Mattie but one of them had let go of her and was grabbing hold of him. Trying to pull him back. That's when Jester ran back to help. He swung wildly at whoever wasn't Monroe or Mattie. Effectively ducking and blocking most of the blows from the faithful residents, but still taking a few.

This was a 'one on many' brawl. Instinctively, Jester knew the one thing he absolutely had to avoid was being grabbed and held. For the 'one', staying free and mobile was the essence of the fight. If the 'many' could grab a hold and immobilize him, they won almost by default. One couldn't fight off a hold and attacks from the rest of the many. So Jester was willing to submit to random blows to avoid grabs. The ones who tried to grab him, he punished. One with a blow to the eye, another to the solar plexus. He was able to work his way over to Monroe and get his attacker off of him. Throwing Monroe behind him, out of the fight, Jester engaged the rest of the group.

The resident who still had Mattie was struggling. She was still in his bear hug but having her legs free again, she kept planting them to keep him from pulling her further away. When he tried to lift her up to carry her, she kicked behind her wildly enough until she finally managed to connect to a sensitive part of his shin. His grip loosened enough for her to break free. She was almost able to catch up to Jester and Monroe. However, when she was just a couple of feet away, another resident grabbed her arm. She screamed as he pulled her into his own bear hug. Only seconds later, the man she had escaped from ran up to her and wrapped her legs up again. They were both holding her up.

Others continued after Jester and Monroe. However, Jester was so effective at fending them off that, even with their numbers and weapons, they had become hesitant to approach him. A number of them were rubbing their faces and recovering from other blows he inflicted on them. With Jester in front, he and Monroe were standing a few feet away from them. Them, with their weapons up, Jester, only his fists. Yet it had become a standoff.

"Let her go!" Monroe yelled at the men holding Mattie only feet away.

"Someone get Tulley." Someone else, yelled.

A few of them ran back inside the house. Jester knew what that meant. Tulley had the gun. This couldn't continue. He looked at Mattie. She was reaching for them with tears in her eyes. He wanted to help her escape but it was no use. She was the woman who had lied to him. Manipulated him. Yet he had done all he could.

He turned to force Monroe into the woods when he darted off towards Mattie. Jester grabbed Monroe by the arm to hold him back. That's when another resident grabbed him. With one arm on Monroe, Jester couldn't fight him off. He could feel the man's grip tighten. Then could feel his second arm coming around to wrap him up. Immobilize him.

"No!" Mattie screamed, as if she knew.

Still being carried by the two men, she lunged at the one who grabbed Jester and scratched his face so violently, Jester could see the five finger scratch mark dug into the man's cheek, almost like an inscription. He let go of Jester and screamed in pain, as he grabbed his face. His blood, seeping through his fingers. Jester was able to regain control of Monroe and pull him back towards the woods.

"Baby. Go!" Mattie called to Monroe, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"No!" Monroe shouted back, as if she had just told him to kill himself.

Then she called Jester by his chosen name, "I still don't want to see anything happen to you. Just both of you, get out of here. Please!"

Jester didn't know how to reply. He was only moved by the look on her face. The concern, the fear. Not for herself but for them. That was a first for him. She started to wave them off.

"He won't go. You have to make him go." She said to him, referring to Monroe.

Just then, the man she had scratched had collected himself enough to retaliate against her. In rage, he wound up and took a full on swing at her jaw as if she was the Marlboro man. The blow knocked her out instantly.

"Mattie!" Monroe screamed as Jester was still pulling him into the woods.

The two men that were carrying her pulled her back to the house. Jester could see the sheriff approaching the back door, gun at the ready. He continued to pull Monroe towards the woods. First from in front of him, pulling at him, then from behind him, pushing at him. As the sheriff reached the outside he aimed his gun and started firing.

A bullet bounced off the tree just as they hit the woods. Jester had to control Monroe, who was now inconsolable, and hardly able to move without being pushed. One last look at Mattie showed she was being carried into the house, unconscious.

He grabbed Monroe by the hand and pulled him as fast as he could go. They were into the trees then and had disappeared from sight.

"Why are you just watching them?!" He heard the Sheriff say. "Go after them."

* * *

Some of the residents started to run into the woods after them but Tulley could tell they were only half-hearted gestures. A few ran up to the edge and stopped, looking back as if for further instructions. No one went in. Tulley could hear Monroe and the kid getting further away.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Tulley blasted at them after running up to the edge to join them.

"It's dark in their, sheriff. And look what that guy did to them." The man answered, pointing back at two other residents who had tried to take them.

In the excitement, Tulley hadn't noticed. One resident was on his back clutching his right eye, wriggling in pain. Blood seeping out from between his fingers. Another was keeled over rubbing his chest and spitting up blood of his own. Others were tending to both of them.

Tulley walked back towards the house. He examined the open back door, then the path into the woods, then the large numbers of residents who now filled the yard. Something didn't add up.

"What the fuck? We had the place surrounded. You let them just run right through you? How did they get out?" Tulley said.

"Well, no. Everybody ran inside to help." A man answered.

"From the back?"

"Well . . . uh, no, sheriff. The back door was locked. So when we heard the crash we just . . . you know, ran around . . ." The man didn't finish his sentence. Having seen the inflamed look on Tulley's face.

"Got-dammit!!" Tulley screamed to the top of his lungs.

There were just two people Mr. Bennington said he specifically wanted. He got one, Mattie. The other was once again, in the woods. He shook his head.

### Chapter 21

The red flashing lights had been visible for the past minute but was so distant, even driving at 45 mph, they still hadn't gotten close enough to see it's source. Although by now Prisko knew it could have only been from a police vehicle. The lengthy, desolate, tree-lined, roads that led into Cole played tricks on the eyes, especially in the dark of night. First, Prisko thought they were seeing the tail lights of a vehicle far ahead of them. The flashing quality didn't become clear until several moments later. Then he thought they were seeing distant road flares or perhaps, something that wasn't even on the road, but in the woods. There were no sirens, only lights. However as they drew closer, the red spotlight rotating off the trees and reflecting on the roads made it unmistakable.

The next thing that was unmistakable was the gunshot. Prisko saw the muzzle flash first, then heard the shot less than a second later. There was also no mistaking that it occurred on the road ahead of them.

"You heard that, right?" He said to Gomes, who was still driving.

"I heard it."

"You saw that, right?"

"I saw it."

"Get up there."

Prisko reached over the dash to turn on the floodlights on the SUV. They had already been running on high beams which were bright enough to light up the roads for a dozen vehicles. However, the floodlights did a lot more than just light up the road, they lit up the night.

The Lexus SUV with the flashing, magnetic, strobe light affixed to its roof, came into full view within the next few seconds. It was parked on the shoulder with the officer out of the vehicle. He was in front of it, holding two people at bay with his gun while beating on a third with his free hand. Prisko could see a male body lying face down at the edge of the woods. Half bracing himself on a tree. A visible gunshot wound in his back. It looked like he was shot trying to run away then tried to lift himself up before dying.

The officer ignored their oncoming lights at first, but when they were close enough for him to hear their engine, he stopped what he was doing. Shielding his eyes trying to look at them. When they were about twenty feet away, Prisko told Gomes to stop and then he jumped out of the car.

"Garrett!" Prisko called out from behind the lights after drawing his gun and pointing it. "This is Agent Prisko. I have a gun on you. Put that gun down and get away from those people."

Still shielding his eyes, "You got no jurisdiction here, fed. This is local business."

"Put the gun down, Garrett."

After only holstering his pistol, Garrett used both hands to try to cover his eyes.

"Throw it away."

"Fuck you!"

"Did you shoot that man, over there?"

Taking a few seconds after looking at the body, "I thought he was going for a gun. I was in fear for my life." He said, sarcastic.

"You're under arrest. Now remove that gun from your holster and throw it aside or I will shoot you. Happily."

Prisko was completely behind the floodlights. He knew Garrett couldn't see him, yet it still looked like he was thinking about trying to get a shot off. He slowly started to move his hand towards his holster.

"Yeah, do that", Prisko said. "Please."

Garrett abandoned the idea and made a dash for his vehicle. Prisko called out his name and took a few steps forward. The deputy jumped inside and drove off.

Prisko watched his truck speed on down the road back towards town. He had a shot. Could've blown Garrett's head off. He didn't know why he didn't take it. Lowering his gun, he took a breath. Then he noticed the people Garrett was accosting were now running over to him, shielding their own eyes. He recognized all of them from the town.

"Stay there!" He yelled. The three people stopped in their tracks, pleading their case to him. "Just wait." He told them.

He looked back at Gomes, then was astonished. "What are you still doing in the truck?!" Prisko said to him, he could see Gomes was in the SUV working something on his cell phone. "What are you doing?"

Gomes opened the door, jumped out and stepped down, "I had you covered, boss. Just, we still have a little cell service and I wanted to call for medical assistance for that guy." He said, pointing to the body.

"Did you get through?"

"No, it tries to ring but cuts off."

Shaking his head, "kill the floodlights and go check him for a pulse."

He waited for the flood lights to go out and then he waved the three Cole residents to come forward. The three of them were wearing formal attire. As if they had been to some kind of function. But they were well dirty and their clothes had several tears on them now. They'd been through the woods for a few hours at least, Prisko guessed.

"What's going on?" He asked the three of them just as they had gotten within a few feet of him. He gave them another foot and then held his hand out for them to stop. His gun was lowered but still in his hand. Even though their fear and distress level was clearly high, these were still Cole residents. His trust level was low.

"We . . . we were trying to get out." The woman in the middle began. Her arms folded to cover her shoulders. Her voice, trembling. She wore a dirt-stained evening dress that had it's hem in tatters. Obviously, ripped off deliberately to give her legs more mobility. Prisko knew her last name was Prejean. She continued, "and the road got blocked so we got out of our cars and went through the woods and we . . . we were lost for hours but then we . . . we found the road. So we were walking and we ran into Garrett waiting for us."

"Why were you trying to get out?" Prisko asked but then Gomes ran back over to him. Prisko used eye contact with him to ask his next question.

Shaking his head, "he's gone, boss." Gomes said, referring to the body.

Prisko nodded in reply, then turned back to the three, "why were you trying to get out?"

He asked and then waited. The three of them looked at each other briefly but then looked straight ahead. No one wanted to answer. Even now, Prisko thought. This time with not so much frustration as sheer amazement. Even now, when they were trying to escape, when a representative from the town had clearly tried to kill them, they still can't speak.

"Who was that man?" He asked, pointing to the body.

"That was Matt Crescent. He's the one who found the road when we were in the woods."

"Mr. Crescent never said a word to me, but he's still dead. None of you have said a word to me about what's going on in town, but they're still trying to kill you." Prisko let the three of them mull that over for a few seconds. Their faces were all pointed down. "Just tell me, is Cole Bennington in town?" He asked and then waited several more seconds.

The three of them nodded. Prejean was first, then the other two took her cue and followed. Prisko and Gomes exchanged a look.

"Cole Bennington is in town, right now?" He asked again.

They nodded again.

A look of resolve came over Prisko's face, "alright, then." He wrapped his arm around Prejean's shoulder and pointed towards the darkened road away from town. "I want the three of you to stick to the shoulder and just keep walking out . . ."

"Walk?" Prejean said.

"Right. You got this far, right? So keep walking. You'll be fine. I'm gonna contact the state police to pick you up."

"Boss, you don't think we oughta give them a ride to like, the next town, or a rest stop or something?" Gomes interjected.

"We're going that way." Prisko replied sharply, pointing to the road towards Cole.

"What about safety?"

"They're safe. They don't look safe?"

"Well . . ."

"Get in the truck, Gomes." He ordered.

Guiding the three back to the shoulder, Prisko stopped there and pointed, "just keep following this road. The state police should meet you in the next twenty to thirty minutes." He said and then started to run back to the truck.

"I can't believe you're abandoning us like this!" Prejean said, emotional.

"You wouldn't help me get justice for the murder of five innocent people. Now you can't believe I won't comfort you, chauffeur you, and protect you? I can't believe I did this much." Prisko said and then ran back to the SUV. Giving the group no other thought.

He opened the door but didn't jump in. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked for service. He had zero bars.

"Did you say we still had some cell service here? I got nothing." He said to Gomes.

"I got a different carrier. Better coverage, I guess." Gomes replied.

Prisko pulled off his suit jacket and threw it inside. He pulled his shirt out of his pants. Then he reached his hand behind the small of his back and ran his finger until he found the edge of the tape and started peeling. Wincing as he did. He had hair on his back.

"Dammit", he yelled as he pulled at the duct tape.

He had debated where to tape the satellite phone to his body. He needed it to be at a spot where it wouldn't be readily discovered if anyone was dealing with his corpse. Around the ankles would've been the most convenient. It was where many law enforcement types kept their backup weapons. The problem was if someone was trying to carry away his dead body, they would likely grab his legs around the ankles and discover the phone. So he needed a better spot. First, he thought of his inner thigh but that would've been too restrictive on his movements. There was really no other place he could choose to put it where it wouldn't leave an obvious bulge. That left only the small of his back just above his buttocks. Gomes had helped him tape the phone on but he wasn't going through that indignity again to get if off.

He moaned as he ripped the tape off, giving his back an unneeded waxing. He jumped into the truck and started operating the phone. "Let's go." He told Gomes.

"You making the call now?" Gomes asked.

"Yeah, you heard them. Bennington is there." Prisko said, still operating the phone, but he hadn't gotten to the point of initiating the call.

"Well, yeah, but we were supposed to meet that Hudson lady? We don't know where we're supposed to go."

"We get the troops here and we'll do a house to house, if we have to." Prisko said, beginning to dial.

That was when he realized that the car wasn't moving. Neither was Gomes. Prisko looked up at him. Again, he was operating his own cell phone with one hand. The screen turned away so that only he could see it.

"Gomes, let's go!"

"Just one second, boss."

Stunned, "Gomes, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Could you just calm down for one second, boss. I just gotta check something while I still got coverage."

"What's so important that you gotta check, right now?"

"Gomes looked over at him for a second, and then back at the phone, "it's just my bank app. I gotta confirm my balance."

Prisko thought about that. His balance? What? Why . . .

Gomes' elbow struck him sharp across the face, snapping his head back into the head rest. Prisko was dazed from the blow and he rose his head slowly, then leaned foward. That's when the second blow came. Gomes' fist to his temple. It sent his head violently into the passenger window and bounced off. Still conscious but only barely, Prisko held his head while slowly looking at the man, he thought was with him. Shock didn't even begin to describe what he felt.

"Damn, still conscious?" Gomes said, a bit surprised.

He stepped out of the suv and then walked around the front of the vehicle over to

Prisko's side. When he opened the door, Prisko took a weak, sense deficient, swing that Gomes easily moved his head to avoid. Then he returned two punches to Prisko's head. He was still conscious but that effectively took the fight out of him.

"I'm not trying to hurt you, boss." Gomes said. "Seriously".

He took Prisko's unresistant hands and cuffed them through the vehicle's clothes hanger bar over the passenger seat. Both of his hands hung from the cuffs down from the window. Then Gomes grabbed the satellite phone and walked back around the car. He stopped at the front drivers side tire and placed the phone underneath before getting back into the car. Once inside, he looked at Prisko, started the car, put it in drive and went forward about six inches. There was only a slight elevation as the tire rolled over the phone. Then he put it in reverse and went back six inches. There was less of an elevation. He repeated those actions several times until it was as if running over smooth road. When he was done, he put the car in park and looked down underneath the tire. The phone was destroyed.

Gomes got back in the car and picked up his cell from the compartment in the drivers side door. He went to his phone app and pressed the 'call back' button from his last call. Prisko was fading in and out of consciousness but he heard Gomes' half of the conversation.

"Yes, I confirmed the transfer", Gomes said into the phone and then listened for a second. He looked over at Prisko, "it's already done." Listened. "Right next to me. Cuffed." Listened, then shook his head, "they're going to have to do that, themselves." Listened. "No." Listened. "I stopped him from making the call, that's all I agreed to do. Anything else is on them." Listened. "I'm bringing him to them. Have them meet me at the edge of town." Listened, for a longer interval this time. "Burdick, I don't give a fuck. I'm bringing him to the edge of town. If nobody's there to meet me, I'll drop him at the curb and drive away. I'm gonna be out of cell range in thirty seconds."

Gomes closed the call and started the car. They hadn't moved more than the six inches since they stopped to confront Garrett. He started the car and drove off towards Cole. Peeking over at Prisko, he could see his eyes were open, peering at him.

"Still conscious, huh", he said with a slight giggle. "It's not like the fucking movies where just a tap to the face and it's lights out. Here, I gave you three or four cold clocks to the head and there you are, dazed as a motherfucker, but still wide awake and glaring at me." There was a few seconds of silence. Then, "I was right there with you, boss. I had your back. All the way. I wanted to get those pricks as much as you did."

"Ho . . . how much?" Prisko asked, his voice just above a whisper.

"It's not about how much. It's about us busting our asses to get this rich asshole, Bennington, and he's ahead of us every step of the way. He got us kicked out of town, he got himself cleared of any charges, he even got the director to tell you to fuck off. So what do you think you're going do? It's all bullshit. You think you can take him? This guy didn't get billions and billions of dollars by letting people take him, boss. The fucking Ayatollah in Iran couldn't take him. We were never gonna take that piece-of-shit. All you can take is his got-damn money. So that's all I'm doing."

He glances over at Prisko, sees him glaring at him.

"And you're judging me, right now? What about all this shady, underhanded, shit you did? Letting this fugitive thug, cop-killer, go free? He beat a man to death and tried to kill two cops in broad daylight. And you let him go. What if he killed one of ours when you forced us to come back to this shitty town? What about that? And you judge me?" Gomes says and then meets Prisko's glare, still driving.

"Whatever happens", Gome starts, "Masterson's next kill is on you. So you judge that, Special Agent in Charge, Prisko. His next kill is on you."

He turns to face the road again.

"You were ready to die to pursue Bennington, right? Well . . ."

"You fuc . . ."

"Don't talk to me." Gomes said, continuing to drive.

* * *

Was that how mother's do?

The residents didn't follow them. After barely escaping Seth's, Jester expected a manhunt-style chase through the woods. There were at least twenty or thirty residents that had surrounded the house. He thought they'd be on their tails within minutes of breaking the plane of trees in the backyard. That they'd be pursuing Monroe and him with flashlights, weapons, bloodhounds, maybe even a vampire. Yet they didn't follow them. He was thankful for that. He didn't want to see that monster again. Ever. Though even without the monster, if they had come for them, they'd be caught by now.

"Mattie, no, no, no, Mattie." Monroe sobbed in low whimpers. His head buried in his hands.

Jester knew they'd be caught because they hadn't gotten more than one hundred yards into the woods. That was as far as he could compel Monroe to go. It wasn't a straight run. It had actually been more of a yo-yo type of path. In that they would go forward for several yards before Monroe, in disoriented grief, would turn to run back. Jester would catch up to him and turn him around. Then they'd go forward again for a time. Then Monroe would turn back. Then Jester would catch up and turn him again. And so on. This had happened enough times before Jester finally gave up. At least he had gotten Monroe not to go back anymore. Though they weren't going forward, either. Monroe was settled at the base of a tree and had been for the past several minutes. Jester stood over him, resenting him.

"Mattie. Mattie." Cried Monroe.

In another time and place, anywhere in the five boroughs of New York City, he would be looking down on this man with nothing less than contempt. A grown man crying tears enough to stain his face. Whimpering loud enough to carry through the woods. Babbling on enough to be unheard. It wasn't manly. Yet in that other time and place, it would have simply stopped at contempt for Jester. In this time and place? He was never known to hit without first being hit, but right now, he really felt he could hit this man. Though, not for his unmanliness. He walked away from over Monroe to gauge his surroundings. Even though he had already done that. Twice.

Why didn't the residents come after them, he forced himself to think. It sure looked like they were ready to. He thought he saw a couple of them even start to. Then the sheriff screamed out something. They were too far away by then for Jester to make out the words, but he sounded pissed. After that, glances back revealed that they all went back into the house through the back door. They never came out of it again. It seemed like he and Monroe had been given up on.

Later, it was even safe enough for Jester to watch the residents from the woods. They were cleaning up their mess at Seth's house. The sheriff had backed his SUV out of Seth's livingroom and parked it properly in the driveway. Then they filed all the surviving occupants out of his home in single file, in a style very similar to a perp walk. They were pretty beaten up. All of them bloody, some couldn't even walk and had to be dragged. They were loaded into waiting cars, and driven away. All except Mattie. She was carried out by the sheriff, himself. He loaded her into his SUV and seemed to cuff her, still unconscious body, to something in his back seat. Then he left her there for a time while he supervised the others. That was the only time Jester was grateful for Monroe's current, inconsolable, state. He was too aggrieved to see it or even think to look. If he had, there would've been no stopping him from running to her.

After that, the residents went back in the house for the bodies. There were four of them. All of them wrapped in Seth's linen, bloodying them. Jester recognized the sheets from the very bed he had slept on covering two of the bodies. Thrown in the van and piled on top of each other, the bodies were also driven away. The sheriff watched the van off then got into his own vehicle with Mattie. He was the last to leave the scene. Jester remembered when he saw them carry out, what could have only been Seth's body, being tossed in the van. His short stature, rounded, balding, head, and large stomach were unmistakable markers.

Seth. In a short time, he had become something of a friend. Jester couldn't think of anyone he had ever felt that way about so fast. He had never met anyone like Seth, his quirkiness, his ugly house that he was so proud of. There was an easygoing nature about him. He remembered the night they met. It took all of thirty minutes for Seth to make him comfortable enough to forget about the gun he was threatening the man with. He spoke to Jester that night, not as a stranger holding a gun on him, but like a long, lost, friend. He never stopped talking to him like that. In the few days after that first night, Jester had even gotten used to him. Where being in his weird, unfamiliar, house didn't seem unnatural at all. It felt like normal, even pleasant. Seth was OK, Jester thought. Then when he pictured the way the sheriff just shot him down . . . Well, he had seen cruelty before.

"No, Mattie, no." Monroe sobbed on. "I can't save you, I can't save you. Not from him, not from him."

Damn this man, Jester thought. He didn't know what to do with Monroe. Jester wasn't a consoler. Even if he was, he doubted he'd have much luck with him. Since they took Mattie away, there was no conversing with him. At least not about anything else but her. Certainly not about running away from town and leaving her behind.

"Mattie. Oh God, Mattie."

Jester resented Monroe right now because his cries forced him to think of her too. The truth was, minus the vampire, he found himself almost wishing the residents had come into the woods after him. He would've preferred the chase to now. He knew he had the advantage in the dark. He knew he could outrun all of them, probably outfight all of them too. The sheriff was with them. Maybe he could've found a way to isolate him and given him payback for Seth. The more he thought about it, the more he did wish for it. The danger and the activity would've given him focus. At least then he wouldn't have had to sort out whatever it was he was feeling now.

Jester had felt it from early on. In the Bronx, as Mattie stood outside of Monroe's truck and looked at him in the back seat with a gun he held pressed to her husband's side. She saw the gun but chose not to see the gun. She only saw a hungry boy. There was something in her eyes but, having no frame of reference, he couldn't consciously identify it. Yet subconsciously, he wondered now, if maybe he had. It was a look of concern, of compassion, but more than that, of fear. Not fear of him, but fear for him. A mother's look.

From then on, Jester knew now, he was following her. Even if he didn't know why. Even if he didn't know he was. He was following her. He saw that look again on the road to Cole when she showed him the picture of her stillborn child. Then in that hotel room, after the FBI let them go, when she busted through the door looking only for him. Then he saw it again tonight in Seth's backyard when she sacrificed herself so he and Monroe could escape.

"What's he gonna do to her?" Jester asked.

"He's going to kill her!" Monroe snapped sharply, raising his head and then lowering it down again.

"She knew that?"

"Of course!" He said, ever sobbing.

He took a seat next to Monroe at the base of the tree. Shaking his head to try to get those thoughts out of it. It was a lot easier for him when they were in Seth's kitchen and he realized, finally, what she wanted from him, to be her mercenary. She manipulated him. That's how he wanted to think of her, as a manipulator, a deceiver. He felt then, that he just wanted to run away. So he ran away. He thought running away, itself, was what he was feeling. No, it had been hurt. He didn't want to admit she hurt him. That he was vulnerable to her that she could hurt him like that. Then he saw that man, who turned into a monster, with its hands around her throat. He didn't think at all, his instinct was to protect her.

He rested his head back on the tree, "I wish she hadn't lied to me."

For the first time since they took Mattie, Monroe stopped sobbing. Though he'd been going on so long, it took him a minute. He drew his breaths in slow slurps. "It tore her up that she was deceiving you. She knew it was wrong."

"Right."

"She never, never, wanted to see you hurt. We told you why we needed you. You saw the picture. You reminded her of her son. Do you think that was a lie?"

"What do you want to do? We can't sit here forever." Jester asked, choosing to ignore his question.

"You think she wanted to get you killed?"

Jester didn't reply. Although he didn't mean anything by it. He simply didn't know the answer. Monroe took the silence as if he thought she did want that. It offended him. He stood up, walked over and stood over Jester. Not threatening, just confronting.

"You saw what she did. She tried to scratch Hartley's eye out to get him off of you."

"I saw that." He admitted.

"So come on, then."

"What?"

"You made me realize, I have to see you get away. I know that's what I have to do. For Mattie. That's what she wanted." Monroe said with some resolve. "You're not going to think bad about her."

"What about you?"

"After that. . . I don't care what happens to me."

Jester stood.

"Can you lead us out of the woods? Get us back to the roads?" Monroe asked.

"Yeah, probably."

"Then come on." Monroe said and walked off.

After a few seconds, Jester called out to him, "this way", and walked off in an adjacent direction.

Monroe followed him.

### Chapter 22

This time, Tulley was nervous. He was driving his SUV, which was last in the procession back to the mansion. Ahead of him were the four vehicles that had been carrying ten of the remaining fugitives from Seth's house. The vehicles had settled into the parking area in front of the mansion as Tulley slowly pulled in behind them. The faithful residents needed no instructions from him. They roughly unloaded their wounded, unwilling, captives from the cars and forcefully moved them along the side of the mansion back to the grand lawn.

Tulley thought, it would get much worse for those fugitives in front of Mr. Bennington. Not so much because of Mr. Bennington himself, but because the residents handling them would want to show their devotion to him by demonstrating complete disdain for the traitors. They would treat them extra rough in front of him. They weren't even in front of him yet and already one had fell to the ground from being pushed so hard, and then was beaten brutally before being allowed to get back up. Then again for being too slow in getting back up.

The reason Tulley was nervous was because he called Mr. Bennington from Seth's house and had to report that the kid had gotten away again. Again, disappearing off into the woods. Mr. Bennington had stressed that the kid, along with Mattie, was who he wanted most. He also instructed Tulley to take special care to see that the boy didn't do again what he just did again, disappear off into the woods. When Tulley relayed the news, Mr. Bennington only replied, 'very well', in his calm, slippery, voice, just before hanging up. The guy was completely unreadable. For all Tulley knew, he could've been fixing to break his neck on sight.

In light of that, he made sure to transport Mattie Hudson in his own vehicle and he intended to walk her back to the lawn, himself. The kid was only one of those Mr. Bennington wanted most, but Mattie was the one he did want most. Tulley felt at least he could show that he followed one of Mr. Bennington's instructions exactly. She had regained consciousness and was now handcuffed in his back seat. He opened the door to let her out. Grabbing her arm as she stepped down, he saw that, except for one massive bruise on her left cheek, she didn't have many injuries. She had faired better than the rest. Not just because she had been knocked unconscious, but also because by the time he and the residents had captured her, they were too tired from beating the others. So she basically went straight into his SUV. Now within his grasp, he walked her to the lawn with no resistance from her. He was a little surprised she wasn't showing any of the hysterical theatrics she did when she was in his cell the other night.

He hated not being able to use the radios and having to rely only on person-to-person contact to receive or convey information. On his way to the mansion, Garrett drove by him in the opposite direction, beeping his horn at him in acknowledgment. Yet he didn't have a clue as to where he was going. He assumed it must have something to do with the business at hand. He would be so glad when this whole damned affair was over and they could go back to normal life. It used to be pretty peaceful around here, he thought.

The scene on the grand lawn was almost the same as when he left for Seth's. The traitors were centered on the grass facing the mansion porch with faithful residents flanking them. Holding the traitors at bay with rakes, shovels, crowbars, bats, etc. They were joined by their compatriots, the new arrivals. There was a marked difference in their conditions, as the ones who didn't escape were totally unharmed. Tulley's heart jumped as he cleared the edge of the house and the full back porch of the mansion came into view. Mr. Bennington was also in the same position as when he left him. Seated on a patio chair overlooking the scene on the lawn, table in front of him.

"You fucking bitch!" Tulley heard someone call out. He looked in that direction but he already knew the voice. It was Magnus Hartley.

"Stop that." Mr. Bennington said, pointing at Hartley and slightly raising his voice.

It was Hartley's face Mattie had left a good impression of her nails on. He would be wearing those impressions the rest of his life. He was seated off to the side being bandaged up by his wife.

If Mr. Bennington had any immediate ire for Tulley, it was forgotten once he saw Mattie. He instantly stood and watched her intently as Tulley walked her further onto the lawn. Then as she spotted him, his gaze locked on her, her tears came. Followed by the sobs, finally the resistance. Each of her steps became slower and slower until finally they stopped altogether. She dropped to her knees and tried to lie on the ground to keep Tulley from bringing her any closer to him. He was able to pull her a few feet but he ended up needing help from one of the other residents. They both picked her up and carried her to the edge of the porch steps. Bennington waved for them to come forward and they carried her up the stairs. Her wails became wild, uncontrollable shrieks as they brought her closer to him and a third resident needed to join them in restraining her. The three of them had to tighten their grips on her arms and legs to keep her still.

Mr. Bennington walked to the edge of the steps to meet them. He grabbed her face and tugged her neck forward to face him, "keep up that damn wailing and I'll rip your out throat, right now." Then he extended claws from his fingertips and placed them on her throat.

Mattie took several breaths and made a few uncontrollable moans then, "Mr. B . . ."

"Do not fucking speak!" He blasted. About as loudly as Tulley had ever heard him exclaim in anger.

Mattie went silent.

"Not one sound." Bennington told her, calmer, and then removed his hand from her throat.

He instructed them to put her in the chair next to his at the table. He then told one of the residents to stand behind her. He peered at her silently from the edge of the porch for, what seemed to Tulley, like well over a minute. Still shaking, Mattie turned her head down from him.

Mr. Bennington turned around to look at the fugitives on the lawn. Then he turned to Tulley. Then he looked off into the woods in the direction of Seth's house.

"Where did he enter the woods?" He asked, his gaze still over the tops of the trees.

"From the back yard. We had the house surrounded so there was really only one spot he could've went in."

"If you had the house surrounded, there would've been no spot he could have entered." He said as he cut his eyes toward Tulley.

"Yeah." Tulley conceded.

"How long ago?"

"About an hour."

"No one went in after him?"

"No, you told us not to."

He walked past Tulley to the edge of the porch and rested his hands on the railing. He was still looking out at the woods but turning his head in different directions to look at different areas. Then he turned around to face him.

"He was with Monroe?" Mr. Bennington asked.

"Yeah."

Pointing at Mattie, "she's not." Then walking back towards Tulley, "Which means Monroe is an emotional cripple right now. I'm a bit surprised he was able to separate from her at all, under the circumstances. If the boy is committed to him, they won't get far. After we're done here, I want you and Garrett to go back out to cover the roads. If they don't come out somewhere along there tonight, I'll retrieve them, myself."

"Yes, sir. Uh, I saw Garrett coming in. Where was he going?"

"He'll be along shortly."

"Ok, then."

"Tell me, how did Seth die?"

"Seth? I . . . I shot him." Tulley answered nervously. The question was unexpected.

"Shot him", he said. "When I met that man fifteen years ago he was broke, in irretrievable debt, and had just suffered a nervous breakdown. I hired him, befriended him, gave him responsibility, made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Then he turned on me. Shot him?" He said, shaking his head, "it was better than I would've given him."

Before Tulley could reply he walked to the edge of the porch steps and took a couple of steps down but didn't go to the bottom. He looked out over the traitors.

"So now what?" He said loudly enough for everyone on the lawn to hear. The question was rhetorical, everyone knew. No one replied. He folded his arms behind his back and again looked through the traitors. Then a longer look through the faithful residents behind them.

With his eyes on Mr. Bennington, Tulley didn't notice Garrett walking back onto the lawn. Didn't spot him until he was almost in front of the porch. There was someone in his charge that Tulley recognized immediately and it shocked him. The man was handcuffed, and looking a bit groggy as Garrett walked him.

When Mr. Bennington saw them, he waved for Garrett to bring the man up the porch and to the table, as well. He stepped aside for them to go past him. When he got the man to the table, Mr. Bennington pointed at the chair opposite Mattie. Garrett sat the man down in the chair, still handcuffed, and then stood behind it. Leaving Mr. Bennington's empty chair in between.

Taking a few more seconds to look over the crowd, Mr. Bennington walked back up the porch steps and sat in the empty seat between Mattie and the man. He looked the man over. Able to see he was having some trouble.

"Let's get him some aspirin and a glass of water, please." Mr. Bennington said to one of the residents.

The woman resident ran into the mansion and came back out minutes later with what he requested. She gave it to the man. To Tulley's surprise, he took it without a fight. Then she put the glass of water to his lips and he drank enough of it down before turning his head away.

After a few minutes, the man's groggy posture changed sharply once he saw Tulley on the porch. He let out an angry sigh and even went to lunge at him. Though Garrett held him firmly in place. Then the man looked at Mr. Bennington.

"Hello, Agent Prisko, my name is Cole Bennington. I understand you wanted to speak to me. How may I help you?"

* * *

It didn't take long for Jester and Monroe to find one of the resident homes, only minutes. The house was dark and empty but they weren't interested in the house. The road leading to it would eventually lead them to the main road out of town. Though the roads in almost all of rural, upstate New York, were ridiculously long. Jester noticed that just driving through them, so on foot it would probably take them at least, another hour just to get to the next paved road that would take them to the next road, until the main road out of town. Then they would be clear of Cole.

The woods were safer to travel through and, if one knew the exact route, probably faster, but the roads were the surest way out. Jester didn't feel particularly comfortable walking along them but there hadn't been any traffic going by at all. Even if there had been, in the dark of night, they would definitely spot any approaching vehicle long before anyone in that vehicle spotted them. He was always ready to dash into the safety of the brush at the hint of any distant, approaching headlights.

Monroe had been sturdier, as promised, although no less grief-stricken. There was still the occasional sob, sniff, and calling out for his wife, but he remained resolute in his newfound mission to see Jester to safety. Even though Jester was leading. Monroe remained a few steps behind him all the way. Acting as his bodyguard, if not his guide, Jester guessed.

There was still the question of what exactly they would do if they made it out of town. For Jester, Monroe told him if he still had funds available, he would empty his accounts and give them all to him. Purchase Jester a car, if he could, and he could drive his way out of New York. He was still a wanted fugitive, but if he kept to himself as much as possible and didn't attract attention, there was a chance he could avoid capture. It was the best plan available, anyway.

For Monroe, the answer to the question of 'what next', was a lot more vague. Although it was clear he intended to travel with Jester no further than the nearest bank outside of town. Jester asked him if he intended to report back to town to try to rescue Mattie.

"Even if she's still alive, I couldn't." Monroe had replied solemnly.

"Well, what would you do with no money?"

"I would just . . . go home, I guess."

"Go home?"

"Maybe."

"Even if the vampire kills you?"

"That's ok." Monroe replied.

Jester left it at that. Not knowing what else he could add. He thought he could never imagine being so devoted to someone as Monroe was to Mattie. He thought wrong. More than just imagining it, he felt it. The grief that Monroe had been feeling, he had to admit he had been feeling it too. All along. Mattie's selfless act in Seth's backyard saved him – and moved him.

Was that how mother's do?

Was the question he kept trying to put out of his mind. Jester thought of what it might have been like if Mattie had really been his mother, if she had raised him. He wouldn't have been 'born in fire'. With the errant thought, he subconsciously touched the burn scar on the inside of his thigh that had been there his entire, conscious life. Of course, she wouldn't have named him a clown. Wouldn't have left him out as a baby, like so much trash, to be collected up by a stranger. The early childhood years he spent, where hospital emergency rooms had become like his home, would have been different. She would've provided him a real home and he wouldn't have lived as a nomad, always ready to move on to the next tent no quicker than when he arrived to the current one. She would've shown him this sense of sacrifice that she showed in Seth's backyard, everyday. Long before actually having to make the real one.

It would've made a difference. He wouldn't have gone through his life, up until now, as if he was just waiting to die – and often looking to accelerate the process. Maybe not every little altercation he found himself involved in, had to be a fight to the death. Maybe even, some of those altercations may not have happened at all. What now seemed like so long ago, he thought of when he met Tyshiek Morgan, the drug dealer, the bully, outside of the group home that night in the Bronx. Maybe he would've just backed down. There would've been no fight. Morgan wouldn't have been hospitalized. His crew wouldn't have come after him. He wouldn't have killed three people, two of them cops, just to fight them off.

If he had only known her sooner, he thought. As he did, he realized he no longer preferred to think of how she deceived him. He only wanted to think of how in so short a time, she had shown him love. Now she was gone. Of course, he was feeling the grief.

He stopped walking and folded his arms where he stood. Turning towards the town center where he knew the mansion was. Where she was. Monroe had still been a few steps behind him and he caught up to him.

"What's wrong?" He asked, "you see something?"

Jester didn't reply. The road they were on led far away from the center but connected to another road that would head towards it. The woods however, cut straight through to it. First Monroe looked around to see if there was something else going on. Then he noticed Jester staring through those woods. He knew what he was thinking.

"You can't." Monroe said and then walked in front of him to block his path.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll be dead too."

Jester didn't reply. He took a half step to his side to get a clear path through the woods again. Monroe countered by taking the same half step to again block his path.

"Son, I'm not much of a fighter but I'll tell you this . . . to get past me into those woods, you'll have to beat me senseless."

"It feels wrong to just walk away."

"You're not walking away, you're escaping."

"It still feels . . ."

"Please don't do this!" Monroe pleaded, "you don't know how I'm just barely holding it together, right now. The only little bit of triumph I can have now is to see you walk away. If you get away, at least he won't win. That's all I have!"

Jester realized this was a moment where emotion and rational thought diverged. Emotionally, he felt like dashing into the woods straight to the mansion and attempting to rescue Mattie. Rationally? Funny how it was Monroe's sudden emotion for the rational that made him see that was insane. This was a monster he was confronting. He remembered the fangs, the claws, the flaming red eyes. Mattie was Monroe's wife. If he knew it was hopeless . . .

"Now can we please just go." Monroe said, tugging at his arm. "Come on we're wasting time, let's go." He said and then continued down the road. Jester followed.

"I don't think bad about her anymore." Jester said.

"Good."

### Chapter 23

Time was fleeting. He needed to have this situation wrapped up by morning, all loose ends tied. The residents would make their decision, whatever it would be, and by tomorrow night's sunset, he would know what he had to do. However, having the boy escape into the woods again, made that difficult. The night was fading. In another few hours, Bennington knew, he would have to retire to his day chambers. So he would have to continue to do what he had been doing all along. Ever since he got the call from Burdick that there was another interloper in his town. He would have to improvise. Act without a plan. Adjust to the changing scenarios as they came.

It was the reason why Agent Prisko and Mattie Hudson were still alive and sitting at his table. Though Mrs. Hudson was on the verge of being ejected to the lawn. She had been trembling like she was in a deep freezer ever since she arrived. When he sat down at the table, she yelped. Then, even though her position at the table was well out of his arm reach, she kept trying to push her chair further and further away from him. Forcing Tulley to keep moving her back until he finally got tired of the redundancy and planted his foot at the base of her chair so she couldn't slide it again. Most unfit company, Bennington thought. However, she was at the table for a reason.

Agent Prisko, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. He was a sturdy man. Unflinching. Bennington had Garrett remove his handcuffs and he was sitting freely. Since Bennington had introduced himself, Prisko had only a stoic look on his face. No hint of panic or desperation. Despite the fact that he must have realized he wouldn't get out of this alive. Admirable, Bennington thought. That stoic look never changed, even when he was told the fate of his agents. Even when he was told how Bennington delivered those fates. Telling him only a few seconds ago.

"A vampire?" Prisko asked him. More than skeptical. Almost mocking.

"Yes."

"You killed five, armed, FBI agents all by yourself . . . because you're a vampire?"

"Well, no. I killed them because they came to my home uninvited. I was able to kill the five of them, all by myself, because I'm a vampire. Despite their arms."

Prisko looked around at Tulley, then Garrett, then him, "you're crazy. What the fuck is really going on here?"

"I just told you, Agent Prisko."

"Come on." Prisko said.

"It's true." Bennington said and then pointed to Tulley, who nodded. Then he pointed at Garrett, and he nodded. Then he motioned out to the crowd on the lawn, they all acknowledged. Prisko saw all of their replies. Then Bennington reached for Mattie and she shrieked. He pulled back his arm. " . . . and this one. You believed her before. Mattie?" He called. "What am I?"

Sheepishly, she nodded.

"Say it." Bennington commanded.

"Vam . . . vampire. He is." She said.

Prisko wasn't impressed, "she's obviously scared shitless. Maybe you think you're a vampire. And all of these assholes play along with you because you bankroll their lifestyles but . . ."

"Agent Prisko", Bennington cut in sharply, "if someone thought they were Superman, would that make them able to fly?"

Ignoring the question, "where did you put their remains?"

"Your agents are resting peacefully."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. They are at peace."

"Their families deserve to know."

"I'm not responsible for their families." Bennington said and then motioned to the people one the lawn, "I'm responsible for these families."

Prisko sighed in frustration, "how much did it take to buy off Gomes? Tell me that, at least."

"Ten million dollars."

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"Not at all. I'm quite miffed at that, myself. Generally, a figure that high, I would use to entice only the highest executives or government officials. Not a low level, everyday employee like him. But the circumstances called for it and your Agent Gomes turned out to have fair negotiating skills."

"Where is he now?"

"I have no idea. If he's wise he'll be making his arrangements to disappear."

Prisko nodded his head in agreement.

"You believe that but you don't believe what I just told you."

"Look!" Prisko said, annoyed, "I'm dead, right? You brought me here to kill me, correct? You payed ten million dollars to a man I trusted to betray me, beat the shit out of me, and bring me here. So cut the bullshit. Tell me what really happened. What difference does it make now?!"

Bennington sat still for several seconds without replying. The chirping of the cicadas dominated the sounds of the night. He didn't want to do this but Prisko had made a relevant point. What difference did it make now?

He reached across to his left and grabbed Prisko by the throat. Lifting him up with a single arm and turned him so that his own back was to the lawn. Minimizing the number of residents who would see him in his natural form. Then he showed Prisko his face. His vampire face. His true face. With his two canines fully extended they were four inch long, razor-sharp, sabres, the pupils of his eyes were red like fire, his brow was extended, his skin, white, pale and clammy and his mouth gaped a full seven inches.

"Do you see now?!" Bennington said. He held Prisko over his head for a few seconds. Then lowered him to place his feet on the ground. He wanted Prisko to see him without fighting for air. He changed his grip from Prisko's throat to his jaw and pulled him in closer to his face. Thinking of police photos and how they always featured both profiles, he moved Prisko's face to his right side and held him there long enough for him to get a good look. Then he moved him to the left side and did the same. Finally, he threw Prisko behind his back without turning around himself.

Garrett helped Prisko to his feet and sat him back at the table. Bennington needed a moment to collect himself. He took it and changed back to his human-looking form. Then he straightened out his clothes and turned around to go back to the table. The stoic look had finally gone from Prisko's face. It was replaced with shock. Then came that most familiar emotion, fear. He was accustomed to that one immediately after showing his true face. Though it was usually when he was just about to take prey. In this case, he made an exception. Prisko was still trying to catch his breath.

"Was that a sufficient demonstration or do I need to do something more drastic?" Bennington asked as he sat back down to the table.

Prisko was hyperventilating a little, but he shook his head.

"I want you to know your agents were excellent shots. Collectively, they put over fifty bullets in me. The ones that didn't pass through, I was prying out of my body for days. I might even still have a few in me."

Prisko didn't reply. He only stared at Bennington. Still stunned.

"You pushed it this far, Agent Prisko. You, at least, deserved to know the truth." Bennington told him. He could see Prisko was still having trouble. "I think you could use a drink. We don't keep hard liquor here. I can offer you some wine, or I think we might still have some beer?" He said in the form of a question as he looked at the resident who was doing the serving. She nodded to him in reply. Prisko said nothing. Bennington motioned to the resident, "bring him both."

Prisko peered downwards. Bennington watched him for as long as it took for the resident to bring him a glass of wine and a full can of beer accompanied by a glass of ice. Prisko didn't touch either. He could take it or not, Bennington thought. This part was done.

He stood up from the table and looked out over the lawn. Then walked around the table and approached the edge of the stairs. It was time.

". . . so that's it?" Prisko interrupted, "you gave me the truth and so you're going to kill me?"

Glancing behind, "you were given every opportunity to move on. You wanted a lot more than the truth. I'd have given you three times what I gave your underling if I thought you would settle for the truth." Bennington answered. Less patient now.

"So that's it."

"You're going to die tonight. Then, that's it. Now, I have other business to tend to. You have until I have concluded that to make your peace."

"You . . ."

"Please don't interrupt again, Agent Prisko." He said, cutting Prisko off, and then started down the stairs. "It's rude."

He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked out on all the traitor residents still on their knees. Then he looked at the faithful behind them. He folded his arms behind his back, and paced. First to the end of the group on the left, and then to the end on the right. Making sure to make eye contact with the faithful residents, one by one. He paced one more time and then stopped in the middle of the group.

Pointing to the traitors, "there are thirty-eight people, here." Then he paced again. "Those who plotted to kill me, and their traitorous families, that I know of. How do I know? Did I sense it with my magical vampire powers? No. I know because these people were all spotted by Deputy Garrett at a meeting just prior to the attempt on my life. That's how I know. That's the only way I know. I cannot sense plots. Could there be more of you involved that I don't know about? Absolutely.

"But let's say there isn't. Let's say these are all of the conspirators. Every single one and not one more. Just what am I supposed to do with them? Forgive them?" He asked rhetorically looking down at the traitors. Many of then looked back up with hope.

"No. I won't forgive them", he said looking away. "These people that I took into my confidence, offered them peace, wealth and security for the rest of their lives and their children's lives, and their children's children. They plotted to kill me. I won't forgive them. So what am I supposed to do with them? Am I supposed to kill them? Kill thirty-eight people, including children, in one shot, or order them to do it?", he motioned to Tully and Garrett, still on the porch.

He stepped back up to the top of the porch, "kill thirty-eight people? What am I, a cossack? A nazi? A fucking taliban? I'm supposed to just slaughter thirty-eight people? Perpetrate a massacre on thirty-eight people?" He looked out over the group. "No. I will not. I most certainly will not. I will not harm these people. At all."

He paused again to let that message take effect. No one spoke. There were looks of bewilderment and uncertainty on the faces of the faithful residents. Along with whimper and stirring sounds of bemusement. There were more hopeful and eased looks on the faces of the traitors. Along with sounds of relief.

"We established this community for more than just my benefit." Bennington started again, then pointed at the traitors. "So what I am going to do is tell you that if any of them leave here tonight alive, then I will too. I will discard all my interests in the township. All of the land, all of the property, the equipment, the vehicles, everything. I will have all of the roads ripped up, the electrical lines, the data lines, the telephone lines, stripped out. The corporate township will be dissolved. Those of you on my payroll, will no longer be. Those of you who own your properties outright and are not in mortgage to me, will see your property values plummet. Those of you who are in debt to me, I will collect, through my attorneys. I will instruct them to drag you into court and take the very shirts off your backs, if necessary, until I have received every penny owed to me.

"I will return to the life I lived four hundred years before the town of Cole, New York ever existed." He started to turn away to walk back to the table but stopped and turned to them again, "if any of these people leave here alive."

He continued back to the patio set. Motioned to Tulley and Garrett to stand their charges up. Prisko rose with just a touch from Garrett. Mattie offered some resistance and Tulley had to forcefully pull her up on her feet by her shoulders.

"Let's take this inside." He said lowly to Tulley as he reached him. They, along with the servant residents opened the back door to the mansion and started filing inside. As he was the last to reach the door he turned around to face the lawn.

"I leave it to you."

* * *

My God, Prisko thought. Bennington just gave the townspeople the ultimate ultimatum, 'kill these people, or I'm gone'.

Vampire. So that was the big secret. Finally. He didn't just know it now but he even believed it. Not at first. Not even when Bennington held him up by the jaw and gave him the close-up view. Then still, his mind searched for rational explanations for what he was seeing. Bennington was on steroids, that accounted for his freakish strength. He used some kind of quick application makeup, that accounted for his freakish appearance. Hypnosis, perhaps. Bennington somehow hypnotized him into seeing what he wanted. Whatever the trick, it was a trick. Had to be.

It wasn't until moments ago when he believed. When Bennington gave that ultimatum. It seemed the townspeople were pretty sure Bennington was going to do all the killing. That, or order his minions, Tulley and Garrett. But he didn't. He threw it back into their laps. That was pretty, damn, monstrous.

Now he wasn't thinking about his agents, or Gomes, or Bennington. All he could think about were those poor people knelt down on the lawn. Many of them had already taken quite a beating, Prisko saw. Yet there were also children out there, knelt down right along with the rest. Some of them clinging desperately to their parents. Could those people really do it, he wondered. He saw their reaction once Bennington finished his speech. It wasn't like he would hope the ordinary citizen to react if someone had ordered, or rather, suggested, they commit mass murder. There was no outright refusal. If they were going to do it, there would be no quick, easy deaths. It would be bloody and brutal. None of them had guns or even knives, only shovels, bats, and other blunt instruments. They would literally have to beat those people to death. He was afraid they just might do it.

As he was being dragged inside the mansion, he could see the uproar start. The captives had started pleading for their lives while the captors had begun arguing amongst themselves. He even saw a few shoving matches get started.

His senses had returned since Gomes attacked him. He didn't want to admit that the aspirin probably helped with that. Yet what just happened on the lawn didn't make sense at all. He recognized most of the people that were knelt down. All from the town. None of them ever talked to him to inform on Bennington. So what exactly did they do?

"How did they plot against him?" He asked Garrett, looking back, as he got inside the house.

"Shut the fuck up. You were gonna shoot me?" Garrett said, cold, as he tightened his grip around his arm and gave him a slight shove.

Why yes, I was gonna shoot you, Prisko thought. Rather sorry I didn't, he thought again.

He wasn't going to get anything out of Garrett. One thing since meeting Bennington that was unmistakable, he was in complete control of the town and everyone in it. No one wanted to challenge or even displease him. Those people on the lawn, all of them, captors and captives, alike, had waited there in obedient silence for hours. Waiting on Bennington's every word. He understood now, why none of them ever came forward. Even if he still held them in contempt for it.

The back door led into the mansion's grand foyer. Which was a large area that had a duplex staircase leading to the second floor. The small group had waited for Mr. Bennington just inside the door. It was him and Mattie Hudson being held by Tulley and Garrett. Then there were the two people who had been serving them on the patio. As he got inside and closed the door, Bennington walked to the front of the group and led them to a parlor just a few feet to the right of them.

Prisko expected to be able to hear what was going on outside from inside but it appeared the mansion was soundproofed. Closing the back door cut off all exterior noise. Prisko was anxious. He found he couldn't sit still. He wanted to dash out to the lawn before it was too late.

"You think they're going to do it?" Tulley ask his boss.

"Whatever they choose to do, I've made my plans." Bennington answered.

The window in the parlor faced the lawn. It was a spacious room with two fancy-styled sofas on opposite ends with a small parlor table in between, but distant. Mr. Bennington directed them to put him on one sofa and Mattie Hudson on the other. With the size of the room that put them at least twelve feet apart. There was a tall fireplace in the room and on the wall just above it was a large, digital, screen. Bennington pulled a tablet device from the mantle shelf over the fireplace and began tapping on it.

Was there a slaughter going on right now in the backyard, Prisko wondered. He needed to get back out there. His hands were uncuffed now. He looked around the room. If he could only find some kind of weapon, he could . . .

Bennington glanced at him. Then over at the window where he saw Tulley had peeled back the curtain to see outside.

"Hailey, please move away from the window and place Agent Prisko back in handcuffs. He's having ill-advised thoughts." He said.

Whoa, Prisko thought. Did Bennington just read his mind? He can do that? He tested that theory by thinking several distasteful thoughts about the vampire. Most involving the thing dying a horrible, agonizing, death. Bennington didn't react.

Tulley quickly pulled his cuffs from his belt and trotted over. He cuffed Prisko's hands behind his back and walked in front of him. Giving him a confident look and nodding his head as if to say, 'go ahead, try it'.

"Prick-so". Tulley said to him, lowly. Then walked over to Bennington. "We're just going to keep him here?" Asking Bennington, as he pointed to him.

"He's controlled."

"You don't think we should . . ." Tulley used a throat cutting gesture to finish his question.

"Eventually."

"And Mattie?"

"Her? I'd kill her twice, if I could." Bennington answered.

That received a gasp from Mattie Hudson. She had been quiet and holding on to the back of the couch before that. Now she shifted and was sitting in a fetal position. Rocking back and forth. The two looked over at her and then resumed their conversation.

"Well, if you don't mind me asking, what are we waiting . . ." Tulley started.

Angered, "if you were so anxious to wipe everyone out immediately, Hailey, then you should have brought me the boy. As long as he's still at large, if he's picked up by authorities, he will lead them here. This only ends when we have the boy. Now, stop questioning me, and pay attention."

The digital display now showed a map of the town along with the surrounding areas. Then Bennington used a laser pointer to highlight certain areas of it. He called Garrett over to join them and he began briefing them.

"He went into the woods behind Seth's house, here . . ."

The briefing continued. Bennington was giving them his plan on how to capture 'the boy'. Who, Prisko figured, must have been referring to Masterson. Prisko knew he was in town but hadn't seen him yet. It must've been him. Somehow Masterson had escaped into the woods. Maybe at the same time those other residents he found on the road had escaped. That gave him some hope.

He had tried to put aside thoughts of his own situation, but he knew it wasn't looking good. He never got to make the call to Albany and the satellite phone was destroyed. There was nothing left. Gomes was right, Bennington had outplayed him at every hand. In all likelihood, he was going to die tonight and there was little he could do stop it. He didn't even know why he wasn't dead already. There was an irony to finding himself wanting to see a cop-killer escape, but if Masterson got away, there was a chance there could still be justice.

"He can't hide from me in the woods. I know exactly where he is. But he can run", Bennington said. "I need the two of you to cover his escape routes, as I laid out." He looked at his watch. "sunrise is at 5:06 gentlemen. We have to retrieve him tonight. By daybreak, he will be out of reach."

"Well, even if he is, he's a cop killer. If a cop spots him, chances are they'll shoot him on sight, anyway." Garrett said, and immediately regretted it.

Bennington reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, and dug his fingers in, "I'm not interested in what 'chances are'". Garrett screamed in pain as Bennington threw him across the room with little effort, knocking over the little parlor table in flight. Tulley ran over to tend to him.

"H. . . he didn't mean anything by it, Mr. Bennington. Sometimes he just talks without thinking." Tulley said, as he rubbed Garrett's sore shoulder.

"All I wanted was a home!" Bennington yelled, showing emotion for the first time. He seemed to realized it, and he took a minute to collect himself. Then, "nothing less than every other sentient being in the world has a right to. A place of relative calm, safety and security. A place of peace where I don't have to live in the shadows. Where, not only would my neighbors not be against me, but maybe, just maybe, they might even care about me. Where I would never have to leave and no one would ever ask or force me to leave."

Bennington was breaking down a different way now, Prisko saw. Not angered but sorrowful. There were no tears but his voice cracked with a hint of despair. Maybe more than a hint. It must have been a complete shock to Tulley and Garrett because he could see they didn't know quite what to do. Tulley had helped Garrett up and both of them still kind of held onto each other as they watched him from several feet away, exchanging uncertain looks. It was clear they didn't want to approach him. Bennington rubbed his forehead and took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa he was sitting in. Hands still rubbing his head, which he was now shaking. He leaned back.

"I methodically and meticulously set every piece in place. Spent an ungodly amount of money. Spoke to every resident and assured them that if they took this journey with me, only good fortune will follow. I asked them to have faith in me. And I had it. I had it."

He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, head still buried in his hands, still shaking his head.

"If it's all destroyed, I have to rebuild again. I don't want to rebuild again. I'm tired of rebuilding. Tired. So tired. I'm afraid of what's going to happen on that lawn. I'm afraid of that boy getting away." He looked up to Tulley and Garrett, who were still frozen, "I'm afraid! Don't you understand? I'm afraid!"

* * *

Prisko had gotten captivated with Bennington as much as Tulley and Garrett. What none in the room noticed was that Mattie hadn't. What none in the room realized, in her showing of heightened and uncontrolled fear, was that she had noticed some things.

She noticed that the two residents who were serving them, Janet Oldham, and Missy Thomas, were both older ladies in their sixties. Were both gone from the room. Missy was pretty sturdy for a woman her age but in a full charge, Mattie knew she could bowl by her easily.

She also noticed, as she was being taken out of Tulley's truck, that the front of the mansion was empty. All of the residents, along with all of the drama, were in the back. Having been in the Town Executive residence many times, she knew exactly where they were in the mansion and could find her out in the dark.

There was another thing she noticed about the front of the mansion. There were several vehicles parked out front. She knew it was standard practice for everyone in Cole to leave their vehicles unlocked. Many, if not most, residents were even in the practice of leaving their keys right in their ignitions.

As Mr. Bennington was fixated on his uncharacteristic despair, and the others in the room were fixated on him, Mattie knew this would be the only opportunity she had to survive, to see her husband again. To have her life again. She had to take it.

She rose.

### Chapter 24

About twenty minutes later, they reached the end of the road they were on leading from the resident's house. It connected to an even longer north/south road that was an artery through southern half of the town limits. They took it south. It was a curvy and hilly stretch and Jester was worried that there were areas where there were steep cliffs on the side that led to clearings from the brush and the trees. If anyone drove by, they wouldn't have the protection of the woods to escape in. Still it was the road out of town and they hadn't seen anyone driving since they left Seth's.

The headlights came into view after only about ten minutes. The vehicle was coming from the north just over the hill. Running on its high beams, both Monroe and Jester spotted the sudden illumination well before the actual headlights appeared. They hadn't reached the cliffs yet but there was a slight incline over the side. Enough to hide them both well. Jester tugged Monroe to follow him and they reached it just as the vehicle turned over the horizon. They both ducked down with occasional peeks at the road.

It was definitely a truck or SUV of some kind. Jester could tell from the height of the headlights but that was all he could tell. There was no seeing past the lights to get anymore detail. It was also in no hurry. Traveling along about twenty miles per hour but not in a steady movement. It had a choppy, start-stop, motion.

"They're looking for us." Monroe whispered.

Although he agreed, Jester shushed him. Knowing that voices carry surprisingly well on a dark, still night. Even with the chirping of the crickets, or whatever those bugs were, the woods had its own natural sound and anything that didn't belong was discernible from a distance.

The truck kept moving along slowly. It would take a while before it passed them. Jester realized whoever the driver was, they must've been looking for people. He knew there were others who had escaped the lawn who didn't end up at Seth's house, but he didn't know if any of them were still roaming the woods. By now, so much time had passed it didn't seem likely. Which meant whoever was in that truck, however many, they were looking specifically for them.

When the truck finally got to the point where they were within the lights, he grabbed Monroe and held his head down, below the incline. Just in case. If he had been as tempted to take a peek the same way Jester was now willing himself not to, they would be spotted. The night was too still. If any movement at all caught the drivers attention, it would essentially mark them.

Holding Monroe's head down, he squinted his eyes closed hard as the noise of the truck's engine rolled directly above them. It sounded as if it stopped right there. Jester's heart jumped and he was ready to bolt at it in attack, but he reminded himself the truck had been starting and stopping ever since it appeared. Sure enough, after a few seconds it started moving again. The tension was so thick Jester almost held his breath. Finally, it passed over them.

When they were facing it's rear he removed his arm from Monroe and lifted his head up.

"That's Tulley's truck." Monroe whispered.

"Yeah", Jester replied. He recognized it not only from the make and model but also from the sizeable dent visible on the front, right, side where it had rammed into Seth's house.

Without verbalizing it, they both agreed they needed to wait right where they were until the truck was well out of sight. When it was, Monroe wanted to wait even longer until it's lights were gone too. Jester didn't agree.

"We need to go." He said as he rose up from the incline and trotted back up to the road.

"Wait, what if it comes back?" Monroe said, as he rose up but didn't go any further.

"Then we'll duck down again."

"We should go back into the woods."

"We'll never get out of here tonight going through the woods. It takes me too much time to figure out where to go."

With a sigh, Monroe walked up to the road. Looking back at the truck. It's lights were still visible but they seemed farther off. He caught up to Jester.

"Come on, let's pick up the pace." Jester said.

He started running at just more than a jog. He wanted a faster pace to put more distance between them and the truck but he needed one Monroe could keep up with. Jester waved for him to follow. He did, matching Jester's pace. They made it to the stretch of the road that had the cliff. Jester stopped just before it and held Monroe, as well. He looked behind them for the truck but by then even it's high beam lights were no longer visible.

"We need to go through this at full sprint as far as we can." He said.

"I get it. Just let me catch my breath."

"You might want to do a few stretches." Jester told him.

Monroe answered that with a look. Jester waited until he said he was ready. They both checked behind them one more time for the truck. Not seeing it, they traded a glance at each other and then both were off. Within seconds Jester was well ahead and he slowed down to let Monroe get closer to him. He didn't think they could make it through the whole stretch of road by the cliff at this pace but wanted to get as far across as they could.

"Just keep running." Jester said in between breaths.

When he felt Monroe lagging behind, even at his slower pace, Jester slowed down even more. It wasn't long before they were both going in a light jog again. He was impressed with the way Monroe was keeping up. He looked to be a fit guy, but a lot of people look fit and weren't.

This time, they didn't see or even hear Tulley's truck until it's headlights turned on and were on their backs. It had been running without them. Turning them on only when it reached the stretch by the cliffs. It was still far away from them but there was nowhere for them to go. Monroe stopped when he saw the lights. Jester was ahead of him.

"Go!" Monroe yelled to Jester and ran out in the middle of the road in the truck's path.

Jester stopped, "move!" He yelled back.

"Just go. Faster!" Monroe said, waving his arms at the truck.

Indecisive, Jester thought about running back and even took a few, slow, steps toward him.

"Go now! Don't worry about me." Monroe yelled.

Jester ran down the road at top speed then stopped short. He wasn't going to just run away this time. Was he going to let two people lay down their lives for him? He turned and sprinted back towards Monroe.

"What are you doing? No!" Monroe yelled back to him as he watched Jester approach.

Jester was relieved to see the truck hadn't bowled Monroe down but had stopped in front of him. He tried to pick up speed to get there before the driver got out. He saw Monroe back away from it with his hands up.

"Baby?" Came a voice from the truck as the door opened and the driver stepped out. Barely distinguishable behind the lights, but it wasn't the sheriff's voice.

Monroe put his hands down but still backed away. Knowing the voice but almost like he didn't want to believe it. Jester caught up to him just as the driver reached into the truck and turned off the lights.

"Mattie?" Monroe said, astonished.

"It's me, baby. It's really me." She replied.

"Oh my God, Mattie!" Monroe said as he ran up and practically mugged her. Wrapping her up so tight, any tighter and it might've been lethal. She returned the hug with as much fervor. They held the embrace and started swaying in each other's arms.

By the time it was over, Jester was there too and Mattie gave him a long hug and kissed him on the cheek. Then she went back to Monroe.

"My God, baby. I . . . I thought I'd never see you alive again. What happened?!" Monroe said.

"I . . . I don't know I just ran." Mattie said, "as soon as I got the opportunity, I just ran. Tulley's was the first truck I reached. I just jumped in and . . . and . . . I don't know. I'm here."

"Well, are they chasing you now?" Monroe asked.

"I don't know."

Monroe hugged her again. And then let go to grab her face to kissed her.

Jester didn't know what to say but he was more than happy. The prolonged smile on his face might've made him unrecognizable to anyone that knew him in the five boroughs. He rubbed Mattie's shoulder as Monroe held her.

"I knew you would protect him." She said to Jester from within Monroe's hug.

"He was protecting me. Seriously." Jester said.

"No way." Monroe said as he released her and looked at him. She hugged Jester again, this time longer.

"Thank you." She said to him as she released him.

"It's alright." Jester replied. He couldn't stop smiling and shaking his head. Monroe touched him on the shoulder.

Mattie's smile faded and she got a serious look on her face, "now look, boys. We're not out of the woods yet. Literally and figuratively. We need to go. Now."

"Of course." Monroe said as he gave her a peck on the cheek and went to jump into the drivers seat of the truck. Jester opened the door to get in the back seat.

"No, baby. I'll drive. You drive too slow." Mattie said and also went to the drivers side.

Monroe didn't argue. He ran around to get into the passengers side. No quicker than he closed the door, were they driving away. From inside the truck, Monroe couldn't help but to reach and pull Mattie and kiss her again. Then he buried his face in his hands.

"My baby's alive. My baby's still alive. Thank God. Oh, thank God."

Jester found himself sitting back comfortably in the seat. Hands rested behind his head. He felt relaxed. Mattie was there. He watched her from the back seat. She was driving. That silly thought popped in his head again. No worries. Mommy was there. He didn't push it away this time.

* * *

There had been a flurry of activity since Mattie Hudson managed to get away. Tulley had run out of the room, behind her, leaving the door open. Presumably to the parking area, Prisko thought. Garrett was still in the room. Technically, to keep him at bay but Garrett wasn't standing behind him anymore. He was standing behind Bennington. It appeared to be an awkward attempt to provide comfort to him. Although Bennington didn't even notice he was there. He had stopped his cries of despair. Staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, still as a statue.

Then one of the two older women who had been serving them, ran past the door towards the lawn in the back. Prisko didn't see her but he heard her go by. After a few seconds, he heard the most terrifying sounds he had heard in all his life. The sounds of torture and pain. Beating sounds, thuds, cries and screams. Sounds of people dying. A lot of people.

"No!" Prisko called out. He got up to run to the door with his hands still cuffed behind his back. Garrett met him halfway and shoved him back all the way across the room. Knocking him over.

There was the sound of the lawn door closing, shutting out the death noise. The woman at the door called out the name 'Janet'. Her voice, excited, jubilant, as if to share good fortune. Then Prisko heard the other woman run past the door towards the call. This prompted Garrett to head to the doorway to see what was happening. He peeked out. Seconds later Prisko heard the light, frantic footsteps of one of the women running back towards them.

"They're doing it." She yelled to Bennington as she peeked inside the room.

For the first time in a while, Bennington went lucid as he looked up at her. His lips slightly curled up into a hopeful smile. As if someone who had just heard good news they weren't expecting and were afraid to believe. He stood and went towards the door.

"Bring him." Bennington said to Garrett as he passed him in the doorway, referring to Prisko.

When he first heard the screams, Prisko's initial reaction was to go out there, until Garrett threw him back. Now that he had time to think about it, he wasn't going out there. He thought he could stop the massacre from starting. Plead to the townspeople's humanity, remind them that these were their friends and neighbors they were being asked to kill. Threaten them with his authority of the law. Whatever it took. But once it had already started, there was no stopping it. Once the first one died, they all had to. He didn't want to see it. He wasn't going out there.

"No!" He cried as he saw Garrett approaching him.

Still on the ground from being thrown, Prisko sat up and used his legs to back himself up all the way to the wall. Kicking at Garrett as he came closer.

"I'm not going out there. Get the fuck out of here!" He screamed.

Garrett kicked his legs aside and grabbed at his shirt to pull him to his feet. Prisko resisted. When Garrett did manage to get him up, Prisko lunged his head at his chin, knocking him back. Then threw his shoulder at him. Garrett responded by punching him in the face but not hard enough to stun him. Prisko kept resisting. When Garrett pulled him forward, he pulled back. When he tried to grab hold of him, he wriggled away. Prisko wasn't thinking anymore, only struggling.

"Grab his legs!" Yelled another voice.

Tulley had returned and had moved in to assist Garrett. When Garrett complied and tried to grab his legs, Prisko kneed at him. Even connecting once. He continued moving his legs so as not to give them a still target, while swinging his shoulders at Tulley. The fierce struggle had turned them all around away from the doorway and it continued.

"Fuck you! Fuck you. I'm not going out there." He yelled as they were still trying to get control of him but never quite could. Prisko was winning the struggle.

Suddenly, he felt something grab the back of his neck. It was in the shape of a hand but it was cold, hard, like stone. It felt like a vice. Then he felt himself being lifted up off the ground and the sudden, stretching pressure on the back of his neck. Suspended at least three feet, he continued to kick and swing his shoulders, but it was futile. He wasn't connecting with anything, flailing uselessly. He felt his body being turned around to find the vice on his neck attached to the body of Cole Bennington. Prisko tried to kick him but it was like kicking rock, unyielding, unaffected. Bennington ignored it.

"You did this", Bennington snarled. "You will see it."

Bennington motioned for Tulley and Garrett to leave ahead of him. Carrying him, Bennington followed them out of the room. The two women were standing at the door to the lawn. As they approached one of them held it open for them. The death sounds were immediate. Prisko tried to turn his head away but there was no escaping Bennington's grip.

When they reached the porch he saw only a glimpse of the carnage. He saw a man and a woman lying on the ground, reaching to the sky for mercy, as at least four other residents were beating them with tools. Taking full swings bashing them. Then he closed his eyes as hard he could. Wishing he could do the same with his ears.

He felt his eyes being pried open again. He couldn't resist Bennington's fingers pulling his lower face down, his forehead and lids up, forcing his eyes open.

"I said watch." Bennington commanded.

At first glance, it would've seemed to be chaos, akin to a riot. People running all over the place, taking violent swings at others, seemingly random, in no discernible pattern. But then, after a few seconds, the pattern emerged. Disorganized, unrestrained, but nevertheless, a pattern. The victims were brought to the front of the lawn nearest the porch where they were being pummeled to death. Already there were four or five discarded and bloodied bodies lying still, laid off to the side. The rest of the captives were held behind in sloppy rows, waiting for their turn. Sloppy, because they weren't still. Some were trying to pull away, others were trying to fight but were too outnumbered.

Not all of the captors were happy participants. In fact, almost none of them were. Some stood off to the side but close. Trying to appear like they were participating without actually participating. Others weren't so tactful and did full recoils. There were a number on their knees. Like petulant children, their eyes were closed, their hands covered their ears trying to drown out the cries in babbles. Many even tried to walk away but were pulled back by others. Prisko saw one male resident grab a woman who tried to run off. He tried to coax her back but she refused. That is, until the man pointed out that Bennington was now on the porch. Then she went back on her own and started beating one of the captives.

The worst sight of all was the carnage. It became clear they weren't picking captives to kill at random. They were going by family. The next group pulled up was a family of three, including a little girl that couldn't have been more than five. When she was dumped in the kill zone, her mother shielding her with her body as she pled for her daughter's life, the ones doing the beating stopped. One of those men threw down his bloody aluminum baseball bat claiming he had done more than his share. He looked up at Bennington.

"I did them." The man appealed, pointing to the dead bodies on the side.

Bennington took his hand off Prisko and pointed to the other men who were holding weapons and hadn't thrown them down as he did, "they did too."

The man looked down at the family, the little girl. Then he looked down at his own feet. He picked up his bat and raised it over the father. The other men raised their weapons.

"No!" Prisko screamed, "don't do it!"

There was a brief pause as all the men looked up at them. As if waiting for a response from Bennington. Seeming like they expected him to retaliate against Prisko. To hit him, shake him, kill him, at least chastize him, but he did none of that.

"The choice is yours." Bennington told them, calm as ever.

It took one of the men to take the initiative. With his crowbar, he began whacking at the man's head, and he collapsed to the ground. Half a second later, the others joined in in beating both the man and the woman. Still other from within the crowd also started.

Bennington having removed one hand, Prisko was free to shut his eyes agaim while still being held by the back of his neck. He closed them as tight as he could and began wriggling to try to get free.

That angered Bennington. He snapped at Prisko with a changed voice that was deeper, darker, crackling with contempt. Prisko wouldn't see him but could tell he had changed to his other face, "open your eyes or I'll rip your fucking throat out!"

"Do it!" Prisko cried.

"Oh fuck it."

Bennington throw him on the floor of the porch, behind him. Prisko opened his eyes to find himself at Tulley's feet but Tulley wasn't looking down at him. His eyes were fixed on the lawn. His look was not of his usual smugness, and superiority, but hollow, sad. Prisko looked out.

The little girl had escaped the melee and ran out into the crowd. A woman captor had caught her, picked her up and hugged her.

"Its ok." She told the little girl over and over with tears in her own eyes, "mommy and daddy are here". Then she carried her back to the spot. Her death grip around the woman's neck had to be pried lose before she turned her face away and held the girl out for them to swing down on her. Prisko saw a shovel go up.

He didn't see the strikes. He turned around on his back. In the handcuffs he could only see straight up at the roof of the porch as he heard the thuds come down on the girl. He had been prepared to throw down his own life. But he hadn't been prepared for this. Not this.

"Just kill me now." He said to Tulley.

Tulley only looked down on him. Then he walked up to Bennington, who was ahead of him at the edge of the porch.

"Just kill me now!" Prisko yelled out to Bennington.

Bennington, looking back slightly, "not now. In due time."

### Chapter 25

"No, baby. You were supposed to make a right, here." Monroe said, as Jester felt the truck make a left turn.

He had been resting his eyes. He might have even dozed off for a minute or two but he opened them now. They had reached the end of the road he and Monroe had been walking. The left turn would've led to the main road out of town. The right led them to the town center.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it was a left." She said.

"This is why I thought I should drive. I know the roads better than you."

"No you don't. And like I said, you don't drive fast enough." Mattie replied as the car had suddenly picked up speed.

"Mattie, why are we still going this way? We need to make a u-turn."

"What?"

"You're taking us the wrong way."

"I can go down this road to the end and then make the right to get back to the main."

"No, that road doesn't go back to the main, remember? It'll take you around the rear of the mansion."

"No, that's not right."

"Mattie, I know what I'm talking about. You're going the wrong way. These people are after us and you're taking us right to them!"

Jester sat up as he witnessed their bickering. He heard the sternness in Monroe's voice. He looked out the windows around the car but he didn't see any other cars on the road. No one was after them. At least, not for the moment. It seemed they had some time for mistakes. Monroe had just gotten Mattie back. Why was he hounding her?

"Watch." She said.

The truck picked up even more speed. As they reached the end of the road they were on, Mattie made the right turn that Monroe had warned her about. The one that brought them to the rear of the mansion. Once in the turn, they picked up even more speed.

"What the hell are you doing, Mattie?" Monroe snapped.

"Shut up!"

Jester sat up. He had seen this view before. As he was approaching the party earlier in the evening. The was at the rear of that lawn where he shot the vampire.

"Hey . . ." He started to say.

For the second time that evening, Tulley's jeep crashed through a barrier. This time it was multiple barriers. The lawn furniture that had been laid out for that night's interrupted dinner. Mostly table and chairs that were still set up, they buckled under the SUV and Jester could hear the wood and metal grinding under the carriage as they drove over it. The rest of it first settled on the windshield before flying off. The truck was moving even faster now as the engine revved.

"Mattie!" Monroe yelled.

The were crossing the length of the grand lawn. Approaching the rear of the mansion. Jester could see what looked like hundreds of people standing about. Some were standing over others that were knelt down, as if holding them prisoner. However, all of them, standing and kneeling, started to scatter at their approach. One, lone, male figure stood calmly at the top of the porch. Unmoving. Undaunted by their approach. Growing larger.

What was going on, Jester wondered in near-panic. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw that Mattie was glancing through it back at him.

As they got closer, he could see there was something lining the grass. Something that wasn't furniture. They were bodies. About a dozen beaten and bloodied bodies. Some of them still moving but most not.

"Oh my God!" Monroe yelled as he recognized the same sight.

The truck stopped just short of the back porch, facing it. Jester saw the vampire, still standing at the top of the steps. The sheriff and his deputy were also on the porch. The deputy was holding onto someone in handcuffs that he recognized. It was the FBI guy from the hotel room. Jester was still confused.

Mattie jumped out of the truck and ran around to the passenger side. She opened the door to pull out Monroe.

"Come on." She said as she tugged at him..

"Mattie?" Monroe questioned.

"Just come on!" She pulled him out of the truck but he didn't go farther than a single step.

Monroe saw, up close this time, all of the bodies laying almost at his feet. "What the hell happened?!"

Jester had stepped out of the backseat on the passenger side. He saw Mattie struggling to pull Monroe away. He was resisting but he did eventually start to follow her. Jester reached for her but she ducked her shoulder down to avoid to avoid his touch. Then she ran, pulling Monroe up to the porch. Behind the vampire, who stepped to the side to let them pass.

"Mattie, what is this? What are you doing?" Monroe said as they came to rest on the top of the porch, almost trying to pull away from her. He was the only one as confused as Jester.

"He said he would let us go, baby. I had to. For us." She said as she held him by the back of the head and pulled his face down to hers.

"Had to what?" Monroe asked. Then he realized.

"M . . . Mattie (mommy)?" Jester called to her.

"I'm so sorry." Mattie pleaded, as she glanced back at him, and then turned around to wrap her arms around Monroe's neck and buried her face in his chest. Holding him tight. Refusing to look back again.

The vampire still stood calmly, peering at him. Jester looked at Monroe, who had a horrified look on his face. Mattie was no longer facing him. Her face still in Monroe's chest as they were both on the porch standing off to the vampire's side. Jester looked at the Sheriff and his deputy who were on the other side. The deputy still holding the FBI guy.

Then he turned around to look at the people who had scattered from the truck. Some of them were chasing others who seemed to be trying to get away. Most of the ones trying to escape were being caught, beaten, and rounded up by others. Still others were regrouping around him.

Then he too realized, as Monroe had. Mattie set him up.

"It took you longer than I expected", Bennington said to Mattie. "Did you find them where I told you they would be?"

"I . . ." She raised her head for a second to try to say something but couldn't finish.

"It's fine." Bennington said, "I want you both out of this town by morning. Past that and our agreement is void. Is that clear, Mattie?"

Jester saw Mattie nod her head while still in Monroe's chest. Then he fell to his knees, hyperventilating. He tried to look at her. He wanted to make eye contact with her. She kept her face right where it was. She wouldn't look at him.

"Mattie (mommy)?" Jester called again. He only saw her hug Monroe tighter.

Even with the extraordinary events of the evening, the bloodshed, the deaths, the plots, the revelations, this moment stood out. The residents, Tulley, Garrett, one or many of them, should have moved in on Jester by now. Yet all of them, when they saw him collapse with emotion, saw him reach out to Mattie, saw him rebuffed, they found themselves frozen. Even Bennington, having just encouraged and witnessed the slaughter of children, even he recognized it, and was moved by it.

"You are a cold woman, Mattie Hudson." He said to her.

Jester stumbled back to his feet, using the truck to pull himself up. His lips, that were curled into a smile only minutes before, were now dropped into a gape. He caught his breath, but he still felt like he couldn't. The vampire was still peering down on him. He saw all of the faces looking at him. Leering.

Many of the people were bringing the captives back to the center of the lawn, around the porch. Beating them as they walked. There were more than a dozen of them being brought back and forced to kneel down again. This time behind where Jester was standing. He noted the other bodies on the ground. He knew these people were going to be killed too. Was the monster making them do this? He wondered. The perpetrators began to raise their killing tools, bats, shovels, crowbars, and others.

"Finish what you were doing." The thing said to the crowd behind him. Then looked at Jester.

"Take him." The vampire ordered, and then turned to walk away back into the mansion. Jester could feel the smaller crowd behind him, approaching.

So . . . it was a standoff, Jester thought.

"No, you take me! You take me!" Jester screamed an order of his own, at the top of his lungs. Perhaps even, a little higher, pointing at the monster. In his mind, letting it know, in no uncertain terms, he was addressing it and no one else.

The vampire stopped and turned around to face him, a little taken aback. Jester felt the crowd behind him had also stopped coming forward at his outburst. Neither the monster, nor the crowd were used to seeing the thing spoken to like that.

"You gonna kill me now?!" Jester screamed. Taking a few steps forward, still pointing. "You kill me. You kill me! Come on and kill me, motherfucker!" Jester said before charging.

Schoolyard bullies, drunken foster parents, drug dealers – or vampires, what difference did it make? A monster was a monster, Jester thought. Surprised no one was trying to stop him, he scaled the porch steps three at a time and reached the top in seconds.

* * *

'Well, bless his heart', Tulley thought with admiration, as Jester charged past him.

With having the dozen or so, bodies from the massacre the faithful residents had already done, with so many more to do, there was going to have to be a massive cleanup operation in the aftermath. There would be no covering this one up. Anonymous mass graves would have to be dug, bodies inserted, along with the weapons that made them. The last thing they needed was a second wave of outside law enforcement coming back to town.

So the plan was to collect the kid, load him and prick-so into separate cars, drive them both far away from Cole in totally separate directions, then kill them with simple, non-perplexing, bullets. They were then to dump them someplace semi-public. Unlike the five previous FBI Agents, Mr. Bennington wanted their bodies found, and within a relatively short time of their deaths. It was sure to throw off any suspicion on the town.

However, in a blink of the eye, the kid had changed that. He decided he was going to go down fighting, like every man should. Tulley had seen so many cower in front of Mr. Bennington he almost didn't think it was possible for anyone to do anything else. He did now. This kid wasn't cowering at all. In fact, he was doing the exact opposite of cowering. Showing Mr. Bennington absolutely no respect. The kid was demanding to be killed here and now. Mr. Bennington would have to come up with a new plan, once he accommodated him.

Tulley was astonished at how fast the kid dashed past him on the porch. He didn't have time to think and felt nothing but the breeze as he topped the porch steps in a flash, past him and Garrett. Then had rammed his forearms, full on, into Mr. Bennington. Throwing him all the way back into the mansion's rear door with enough force to cracking it width-wise. The sound of the crack blasting through the night as loud as a rip of thunder. Then he began pounding on Mr. Bennington wildly with his fists.

Mr. Bennington? At first it seemed like the kid could've been punching a hard piece of rubber. Mr. Bennington's dumfounded face snapped back to center after every swing. More shocked than hurt. Then something changed. Maybe one of the kid's blows caught a sensitive spot or something, Tulley didn't know. Suddenly all he was trying to do was to duck and cover from the blows as the kid kept pummeling him over and over. Not only with his fists but he was also kicking him and, at some point, the boy picked up Mr. Bennington's own laptop that was on the table. He was swinging that at him like a club, every blow connecting to his head. When it tore into pieces, he resumed using his fists.

And the kid was screaming at him at the same time he was hitting him. In between expletives, he kept repeating phrases like, 'kill me', 'go on, kill me', 'why you not killing me'. All anyone heard was his screaming and the pounding of his blows.

When he saw Garrett starting to run over to help him, Tulley saw that he was leaving prick-so behind, unattended. He waved him off.

"No, stay with him." He told Garrett as he pointed at Prisko.

The beating had gone on long enough, Tulley thought, maybe he should really do something. But he found he couldn't move. Only fascinated by the spectacle. Captivated by it. It was as if seeing the impossible.

Why wasn't Mr. Bennington fighting back?

* * *

The boy had felt it, Bennington knew. The fear. When he got out of Tulley's truck and the boy looked up and met his icy stare down. He had the fear. It was there, then. It was gone, now.

The boy was on him quicker than Bennington realized he was even coming for him. He never had enough time with the boy to be able to read his intent. It might've only been when he landed into the back door after being propelled into it, that he realized what was happening. He wasn't used to being physically attacked, especially with nothing but fists. It had been a while. The first blows he received were nominal, not causing much pain, but they were incessant, unrelenting. He just wouldn't stop. Even the feel of the blows changed. Was that my own laptop, he was slamming me with? He thought. It must've been because pieces of it were now scattering about his feet in synch with the hits.

Yet it was the boy's screams. The volume. The malice. The cursing, the name-calling, the taunting, even. They were disorienting. Confusing. He could deal with the blows if he could just stop screaming at him.

As the feel of the strikes changed again, they still came repeatedly. They were also harder now. Recoiling him. Hurting him. He knew why. There was something else behind the impacts. The same thing that was behind the bullets from the gun the boy fired into him earlier that night. Anger. The conjoined twin of fear. More than anger, even. It was pure, unadulterated, untainted, rage.

This couldn't continue. He felt like he just needed a second to collect himself. If he could only get a second. Just give him a SECOND!

He caught the boy's right wrist on the next swing and held his arm in place as he rose to his feet. He didn't have to consciously change form this time. The repeated trauma to his body had forced it. He was now in full face with teeth and claws extended, as he hissed. He dug his claws into the boy's wrist as he looked into his eyes. He was going to rip open his neck and drain the life's blood out of this little bastard, who had hurt him twice now. My face is showing, Bennington thought. Look at my face.

Where he expected fear, he got another hit. No less anger. Perhaps more, even. Incited by the pain he inflicted on the boy's wrist with his claws. By the third successive punch from the boy's free hand, his arm was released. Then by the fourth, Bennington had been laid out, landing flat on his back about five feet away, like a bad boxer. But this was no boxing match. There would be no ten count. It wouldn't stop there.

Still screaming, calling him a 'fucking monster', the boy was charging him again. He stood then, more out of desperation than calculated, he grabbed him by his armpits and throw him clean over the rails of the porch, over the heads of the residents on the lawn, beyond the lawn, and into the woods.

Bennington got back on his feet and realized, he was really hurt. Starting to check his wounds, he remembered that he was in front of the resident's, and stopped. He didn't want them to see that. Even though they saw that. He realized, with a fear of his own.

* * *

Oh no, Prisko thought, as he saw Masterson go flying away. Then bouncing hard off at least, two trees before landing. Score one for the bad guys. Up until then, it had been looking good for his side. To the extent he could consider an attempted cop-killer to be on his side. But then, he thought Agent Gomes was on his side once, so who was he to be choosy now.

He was there when Mattie Hudson made her deal with Bennington. Trading Masterson for her and her husband's lives. Essentially the same deal she made with him in that hotel room. Only then, she traded Bennington. He looked over at her now. She was still trying to hold onto her husband but he had wriggled away from her. He went to the porch railing to watch the kid in the woods. Leaving her behind.

They were beginning to pile the bodies up for disposal and lining up the next group when Masterson arrived. Bennington had instructed them to swoop in and take him immediately upon getting out of the car. But it was that scene, whatever was going on between him and Mattie Hudson, it froze them. It froze everyone.

Then the kid did the most unexpected thing. He went straight after their leader. Even before he physically attacked, Prisko could see just by him calling Bennington out like that, he had stunned the residents. Then when he actually attacked, it was beautiful. Prisko's mood had picked up considerably.

Masterson had been beating the savage crap out of Bennington. The result had been impressive but just the attempt itself, woke Prisko up. He had sat across the table from that, that . . . vampire – he was still slow to acknowledge – and only marginally considered going after it. Then discarding the idea as quickly as it came. Even though he knew Bennington's intention was to see him killed, anyway.

Prisko had taken confessions from murderers before. Some described how their victim would beg for their life right up to the moment the murderer took it from them. Never fighting back. Too paralyzed by fear to even consider fighting back. In the face of that monster, Prisko realized he had become like those victims. Not only would he just let them murder him, but he even asked for it. Masterson though, he would not just let them. And in demonstrating that, put Prisko to shame.

The vampire raced down the porch steps, looking into the woods. Masterson was there, still visible. Though in silhouette now as the trees and the brush shielded him from the bright lights on the lawn. He was a little slow in doing it, but he was surely rising. Yes, Prisko thought. Masterson stood erect and brushed himself off. He faced Bennington standing in the shadow of the trees. Along with the residents on the lawn. Held his pose for a few seconds. Then he started running away.

"Get him! Don't let him escape!" Bennington yelled, his voice again changed to that deep, dark, tenor.

I'm taking your cue, kid, Prisko thought. He was still in Garrett's grasp but it was becoming tenuous in the excitement. A head butt into his jaw would get him loose. Then he could do some charging of his own. He braced himself to deliver the butt. Then he noticed how Garret was so fixated on the woods. It made him look too.

As the residents headed after him, it seemed like Masterson had enough of a head start to outrun them but a couple of them caught up to him immediately. Really, too fast, in fact. Yet instead of those residents grabbing him, they stopped to watch him go right on by them. Masterson swerved around them, and started running again. What?

Wait, Prisko thought. He knew what was happening, even though he couldn't believe it. Masterson wasn't getting further away, he was getting closer. He wasn't running away from the residents. He was running to them, past them, back to the lawn. That's why the residents were only watching him. Astonished. He crossed out of the shadows and into the lights. Then swerved around more of the residents, who again, only looked on. He was still charging, still screaming, still going – straight back to Bennington.

"Was that supposed to kill me?!" Masterson yelled as he caught up to the vampire, "how come I'm not dead yet?"

Was the last thing Prisko heard before Masterson disappeared from his view. Presumably, jumping on Bennington again. Now on the lawn, the fight had parted from Prisko's vantage point. He could still hear Masterson wildly repeating his last line, 'how come I'm not dead yet' over and over. Each followed by the sound of more blows, over and over. He went to move closer to the rails to see it all, and was surprised that he could. Garrett wasn't holding onto him anymore. Wasn't watching him anymore. He was ahead of Prisko, already at the rails. Watching the fight.

When Prisko got there, he saw Masterson had brought back something from the woods. A pair of rocks in each hand, big ones. He was now using them to take full, devastating, rips at Bennington's head and face. Each blow releasing, what looked like, puffs of black smoke from his skin and opening up long, deep, gashes that matched the color. However, it wasn't like on the porch anymore. This time Bennington was swinging back, and connecting. Swiping at Masterson with those claws and, with each stroke, they were coming back bloodier.

This wasn't a hunt. Wasn't an encounter between predator/prey. This wasn't a crime. Wasn't an encounter between perpetrator/victim. This was full blown combat. The two exchanged blow after penetrating blow.

Then, like everyone else present, Prisko ceased all conscious thought, but one. There was nothing else relevant in the world. There was only the fight. His one thought, 'go kid'.

* * *

Even the most identical twins, conjoined or not, being mirror images of each other, right down to their very DNA – were still two totally different individuals. Fear strengthened Bennington. Anger weakened him. It wasn't a fact that he let get out. It hadn't even been a factor in as long as a century. He couldn't remember the last time he faced an enemy that had no fear of him whatsoever. At least, on some level.

Yet this boy, this young boy, how old was he? Bennington wondered. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen? This boy had somehow learned, consciously or not, willingly or not, to channel all his fear into mindless rage. Bennington knew the boy wasn't just hitting him. He was hitting Mattie Hudson, and probably every other object of his pain, his betrayal, his disappointment, all his life. All of it fueling that rage. That rage was what made him charge at him from the lawn, when fear should've made him beg for his life. That rage was what made him run back out of the woods to attack again, when fear should've made him run the other way.

Worse than that, what he was doing seemed to wipe the fear away from everyone else present. What he was sensing from almost all of those around him was a lot of confusion, a lot of uncertainty, but beneath those, as if not hiding it from him but more from themselves, a tinge of hope – and not for him. No one was scared of him right now. There was nothing for Bennington to draw from except what he started with. No one else knew that him and the boy were essentially fighting now, as equals.

"How come I'm not dead yet?"

Was the cry before the next strike. The boy kept taunting him with it. At least he was only screaming one thing now, Bennington thought. The boy bowled into him again and they both went to the ground with him on top. He had lost the rock in one of his hands but it didn't make much difference. The now, downward thrusts of the boy's blows, combined with his head being braced on the ground, made for even more damage being dealt with just the one rock. In fact, after the third strike even that shattered in half, and the boy was on plain fists again. Bennington knew he had already suffered more than what would've killed an ordinary man. Perhaps even an ordinary vampire.

He extended his arm and grabbed the boy by the throat. Then tried to lift him up as he did Prisko, but the strength was no longer there. If he could dig his claws in, rip out his throat, that would bring this to a merciful end. However, the boy kept pounding at his arm until his elbow bent and then he was able to peel his hand away from his throat. Bennington pushed him up and was able to get his leg under him. Kicking him off. The boy flung several feet and hit the ground.

I have to get him now, he thought. He jumped up and ran over, claws raised. Nothing fancy, one good swipe at his throat and this was done. The boy was slow to get up, though it looked like more from exhaustion than injury. That was fine. He could be tired.

* * *

Jester wasn't thinking anymore, ever since he scaled the porch. Running on pure instinct, he had been lashing out at the monster. Inflicting damage in any way that he could. He didn't remember being thrown in the woods. Didn't remember picking up the rocks in his hands, or even aware that he had been swinging the rocks. He didn't remember how he got flat on his back just now. He didn't remember his hand brushing up against something as he landed. Something long and hard.

Nor would he remember picking up that long, hard, object and using it as a brace to flip the monster over as it was charging at him with those claws. Using the handled end to jam into the thing's stomach, he moved his own body aside to press the long, flat, end, into the ground for leverage and threw the thing over him like a pole vault. Not traveling very far, it wouldn't have won any medals but for Jester, that was good. It meant he didn't have to travel far, either.

If he was still thinking, he would've been surprised that no one had lifted a finger to help the thing – or stop him. When he was still thinking, he really thought he would only get a few shots in before being overtaken. If not by the monster alone, then by the crowd. As in his premonition, in a crowd, all alone. He was only looking to go down swinging. Not looking to take the thing down. Not even thinking he could take the thing down. Still not. Only looking to inflict the maximum amount of pain in the shortest amount of time. There was still pain yet to inflict.

The thing was back on its feet quick. Just in time for Jester to swing the wide, flat, end of that long, hard, object, square, into the back of its head. He would never consciously recognize that the object he was holding was, in fact, a shovel. One of the remnants the faithful residents had used on the traitors. The thing hissed at Jester after the first impact so he swung again. This time connecting to its face. Jester had the reach advantage now. No more having to move inside those claws. He swung the shovel again and missed. Then he ran a few steps and swung again but missed again. Then he had to run several steps and swung but again, missed. Fuck, he thought, why was it taking so many steps to get up a good swing?

* * *

Oh my God, thought Tulley. Was he really seeing what he was seeing? He couldn't believe his eyes and didn't think anyone else could either. Not only had Bennington not been able to kill the kid. Not only had he been taking severe punishment from the kid. But now he was actually running from the kid. Trying to zigzag his way through the residents, Bennington was able to stay just out of reach of the shovel. The residents were running around just trying to get clear. Every time the kid missed, he would raise the shovel high again and give chase.

That second shovel swing had really hurt Bennington and Tulley could see his wobbliness as he was trying to get away. He was only barely able to avoid any more swings. If the kid came out of his stupor enough, he'd realize that if he lowered the shovel and concentrate solely on catching him, he would easily.

Tulley didn't know where it all changed. When he first saw the kid charge, he was only amused. He thought at some point, Bennington would take control and snap the kid's neck or rip out his lungs or whatever. He was a vampire, after all. Had once dispatched five, armed, FBI Agents in one shot just because they pissed him off. He had shown his power to Tulley on so many occasions. He couldn't understand why he couldn't handle this kid. It wasn't until that second shovel hit landed across his face that Tulley really, truly, realized that his boss, himself, was on the verge of being handled.

He also realized what would happen if Bennington was gone. Everything would stop. All of the residents would turn on him. He was only important to them because he was important to Bennington. Now he was thinking all that he had done in service of Bennington. There was covering up the murders of Federal agents, murdering those residents at Seth's house, kidnaping another high level federal agent. No, he couldn't let this happen.

Still on the porch, where he had been the whole time, now he ran down the steps to the lawn. He needed to get control of the kid. It would've been easy enough to draw his gun and shoot him but if he was to hold him down and let Bennington finish him off, it would give him more favor with him. He ran to them.

Just in time too. He could see the kid had caught up to Bennington just enough to lay the shovel on him again. Clipping him on the back of his head. This time he went down. The kid was just walking over him, exhausted, then raising the shovel again. But Tulley was close enough. He just needed a few more feet and then a good tackle . . .

He was grabbed by the arm, stopping his momentum. He turned and saw one of the residents had taken hold of him, a man named Turner.

"What are you doing?!" Said Tulley.

"You're not getting in this." Turner replied.

"You see what's happening?"

"I don't give a fuck."

He pushed Turner away and was able to get clear of him but he didn't get far before he was caught by two more residents. He went to reach for his gun but they had gotten control of that too. One of them put their hand over the holster to pin it and as soon as Turner caught up to them he pulled Tulley's arm away from it. He felt the gun being removed from the holster and then saw the resident throw it away.

"Are you crazy? You know what you did." He said struggling against them. Motioning his head, which was the only appendage that was free, to the direction of where most of the bodies were.

Turner looked in that direction and then put his head down, "just shut up, Tulley."

No, he thought. This couldn't end here. He wouldn't let it end here. He looked up on the porch and saw Garrett. His gaze still fixed on the kid and Bennington. He had a clear shot.

"Garrett!" Tulley called.

It didn't catch his attention.

"Garrett!!"

Garrett looked over at him but didn't react to his situation. There seemed to be a solemnity about him. A sadness. As if his team had just lost the big game.

"Shoot the kid!" Tulley told him.

He didn't react to that anymore than looking over at the kid and Bennington and then back at Tulley. Not going for his gun. He seemed mystified. Like he didn't understand the instruction.

"Shoot the nigger!!!" Tulley screamed.

That registered. Garrett looked back at the kid and then his expression suddenly turned from sullen to purposeful. He reached for his holster.

* * *

Prisko rammed into Garrett. With him standing right at the rails of the porch, he wasn't in a position to give Garrett a good head butt like he wanted, but he needed him to drop that gun. Figuring the best chance of doing so was right when he was drawing it from the holster, that's when he hit him. It worked.

The gun fell down on the porch and slid underneath the opening at the bottom. Landing quietly somewhere on the lawn below. Then when Garrett turned around, Prisko rammed his shoulder into the big man's chest. He stumbled back but wasn't falling. Prisko took a step to regain his balance and then went into him again, head first. That only pushed him back a little further. It was all Prisko could do. With his arms still cuffed behind his back he knew he was about take quite the beating.

Yet it wouldn't come just then. Instead of coming back at him, Garrett only pushed him aside and ran down the porch steps. He wasn't going for Prisko. He was going for the gun, still focused on his newfound task of killing Masterson. He disappeared beneath the porch in the vicinity of where the gun dropped. He might've still had time too. Masterson had been whacking Bennington with the shovel as he lied on the ground, but Bennington was still moving.

He chased Garrett down the steps but couldn't go as fast as he wanted. It was awkward with his hands cuffed. When he reached the bottom, he saw Garrett was looking around for the gun. He didn't see it, but Prisko did. It was behind him about three feet away. There was no sense trying to go for it himself. He ran over and kicked it further under the porch, where it disappeared. Too far away for anyone to retrieve it quickly. Garrett turned around just in time to see that. That's when he came after Prisko.

The lawn was soft enough. He did a backward dive to get on his back so he could get his legs up. Trying to give himself some protection. There was a time when Prisko could've ran his cuffed hands behind him through his legs to bring them in front of him, but that was when he was well younger. A useless memory now. Kicking at Garrett as he approached, he had been able to fend him off briefly. Up until Garrett threw his legs aside and jumped on him. He punched him hard in the face twice, dazing him. There was no reason for him to think the punches wouldn't continue, but they stopped at only two.

Prisko looked up and saw that three of the residents had pulled Garrett off of him. Though they weren't enough to hold him. He threw two of them aside and had started swinging at the third. That's when another one came up behind him with a rake and swung it to the back of his head. Garrett fell forward when it hit him but it didn't seem to put him out. However, before he started to get up, the four of them pinned him to the ground.

Prisko didn't know what to make of them for doing that, but he was still grateful. He sat up, took a breath, and then looked back out at the lawn.

* * *

The screaming never stopped. Though the volume was lower now, the effort was still there. The curse words simply came in between gasps. The swinging never stopped either. As tired as he was, Jester kept swinging the shovel. By then, with maybe a third of the force than when he started. But then, the resistance he was swinging against had dissipated even more.

"S . . . s . . . stop." The monster said, reaching his hand up to him. A play for mercy?

That was before another one of Jester's swings. There were no more words from it after that. Though it was still moving. Somewhere in that moment the memory of being in the woods and asking Seth how they were planning to kill it came to mind. He said they were going to cut its head off.

"F . . . f . . . fuck you." Jester exhaled.

He still didn't consciously recognize that he had a shovel in his hands. A bladed, flat head, shovel. Yet he placed the blade of that shovel on the thing's neck and jumped to throw both of his feet on the footrests. Once. Twice. On the third attempt it sunk all the way into the ground up to his feet. Still, he struggled to pull it up and began beating it again, despite it's head having been severed. He took three more pitiful swings before he dropped the shovel out of sheer exhaustion.

He stepped back, he couldn't catch his breath, panting uncontrollably. Stumbling backwards, it was the first time he noticed that there were still other people around. Not that he would've expected them to go anywhere, but still. They were all looking at him in ways he couldn't interpret. It didn't seem like they were going to attack him. One woman he stumbled past spoke to him.

"Are . . . are you ok?" She said.

Huh? Jester thought. He just looked up and down her and backed away more. Of all the fights he had won in his life, he never thought he could win this one. He was actually walking away from a fight with a vampire. It was . . . he couldn't think of the words.

Then he noticed there was blood running down his chest, but it wasn't coming from his chest, it was coming from higher. Deep, dark, red, almost black, and thick, it flowed like a faucet. It couldn't have been from the vampire. The vampire had no blood, only black, ashy, stuff. Though there were stains of that all over him too. But there was also blood running down his leg. He looked down, his stomach was open. He grabbed it to hold it in and suddenly felt a sharp tinge of pain coming from his neck. He used the other hand to reach at it. His neck was open. He felt the very source of the blood flow protruding from it. Like water from a pipe.

Oh shit.

The lights of the world flickered for him and he felt dizzy. First he went to his knees and then fell on his back. Still holding his two most serious wounds. The lights of the world flickered some more but he wasn't blinking his eyes.

That's when Mattie ran up to him, cradling him in her arms. He had forgotten about her but he remembered now. Why was she touching him? He thought, as he felt something hot and wet running down his cheeks, but this wasn't blood.

"Get off me!" He said to her. In something of a wail.

"It's ok. You saved us. You saved all of us." She said.

"Get the fuck off of me!" He yelled and tried to push her away but he didn't have the strength to do it. She resisted and pulled his head to her chest. He wailed again, almost bawling, feeling his salty, tears rolling into his mouth. The last thing he would ever taste.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you." She swayed him.

"G . . . off . . ."

The world lights flickered again. Then went dark.

No one ever attacked him in the dark.

### Chapter 26

With all of the town resident's gathered around them, Prisko saw the boy, Masterson, die in Mattie Hudson's arms. From her knees she kept swaying him even after he went still.

"I love you. I love you." She kept repeating, cradling his bloody face.

If his hands weren't still cuffed, he might've slapped her. He was even on the verge of kicking her, the sight sickened him so. Fortunately, her husband seemed to have the same reaction. Monroe went up to pry her hands from around him and pull her up.

"He said get off of him, Mattie!" Monroe said as he pulled her away, then pushed her behind him.

Mrs. Hudson stood there with a stunned, wounded, look on her face, "Monroe?" She called and went to reach for him.

He waved her off with his hand then went to pick up the boy. He placed his hands under Masterson's head and his knees and attempted two lifts, but the boy was too big for him. His weight pulled Monroe back down. Then another resident stepped in. He took Masterson's legs while Monroe held him under the shoulders. A third resident went in and held him under the waist. They solemnly carried Masterson across the lawn, past Mrs. Hudson, past Prisko, and took him up to the porch where they gently laid him down on the ground. Then Monroe rubbed the side of his face.

Most of the resident's had followed him in somewhat of a silent vigil. They lined up on the porch that extended down the steps and partly on the lawn. One of them thought to pull a tablecloth from one of the tables that wasn't thrown aside. They passed it up from resident to resident until it reached Monroe.

"Who was he?" Someone asked, a woman.

That's right, Prisko realized. Masterson wasn't a part of this town and had only come here recently. Most of these people didn't know who he was. Had probably not even laid eyes on him before tonight.

Monroe only looked at the woman. He leaned down and kissed Masterson's forehead, then opened the cloth and placed it over him. Then the resident's filled the porch and formed a circle around him, bowing their heads in silence.

Mrs. Hudson stood right where everyone had left her. She started to follow them but more than a few waved her back. Angrily. Again, she was crying but her tears meant nothing to anyone now. Prisko was the only one still near her. He glanced over at her. Looked up and down at her body. Then he walked away too.

He strolled over to Bennington. What was left of him. He was still on his back. His head had been severed from his body but only rested a few inches from his torso. It hadn't rolled away or even overturned. Though it had undergone some kind of intensive drying out process. It was shrunken and there was no more flesh on it, only skull. The body still seemed to be whole but it seemed to be going through the same drying out process. The skin was wrinkling rapidly and his clothes seemed to be settling closer and closer to the ground. Then when the smoke started rising from the corpse, Prisko was curious and leaned down closer. Then jumped back when the first spark of flame erupted.

It was daybreak. The bright sun hit Prisko's face and he had to shield his eyes. The corpse was incinerating from the sunlight. In another few moments, it would be nothing but ash. Prisko thought, that thing truly was a monster.

There were other residents remaing on the lawn. Too many to all fit on the porch. Prisko walked over to the ones holding Tulley and Garrett. He walked up to look Tulley dead in the eye. Then he backed away.

"Get me out of these fucking things." He said and turned around to show them the cuffs.

He had them switch the cuffs from him to Tulley. Then he had the resident's holding Garrett put his own cuffs on him. He told the residents to sit them down on two of the surviving lawn chairs.

Stretching out his arms and rubbing his wrists, he walked towards the porch. After a few steps he saw some of the residents sorrowfully lean over some of the dead bodies.

"Don't touch them." He said, not shouting but loud enough for them to hear. After reaching the top of the porch, he saw they were persisting, "don't touch them!" Yelling it the second time and pointing at them.

"They were my friends." A man who was by the bodies said.

"I don't give a fuck who they were. Move away from them." He said and then watched the man, along with several others move back.

Turning, he saw that the residents on the porch were no longer in the circle around Masterson. Not knowing what to do next. Prisko walked through them up to Masterson's body. He knelt down and pulled up the cloth to see his face. Then he reached underneath the cloth to find his hand. He squeezed it hard with both of his. He laid his hand down and covered him again. He stood up and looked at Monroe.

Pointing to the mansion, "the phone in there works, right?"

Monroe nodded.

Pointing to the lawn, "leave those other bodies right where they lay". Prisko ordered. "They will be answered for."

He walked into the mansion.

### Epilogue

This day had been overcast, as had the previous two. Not uncommon for the season or the time of year. Well into autumn, approaching winter, the sun would make only scarce appearances in New York State around this time. Only brightening the sky in small intervals of a few hours, if at all, rather than a full day. Traveling the roads might have given a solemn, reflective, type of feel, even within company. Even within good company. As it had given that impression to the travelers within this car. With whom each, would not have considered the other good company.

The two occupants had been driving along for six and a half hours. Originating their trip from the five boroughs of New York City, they were now on the last leg of their trip. Their destination was a little town near the Canadian border. There was little conversation between them. When they did speak, it was usually only for the exchange of pertinent information. They were far from friends and weren't used to traveling together. There had been an atmosphere of unease between them since even before the trip started. Neither was interested in making the other more comfortable or brightening their day.

The driver, Sergeant Anthony Burgos of the U.S. Army, wore civilian clothes. He wasn't on duty. He held his gaze fixed firmly on the road and had been for the last few hours. That was the last time any words had been exchanged between him and his passenger. He glanced over to his right only periodically to check if the man was still alive.

That man, his passenger, was Lieutenant London Rose of the NYPD. He was still alive, and also in his civies. He too, was on his own time. Though it was under protest. Burgos had told him the only way he would ever get any information out of him, would be in an unofficial capacity. Even then, the only way after that, was to make this trip.

They were now driving north on I-87. Had been for a few hours. The exits were spaced so far apart, even driving an average of 85 mph, there seemed to be at least twenty minutes between them. Burgos turned on his indicator and moved over to the right lane. Their exit was finally approaching. After too many hours on the road, both could feel their destination was within reasonable reach.

"How much farther?" Rose asked.

"He speaks." Burgos replied, sarcastic.

Rose glanced over at him, "are you going to tell me?"

"We're close. We just gotta get on a little secondary road. I think, about twenty - thirty minutes or so."

"You think? Didn't you say you made this trip before?"

"Only once. Last week."

Burgos could see that Rose wanted to say something else but held his tongue. He had returned his gaze to the view out of the windshield in front of him. The man always had a withdrawn demeanor. Burgos wasn't sure if it was his natural state, or if it was because of him, or if it was because he was frustrated. Had been for over a year and a half. He felt Rose was probably a good man but, by now, he was pretty sure he didn't like him very much. He also had a pretty good idea Rose felt the same about him.

Looking for the fugitive known as Jester Masterson, Lieutenant Rose had been maybe, just shy of obsessed. The matter didn't consume his everyday life but it was never far from it, either. He had followed Sergeant Burgos, off and on, almost daily in the days and first few weeks of the cop shootings. Even after Burgos once confronted him at his apartment building, Rose would still show up periodically. Then after the first two or three weeks, those daily appearances dwindled down to once or twice a week. Then later, once a month or so. Finally, it became a phone call every month. Catching him either at home, at work, or on his cell. Yet for Burgos, those phone calls were as inevitable as they were infuriating. It was only after the last one, when he decided to propose this trip.

"Look", Rose started. "I know you said you wouldn't answer any questions until we got there, but as close as we are now, I'm not gonna suddenly turn back, right?"

Burgos thought about it, "I guess that's fair enough. You came this far. Ask away."

"You said this guy who contacted you was FBI?"

"Yeah, big time, FBI. His name is Prisko. He's in charge of the Albany Office."

"I'm just having a hard time wrapping my mind around why a guy who's 'big time FBI', as you say, would withhold information on the whereabouts of a cop-killer. Even if he is deceased."

Burgos sighed, hard. Mostly to avoid losing his temper. "Lieutenant Rose . . ."

". . . we been riding in your car together for six hours. Call me London."

"Alright. Why don't we just leave that 'cop-killer' stuff alone, London. I mean, we've both made our feelings clear on that particular subject. There's no new ground to cover. You think what you think. I think what I think. We're just trying to have a nice, peaceful ride, here, right?"

"Ok, sorry, then. Whatever you wanna call Masterson, fine by me. Why wouldn't this guy, Prisko, report this officially? Why would he only report it to you?"

"Well, he wasn't reporting anything. He was looking around for a next of kin. Said he'd been looking for months. He checked with some of his former foster families but they didn't have much interest. Somehow he got a hold of his army application. Don't ask me how. You can't sign up without a next of kin. J . . . I mean, Jester didn't have anyone, so I had him list me. That's why Prisko called me."

"I still don't get that. I really don't. Why not make an official report? Masterson is still a fugitive. People are still looking for him."

"He didn't care about that."

"Then why take it upon himself to notify Masterson's next of kin?"

Burgos thought about that one for a minute before replying, "I think it's better if I leave that answer for when we get there. Respectfully."

"Respectfully? Well, you know what, respectfully, Albany's on our route. I'd like to stop there on the way back and talk to Prisko, myself."

"Can't. He was on his way to D.C. when he called me. Said he was going there to personally arrest someone at the Pentagon. The guy had just gotten fired from his job and Prisko was in a hurry to get to him before he went on the run. Seemed pretty, damn, single-minded about it. He didn't have much time to talk."

"So when's he due back?"

"Not sure. After that, he was headed overseas. He said he had a lead on the whereabouts of a former agent of his that went bad. He didn't know how long that would take but I got the feeling he wasn't coming back without his man. So it might be a while before you can talk to him."

"Shit."

The rest of the drive was silent. Rose seemed resolved to put all of his questions aside until they reached their destination. Burgos resolved that there was no conversing with him about anything but his questions, and all of those answers were waiting for him at their destination. That left nothing for the two to discuss.

Burgos turned off the secondary road and then they were maneuvering their way through the zigzagging, sparsely paved, back roads that led into the town. It took another twenty minutes. Eventually they passed the welcome sign featuring the name of the town. Burgos had told it to Rose beforehand. He expressed surprise at the time but now having seen it on the sign, it didn't particular register with him. Just another name on the map. However odd.

They drove in to the small town center, which was shaped like a 'C' with the open end to the south. It was early afternoon on a weekday. The town appeared somewhat busy with a modest crowd of people, conducive to the population of, just under five hundred. There were shoppers of all kinds, people running errands, people eating in the local restaurant, people working. Burgos pointed out to Rose the biggest employer of the town. It was their new, four story, hospital facility, which bore the same name as the town. Burgos showed him the building as they drove past.

"They just opened last week when I was here", Burgos said. "It's state of the art. They're already getting patients coming in from the townships from miles around. They think it's really going to boost their economy. And it's already brought new people in."

"Very nice." Rose said, disinterested.

Burgos parked the car on the street in front of the restaurant. They both stepped out of the car. Burgos went and peeked through the window of the restaurant and then waved at someone inside whom Rose couldn't see. A few seconds later, a woman ran out to greet them.

"Hey, you're back. And so fast." She said as she gave Burgos a slight hug.

"Yeah, I wanted to bring my friend." He replied, pointing to Rose.

Rose gave a slight nod and half-hearted smile in greeting as he walked around the passenger side onto the sidewalk. When he got there, Burgos introduced the woman as Eleanor Lawson. The new proprietor of the restaurant, having bought it from the previous owner, the township. He introduced Rose to her.

Shaking Rose's hand, "So you knew him in New York too, huh?" Eleanor asked him.

"Who?" Rose said.

"J."

"J? You mean the name of your town?"

"No, I'm talking about him. The guy we named the town after."

"Him, who?" Rose asked, miffed.

"Um, she's referring to Masterson." Burgos said.

"Masterson? His first name was Jester. How did you name the town after him?" Rose asked Eleanor, curtly.

That received him a scornful look from Eleanor to which she then switched her gaze to Burgos, "how did he know J?" She asked him.

"He knew him. He didn't know about the name change, though. Sorry, I should've told him." Burgos said to her.

"Ok", she said looking back to Rose, "well just so you know. We call him 'J'. If you call him that other name around here, it's likely to cause a problem. Just letting you know."

"So you renamed him after your town?"

"No! I said we renamed the town after him." Eleanor said, incredulous. In a tone that suggested she thought Rose was an idiot. She looked at Burgos again.

"He's catching up on some things." Burgos said to her.

She shook her head, "oook".

Rose gave Burgos a quizzical look, then to Eleanor, "I'm sorry, you said, 'if you call him that other name around here'. When you say 'around here', does that imply that everyone here knows him?" Rose asked.

"Of course. He saved us all. Except for the newbies."

"Well, how did he save you?'

She went silent on that and again, looked at Burgos.

"They don't talk about that. Eleanor won't. Nobody else I asked would, either." Burgos said to Rose.

Even though she obviously didn't take much of a liking to him, Eleanor offered to give Rose the same tour as she gave Burgos a week earlier. As the three of them walked east through the town, she explained that within the pocket of Jester's pants, they found a legal name change form that was already filled out. The name he chose was simply 'J'. That was where they had gotten their town name and also decided to name the hospital.

As they continued, Rose found that they had caused a bit of attention once word got around that people were in town who knew J when he was in New York City. They approached them wanting to know what he was like there and what did they know about his history. If he ever had a girlfriend and been in love or if he had any relatives they could contact. They wanted to know where he went to school and about the homes he lived in. Burgos told Rose that he went through the same thing a week earlier when he was there alone.

Rose was at a complete loss. The townspeople's attitude about the boy, he only ever thought of as a violent criminal, was vastly different from his. They didn't think of him as a menace. They seemed to think of him as the exact opposite, a hero. He also got the impression that if he gave the slightest word to dispute their idea of him, it would've been just as Eleanor Lawson said, a problem. Yet there was another impression he got from them.

"Did any of these people actually meet Masterson?" He whispered to Burgos in a free moment.

"I don't think so. That's why they have so many questions about him." Burgos whispered back.

"So they don't really know him."

"No more than you."

"I saw what he did." Rose said, righteously.

"They saw something else he did."

They reached the eastern end of the town. There, Rose fixated on the structure that was in its place. His mouth dropped. It was an elaborately, large house. A mansion, in fact. Burgos could see Rose recognized it instantly. It didn't surprise him. Rose was a trained observer and that mansion had been prominently featured in incessant news reports over a year ago.

"They're having that torn down, soon." Burgos said, referring to the mansion, anticipating his thoughts.

"This is that mansion. This is that town, Cole. They changed the name, but this is where all those people got killed last year. What was it, something like ten, twenty?" Rose said.

"It was sixteen people." Burgos replied.

"And it was almost two years ago, now." Eleanor added, defensive.

"Yeah, and they were killed by the other townspeople, right? It was a massacre. They called it 'Rwanda in New York.'"

"Yeah, unfortunately, some clueless asshole in the media coined that name. Even though in Rwanda, it was millions over the course of weeks and here it was only sixteen in one night." Said Eleanor.

"You were here?" Rose asked her.

She only nodded in reply.

"And the guy they said made them do it, the one they never found, the rich guy – this was his mansion. His name was Cole, right? The town was originally named after him."

"Yes." She said.

"Cole Bennington, it was." Rose said, recalling that detail.

Eleanor nodded again.

"So what happened?" He asked her.

"You saw the news." She replied, coldly.

"I can't believe this place is still here. I thought they locked up the whole damn town." Rose said as he looked around at random people walking along the streets.

"Twenty-four people went to prison for actually participating in the murders." Burgos said.

Looking at Eleanor, "but I'm sure those were only the ones they had the best evidence on. A lot of people thought there were a lot more of the townspeople involved." Rose asked.

"Yes, they did and it was complete bullshit." Eleanor said, sharply. "Most of them confessed to what they did because they felt terrible. Only the sheriff and his deputy ever went to trial. A lot of the people who confessed, testified against them and got those bastards convicted."

"What, so you're telling me only those two were the bastards? The rest were really ok because they felt terrible afterwards?" Rose said and then looked at Burgos derisively, "no wonder these people support Masterson."

"You don't know what you're talking about." She said.

"I know none of you here that's praising him ever actually knew him."

"I never knew him, I admit. I didn't even knew he was in town that day. I found out later that my husband attended a meeting with him, but I never knew about it."

"What does your husband say about him?"

"My husband was one of the victims, Mr. Rose." Eleanor said, to which she got a stunned look from him. "His name was French. He was an accountant. We'd been together for fourteen years. He was beat to death, right in front of me. And I was next."

Rose continued to look at her. Only the stunned look had turned to one of deference.

"I support Masterson because when he came that night, the killings stopped. Cold. I would've been dead if it wasn't for him. A lot of others too. There were over twenty others in line behind me, you know."

"That never came out at trial."

"It didn't need to come out at trial."

"And aside from the sheriff and deputy, you forgive the others who participated in killing your husband?"

"They're spending the rest of their lives in prison for it, you smug, self-righteous, prick." She snapped and then looked at Burgos again, "why did you bring this dumbass here?"

"He's . . . " Burgos started but couldn't think of anything to say. Her emotional level had risen to the point where he couldn't gauge what would or wouldn't upset her more. Even if he could, he didn't want to defend Rose.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lawson. I'm not trying to offend you. I'm just trying to understand." Rose said, again with deference. Surprising Burgos. The he added, "do you know what happened to Bennington?"

"He's dead."

"They never found his body."

"And they never will, but he's dead. Burning in hell, I hope."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Can we just finish this? I have to get back to my restaurant" Eleanor said, walking away.

She and Burgos led Rose around the mansion to a walkway that led to the rear of it. Once they reached the rear, Rose saw what Burgos wanted to show him. What was once an expansive, empty, grassy lawn, was now a combination cemetery/memorial. However, it was unlike any other. In that the field was sectioned to give each plot/memorial equal space. The entire field was converted to be a dedication to the victims of what was crudely dubbed in the media, 'Rwanda in New York'. So instead of being only a few feet away from each other, there was about twenty to thirty square feet of land separating each marker. They were lined in columns of four starting from the north end of the former lawn, nearest the mansion. Then spread to the south end in four rows. Until the southernmost end of the field. The one with the most land dedicated to it. Centered there was only one marker with a fresh headstone.

"Hey, you got the headstone up?" Burgos said to Eleanor as he pointed to the end.

"Not long after you left." She replied, "We figured enough time had passed."

"Enough time for what?" Rose asked.

Burgos took that, "for the media to die down. Nobody outside of town knows J was ever here, except us and Prisko, I guess. They didn't want anyone to see his headstone and start asking questions."

Rose understood. Eleanor started walking through the different sites with Rose and Burgos following. They looked at each of the markers. Each site, uniquely adorned. Families were laid next to each other with either individual or joint headstones. Some had traditional upright headstones, others slanted or beveled or flat. All of them had pictures of the deceased engraved on them. Some sites had structures built on them, like a dollhouse was erected on one site belonging to a little girl. Other children's sites had swing sets, race cars, and superheroes. The ones of the children were often, the most colorful. For the adults, there were an abundance of trees, a neatly trimmed rosebush was found on one, sculptures, wind chimes, eternal flames, etc. Of course, there were flowers of all kinds everywhere. Mostly ornamental, at this time of year, as they wouldn't survive a New York winter. Rose and Burgos slowly walked by all of them.

"Some of these are just memorials", Burgos said, "the extended families claimed those bodies. The rest are buried right here. Where they died. The town provides perpetual care. So there'll always be fresh flowers on their graves and whatever else 'perpetual care' means."

Eleanor had them stop at the one for her husband. She told them he was buried there and there was a plot there for her when her time came. The double-wide headstone had a wedding picture of them, and an empty space for later engraving when she joined him. The ornamental flowers in the vase matched the wedding bouquet Eleanor was holding in the picture.

Burgos could see that Rose was being silent, overlooking this and each of the names and pictures on the headstones. He seemed to lose his impatience after his discussion with Eleanor. She signaled for them to follow her further. They were headed for the lone, centered marker at the end of the field. Even from the distance, it was clear there was a massive headstone sitting there but it wasn't a family headstone. There was only one name and picture centered on it. Getting there was a lengthy walk but Rose and Burgos followed her. Rose, without complaint. As they got closer, it was obvious someone was already sitting at the site. When they were even closer, Eleanor could see who it was.

"Oh shit. She's there." She said as she turned around, hoping the person wouldn't see her. Burgos joined her.

"Who?" Rose asked, not turning around.

"Nobody." Burgos said as he tried to guide Rose to turn back. "Come on, we can come back later."

Rose snatched his arm away, "how long you think I'm planning on being here?" He asked rhetorically. Then he walked a few feet closer. The woman hadn't seen them yet. He turned back to the both of them but he focused on Eleanor, "Now, who is that, or is that a secret too?"

"That's Mattie Hudson. She's been sitting there a lot. Especially since we put the headstone in." Eleanor answered.

"Who is she?"

"Just someone who's not very popular here. The town took up a petition to get her to move out. Everyone signed. She won't go, though."

"Why don't you want me to talk to her?"

"I don't care if you talk to her. I don't want to talk to her." Eleanor said. "Go ahead, I'll wait here."

He looked at Burgos, waving him forward, "you wanted to show me that headstone? Let's go."

As they approached, Mattie Hudson was sitting partially on the massive headstone, which had a granite platform that extended beyond the upright. As if it was made to accommodate sitters. She was facing the name and engraved picture but she wasn't doing anything more than staring at it. She was holding flowers in her hand. When they reached her, she didn't seem to notice them. There were freshly laid flowers stuffed in the cemetery vase beneath the headstone that matched the ones in her hand.

Rose had to walk around her to see the name and picture on the headstone. The name listed on it was exactly, 'J Masterson'. No period after the letter j, to indicate that it wasn't an abbreviation. The picture was a full body somewhere in Manhattan with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background. He was smiling widely and standing in something of a rappers pose, with his arms crossed and both hands folded with two fingers up in a 'peace' sign. He looked pretty happy.

"Where'd they get that picture?" Rose asked Mattie.

She looked up at him, frowned and then looked down again. Deliberately ignoring him.

"That's a photoshop." Burgos answered. "He didn't take a lot of pictures. They couldn't find any of him online. So one of the townspeople made that up."

"He was a hero." Said Mattie. Interjecting.

"Why was he a hero?" Rose asked her.

Still ignoring him, "That's a stupid pose for a hero, but they didn't ask me." Mattie said, and then looked back at Eleanor, who was still some distance way. "You should've asked me, Eleanor, you bitch!" She yelled.

"We didn't need to ask you a damn thing, Mattie! People all over the world actually live their lives everyday without asking you shit." Eleanor yelled back.

"You wouldn't even know the name he wanted if it wasn't for me."

"It was on the form. It was on the form, Mattie. Guess what, nobody needs you. So when are you going to get the fuck out of here?!" Eleanor replied.

"You ain't never going to get me out of here!"

"Yes, we will. Monroe said he's going to force you to sell the house in the divorce."

"You talked to my husband?" Mattie said, hopeful.

"He's not your husband anymore, Mattie. He left you. He couldn't get far enough away from you."

Mattie got up to charge at her but Rose held her back, not without difficulty. Burgos trotted off to get back to guard Eleanor. After a minute, Mattie stopped struggling. She composed herself and resumed her position on the headstone.

"Can you get the fuck out of here, please?!" Mattie said to Rose just before sitting down again.

"What?" Rose said.

She stood up and began shoving him. Not forcefully enough to stagger him. Just enough to let him know he wasn't wanted. "I said get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out of here!" She kept screaming, repeating.

Rose gave up. He put his hands up and backed away. Walking back over to Burgos and Eleanor.

"She's a little nutty. She did the same thing to me last week." Burgos said when Rose reached them.

The three of them turned to walk away. Though Eleanor was still distracted by Mattie. She kept her head turned back on her, even as they were leaving.

"And you need to give that boy some peace, Mattie. We put him there so he could have peace. From you!" She yelled back.

"Fuck you!"

They left the memorial with Mattie Hudson still sitting on the grave site. On the way back to her restaurant, Eleanor explained that since the town was incorporated, they retained all of their assets even after the loss of their benefactor. That they were one of the richest small towns in America and that several more projects were in development to go with the hospital. She believed there would be more buildings in the town named after J.

They only spent another hour in town. On the drive back to the city, Burgos noticed Rose was just as quiet as he had been on the trip out. Though he was more troubled than before and a lot less agitated.

"Just tell me", Rose started, "do you know what he did to make them all think of him as a hero?"

"I really don't. Seriously. But whatever happened, even Prisko is holding his tongue on it. He said he'll never give those details. And he was pretty sure the town wouldn't either." Burgos replied.

"Prisko." Rose muttered the name under his breath until a revelation occurred to him. "Wait a minute. Prisko. He was involved in all of that with the town, right?"

"He was there that night. He was the one who called in the state police that started the whole case."

"I thought the name sounded familiar."

"He said J saved his life too."

Rose looked over at him, shocked, "him too?"

"Him too."

"Masterson saved all of those people." Rose said, rubbing his chin and shaking his head. Then, "I . . . I thought he was a bad guy."

"So did he."

– END –

### About the Author

My name is Gabriel Wright. If you're reading this, odds are you purchased my book. For that I say 'thanks'. If you're somehow reading this without purchasing, there's still time. Also if you're reading, although the odds are slightly less than if you purchased, there's still a good chance that you actually liked my book (else why would you waste a click to get info on little ole me?) For that I would say 'you're welcome'. Well, I would say that if I was an arrogant jerk. Seeing as how I'm not, or at least, I hope I'm not, I will say I am extremely gratified that you liked my little novel. However, in the unlikely event that you're reading this but did not like the book -- my bad.

So about me... I am in my mid 40's, native New Yorker. A former career IT professional and a lifelong wannabe writer. I've done some writing over the years and have tried to get published. I probably should've tried harder, probably should've wrote more. Nevertheless, I'm here now. Having been laid off from my last IT position, I figured it was now or never.

So over the last year or so, I wrote 'Cry for the Mercenary'. The story's been in my head for so many years, I can't even say how long. The title, even longer than that. Other stories have been in my head longer still. Although I do intend to write more to get those out – about five minutes from now, in fact – the outcome of this book will determine whether or not I go back to IT. No pressure or anything but I sooo don't want to go back to IT.

Regardless, there will be more stuff from me forthcoming and if you liked this book, hope you'll look me up when those come along. Thanks for reading.
