 
### Run Billy Boy Run

### Book One: A Job for a Specialist

By Neil Ackerman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2013

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Adult Reading Material

Author's Note:

_Run Billy Boy Run_ is a novel in four parts. This is Book One. Each novel follows the adventures and misadventures of a cast of unusual characters who get in and out of trouble in often outlandish and humorous ways. Eventually all the characters either by chance or by purpose converge in the Grand Canyon of the Colorado—that convergence is this story's central focus.

The following are _Run Billy Boy Run's_ four books:

Book One: _A Job for a Specialist._

Book Two: _Flying High._

Book Three: _The Confluence of Disorder._

Book Four: _Billy Boy._

CHAPTER 1: GRAND CANYON, CLEAR CREEK VALLEY, May 7, 2004

Something awakened in the brain of the reptile. Head lifting and tongue flitting, it sensed moisture in the normally bone-dry air, triggering a desire to move toward high ground, a matter of self-preservation programmed into its genes after a thousand times a thousand generations.

The rattlesnake was crossing a dusty track on its way up hill when a solitary figure approached. Preoccupied and in a rush, the man failed to spot the poisonous threat stretched before him, that is, until the last possible second, too late to avert his footfall.

The snake twisted under the hiking boot then lunged, delivering a glancing blow that did not penetrate. The man lurched forward falling on his face then rolled onto one side. Frantically he drew his legs to his chest, hoping to be out of the snake's range. But the snake was not interested in a second strike and instead disappeared into the thorny undergrowth.

The man lay there assessing the damage and, like the reptile, was on his way in a matter of seconds.

A moment before stepping on the snake he had been thinking about the preacher he'd shot and hadn't been concentrating on the trail. It made him angry and half sick to have had to shoot someone; the act promised to escalate everything. He was already wanted by the law and now the search would intensify. But the minister had grabbed the gun, which the fugitive at the time gripped tightly and aimed threateningly.

Before tangling with the snake, the solitary man had pictured in slow motion the bullet leaving the barrel of his revolver. The slug did not travel far before ripping a hole in the minister's thigh. Blood spurted, and the reverend staggered backward before collapsing.

But that was then; now the fugitive faced another obstacle, and taking in the black clouds gathering to the north, he shook his head, bit his lip, and pressed on kicking up dust with each step—dust that a stiff breeze quickly bore away. In a hurry and now looking for snakes as well as for trail markers, the man's eyes darted from side to side.

Thunder rolled through the canyon, and the source of the thunder was coming closer. Wind gusts, carrying the promise of rain, brought vivid, wet desert smells. To the north a jagged flash darted across the sky, flicking like a serpent's tongue.

"One . . . two . . ," he counted out loud, stopping when the boom reached his ears. The report reverberated, echoed off the canyon walls and gave birth to new fears.

The hunted man broke into a run. Gravel crunched under his boots.

The trail appeared, then disappeared, crossed the creek, then switched sides again. He'd lost his way once, and the mistake had cost him time. It took a toll on his confidence as well.

_When we parted company at the river,_ _the old man told me . . . let's see . . . go to the camping area then look for a trail heading west._ The fugitive recounted the directions he was given earlier in the day.

Had he passed it? _Look for a grove of trees and red slopes on either side. There'd be spaces for tents. Keep going north up the path beside the creek until I see the tents_. Once again, he repeated the old man's instructions resurrecting his fragile confidence, piecing it back together until he was reassured enough to press forward.

The creek was cool and the water clear. Earlier in the afternoon heat he'd found a deep spot and took a break by sitting in a pool. But the weather changed, the temperature plunged, and the north sky festered, turned pitch-black, and now the darkness advanced drawing a shroud across the land. He considered the only positive: _At least the helicopters will be grounded._

Another bolt of lightning, but vertical, connecting sky to ground and producing a column of fire burning hotter than the surface of the Sun—the man could hear a thousand whips cracking at once.

He had opened his mouth to count, but the blast hit before he could say, "One," causing him to jump, as one might if standing inches from a howitzer's muzzle.

The rain poncho lashed in the wind like a sail in irons—the same poncho that he'd found in the stolen backpack. When putting it on, the fugitive discovered that it easily covered the pack as well as himself. But poncho or no poncho, the weather that was approaching was more than what he wanted to face in the open. As the man ran with the backpack flopping awkwardly and the poncho whipping in the wind, he scanned the canyon walls anxiously searching for shelter—an overhang or a cave, or at least a large boulder that he could cower behind when the worst of the storm hit.

The fact escaped him that there were no birds in the air. The birds had trusted their senses and had found shelter.

To the north, it poured with a vengeance and had been for quite some time. North was the direction he was told to go . . . it was the direction he had to go. _From the Colorado River, follow Clear Creek for roughly five miles._ Surely he had traveled that far. _So where are those damned tents?_ _Apparently, people have better sense than to camp in this crap!_ The bitter thought had crossed his mind more than once.

There was an incongruity about the character working his way north away from the river along the Grand Canyon's tributary stream. He sported red hair but the stubble of his beard had emerged coal black. Evidently, the red had come from a bottle.

He approached a section of trail with tricky footing— _a good place to twist an ankle_. Slowing, he kept his head down, eyes glued to the ground until the path became smooth again. When the man looked up, he had cleared a bend presenting a better view of the valley ahead. A grove of trees stood on the creek bank. "Just maybe," he mouthed attempting to curb his excitement in order to cushion possible disappointment.

Most of the trees in the grove were short and spread umbrella-like making protective canopies. Soon he came across a cleared area bordered by rocks and large enough for a tent. Glancing around, he saw far ahead on the left red slopes where the trail to the west might lay hidden.

The wind gusted hard, surprising the fugitive who had to brace against it or be knocked to the ground. Sand pelted his legs. He used his hands to shield his eyes from blowing dust and moved on.

The man saw it when he was a hundred yards away—a low-profile tent pitched under a short, spreading tree. Perhaps large enough for two people, lines anchored the tent to nearby rocks.

_What if they're cops?_ The escapee proceeded cautiously, vigilant, his mind working a mile-a-minute. _No. That's paranoia. Cops wouldn't be here this fast._ And convincing himself that the people in the tent were ordinary campers, he straightened and picked up his pace.

The fugitive understood right away that the hikers were smart. They had pitched their tent in the direction of the gale and had built a rock wall just up wind, and he wondered if he was as clever. Still, the thin fabric was taking a beating. At times the wind pushed hard enough to temporarily collapse the tent, bending its poles, and revealing the outlines of two reclining bodies. He imagined that, despite their precautions, those inside were wondering if their shelter would hold.

As the solitary figure stepped closer to the campsite considering what to say to the strangers, he heard a puzzling rumble like that of a distant train. A few seconds elapsed before it soaked in: _It can't be a train. This is wilderness!_

Yet the sound from the north grew louder, and kept him guessing: _A jet, maybe . . . skimming low over the earth._ The ominous noise came sweeping toward him down the Clear Creek drainage.

Tense and on edge the man strained to see, then, in the air a tan line of dust appeared. With the black sky for a background, the dust stood out plainly. The line stretched from valley wall to valley wall and advanced quickly, accompanied by the jet-engine roar. The dust cloud reminded him of what would be kicked up by stampeding cattle, but that couldn't be either, for nothing living could move as fast.

_RUN!_ His mind pleaded, but, entranced, his legs remained frozen to the spot. He saw a tree fall as if it had been tackled. The hapless tree crashed to the ground, limbs exploding.

Finally the bewildered man's eyes made out a brown wall of tumbling water the consistency of wet cement. Above the raging wall the dust cloud rushed madly, a tortured apparition. The water overflowed the creek's banks swallowing everything as it raced toward him and toward the tent.

He yelled a warning, spun to his right, but it was too late for those in the scant shelter. The water drove into the stacked-rock wall placed by the campers for protection from the wind, and the stones blasted forward shredding the tent, which itself was instantly swept away.

The fugitive sprinted for high ground reaching safety just as the water ripped past, engulfing the trail he had been following. Looking behind, the brown mud churned—a tumult of rocks, logs, and an arm reaching futilely—gone in a flash.

_HOLY CHRIST! THE POOR BASTARDS!_ The subject of the largest manhunt in Arizona history wondered if those in the tent had heard him yell or did the wind blow his warning back at him? _Even if they had heard, would they have believed their ears—miles from anywhere?_ The yell would have been attributed to the wind or to their heightened imaginations.

The man trembled uncontrollably. Whether from the cold, or from the shock of seeing lives ending so suddenly, or from knowing that it could have been him, or perhaps a bit of all three, it did not matter.

He thought of the old man then said aloud as though there was someone alive to hear his words, "There goes my hope of gettin' directions outta here."

The flood continued spewing mud and rock, blocking the way west for the time being while the roar and the dust cloud moved quickly down stream.

Though still more than an hour before sunset, the sky had blackened—the only illumination coming from a line of dim light demarcating the southern horizon and from the riot of lightning flashes signaling cataclysm and disaster. Clinging to high ground, and frantic to find shelter, the fugitive began scrambling up a skirt of boulders to the cliff face above. Violent gusts of wind loosened small stones, and they rattled down the slope, some hitting him. _There isn't much time!_ He felt as if a fuse had been lit—a short fuse, and he had to find cover.

Suddenly, rain—the sky opened with the force of a fire hose. The torrent beat against him, and he wondered if he could hold on let alone climb higher. Yet he did, an inch at a time, until, exhausted, he cleared the boulders and gained the cliff's base. A shear rock wall reached straight above him for a hundred feet and in places water cascaded from its top in temporary waterfalls.

Mysteriously, there appeared to be a crude trail where he stood, and it followed the base of the cliff. The fugitive worked his way along the path, progressing slowly. Because of the downpour and because of the poncho that covered half his face, his hand felt the opening before he actually saw it. A crevice—he reached into its darkness, extended his arm as far as possible, and could find no opposing rock.

_SNAKES!_ He thought. _There could be rattlesnakes!_ He weighed the danger of the storm at his back versus a possible venomous reptile waiting coiled in the dark, and he pressed his body into the cleft.

The seam, too narrow for both he and his pack, forced the desperate man to slip it off. He then held the pack sideways sliding it in front of him. Listening for a telltale rattle, he hoped that a snake, if one were present, would lunge at the pack instead of targeting him. Squeezing farther and farther into the blackness, the noise of wind and rain receded as if by magic.

Suddenly a shrill note pierced the stillness, a high-pitched cry of alarm. His heart skipped. The source was in front of him. Next he heard the sound of scurrying feet on his backpack then, in a flash, something leapt onto his pant leg, and, just as quickly, was off and out the entrance. He slapped at the creature, but it was already gone.

Once the stillness returned, he said aloud, "Blood stream must be pumping pure adrenalin."

The sound of his own voice had a calming effect. While trying to catch his breath he guessed at the origin of the warning cry: _Certainly an animal and nothing bigger than a ground squirrel._ Pausing further to salvage some composure the man concluded: _This must be its den._

To his surprise the crevice widened slightly before ending, it was as if it had been hollowed out. With his back supported by a wall of rock, the fugitive had room to sit, knees pulled tight against his chest. Clutching the pack in his arms, the man shivered wet and cold in the dark chamber. The realization struck him: _No one could ever discover this place_. And he found the thought strangely comforting. Insulated from the world outside, the stone sanctum fit him like a sarcophagus.

A manure smell hung about the place, but at least he could rationalize that there were no rattlesnakes. For he knew that the animal in whose den he'd trespassed would not be sharing with a snake.

As the red-haired man with the black stubble settled in, a melancholy thought occurred to him: _What a strange place to celebrate my birthday_. And it was. It was his birthday, and for the moment, he felt secure.

Then the deafening crash of thunder and the smell of fire—he could hear popping and snapping. He felt a prickling sensation over his skin—saw what appeared to be sparks and sensed that his hair was standing on end.

Another crash—louder than the first. Then nothing.

CHAPTER 2: VENICE, CALIFORNIA (Five Days Earlier) 3:00 A.M.

Hunter Hobson tossed in his sleep. Dreams lurked behind closed eyelids and caused his mouth to twitch as a succession of disturbing thoughts rose from subconscious depths. Seconds later the unsettling images materialized as worried expressions—his face moved and flexed like a lake's smooth surface being churned by an unseen fish. Upon awaking from another night of adventurous slumber, Hobson dragged himself into the bathroom. A glance in the mirror through half-closed eyes revealed brown tousled hair and the handsome but troubled countenance of the twenty-five-year old aspiring actor.

Friends described Hunter as serious and focused. He charted his future by making lists such as, "Where I Want to be with My Career."

Five hours after getting out of bed, Hobson stood on the corner of Wilshire and Fifth Avenue waiting for the light to change. Traffic was heavy. He yawned noticeably and glanced at the bald man standing in front of him. _Suit and tie_ , Hunter noted to himself. The man carried a black case and tapped his foot impatiently while taking worried glances at his watch.

Clare entered Hunter's mind: _Some things just aren't meant to be_. He knew he should treat the "episode" of Clare McClasky like a scab— _if I pick at it, it will not heal!_ Hobson thought and shrugged, looking up as a bright blue convertible drove by for the third time that morning.

Once again Hunter turned his attention to the bald man. Surprisingly warm for so early, beads of sweat had formed on the man's neck. The traffic thinned and anticipating the light's switch to "walk," the man in the suit and tie stepped off the curb and onto Wilshire.

Just then the screech of tires, and a vehicle careened around the corner on two wheels. Losing control, it jumped the curb, scattering people like bowling pins. Hunter remained standing. The car rolled, returned to the street, and ended upside-down, but skidded on its top for an additional fifty feet before slamming into a light pole and coming to an abrupt halt.

Two occupants, whose tattoos declared them to be Asian gang members, untangled themselves from the wreckage and were crawling out through broken windows just as a cop car, siren screaming, came sliding around the same corner. It screeched to a stop leaving the smell of burnt rubber.

The cops, like two riled hornets, came boiling out of their cruiser and were running, guns drawn, toward the two who had extricated themselves from the smoking wreck. One of the young Asians produced a gun and fired a wild shot. His cheap semi-automatic jammed, and just as his face registered that he was screwed, the nearest cop got off a round.

The Asian with the jammed pistol jerked backward, body crashing against the overturned car, which at that moment exploded in a blinding flash of fire and black smoke.

Hunter Hobson looked down. In the street five feet in front of him the bald man in the suit lay face-first in an expanding pool of blood. All that Hobson could feel was envy.

* * *

"CUT! CUT! CUT!" the sound issued loud and clear from speakers somewhere in the background. A few seconds later came directions: "Okay, everybody, that's a wrap."

The bald man stood and dusted himself off; he now sported a red strain on his shirt and suit coat. Someone from behind the cameras handed him a towel.

Hunter ambled over and asked, "How much they paying you for that?"

"Scale is six hundred and fifty bucks plus another hundred and a half for each take," he spoke like it was just another day at the office.

_Stuntman pay and a movie credit!_ Hunter thought to himself and added up the total in his head: _Eleven hundred bucks for falling in the street_.

He begrudged the bald man, beads of sweat and all. Hunter's paycheck would be less than one tenth that, and he was on the set for the same amount of time. _But that's the way it is when you're just an extra._

They'd gotten there at 5:00 A.M. and expected to be finished by noon, which was good because Hobson had another job scheduled that evening. Enough time in between to workout, get a smoothie with a protein boost, and maybe catch a short nap in his car. Most days were like this—hectic. But he needed the cash.

_No wonder Clare left_ , he thought later as he crept along in traffic on the way to the gym. Their paths hadn't crossed much even though they lived under the same roof. _Whose fault was that? Everything costs double in Southern California_.

That night he fell asleep quickly. On the second job he'd worked till midnight, and when finally home, he set his alarm for 10:00 A.M. and flopped into bed. He rarely got a chance to sleep in and 10:00 A.M. meant precious extra minutes.

But an hour after sunrise, a hammering sound began to intrude on his plans. Rubbing his eyes, he stretched, yawned, and reached over but felt NOTHING, reminding him of Clare's absence and leaving him with a hollow feeling in his chest. _Damn she's gorgeous._ He gritted his teeth then tried to erase her from his mind— _the "scab" I should not pick._

Hunter Hobson had no steady, nine-to-five job but did several things to make ends meet. He wanted to act someday, but in the meantime settled for background work, mostly movies, some TV, and a commercial or two. He was a climbing instructor in a rock gym, did a bit of personal training, had two regular clients, and added to his income with art modeling. In between work he had auditions.

To avoid thinking of his ex-girl friend, he lay in bed adding up what yesterday's earnings would amount to: _Two days SAG rate, plus a bump for smoke, plus two bumps for an hour-late lunch._ The total made him smile.

The hammering had stopped then started again.

_Where the hell is that coming from?_ He felt as heavy as cement and not awake enough to stand. The hammering stopped.

The shoot the previous night had been low budget and took place in front of a green screen the size of a gymnasium wall. He and twenty others were made-up to look like homeless people. They were to run in front of the green screen while looking back in terror. A computer would eventually fill in the background. With a green screen, one didn't have a clue as to what was happening, therefore, the extras needed precise instructions to affect the correct emotions.

"You are being chased by a forty-foot tall, crazed monkey named Gorgan," the director shouted through a bullhorn. Except the bullhorn kept cutting out and what the extras heard was, "You . . . being chased by . . . forty . . . tall . . . organ."

While on last night's set, he got to meet the actor who played George McFly in the movie _Back to the Future_ , and he filed the information away intending to mention it when he attended his ten-year high school reunion.

The hammering started again.

Finally, it came to him. _Of course . . . it's Dad_.

Sam Hobson was visiting his only child. The elder Hobson, a chronic "fixer," hailed from the Midwest and suffered from (or rather enjoyed having) an addiction that could only be fed by painting closets, replacing batteries in smoke detectors, and lubricating door hinges. He even carried a mini can of WD-40. In the past twenty-four hours he had lubed most of the condo's garage door locks when he detected the presence of rust and had serviced the door and trunk locks of Hunter's car as well as those of two strangers parked nearby. He was the Johnny Appleseed of lubrication.

"An ounce of prevention," he would say melodiously as he pushed the plunger expelling his favorite brand of oily happiness. Sam Hobson believed that society should move effortlessly and with few squeaks.

Tenants in the building were beginning to think that Hunter's dad was a member of the condo maintenance staff.

More hammering!

Hunter glanced at the alarm clock, 8:12 A.M. _Oh Jesus_ , he thought shaking his head. _Can't it wait?_

"Dad," Hunter called minutes later as he staggered from the bedroom.

"Umm," his Dad turned, hammer in hand, nails protruding from his mouth.

"What time is it?"

Sam removed the nails and labored to read his watch. Most people past fifty are farsighted, and Sam was pushing sixty, "Ah . . . 10:15."

"No, Dad," Hunter, trying to be patient, continued, "What time is it in California? . . . Not in Illinois."

"Oh, well, in that case it would be . . . er . . . 8:15."

"Can you hold off on the hammering for a couple of hours? Go for a jog or something."

"Already ran . . . five miles at the beach. Think I could use some coffee though and a paper."

* * *

A little later Sam Hobson stood in line at the Cows End on Washington Boulevard, a coffee shop one block from the Venice Pier. He hummed to himself, while glancing at the headline of the newspaper that he held in his hand looking up only when it was his turn to order.

"Ah, yes. Medium coffee, black no sugar."

"Got specials on Colombian Dark Velvet and Mozambique Floral Bouquet!"

Sam smiled and said, "Just want coffee. Not a stripper."

Later Sam Hobson sat at an outdoor table sipping the Dark Velvet while simultaneously leafing through the pages of the _Times_ searching for articles that held his interest. His eyes stopped on "ARIZONA MANHUNT: DAY 52."

FLAGSTAFF (AP) – The search continues for suspected killer Billy Boy Burk who escaped from the Navajo County Jail 52 days ago while awaiting extradition to stand trial in Missouri for a 1981 murder-robbery.

Burk has frustrated searchers involved in what has been described as the "largest manhunt in Arizona history." Though stopped twice, he was able to successfully elude the combined forces of local police, the Arizona Highway Patrol, the Arizona Border Patrol, and a SWAT Team using search dogs.

Burk has been sighted recently in the Arizona cities of Holbrook, Cameron, Heber, Camp Verde, Williams, Flagstaff, and Kingman and has been identified as the robber of a Winslow jewelry store, which netted an undisclosed amount of cash and diamonds.

Roadblocks have snarled traffic in Northern Arizona leading several citizens to speak out against the police.

Burk's exploits have captured the imagination of some. One enterprising teenager in Flagstaff is doing a brisk business selling tee shirts and hats emblazoned with "Run Billy Boy Run."

Officer B. Allen Trout of the Arizona Highway Patrol, brushing aside criticism, assured that Burk would be captured saying, "It's just a matter of time."

* * *

After his dad had left for coffee and a newspaper, Hunter Hobson crawled back under the covers. He started thinking of Clare, which was not conducive to returning to sleep; he pictured her face, her dark eyes that attracted like a magnet, and her confident smile. Everyone loved her. But Clare and Hunter, aside from having too little time for one another, had issues from the beginning. Noticeably absent from Hunter's goal setting had been a list entitled, "Where I Want to be with Clare Ellen McClasky."

He liked the Venice Beach, the bike path, the mix of interesting people. She claimed the place was unsafe, populated by a bunch of homeless schizophrenics. She also did not trust people practicing Tai Chi, did not want to go near them.

_Afraid they were going to mug her in slow motion_ , Hunter supposed.

They fought over money too. Clare liked driving to Beverly Hills and strolling down Rodeo Drive. But walking into a shop where the average price tag read $5,000 made Hunter feel out of place. Plus, he was afraid Clare would spot something she just "had" to have and would start an embarrassing argument in front of snooty store clerks who seemed to divine a customer's bank balance with a single glance. Hunter Hobson's bank balance was barely on the radar.

Then there was the case of the iced-tea spoons. One day when he had background work and Clare was off, she returned from a Beverly Hills outing and surprised him with a two-piece, matching set of silver iced-tea spoons. They rested in an elegant velvet lined box that was priced on the bottom at $150.

"BUT WE NEVER DRINK ICED TEA!"

"Why do you always have to be so negative?" she said calmly but pointedly. Each of her words felt like a finger poking him in the chest, "Just listen to yourself sometime. Turn that around and you'd work more. Negativity is why no one wants to cast you."

"Clare, we're talking about iced-tea spoons."

"THERE! YOU SEE THAT? DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF? NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE."

When Clare moved out, she took the damned spoons, the bulk of his CD collection, and a measure of his self-assurance.

Saying to himself, _God, I'm not going to get any sleep this way_ , he then rolled over, tugged at the covers, and turned his thoughts in another direction—his dad.

His mom had called the previous week. Normally she fretted over Hunter's diet. She did not approve of his fondness for sushi. In Illinois people cooked fish before they ate it, and she e-mailed him recipes for chicken stir-fry as well as other foods whose preparation required the use of fire. She would call a day or two later and ask if he had a chance to try any of the recipes. He was not quite sure how she did it, but his mom was an expert at silently projecting disappointment through the telephone lines.

But a week ago she called about Dad. He had retired the year before and seemed to be at loose ends. Not busy enough around the house. Hunter envisioned all the locks and hinges dripping with WD-40. She could not quite put her finger on the problem, which was not like his mom; she was perceptive and usually right on the money.

_Maybe . . . it's bedroom stuff. Hmm_. Hobson was seized by a sudden and violent shudder and decided not to press further.

His mother went on to suggest that if Hunter could take some time off, he might invite Sam to California, and they could do some camping and hiking—just the two of them like in the old days. Go to Big Bear Lake maybe. Hunter was always talking about Big Bear. She offered to send him a month's condo payment if that was a consideration, plus a Department of Agriculture publication on parasites that humans contract from eating raw or undercooked seafood. He loved his mother, really.

Hunter said the money was not necessary, but to send the brochure (she sent both). Sam showed up three days early, saying it would give him plenty of time to fix things around the condo.

Hobson, becoming sleepy, began to recall the special times he'd spent with his dad. His mind drifted back through magical summers. It was hard to be certain how many hours had slipped by before a forty-foot tall monkey carrying the head of George McFly was chasing him; McFly's head repeatedly sang Wang Chung's _Everybody Have Fun Tonight,_ and just as McFly began the song for the umpteenth time, fortunately or unfortunately, the buzz of an alarm jarred Hunter from a fitful sleep.

Sitting up, Hunter uttered, "Damn," and rubbed his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later he stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and searched through a drawer for a clean pair of underwear. For reasons unclear to himself, he sang the words, "Everybody have fun tonight; everybody Wang Chung tonight," over and over as he laced his shoes. It was all of the nineteen eighties hit song that he could remember.

Hunter entered the kitchen just as Sam began pouring a cup of coffee. The smell of WD-40 hung heavily in the air.

"Heard you get up so I made a pot." He handed his son a steaming cup and added, "Black, one sugar."

"Thanks Dad," Hunter sounded chipper.

"Got Chinese when I was out. Want some?"

"Sure," Hunter liked Chinese, even if it was for breakfast.

"Dad, I wanted to ask you something before I make a phone call. How 'bout five days in the Grand Canyon instead of Big Bear?"

"Sounds great! But how are we goin' to get a permit at this late date?" Sam was a Grand Canyon hiker from way back and knew that securing last-minute permits could be a problem.

"I have a friend on the inside," Hunter said. "This guy works in the Backcountry Office, and part of what he does is issue permits. Maybe if I call him with two or three alternate dates, and we request a remote part of the canyon, he'd be able to set us up."

Sam said smiling, "A friend in the Backcountry Office. Sure, why not?"

Just considering the possibility elevated both their spirits.

Hobson took his calendar with him as he left the condo saying that he'd call his friend while on the set. Background work involved a lot of sitting around.

* * *

When Sam was young, his favorite dream was a Sam who could run like a deer and could clear fences with ease. His more recent dreams did not involve leaping fences effortlessly, but they were of a paralytic Sam for whom running was impossible. These dreams came frequently and with them the uncertainty of what they might portend. He told no one about these new dreams, not even his wife of thirty-five years.

And there were other things on Sam's mind. Ten years ago he'd look at a woman, at the curve of her body, and feel the thrill of it. Today a look at a similar woman would summon only random thoughts such as a wish that he had not eaten quite so much cheese.

CHAPTER 3: PHONE CALL TO THE BACKCOUNTRY OFFICE, May 3, 2004, 11:30 A.M.

Palm trees, straight as soldiers, lined both sides of Santa Monica Boulevard. Sparrows flitted from crown to crown, darting in and out amongst the fronds. A breeze stirred to life then died. As he sped toward the studio, Hunter Hobson paid no attention to the trees or to the smog that had swallowed both the Hollywood Hills to the north and the buildings downtown. Smog in Los Angeles was not news.

Traffic on Santa Monica was light—that was news. While stopped at the corner of Sepulveda, Hunter noticed that the billboard standing near the intersection had been changed. It now advertised the latest Gibson-Glover collaboration in which the two play aging cops who sadly had not opted for early retirement.

Hunter began daydreaming and thought about Illinois. Three years ago he had piled a U-Haul truck with furniture and made the move to California. After a couple of days on the road, he backed the truck into a gas pump somewhere in New Mexico, knocking the pump off its base. Without saying a word to anyone, he stole back onto the Interstate, deciding to fill up later. The crunch of metal still played in his brain.

Hobson thought about his dad at the condo and the trips they used to take. Teaching in a college afforded Sam the luxury of free summers.

They canoed Boundary Waters in Minnesota where Hunter caught a nine-pound walleye. It tugged and jerked the line, pulling the canoe back and forth, until the big fish tired. And there was the hike to the top of Colorado's Mount Elbert—it was crystal-clear at the summit, and they could see Massive to the north and La Plata Peak to the south. Another summer they rafted the Grand Canyon and hiked out on the Bright Angel Trail. Each learned to row a raft on turbulent water. They were back a year later for a hike, starting on the South Rim and finishing three days later on the opposite side. The temperature had hit a hundred and twenty, but they were not in a hurry and had waited out the heat of the day by soaking in Bright Angel Creek.

The sight of the studio coming up on his right jogged Hunter out of his reverie. Alert to find a parking space, he got lucky after only five minutes. First he was to go to make-up, then return to the Gorgan set. They had ironed out the bullhorn problem, and everyone seemed to be on the same page.

The first shoot picked up where things had been left the night before. Hunter and nineteen other extras dressed as homeless persons stood in front of the same giant green screen. In this scene they were supposed to look in the air and plead with an imaginary Gorgan (to be added later by computer). Gorgan had snatched one of their own, a homeless woman bearing a striking resemblance to Fay Wray, the actress who starred in the original 1930's version of _King Kong_. The homeless as a group were to appeal to Gorgan's compassionate side and convince the giant monkey to gently return "Fay Wray" to earth.

Hunter sensed that reasoning with forty-feet of crazed monkey was lame, but for a hundred bucks he gave it a shot. Despite having no experience whatsoever in the beseeching-giant-monkey department, the aspiring actor felt that he and the others had acquitted themselves quite well. Apparently, not an opinion shared by Gorgan, who, lacking impulse control, proceeded to treat "Fay Wray" as if she were a swatter and treat the "imploring homeless" as if they were flies.

For the second take, the director had only one suggestion to pass along: "This time, PEOPLE, when you run away, I want no LAUGHING. HORROR AND TERROR ONLY! Stay with me on this!"

The director could only stomach three takes of the scene before deciding to press forward. Next on the storyboard was a tender moment. Apparently a contrite Gorgan had second thoughts about "Miss Wray," and the extras were promised at least an hour of down time as the giant monkey strived to smooth over the rather poor first impression that he had made with the movie's female lead.

_God help me_ , Hunter thought as he walked toward his daypack to retrieve cell phone and calendar. _Whatever the writer is earning, it's way too much_.

Hunter glanced at his watch, _Two o'clock in Arizona_ —time to call his friend. He dialed the Grand Canyon work number. As the phone rang, Hobson composed what he was about to say.

"YEH LOW!"

Silence.

"YEH LOW!"

Thrown off by the unorthodox greeting Hunter stammered, "Uh . . . is this the . . . um . . . Backcountry Office?"

"YEAH, WHAD'CHA WANT?"

"Er . . . ah . . . is Jorge Costa there?"

"YEAH, HE'S IN THE BREAK ROOM. HOLD ON." Whoever was on the other end sounded loud and disgusted.

Hunter next heard someone make a poor attempt to muffle the phone and yell, "HEY ROOKIE! YOE, ROOOO-KIE! IT'S FOR YOU. LINE ONE. COME ON . . . HAVEN'T GOT ALL DAY."

_Don't they teach phone etiquette at that place?_ Hobson asked himself.

"Ranger Costa speaking, how can I help you?"

Hunter heard a phone being slammed down hard on its cradle in an effort to hang up and then he ventured a tentative, "Hey, it's me Hunter."

"Alright, wow. Good to hear your voice, Man."

"Say, who the hell was THAT that answered the phone?"

Jorge laughed then said, "Just some dick."

"I didn't know the Grand Canyon had a dick."

"Yeah we got one," Jorge seemed resigned. "But we've been instructed not to talk about our dick." Hunter laughed, then the Backcountry Ranger added quickly, "We just hope he doesn't breed."

"Little chance of that," Hunter replied.

Jorge paused then admitted slowly as if ashamed, "Supposedly Freddie Pringle is related to some Arizona congressman or something. Well, anyway, he can't be fired. Or so I've been told."

"He's your boss then, this . . . uh, Pringle?"

"Oh no, no, no, no!" Hunter sensed that he had just given voice to the unthinkable. "Seems he can't be promoted either, thank God. The guy's _el zorrero_ man."

Hobson had taken some Spanish in school but never got far enough to cover the word _zorrero_. However, from what he had picked up on the soccer field, he translated his friend's word choice to mean "dumb ass."

"So what's up? Or'd you just call to bullshit?" The aspiring actor could hear the smile behind the park ranger's question.

"Well, there is something . . ," Hunter then launched into his prepared speech about his dad's visit, hike in canyon . . . remote area . . . last minute . . . blah blah . . . , and ended with, "So you think you could hook us up with a permit?"

Jorge became serious and asked, "What kind of shape is your dad in?"

"Oh, he's a wicked hiker. He's been to the canyon too many times to count, and last year he did two marathons." Hunter became aware that he was sounding like a press agent.

"Great, that opens up the possibilities, but I'll have to check the computer. Call you when I got something—maybe ten minutes?"

Ten minutes later Jorge was back in touch. "How does this sound: May sixth would be day one, hike in on the New Hance Trail; days two and three, hike east paralleling the river on the Escalante Route; day four, begin to hike out on the Tanner Trail; and day five, finish the hike up the Tanner?"

"Got'cha," Hunter scribbled down the itinerary.

"Where you hike in is about seven miles from where you'll exit, so on the first day you'll need to drive your car and leave it at the Tanner Trailhead and have a hotel taxi drop you off at your start."

Hunter continued to write and then punctuated with, "Okay . . . sounds good."

"I'd drop you off myself, but I'm scheduled to work that day. Oh, before I forget, it's been a little crazy up here lately. The Billy Burk thing."

"What's the 'Billy Burk thing?'" The only newspapers Hunter had been reading regularly were _Backstage West_ and _The Hollywood Reporter_.

"Billy Boy Burk. He escaped from jail back in March and has been driving the cops up here crazy. They've been blocking roads, searching cars, and lookin' pretty inept. Expect to get stopped yourself. They're stopping everybody, school buses, ambulances, a funeral procession over in Ash Fork. Even made'm open up the casket."

Hunter was certain Jorge had crossed the line and was pulling things from his imagination but wasn't one hundred percent certain.

"Thanks for the heads up, we won't hide anything in a casket this trip. What about picking up the permit? Get it when we pull in?"

"That'll work. Stop by anytime after 8:00 on the morning of the sixth. So . . . ," Jorge proceeded cautiously, ". . . what's up with you and Clare?"

"Ah, it's over. She moved out. I'm still in the same place. Yeah, not too good, Man."

"Well. The other day I was showing some California pictures to people here in the office. And this one ranger, Jennifer, she took more than a passing interest in you."

Hunter's response was, "Um."

"I tried to warn her about you of course, but, foolishly, she was not to be dissuaded."

"So, let me get this straight," Hunter said pretending to clarify. "Does everyone who gets a permit also get fixed up?"

"Hey, we are the Park SERVICE, and it is our stated mission to offer a full range of experiences to the touring public."

The ball was in Hunter's court, but before he could hit it back, Jorge added, "AND she's from Illinois. Jennifer, that is . . . Illinois."

Hunter asked suspiciously, "What's that mean? Corn-fed and ready for market?"

"No, no, she's great-looking, Man. She's twenty-four, rock climber, sense of humor, the whole package. Frankly, I don't know what she could possibly see in you . . . must have impaired judgment, probably from a broken home. Sad really."

Hunter passed on the Illinois girl thinking of a really bad blind date he once had. A cousin for whom he continued to harbor a grudge had arranged the date.

Next Hobson called his dad, and told him the trip was a "Go!"

CHAPTER 4: THE DRIVE TO THE CANYON

When Clare moved out, she took half of Hunter Hobson's CDs. As it happened, she was quite picky and unfortunately took the better half. Hunter looked down at his decimated collection; he poked at what remained, making a face like someone inspecting spoiled meat. Some of the titles left behind included _Spanish—A Refresher_ , _Investing for Success_ , and _Elvis Sings Christmas_. The latter, he was sure he never owned and suspected that Clare had planted it out of meanness. Of those he retained, Hunter found only two worth listening to. Fortunately EvaneScence's _Fallen_ had creeped her out, and Jethro Tull _Dot.Com_ had been in his car on moving day. He found it on the floor under the passenger seat; there was gum stuck to the jewel case and a red substance Hunter couldn't identify.

The Hobsons left for the Grand Canyon around 9:00 A.M. of the fifth. By the time they were through the Cajon Pass driving north on Interstate 15, they'd heard _Hot Mango_ _Flush_ twice, and Sam's eyes were beginning to cross. After Barstow they turned east, caught I 40, and were _Going Under_ for the second time. Shortly both Hobsons stared at the CD player as if it were oozing snot.

The desert was beginning to heat up when they stopped for gas at Newberry Springs. The Circle K carried a limited selection of CDs, which included Monty Tornado's _Thank the Lord for Loose Women and Strong Penicillin_ and _Accordion Music for the Young at Heart featuring_ Vince Topeka and the Accordionaires.

Curious to know what the young at heart were listening to, Sam picked up the CD, and with a pronounced squint, read one of the titles to his skeptical son, "Achy Breaky Heart." He then added dryly, "You know, you don't often find accordion music for sale outside the Midwest."

"Yeah, that's pretty much why I moved," Hunter said as he turned to go.

"Hey," Sam shouted as his son headed for the door, "does this mean you don't want to hear Vince play _Who Let the Dogs Out_?"

* * *

The time was 8:00 P.M. when they pulled into the campground on the South Rim. Thirty minutes were wasted by a Billy-Burk-roadblock ten miles south of the National Park. The Hobsons were aggravated, but the locals in line were downright hostile—honking horns and swearing.

The sun had set and darkness was gathering as father and son claimed a campsite. Evidently it had rained earlier, but the sky was beginning to clear, stars were making their appearance, and the temperature was dropping.

When everything was settled, the elder Hobson broke out a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey and two glasses.

Hunter accepted his saying, "Alright!"

"You know me. I party like it's 1999," Sam jested as he settled into a folding chair and propped his legs on the picnic table bench, whiskey bottle by his side and glass in hand.

"Yeah, I've always said, 'My dad is just like Prince only without the lingerie!'" Hunter said matter-of-factly.

Both Hobsons wore fleecy wool caps and puffy down jackets. The excess insulation would have caused a casual observer to conclude that the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Michelin Man were on vacation.

They drank up, but first toasted the Canyon, which lay slumbering a quarter of a mile north of where they sat.

"Thought you were a Scotch drinker?" his son questioned while removing a piece of sand from the bottom of his otherwise empty glass.

"Was 'til 'bout two years ago. Yeah, just after you moved to California."

"How come yeh switched?"

"Well, I ran a marathon out east and got to talkin' afterwards to a couple of guys from Ireland. Eventually, the subject of Irish whiskey came up. 'Bout which I knew squat, except I had a bottle of Bushmills in the liquor cabinet back home, and I told 'em. Well, they looked at me like I had just pissed on the Pope. And both of them said at the same time, 'That's Protestant whiskey! Try a bottle of Jameson.' So when I got back to Illinois, I did just that. Now you know me. I don't care much about religion, one way or the other, but when it comes to whiskey, now . . I am . . a . . Catholic," and holding up his bottle of Jameson he added, "a true believer."

The Hobsons stayed up quite a bit later than they'd planned, and drank more whiskey than they'd set out to drink. But that was okay. They were building new memories, and the "heavy lifting" was to begin the next day and continue through the day after that. In fact by the eighth of May they each would be toting more new memories than they could comfortably carry, but at least Hunter Hobson would be well beyond the point of pining over Clare Ellen McClasky.

The last thing before turning in Hunter looked down at his drink and said in a low, thoughtful tone, "Yeh know, Dad, I've gotten to do so much, and that's because of you and Mom. All those trips we used to take, and Mom always being so encouraging. Well, I . . . I just wanted to say thanks."

Sam raised his glass, and said, sounding a little tipsy, "To all those trips!"

And Hunter added, "And to many more!"

At that point Sam slipped a ring off his finger and handed it to his son saying, "This is as good a time as any. The ring is yours to keep from now on."

Hunter accepted the gold signet ring that his dad had worn for as long as his son could remember. "Are you sure?" he asked, unable to mask his astonishment.

"Of course. Try it on. See if it fits."

The signet ring with "17th Illinois" set in deep was too snug for Hunter's right ring finger but fit perfectly on his left. In the meantime Sam recounted the proud moment of family history that the ring symbolized—a gift from Union General McClernand in 1862 after the Battle of Shiloh to Lieutenant Winthrop Hobson who had distinguished himself those April days fifteen decades ago. The ring had been passed from father to son continuously and now Hunter Hobson held it in his hand. An only child, Hunter had always known that the signet ring would eventually fall to him but perhaps on Sam's deathbed or, maybe, after the funeral. The son looked at his father and wondered if the man was having a premonition or if there was something that his dad was not telling him, but he could read only pride and admiration in the face of Sam Hobson.

* * *

May 6, 2004, dawned clear and cold. A thick frost coated Hunter's car windows. He and Sam broke camp quickly and drove to the Bright Angel Lodge where they reserved a taxi. The cab would be ready in two hours; it would link up with them at the Backcountry Office, and so they sat down to breakfast in the Lodge's dinning room. They ate hardy aware that they would burn the calories hiking into the canyon.

Sam looked at his watch as they walked out of the lodge. The Backcountry Office was a half-mile away, and the cab was due there in forty-five minutes. They still needed to pick up and pay for the hiking permit. Hunter drove while Sam called home to give his wife an update and tell her that he loved her. He handed his son the phone, and they sat in the car while Hunter assured his mom that Sam seemed fine and that the trip was going great. Before signing off each wished her a happy Mother's Day, and said they were sorry that they'd be in the canyon on Sunday and, therefore, out of touch.

There appeared to be just two rangers on duty in the office. One was Jorge Costa whom Hunter introduced to his dad. The other's name was Hanson. Ranger Hanson smiled, said a quick, "Hello," but was in a hurry to leave saying he'd just received a call about a couple of tourists calling, "Here doggie, doggie." to a small coyote and trying to entice it with a chicken wing.

Hunter secretly glanced about the office looking for the "Jennifer" person whom Jorge threatened to match him with. He didn't spot anyone fitting her description, and afraid of sounding needy, the last thing that Hobson planned to do was ask Jorge about the woman. Besides he harbored vivid memories of his previous blind date. The lesson was: "Never again!" If faced with a choice between having to endure a similar evening or being tied to a chair and assailed repeatedly by the recorded music of Vince Topeka and the Accordionaires, Hobson would have chosen Vince's version of _Achy Breaky Heart._

After exchanging cordials, they got down to business. Sam handed over two twenties and a ten, and Hunter affixed the permit to his backpack. They were now official.

When the taxi pulled up out front and honked, Ranger Costa said, "Ah, that's too bad. Jennifer is scheduled to work in fifteen minutes. I'd hoped you'd get to meet her?"

"Ah well, maybe next time." Despite his acting experience Hunter Hobson's display of disappointment did not sound completely convincing.

Sam and Hunter offered quick goodbyes and thank yous. Sam threw in a "Nice to meet'cha." They proceeded outside, loaded their gear into the trunk of the hotel taxi, followed the taxi out East Rim Drive, deployed Hunter's Honda as planned, and had the cabbie drop them at the New Hance Trailhead.

Donning their packs, they turned from the road. The canyon lay a third of a mile away on the other side of a narrow strip of forest made up mostly of juniper and pinyon. Due to the dampness from the previous day's rain the smell of pine was heavy in the air. Beginning a new hike filled Sam's head and heart, and as always at such times, he smiled broadly—heady with a sense of adventure and of being.

The trees were dense enough that unless a person knew already, he/she would never have guessed that the Grand Canyon sprawled just ahead, the largest gash in the planet. Abruptly it lay before them, an opening more dramatic than any created in Hollywood. All that was missing was background music. _Carmina Burana_ played in Hunter's head.

The two paused at the canyon's brink.

Sam Hobson had taught geology, and the canyon that he and his son beheld spoke to him more eloquently than any lecture, any treatise, or any religious text. His annual trips taken to the national park during the last dozen Spring breaks had been as much a pilgrimage as they had been a vacation—a restoration of faith. The ex-college professor had never gotten tired of the message.

Hunter in the lead said, "Let's do this thing." And father and son began the adventure that would forever change them.

CHAPTER 5: AN UNEXPECTED PARTNER

_Twenty minutes after ten_. Sam marked the time as father and son entered the canyon.

A pair of ravens glided above the tree tops, then beyond the canyon rim and out across the gulf of air. The birds called, and Hunter couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to float effortlessly and be carried across the chasm on rising thermals.

The New Hance Trail dropped rapidly, winding past rock formations named Kaibab, Toroweap, and Coconino. Sam knew them as well as he knew the streets and alleys of his hometown.

Beginning at 7000 feet, the air was thin and cool, and even though it was midmorning, they remained in the shade on the north-facing slopes. Juniper and pinyon would soon be left behind, replaced farther down by cactus, yucca, and desert blackbrush.

Five minutes after entering the canyon Hunter stopped and asked, "Dad, do . . . do you hear a siren?"

Sam paused to listen. He detected only the sweep of the wind and a raven's call. "No, I don't think so."

"Must be my imagination."

Eight miles of trail and 4000 vertical feet separated the hikers from their first night's destination, the Red Canyon delta, where Red Canyon floods empty into the Colorado River. Those floods sweep car-sized boulders into the river, creating the Hance Rapids. The majority of time Red Canyon remains bone dry.

Sam had been on the New Hance twice before and didn't anticipate any surprises, just tough hiking, steep downhill gradients, and full packs—typical for a first day.

As father and son zigzagged down switchbacks, the ravens checked in on the hikers a time or two, keenly aware that hikers take breaks and produce food from their packs when doing so. Every other sign up on the rim warned those tempted: "Do not feed the wildlife"—birds included. It would be hard to plead ignorance. But the ravens counted on people bending the rules; they were experts at getting their way. The connivers lived by convincing others to break the law and defied society's conventions as heedlessly as the escapee Billie Boy Burk defied them.

When the lawless, birds whizzed by a third time, Hunter, munching as he walked, asked, "How much prison time do yeh get for sharin' trail mix with the ravens?" He saw himself in his mind's eye wearing an orange jumpsuit and explaining to fellow inmates (murderers, rapists, and thieves) that his crime involved feeding Grand Canyon wildlife.

"Well . . ." Sam considered the question. "I don't think you have to worry about being caught down here."

The Hobsons wound their way lower and to the north. Two miles below the rim, they reached the Red Canyon Overlook. After this the trail would turn west, drop 600 feet down a precipitous limestone face, then shift back to the north, slanting all the way to the river. At the base of the limestone cliff they would be in true desert. Beyond that point trees would be rare, found only near creek beds, at springs, or along the river's edge. With the exception of cottonwoods Sam and Hunter would find only stingy trees, but coveted on summer afternoons for their shade: mesquite, catclaw acacia, willow, and desert sumac.

* * *

"Break time," Sam declared as they neared a shady spot with an expansive view and comfortable rock slabs on which to rest. An hour and a half into the hike—this was to be a long break, during which they would drink fluids, eat, chat, take off shoes and socks, and maybe even snooze. Hunter got out his camera; the view cried out for a picture.

Five minutes later, the ravens joined them. The big male landed twenty feet from Sam who had a handful of trail mix. The bird, black as a boot, strutted back and forth. He made guttural "haw" sounds and hopped to a closer rock while Hunter snapped a couple of pictures.

"Boy, Mom would love this."

Bold as brass the male stared at Sam's food cocking his head as if to ask, "When do I get mine?"

Soon the raven had consumed all of the elder Hobson's almonds and was working his way through a line of peanuts that Sam had arranged within arm's reach. Sam could have touched the outlaw bird but resisted the temptation. The smaller female busied herself with Hunter's food, walking to within a foot of his camera lens. Satiated, the ravens eventually retired to nearby perches and cawed and chattered as if critiquing the menu.

Until then, the Hobsons hadn't seen anyone on the trail—no one coming up and no one going down. But as the two lazed about on their respective rocks, they began to hear footsteps. Each looked at the other. After concentrating, Hunter announced, "Coming down."

Sam nodded in agreement, and the ravens took flight.

The Hobsons assumed that the hiker, or hikers, like themselves, would prefer privacy. They planned to rest another ten minutes, which would give the approaching newcomer enough time to pass and get well ahead.

Hunter was looking up the trail when the hiker appeared. "Dad," he said quietly and moved his head as if to say, "Check it out."

Sam turned and saw a backcountry ranger and thought to himself: _Strange, never saw a ranger in the actual backcountry before._ He had seen them on the main trails, sure, but this place was remote, and he was thankful that their permit was attached to Hunter's pack. Glancing over he reassured himself that the permit was still there. Then the elder Hobson looked a second time to make certain that the ravens had eaten all the evidence. They had.

Hunter reacted differently. Jorge had told him that the current park superintendent enforced a strict dress code and that code included first and foremost a Stetson, a.k.a. flat hat—the ubiquitous symbol of a National Park Service Ranger. The ranger picking his way carefully down the trail wore no hat. _Then again_ , young Hobson thought, _this guy isn't likely to encounter any supervisors down here, is he?_

The hatless ranger spotted them and raised his hand in a kind of military-style salute. Sam figured they would be asked to produce the permit.

When the ranger got even with the Hobsons, he took off his pack and dropped it to the ground. He walked forward, extended a hand, and smiling openly announced, "Fred Pringle. Nice to meet'cha."

In his early forties, Pringle had red hair and a rakish look that reminded Hunter of a pirate, but caused Sam to think of a used car salesman.

The Hobsons in turn shook the ranger's hand. "Sam, and this is my son Hunter."

If he both read and heard a name, Hunter could remember it, and glancing at the ranger's I. D. tag, he verified that the printed words "Fred Pringle" matched the spoken words. Hunter next commented, "Pringle, I've run into that name before."

The ranger laughed, "I get that all the time. You're probably thinking about potato chips right now."

Hobson smiled. The ranger was relaxed. As long as a person had enough food and water and was in reasonably good shape, relaxing came easy in the canyon.

Sam looked skeptically at Ranger Pringle's shoes. They were threadbare and minimal for hiking below the rim. He also noticed that the man's gun wasn't holstered, and instead rested loosely in a side pocket of his backpack . . . in fact Pringle wasn't even wearing a holster.

They exchanged small talk. The ranger asked about Hunter's lightweight hiking boots. Sam asked Pringle if he was assigned to hike the backcountry trails very often.

Five minutes passed before it dawned on Hunter where he'd heard the ranger's name. _This is the same person that answered the phone when I asked Jorge for a permit— this is the Grand Canyon dick! But the voice doesn't sound the same. And this Pringle seems okay._ "Phone-call-Pringle" did not match "in-person-Pringle."

Ranger Pringle turned out to be funny, charming, and witty.

Sam and Hunter didn't mind at all that he teamed with them and provided company all the way to the river. They told each other stories, jokes, and lies over the next six miles, laughing, nodding empathetically, and shaking their heads over life's petty injustices.

_Oh well, so much for first impressions acquired while on the telephone_ , Hunter thought two hours later.

Not once did the engaging ranger ask to check their permit. Instead Pringle expressed a keen interest in Hollywood and hung on every word that Hunter had to say. Plus the ranger enjoyed a peculiar talent, reciting Irish poetry and speaking in a Gaelic brogue that kept both father and son amused and entertained.

Many of Ranger Pringle's stories had revolved around dogs. He claimed he could speak two languages; the one he knew best was Canine.

Pringle asked about Hunter's ring. The ranger could tell that the actor hadn't had it long by the way the younger Hobson kept admiring the inscription, "17th Illinois." Hunter told the story of the ring, and he slipped the gift from the Union general off in order to show Pringle the engraving on the inside, "Shiloh—April 1862." They shared a little family history, Pringle saying with a smile, "I think my ancestors fought on the other side."

In no time at all they were standing on the banks of the Colorado overlooking Hance Rapids; the entire New Hance Trail lay at their backs.

They camped the night of May sixth, serenaded by the river rushing through the rapids. The Hobsons sheltered under a mesquite tree east of the Red Canyon's dry channel while Pringle chose an open expanse on the dry channel's western side, fifty yards away.

The moon had been full on May fourth two nights previous. Three hours after sunset on the night of the sixth a waning gibbous moon had risen high enough to clear the surrounding canyon walls and bathe the Red Canyon delta in light. Sam Hobson crawled out of his sleeping bag. He had to relieve himself, and he walked a few feet over to a nearby bush. It was light enough that he didn't bother with a flashlight. Just as he was about to finish, Sam watched Pringle walk to the Colorado's edge and without bothering to filter it, the ranger drank straight from the river. He'd never seen anyone do that before. It was reckless. Sam shook his head: _The guy's nuts. Would any ranger worth his salt do anything that stupid?_

* * *

A few small clouds dotted the sky on the morning of the seventh. Sam busied himself pumping water through his portable filter. He seemed inordinately happy. Hunter snapped his dad's picture as Sam purified their drinking supply, which he went about storing in several plastic bottles.

Next, Hunter strolled alone along the shoreline; he headed down stream and spotted Fred Pringle on the bank well below the rapids. The ranger's backpack rested on the ground beside him. It appeared that the hatless ranger was packed and ready to go. Hunter picked up his pace, and walked with more determination, figuring to join the ranger where he stood. Pringle waved as Hobson drew nearer. He could see that the ranger was eating a sandwich and between bites was looking at something in the distance behind Hunter's back.

Hobson turned and saw several small rafts the size he and Sam were familiar with. The rafts stretched in a haphazard line and had not as yet entered the rapids. Their colors matched, and they appeared to belong to the same party.

Hobson took a picture as the first raft nosed into the tumbling water. The craft forcefully gathered speed as if sucked forward. Screams could be heard like those coming from an amusement park roller coaster, only these were faint because the raft was still a long way off, and because the noise of the rushing water drowned out their voices.

Hunter turned and walked on. When he neared Fred Pringle, Hobson pointed his small camera in the ranger's direction. Pringle held up a hand as if to say, "Wait." Next he pulled the gun which he'd tucked in his belt, pointed the pistol at the sandwich, and then shouted, "Okay, now."

Hunter snapped the shot, and when Hobson was close enough to easily hear, Pringle smiling said, "I think this baloney has turned. I should've put it out of its misery." They both chuckled.

The next time Hunter checked, the entire string of blue and yellow rafts had entered the Hance Rapids. The rafts were bobbing up and down, but were slipping through the rough water unscathed. The joyful screams had grown more numerous and were much clearer. Hunter aimed his camera and snapped another shot.

Pringle downed the last bite of his suspect baloney as the lead raft floated free of the fast current. He glanced over at Hunter and said with a glint in his eye, "Here's where I earn my money."

Hunter nodded not sure what would happen next.

The pirate-like park ranger gave a shout and waved his arms signaling for the rafts to come ashore. Before the first boat was level with Hunter and the ranger, it began to edge closer in and the occupants prepared to beach her on the strip of sand that stretched downstream for several hundred feet.

"That's odd," Hunter said as much to himself as to Ranger Pringle. And he counted out loud, "One, two, three, four, five."

Guys wrapped in strange orange robes and wearing cowboy hats were rowing five of the seven rafts— _like Gene Autry meets the Dalai Lama_ , he thought but did not say more, afraid some in the rafting party might overhear. Instead Hunter asked the ranger, "What happens if they don't stop?"

With a brash smile Pringle turned and winking said in a voice straight out of _Treasure Island_ , "I fires one across their bow." The ranger's tone convinced Hobson that that was Pringle's preferred approach, and the aspiring actor was beginning to think that perhaps he was seeing another side of Freddie Pringle.

Two minutes later Pringle pulled his gun and forced everyone to stand in a line.

CHAPTER 6: DR. JECKYLL AND MR. HYDE

The night before, while laying in his sleeping bag, Hobson wondered what he would dream about next. The sun had set an hour earlier. He read for thirty minutes, then put the book down and watched the stars come out one at a time. He wished he hadn't placed his bedroll so far under the mesquite tree because its branches blocked part of the sky. In another hour the moon would rise. Almost full, its brilliance would dominate the night sky, and the stars would fade without protest into the background.

He could hear his dad snoring not far off. Though Hunter, himself, was pleasantly exhausted from the day's hike, he couldn't seem to fall asleep and didn't really mind. Pringle perplexed him. _How did Jorge describe Fred? El Zorrero. He'd also called him a "dick." But this Ranger Pringle seemed okay_.

Someday the two friends, Hunter and Jorge, would compare notes on the Fred Pringle that they each thought they knew. But for now, Hunter's mind played with the limited knowledge he'd gained from three sources: one, from an unsettling ten second conversation with the man on the phone, two, from Jorge's few unfavorable comments, and three, from four hours of sharing the trail with the perplexing ranger.

_Is it possible that two friends with a similar take on most things can meet the same person and then come away with diametrically opposite views? Why not?_ The struggling actor supposed as he pondered under a dome of stars—stars which shone so brightly that they cast a pale of dim light upon the Red Canyon delta.

To Hunter Hobson, it seemed as though the ranger had two personalities. _What's it called?_ Hunter tried to remember while gazing up at the night sky. _Multiple personality disorder. Maybe that's it? Two Pringles for the price of one. What a bargain_. He yawned, stretched, and yawned again.

Hunter understood that he and Sam had been with the ranger for only one afternoon; Jorge had worked with him every day. Perhaps he too would refer to Pringle as a dick if he'd shared an office with the guy.

But Hunter was not completely sure what to think. Maybe Pringle only shows his asshole side "up top" and down here in the canyon the good Pringle prevails—a regular Jeckyll and Hyde triggered by changes in topography.

After considering the "two" Pringles for quite some time, Hunter's eyelids began to grow heavy, and soon Hobson pictured himself feeding trail mix to a 180-pound raven. Suddenly a cast net was thrown over him and four uniformed police officers sprang from the bushes pinning Hobson to the ground. Stepping back from the action, the giant raven pulled off a mask revealing the head of J. Edgar Hoover who said, "Good work men! We've been after this one for a long time!"

Hunter struggled under the net, and soon lay wide-awake, looking at a moon that had moved a long way across the night sky since he'd last observed.

* * *

Hunter Hobson had no way of knowing that it wasn't just Jorge who held a negative opinion of Ranger Pringle. Jorge's friend Jennifer absolutely detested the man, and Hanson, the ranger he and his father had met briefly in the Backcountry Office, looked at Freddie the same way he would look at a cockroach in his cereal bowl. While Hanson wouldn't shoot it with a gun, he wouldn't hire it to work for the Park Service either.

CHAPTER 7: THE REAL FREDDIE PRINGLE

In a 1981 study conducted by the Pratt Institute of Human Sexuality, randomly selected American teenage males responded to a "delicate" and lengthy series of questions. The study's finding which created the greatest buzz was that thirty-two out of 621 teens (or slightly more than five percent) had named their penises "The General Lee." Social scientists speculated that this unfortunate truth was due to the popularity of the _Dukes of Hazzard_ television show and came to the conclusion that the country should not be unduly alarmed—it was a phase that, in all likelihood, would pass from America's cultural landscape in less than a decade.

Freddie Pringle was one of the thirty-two. At the time that the survey was conducted, Pringle had only recently turned seventeen and could have been excused for his dubious choice, which some, at the time, found tasteless. Of course, the more staid in America preferred names with much less horsepower—traditional names less likely to evoke.

At the time of the survey and to his chagrin, Pringle's General Lee was seeing very little action. The young man, however, was not averse to taking it for a spin himself and did so regularly. The peculiar thing about Mr. Pringle was that despite the passage of two decades, with his fortieth birthday recently behind him, the frustrated park ranger still used the same name to refer to his neglected member.

* * *

Perhaps Freddie Pringle's most distinctive physical feature was his large head. Measuring twenty-six inches in diameter, it translated into an eight and three-quarters hat size. And since Stetson's largest standard issue flat hat came one full size smaller, the National Park Service had to commission the Stetson Company to make a special flat hat just for the bigheaded ranger. And after two beers (and sometimes sooner) he would swagger up to single women in bars, gigantic hat in hand, and say seductively, "I have the biggest head in the Park Service."

Replies were generally along the lines of, "Biggest head for the biggest jerk." It never ceased to amaze Ranger Pringle that Arizona women showed so little respect for the uniform of the National Park Service. Still Pringle persevered.

Not much had changed in twenty years. After taking a few losing shots with the "biggest head in the Park Service" line, Ranger Pringle would tryout his General Lee routine which he'd begin by striking up a conversation with any woman sitting alone. He had learned not to be particular. Pringle would eventually bring up the General. Most of the time the woman would think that Freddie was a Civil War buff. The initial assumption in either case would soon be dispelled when the ardent ranger began dropping lines like, "The General Lee is easily aroused." Or, if drunk enough, Pringle would look down, grab his crotch, and speak to the General saying, "Whad'cha think of this one? She's all right, huh?"

Like a demented ventriloquist Pringle would answer back in a deep voice, "Zall right!"

By this time it was evident to the woman that the bigheaded goon next to her was having a conversation with his dick, and that she was the topic _de jour_. If Freddie's victim was too stunned to get up and leave immediately, he would quickly ask if she would come up to his room and speak personally with the General. In truth Pringle's General Lee was quite shy and sometimes would not come out of the garage even if an invitation had been accepted.

* * *

What did Jorge know about his Freddie Pringle—the Mr. Hyde version? He knew what he saw and experienced first hand. He also knew what he heard from Pringle himself, not necessarily a reliable source.

For instance, Ranger Freddie claimed to everyone in the Backcountry Office that he had once been an entrepreneur—though his co-workers were shown no visible evidence to support the assertion. Instead of providing tangible proof the ranger routinely explained to Jorge how he had owned a bumper sticker business while in college and was on the brink of hitting it big when the police began a harassment campaign.

"It's common knowledge that when you make a name for yourself, there are people waiting to take you down," Freddie tediously complained for the thousandth time while Jorge squirmed in his chair.

In actual fact Pringle's foray into the world of commerce was more vandalism than business. Back when he attended college there existed a popular bumper sticker that read, "I love my dog," except instead of writing the word "love," the sticker had a picture of a heart. So actually the message stated, "I 'heart' my dog." The sticker was popular with senior citizens, including the elderly parents of the Phoenix Chief of Police.

Freddie printed 5,000 small stickers the exact size as the "heart: only with a picture of a "screw." These sold briskly to fellow college students netting huge profits and initiating a plan for expansion and an inquiry into the steps required to secure a small business loan.

Soon a great hue and cry arose amongst Phoenix's elders as the young entrepreneur's customers began altering bumper stickers throughout the Valley of the Sun.

Alone in his dorm room, Freddie was puzzling over how best to corrupt a popular sticker to imply that the daughter of the car's owner was a whore at "Bumfuck Middle School," when two enormous officers barged through his door and confiscated his remaining "screw" stickers.

During the ensuing interview, threats were made, threats that cast a shadow upon Pringle's ability to reproduce should the General Lee be pressed into service. Even though he felt he stood on solid legal ground, Freddie chose not to make too fine a point concerning the violation of his first amendment rights, sensing correctly that the cop who was gripping rather firmly the lower, sensitive portion of the General was not too keen on issues of constitutional law.

Impressed by the assertiveness of certain members of the Phoenix Police Department, Freddie dropped out of the bumper sticker trade, opting instead to print counterfeit concert tickets. A scalper friend described his duplicate of the1989 Concert to Benefit the Rain Forest ticket as, "Hands down, the best work I have ever seen."

Later Pringle branched into the printing of phony awards, certificates, and diplomas. And as long as he was printing an award for a deserving client (one with cash in hand), he would make a copy for himself printing "Frederic Remington Pringle" in Times New Roman—his font of choice.

But what Jorge Costa found particularly objectionable about Frederic R. Pringle were his war stories. The ex-Marine, to hear Pringle tell it, was single-handedly responsible for the rebellious nation of Grenada's capitulation in 1983. As Freddie would drone on about his military exploits, Costa liked to imagine Pringle establishing a beachhead, and with a giant megaphone begin telling stories to the Grenadian resistance until their eyes glazed over, and they threw down their arms imploring the Creator to shut Freddie up. Originally in Jorge's imaginings Pringle was pushed off his ship and forced to swim ashore through shark-infested waters, but more recently the obnoxious ranger with whom Costa shared an office was shoved, arms and legs flailing, out of an airplane's cargo bay.

How many times had the "war hero" pointed to the small scar on his forehead saying in his best John Wayne, "Grenada. Yeah, I was there, Man." He would shake his head and get a far away look in his eye as if recalling unimaginable scenes of carnage then say only, "There are three notches on my rifle."

Every week was the same. Next Freddie would summon a slight facial tremor, the kind one would acquire after escaping the gas chambers of Buchenwald or after surviving the Death March of Bataan.

"Yeah, I know you were there, man. You tell me every week." Initially it made Jorge uncomfortable to cut his associate off so abruptly, but as the weeks rolled by, the task became less troubling.

Ah, but Freddie really did have combat experience on the Caribbean Island. He graduated from high school in 1982 and enlisted straight away in the United States Marine Corps, figuring that they would mold him into the man Freddie had seen on recruiting posters.

He reported for boot camp a formless blob. But the Recruit Training Depot in San Diego was unfamiliar with the material that composed Mr. Freddie Pringle. The mystery substance resisted fabrication of any kind. No amount of liberally applied coercion, which the Corps termed "quarter-decking," could produce the metamorphosis upon which Freddie had pinned his hopes. The formless blob's graduation from boot camp was not the Marine Corps' finest hour.

Odd that a Phoenix Policeman six years later would do in five minutes what the military could not do in twelve weeks. The secret lay in knowing where to grab.

Two and a half decades after Grenada Freddie looked in the mirror. He rotated to the left then back again to the right; he tilted his large head rakishly and swept his hair away from his forehead. The Pringle forehead bore a symbol that set him apart from all other men—a Harry-Potteresque scar zigzagged down his temple. He touched it reverently and wondered if a little make-up would help it to stand out.

_Just to accentuate, it wouldn't mean I'm queer_ , he told himself.

Continuing to look in the mirror he experimented with his flat hat, tilting it severely so as not to cover the scar. But it looked stupid, and he rather disgustedly jammed his huge Stetson into the conventional position. Pringle was the only person in Arizona who believed that the forehead's primary function was display. To cover parts of it in the name of the National Park Service was a bitter pill to swallow.

The scar won Frederick Pringle honor on the battlefield including a Purple Heart and a Letter of Commendation, a letter he could quote word-for-word and often did with a tear in his eye.

But the scar had a will of its own. It held sway over Freddie, not he over it. Life would have been much simpler if the coconut had hit him in the middle of his forehead, instead of striking him far to the left. Now years later while introducing women to the General Lee, he felt the scar's pull. He was unable to look them square in the eye; his head rotated independent of Freddie. The scar positioned itself directly in the face of his intended. Like a chronic nail biter incapable of keeping his fingers out of his mouth, Freddie could not stop his token of battle. The war wound craved attention, but unlike Harry Potter's scar, went largely unnoticed despite how hard it tried. Poor Freddie, his head was always turned, and it listed like a sinking ship, giving people the false impression that the Pringle head was too heavy for the Pringle neck.

The disconsolate ranger could be philosophical. At least it got him off that "piece of shit" island back in 1983. He thought about the day it all went wrong. Freddie and the three others, comrades in arms, had dug a sandy pit near the intersection of two roads. They had orders to hold the position at all costs.

The tropical heat was palpable, the humidity so high it was like breathing liquid fire. Freddie's helmet lay on the grass within arm's reach.

Earlier, kids had been playing in the road twenty yards from their foxhole, and Freddie told them to "Get lost!" His first anthropology lesson on November 16, 1983, was that an extended middle finger meant essentially the same in Grenada as in Arizona, requiring no translation whatsoever.

_It's a small world_. The student of world cultures shook his head appreciatively.

After that the children redeployed up a hill that overlooked the intersection and Pringle's emplacement. The Marines could hear the kids laughing somewhere above them but not far away—Freddie recalled everything like it had happened only yesterday. The first sign of trouble came with a resounding "thud" which was followed by another and another. The kids were lobbing coconuts. Only then did Lance Corporal Pringle realize how many coconuts there were in Grenada. He reached for his helmet, but discovered that a battalion of Grenadian ants had bivouacked there and the tropical heat had made them surly. Pinned down for fifteen minutes by a fusillade of the largest coconuts he had ever seen (they still had the hulls on them and weren't wrapped in cellophane like supermarket coconuts), wide-eyed Freddie Pringle was primed.

Suddenly there was a rustling in the bushes. The lance corporal thought he saw a soldier in fatigues.

"Wait, Pringle, you idiot!"

But the man of action did not wait; he opened fire, and when the smoke cleared, discovered that he had dispatched three of the enemy's goats. To Pringle's credit, the kills were clean—the goats had not suffered.

Shortly afterwards, Freddie was struck by "the mother of all coconuts." He lost consciousness and was airlifted to a MASH unit. The goats became the subject of a barbecue where many glasses were raised to honor Freddie Pringle's poor judgment, and where the dangers of tropical produce were duly noted by the troops there assembled.

The staff of the mobile field hospital generally referred to Freddie as "Concussion/Temporal Contusion/Temporal Laceration." The doctor who looked in on him during the day was Captain Ravi Gupta, and could have passed for a member of the Grenadian insurrection. Doctor Gupta jabbed and prodded Freddie's wounded temple like he was trying to kill a spider with a stick, and he rebuked Freddie often for continuing to request morphine, calling him a "great big bulbous twit" in an accent that Freddie could not understand.

The Doctor on duty at night was a woman, and at the beginning of Freddie's recuperation, she referred to her patient as "Soldier" but later switched to "Concupiscent Skunk." Despite the fact that she had on more than one occasion declined an invitation to speak with the General Lee, Pringle felt that he had a chance with her. But unlike shooting goats, Freddie hesitated and before he could pull the trigger he was sent stateside to recover in a military hospital.

The concussion caused Pringle to hear noises similar to those made by crossing a bagpipe with a calliope, but the distracting sounds gradually diminished and were completely gone by the end of winter; the gash on his forehead responded to treatment and left him with both the modest scar which was to become his badge of honor and an aversion to coconuts. He did not regret returning home. He had done his duty and was square with God and Country. Anyway it was time for guys like him to step aside. _Let the diplomats hammer out the peace._ In his mind Frederic Remington Pringle was now John Wayne incarnate.

Jorge Costa was not alone. Other people found the military stylings of Field Marshal Pringle to be less than uplifting. In December of 2003, Freddie got drunk in a bar on the edge of Scottsdale's fashionable downtown. He pointed out his scar and spread his yarns to anyone who would listen (and to many who refused to listen), but the war hero mysteriously "disappeared" around 1:00 A.M.

Upon closing the register the owner noted that the receipts for the night were down and thought to himself: _That bigheaded jackass, drove off half the clientele. Pringle will no longer be welcome._ On the way to lock the front door, he noticed a leg protruding from a booth, and discovered that the windbag had passed out. Sprawled across the bench, Pringle snored loudly, and a line of drool hung from the edge of his mouth.

The proprietor dragged the unresponsive Pringle outside and left him on the front walk. He went back inside, got a black Sharpie, and returning wrote "DO NOT ASK HIM ABOUT THE SCAR," boldly across the broad expanse of white forehead. He circled the actual scar, drew an arrow to it, and double underlined "DO NOT." Freddie scrubbed for three days before washing off the permanent ink. Ranger Hanson suggested that the Pringle forehead would be a great place to post future Amber Alerts.

This Mr. Hyde version could hardly be the same Pringle that Hunter Hobson had met. In Hunter's words, there existed "two Pringles for the price of one."

CHAPTER 8: A JOB FOR A SPECIALIST

On April 13, 2004, the Governor of Arizona ordered a contingent of the state's Border Patrol to travel north and assist with the tracking and capture of the escapee William Boy Burk. "Day thirty" of Burk's run from justice had come and gone, and the embarrassing episode had caught the jaundiced eye of the nation's yellow press. People from Seattle to Miami could pick up a paper and read about the latest Burk sightings and police blunders. The humiliating chapter of Arizona history had to end—and end quickly.

About this time Burk wanted-posters began to circulate throughout the northern half of Arizona. They warned the citizenry to be on the lookout for the accused killer, that he was armed and dangerous, that no one should attempt to apprehend him, and added a tip-line with three different numbers to call. A lofty $25,000 reward was being offered for information leading to the criminal's capture.

And there was a picture of dark-haired Billy Boy who some accused of being handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way. The Billy in the picture seemed to be without a care in the world. This Billy was free; he was an apparition; he could appear and disappear; he could confuse and befuddle; and he gazed from a thousand places, from telephone poles, from bank windows, and from Post Office bulletin boards. He looked out at the people of Arizona with reckless abandon and with a smile that seemed to defiantly challenge, "I'm good at being bad, and nobody can catch me!"

But there was a problem. The placards were disappearing as fast as they could be printed because Billy Boy's wanted poster was becoming a hot collectable going anywhere from ten to twenty dollars on the Internet. The department's response was to flood the state with Burk's image and hope for the best.

* * *

There were three Billy Burk posters at the Grand Canyon's Backcountry Office, one behind glass on the bulletin board outside the building, a second taped to the wall above the coffee pot in the break room, and a third, wrinkled from being folded and unfolded countless times was clutched in the hands of Freddie Pringle.

It was late in the afternoon of May third. Hunter Hobson had just gotten off the phone with his friend Jorge Costa, and the son prepared to call the dad back at the condo in Venice, California, to let him know that the hiking permit was in the bag.

Hunched over his desk in the Backcountry Office, Jorge battled to complete overdue paperwork—a task made next to impossible because at the same time and in the same place Freddie Pringle was holding forth. The rookie ranger struggled desperately to ignore the oratory.

An animated Freddie waved the battered Billy Burk placard in the air. The veteran ranger was in the middle of a tirade about, on one hand, how the "inept" Arizona Highway Patrol was handling the Burk fiasco, and on the other, how the "contemptible" U.S. Supreme Court had tied the hands of law enforcement making it impossible for the police to be anything but inept.

Earlier Pringle had railed against political correctness stating how a "kid" of his would never know the pleasure of calling someone a "spaz." Ranger Costa had bitten on this one saying, "Pringle, now that's just not right, and besides, you don't even have a child." Twenty minutes later the young ranger was just getting back to ignoring Freddie having been entangled in another senseless Pringle debate. Mad at himself for being so easily flushed from cover Jorge vowed not to be baited the next time.

"Do you know what I'd do if I ran into Billy Boy?" It didn't seem to bother Freddie that Jorge was ignoring him.

"Issue him the wrong permit probably." Ranger Hanson was on the other side of the room bent low over a file cabinet searching through its contents. He spoke nonchalantly barely loud enough for all to hear.

Jorge coughed and laughed simultaneously; he kept his eyes glued to the papers on his desk. Facing Pringle would give Freddie another opening to pry him away from work and provoke a second futile conversation.

"Not talking to you, Hanson," Freddie scowled but did not turn in Hanson's direction.

By this time Ranger Hanson had found the folder he was looking for and said as he left the room, "Thank God for small favors, Pringle."

Freddie, accustomed to skeptics, got back on track in no time, "I'd disarm him." He stood, his back to the walkup window of which he was in charge and did a karate move on an imaginary Billy Boy.

Jorge pretended Pringle did not exist.

"They taught us that move in boot; I was the best in my battalion. Not company mind you, I'm talkin' battalion, Man." Through the years, the older the former Marine became, the better he had been. Given the direction things were headed, by the time Freddie would turn seventy, he would remember that he had been a cross between Hercules and Jesus Christ.

Everyone in the office was sadly aware of the fact that Pringle was full of shit; he might as well have been talking to himself, but just then he didn't care because the ex-Marine was on a roll. Freddie tried the karate move four more times, making "HEE!, HEE!, HAA!, HAA!," sounds and feints. The imaginary Billy was no match for Pringle. The ranger advanced across the room, stymieing Billy's counter moves. A final strike and "Imaginary Billy" lay in a heap. Pringle wheeled around to face the vacated walkup window while holding his hands menacingly like lethal weapons.

"OH, SHEEE-IT!" Freddie exclaimed. A bewildered tourist stood at the counter waiting to ask a question. There was a map in the man's hands and confusion written on his face.

Four strides were required for the interrupted park ranger to cross over to the service counter. "YOU LOST OR SUMP'IN'?" Freddie asked using the same voice he'd used on the phone with Hunter Hobson twenty minutes earlier—the Mr. Hyde voice.

"Ah . . . well, yeah. Guess I am."

"WHERE YOU WANNA GO? COME ON, OUT WITH IT!"

The flustered man fumbled with the map.

"You seeing this guy?" Pringle said half under his breath but loud enough for the tourist to hear. Pringle looked over at Jorge vainly trying to enlist the "Rookie" in a game of "tourist busting." But Jorge was having none of it.

"Uh . . . how do I get to here?" The man pointed to a smudge on the map that had Maswik Lodge written next to it. The Lodge was fifty yards away on the other side of the railroad tracks that brought daily trainloads of tourists up from Williams, Arizona. Turn to his right and the man would have been looking directly at his objective. At most the lodge could be reached from the Backcountry Office after a casual two-minute stroll.

With mischief in his eye Freddie Pringle rubbed his chin and asked "MASWIK?" saying the word and simultaneously making a face like he was staring at the contents of a stopped-up toilet.

The man repeated after Pringle, "Mazz-wink," mucking up the pronunciation.

"WICK, WICK, NOT WINK! JESUS, MAN." Then Pringle continued while pointing to the front of the Backcountry Office building, "SEE THAT SIGN? WELL THAT SIGN SAYS BUS STOP. EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES A VILLAGE LINE BUS STOPS THERE."

"Village line," the tourist parroted, committing Ranger Pringle's instructions to memory.

"GET ON THE BUS, IT'LL TAKE YOU RIGHT WHERE YOU WANT TO GO."

"Ah . . . thanks." The man turned, folded his map, which did not want to be folded, and walked the twenty steps necessary to be standing beside the bus stop sign.

Jorge silently rose from his chair, ambled slowly across the room, and left by a side entrance. "Hey, buddy," he said thirty seconds later to the man awaiting the Village Line bus as Pringle had directed. "Where was it you wanted to go?"

"Mazz-wink Lodge."

"Well, Maswik Lodge is right there. If you take the bus, it's a sixty-minute ride. It . . . it makes a big loop you see."

"But the guy said . . ," the tourist made a mild protest.

"I'm sorry about him . . . he uh," Jorge searched for the right words, ". . . was in combat, suffered a head wound." Jorge pointed feebly to his own head and shrugged apologetically.

"Oh? Whose side was the bastard on?" The man then stuffed his mangled map in a garbage can and stomped off in the direction of the lodge.

Good question," Jorge said more to himself than to the retreating tourist, and the rookie ranger turned and headed back to the side door.

When Costa returned to the office, Pringle had his head in Hanson's door. By this time Freddie had hog-tied Imaginary Billy and was leading him around by the nose.

"I'd take him over to Thurman's Office, march Burk around over there." Thurman was the new no-nonsense Park Superintendent in charge of the whole shebang. He was in the midst of cleaning house and streamlining operations, trying to do more with less money. People were already beginning to call him "The Thurmanator"—but not to his face.

Hanson perked up, "Oh, that reminds me. Did you read the note that I put on your desk? Thurman's secretary called when you stepped out for a donut. Seems the boss man wants to talk to you tomorrow in his office, 9:00 A.M. sharp."

"She say what about?" Freddie asked.

"Nope. Thurman probably wants to know if he's doing a good job." And the ranger added sarcastically, "I'm sure he values your opinion."

From where he sat Jorge couldn't see, but figured Hanson had a snide smile on his face.

Ranger Pringle shut up and walked around the place looking paler than usual.

After a while he asked in an uncharacteristically quiet tone, "Costa, did you set that guy straight?" Jorge didn't answer. "What have I been sayin' to you? You tell'm what they want to know, they just come back the next day with more questions." The voice of experience had managed to hang on with the Park Service for fourteen years but was wondering if The Thurmanator was about to put an end to his streak.

* * *

At 9:00 A.M. the morning of May fourth, Freddie Pringle, hat in hand, hair combed over to reveal his scar, sat in a chair outside Roger Thurman's office. The secretary told him to wait and looked suspiciously over her glasses in Freddie's direction as if she were afraid he was about to steal the furniture. Actually, she found it annoying the way Pringle pivoted his head keeping the left side of his expansive forehead constantly pointed toward her like some alien beacon. She had trouble concentrating as long as the peculiar ranger was honing in on her.

Freddie looked at the plaques on the wall: awards, diplomas, and posters with inspirational messages. _I could do this job_ , he thought. _Secretary to do the heavy lifting_. _Get some toady to run errands. Hell, bring in six figures not including fringes, meals, fact-finding trips abroad_.

He glanced at the woman behind the desk and thought he caught her counting the items of value in his vicinity. _Is she part of Thurman's benefit package?_ He fantasized about the things he would do with her, if he were in charge; the General Lee stirred and his scar began to throb.

The secretary shot Pringle a nervous glance when she thought she heard something that sounded like, "Zall right," coming from Freddie's corner of the room.

Inside the office Superintendent Thurman reviewed Ranger Pringle's file and was amazed to find that Pringle had been transferred around the park like a hot potato. Each change had been accompanied by poor performance reviews and a host of patron complaints.

"Rude and obnoxious." "I've never felt more humiliated!" "Ate baloney sandwich, couldn't understand a word he said." "Spilled coffee on my permit, claimed it was my fault." "Misdirected to the privy when I was in urgent need." The litany continued for several pages.

He wondered: _Why hadn't any of my predecessors fired this guy?_

New to the Grand Canyon Thurman was not familiar with the troublemakers. His meteoric rise in the Park Service was legend, part street fighter, part politician. He longed for a cabinet position, and Secretary of the Interior would suit him just fine. Entertainment, building bridges, mending fences, and care not to ruffle important feathers were major parts of his repertoire, and he could point to many successes. Someday he would call in a few favors.

The Pringle file included a curious mix of awards and certificates: Boy Scouts, American Society of Pediatric Nurses, Montana Goat Herders Association. Thurman began to rapidly sift through the stack: NRA, PTA, SPCA. It escaped him that most were on the same bond paper and that Frederic Remington Pringle was printed in Times New Roman on them all.

Suddenly The Thurmanator stopped in his tracks. He cradled in his hands two letters, one "From the Office of United States Senator Jon Kyl." Just the man Roger Thurman wanted to get to know, Arizona Senator and Chairman of the Republican Policy Committee! But the other letter, which Thurman handled as if it were a religious relic, was from none other than Arizona's other Senator, the Honorable John McCain. Yes, McCain was old, but still there was an outside chance that he might someday need to fill a cabinet, and Roger Thurman, dedicated, selfless "Servant of the People" wanted to be at the top of the list.

He read what the esteemed Arizona Republicans had to say about Ranger Pringle, . . . decorated soldier, . . . Purple Heart. Both letters went on and on, testimonials to Pringle greatness.

_My God! Pringle has connections_. The man had two "Get Out of Jail" cards, which Thurman the politician recognized immediately. _With letters like these, Pringle can do anything short of slaughtering and eating the Park's beloved mules_ , thought an astonished Roger Thurman.

On the other side of the door the ranger in question sat calmly. He figured the superintendent had found the letters. They were truly masterpieces, but were they enough? And in his mind Freddie began composing a letter of recommendation from then President George W. Bush. _Or would that be overkill? Like wearing three condoms._ He'd see how things went with the superintendent first.

The secretary seemed surprised when Thurman himself opened his door, greeted the bigheaded alien, and personally escorted the goon into his office. He glanced at her and said, "Gretchen, hold my calls."

" _Simper Fi_ ," was the first thing Thurman said to Freddie once he closed the door behind them.

Freddie reciprocated and immediately started thinking that he would not need to forge another letter.

After spotting the testimonials from the influential Senators, Thurman had done some quick thinking and formulated a plan of action. Clearly his socially challenged employee with the exceptional political contacts should have limited interactions with other humans. But where to put him?

An ex-Marine, like himself, would probably enjoy a life in the great outdoors. The Grand Canyon had plenty of outdoors, a bit too much as far as the superintendent in charge of managing it was concerned. _Why not release Pringle in the canyon like a feral cat? There he could ostensibly check hiker permits, write citations for violations, and report back on trail conditions. That's it! Special Agent Fred Pringle. He would be responsible for patrolling the remote backcountry._

Plainly backcountry hikers deserved rude treatment, and Pringle was just the man. Thurman had frequent run-ins with them, a self-righteous group, always dead certain that they knew best. Attending public hearings, reading statements into the record, didn't they know when they were being patronized and that those decisions had already been made? They even formed their own association, which supported a chat room. Half the time Thurman could feel them breathing down his neck, and he did not care one bit for their close attention.

The Superintendent fanned through the patron complaints in Pringle's file and thought to himself: _Yes, this is a job for a specialist_.

Pringle sat opposite The Thurmanator waiting to hear the man out. Roger Thurman solicitously leaned forward and tried to be delicate, "Fred, can I call you Fred?"

Pringle nodded.

"Of all my rangers, you stand out. But not necessarily in a good way. You do have qualities, however. Qualities that, heretofore, have not been properly utilized to either your advantage or to the Park's advantage."

_Where is this guy going?_ Freddie had no clue.

Five minutes later Superintendent Thurman had finished describing Ranger Pringle's new title and job description.

At the conclusion Freddie had only one question, "Will I be issued a gun?"

While studying Freddie's personnel file, Thurman hadn't decided whether Pringle was more of a danger to the touring public or to Pringle himself. The Superintendent rubbed his chin and said in a thoughtful monotone, "Not at this time."

Freddie took the news rather hard, "I can use a gun; I shot a man once!"

Holding up the file, Thurman in the same calm monotone said, "Pringle, you shot yourself. Says so right here."

"That counts doesn't it?"

"Yes, it counts. But not in your favor."

Freddie glanced down at his duct-taped right shoe and realized the ground he stood on was shaky at best. He wondered if he would ever live down shooting his own foot while practicing quick draws in a mirror. The people downstairs still glared at him every time they met.

At least it was only a crease. What hurt worse was the store manager's rebuff when he tried to get a refund. The shoes were only one week old. They should have held up better.

The punk manager, barely out of high school, tried to get funny with him. "We at Staylee's Shoes for Less, where our customers purchase quality at half the price, do not consider 'bullet hole' a sufficient reason to grant a refund."

The smirking son-of-a-bitch. Had the smart aleck turned fifteen yet?

When Freddie countered saying it occurred in the line of duty, the kid fired back, "In the line of duty? What? Smoky the Bear go on a rampage? Shoot you in the foot, did he?"

The disappointed ranger turned and hobbled out of the store, deciding that he would have to make due with the shoes as they were.

Thurman let Pringle set aside all of Wednesday for preparation, and Thursday the sixth would be his first day in the canyon as Special Agent.

Never one to relish the "great outdoors," Freddie was not entirely pleased with the new assignment, but the substantial raise he was promised had softened the blow. And best of all, that smart-ass Hanson would be burning mad.

The following memo was delivered to Pringle by noon of the same day:

TO: Special Agent Fred Pringle

FROM: Superintendent Roger Thurman

SUBJECT: Backcountry Patrol, May 6-10, 2004

DATE: Tuesday, May 4, 2004

Your orders are to, on May 6, proceed on foot down the New Hance Trail and camp at its termination adjacent to the Colorado River. You are to stay at that location until the 10th, whereupon you will exit the canyon by the same trail.

You will have at your disposal a Park Service vehicle which you can pick up from the motor pool today.

While on assignment you will:

> Check backpacker permits, writing citations when merited.

> Check rafting party permits, again writing citations for violations.

> Report on trail conditions which may necessitate future maintenance.

Included are appropriate maps and a voucher for provisions. Good luck and congratulations.

_Congratulations?_ Pringle weighed the pluses and the minuses. He liked sitting on his butt all day in air-conditioning which is what he had mainly done while working in the Backcountry Office. Summer was around the corner. It regularly climbed to 120 degrees in the canyon, and that was in the shade. He wouldn't miss the jerks in the office, and they wouldn't miss him.

_I don't give a rat's ass_ , he insisted silently.

The thought passed through his mind that Hanson and the crew would probably throw a party to celebrate his leaving, and he fleetingly wondered why he never seemed to fit in.

Late on the morning of the sixth Pringle got into the Park Service truck, and set his backpack loaded with five days of provisions on the seat next to him. Hearing the trail map crumple underneath the pack, Freddie leaned over, retrieved it, and did his best to smooth out a crimp in the corner. For the tenth time he read the memo detailing his orders then laid it on top of the map next to the pack.

The special agent pulled out of the staff-housing parking lot, and drove past the mule barn. The wranglers were readying a string of mules to haul another bunch of tourists to the Phantom Ranch at the canyon bottom.

The drive to the New Hance Trailhead would take thirty minutes, but he felt in no hurry. It occurred to him that he would have no boss looking over his shoulder as "Special Agent," a major plus. _Why not take my time?_

As he approached the Mather Point Overlook he yawned and could see the canyon through a break in the trees. It struck him that he hadn't taken a look at the place for quite some time, and on the spur of the moment signaled to make a turn into the parking lot. A minute later Freddie was leaning on a railing, wishing he had a cup of coffee. A breeze was blowing but not hard enough to threaten his flat hat. Twenty feet in front of him the earth fell away, and somewhere down below flowed the river taking with it bits and pieces of Arizona, Utah, and Colorado to dump as mud in Mexican territory. Someday Mexico would recover through processes of geology what it lost because of "Manifest Destiny."

Special Agent Fred Pringle felt a tug on his shirtsleeve. He glanced down to his right. A small child, seven years old Freddie guessed, stared at him. The kid looked straight up and in the process tilted his head so far back that it intersected the line of his body at a ninety-degree angle forming an upside-down letter "L," which, to the Park Service's only Special Agent, looked extremely uncomfortable. Pringle stared back. The Special Agent felt a twinge of disappointment when he sensed that the kid was experiencing no discomfort whatsoever. Pringle found all children to be hideous, but this specimen seemed particularly objectionable: coke-bottle glasses, ill-fitting clothing, and a baseball cap that declared him to be a fan of the Chicago Cubs. The kid just stood there looking skyward.

The old Pringle would have said, "The canyon's that way son. Why don't you step closer to the edge?" but Special Agent Fred Pringle decided to remain aloof, and he turned his head to once again take in the view.

The standoff lasted two minutes when, "Hey, Mister," issued from the urchin's mouth. It was a decidedly nonstandard voice—a harsh noise that one would expect from a steroid-abusing bullfrog. The kid with the curious speech problem secured Freddie's attention.

Pringle turned and looked down ready to field the bullfrog's question. "Do many people fall?"

He should have guessed; it was the most commonly asked question. In Freddie's experience tourists were a morbid bunch. All the rangers had been coached and given a standard answer. Rangers were like talking dolls, "Ask Freddie a question then pull his string." In a mechanical voice Pringle reported the statistics, "There have been close to 100 deaths attributed to falls in Grand Canyon National Park, and these include suicides."

The frog croaked out a follow-up, "Suicides . . . you get many of dem?"

Another string pulled, Freddie began in a monotone, "Over forty visitors have chosen to end their lives at Grand Canyon National Park since the park was established by an act of congress in 1918 and signed into law by Woodrow Wilson the following year."

"We rented that movie. You know the one. The two women, they drive over the edge. Oh, what was it called?"

The unexpected voice came from behind him, and, a startled Special Agent Pringle turned around. A larger version of the bullfrog stood in front of him scratching his head with the bill of a Cub hat. There could be no doubt. This was the child's father—same voice, same lack of visual acuity, and same disturbing sense of fashion.

Freddie began to rethink things: _This guy would be the bullfrog, and that would make his kid the tadpole._

" _Thelma and Louise_ ," rolled off Pringle's tongue sounding like it came from a computer.

"Oh yeah, that's it. Were you here when it was filmed?"

Freddie had fielded this question a hundred times; he was just going through the motions. "The movie wasn't shot here."

The Frog, father of the Tadpole, said, "Oh, sure it was. Drove right over the edge." He next signaled with his hand mimicking a car falling through the air and made a funny click with his tongue to signify impact and total destruction.

Another string pulled, and Freddie spewed, "They said it was the Grand Canyon, and it looked like the Grand Canyon, but the scene was actually shot 200 miles north and east of here in Utah's Deadhorse Point State Park."

Eventually the Frog and his spawn walked away. And Freddy too strolled back to his truck still in no hurry. It was time to start his first assignment as Special Agent Fred Pringle, and he felt that this would be a new beginning for himself. A new Freddie was about to emerge. He patted his pocket and could feel the full pad of citation forms. _Time to write some tickets._ And he reached to get into the Park Service truck.

Frederic Remington Pringle did not think it strange when two Japanese tourists stepped out of a nearby bus followed closely by a priest whom Freddie thought looked curiously familiar. He tried to ignore them as they walked in his direction but found it difficult when the man of the cloth stuck a gun in his face.

END OF BOOK ONE

The following two chapters are from Book Two. Please, read on. If you would like more, visit my page at Smashwords.com.

### Book Two: Flying High

CHAPTER 1: VERNON PICKLE

Vernon Pickle turned twenty-two on the sixteenth of April, 2002, and used the occasion to rob a liquor store called the Palace of Poison in his hometown of Prescott, Arizona. It was his first robbery and earned him a dubious distinction.

Brandishing a starter's pistol he contorted his unusual face (his nose was too large and his ears protruded too far) into a menacing snarl and pushed through the door of the liquor store on North Montezuma Street, a questionable part of town where people of pedigree were seldom seen.

A menacing snarl was a stretch for Vernon. He had practiced in the mirror with less than convincing results. The clerk initially feared that the young man erratically waving a gun in the air was about to be sick, and he hurriedly removed from the counter an open jar of Beef Stixs.

On Vernon's first attempt to speak his head jerked and his mouth opened, but he was only able to extend his tongue ejecting an undecipherable noise in the process. The gesture reminded the clerk of a cat expelling a hairball, except the man with the gun displayed far less grace and sophistication.

A rattled Vernon Pickle tried to collect himself: _Voice, have to work on voice; stay focused; BE DECISIVE, EYE CONTACT, FIRM VOICE._ To Vernon Pickle these were the three critical elements of a successful holdup . . . and a gun . . . or something that would reasonably pass for a gun. This much he had gleaned from a wed site entitled _Armed Robbery for Idiots._

Struggling to regain control, he closed his eyes, pressed a skinny finger to his temple, and repeated the mantra in his head, _BE DECISIVE, EYE CONTACT, FIRM VOICE_. Finally Vernon blurted out, "Gim'me da cash!"

The first sounds out of Vernon's mouth, the unintelligible sounds, only reinforced in the mind of the clerk that the young man was, indeed, about to vomit. But when Vernon provided clarification about wanting cash only, the clerk seemed thankful to learn that the impending transaction was merely financial and nothing more. Raising his hands shoulder high he asked respectfully, "Pardon me, Sir, but . . . ah . . . plastic okay?"

Vernon cleared his throat, riveted his eyes onto those of the clerk, and demanded coldly and without hesitation, "Okay!" _BE DECISIVE, EYE CONTACT, FIRM VOICE._

When the clerk handed him a plastic bag full of money, Vernon Pickle thought: _This is too easy. Why did I wait so long to get started?_

"Hu . . . hu . . . hold on," Vernon stuttered and scanned the shelves behind the counter. "And a bottle of Scotch."

"Can't," the clerk said calmly but emphatically while lowering his arms a bit.

"What?"

"You're obviously not twenty-one."

Vernon seemed to forget about the startering pistol, which he now held limply in his hand. "I am too!"

"No, you're not," the clerk shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.

Vernon stammered making no reply. _Decisive contact, be voice, firm eye._ He repeated the mantra in his head, but this time the words seemed to twist and turn and collide with one another much like the bumper cars at the Yavapai County Fair.

The clerk had sized up the tongue-tied robber as essentially harmless when he noticed the red plug that sealed the gun's barrel. Having been an assistant track coach, he was familiar with the starting pistol's common safety feature "Look Buddy, I've been cited twice this month for sellin' liquor to a minor. One more time, I lose my license, permanent."

"But I AM!" Vernon Pickle lied about most things, but damn, this time he was telling the truth.

Arms crossed, the clerk stood his ground and denied Vernon the Scotch once again.

_The man did have a point_ , the unfortunate robber conceded as a familiar hopelessness began to seep into his brain. All the Pickles were short and looked younger than they actually were.

"But I . . ."

"Kid, no way you're walking outta here with a bottle of Scotch unless you can prove you're twenty-one."

Vernon lost his edge, and he vainly tried to regroup. _Be decisive, eye contact, and what was that other thing?_ He thought as he reached for his wallet. Twenty-two-year-old Vernon Pickle managed a disdainful sneer and produced a disgusted "Humph," when the clerk learned that he had been wrong.

The celebrant got his bottle of Scotch, and it turned out to be a memorable birthday. Later a cop arrested him in the living room of the double wide he shared with his parents. He had not seen it coming.

His mother and father were watching TV, and each took time out to call him "Dumb Ass" during a commercial break. As Vernon was being taken from the room in handcuffs, his mother said to the departing officer, "Twenty-five years we've been married, and he's all we have to show for it." She then attempted a shrug intended to portray her disgust, but in the process only managed to spill her beer.

Meanwhile his father, annoyed by the interruption, kept his eyes glued to the television and adjusted the volume upward with the remote.

* * *

Vernon Pickle turned out to be a model prisoner and came very close to passing his G.E.D. Eventually, he was placed in the correctional center's Auto Body Repair Program and was surprised to discover that he liked working on damaged cars. He was quite good at it too. They gave him a certificate and gave him something else that he had not gotten much of in the past: praise. With credit for good behavior he was back on the street in time to celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday.

Pickle was a better person behind bars, and he claimed it was due to the fact that on the outside he was always in trouble with the "ladies." Substitute the word "alcohol" for the word "ladies" and one would have been closer to the truth; in actual fact, Vernon repelled members of the opposite sex. Even with pockets stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, he would have had trouble getting laid in a whorehouse for Vernon Pickle had the uncanny ability to consistently say the wrong thing.

Just being near a woman would send his brain into a synaptic frenzy resulting in an inevitable overload. When clever conversation was called for, his mind would go blank, and the expanding pool of silence triggered panic. That is when it would happen.

Out of the blue statements like "Yeh can't really get warts from a toad" were not beyond him. And once he asked a pretty brunette if she thought Andre the Giant could win in a fight with an anaconda. She looked at him blankly then shook her head in astonishment, and he misunderstood her confusion and said, "Nah, me neither."

In the twenty months he'd spent in prison he had only one visitor and had received only one letter. Both the visit and the letter were from his Aunt Pauline of Payson. She was just two years older than he, so they treated each other more like cousins, and, relative or no relative, she was the only female he did not repel and who did not set off Vernon's verbal seizures.

Most of her visit was spent comparing tattoos, and as she had far more and in far more interesting places than he, their conversation attracted the attention of several of the other prisoners who were in the visiting room that day.

Pauline's letter came right before Christmas and included a short note and a hand-drawn card. On the card was a masturbating Santa. Until then he had not realized that his aunt was an artist.

The note began "Dear Asshole," (she seldom called him Vernon but alternated between Asshole and Shit Head. These terms she considered endearments and held in reserve for those lucky enough to be members of her inner circle). The inscription read, "Santa's pretty busy here at the Pole and sure could use an extra hand." Pauline was his favorite Aunt.

After the botched holdup and while Vernon was awaiting trial, the _Prescott Times-Picayune_ turned the hold-up at The Palace of Poison into a big deal, and, further made Pickle out to be an idiot. _Unbelievable._ Vernon shook his head as he read the article and looked at the accompanying photo featuring the arresting officer and the liquor store clerk, both doubled over in laughter. _UN-BE-lievable_.

Pickle's reputation took another hit one month later. Someone sent the newspaper article to the Tonight Show in care of Jay Leno. Leno leaned and turned toward the band, "Kevin, you know what I love?"

"Stupid criminals."

Vernon Pickle watched the TV in horror. _UN-FUCKING-BE-lievable!_

CHAPTER 2: OSCAR PUM AND THE RED DOG

After release from prison Vernon's return to Prescott did not produce the happy reunion that he had anticipated. In fact Vernon was received with the same warmness that one normally reserves for a turd in the punch bowl.

Unlike the Payson Pickles (his father had a low opinion of the Payson branch of the Pickle tree), the Prescott Pickles were proud. They were self-righteous and unforgiving as well, and Vernon had cast a dark shadow upon their house (make that modular home)—a shadow that loomed every bit as large as their monthly mortgage payment. And, try as he might, young Pickle could make neither shadow nor installment go away.

In town Vernon had attained a degree of notoriety. Children on bikes frequently stopped and pointed. He would hear them whisper, "There's that dumb ass Vernon Pickle. Show'd his I.D. durin' a stick-up."

"Yeah, I heard about that guy."

"He looks like a moron, don't he?"

Then they would pedal off in a flurry as if stupidity was contagious and Vernon was the Typhoid Mary of "dumb."

And so with a touch of sadness and with very little fanfare Vernon moved to Flagstaff. Still he was glad to be a Pickle, and he held his head high. But as Prescott faded in his rearview mirror, he decided that, if ever asked, he would say that he hailed from Payson, Arizona.

On his twenty-fourth birthday Vernon was alone drinking shots of cheap whiskey and chasing them with beer in Flagstaff's Red Dog Saloon. He liked what he saw of Flagstaff. Sure, it was colder and the air was thinner, but he could walk down the street and not be called "Dumb Ass."

While watching the streams of bubbles rising through his beer, he pondered to himself: _Why would anybody want to be a celebrity?_ And he started feeling sorry for guys like Brad Pitt.

Behind the bar was a large mirror, which allowed Vernon to sneak looks at patrons without being detected. He could eavesdrop and spy on the people doing the talking. Taped to the mirror was the picture of another celebrity of sorts, the wanted poster of the fugitive Billy Boy Burk.

Smiling Billy's rugged face stared out at the Red Dog's greasy clientele, and Vernon Pickle could not help but envy the murderer and his wild, good looks. _It's safe to say nobody calls Billy a dumb ass and gets away with it,_ Vernon said to himself sadly—his silent declaration contained a hint of personal denunciation.

In fact people in the Red Dog had nothing but good things to say concerning the slippery Billy Boy. Earlier Pickle overheard a mahogany-faced gentleman dressed in blue jeans and a buckskin vest two stools down say that he knew somebody who knew someone else who was acquainted with Billy back when Billy lived in Winslow. Said Burk was a quiet guy, and kept to himself. In twenty years he hadn't caused a lick of trouble and volunteered most weekends at the local Humane Society.

Shortly after that a lady with green hair and a lacy shawl three stools in the other direction said she heard that the man that Burk killed had worked for the Bureau of Land Management, and she said it in such a way as to imply that killing a BLM official didn't count so much as murder but was an offense more on the order of overdue library books. The old man she talked to nodded in agreement.

The Red Dog did a steady business on Friday nights. People were constantly coming and going. Vernon looked up from his beer. The stool to his right was the only empty seat in the house, and he was having trouble getting the bar tender's attention.

As he leaned forward and waved a hand to order more drinks, he became vaguely aware that someone had settled on the adjacent bar stool. He detected the smell of paint but paid it no mind until a new shot and a new beer were in front of him.

Earlier that day Pickle had gotten a tattoo on his upper right arm, his third in all, and though it was a cold day and where he sat at the bar was too close to the door and too far from the heat vent, he wore a short-sleeved tee shirt hoping that people would notice. The arm had been tender, but after two beer-shot combinations, he felt a warm whiskey glow and no discomfort whatsoever.

Vernon looked in the mirror then glanced to his right. _That dudes' big!_ He had just observed, when it registered—the paint smell. Vernon had smelled that exact same odor five days a week for thirteen months. _The dude works in a body shop_ , he said to himself with a degree of satisfaction.

_I should get to know him, buy him a drink maybe._ Vernon's mind was working, mulling over the possibilities. He needed a job, and he had a certificate issued by the State of Arizona saying he was qualified to do auto body repair.

* * *

To Oscar Pum the strange little guy next to him at the bar of the Red Dog was a nuisance at first . . . wired too tight for his taste . . . drinking shots . . . talking shit about Jay Leno. And that new tattoo, Oscar thought it looked like a dog turd with wings. He kept stealing glances at it to make certain.

Pum came into the Red Dog on Fridays after work for one thing only—to sit at the bar and drink beer until closing. It was not Oscar's nature to talk much. After four or five beers, he could manage a little conversation, and even then he rarely used whole sentences. But the curious tattoo was too much. So after beer number three, Oscar flat out asked, "New tat?"

Vernon Pickle sat up a little straighter, happy that someone had noticed. "Yeah, got it today," he said as he glanced at his upper arm still reddish and angry looking.

"What is it?"

"It's a gherkin."

"A what?"

"A gherkin—a pickle. That's my name."

"Your name is Gherkin?"

"No Pickle. Vernon Pickle . . .so I had a pickle tattooed . . .," Vernon watched Oscar's face go blank.

The big guy with short, dark hair, simian forehead, and the smell of paint leaned over to inspect the flying gherkin—got his face five inches from the new tattoo, a little too close as far as Vernon was concerned.

"Oh yeah, a pickle!" Oscar's face erupted in a smile as his brain crossed out dog turd and replaced it with pickle. Now it was as plain as day. "A Coat of Arms."

"Say again?"

And Oscar Pum began a long explanation—long for him anyway. "A Coat of Arms. It's like a family's symbol. Um, winged pickle . . . might be you're on the move . . . or . . . flyin' high . . ." The big guy leaned back, looked up toward the ceiling, nodded, and appeared extremely pleased with himself.

"Flyin' high, that's me alright." Vernon gave a short laugh. But he liked the idea—The Pickle Coat of Arms. The only other one could be found on Aunt Pauline's upper thigh, and he recalled the thrill that went through him the first time he saw it.

"Name's Oscar Pum. From Texas . . . originally. Live here now."

The big guy extended a hand the size of a catcher's mitt, which Vernon shook, saying he was from Payson and added, "It's in Arizona."

Oscar nodded and simultaneously issued an, "Umm," then drained the glass that had rested in front of him.

Pum's short, black hair started in the front an inch lower than the average person's, giving strangers the impression that the man from Texas had very little in the way of forehead—a physical feature that likewise lent him a certain " _aire de Neanderthal_ " quality and the appearance that Oscar and his kin had not yet acquired the ability to paint pictures of animals on the walls of caves.

His bushy eyebrows were like two hairy, black caterpillars, which had parked a little too close to one another, and their proximity to his coal-black eyes fooled many into thinking that Oscar Pum possessed a malevolent nature. While in actual fact there was not a mean bone in the big man's body. He was laid back and as gentle as a kitten unless riled. And fortunately Oscar Pum was slow to rile.

Although they were physical opposites, it turned out that Vernon and Oscar had a lot in common—beer for starters. They were content to drink all night, which is exactly what they proceeded to do. And it did not escape Oscar that for a little guy this new acquaintance could absorb quite a bit of the amber liquid, a quality that in the Red Dog, affords one high social standing.

Jerry Springer was another interest that the two shared, and altogether they spent three hours recounting "Springer Classics." At one point Vernon jumped off his bar stool, and acted out two transvestites playing tug-a-war with a wig while Oscar pounded the bar and laughed.

As Vernon regained his bar stool wiping tears from his eyes he asked, "You remember da midget who . . . who had half of a Bible verse tattooed on his arm and . . . and da midget's twin was supposed ta get da utter half done on his, . . . but . . . but . . ."

When the little man could no longer speak tongue-tied as he was by laughter, Oscar Pum picked up the story mid-sentence and finished for his new friend, ". . . Den da utter twin went Buddhist or sometin' and changed his mind."

"Dat was . . . (HEE-HEE. . . COUGH) . . . dat was some fight (SNORT, SNORT, SNORT . . .)," Vernon waxed nostalgically. Tears blurred his vision, and he coughed sending a mouthful of beer to travel the maze of his sinus passages triggering a series of nasal sounds similar to the mating call of a Wart Hog, a sound seldom heard in Northern Arizona correspondingly turning several heads. By some miracle a small amount of the sudsy liquid completed the journey and trickled out of Pickle's generous nostrils.

Before the evening was over, the man from the "House of the Flying Gherkin" made sure that Oscar Pum knew that he held a certificate in Auto Body Repair. To which Oscar responded, "Yeh know what? I got one too. 'Cept in Texas it's called Collision Repair Technology. Yeh had ta learn ta spell it too." Then pausing, he added sadly, "Wisht it would'a been called Auto Body. I almost didn' pass."

Vernon looked up at Oscar, not sure if he was serious. Then the big guy broke into a smile and laughed long and hard. Sometime during the long, hard laughter, Oscar gave Vernon a good-natured slap on the back.

Now Oscar was not one to laugh much—the Pums of south Texas being a dour bunch. You might even say that laughter was new to Oscar, but somehow, this small guy with big ears and an over-sized nose could make him laugh and did make him laugh. Why Oscar himself even cracked a joke. Such a thing would have been unheard of in the Pum household when Oscar was a boy and would have been received with silence and vacant stares.

Likewise, it wasn't everyday that Oscar gave people "good-natured slaps," and unfortunately he was very much out of practice. Not knowing his own strength, the slap nearly "dethroned" Vernon, who, being on the receiving end, wondered if the bar stool seat belt had been invented.

After six hours in the Red Dog, drinking the equivalent of a case a beer apiece, and listening the entire time to one Country song after another (and sometimes the same one over and over and over), the two heroes began to reflect on their past lives . . . opportunities not taken . . . mistakes made . . . time served.

Vernon confessed to robbing the Palace of Poison. Of course, he left some things out and added others. The version he told Oscar had a woman in it. She wore a red dress, had been a cheerleader, and was morally rather "casual" allowing Vernon Pickle certain "liberties" as often as he requested. Oscar thought _nearsighted_ as well but did not say it out loud.

Oscar Pum too had a misunderstanding with the police. He and a cousin (another Pum) had robbed a Panda Express in Brownsville, Texas.

" . . . and that's why I'll never smoke marijuana again," the big guy said in conclusion.

It turned out that he and the cousin had smoked all afternoon. They entered the Panda Express, each armed with a rock that had been part of the restaurant's half-hearted attempt at landscaping. Two minutes later the bandits were seen running across the parking lot each carrying a large stainless steal serving pan. His partner's pan contained Beef with Broccoli. Oscar's held Szechuan Pork (he had wanted Sweet and Sour Chicken but was told that he would have had to wait).

Since they did quite a bit of sloshing as they ran, it was not hard for the police to track them down. On the second page of the Brownsville Herald was a picture of the cousins in custody, and underneath a cruel headline announced, "Neanderthal Bandits Prefer Chinese." Oscar looked embarrassed when he admitted this. Vernon sympathized knowing what that was like, feeling the big guy's pain.

The Red Dog quit serving at 2:00 A.M. Shortly after, Vernon and Oscar stood in the parking lot. It was cold. Cars and pickups were pulling out and heading elsewhere.

Pickle looked at Pum and asked, "Say, yeh know where a fella like me, yeh know . . . er . . . with a record and all dat, could get a job? Body work mostly."

Oscar pointed. Vernon turned around. Next to the Red Dog was a sign painted on a building, "H. & H. Auto Body."

"It's where I work."

"Dey hiring?"

"Rosco violated parole and is on his way back ta Florence right now. Come by Monday. Talk ta Old Hector."

"Old Hector," Vernon Pickle repeated. "Hey, thanks!" Next the little man flashed a thumbs up and added, "Flyin' high."

Oscar nodded and drove off in a rusty pickup with a large plastic tank of some sort mounted in the back.

Vernon stood in the parking lot alone, and looking up at the clear night sky, the man with the new flying gherkin tattoo said to himself: _It just seems like there's more stars here than there is at home, but, damn, is it ever cold!_ And shivering, he walked over to his car and took off a little too fast, imagining that the cheerleader in the red dress was curled up beside him.

###

Link to Neil Ackerman's Smashwords page for Books Two, Three, and Four of the Run Billy Boy Run series:

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Neil+Ackerman>
