Part II

Chapter 20

Denver, Colorado

Friday,October 3rd 9:AM

Sal Fox enjoyed a vigorous breakfast at Ellyington’s restaurant pied-a-terre within the atrium-style Brown Palace Hotel in down town Denver.

His view from the four star triangular landmark over looking City Park was remarkable. Fall colors burst scintillating bouquets of aspen gold amidst vivid hues of blush, elm apricot, cerise, and evergreen.

Cradled at 5,280 feet just east of Rockie Mountain snow crowned peaks, Denver is an inter-fusion of modern city skyline and rich history dating to the 1858 Pikes Peak Gold Rush.

This morning Fox barely seemed to notice. For the first time in over thirty hours he dared confidence a future in the music industry-and an appetite.

The ensuing events of last nights dinner hosted in the Grand Ball Room of the Brown Palace occupied his thoughts while gobbling down a three egg Denver omelet, buttered toast and coffee.

Through out Thursday the big three music corporations had converged behind reticent doors at the Colorado Convention Center. The meetings summating in a press release detailing a startling bold strategy and change of venue appertaining the Battle of the Bands event.

Sal spent the majority of that day in expectation of a phone call. Pacing between his laptop on the hotel suite’s writing desk to the bay window over looking Speer Boulevard’s mint green semi-circular bridge work and commuter traffic below.

Stock’s had tumbled over the last twenty four hours as frightened share holders reacted. Preliminary damages in wake of the deadly music release had skyrocketed into hundreds of millions of dollars.

Someone had to pay.

Good news was on the rise however. Medical science was making remarkable progress in the treatment of those unfortunate’s exposed to the music. Over booked hospital wards were beginning to thin out as a successful drug treatments related to the control and maintenance of psychotic disease were restoring patient’s sanity. Los Angeles, by far the hardest hit city, had bounced back expeditiously thanks to an unprecedented display of Federal, State, County, and local authorities working in a spirit of cooperation.

As initial shock of the tragic event began to subside. Naturally fingers would begin pointing in an effort to pinpoint where the bulk of responsibility should rightfully rest.

Surely CEO Terry Washburn would wish to demonstrate competency in the eyes of Universal, EMI and Sony. Minimal damage to the industry a key factor. It would be demonstrative skills of scheme and action that ultimately determine Washburn’s survival at the top, or crashing descent to the bottom.

Sal saw himself a perfect victim of that action.

Surely Mister Washburn had no intention of allowing blame to rest on his own shoulders. His course of action was as predictable as a sunrise. He would hack off the heads of those previously involved with the band MENACE and move forward with a plan of diversion designed to recover the confidence of stockholders.

Thursday ticked by and Sal still had received no phone call. 11:AM, noon, 1:PM…He found no shelter in those hours. No faint hope that within the passage of time perhaps Washburn had chosen some alternate recourse. Instead, the silence of unknowing fed his trepidation creating building blocks of narrowing focus.

He began to singularize himself as a caged animal. A captured wolf pacing the confines of it’s enclosure-reduced to a single thought. The resemblance enraged him-as it was so unbecoming of the Sal Fox he knew himself to be.

From earliest recollection he had always been a scrappy survivor. Raised in the streets of Brooklyn he identified within himself the uncanny talents of an alley cat-always landing on his feet. That natural ability had been until now his life’s forte.

He Stood at the suite’s bay window mendicating himself to think. Below the hotel City Park’s 314 acres of green turf spiraled outward from a huge central flat ground. Breaking the expanse were intermittent small lakes and groves of aspen trees-walking paths-restroom facilities. The vibrant show of colors did not impress him however something inherent in the park’s size did..

His memory churned, gnawing at the maze of recycled anxiety gripping his thoughts all day.

He’d just turned from the scene pinching the bridge of his nose when impetuous dawning washed over him. An enlightenment so profound it hurdled through his vocal cords expelling it’s self in speech.

“This is where Denver hosts their annual summer jazz festival.”

He turned from the window rushing to the writing desk. Pulling up an e-mail program he hammered at the keyboard in ferocious determination..

Five hours later he had still not received a single correspondence from Corporate management.

He showered and dressed in his finest suit preparing for the 6PM dinner sponsored by Universal in the Grand Ball Room.

The itinerary for Friday’s meetings arrived via e-mail at 5PM and Sal made mental notes of the times, and conference rooms all located at the Colorado Convention Center.

A memorial luncheon dedicated to the passing of his predecessor Kenneth Anderson was to take place at noon.

He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day telling himself his hands shook due to the constant cups of coffee he’d consumed. All the while suspecting the tremors might also be relating the state of his nerves.

Tonight’s dinner would be a testing of the reception he could expect at tomorrow’s meetings should he still be game-fully employed at that time..

His stomach flip-flopped at the closeness of the hour. He must find the courage to face the crowd downstairs..A comparatively minor task as the company in the Ball Room would be limited to Universal management and their employees..If he survive the night, Friday’s scrutinizing eyes will include employees of BMI and Sony Music Corporations as well. Sal suspected even the trendy 40 foot Blue Bear sculpture poised peeking in the centers lobby would have eyes only for him.

The fourth floor elevator was thankfully empty. He pressed the second floor key and the car descended without stopping. It paused and opened to a hallway he navigated down a long corridor toward the rear of the building- the widest section of the triangle building- opening to the expanse of The Ball Room.

Sal felt a surge of confidence as he entered the room. The fact he was part of the elegant atmosphere displayed here was a ego booster in and of it’s self.

The Grand Ball Room was graced with huge chandeliers. It’s walls tastefully draped in several gold hues. Much of the gleaming wood floor was covered for the dinner arrangement. Divided by thick embellished rugs of blue and orange laid beneath the tables leaving a wide aisle facing side by side podiums. The tables where round with six place settings over stark white linen covers. Each table graced a three foot tall vase of colorful bouquets tall enough as to allow unhampered eye contact or movement.

He was seated returning a nod or two from associates he recognized from the Atlanta office.

As dinner progressed several speakers attempted to sooth a general tense atmosphere with light rhetoric bringing with it general update information in the process. It was near the end of a full course prime rib dinner-a dinner Sal barely touched- before the closed door conference meetings were addressed.

Details of the Corporation’s plans had been e-mailed to the various employees as the dinner progressed, and all were advised questions surrounding the event would be discussed at the conference meetings tomorrow morning.

Sal’s mouth dropped as the Battle of the Bands event was played out. It adopted general consensus of the ideas he’d e-mailed in memo format earlier in the day.

The chosen site of this years event was Denver and the exact location City Park as he’d recommended.

Denver’s ability to accommodate large tourist populations and it’s relative easy access reasoned it favorable over the previously considered small city of Aspen. Denver International Airport only fifteen miles from downtown, coupled with major highway access serviced by Interstates 70, 76, and 25 the deciding factors.

The date of the event and venue had also been changed as recommended by Sal’s memo. Instead of the traditional early December weekend, the event was re-scheduled just two weeks away-the weekend of October 18th & 19th.

The National Weather Service promised that weekend would bring mild conditions in the middle of a Denver warming trend. Chinook winds resulting from warm air passing over the mountains to the west would bring late summer conditions.

A fall festival would be the theme of the event scheduled at the height of Denver’s ‘Gold Rush’ fall season landscape.

The three music corporations’ decision to push forward the event was based on an healing factor. A festival of such proportions would bring with it a renewal of life celebration that beat within the heart of all music-at least previous to the disastrous release of “King of the World.”

World wide promotion of the event was already in motion. Special discount packages were being worked out with the hotel and motel industry in the region with the big three subsidizing the off set costs.. Major television rights had been obtained as the event would also be televised in over 65 countries around the world..

Addressing the Mad Muse catastrophe, the corporations agreed the best defense was a good offense. In a bold advertising campaign using reverse psychology Herman Gilespie and MENACE would be exploited as the ‘power of music’ gone bad. MENACE Halloween costumes- Herman Gilespie masks-would be hugely promoted as the dark evil for which it was.

In a bold commitment the music industry would promote it’s self as knight and shinning armor creating a major division dedicated to the pre-viewing of all new music previously released to insure the plaque within MENACE music would never again be unleashed into the world.

Huge promotional packages were being schemed to draw the attention of music lovers world wide including free concert tickets- major artist’s title releases – cash sweepstakes- world tour vacation packages.

A huge relief engulfed The Ball Room followed by applause-cheers and outbreaks of standing ovation.

The atmosphere suddenly party like in nature as late news had hit the wires with already positive response from stock values showing a rise at the last few moments before the closing bell on wall street. Anticipation filled the air opening stocks Friday morning would reflect dramatic positive results as the news spread across the world.

The biggest shocker for Sal was that his name was announced as executive head of The Mad Muse campaign…Suddenly he was surrounded by thundering applause of his associates…

Sitting now in Ellyington’s enjoying a good meal-after a good night sleep. He felt a strength of purpose combining an earned wisdom forged from a lesson well taken.

Spring time had always been Sal’s favorite time of year. Today however, he’d found within himself a new appreciation of the swollen fall colors offered just outside the restaurant. A sense of maturity reflected in the season he now identified within himself.

Never again would he allow himself to fall victim of circumstance. The Mad Muse campaign was going to be a huge success. His mind’s eye could finally see the red carpet ahead of him at the end of the tunnel..Soon it would unroll for him and the wine, women and song would certainly follow.

Los Angeles

Under days of extreme stress FBI Chief Jarold Dodd often confided to closer subordinates that he should have been a farmer.

Taking in the burning accusations registered in the eyes of Special Agent Cyrus Denason his thoughts recognized this to be one of those days.

Raised in the mid-west on his fathers’ two thousand acre farm Dodd spent his teen age years fascinated with the adventurous lives of characters depicted in crime solve mystery novels. Many a night his tiny upstairs bedroom glowed with oil lamps as he lay engrossed in chapters of Raymond Chandler that eroded his father’s expectations with every turning page.

His dream of escaping the long monotonous days of farming life were realized when at the age of eighteen he was accepted into the cadet program of a small town police force- much to the expected disappointment of his father.

Now, after almost a third century the residue of living year after year under the glaring disapproval of his father’s countenance still affected him- Dodd found confrontation difficult to digest.

He’d thought he recognized some of his father’s overbearing personality in the demeanor of Agent Cyrus Denason-a man Jarold had not liked from first association over five years ago.

Denason was an ivy leaguer graduated from West Point, and had served time in the military enlisting at the rank of Lieutenant.

His aggressive nature soon advanced him into the Special Forces Division of Army Intelligence where he honed his skills specializing in interrogation. Leaving with a reputation of one who produced results no matter the cost.

Dodd believed Denason was a man who conceived himself the very center of life. Viewing anyone and everyone as tools-contacts who’s only legitimate purpose was in the acknowledgment and support of his own convictions. His imposing size of six foot four and obsession with weight lifting served his image of self superiority perfectly. Dodd had sensed the man found joy when those attributes cowered anyone who dared question his motives.

Denason now stood towering directly over the desk of Jarold Dodd. Bearing jealous contempt for the man who’s job he fully expected to claim within a years time. He saw Dodd as soft and hated the mans pudgy features and diplomatic persona. Denason felt a growing repulsion increase with every passing moment in Dodd’s presence.

He had pulled strings to get a private meeting with Dodd and had no intention of leaving before the fat bastard caved in and gave him what he’d come for.

The case of the Mad Muse was high profile. The kind of case Denason had been waiting for. It was the perfect vehicle to propel him to the top of the chain. He was not about to allow Dodd to ruin his chances of advancement over some old chum relationship between the Chief and LA’s detective Pigg.

He felt his rock hard muscles fully tense up- Stifling an urge to reached across the desk and strangle Dodd where he sat.

“I want to know why your dogging me on this case!”

Dodd watched a throbbing vein pop out on Denason’s temple and answered level toned .”Why don’t you have a seat Agent?”

It was a command not a question, and Denason backed up stiffly taking a seat in the office chair in front of the desk.

“I am head investigator in this office Dodd and I want the case.”

Dodd was fully aware of Denason’s strong arm tactics. He believed the rumors Denason had been compiling personal files on every successful politician and law enforcement agency in the country. Accessing sensitive materials on individual government employees using his security clearance and hacking capabilities learned while involved with Army intelligence. Dodd was pretty sure Denason had a file on him as well. Denason was smart enough to patiently gather enough dirt on a target then use it when the time was right.

Every body had skeletons hiding somewhere in their past, and the more success an individual enjoyed the more weight those mistakes carried if exposed.

Dodd figured Denason must have got to someone pretty high up the food chain.The memo waiting for him when he’d arrived at the office today requested he work with Denason as much as possible. The memo was straight out of Washington DC., and Dodd knew of one or two of the brass out there had a thing for young prostitutes…

Denason was proving himself a formidable enemy.

Dodd controlled himself although he hated having to appease the likes of Denason.

” One..You’ve got three open cases on your plate Agent Denason.”

Denason shot back..”Three minor cases compared to this!”

Dodd didn’t allow the interruption to derail him..”Two…This case is of a sensitive nature requiring a investigator with specific experience skills to address it.”

Denason flew out of his chair planting his knuckles on Dodd’s desk..”Hal Pigg?..Stinking LA cops?”

Dodd blinked but didn’t budge..”I told you to sit down Denason!”

Several seconds past as Denason’s black eyes bore into Dodd. His big arms shook as he fought to control himself. Slowly he slid his knuckles off the desk and sat down hard- spitting to Dodd in a seething mockery.

” Maybe you ought to check your memo’s Chief.”

Dodd glared back as seconds past like minutes. He stood up and turned to the office window over looking downtown Los Angeles. Should have been a farmer he thought to himself.

“Fine…You want to be on the case?…Your on the case…But Pigg stays in charge!..You got that?…Your working for him.”

“Bullshit!” Denason yelled gripping the office chair arm rests…”That’s bullshit!”

Dodd swung around, “You want to know what bullshit is Denason? Bullshit is I haven’t suspended you yet for insubordination!”

He marched up to Denason and was sure he saw a hint of confusion in the man’s eyes..”Your scare tactics might work against some fuck wad over in Washington, but they don’t mean shit to me!..If I say Pigg stays in charge, he stays in charge!..Now get the fuck out of my office!”

Denason stood up slow and walked to the door as Dodd sat down at his desk..

“Oh, and one more thing Agent Denason.”

Denason waited not turning around as Dodd continued.

” Here at the FBI, we don’t consider any open cases as minor.”

Michelle held Nick listening to the quiet breathing of his sleep. She bent slowly kissing the top of his head where it rest beneath the under slope of her breasts. The log fire snapped bringing warmth and a glow of shifting hues that danced to a rhythm of rain drops against glistening window sills. She moved ever so slightly and felt him sigh deep and rewarding. His right hand slipped like silk across her upper thigh resting at her hip line causing eruptions of pleasure deep within her loins. She dared not wake him and fulfill her growing need as he’d slept badly through the night and even as they dozed this afternoon. With all her might she scolded herself and the radiating heat that begged she move again stroking him softly. Catching her quickening breath at the thought of bringing him to a semi-conscience-ness while she had her way with him.

They’d spent last evening sharing events of their travels. Gorging on pizza while catching up with the television news. Michelle listened in awe Nick’s description of the Zoot Suit Man and the mad cows. He in turn spellbound when Michelle realized Herman Gilespie was at the heart of the chaos. They both spoke with Michelle’s Parents, however she made the conversation brief promising to call first thing in the morning. She giggled at Nick’s chivalry as he attempted to lay his bedding on the floor then scolded him advising he’d better be on the bed next to her within two seconds flat.

She wondered if it would always be this way between them. If it was possible for a man and woman to be-this close for long. And for a moment her emotion made known itself a tear for she believed it to be true..Even as all her previous life professed it an illusion…She believed it to be true. An uncontrolled joy left her shuddering from within and Nick stirred from a dreamless sleep. His left hand slipped forward cupping her hip as his lips planted kisses along her stomach line tickling their way between her parting thighs. A low moan escaped her as she ran her fingers through his hair. Leaning back against fluffy down feathers she closed her eyes.

It was near dark as the Bell 206 whisked Samantha and Hal westward over the city of Los Angeles. The lights of the skyline stretched galactic swirling colors of red, green, white, blue, and gold. A tolling day filled with event left them tired and hungry. A dripping ceiling had rolled into the Los Angeles basin while they were away. At the Parker Center car lot Hal slipped in the passenger side of his cruiser as Sam had requested to drive.

They pulled out into light traffic as the state of emergency had now been lifted. An unspoken protocol loomed between them. Police ethics surrounding the behavior of male and female partners dictate she would drop off at her house and he proceed with the car to his home across town.

For several minutes neither spoke as she navigated a succession of slick surface streets bringing them closer to her home in Mar Vista. An awkwardness of expected separation pinched it’s self between the seats of the police car. Traffic lights that normally worked against the flow of time seemed intent in falling green as the miles shortened in destination.

“What time did you want to start tomorrow?” she asked making a right turn onto Culver Boulevard. The signal flasher sounded like a metronome in his ears. Intermittent wipers swept periodic drizzle from their view.

“How does about seven sound?”

Store front lighting mixed with greasy roadway painted rainbows over a canvas of black background. “It’s ok with me,..She sounded annoyed..Your the one has to come all the way from,…Santa Monica isn’t it?” Her tone mimicked his own feelings of hollowness. Through out their time at Desert Center they’d felt natural together. As if being together had always been meant for them. Finding themselves mesmerized in soft glancing touches and a vibrancy that filled the spaces between them.

“I don’t mind Sam.”

“Well I do!” She snapped…”Damn it!”..She sighed massaging long perfect fingers against her left temple..”I should have taken the time to stop at Metro and pick up my own car…Instead I….”

She pulled over breaking hard and parallel parked. Hal looked out the side window through distorted rain drops recognizing Samantha’s condominium complex…They’d arrived. She turned toward him forcing the transmission into park. “Why did you change your mind?”

Her eyes flashed in the glow of red and green L.E.Ds illuminating the driver’s console..Overhead street lamps pierced the windshield bringing her body in Hal’s eyes a sharp silhouette. “Why did you bring me in on this case?”

She shut down the engine- the cabin as quiet as a confessional. Seeing her this way-filled with emotion- Hal felt her full impact and was overwhelmed by her beauty. She shook her head…”We’re,…we’re working partners for Christ’s sake.” Her shoulders sagged, her face turned away looking out at the street.

He reached down unbuckling his seat belt. His decision to bring her on the case hit him full force. He didn’t fully realize until this moment what lie beneath the logic.

“Sam.”….

Her voice cracked, “What?”

“I….I don’t want to say goodnight.”

Her shoulders straightened and her eyes took him in…

“….I am,…crazy about you Sam,” his head shook as if he were lost.

Her hands trembled unlinking her seat belt as he spoke.

“Come home with me tonight.”..

She threw herself into his arms and he held her tight. Their mouths meeting in greedy melding passion.

“Come home with me tonight, he whispered stroking her hair.

She nodded against him wiping tears from her face and sat up.

“What about Quentin?”

“I think that’s why we’re here baby….I think we’re here to pick Quen up.”

Zoot Suit Man growled frustration on several levels. The one on the motorcycle was going to be like a monkey throwing proverbial wrenches into the workings of his plans. He knew this to be true because as a ranking General in the armies of the underworld Zoot Suit Man possessed the power of foresight. It was a milky crystal at best however, coupled with the tight political reigns dictated by the kingdom downstairs he found himself sitting like a lame duck. “Fucking politics!” His rage bellowed into the atmosphere bouncing off pillars of moisture stacking themselves like giant mushrooms off the Gulf of Mexico. As if in response to a tantrum the heavens released a purple bolt of power followed by a thunderous clap. Zoot Suit Man cowered. His eyes shifting side to side as pelting rain fell a reminder how easily he could be touched.

He hated the old souls like the one temple inside the motorcycle rider. He’d peered at it back at Brawley then stepped back in revulsion recognizing it for what it was- untouchable. Maybe two or three lifetimes ago while the thing was stitching down it’s seams he’d have concocted a means to slither in via the weakness of a stressed life. Now it was too late. Assassination the only option. “Big fish that got away,” he mumbled to himself aware his thoughts and actions may quite possibly be subject to monitoring.

He also hated the fact if successful eliminating the man as he tried outside the shit kicker town, he’d be cut by his own double edged sword. The old soul was ready to move on and if Zoot Suit Man pushed the envelope it meant trouble for Methuselah just down the road. When old souls move on they always wind up Generals for the other side. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” he snickered at the irony of it all. He hunkered down at the base of an oak tree that instantly turned the color of charcoal.

Above all else he hated Methuselah. Hated the better than thou attitude of the politician sitting in the comfy confines of his elevated throne. Spitting policy and missions statements to subordinates such as Zoot Suit Man under the constant frenzy of squirming pussy straddling his lap. The bastard pretended confidence when in fact Methuselah was driven by fear. His first priority always protection of the balance of power. The rights of passage in the lower echelons of the universe dependant on it. Everybody answers to somebody.

Ten thousand Generals were currently chained and caged in the depths of Hades for simply exercising what Zoot Suit Man determined displays of enthusiasm while fulfilling their campaigns. Personally Zoot Suit Man thought General Goloth did an outstanding service with her work in Russia-Germany-Poland during and after the second world war. She however was not shown a hero’s welcome when she came marching home. Methuselah was in a rage claiming to have nearly lost his keys to the realm. Goloth’s reward was her tits cut off and her head stuck on a stake. A welcome wagon on the inside shore of the river Styx. Most Generals secretly sided with Zoot Suit Man’s thirst for the big show and Methuselah saw his strategy kept the domain’s legions in a state of famished readiness.

Methuselah’s strategy of plausible deniability rest major responsibility on the palms of weaker souls. Affording self protection under the guise of free will. Especially stealthy in an age of reason. Man’s obsession with natural science and technology over the last two hundred years compels eager explanation the aspects of the universe in terms of natural phenomena. Perfect camouflage.

Zoot Suit found his concentration at last and set about the task of organizing his priorities. He had given Herman Gilespie the power of invisibility. Herman would now trek under the direction of Little Birdie to his final destination. There Zoot Suite Man’s campaign would be realized. He trusted Little Birdie to teach Herman how to use the power efficiently as to remain undetected. Alone Herman would do something stupid in a heart beat. Wind up captured. Reduced to a sideshow freak in a traveling circus. He knew Herman was in Vegas now and he hoped to holy hell Little Birdie had a handle on it. The last thing he needed was Herman making a spectacle of himself.

Thunder clouds cracked overhead as Hal sat on the edge of a pine desk inside the stuffy office quarters of B&D Auto Repair. He waited for the resonance to subside in an effort to maintain a calming demeanor when speaking with Mary and Albert Fairfield. Outside, Riverside County Sheriff Deputies wrapped the property line with ribbons of crime scene tape matching the color of their rain slickers.

Three helicopters rest on the immediate perimeters. An LAPD Bell 206 Hal had flown in on. An FBI Bell 412 with side door cargo bay. Also a huge dirt colored U.S. Army CH-47 Chinook. The United States Northern Command had been monitoring the case closely as FBI and Police updates rolled into their computers and phone lines. The scene at Desert Center caught attention as a possible National Security matter.

The invisible bundle at the back of the repair facility was guarded by U.S. Army personnel. The FBI had been advised after it’s initial investigation the evidence would be confiscated by the military and deemed classified.

Hal had been instructed to inform Mister and Missus Fairfield the mass of invisibility was in fact a form of experimental stealth technology developed by the United States and subsequently stolen by foreign espionage. The sample located behind their business an attempt to transport the technology out of the country via Mexico. Mary and Albert Fairfield were being treated as patriotic hero’s in light of their coincidental discovery and timely notification to authorities. All a white lie of course as no one on the ground had any clue what mysterious components created the illusion of invisibility. Hal felt a responsibility to convince the couple however in the spirit of their protection. Lending his impromptu speech the best acting skills he could muster.

Hal perceived his current role as that of ‘good cop’ knowing full well the couple would soon be visited by strong arm federal lawyers armed with affidavits of sworn secrecy for the Fairfield’s to sign. They would be told in no uncertain terms if those sworn commitments were in any way violated the couple would be subjecting themselves to charges of treason. He shivered hoping Samantha’s chopper would arrive soon. He was not prepared for the sudden shift in weather bringing with it a constant drizzle and his bones chilled.

The reversal of mind cementing his decision to bring Sam into the case was not uncharacteristic of Hal’s psychological assimilation. Especially when confronted by the mixtures of emotion surrounding a woman he cared for. Eons of conditioning flowed through hard wires of evolution beginning a million and a half years ago when prehistory men gathered concepts of who they are by the roles they played. Hunters-leaders-protectors of the tribes from which they sprang. Hal’s natural gravity toward protection was the driving force in his initial response. Not until he’d finished his conversation with Samantha did he sensed a rising concern. His decision hadn’t adequately blend with the emotional complexities of a modern man. Samantha is not just a woman. She is a highly skilled sharpshooter capable of lethal hand to hand combat. Trained with the ears of a fox and eyes of a hawk. He needed her. If for no other reason than to protect him. Together they would watch each other’s back and hadn’t that been his concern all along?

“If you’ll excuse me Mister and Missus Fairfield I am going to step outside. I am expecting my partner to arrive any moment.” Albert and Mary nodded grateful for the break in interrogations that had not ceased since the arrival of the first Sheriff’s Deputy almost three hours ago. They had felt closer to each other at this moment than they had in years. The traumatic events of the day bringing them together. Albert’s right arm held his wife’s shoulder in a bonding embrace.

Hal stepped outside shielding rain under the metallic roof line of the building. He pulled a pack of Pall Mall’s from the inside pocket of his gray sports coat and lit one up nodding to Agent Marsh and Sanchez, two FBI men assisting in the case. After an initial search of the immediate area for any sign of Gilespie’s presence, they were busy scouring the property for evidence of his departure. He worked his way to the back of the shop where the team of infantry and police where swapping war stories like old chums.

The hunk of invisibility wasn’t invisible any more. Rain had clung and saturated the mass to where over half the chrome framed motorcycle exposed it’s self like a dead deer after Mister Hendley’s Celica plowed it over. It had an appearance of hovering. The left side of the bike lay against the ground still invisible somewhat protected from the rain. Before the drizzle started the same method of detection had been deployed by the services of a garden hose attached to a outside spigot. Water sprayed over the estimated boundaries exposed the previously unexposed for what it was. Hal had called in the license plate confirming the chopper to be the stolen vehicle of Jason Blackwell. He then put in a request to Chief Dodd’s office that local authorities be alerted of the possibility Gilespie escaped the area in a stolen vehicle.

He turned his attention west to the familiar echo of rotor chop approaching from that direction. Stamping out the cigarette he made his way around pot holes of puddles forming in the black top to a vacant section south of the property. Sam’s chopper was coming in and he wanted to be there to greet her.

The Zoot Suit Man snickered watching Hal and Samantha pour over the discarded motorcycle to the delight of the infantry standing around. Every time she leaned over there was an appreciation of fine ass for their mental stimulation. Other than the obvious tabs he’d be keeping on these two as time progressed, there was something about them he found threatening. His head cocked changing perspective that he might grasp what it was about the two he could not fathom. A closeness encompassed them Zoot Suit Man could not understand. A confusion in the manner they communicated themselves through body language. It was as if they possessed a secret known only to them. The Zoot Suit Man found it both fascinating and disheartening. He did not like surprises.

As for the discovery of the motorcycle it was of no concern. The knew exactly what was to become of it’s fate. After the military had prodded, probed and performed every experiment know to man in an effort to gain insight as to the aspect of it’s invisibility they would simply give up. Eventually sealed in a crate labeled Top Secret. Shipped and stored at a military warehouse liken to the last scene of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

“Waste of a nice bike,” Samantha confided to Hal as they finished their inspection and moved into the repair facilities working bay. The military unit immediately began the process of tarping the bike and transporting it to the waiting Chinook helicopter. He leaned into her ear and whispered.

“I got a piece of broken tail light lens in my hand”.

“Great,” she smiled.

He continued, “I want to see if it reappears by it’s self after time.”

“Good idea.” She sneaked a look around confirming no one had noticed them.

“You know what I am wondering? If this guy Gilespie was able to do what he did to that bike. He might have done the same thing to himself.”

Hal thought about what she said and added. “For one, the guy’s a loser. There’s no way he did this alone. But, yeah your right, we may be looking for this guy and wow.”..It hit him hard what Samantha had said.

If what she thought was true Gilespie could have slipped in the back of some unsuspecting motorist’s car while they filled up at a local gas station. Or if he was bold enough to steal a vehicle it was going to be a shocker for the CHP officer who pulls him over and finds nobody at the wheel.

“It’s creepy,” Samantha said, “like everything about this case.”

“Yeah,” Hal nodded, “and the music thing too. Who ever did this was the brains behind that as well.”

Checking their privacy as she spoke, “So where does that leave us?”

He shivered. “Right now we know he’s heading east, that’s a start..Listen Sam, I am freezing. What do you say we go get some coffee?”

“Oh honey! Why didn’t you tell me?” She said alarmed.

He smiled, “I like that.”

“What?”

He shrugged, “Honey.”

“Yeah?..You like I call you honey,..honey?”

He smiled. “Yeah, don’t ever stop.”

Nick pushed smoldering embers around before placing another log in the fireplace. Michelle sat up in the queen size bed talking to her Parents for the second time today. She’d slept sound until 7 am when the smell of fresh brewed coffee rose her. Nick had already checked in with his friends hole up at the studio. Toby, Buck and Mac were fine other than the inconveniences that seem to center from the lack of a tooth brush and ripple outward from that point. All three men were anxious to return to their homes promising Nick they would not do so prematurely.

After initial morning contacts they felt no desire to budge from the sanctuary of the cabin. Michelle curled herself around Nick and they fell back to sleep until after noon. Now as she described to her Parents the events of the last twenty four hours Nick fought a hazy fatigue despite the quiet day.

His sleep had been restless plagued with nightmare. Finding himself emerged among indefinite landscapes shifting like fast moving clouds. In a confusing state of roles sometimes out of breath running from an undefinable sense of evil that stalked him through forests of ravaged trees. Black and braking limbs crashed at his every step to a living floor that rose and fell like a breath under his feet. Foreboding shapes loomed above as if about to strike then with audible gasps sped away merging with dark ceilings of skyline against burnt amber horizons expanding at light speed toward infinite boundaries. As suddenly he was centered in a brilliant light. Surrounded by millions of living bubbles gravitating toward him. Their touch filling him with emotion. Some inspiring a soothing calm while others filled him with a mighty resolve. He saw himself a warrior leading charge from the upper grounds of snow capped mountains against hordes of black minion pouring out a canyon rimmed in fiery volcanoes. Thousands of naked horsemen as himself armed with golden sickles answering the call. An avalanche of stallions born of a place where fear did not exist, tore through horror struck legions of the damned until writhing in defeat they fled- throwing themselves into the mouths of spewing fire from which they came.

“Come here baby,” Michelle’s arms stretched out toward him. Her cell phone discarded. He set aside the fire tools and slipped into her arms. She felt him shudder and decided he was cold pulling the blankets around them.

chapter 17

Los Angeles

FBI Chief Jarold Dodd reviewed evidence files

piled on his desk in the Los Angeles office of the

FBI located on Wilshire Boulevard..

During a conference meeting between FBI and

local law enforcement Dodd felt satisfactory with the

course of action he’d chosen..

The magnitude of the case now being dubbed by the media

as ‘The Mad Muse ‘ left Dodd with the opportunity

to create a Joint Terrorism Task force or (JTTF) drawing

from both the FBI-Counter terrorism Division and

additional available resources from local city police and

state Sheriff’s Departments.

The JTTF had been originally conceived in New York City

after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, a successful

project between federal and local authorities united in a

common goal..Since that time the program had expanded

to include the Los Angeles Region of the FBI, the

third largest Region in the country..

Dodd managed to stem the tide of concerns L. A.’s

Chief of Police Vincent Hernandez voiced on behalf of both

his office and the city Mayor’s Office regarding the public’s

view of the L.A. Police Department competency should the federal

agency force it’s jurisdictional hand remanding the case entirely.

Personally Jarold Dodd didn’t give two shakes about what political

shinny-ness Los Angeles elected officials maintained with their

constituents. He did however have a soft spot for L. A.’s finest

as he himself had begun his law enforcement career a rookie

out of the Rampart Division, what today seemed like twenty

seven life times ago..

Out of hundreds of pieces of documentation compiled over

the last twenty four hours concerning the Mad Muse case

only three swayed his decision to instigate the JTTF as

the best course of action.

One, there were no signs of forcible entry to apartment 12.

Two, the photos of the murder weapon prints on the walls

of the apartment..Murder weapons no person present at

the conference had any explanation as to their nature.

And three, the fact Inspector Hal Pigg was initially assigned

to the investigation.

It had been his long time friend and associate Hal Pigg who’d

sent Dodd the 8×10 glossy color photos of the blood

smeared walls of apartment 12..Photos sent as a message

between old colleagues who shared a common secret..

A secret dating back ten years to a time and place both

men would have preferred been the simple construction

of a nightmare..

Dodd had been a seasoned investigator close to the

promotion that would bring him into the ranks of the

FBI and ultimately to his current position in the agency.

Pigg at that time was still a beat cop Officer III

assigned to assist Dodd in the investigation of an

elusive serial killer who’s exclusive targets where that

of elderly Oriental couples in the north west district

of Chinatown..

The district who’s population are primarily ancestors of

original mainland Chinese immigrants dating back to

Los Angeles railroad workers of the early 1800′s.

Following the killers trail originating from what was once

‘Old Chinatown’ now Union Station, Dodd and Pigg worked

relentlessly day and night over a three month period chasing

the killer who’s identity had never been officially verified..

The method of operation always the same..Double murder

execution style slaying of both victims..

Their heads decapitated.

The traditional pig tails of long braided hair cut off and taken

like a trophy.

Science Investigation technicians surmised the murder weapon to

be that of a dagger..

The victims severed hair, dipped in their own blood, used as a

writing instrument by which the killer claimed responsibility for

the crimes. Like grisly paint brushes the consistent message

‘Bushido’ written in Japanese was left on the victims foreheads

for Dodd and Pigg to find.

Silk and leather fibers found at the scene were analyzed

by electron microscopy and energy dispersion x-ray at the physical

science forensic lab..Trapped within the silk fibers technicians

found residues of hair that were in turn subjected to chloroplast

and nuclear DNA detection through the biology forensic unit.

Conclusions found were that hair embedded in the cloth originated

from both horse and human leading authorities to believe the killer’s

occupation may be one that involved some aspect of close

proximity with horses..

Further DNA mitochondria testing however proved to shed a

shadow of confusion on the entire forensic process as the

confirmed age of the hair specimens astonished the scientific

community dating at over seven hundred years to the

thirteenth century.

In many crime scenes the killer’s outer clothing left scrape marks

where contacting metal objects such as stoves, refrigerators,

or metallic framed furniture.

Residue samples from the scrape marks later identified as iron,

layered with overcoats of lacquer in a variety of pigments including

white, pale green, black, and orange.

Do to the destructive condition of the crime scenes it had become

apparent from the start this killer worked from a state of fiery

rage..Slashed walls, ceilings, household decor, furniture, even

major appliances attacked and savaged as if the killer believed

it’s self immersed in middle of a of battlefield..

Fragments recovered from a huge gash in a victims kitchen stove

were analyzed and concluded to be that of an iron core three foot

sword combined with layered overcoats of hardened steel..

The assimilation of physical and biological evidence coupled

with the Japanese terminology written in the victims blood led

authorities to conclude the killer to be a person of Japanese

descent under the grip of a psychotic break.

Liken to the deep intoxication of a method actor the killer

dressed in traditional thirteenth century Japanese military attire..

An authentic piece likely stolen from a museum of antiquity.

A complete set of Japanese Samurai Calvary armor and weaponry.

These conclusions explained the ancient horse and human hair

findings as preserved over the years embedded in the fabric

of the armor.

Police Department Psychologists and Psychiatrists were having

a field day..

One theory on the table was that the killer was both meticulous

and learned..A historian perhaps consumed by an ancient time..

Reliving centuries past Chinese and Japanese warlords battling for

land rights on a disputed border.

Another, that the killer believed himself in the service of a

ancient Chancellor. The act of killing Chinese elders in the present

time somehow back slashing the line of living succession..In the

killers warped reality the generation of offspring directly related to

his victims would subsequently disappear never having been

born..

Dodd and Pigg had developed a theory of their own based on

first hand experience..Twice they had cornered the killer

in small two room apartments just as the killer had

finished his grisly work..

On both occasions a short squat Japanese man flailed glisten

bright steel through a series of precision maneuvers..The hilt of

the sword wrapped in white silk then overlay with more black silk

tightly woven into a grip..White diamond shapes decorated

the hilt where the silk underlining wrap showed through in

periodic spacing along the length of the grip..A three foot

black lacquered scabbard hung from his full dress warrior armor.

A coating of blood covered a tanto dagger the man held in

his left hand..Fierce eyes glared through the openings

of a ornamented half-mask face shield or ‘mempo’.

At first glance Dodd thought this must be where the inventors

of the Star Wars character Darth Vader got the idea for

his helmet and face mask.

The protruding nose plate and wide cut grimacing mouth

section lent even more weight to his fierce visage.

The top of the man’s face hidden by a kind of metal

helmet domed at the top giving way to protective

plates of iron attached and falling over the ears

and neck line coming to rest on a under coat of leather

wear at the shoulders..An iron breastplate covered the

man’s chest and mid rift. 3×5 inch plates of iron

laced together and lacquered in several colors formed a

skirting of armor around the hips and upper legs. The front

opened for ease of leg movement exposing the man’s

legs and shins shielded in what appeared to be black lacquered

wood or bronze guards disappearing into the tops of orange silk

laced leather boots the base of which where almost completely

squared except for the front tip of metal soles abruptly forming

a menacing weapon themselves filed into sharp protruding points.

With guns trained both Pigg and Dodd warned the man of their

presence advising him to drop his weapons..

To their amazement the image before them began to fade from

their sight in a shimmering morphoses until what the men could

only describe as a semi-transparent apparition escaped them

simply walking through the nearest wall..

Dodd jumped as the desk phone rang..He swiped it up

in a pudgy hand and stuck the receiver under his double

chin..”Dodd”..He listened to the gruffly voice of a

Riverside County Sheriff Deputy routed directly to

him through the front desk..

“Would you repeat that again Officer?” He said

sitting upright in the desk chair..

“That’s B&D auto repair in Desert Center…Got it.

I am sending a team out there within the hour

Deputy Pearson…Just keep doing what your doing

for me..I don’t want civilians anywhere near the property

got that?”

He punched an open line and dialed The Parker Center

tapping in Hal Pigg’s extension.

Samatha’s unit was working in the Griffith Park area

patrolling streets and showing authority presence

as city, county and state utility repairs were in progress.

She’d just closed the cover of her cell phone after checking

in with Quentin’s sitter Darlene Young..

Darlene lived next door and in addition to her success as a

Romance novelist she watched Quentin while Samantha was

working..Normally he would be in school today having started

kindergarten this year..

Today was not a normal day however and the two had been

busy baking cookies, cleaning house, and working on their

continuous re-modeling project of Quentin’s bedroom away

from home..

Samantha and Darlene had become like sisters

over the years. Darlene, an endearing friend helped

Samantha through some rough times, and it had been

Darlene who’d been Quentin’s nanny while Mom was

away from home..

Darlene and Quentin got along famously which was

another blessing. If Samantha’s work schedule required

longer hours than she’d originally planned it had

never been a concern for Darlene..

Samantha sighed sipping at her can of diet Pepsi while

her team mates cracked jokes and dug at brown

bag lunches after taking over a picnic table just off

Crystal Springs Drive.

At times she felt a pang of jealously that as with many

working single mothers and fathers, Darlene seemed to

enjoyed more quality time with Quentin than Samantha

was capable..

She wondered if that same feeling of lonely separation

had been a factor in her initial response to Hal’s request

that she not accompany him to Chinatown..

It had been a couple of hours ago she’d spoke with him

and as time has it’s way of having it’s way, she now began

to feel that maybe she’d overreacted.

He’s decision was after all based on his desire to

protect her..In his way, to take care of her..

Maybe I should call him back and tell him it’s okay she

thought..

She signed again letting the cell phone slip back inside

the front shirt pocket of her navy blue uniform..

“He needs to know it’s important for me to take care

of him too,” she whispered to herself..

The distinctive sound of an approaching helicopter

broke Samantha’s thoughts and within thirty

seconds a black and white Jet Ranger settled directly

across the street in a Bank of America parking lot within

sixty yards of Samantha and her team.

A man wearing a gray wool suit, black wingtips, and dark

framed sunglasses exited the chopper ducking under the

churning props holding out identification as he sprinted

across the street toward the police.

“Lieutenant De La Cruz?”..The man had a pretty good idea

the pretty Hispanic woman with the raven colored hair was

who he was looking for.”Lieutenant?”..

“I am Lieutenant De La Cruz.” She answered..

“Lieutenant I am Special Agent Mallory of the FBI.” Mallory

was tall lanky about forty with close cropped black hair. He

held out his credentials for her to verify..”You’ve been

reassigned Lieutenant to a special task force in conjunction

with the Los Angeles Police Department and the FBI under

authorization of The Joint Terrorism Task force, Lieutenant.”

Samantha’s jaw dropped..”I’ve been assigned?”

“That’s correct Lieutenant De La Cruz..I’ve been dispatched

to escort you to a current crime scene where you’ll be briefed

by the rest of your team.”

“I am assuming my Captain is aware of this reassignment Agent

Mallory?”

“That’s is correct Lieutenant. Captain Delaney sends his apologies

he wasn’t able to inform you himself. This entire task force

is still being deployed and a situation has come up that we

need to move on pronto..You have a ranking Officer III

Henry Stanton with you today Lieutenant?”

“I am Stanton.” The team was huddling around Agent Mallory

everyone trying to hear and speak over the sound waves

the chopper was thumping out..

Mallory turned addressing Stanton an overweight middle aged

baby face of a man everyone loved for his easy manner and

constant joking..

“Officer Stanton you will be assuming command here..I am

advised to inform you call Captain Delaney for your orders

concerning the rest of your shift.”

“Ok”..Stanton puffed up addressing the team..”You guys

hear that?..Your mine!”

Mallory then returned his attention to Samantha.

“If you’ll follow me Lieutenant, I’ll answer any questions you

have in route.”

Samantha nodded handing her cruiser keys to Stanton.

“I’ll see you guys later!”

Following Mallory’s lead she ducked under the chopper’s

accelerating engine as the pilot was already throttling up.

Samantha climbed in the back of the four seat helicopter

and buckled in..Mallory took the front passenger side

and turned handing her a credit card size identification card

previously prepared for her..Samantha’s picture was embedded

on the card. The official seal of the United States Department

of Justice embossed on the right side.A black lettered heading

read FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.

Under the heading her name and title where imprinted

SPECIAL AGENT SAMANTHA DE LA CRUZ.

She stared at the card in disbelief then spoke up to

Mallory having to shout above the choppers up thrust.

“Glad I got this!..My son would never believe it other

wise!”

Mallory grinned..

“Who will I be assisting Agent Mallory?”

Mallory thought a moment then responded..”You’ll be

assisting the Director of The FBI Los Angeles Regional

Office..Chief Jarold Dodd.”

Samantha nodded..”Right..But in the field I mean..Who

am I assisting in the field?”

“Assisting?”…Mallory didn’t quite understand..”Oh you

mean in your unit?” He yelled back.

“Yes, that what I am asking, in my unit.”

Mallory nodded and yelled over the engine whine as the

chopper lifted off..”Well, Inspector Hal Pigg has been named

head investigator on the case Lieutenant..But you won’t

be assisting him.”

“Hal is on the case?” Samantha asked incredulous.

“Mallory nodded..”He’s been authorized by Chief Dodd to

pick his own team..He picked you as partner. The others

assigned to the team will be assisting you two.”

Mallory grinned again as Samantha’s eyes widened..

“Special Agent De La Cruz, “Mallory yelled as the chopper

did an abrupt left and headed east, “Welcome to the FBI!”

chapter 16

Los Angeles

10am

Detective Pigg viewed city skyline from the third floor

Robbery-Homicide Division of The Parker Center in

downtown Los Angeles. Hal’s modest office was

located in the Homicide Special Section of the (RHD).

A copy of The Los Angeles Times for Thursday October

2nd lay on his desk screaming at fiberglass acoustic

ceiling panels in bold block ink.

DEADLY MUSIC ROCKS LOS ANGELES

A coffee stained Xerox machine whirred and thumped

spitting incoming faxes with the attitude of a slave.

The city was quiet. Eerie.. Freeways, boulevards, avenues

and streets loomed in the distance lonely and uncertain as

broken hearts.

California was in an official state of emergency..Police, fire,

rescue, on demand utilities, towing vehicles, made up the

majority of moving objects seen on the roadways.

The State Governors office expected conditions to improve

through out the day with a termination of the state of

emergency projected by 6PM this evening.

An enforcement ring around the entire Los Angeles County

region was now in place. Authorized by the Governor’s Office,

National guard troops patrolled streets and manned roadblocks.

Public and private, air traffic had resumed allowing arrival and

departure.. Public transportation was slowly mobilizing however

not expected to resume normal operations until the following day.

The Emergency Broadcast System was up and running constant

current affairs, survival tips, and warnings.

Hotlines were in place for those requiring emergency assistance.

The lines jammed, the expected waiting time for an available

ambulance had reached over two hours by 9 AM.

It was not a good day to get sick, or injured, or work, or play,

or feel in the mood to go to the mall.

It was a day of minutes slow cooked and churned thick within

the walls of a prison.

A boiling compaction of frustration and bother expanding

like a sun spot of needy resentment.

There had been problems…Domestic violence,

hate crimes, bomb, assassination, and suicide threats,

all of the above by 8 am..It was the rippling pool

of an aftermath. A faucet of negativity open wide then

loosely closed leaving acidic drippings of bad karma plotting

from a center point and waking in all directions.

Hal had spoken with Ed Hoffman an hour ago..He’d reached

the music agent early. Turmoil in the streets of San Diego

made camping out at the office a safer option for Ed rather

than attempt navigation a combination of inner city streets

and freeway exchanges from La Mesa to his home in the

suburb of Clairemont some fifteen miles north.

Metro Division’s ‘A’ platoon had patched Hal over

investigative findings courtesy the Law Enforcement Data

Net. Mister Hoffman had voluntarily notified the San Diego

Police Department of his secretary’s accidental contamination.

As well his business association with the band MENACE.

The agent was currently faxing Hal a data log bio history

of the band.

This morning Hal was under pressure to compile a report of

possible leads and up to date crime scene evidence

the Los Angeles Police Department would include

in a press report scheduled for noon today.

The city morgue’s Pathologist’s report put the time of

death for all three victims at approximately 10 to 11 AM.

The report shed no new light on the murder weapon.

As of 10 AM this morning Winston Mckeen’s head and

Herman Gilespie’s entire person were both still at large.

The FBI threaten to claim jurisdiction of the case

as boundaries of effected areas had quickly crossed city

limits not to mention state lines.

That would put the LA Police in the role of support

dictated by the Federal agency. As the city of Los

Angeles was hardest hit and the initial investigation

begun within Los Angeles Police jurisdiction the city

police were currently in hot debate with the FBI in an

effort to retain custody of the case placing the FBI at

their disposal.

Peering out at the morning sky Hal was going through

the motions expected of him at this stage of the investigation.

Convinced the general consensus of all law enforcement

agencies involved were steadfast adopting a guise of false premise.

FBI, city police and county Sheriff departments through out

the State of California were placing the responsibility of

the events Wednesday squarely on the shoulders of Herman

Gilespie.

The blood smeared walls of apartment 12 and the prints of

the murder weapon embedded there convinced Hal that Gilespie

was but a pawn in a larger scheme..

It appeared to Hal that life was like a circle of events

finding themselves reconnecting at intersections.

He was feeling a kind of deja vu. A crossroads had found

it’s way back to him from an earlier time. A time in his life

successfully stuffed and stacked away in a locked closet.

It’s key no longer used. It’s hinges no longer tested in medicinal

measure of a mending wound. A time long shackled, bound,

and exiled in the dark recesses of his mind.

It caused both a state of confusion and insight into the

workings of the universe that suggested Man’s concept of

the passage of time was an illusion. A strange ancestry

of kinship between this case, and a case ten years ago,

somehow connected through the mechanics of a wheel

in the sky.

An appointment of fate..and responsibility..

A responsibility born of past commitment that bore down

making hairs on his neck suddenly quiver with moisture.

He pulled fax copies from the gray plastic receiving

tray and viewed the documents while sipping from his

coffee mug. What he was looking for was a link to Gilespie’s

idea of sanctuary..A friend, relative, band member, anyone

who Herman might feel he could trust..Or a weak link.

Someone he could lean on, maybe intimidate into helping

him..

The list was long..The history contained in these documents

covered five years. Back when Ed Hoffman first signed the

band to a record contract. The result of a first prize award

in an annual songwriting showcase for unsigned bands and

musicians. From that time to present the personnel under

Herman Gilespie turned over no less than seven times.

Hal scanned the list of names out of curiosity for any

that might have emerged as famous from that time to

present..Adrian Phillips, Shawn Carson, Gregory Durward,

Kile Mattews, Victor Douglas, Edward Clifford, Warren Donaldson,

Sylvester Vernon, Tyrone Warren, Wilbur Mason, Lamar Delmar,

Dwight Donovan..

Blackwell, Shepard, and McKeen had been with the band two

years, a long run considering the track record.

The last fall out had been a woman. A Michelle Mc Allister

who’d left the band some nine months ago.

Her current contact information had been scratched.

All that remained was a reference to secondary contacts.

Floyd Mc Allister and Laura Mc Allister listed as the woman’s

Father and Mother. There was a referral phone number.

“Aspen.”…Hal moaned…”Talk about out of jurisdiction.”

The phone rang he picked it up spilling the usual introduction.

“Homicide, Inspector Pigg.”

“How’s it going?” It was Sam.

He leaned back in his chair..”Under the gun. How’s things with

you?”

“Ok, the air is better today, huh?”

He looked out at the sky again..”Yeah, I think the wind is helping.

Are you in the office at Metro?”

“No I am in the field…Not on SWAT though..We’re helping out

here and there with back up for clean up teams mostly.”

He nodded..”I am glad your staying out of trouble.”

She chuckled.”Yeah, I am staying out of trouble..Wha’cha

doin’ later?”

“I was thinking of getting up the nerve to ask a pretty

Lieutenant friend of mine out to dinner.”

“I’d like that sweetie but where are we going to find

a place open around here?”

“I forgot.”

She laughed, “Boy, you are stuck in the office today!”

“I..I am sorry..I am still thinking about last night.”

“Yeah?..That’s a good thing I hope.”

He smiled. “It’s a very good thing.”..

“Me too”, she said.

A shadow pressed him and he slowed..

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I just remembered..I have to drive into Chinatown

later this afternoon.”

“Something on the case?”

“Yeah..Maybe we should make it tomorrow night.

I am not sure what time I am going to get back, and

tomorrow most restaurants should be open, you know?”

“What time are leaving for Chinatown?”

“I should be done around here by 4 o’clock.”

“Maybe I could ride along with you..I am intrigued

by the case.”

His first inclination was the joy of Sam’s presence..

“Oh Sam that would be wonderful!”..But as the words

left his mouth the shadow pressed again with an

urgency.”But,…Oh,Sam..”

“What is it Hal?”..There was a worried tone to her voice.

She sensed his anxiety.

He started..but felt a deep desire to protect her..

“It’s…It’s better if I do this one alone.”

“Do what alone?..What’s in Chinatown Hal?”

He paused..”This case..It’s not what everybody thinks..”

She came back quick. “What your doing there, it’s

dangerous, am I right?”

“Sam, Chinatown isn’t dangerous..This case, and

anyone involved in it…That’s what is dangerous.

What I have to do there…It’s off the record..It’s one of those

gut instincts I’ve got to follow through…It’s not something

the Department would understand..I’am not sure I even

understand it..I just feel it’s the starting point of what

needs to be done…A possibility in finding the means to stop

what has happened from happening again.

Samantha spoke slow and determined.

“I trust you Hal..I trust your judgement..If what you

say is true..I want to go with you..I want to help you.”

“I can’t put you in that kind of danger.”

Her voice was tight.

“Hal danger is what we do..It’s an intricate part of our lives.”

Not wanting her to go away from the conversation feeling

as if he didn’t trust her, or that he was simply rejecting

her offer of support…He opened up to her a bit more.

“Sam..This is different than the kind of violence we both

are accustom to..What we’ve been trained to deal with..

This case becomes dangerous out of mere association.

If it’s what I think it is, once I involve you even on a ride

along, you become a possible threat to the source of this.

You will be in danger, and Quentin will be in danger also..

I can’t explain the how or why of it with anymore detail.

All I can say is the less you know the less of a threat

you are to what I am describing.”

Seconds passed as Samantha weighed Hal’s remarks.

She could let this go..Just let him have his way and

ask him to call her later so she’d know he was alright.

They could pick things up tomorrow like Hal suggested.

But her past caught up to her as she spoke to the

first man she’d truly cared about in over five years.

And the person she was today the person that had

emerged out the lit end of that five year tunnel

could not let it go..

“Please don’t be angry with me Sam.” She heard

him say..She responded to him out of condition

rather than assimilation as her mind was suddenly

far away..

“I am not angry with you Hal.” Her voice sounded

tired and there was a under tone of sadness that

caused Hal’s breath to catch as if he’d become

aware of a dismal event about to occur seconds

before it happened.

She had hoped they would be given the grace of

time..An element she had come to believe as

fundamental in the building blocks of a good

relationship..Time to talk and explore values,

goals, and importance in their individual lives..

Recognizing their seeds of compatibility then planting

together in a rich soil of respect and tolerance..

Nourishing, thriving, growing together until

the roots and stocks entwined in harmony

spring and grasping at life as one life.

She had noticed Hal over a year ago and

felt the seeds where there. In the interest

of their common chosen professions..In

Hal’s unobtrusive but confident demeanor.

She had watched from a distance the way

he treated people with a common respect and

diverseness that lacked pre-judgement.

A gift seemingly uncommon in a cultured society

that valued status and symbolisms obtained in

the dissection and categorization of economic

achievement, ethnic and cultural origins.

After her divorce she’d avoided emotional involvement

with men. Choosing to bring her life’s focus to

equal measure between the raising of her son and

her career in law enforcement.

Her marriage had been a mistake not realized until

the passing of five years time..It wasn’t that her

husband and father of her son was a bad man.

Hector Gonzales was a driven man..An obsessive

compulsive personality raised in the gang war slums of

South Central Los Angeles were his mother and

sister were gunned down in broad daylight, victims

of a drive by shooting.

His single pre-occupation in life was to free himself

and distance himself as far as humanly possible

from the lot of nightmare, poverty, and hopelessness

from which he came..

She was twenty-five, he thirty-four when she met him.

All ready a successful commercial real estate broker

living in a high rise condominium in Wilshire.

Long before their marriage he had communicated to

Samantha his ten year goal to financial security..

A goal that would not and could not be denied.

It did not include the burden and added responsibilities

of fathering a child.

He was furious with her when five years later, in her first

year as a Los Angeles Police Cadet she told him she

was pregnant..

She had inadvertently back him into a corner in which

he responded as a frightened animal.

As far as Hector Gonzales was concerned in a single

sentence she had brought the very infrastructure of

his ten year plan to a grinding dead end halt five years

prematurely..She had ruined his life’s plan.

He insisted she have an abortion.

The future of their lives together, their marriage, love,

friendship, hinged on the ultimatum.

She stabbed him in the back when she refused..

He felt used and cheated as he’d supported her

while she finished college graduating with a

bachelorship in criminal science.

He called her selfish, opportunistic, dismissive

and unappreciative of his own financial sacrifice

in supporting her career ambitions.

She pleaded with him then begged trying to

convince him that life held no regard for the

best laid plans..That life was inherently what

surrounds us, and not we that surround it.

Hector was not moved..He left her immediately

filed divorce and vanished from her life.

Now with Quentin over five full years of age.

His Father had never once asked to see him.

For three years she suffered..Then for two years

she strengthened.. Now with the long dark

tunnel behind her she vowed she would never

allow herself to make the same mistake again.

She checked her wrist watch and spoke to Hal

with resolve.

“I want to talk to you before you go..After we

speak, if you still feel the same, I promise I

will not have any more to say in the matter.

..I can be at the Parker Center by 3:45 at the

latest.”

“Alright Sam..I’ll wait for you.”

“Ok, I’ll see you soon.”

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful out there.”

“I will.”

Desert Center, California

Albert Fairfield squeezed straight Ajax dish soap

in the palms of his grease smeared hands scrubbing

for a full half minute before rinsing black oil and dirt

down the shop sink drain in the back room of B&D

automotive repair. He then used an orange shop rag

to dry them thinking to himself he should be using

the white untreated ones for this, but it wasn’t

even lunch time yet so what the hell..

He looked through the 18”x 48” window that faced

the shop bays and smiled at his wife Mary Fairfield

who hunched over the office computer keyboard

concentrating on the daily accounting books..He was

fifty five and she was,….well he really couldn’t

remember how old Mary was but she was a few years

younger than him..Over fifty for sure cause he remembered

what a bitch she pitched when she turned the magic

‘half century’ point about a year or so ago..

He inspected his hands frowning at the familiar ground

in black stuff existing under his nails and between the

tough iron skinned wrinkles at the tips of his fingers..

The stuff that was, as always, still there..

He shrugged grabbing the Ajax and repeated the process.

He’d just finished the lube, oil,filter, and tune up

of Mister Hendley’s maroon four door Toyota Celica

and needed to clean up before backing the car

out of the bay.

The day had been pretty much routine for an

early October Thursday…A long awaited nip graced

the morning air at 6:45 when he’d opened.

A sure sign the long desert summer would be slowly

giving way to cooler days in the months ahead.

It wasn’t until he slipped behind the wheel closing

the driver’s door of Mister Henley’s Toyota that he noted

the ‘new car’ aroma scent filling his stuffy sinuses

from an air freshener dangling off the rear view mirror

mounting bracket.

It was drastic comparing to the repair shop’s natural

combination of dirty oil, cleaning solvent, gasoline,

and permeated linger of exhaust fumes..

The shop’s 250 gallon reserve tank compressor

motor kicked to life as Albert back the Toyota out and

slipped the automatic transmission to drive pulling

around back of the shop to the customer parking area.

He spun the wheel right and had just feathered

the brake when the car crushed head first into

what felt like a brick wall six feet from the chipped white

concrete bumper strip at the head of the parking strip..

He couldn’t see a thing but definitely could hear

Mary screaming bloody murder as she tore out of

the office in her big fluffy hot pink house slippers,

tan peddle pushers, and white oversized tee shirt..

The one with Property of B&D Automotive Repair

silk screened in bright blue letters across the chest.

“Ohmyfuckinggod!!!…Al!!..Al?…..Ohmyfuckinggod!!!”

Luckily he was moving at no more than ten miles an

hour, but the sudden impact squashed his chest

directly into the steering wheel exploding the drivers

side air bag slamming him back pinned against the

optional camel colored cloth fabric driver’s seat..

Mister Hendley wasn’t what one would call well off

however, he damn sure wasn’t going to settle for the

cheap standard issue vinyl crap upholstery that would

leave a puddle of sweat on the seat and a wet stain on

the ass of his trousers every time he got out of the car..

When one lives in the desert this kind of thing becomes

an important factor in every day life.

Mary’s face was ash white as she peered in the driver’s

side window at her husband wedged in like two

pounds in a one pound bag..A combination of huge

white and pink roller curlers threatened to take an eye out

as they bobbed and flailed in her dishwater blond hair..

She stared in bewilderment as Albert’s left arm jerked

slightly and the motorized window mercifully lowered..

“deet’ah dife”..He communicated between pinched cheeks

and a locked jaw held hostage by the pressure of the

air bag against his face.

“Deet a dife?”..Mary asked incredulously..

He rolled his eyes and tried again.

“Deet’ah iiifff!”

“Get a knife??”…Her eyes were the size of the cucumber

slices she placed over her lids with out fail every night

an hour before bedtime.

“Dessss!”

She bolted back to the shop tearing through the little

flat compartment drawers of Albert’s fire engine red

Craftsman top box mechanic tool chest..There was no

knife to be found..There was however a foot long chrome

blade standard end screwdriver and she grabbed it

ignoring the slippery residue of oil slick pasted on the

florescent yellow handle.

“Will this do?”…She panted holding up the business

end of the larger than life shank for Albert’s consideration.

His eyes widened and she noticed an almost imperceptible

shrug..

Gripping the handle with both hands Mary arched the screwdriver

back over her shoulder like a golf pro driving it straight into

the air bag..It bounced off the surface with the kick back

of a high caliper rifle butt held an inch off the shoulder..

She got off the ground wiping the gravel off the sleeve of her shirt.

Dazed and confused she prepared to try again then noticed a

slight hissing sound coming from the cabin..She dropped the

screwdriver on the floor of the parking lot covering her face

with her hands..She couldn’t believe she’d done it..The air

bag was deflating.

Two minutes later Albert freed himself from the car..Wobbly

knees,aching neck,and wrenched back. Holding on to the

front quarter panel as a cane he limped to the front of

the car to see what he’d hit..

“Oh shit”..he mumbled..”Hendley’s going to go ballistic.”

The center of the front bumper was loose and sagging..

Bent down giving the car the appearance it was smiling.

Bright green engine coolant was pooling under the radiator

where it had obviously been punctured.

Albert was dumfounded…He looked at Mary in amazement

and held out his arms..There was nothing in front of the

car..The concrete stop guard was just where he’d expected

it to be a full six feet in front of the vehicle.

Mary walked to the back of the car and stooped down..Nothing

lay between the undercarriage and the ground..No

mangled bodies, no discarded and forgotten wheels and tires,

or scrap automotive mufflers, or entire engines or transmissions.

Not a single thing..

Albert stood back from the car scratching his

head..He was starting to get frustrated and Mary hated it when

Al got frustrated..Tools flew, walls shook and because the

little shop office was only six by eight feet in size there was

no place to hide when Al got frustrated.

He was walking around in little circles now feinting at pulling

his hair out..Mary knew he was feinting at pulling his hair

out because he didn’t have any hair to really pull out..

She really didn’t understand why someone with no hair to

begin with would act like they were trying to pull their hair out..

It was something she really meant to ask Al about, but

every time it happened he was too upset to bring the

subject up, and after the whole thing was just water under

the bridge Mary was usually so relieved she simply forgot

about it..

He turned to her now eyes bulging, both arms directing

her to the front of the car.

“There’s nothing here!!…There is not a fucking thing here!!”

Her body language was desperately agreeing with him..

In a serge of adrenalin he’d forgotten his neck, and his

back pain..He was moving nearly as quickly as his heart

rate..”What am I going to tell Hendley?”…His voice

cracked as if he was about to cry..”What am I going

to tell fucking Hendley?”..He reached against the left

under dash panel pulling the hood release..

“The fucking radiator’s leaking!”…He stormed toward

the front to lift the hood speaking to Mary directly..

“This is the kind of thing that puts a man out of

busine….ahhhaa!!!”

Mary stood in awe as Albert rounded the front of the

vehicle and careened into something hard and heavy

that tore through the knee of his dark blue work trousers..

He screamed in pain and screamed again as he lost his

balance falling forward face first pounding against an

unseen surface of cold sharp metal filled with awkward

points and protrusions..Albert rolled and caught, elbows twisting,

a gash ripping open over his brow, with nothing to grasp he

fell between the unseen mass and the front bumper

of the Toyota.

“Albert.”…..Mary’s voice sounded far away..At first Albert

thought he’d fallen un conscience from the fall and was just

waking back up..”There is something there Albert.”…Again

her voice sounded like she was speaking to him from between

two coffee cans attached by a taunt fishing line.

He pushed his palms against the parking lot and turned over

on his back wincing at the bleeding scrapes and embedded gravel

chewing into his hands..

He could see Mary’s face now and it held a visage of shock and

horror..She sounded far away because her mind had no room

to occupy him..She was speaking to herself using his

name only as reference. An ingrained habit that develops between

two people who have been together over the course of

a very long time.

A reference that still held a sliver of the world she thought she

knew but could no longer understand.

“It’s there..It’s sitting right there..

We just can’t see it cause it’s invisible.”

chapter 15

Los Angeles, California

“Are you gonna’ be my new daddy?”

“Quentin De La Cruz!”…Samantha’s face flushed.

She shook her head wiping dry a dinner plate and

adding it to the others neatly arranged within

pine cabinets behind frosty etched glass doors.

Hal bent before a white double sink donning thick

Rubber Maid gloves up to his elbows.

They had a system..Hal washed the dishes then

gave them to Quentin who stood on a two rung

step stool submerging them in rinse water then

passing to his Mother who dried and put them

away..To their left a rustic oak dinning table,

and four matching high back chairs were framed

by an L shaped wall of 10 panel french doors and

windows leading to a small back yard patio that

viewed city lights through a arched trelis crowned

with bougainvillea.

Sensing he was in trouble five year old Quentin’s

mop of dark brown hair dropped toward the rinse

water. His small hands stirring a coffee cup that

was no longer a simple cup but had become an

underwater spaceship with friendly aliens inside

living under the ocean making lots of new friends

with the sharks and other stuff that lived there..

Hal pulled the bright yellow gloves out of soapy

water wiping them on Samantha’s checkered cooking

apron. The one with the frilly lace on the border..He got

big laughs and claps of approval when he nonchalantly

put the neck loop over his head and tied the strings

around his waist..

Seeing Quentin’s involvement with the cup he asked.

“What’s that you got there Quent?”

Quentin didn’t look up but answered as if he should

make the mistake of averting his eyes from the

spaceship even for a split second it might go out of

control and plummet to the deep dark depths of the

ocean floor never to be found.

“Spaceship.” He murmured.

“An underwater spaceship?” Hal sounded genuinely impressed.

“Yeah!”..Quentin’s big brown eyes flashed up at Hal. His face

lit up from ear to ear..The fact a grown up ‘got it’ made the

pretend spaceship that much more real, an emotional

bonding for him.

“How’d you know Mister Hal?”..He was in awe of Hal’s

apparent super human power..The ability to read minds.

Up to this point in his young life he thought only his Mother

had the unique gift.

“What, you didn’t see me down there?”..Hal questioned

pointing to the deep.

Quentin giggled when he spoke sensing another funny

joke was about to erupt..

“No..” He chuckled waiting for the punch line.

Hal had been keeping Quentin in stitches since he arrived

over two hours ago and Quentin didn’t want it to end even

though he knew it was way, way, passed his bedtime and

his Mommy was going to make him go to bed as soon as

the dishes were done..

Hal plopped the big yellow dish glove on top of the rinse

water and slowly pushed it under..”We all live in a yellow

submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine.”

Quentin screamed in delight as Hal sang and maneuver

the dish glove around the bottom of the rinse water

stopping in front of the ‘spaceship’ and waving..

“We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine,

a yellow submarine!”

All three of them singing along with Quentin’s little body

swaying back and forth to music his legs marching in

stationary time on the top of the stool.

Hal piped in making his voice sound like an echo..

“And our friends are all aboard!”…He forgot the next

line looking to Samantha for help.

“Many more of them..” She started and they both chipped in.

“Live next door!..And the band begins to play!”

Hal did the trumpet sounds and the room filled with the

chorus.

After, she slipped between them kissing her son on the

top of his head, her left arm slid up and gently

scratched Hal’s back between his shoulder blades..

She stretched up on her tip toes whispering in his right ear.

“What a ham you are.”

Quentin insisted Hal be the one that put him to bed cause

he wanted to show Hal all the neat stuff he had in his

very own room..

Legos invaded the carpet. A poster depicting every known

breed of dog hung surrounded by framed crayola art work

of landscapes, jet airplanes, police cars, motorcycles,

firetrucks, and little stick boys holding of the hands of

little stick Moms with oversized heads and smiles.

“You gonna’ be home when I wake up?”

Hal sat on the edge of Quentin’s bed pulling the covers

over him up to his neck.

“Oh,.. When you wake up I will be waking up too over at

my house.”

“Your gonna’ come back though, right?”

Quentin squealed as Hal’s head bumped into one of the

Model airplanes hanging from the ceiling attached by

fishing line..

“I think I just got bombed!”

“Yeah.” Quentin giggled.

“I’d like to come over and see you again Buddy.

Have to go to work though. You know, just like

your Mom.”

“Yeah.” Quentin yawned.

Hal placed his two index fingers on top of each other

making a finger line between his palms.

“Cut the pickle.”

Quentin made a fist with his right hand and pushed

down on Hal’s finger bridge forcing them apart.

Hal’s right hand squeezed the blanket over Quentin’s

tummy.

“Here’s a tickle!”

He left the nightlight on and the bedroom door

agar as instructed before descending the stair

way to the living room below.

The banister wall was covered in 8×10 wood

framed family photos mixed with metal framed

awards and accommodations earned by Samantha

over her years of service.

The condo’s walls were airy, light with a hint

of peach. Cream colored carpet broken up sections

of wood flooring in the kitchen, and dinning room.

The living room decor was a promotion of the south

west with a dark brown sectional placed in the center

of the room. Large black lacquered frames complimented

still life paintings of earthy pottery bowls and

vases against stratified yellow backgrounds.

The gated key complex located on Culver Boulevard

in Mar Vista was a favorite residence of police

department employees out of the Pacific Division

station a block away. The division Samantha was

formally attached before her promotion to Metropolitan

Division’s special teams three years ago.

Ten to fifteen squad cars graced the numbered

parking stalls at any given time of the day.

The independent security company was a good

one, and many of the guards stationed here had

aspirations in law enforcement careers.

She was curled up on the sofa smiling at him.

“Thanks for doing that.”

“My pleasure…He’s a great kid.”

She unfolded from the couch walking to him.

Hal was amazed at her natural grace and

relaxed demeanor..She reached up hooking

her hands around his neck..

“I have to confess something Hal.”

It felt wonderful having her so close to him.

He slipped his hands around her waist.

They spoke low and soft.

“Let me guess, the dishes were still dirty.”

She shook her head slow.

“I really like you Hal.”

“I really like you too Sam.”

She let her hands unlock and slip to his upper arms.

“But,..I am concerned.”

“You are?”

She nodded..”I am just not sure my son has really

taken to you.”

“You think he hates me?”

She put her nose in his chest and nodded smiling.

“Maybe if I can figure out how to keep you around

awhile, he’ll warm up.”

“Never know, it could work.”

Atlanta, Georgia

Thursday, 1:AM

Sal Fox sat back like an astronaut in stocking feet

reclined in his slick black leather Lazy Boy.

A bottle of scotch perched next to him on thick

belved glass a top a jet black side table to his left.

Usually kept at the side bar a steps away, tonight

the bottle was required within easy reach.

A fifty inch high definition plasma screen flashed

through the late night news.

His laptop droned on a matching coffee table

in front of him updating music industry insider’s

information through a wireless modem connection.

He was lucky to be alive, he knew that.

Lucky to be sitting here getting shit faced and he

appreciated it..On the other hand, like the

half empty glass of scotch in his right hand, half

thankful was as much as he was currently willing

to comply..

He checked his watch. He had to fly to Denver

in the morning. Meet with other executives from Universal,

EMI and Sony International.

This years December 10th Battle of the Bands event was

coming up fast and the time had come to hammer out

coordination between corporations, companies, sponsors,

legal details, the whole shooting match..

Usually the event landmarked Sal’s favorite time of year.

Lots of glitz,perks and special attention..The big three

corporations threw tons of money at this thing like a

macrocosmic neighborhood Christmas Tree Candy

Cane Lane competition. The winner bloating in ‘spiritual

pride’ secretly gloating behind the envious backs of the

defeated during Midnight Mass and subsequent Sunday’s

there after for months to come.

And if you had a niche, like the kind of niche Sal’s latest

promotion could have placed him right in the thick of..

The red carpet rolled and the wine, women and song flowed.

Now it looked like his red carpet was being replaced

by a bed of hot coals.

He could feel the burning eyes on him already..

The judges.

Eyes that spoke of earnings loss, plummeting stocks,

class action suits, corporate reputation’s smeared.

The list was spreading like wild fire.

As in a premonition he saw himself being pulled from

conference rooms under the watchful glare of professional

peers. Quietly relocated to small cramped quarters containing

voice recorders and nervous brass all beginning their

interrogations with the same opening line..

“What happened?”

After the SWAT teams, investigators, Atlanta Police,

FBI, Coroner’s office,forensics, and throngs of emergency

personnel had finished he was finally allowed to leave the

building at 10:45 PM.

Between police interrogations he was constantly re-interrogated

by Corporate personnel calling from New York, Detroit, Miami,

St.Paul, Austin, and Seattle.

There was much explaining to do and for the first time in

his career Sal didn’t have the answers..

It all made him look bad..

He’d been in touch through out the day with Ed Hoffman

out in San Diego, the original affiliate who’d signed

Herman Gilespie’s band..Sal was beginning to feel

a certain parallel destiny with Mister Hoffman.

He could see Universal giving him a stiff boot and landing

some where on skid row in a shabby little office with

ACME MUSIC posted over the door.

‘Affiliate of Universal Music Corporation.’

Riches to rags, Porsche to VW, Main Street to Hobo Street, flyin’

high in April shot down in May compressed into a matter of hours.

What really bothered Fox was how he’d managed to get

into his current predicament in the first place..

Or rather, how out-foxed he’d been by whom ever was responsible

for putting him in this position.

Who pushed Ken Anderson’s buttons?

Why did Ken Anderson commit suicide?

Who was really behind the Corporate decision to promote a relative

unknown band like MENACE with a single release starting at the top

of a popular top 40 air play station?

Did the responsible party know in advance the subliminal effects the

song would have on listeners?..

Why would anybody knowing do that?…What could possibly

be the point?

“Maybe it’s ‘try outs’ for some type of secret military industrial

complex experimental psychological warfare program.”

His head was spinning..

It’s origination white washed from detection through a skillfully

concocted scheme activating trial phases through the

unexpecting escape goat of an art form.

In his gut he didn’t believe it..Not originating from our

government anyway..

It was more the style of a Saddam hussein to go after his

own people, but this was even more nuts..This didn’t even

bother to segregate.

Like germ warfare only less traceable. “Something Bin Laden

would cook up safe, comfy, untouchable over there in

fuck wad Pakistan.”

Playing the part of evil godhead with too much time on his hands.

His mind raced..He felt trapped and used..

Did Ken Anderson learn of the scheme and balk?

Maybe Anderson hadn’t been suicidal after all..

That fellah out in San Diego knew Anderson and he was defiantly

not buying the suicide story..

And the note he’d found taped to the top of the desk drawer.

The warning..

Why wasn’t the top brass at Universal making any noise about the

“King of the World” fiasco?

Sal hadn’t received a single phone call from any of the Corporation’s

Executive heads, much less Terry Washburn the current CEO..

He glanced at the late night movie now playing on the

T.V. screen and sighed..’No Exit’ starring Kevin Costner..

There was something else though..Something other than

the obvious parallels of desperation shared by the character

in the movie and Sal’s current situation that caused his

fatigue swollen eye balls to narrow and focus on the

images bouncing off the thread bare nerves of his over

stressed mind.

A kind of ebullience that steadily gnawed it’s way through his

current state of inebriation finding a common denominator

between himself and the star of the movie.

“Oh, yeah.”..He remembered..The site being considered

for this years Battle of the Bands event..

It wasn’t a lock by any means but there was a lot

of interest due to the number of high profile entertainment

names living in Aspen Colorado..Names like Kevin

Costner, Jack Nicholson, Michael Douglas, John Oats,

Antonio Banderas, Melanie Griffith, Mariah Carey, Michelle

Pfeiffer, Goldie Hawn, Kurt Russell.

Big heady cross platform drawing power from both silver

screen and music industries that Universal found to be

a very appetizing advertisement aspect of the coming

event.

The place was perfect. All decked out in holiday decor.

Red, green, blue, and white lighting reflected off

snow plowed streets. Dormant Aspen trees done up

in white twinkle lights up and down Galena Street.

Back drop of the Rockie Mountains with a five foot pristine

snow base..

“Wish I’d thought of it.” he said..

“Whole town is going to look like an entrance

to the pearly gates.”

chapter 14

The California desert

6:PM

Michelle parked at the far end of a rest stop some

fifteen miles east of Desert Center along the I-10.

She pulled off the helmet, glasses and spandex face

protection breathing deep the fresh desert air.

She had to pee, bad.

Five and a half hours after leaving Long Beach

she’d covered two hundred and twenty miles..

Made a quick fuel stop outside the town of Indio

using a credit card at the pump avoiding confronting

anyone inside the convenience store itself..

Slamming bottled water from of a vending machine

as she filled the gas tank..

She had to go then, but didn’t dare risk the challenge

of communicating a bathroom key, or where that encounter

might lead.

Indio was an hour ago and she couldn’t wait any longer.

The rest stop appeared quiet, deserted..

She pulled the cotton from her ears dancing foot to foot

as bladder pressure and the anticipation of it’s release

lay fifty feet away at the public restroom.

A clear rush of fresh air filled her ear canals giving a

pleasant distraction from her immediate stress affording

some added precious seconds.

Approaching the restroom she heard a low banging noise

from inside..The unmistakable sound of a stall door locking

device striking metal against metal.

Michelle waited outside the restroom certain someone

was inside..She strained but heard no other sound..

No slight shuffling of feet, or clearing of a throat.

No flushing, no water running, or toilet tissue

spinning off a roll..She listened intently but now the

interior of the restroom was as quiet as a tomb..

Her bladder begged..She slipped up to the entrance

and peered into the room.

Ambient lighting only..

The dimly lit four stall facility housed permanent

moving shadows as sunlight swept across fine meshed

vent screen near the roof line..

The closest stall appeared empty the door hanging

agar…She bent her knees, her bladder screamed as

she tried looking beneath the bottom of the stalls for

any evidence of an occupant..

The little light surrounding the room was sucked

completely away in the lower corners.

Darker still in Michelle’s vision due to contracted

pupils accustomed to direct sunlight.

She blinked then blinked again trying to force her

eyes to adjust..

“Hello?…Is anyone in here?”..

Her own voice answered an echo bouncing off the concrete

floor..

Vague outlines of individual doors began forming distinction as

her pupils adjust..Gray stalls against flat brown cinder

making up the walls. Bolted on her right, stainless steel

sinks hung like gargoyles of symbolic protection.

She took a step toward the nearest stall then stopped as

a shadow moved against the farthest stall..

Her eyes opened wide as the stall door swung inward

a third then swiftly slammed shut duplicating the sound

she’d heard outside.

Michelle froze in mid step unable to move..

Her heart lodged..Her brain worked over time frantically

deciphering information as her eyes continued adjusting

to their surroundings..

A spit second passed..Only a moment before pissing

her pants while tearing from the fear, her brain shouted

“The wind!..The wind!..The fucking wind.”..The Santa

Anna wind was forcing the stall door open and

sucking it shut like a vacuum..She breathed and bolted

claiming the nearest stall..

The floor was wet and the smell of urine stung her

nose leaving sticky imprints on the bottom of her boots.

She rolled her eyes and squatted over the filthy toilet

taking care to hover there never touching the seat..

“Ok, ok you can go now!” She hissed at her self and the

hesitant inbred response of a body forced to relieve

it’s self subject unnatural position in an unclean

environment. Her thighs trembled realizing how tolling

the day had become.

And then the noise came…The noise from outside.

The sound of rolling tires crushing over loose gravel..

The sound of them out there and me in here with no exit.

Nearer and nearer locking like radar low idle pushing

closer and closer.

She jumped up pulling at her jeans as if by God I am not

going to die with my pants down..

“Too late” she thought..The crumbling sound of tires

came to a silent stop just outside the restroom..

Michelle stood facing the doorless entry and realized she

was in the exact same spot she froze earlier only facing

out instead of in..

“Beep…Beep”…It was a horn..But not the deep baritone

blast of a truck horn…”Beep”…Not even the obnoxious

blare of a passenger vehicle…

She took two steps forward and peeked at the rim of the

doorway..Nick Flannery was pushing down his kick

stand and smiling in her direction..

She almost knocked him down..He’d just dismounted the

bike and was working on his chin strap when she flew

into him..Grabbing at him and throwing her arms around

his neck..

His helmet fell on the ground as he hugged her waist lifting

her feet off the floor of the parking lot.

He’d taped his cell phone to the helmet next to the left

ear flap…It fell on the ground too.

“How did you find me?”

He breathed deep inhaling the sent of her hair and she

felt him shaking..

They spoke as one holding on to each other afraid to

let go.

“This is my second time on this loop..From Blythe to Desert

Center and back…I was so worried about you!”

She released him unzipping his jacket sliding her arms

around his waist.

“Well,…The traffic was just horrible.”

Blythe, California

Dusk settled by the time Nick lead Michelle off the main road

onto a winding dirt drive ending at a modest two bedroom cabin located

in a remote area outside the town of Blythe..

Nick’s Uncle owned the vacation home set on ten quiet acres fronting the

Colorado River..

Uncle Jimmy was a water sport enthusiast and the place was his

idea of Shangrila.

He’d bought it over twenty years ago and used it from June through August

every year without fail planning to make it his permanent location once

retired from the Buena Park Fire Department in Los Angeles.

Nick held a standing invitation to use the cabin any time he desired..

It was the place of safety that sprung to mind when Nick suggested

Michelle and he meet in the desert.

“Does this place have a shower?” Michelle had asked him back at

the rest stop..

“Yep.”..

“And, does this place have a bed?”

“Yep.”

“What are we going to do about food?”

“The place is stocked.”

“Can we be there in five minutes?”

“More like thirty five minutes.”

“Let’s roll.”

An hour later the smell of baking pizza filled the cabin.

Hot steam escaped the bathroom door mixed with Michelle’s

sweet singing voice as she luxured in a claw foot bath..

Nick leaned on the front door jam nursing a bottle of cold

Miller Highlife.

A back drop of purple mountains clutched at the endless sky.

Streaking flames of cirrus clouds, against dark blue hues of space.

Reflecting smooth wide flows of the Colorado River, a stones

toss from the door..

Crickets agreeing with his Uncle..This Shangrila.

chapter 13

Desert Center, California

Herman Gilespie was not a happy camper.

Things had not exactly gone the way he’d imagined

things were going to go..

Big deal, the zoot man proved he could make a

hit record.

Herman had kind of prepared himself expecting

some kind of bull shit hidden agenda..Some trickery..

After all it came with the territory..

You can’t expect to deal with the dark side

and not get hosed in the end.

He just figured the end would come sometime

later. Sometime like years from now after his

end of the deal had been realized and he’d been living

high on the hog, up to his ears in tits and ass.

After the penthouses, Ferraris, vacation homes in

the Caribbean, cover of Rolling Stone magazine,

flings with Hollywood’s hottest actresses, all the coke

he could snort and stock in a walk in closet.

You know,..just the basics..

Not this carrot on a string routine..

This was more like dealing with the mafia..

Little Birdie merrily chirping on and on about how fucking

lucky he was getting his foot in the door..This was closer

to stepping in the door, slipping, sliding, and landing face

first on the shit filled newspaper floor at the bottom

of Little Birdie’s cage.

So far all he’d got out this fiasco was his apartment

thrashed, his band members killed, ten minutes

of fame, and eight hours on the ten most wanted list.

Add fall out over the burn down that was L. A. and he’s

public enemy number one by dark.

Forcing his heel against the two foot chrome kick stand

he rest the chopper behind B&D Auto Repair’s combination

gas station and two stall general repair facility on the west

end of Desert Center..An intersection of highways that linked

with Interstate 10 at the eastern floor of San Gorgonio gorge.

A strategic fueling spot for weekend warriors, river rats, and

fun seekers in route to Las Vegas, Laughlin, Colorado river,and

south east off road parks such as Glamus, or Ociotillo Wells.

Little Birdie told him it was time to ditch the bike for a

new set of wheels..

The same Little Birdie that told him to get the band together

at the ungodly hour of nine this morning..

An hour later Little Birdie told him he was borrowing Jason’s

bike and making a beer run over at the Iranian liquor store

three blocks away.

Should have guessed then something was up..”Ain’t no where

on this piece of shit to carry a twelve pack.”

He’d just stuck the bulky cardboard box between his legs, fired the

thing back up when Little Birdie echoed in his head again saying

he wasn’t going back to the apartment after all…

“What the fuck?..What the fuck I buy this for then?”

Little Birdie just laughed..

“Fuck you!..What the fuck am I doing here?..When am I going

back almighty fucking Little Birdie fuck?”

Quote Little Birdie..”Nevermore.”

Little Birdie didn’t even sound ominous..At least Poe’s

Raven had some bass tone..Little Birdie’s voice was more

like Tweedy’s..But not the innocent Tweedy who’s

thoughts and actions are based on self defense..More

like a giddy Tweedy with itchy feet in possession of

an H bomb.

“You don’t want to fuck with me.” Little Birdie would say

when Herman started to get the way he got right now.

From the little blips of vision that danced before his eyes

on the ride out to Desert Center Herman knew Little Birdie

wasn’t joking..

Movie trailers of shit gone down back at the

apartment would flash in his head like day dreams while

he forced his way through the fuckfest of L. A. freeways

and frontage roads just as Little Birdie dictated..

“Da shit’da just hit da fan’ah!”..Little Birdie squealed

shortly after 10:30 AM while he was heading east. Why

was he heading east? Cause Little Birdie said so..

Herman freaked when flashes of the apartment shot through

his eyes blinding him from the road…”What the fuck is that?..

Fuck me!”

“Music video!” Little Birdie chirped..

He pulled off the road into a parking lot. It was a county

park with swings some picnic tables and a tan stuccoed block

restroom with men’s on one side and woman’s on the other.

No way he could maintain on the road with this shit bouncing

of his retinas..Little Birdie didn’t bitch..Herman was sure Little

Birdie was still here though..He smelt the distinctive aroma of

popcorn..Extra butter…And the periodic crunch crunch of Little

Birdie’s beak enjoying.

Blip..There was Jason Blackwell grinning away, standing over

the toilet beatin’ off while soaking up the bass lines of “King

of the World” through the headset of his Ipod..

Blip..And fuck head Leroy zoned out on the couch plugged in

sucking down Herman’s last can of suds…

“Ass hole”..Herman commented falling down on the grass

next to a big Eucalyptus tree..”Fat fuck,”…he remarked as

Winston Mckeen helped himself to the last of Herman’s box

of Wheaties..

Little Birdie chimed in with a happy little tune from that

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs movie then shut up cause

the best part of this movie was coming up and Little Birdie

didn’t want to miss a second of it..

Behind cabinet doors, under the kitchen sink, inside a

bulging trash bin, compact discard ripened.

Composting solids to paste, and paste to liquid pools

that churned and squirmed with black fly larvae

snuggle and warmed by the stratified heat of melting waste..

Little Birdie, being a little birdie, found fly larvae especially

delicious, and Herman could hear a frenzy of peck, peck,

pecks as Little Birdie crunched on popcorn pretending it

was the hundreds of plump white roly-poly morsels at

the bottom of the trash bin….Little Birdie was really getting

into the movie..

Little Birdie’s bright yellow head twitched and focused on one

special tar colored larvae that split slurping thick black runny

goo multiplying on itself quickly filling the bottom of the

trash bin drowning out the others as it rose.

“The star of the show!..The star of the show!”…Little Birdie

could hardly constrain the excitement of it’s fluttering heart.

Over spilling the top of the trash bin slurping and gurgling

weird science seeped through the cracks of the cabinet

pooling and solidifying on the filthy kitchen linoleum floor.

Two separate streams leaked the outer seams of the cabinet

doors and built upon themselves forming twelve inch diameter

stubby hooves of wobbling jello quickly hardened to support

the flabby up growth of ankles and shins..

Black elixir soaked through the footing pads absorbing and

flowing upward. Metabolizing into building blocks of thick

knobbed knees, short squat thigh quarters, a narrow hip line,

undefined genitalia and a thick stump of bobbed tail.

The body evolved shifting color. Dark molasses to reddish

brown, hairless and slick, covered in a membrane that

glistened against the light.

The trunk grew thick and short giving away prematurely

to a huge barrel chest the diameter liken of a refrigerator.

Shoulders round and slump rolled toward a meaty extension

of arms so long the clawed four fingered appendages

scraped at the kitchen floor.

It had no neck. A massive oblong pulsating skull of boneless

mass perched squarely on the shoulder line..Deep folds

of lateral brow waved up and over an extensive forehead

rippling the crown sweeping to a fibrous bag of timorous

flesh mottled and hanging off the back of the head.

The eyes were round and sunken surrounded by flabby

folds of loose skin making them appear as slits..There

was no protrusion of nose bone, only two three inch nasal

openings high on the face almost between the eyes.

The mouth lay open. A four foot wide gap with nine teeth

on the bottom jaw line and seven at the top.

The middle teeth short and stubbed, broken and twisted.

Bordered by four, six inch fangs of motley yellow and black.

Ear flaps resembling the tail section of large fish draped shirting

the tops of the shoulder blades.

Once complete it animated a single programmed response.

Taking a side sweeping left step while raising the right arm

the claws unfurled sinking deep into the unsuspecting throat

of Winston Mckeen..A geyser erupted drenching the monster’s

face and chest as the arm lunged and lunged again pulling

the man’s head straight back. The left arm hooked,

talons grasping and snagging in frustration at the slippery

blood soaked hair..Finally as if in learning, the serrated points

caught gouging their grip. The left arm slowly raised extending

and twisting before it’s eyes the severed head.

No sound escaped the creature..No victory reflected it’s gaze.

No satisfaction of a bloodlust fulfilled..It was dead to life.

Dead to thought..Dead to emotion..

It viewed the head through lifeless eyes and waited.

As if expecting special instruction from a glaring quizzical

expression on the dead man’s face.

Seconds passed then abruptly again it animated.

Left arm swinging back, releasing to a gapping mouth,

the creature chomped twice swallowing the head

like a strawberry….

A note from the author:

…The narrator of this accounting appeals your grace in

special circumstance..

His inability to proceed further intimate details concerning

the ensuing events of apartment 12..

…Lest he fall victim to a madness..A madness contagious

of design by those whom’s interest would covet the truth be kept

unknown..

A lurking disease without vaccine exists in the unfiltered tapping

grounds of good and evil..

Created by the dark and laying wait to those who’s necessary

association and close proximity to detail in the pursuit of truth

make lures,… for the malevolent..

…Better the narrator appear a fool and rest the guard of those

watchful eyes that the wiser might gain an insight from these

pages of accounting..

I whisper now to you and only to you..

An accounting of what is, and what should never be…

By your nod, I therefore proceed with caution..

Apartment 12

Jason Blackwell and Leroy Shepard never stood a chance..

They were grinners..The zoot suit man had seen to it and

seen to Herman Gilespie’s immunization..The zoot suit man

had plans for Herman..Big plans that required Herman’s

facilities be intact.

Herman’s facilities were at the moment on the razor’s edge..

He had long since fallen to unconsciousness..His waking mind

unable to process the events playing out back at apartment 12.

He lay under the shade of the Eucalyptus tree.

His eyes darting in rapid movement under closed sleeping lids..

Dreaming an unforgettable dream..

Leroy Shepard lay back on the living room couch resting his eyes

as music flowed through the Ipod sucking his life away..

Somewhere behind the music he felt a presence and his eyes

opened to a an eight foot drooling troll..

Honestly..Grinners are capable of function..They just lack motivation.

Leroy didn’t fear for his life..The only thought that came to mind was

this big fat fuck was here to take his Ipod away..

That would never do.

He stuck his hands over the speakers of his headset and decided it

was time to leave..He got halfway to the front door.

Details can be reviewed by the contacting the Los Angeles Police

Department and requesting a copy of the crime scene investigation

report.

The added visual effects associated with the demise of Jason Blackwell

where in fact compliments of the zoot suit man himself..He entered

the apartment a few moments after the creature had completed his

purpose and literally evaporated into a filmy haze of black smoke.

The zoot suit man’s finesse with the kitchen knives retrieved from

the apartment itself was intended for the benefit of Herman Gilespie.

The scene currently playing in the dream theater of Herman’s

mind. His body jerked spastics recognizing the same fate awaited

him should he dare cross the zoot suit..

And to that recognition he woke up..

chapter 12

Los Angeles, California

The forensic team assigned to the case were

flown in by helicopter touching down in the middle of a

high school football field a mile south west of North

Stanley Street. At the request of Lieutenant Harrington,

Officers Silversmith and Carson were dispatched to transport

the three member team from the school to the crime scene.

The arrival of a police helicopter was a grateful distraction

for the facility and staff at Union High as the teenage children

held there for their protection were bored and impatient

complaining they now felt like hostages.

Normal bus transportation had been canceled and no child

was allowed to leave the school grounds with out a parent

or guardian personally picking them up.

The school had been designated a local emergency shelter

facility. Both F.E.M.A. and the Red Cross where currently on site

busy converting the multipurpose room into a receiving center.

More persons were arriving at the school then departing.

It was just after 4:00 PM and for many in Los Angeles this

Wednesday had already become a very long day.

Forensics scowered apartment 12 taking photos, gathering

evidence, examining the bodies, and searching for identifications.

Hal had found the third victim where Lieutenant De La Cruz

indicated he would, in the kitchen.

The third victim was not wedged behind a door, or hanging

face down from the ceiling. Victim number 3 was sitting on

a chair at the kitchen table with a half eaten bowl of

wheaties in front of him..Hal surmised the reason

the man hadn’t finished his breakfast of champions wasn’t

due to the fact he’d been a picky eater. His professional

opinion was the guy had been “fat dumb and happy”

moments before his demise.

Besides he still clutched a stainless steel table spoon in

his right hand..Not the little tea spoon size either..It was a

manly man’s size spoon.

Nope, the guy hadn’t scooped up the last few remaining bites

at the bottom of the stoneware cereal bowl simply because he

no longer had place to stick the spoon. His head was missing.

Mystery solved..

Hal looked for it though..Under the table, in the trash, behind the

couch, in the shower, generally peeking here and there. All the

while a little tune playing in the back of his mind..

“Come out, come out, where ever you are”..

Only so much he could do with no gloves, but now

that forensics had arrived even with the clear latex slapped

over his hands allowing a more thorough search without the

concern of disturbing fingerprints or evidence, the head was

not to be found.

He was in the single bedroom of the apartment now. The

only room in the place seemingly undisturbed by the violence

that had transpired.

It smelled of stale sweat and dirty laundry..Like soiled socks

left fermenting under a bed. He found personals in the dresser

and was busy categorizing evidence when something Samantha

said earlier struck him..”Like somebody painted the walls with

them.”..She’d been referring to the blood stains and gore smeared

over the walls of the living room..

Hal walked back to the living room staring at the walls confirming

what had sprung aware to him while still in the bedroom..

The opposite walls of the room some twelve feet apart had

identical patterns left there etched in blood..

Hand prints..

Not the impressions of human hands as one would expect.

These were distinctively of a creature previously unknown

to Hal. Four individual three foot appendages attached to a

hand the approximate palm size of the fourteen by twenty

shattered picture frame lying on the living room carpet.

He shuttered..”Impossible..It can’t be.”

The ends of the appendages were what can only be described

as talons. Two inch wide sickles rugged and serrated

the inside line of which appeared would tear like a rough

cut saw blade.

Hal realized these were the weapons used on the first

two victims. Victims now identified as Leroy Shepard and

Jason Blackwell..Both members of the band ‘MENACE’.

The third victim wasn’t carrying any identification.

Maybe it had been taken, or maybe he just didn’t carry

a wallet with him today.

It was concluded however the third victim’s body was

not that of one Herman Gilespie, the man the SWAT

operation was intended to apprehend.

Photos of Herman Gilespie proved him to be of far

slighter build than the two hundred fifty pound man

(not including his head) sitting at the breakfast table.

Process of elimination suggest the victim to be

Winston Mckeen the fourth member of the band.

Previous to Hal’s discovery of the strange prints left

over the living room walls, both he and Lieutenant

Harrington were leaning in the direction of a basic

prejudgment that Herman Gilespie committed the

murders in an attempt to silence loose ends.

Probably some time shortly after 10 AM when

results of the radio aired contaminated music began

hitting the news.

No murder weapons had been found however and

Lieutenant Harrington was somewhat hesitant to draw

concrete conclusions.

“It’s possible Gilespie wasn’t even present at the time

of the murders and his absence may have simply spared

him the same fate.”..

Hal had to admit looking at the 8×10 colored glossy promotion

photo of Gilespie it seemed improbable, perhaps even impossible

for the skinny framed speed freak to do this kind of damage

all by his lonesome.

He hadn’t ruled out the fact the three victims had been

converted to grinners however..Two smashed up Apple

Ipods with headphones were found and sealed in evidence

bags. The headless drummer might in fact still be wearing

his headphones with the Ipod neatly stuffed inside his mouth..

As with the kitchen butcher knives Hal kept having recurring

brain references to Thanksgiving Day turkeys.

If Gilespie had somehow managed to infect his companions

with the song and remain uninfected himself.

It could explain how he so conveniently got the drop on them.

Grinners were like cattle to the slaughter as long as pacified

by the continuous play of the music.

Hal’s theory didn’t explain how skinny little Herman could

have managed the enormous strength it would require to

crucify the one hundred seventy five pound Jason Blackwell

to the bathroom ceiling.

Standing in the living room trying to make some kind of

logic of his findings on the walls, he thought maybe

he was viewing evidence of what did.

Samantha De La Cruz was currently in communication with

division headquarters cooperating with the coordination

of another SWAT operation. A situation had developed

in the North Hollywood area and Lieutenant De La Cruz’s

team was ordered to conduct yet another mission.

She finished with headquarters and stepped through the

doorway of apartment 12 watching Hal as he stood

perplexed before the hand prints.

Her movement caught his attention and as he turned to

face her they both switched their radios to channel 5.

“Tell me your not considering this as an art form.”

She said pointing at the right wall.

He smiled..”No..But there is something here that

deserves contemplation.”

She considered this and raised her perfect brown

eyebrows.

“Are you leaving?” Hal asked.

She nodded..”North Hollywood..We’ve got another call.”

He felt a sense of panic tug at his gut and wondered if

the surface worry for her safety wasn’t a emotion rooted

deeper in his own self protection. An ingrained response

warning him that he was going to hurt bad if something

happened to her..

“What was it earlier about the guy in the bathroom you

wanted me to see?”

Her words brought his thoughts back to the present.

“Oh that..It was just a tattoo on his arm that spelt

MENACE..Linking him to the band is all.”

“How’s the investigation coming?”

“There are APB’s out on Gilespie now.” He said..

Samantha nodded and spoke.

” Probably not much chance he’s gotten far with the

airports closed and the freeways a mess.”

Hal shook his head..”That’s what worries me.”

The pretty eyebrows raised again.

Hal continued.” Two of the victims brought their own set

of wheels..The guy in the bathroom?..Name’s Blackwell.

We were able to contact Mister Blackwell’s girlfriend.

Turns out he’s a diehard biker..Got a fancy custom chopper

he takes everywhere he goes.

We found Mister Shepard’s keys on him and his firebird

it sitting outside on the street.”

Samantha finished for him..”So, where is Blackwell’s

fancy motorcycle?”

“That’s what worries me.” Hal nodded..”If I am Herman

Gilespie and I want to get out of town fast…

What better way through those freeways out there..”

“Then on a bike!”..She finished for him again..

Officer Silversmith appeared at the front door and Hal

held up three fingers..He and Samantha tuned to

Silversmith’s frequency.

“Lieutenant their looking for you outside.”

“Thanks Silversmith Samantha answered.” She switch

to 5 again and Hal followed..

“Got to go..I just wanted to wish you good

luck on the case.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Hal said..

She started to turn toward the door and Hal heard

himself speak..”Listen,..Sam…Would you do me

a favor?..I mean after the SWAT op is clear..

Could you patch over? Just let me know how

things went.”

She stopped and turned back to him.

“Why detective..Are you asking me to call you

and let you know I am ok?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes I am.”

She pushed the transmitter button.

“Tell you what..I’ll bet you dinner at my

place we both will be just fine at the

end of the day.”

Hal smiled..”That’s a bet I’d love to lose.”

chapter 11

Brawley, California

3:00 PM

Nick took a frontage road off the 8 freeway as he

neared the city of El Centro. A farming community

serving the produce growers of California’s Imperial

Valley..He turned left and navigated a series of dirt

access roads working his way north to the cattle town

of Brawley where he’d pick up the head of highway

78 north. A two lane alternate route making it’s way

north east to Blythe where the 10 freeway intersected.

It was the town of Blythe where he planned to wait

for Michelle’s call.

Brawley appeared quiet as he rode through the

downtown sector. A combination of manure and

hay scent waft the air. The district maintained an old

school 1950′s atmosphere where one might still expect

department stores advertised as a five and dime.

The speed limit an excruciating twenty five miles per hour.

Cable strung stop lights with a red track mind left Nick

exposed and vulnerable.

After ten nerve racking minutes of stop and go he finally sat at the

head of 78 north waiting for the final light to turn green.

It was there, across the street, outside a rundown liquor store

he first saw the man.

Nick’s impulse was that of a solemn resolve.

A gut instinct unquestionably dictating to Nick’s soul the man

did not belong.

As if in direct defiance to Nick’s initial judgement the man

seemed as if he not only belonged, but ruled his surroundings.

The arms where stretched outward like the wings of a bird.

The wrists limp, the hands dangling.

In the left he held what appeared to be a bottle of Orange

Crush that swung against the rhythm of a dance.

A dance that reminded Nick of a waltz..

A waltz originating from a distant age created under

dark foreboding skies.

From an ancient time when Man was but a spice added to a

mixture of emerging concepts.

Light and Dark finding themselves inadvertently stirred

and mingled within the boundaries of a great cauldron.

Gasping and suffocating at the repulsive touch and stench

of the other with no escape.

Out of an intolerable disharmony the fabric of separation was born.

Lines drawn, sides chosen, legions formed, in symbolic denial

and rebellion against the truth of a great catastrophe.

Through the concept of elimination great weapons were

forged into the world.

Legions of the Dark awaited in bound cages their

rights of birth.

Unleashed upon the world by mechanism of a summons.

Enacted through the movements of a dance. Performed in

forbidden forests under dark reflected moonlight, to an

audience of yellow eyes.

And as he danced his surroundings grew.

Emanating from the ground he stood on.

Seeping low and outward in all directions like the shadow

of a cloud absorbing the streets and buildings

of the entire township and beyond.

Attached to the belt loop of a tan colored zoot suit

flashed a gold watch case suspended by a chain.

Nick couldn’t see the eyes.

A matching colored fedora was cocked and forward

leaving only a blissful smile to the imagination.

The light turned green and Nick crossed the intersection

drawing the attention of the man.

He dared not return the gaze but kept his eyes focused

down the road.

The blissful smile erupted into a gapping cheerful grin.

As if the sight of Nick brought to mind a sudden realization

of a deep dark secret known only to himself.

Nick felt the eyes bore deep into his back raising goose flesh

down his spine. The 78 mercifully bent itself around a swooping

left putting the man’s line of sight behind him.

Two miles down the road his heart rate slowed to normal.

To his left a dairy farm seemed to stretch for miles. Grazing

pastures lush with green mixed against plowed dirt fields

anticipating planting..

Like salt and pepper sprinkled across the land, black

and white Jerseys forged their way northward fronting

the roadway. It was a fun road to travel given to combinations

of short straightaways then left and right exchanges as the road

worked it’s way north then east then north again.

After navigating a particularly tight left Nick jammed down on

the breaks hard causing a slight fishtail from the rear end.

Cattle were in the roadway. A large break in the fencing exposed

their means of escape..Behind them a hundred Jerseys marched

in single file toward a common destination. To the north hundreds

more crowded the fence line their bodies rigid and alert as if

deciding where their rightful place stood in the ever growing

exit line.

Nick brought the bike to a standing halt. His jaw dropped,

eyes bulging in amazement and horror.

Dead cows were in the roadway..

Dropping stone dead as their hooves touched the black surface

of the tarmac. Piling on the shoulder ten feet wide…

The line of the dead slowly merging into the left lane as

those that came after staggered their way over fallen

brethren until they too became victims of the road.

The black and white barrier grew steady and thick reaching

the center yellow division strip of faded double lines

and spilling into the right lane.

Nick still had time to circumvent them on the right shoulder

but time was running out.

He leaned forward peering at the roadway seeking a device

crossing it that might explain the phenomenon..

He detected nothing but was gripped with fear of becoming a

victim himself once breaking the apparent invisible line.

The massacre continued relentless closing the gap.

He put the Harley in first and slipped the clutch crossing

the line at the extreme right shoulder.

As he did the cattle to the north stampeded the fence line.

Five hundred feet ahead of him they charged the fence

like a battering ram laying it to waste.

Gone were the docile brown eyes of submissive beasts

of burden. Replace instead by a malevolent rage of bloodlust.

They hurled through the mangled fence kicking and

screaming, snapping back their gum lines exposing perfect

rows of two inch square cap teeth.

Nick slammed the bike in second gear and the earth shook.

The rear tire bit and slipped against the bucking road bed.

A billowing curtain of cloudy dust rose up behind the stampede

catching the up draft of Santa Anna creating a wall of

storm..

Three hundred feet away he screamed “third!” catching

the upper gear gaining speed..

The road bucked again as inertia slammed the dead

against pavement sliding and building against the shoulder.

All eyes where trained on him now. Frenzied eyes that

glared determination.

The air filled with deafening thunder.

Charging hooves,breaking bones, snapping jaws, and

the barking exhaust of an accelerating Harley Softail.

Two hundred feet out the left lane was completely

covered. What had taken minutes for the cattle to

accomplish previously now had taken only a

few seconds.

He punched fourth gear as a cow plundered into the

right lane. A hundred feet to go and the gap was

there..So were the cows.

Charging over the fallen, it’s neck extended like a

race horse, the murderous right eye of the cow

knew it had him.

Nick slid against the gas tank and targeting the gap

then let go of the handle bars..

The cow launched it’s self into the air.

Nick laid his back down flat against the seat and

raised his left leg off the driving peg.

Turning it’s head in mid air the cow barred it’s teeth

to meet the on coming prey.

Locking his knee, raising his leg, like a lance his left boot crushed

through a mouth of gnashing teeth. It’s head

jerked left forcing the bike right.

Staring directly at the sky, Nick watched as the

massive head passed over him an inch above his

brow line crashing to the road a fraction behind the

rear fender.

Grabbing the bars he tore himself from the seat and leaned

left with all his might cutting diagonally across the lanes.

He shook his head up shifting to fifth cranking open the

throttle grip he burned down the roadway against a sand

storm sky.

4:00 PM

Michelle found conditions on the east 90 state highway only

slightly improved, but as the miles slowly gathered carrying her

farther from the center of Los Angeles air quality and visibility

began to improve.

She had just merged onto the 60 east in Riverside, a twenty

five mile stretch that would link her with Interstate 10 east

when she fell in behind a small group of motorcyclists ahead

of her. Mimicking their pathways through congestion and

accident scenes.

The ability to see obstructions farther ahead rewarded an

overall improvement in her state of mind. Now with the added

comfort knowing others such as her self were finding success

cautiously freeing themselves from the chaotic region.

She had been on the road for three and a half hours

covering a total distance of seventy five miles.

Fatigue had settled between her shoulder blades. She

needed water badly plus the slow progression had used

two thirds of the bike’s fuel.

Riverside was too dangerous to consider stopping. Soon

she would merge on the 10 east down the San Gorgonio

Pass to small desert towns where she would find a quiet

spot to fuel the bike and call her parents and Nick.

That goal still lay one hundred miles away.

The bikers ahead of her slowed abruptly swinging around

a bad accident. People were standing in the roadway and

as Michelle navigated a slow turn a man appeared clutching

and hurdling at her. His right leg was wounded and dragging

behind as he leapt trying to pull Michelle from the bike.

She ducked her head instinctively and the man’s out

stretched hands caught the dome of her helmet deflecting

his strength allowing her to speed passed.

It happened so fast she first thought a large bird had

mistakenly flown into her path. Not until she glanced in

the right side mirror seeing the man sprawled on the

roadway did she realize she’d been attacked.

In the moments following the incident she became

resolved. She wanted to be with Nick. She suddenly

realized getting to Nick was the driving force that had

given her the fierce determination to get through this

ordeal..She straightened her back releasing muscle

tensions and allowed her self the luxury of hope.

After all she’d been through this day and most certainly

the worst behind her she felt a new energy.

Even the ass hole on the hard tail custom chopper behind

her couldn’t intimidate her now..

He’d been dogging her tail for the last ten miles trying

to pass her. The close zigzag moves around traffic

and debris hadn’t allowed a passing opportunity and

with each mile the rider’s frustration was becoming

more aggressive.

Finally the road opened for a quarter mile and the

chopper blasted past. The rider’s left arm

extended flipping her the finger. The frame and

gas tank were a combination of air brushed

red and orange flames over a yellow base.

Raked forks, ape hanger handle bars, and bright

chrome engine casing. The rear tire wide

and thick like a hot rod roadster’s.

The extended appendage of the rider continued

waving like a flag as it barreled down the road

passing the other motorcyclists as well.

Michelle breathed relief as the fat oversized rear

tire disappeared from view..

“Nick” she whispered..”Soon I’ll be with Nick.”