Barry Middleton
	The following tales are pure fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
	Peace Love Hope
	SHORT STORIES BARRY MIDDLETON ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ SPACE HIPPIES SAVE EARTH THE RETVIRAL STORY AN ALIEN ABDUCTION DIARY BIG CATS A VOYAGE TO NOWHERE WHO MURDERED ANGEL? DON'T PUSH THE RIVER TRAL 2050 SELECTED SHORT STORIES ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright 2001/2002 SPACE HIPPIES SAVE EARTH BARRY MIDDLETON My name is Joe Miller. I used to teach English at the Eastern Tennessee Vocational Institute in Mudslide, Tennessee. Now I am a farmer and a writer, trying to feed people and spread the word on how the world could become a better place. Wilson Lancaster was my best friend, still is. Someday I'll see him again, but I am getting ahead of myself. The events in my story happened about a year ago. You never heard about it at the time, I know. It is amazing what the government can hide even when there are many witnesses. You may have wondered, however, about some recent advances in medicine and technology. We have had some huge breakthroughs, you must admit, but there are a few new developments of which you likely know nothing. I will take you back to that night when it all began. Wilson was a big man in more ways than one. His blue eyes seemed to cut through bullshit like an x-ray. His black hair was getting salt and peppery in mid life, and some of his 6 foot 4 frame was starting to lose it's tone but he had managed to hold on to his health and something even more important. Wilson had a dream and it was a big dream. After all these years, he was still an idealist and he firmly believed that nothing was impossible. No, Wilson Lancaster had not given up on his dream. Neither had I given up on mine. I think that was why I liked him so much. He was single minded like me. We both marched to different drummers. My dream will come later but I will say this now: were it not for my friendship with Wilson, I would still be a dreamer. I owe him much. But right now I'll tell you about Wilson's dream. Twenty years he had waited for "them" as he watched the night sky. Despite being a lifelong bachelor, Wilson had a full life. He was sufficient unto himself people would say, but I knew there was still a piece missing that had nothing to do with his being single. Wilson was passionate about his truck farm, especially his tomatoes, but right now he was focused on his lifelong ambition, to be abducted by aliens from outer space. All the signs were coming together. The planetary conjunction would occur in exactly thirty minutes. Wilson removed the night vision goggles he had been wearing, enjoyed for a moment the pull within the vortex he had constructed for himself, then relaxed on his aluminum recliner in the cool morning air and rolled two more joints. Wilson didn't give a damn that the whole village thought he was nuts. He knew who he was and where he was going. What would his occupation matter to the aliens? Just because he had chosen tomato farming over the corporate world didn't mean he was crazy. Wilson had taken a pass on his old career at Earth Power Alternatives where he had been a talented engineer. But that was then and this was now. He loved being a farmer. I am ten years younger than Wilson is, but I must admit, he was in great physical condition for a man of fifty years and his IQ had been tested many times and never broke below 160, a lot smarter than me for sure. The aliens would want him all right; he was a perfect specimen. The vortex, the bio-organic magnifier Wilson preferred to call it, was laid out on a twenty-foot circle of fieldstone on top of the bluff behind his foothills home in eastern Tennessee. Aluminum pipe formed a truncated pyramid over the remote patio. The pipes were linked at the top by a ten-foot square of the same material all welded together. Wilson himself, in the back of his old VW microbus, had hauled all the rock and pipe up the mountain. That was long before I met him. Wilson had known when he first bought the place that this spot was in the middle of a natural vortex. I don't know how he knew. The entire magnifier structure was encircled by oak trees, which Wilson had planted years ago. He claimed that they too would enhance the vortex. That was also the function of the aluminum contraption. The oaks had grown quite large in the two decades that Wilson had lived there. The array would act as a homing beacon for the aliens Wilson said. Wilson fired up one of the joints and inhaled deeply. Most of the locals referred to this type of marijuana as "ditch weed" because it was grown locally in ditches and along fencerows to conceal it from the ever-watchful eyes of the constabulary. Wilson had grown it himself and had cultivated it over the years into a primo strain of resinous ganja. He was a fine horticulturist in tomatoes or marijuana. Still, the pungent reefer seemed to have little effect on Wilson. He heard me coming up the hill on my antique Honda 350 as he took another puff. It was 4:30 AM and the conjunction of planets would occur at 4:50. I had cut it close. I parked the bike and greeted my friend with polite incredulity. "Any action yet?" I asked knowing the answer. "The harmonic convergence will occur in about twenty minutes Joe," replied Wilson handing me the other joint he had rolled. "Just enough time for you to prepare." I took the reefer, unfolded my chair, which had been there ten years now, and pulled it inside the magnifier. Wilson lit my joint with his old Zippo and I inhaled deeply and held my breath. "Good shit," I choked after ten seconds then let out a deep breath. Wilson said nothing. He was almost done with his own smoke. He took one last puff and glanced at his watch. I finished my joint and waited quietly with him. After all these years there was nothing to say. Besides, he would need me later when nothing happened at ten of five. No, I was not the believer here, just Wilson's good friend and, say what they may about me, I am fiercely loyal to my friends. ***** Justine Johnson lived in the next valley over. He was a puny little guy with light brown hair that always looked dirty because it always was dirty. Everything about Johnson was dirty. The villagers called him JJ. I just called him Johnson because he was a prick. He was a prick to me because he had actually once shot at me. I was merely turning around in his driveway, which was really a muddy rut back into the sludge pile that was his home, and the prick shot a hole clean through the back end of my vintage 1972 Chevelle. Johnson was a wee bit paranoid. The shooting incident was a long time ago but it is the type of thing you don't forget. Elmer Hood, the local sheriff, took his gun away but there were plenty more for sale in Mudslide. Mudslide, Tennessee was full of lunatics, idiots and pricks. You could say it was a true cross section of the nation. The citizenry had voted many times on the name change issue but the local attitude was, "if Mudslide was a good enough name for great grand pappy, then it's a good enough name period." Johnson the prick's place fit the name well. It was a rusty doublewide trailer tucked away in a muddy creek bottom with a lopsided pole barn covered in tin and other assorted sheds, shanties and hutches out back. We didn't know it that morning but Johnson had been up for hours doing his thing: studying bomb making on the internet, feeding the rabbits that he raised for food, and working on an important decision, exactly what building was it that he wanted to blow up when the plan came together. Mostly people stayed away from Johnson. I sure as hell did. Johnson was waiting on someone too. His name was Spencer Turnwall and he was lumbering up the mud wallow of a lane in his bright yellow Hummer. Spencer had more money than God but had never earned a cent for himself. It had been in a trust established by his father, a local regional banker. Daddy Turnwall had set up the trust so Spencer could not hurt himself too badly with the money but Spencer spent most of his stipend on lawyers who eventually broke the trust. His own brother had fought him on the trust busting. There was bad blood between the two brothers. I'll tell you about the brother in a minute and the grudge will come later. Spencer's lawyers were good. Once they broke the trust, Spencer became an investor and rode the 1999 stock market up but got out before the Bear market hit. He was rich, the prototypical, useless fat cat. Spencer was a nut case also. He was strong in the local Republican Party but he thought they were much too liberal. He favored nuclear war on anybody that pissed him off. Johnson greeted him at the door of his rickety trailer. "Got it?" was all he said. "Yep," replied Spencer. They weren't big talkers. "Is it safe?" asked Johnson. "Yep," elaborated Spencer. "It's shielded." "Can you trust that Mohamed guy?" Johnson asked. "Nope," said Spencer Turnwall, "but he will soon be meeting the virgins." Both men laughed. ***** Jackson Turnwall was Spencer's brother, but he was a more moderate Republican than Spencer and a lot nicer guy than his brother was. Jackson didn't hold grudges and had tried to make peace with Spencer many times but to no avail. Jackson had a trust fund too but didn't bust his. He had no Hummer and didn't want one; he drove a Buick. He was the Mayor of Mudslide and had been as long as anyone could remember. That was a big enough job for Jackson. He loved Mudslide. Jackson was named after Stonewall Jackson but Stonewall Turnwall would have been a funny name. Still, a lot of folks called him that anyway because he was implacable. Jackson was a good friend of Dr. Jake but I'll tell you about Doc later. Jackson was no early riser. The bourbon made him sleep like a baby. It got him through the night and it got him through the day. Nobody in Mudslide cared that the Mayor drank a bit. Most everybody did. Jackson's alarm was set for ten of five. As I said, that was an uncharacteristic hour for Jackson but he had big plans for the day. Over the years Jackson had tried many times to come up with a scheme that would put Mudslide on the map. Ten years ago he had been instrumental in bringing in the funding for the Eastern Tennessee Vocational Institute where I worked teaching bonehead English. This morning he was to have a late breakfast meeting with some Saudi businessmen who were bankrolling a significant new investment in Mudslide's economy. Their new lawn mower factory had recently grown out of an old cornfield at the edge of town. The Saudi's were balking on hiring the local boys, however. They were talking of bringing in trained Arab workers from Detroit instead of taking on the dozens of indigenous high school dropouts that had been training at the vocational school. There was trouble in Mudslide and Jackson Turnwall had to fix it. The alarm buzzed and the coffee smell filled Jackson's sleepy nose. Jackson rose and stumbled toward the kitchen where he would spike his coffee with a jigger of Black Jack to calm his nerves. ***** Wilson looked at his watch. It was time. He donned the infrared goggles and gazed into the heavens -- nothing. I looked at my watch; it was ten minutes of five. I had finished the joint and snuffed out the roach expecting only another disappointment for Wilson. I knew what disappointment felt like; I'd had my share. I watched my friend as the clock ticked thinking how he'd react when nothing happened. He did not move a muscle. I held my breath again like I was toking a new joint but I wasn't. I looked at my watch; it was eight minutes to five. We waited. Five of five and all was quiet. "Well," I said no longer able to stand the tension. "Listen," Wilson replied, shushing me with an intense wave of his hand. I listened, then I heard it. A low buzz then a sucking thump as the red 1965 Impala SS coupe with California plates materialized above our heads like a Romulan Bird of Prey decloaking itself. Wilson and I sat transfixed staring at the apparition as it came into focus then softly settled to the ground a few feet in front of us. The car's headlamps lit up the bio-organic magnifier and nearly blinded us. White vapor poured from beneath the car for an instant then was carried away in the light breeze and all was quiet. Both doors opened and the aliens emerged. Now we were both on our feet facing the car and squinting. Two figures approached from out of the glare and stood a few feet away in the spotlight of the headlamps. There stood what appeared to be a young male in his mid twenties and a female of about the same age. They looked like us but…they were hippies… straight out of the summer of love. I could not believe my eyes and I knew without looking that Wilson was as awe struck as I. "Peace," said the young man as he raised his right hand and saluted us with that old, familiar hippie hand signal. He was dressed in bell-bottom jeans, sandals and a dashiki shirt. He looked a lot like George Harrison in his sitar period. A Peace Symbol pendant and beads hung from his neck and his dark brown hair was to the shoulder. "Groovy bio-organic magnifier," said the young woman who was attired in a tie dyed cotton dress accessorized by an Indian vest, several strands of beads, silver rings and bracelets. There was Baby's Breath in her softly curled, long, dark red hair. She was obviously braless and just right, I thought, from perky top to petite, firm bottom. I was instantly attracted to her and wondered if she was the male's girlfriend. She too saluted then glanced briefly at me with piercing green eyes. Wilson and I weakly returned the peace sign and said the word. "Peace." "My name is like Notah," said the young man, "and this is Parna, like my assistant. We are like from the planet Kregnek." "Wilson Landcaster," said Wilson, "and my friend Joe Miller. We are both from Earth." "Why the Impala and hippie dress?" I had to ask but I was wondering what Notah meant by 'assistant'. Parna caught me looking at her again and coyly looked away when our eyes met. I thought that perhaps she too was checking me out. "Man, our planet is like 33 light years out in space. We groove on your television man. We like love Earth and the Peace Movement, but tell us, is the War like over yet?" Notah asked in that vaguely familiar dialect. "The War," said Wilson. "What war?" "Why, like the Viet Nam War man, of course," said Parna. It hit Wilson and I at the same time. These aliens were 33 years behind the times. They had obviously been monitoring our television from the sixties. "Got any pot?" asked Notah. Wilson and I started laughing. "Man, you like came to the right place," said Wilson pulling the baggie from his pocket. I could tell it was going to be a long day. In a way, Wilson and I were as stuck in the sixties as these aliens apparently were. We still talked about the War too. We would all get along just fine I thought. I also sensed that the aliens' appearance here at this place and time was no accident. Later I would discover that I was right. But at that moment, my fascination with Parna was so strong that I had to ask. "So are you two friends or something?" I directed the question at the pair of them. "Yes, we are like friends man. We have been like friends all our lives. Notah is my brother," Parna replied giving me a friendly smile. I was embarrassed. I felt as if she could read my thoughts. Whenever I met an attractive woman I wondered if she would turn out to be the one that I had been looking for all my life. That was my dream, which I have mentioned earlier, to finally find a woman who would be a lover, a comforting friend, and an equal partner in the adventure of life. I was well aware at 40 of my biggest weakness. I had always settled for less than I wanted in love relationships. I thought, "All I had ever wanted was a Parna, I mean a partner." It was a funny slip of tongue for the inner voice. The young aliens wanted to know everything about Earth and how the Peace Movement had turned out and they wanted to smoke some real reefer. Oh, there were drugs on Kregnek all right, even synthetic THC, but not the real macoy they explained. You see it seems that the people of Kregnek did not idolize Earth so much as they did the sixties in America. The Kregnekians believed that the Hippie Philosophy would overtake the world. It was so logical. Love and brotherhood surely had taken root on Earth as they had on Kregnek. Notah and Parna fully expected to hear that there was no more war, that all races and religions lived together in perfect harmony and free love, peace and hope reigned supreme. Wilson and I had to explain about the Middle East situation, Afghanistan, the World Trade Center, international and domestic terrorism, AIDS and crack cocaine. Parna wept when she heard of the sad state of our little planet. I felt ashamed for all the people of Earth. But Notah said that perhaps they could help us. Wilson and I too had a lot of questions. Why a 1965 Impala SS for a spaceship? It was Dad's car Notah said. Apparently even the older generation on Kregnek admired the style of the sixties. Why did the young aliens choose to show up now? Despite their advanced civilization, the Kregnekians had only recently developed the "transcender drive" which enabled intergalactic travel. Why did they look like us? You know the answer; they had the technology to look like whatever they wanted. They explained that their jewelry and other accoutrements were more than decoration. Many different functions were built into nanocircuits concealed completely within the ornaments. In reality they claimed to look a lot like Mr. Potato Head. They were kidding of course; you'll see later. We also wanted to know how they could help the world by their visit? Notah said that there were several ways but did not elaborate. He said they would have to "go with the flow". "Groovy," I thought. I loved the way they talked. And I finally garnered the nerve to ask Parna if she was married or had a boyfriend back on Kregnek. She wasn't and didn't. She said it was "like a cute question." I wasn't sure what she meant by that but I felt encouraged. ***** Back at Wilson's place I got the chance to show Parna around the farm. Notah and Wilson were getting deep into philosophy. It was too much for me and I wanted to get to know Parna better anyway. I wanted to be alone with her and I was thrilled when she took my hand to let me lead the way. "So what is it like on Kregnek?" I asked as we strolled toward the small creek and spring-house behind Wilson's home. "It like looks very much like your Earth," Parna explained gesturing at the beautiful farm surrounding us. "But we do not have all these problems that like you and Wilson have told us about. The hippie movement like caught on, on Kregnek. There is like no war, no disease and all our drugs are like non-addictive and we have like free love." Parna was taking me back to a better time and a better dream as we strolled and talked hand in hand. I felt young again with her. I was especially curious about what she had mentioned regarding free love on her home planet and I asked her to elaborate. She explained that there was no marriage on Kregnek. Now I knew what she had meant when she said my question was cute. She explained that, if a man and a woman liked each other, they simply shacked up so to speak. This arrangement cut the concept of possession and ownership out of relationships. If it did not work out it did not work out, no bother. But many couples stayed together for life anyway once they found their soul mate because acceptance, respect and partnership were such strong values on Kregnek. Parna claimed that common goals produced tolerance of a partner's weaknesses. Men and women worked together on Kregnek and there was no gender bigotry. The younger generation was rather adventurous and seeking but when that was out of their system, they settled down and raised kids just like us. I began to realize that Parna and I had a lot in common. She believed what I believed. I told Parna of my lack of luck with lasting relationships and I told her of my bafflement, pain and emptiness as a result of my failure. To comfort me perhaps, she said that maybe I had not failed at all. She claimed that, in love, luck did have a lot to do with it. Sometimes we find ourselves with the wrong person for a time. Fate makes no promises but hope need never die. I wondered again if she could read my mind and hoped not because I could not stop myself from mentally undressing her. She really shook me when, out of the blue, she explained that there's no shame about sex or nakedness on Kregnek, which makes it much easier to find the right partner since one can shop around a bit. I was afraid to ask her about the mind reading thing; I was getting nervous. Parna's sexy body and her keen mind, what I could see and what I could only imagine, excited me equally. I knew that was a good sign and it was apparent from the way she touched me that Parna was warming up to me as well. When we got to the spring-house, the romance of the place got to both of us I guess. We talked more, we sat on the old wooden bench in the cool, wet air of the little stone house and watched the pure water ripple from the spring. When we finally kissed, I knew somehow what Parna was thinking. There in the spring-house, she would show me what love is like on Kregnek. It was out of this world and that is all I'll say. Afterward we headed back to the house. I was falling in love and fast. On the return walk, Parna went on to explain that on Kregnek, all the inhabitants were considered to be as one family. So there was no war despite differences in ethnic and cultural heritage. All Kregnekians did not look alike but, as on Earth, there was really but a single species of people. Race, religion and nationality had become irrelevant to the need for peace and brotherhood. The Kregnekians had borrowed the Spockian concept from Star Treck that "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." On Kregnek the politicians were actually honest and worked cooperatively for the betterment of the planet. Evolution had run its course. By noon, back at Wilson's house, we were talked out. While learning about Kregnek, we had eaten all of Wilson's food and smoked all the marijuana we could stand. It was time to go to town for supplies. I wanted to see the Impala's engine. I knew it would not be a big block Chevy but thought they may have made it look like one. "So Notah, what's under the hood; does a 'transcender' look anything like a 'flux capacitor'?" I asked. Of course he did not get the joke, Notah was stuck in the sixties and had never heard of Back to the Future. The transcender drive looked a lot like a small shop vac with a turnstile on top and it was silvery. As we embarked for town Notah remarked, as an aside, "Oh, by the way man, did you guy's like know that there is like a strong radiation source over in the next valley?" "Justine Johnson's place," said Wilson, but we would have to think about that later. We were getting the munchies again. ***** Elmer Hood hated Arabs, Jews, Italians, Irish, Catholics, African Americans, all other Africans, all Europeans except the British who weren't really European but more like us he would say, but most of all he hated hippies. Elmer was the Sheriff of Mudslide; you may recall. Now never mind that there had been no hippies around in years; to Elmer, anybody that he didn't know that was under 30 was a hippie. Elmer was always an early riser and especially today. He knew "them Arabs", (pronounced the southern way), were in town and that called for surveillance. Jackson Turnwall's meeting started at nine and Elmer was not going to be far away with Arabs around. You could count on that. He sat in his parked cop car on the far side of the Town Square and peered through his binoculars at the window in the Mayor's office. He could just see the Mayor and the Saudi's dimly but he was keeping an eye on them just the same. It was noon and the meeting was finally breaking up. The '65 Impala crossed his field of view and he knew instantly that the car was not from around here. Elmer put down the binoculars, turned on the blue light and pulled out of his spying spot directly behind us. He gave a short blast on the siren and Notah mumbled something about pigs. I told him to let Wilson do the talking. It was no big deal; Elmer stopped every out of town car. "Bummer," said Notah as he pulled over to the curb. Elmer pulled up behind us and took his time sauntering to the driver's window after checking out the plates. "License and registration," said Elmer, whose thumbs were stuck in his belt at either side of his fat gut. Notah was right, the man was a pig but I said nothing. Then Elmer saw Wilson next to Notah in the front seat and Parna and myself in the back. Notah touched his peace symbol and reached for his wallet. Elmer pulled out his right thumb and moved his hand to the butt of the Smith and Wesson auto on his hip. Wilson reached in the glove box and produced a California registration. Notah handed Elmer the California license and paperwork. Elmer studied them for a second then handed them back to Notah. "So are these hippies related to one of ya'll?" he interrogated the passengers glancing front and rear at Wilson and me. "My niece and nephew from California," said Wilson. "They are staying at my place. And haven't you heard Elmer? Retro is in. All the kids are dressing like hippies again." "Well as long as they don't try to organize no peace demonstration, I guess it will be OK," said Elmer. "We couldn't have peace breaking out in Mudslide," I could not resist, "that would be terrible." Elmer glared at me; he knew me well, and he knew I was a smart-ass. "Don't get smart with me Mr. teacher," he barked. "Oh no sir Sheriff Hood," I placated. "If we are free to go," said Wilson, "there is something you ought to check out. There is something radioactive at Justine Johnson's place." "You boys been smokin' that ditch weed again," Elmer retorted to Wilson. "Next ya'll are going to be tellin' me that aliens have finally landed on top of that scrap heap you got up on the knob behind your house." "How did you know?" I interjected glancing knowingly at Parna. "Ya'll get on down the road," said Elmer angry that he had interrupted his surveillance to have to deal with a pair of idiots like Wilson and I and some misguided hippies. "Seriously," said Wilson. "There is something radioactive at JJ's place. We are stopping for groceries and then heading over to Dr. Jake's to see if he can explain it." "Now how would you boys know about nuclear radiation?" Elmer drawled. "The aliens told us," I exclaimed. "Get!" was all Elmer could muster. When we drove off I leaned forward and told Notah that I was worried that he did not have a proper license and registration. They were still laying on the car seat. Notah touched his peace symbol and the documents turned to blank sheets of paper. He touched it again and the driver license and registration reappeared. "Far out," I said because it really was. ***** Spencer Turnwall and Justin Johnson had carefully transferred the cargo from Spencer's yellow Hummer to Johnson's beat up Chevy Astro van. They did not know what the effect of dropping or bumping the device would be and they did not want to find out. After all, it was, of course, a bomb. Spencer had gone to a lot of trouble and spent a lot of money to get the thing. Today was the day and the target had been picked. Nothing would get in the way now. "So how much does one of these things cost," Johnson asked when they were done. "If you have to ask," said Spencer, "you can't afford one." "And you just push the button on the remote and it goes bluey?" Johnson verified. "Yep," replied Spencer. "It's a fine piece of Roosky hardware. Tactical nuke in a suitcase." By noon Spencer had left content that several scores would get settled later that day. The local Arab problem would be solved, the brother problem too, and Spencer would come out on top. He would meet Johnson later at the target then they would both retreat to a safe distance to push the button. Now all that was to be done was to be there and wait for the appointed hour, 3pm. Spencer left and Johnson fetched himself a beer from the fridge. ***** Grocery shopping with stoned hippie aliens is fun. I know that Wilson and Notah noticed what was going on between Parna and me, but neither said a word. Everyone was having a ball. Wilson and Notah were old friends by now and we all laughed a lot and bought just about one of everything in the store. You remember what it was like. It was hard to leave the grocery store but we wanted to get over to Dr. Jake's place. Dr. Jake was the only one we could let in on our little secret. We could trust him. Even though he was as intense as a manic-depressive on holiday, he would not freak out just because aliens from space looking like flower children had landed on a Tennessee tomato farm. Doc had an open and inquiring mind, an uncommon commodity in Mudslide. He'd know what to do, who to tell and all that. Jacob Bernstein MD/PHD was smart, and one of only a handful of Jews in that neck of the woods. Of course, like most of the inhabitants of Mudslide, he was also a little crazy. We got to Dr. Jake's house at 1:30 PM. He invited us all into his combination home and laboratory babbling constantly about his latest experiments involving desktop fusion. The entire house was filled with various types of interositors, widgets and gizmos. Wilson knew what most of it was for, I didn't. I was more interested in Parna anyway. Dr. Jake liked to experiment with electrical type things and he held several patents but lately his interests had turned to things nuclear. He was interested in everything scientific. He was straight out of Back to the Future with energetic, wild gray hair covering a brain full of wild ideas. We told the Doc straight out. We told him the whole story about the alien landing, the planet Kregnek, the transcender drive and we also told him about the nuclear radiation that Notah had detected at Johnson's place. Dr. Jake didn't ask for proof that Notah and Parna were aliens but, nonetheless, our new hippie friends put on a demonstration for us by touching their peace symbols and making themselves disappear momentarily. "Your people have completely mastered atomic restructuring and reintegration," said Dr. Jake in his overly enthusiastic way. "It's based on intra-nuclear space and illumination of dark matter isn't it?" "Yes but we can do like more than that man," said Notah. Doc had a lot of questions for our young visitors. Questions about the exact location of Kregnek. It was way the hell out there. Questions about their power plants. They were sort of like fusion only much more powerful and a lot smaller that a breadbox. Questions about the "transcender drive". Even Wilson was lost in the mumbo jumbo. Doc wanted to call his friend Jackson Turnwall but the Mayor was busy with the Saudis and his cell phone was turned off. No bother, Dr. Jake knew where Jackson would be later in the day. Jackson would love this. Space aliens landing in Mudslide. We'd finally be on the map. Doc envisioned a new college of science headed up by alien faculty from Kregnek with himself as president of course. He was fully qualified for the job in my opinion. I rarely understood one thing that Doc said. When all the smalltalk was done Doc turned his attention to the radiation problem. There was not doubt; Justine Johnson was up to no good. Dr. Jake called the FBI. They listened politely and said that they'd check it out. Doc wasn't sure he had been taken seriously. He called Elmer Hood and dispatch put him through to Elmer's squad car. Elmer was still in a foul mood. He had lost track of the Arabs while he was harassing us and he did not appreciate Doc extending the joking about aliens and radiation. "We better check it out ourselves," the Doc said when he hung up. He grabbed his Geiger counter and we all piled into the Impala. It was 2:30 PM. ***** Mohamed Atwar al Hoodi hated his job but he was about to find fulfillment. Mohamed was the limo driver for the group of Saudi businessmen that I mentioned earlier. But he was more than just a chauffeur in his own mind; he was a soldier in a Jihad against the West. Mohamed was a Saudi but he had been educated in the U.S. at UCLA. In addition he had taken flight training at a school in Florida and had a pilot's license for twin engine turbo props so he was also the pilot for the Saudi group. In fairness to the Saudi entrepreneurs, I will let you know that they did not know of his connections to certain extremist groups, which used to operate out of Afghanistan. The rest of Mohamed's sleeper cell had been rounded up in the post 9-11 zeal to ferret out the foreign terrorists operating within our borders. But the INS had to pass over Mohamed -- his papers were in order and his record clean. Still, it was Mohamed who had sold Spencer Turnwall the suitcase nuke on the rationalization that Spencer could get it to the White House while he could not. Actually Mohamed had a secret plan. Spencer Turnwall had seemingly convinced Mohamed, whom he had met at a Republican Party function, that he hated the president even more than he did and would not mind nuking him one bit. But Spencer had a secret plan too; he would blow up a different target than the White House. He planned to blame Mohamed and the Saudi's and kill several birds with one stone. His own brother would be one of the birds and Spencer would collect Jackson's trust fund in the bargain. Then he would run for Mayor in a newly rebuilt, post nuclear Mudslide. The Governor's office would be next, then who knows. But Mohamed knew that Spencer Turnwall had no intention of blowing up Washington. Mohamed knew of the double cross that Spencer had planned as he donned his chauffeur's outfit for an afternoon's work. Mohamed knew Spencer's real target and it would be useful in his own secret plan. Spencer Turnwall, on the other hand, knew nothing of the double doublecross, which Mohamed had in mind. You'll see. Mohamed looked at his watch; it was 2:30 PM. Time to go. ***** On the way to Johnson's place we had to pass by the new lawn mower plant. The staffing problem had been resolved that morning in Mudslide's favor thanks to Jackson Turnwall. The Saudi's would hire our graduates from the vocational school. But management had been in place for weeks. I had forgotten. Today was the dedication of the new factory. The whole town had turned out for the ribbon cutting. The traffic, usually no problem in Mudslide, was terrible. Notah was driving with Wilson in the other bucket seat and Dr. Jake, Parna and myself were in the back. They don't make cars like they used to. We had plenty of room even with the groceries in the trunk and Parna and I took up little room as we were now joined at the hip. Notah was the first to notice that something was wrong nuclear wise. "Man, I am like picking up radiation already and it is like close," said Notah as we approached the lawn mower factory. We were still miles from Johnson's place. Doc switched on his Geiger counter and confirmed the reading. Then I spotted the rusty Chevy Astro parked in the grass not far from the dedication podium. "Johnson's van," I yelled pointing the direction. Notah steered that way and found a parking place several rows behind the Astro. Doc's Geiger counter was going wild. "Let's go check it out," said Wilson. "No reason to like go anywhere," said Parna in her coy way. "Like, show them Notah." Notah seemed to turn on the radio and make some adjustments. I noticed that the controls were multi-functioned. They clicked in and out with several stops and they toggled. A heads up display like in a fighter jet appeared on the windshield in front of us. Notah made a final adjustment and what appeared to be an x-ray view of the interior of the van and its contents appeared on the windshield. "Looks a hell of a lot like a bomb to me," said Doc. He would know. "A nuclear bomb?" I gasped. "Not sure, there is a lot of radiation in that van," said Doc. "Man, like it's hard to like say," said Notah. "They tried to like shield it with lead but it is like leaking like a sieve." "Bummer," said Parna. "I can't tell for sure from what I see on your windshield but it looks conventional," said Wilson who as I said was once an electrical engineer. "What are we going to do now?" I moaned. Notah started adjusting the controls again. "What's he doing now?" asked Doc. "Man, he's like erecting a force field around the van -- too groovy," squealed Parna. "Will it hold a nuclear blast?" asked Wilson. "It like should man," said Notah. What appeared to be a glass bubble materialized around Johnson's van. Johnson exited the van and ran smack into the force field then began pounding on it like the maniac he was. A crowd started to gather. Spencer Turnwall pulled up in his yellow Hummer, saw Johnson's predicament, then sped away. The Mayor, Jackson Turnwall, took a celebratory swig from his hip flask, stepped from his hiding place behind the curtains at the rear of the speaker's platform, ascended the stage and approached the microphone. The Saudi's sat behind the Mayor and Elmer Hood watched from the front row of the audience. Behind the podium a white limousine pulled away and headed for the exit. When Mohamed Atwar al Hoodi was a safe distance down the road he would pull the duplicate remote control from his pocket and push the button. Then it would be on to the Mudslide airport and the rest of his plan. ***** "This is a grand day to be an American," the Mayor began, "and a grand day to be a citizen of Mudslide, Tennessee. Today, with the dedication of our new lawn mower plant, Mudslide will take its place on the map with the other great manufacturing centers of our nation. Today is Mudslide's finest hour." The Mayor had more but he was interrupted by a muffled blast as the space inside the bubble force field glowed with a white light and Justine Johnson melted. Though the sound of the explosion was muted, one could still hear it and we could hear everything through the sound system in the Impala. "What was that?" Mayor Jackson Turnwall cried as he ducked low behind the podium presumably to give any snipers a clearer shot at the Arabs. The Arabs, on the other hand, rose, lifted their skirts, and attempted to line up behind the Mayor. The head Sheik bumped against Jackson causing the Mayor's whiskey bottle to pop loose and crash to the floor with a bang. Elmer Hood jumped to his feet and drew his gun. First he scanned the Arab suspects. Then, finding nothing there but some scared looking Arabs, he turned to face the audience. Still he could not see a threat but he did see a crowd gathering near where Johnson's van had been and started in that direction. Perhaps he saw the force field, which was still there covering a charred spot of earth. The Arabs cowered behind Jackson Turnwall. Suddenly, from the highway poured a steady stream of dark gray sedans. Blue lights flashed atop their dashboards. I could not count them. There must have been fifty. Behind them the National Guard was arriving in a long convoy of camouflage Jeeps, Hummers and trucks and appeared to be setting up a perimeter. One of the gray sedans stopped directly in front of the podium and a smallish man in a gray suit, who looked, acted and sounded a lot like a fox terrier on Ritalin, exited the vehicle flanked by some large guys with their hands in their coats. The little man ascended the stage waiving a badge and motioning for calm. He took the microphone from the astonished Mayor, shushed the babbling Arabs and cleared his throat. "Cecil Smiley of the FBI," the loudspeaker boomed as the little man frenetically waved his ID. "Everyone, please remain calm. We have had a minor little incident here and we are going to have to ask you all to stay till we clear this up." A rumble went through the crowd. Notah worked with the controls in the Impala. "That was not like a nuclear bomb man," said Notah peering at the heads up display. "Notah would like know," said Parna, who happily for me, seemed more consumed with cuddling in the back seat than by impending nuclear disaster. "What was it then?" asked Wilson. Doc was fiddling with his Geiger counter. "My guess would be a dirty nuke," said Doc. "There was radioactive material in the bomb but the explosion was conventional, right Notah? "Like right, Doc man," said Notah. "But it can still like hurt people. Bummer. I will have to like clean it up man." Notah adjusted the radio and a translucent tube shot out of the gas cap and connected to the bubble force field. There was a sucking sound. "Notah is like topping off the gas tank man," said Parna. On stage Cecil Smiley was about to speak again. "The explosion that you heard is not dangerous," Cecil Smiley lied, "but we have reason to believe that a wanted man is in the crowd here. Mohamed Atwar al Hoodi, please save us all some trouble and show yourself." The head Sheik reached from his hiding place behind the Mayor and tapped Smiley on the shoulder. "Not you," said Cecil Smiley audible over the open microphone, "we are looking for your chauffeur." "He has gone to the airport to prepare the plane," we could hear the Sheik say. I somehow remembered the limo leaving. "Everyone remain calm," said Cecil Smiley, "but we have reason to believe that this man Mohamed Atwar al Hoodi is a terrorist and may be extremely dangerous." Now he was telling the truth but everyone did not remain calm. Cars began to stream toward the exits. The National guardsmen halted their progress with threatening gestures of their M-16s. A HASMAT team approached the force field bubble. Horns started to blow. "That limo driver left ten minutes ago," I yelled over the hubbub. "We are like going to have to stop him man," said Notah. "He like has the real nuclear bomb." "Bummer," said Parna with a concerned look. "How do you know the chauffeur has a nuclear bomb?" I gasped. "Let's like just say that the FBI like told me," said Notah. I wondered what he meant but there was no time to ask. Later I would learn how he knew and what he was telling us. Notah adjusted the tilt on the steering wheel column and punched the gas. The Impala rose into the air on a cloud of vapor and slowly turned then sped over the heads of the spectators, the distinguished podium, the FBI, HASMAT and the National Guard. "Stop that… car," Cecil Smiley yelled into the loudspeaker. Elmer Hood, who had reached the force-field and smacked into it, fired several shots in our direction but to no avail. We zoomed over the chaos below. No one appeared to know what to do. We were flying. Far below we could see Spencer Turnwall's yellow Hummer surrounded by National Guard Hummers. It looked like a Hummer convention with the queen bee Hummer right in the middle of the hive. At the Mudslide airport, Mohamed Atwar al Hoodi had already taken off in a twin engine Beechcraft and at a Memphis airbase F-16 fighter jets were scrambling, their afterburners ablaze with streaks of fire. Mohamed had climbed slowly to cruising altitude and set his course for Washington DC, the White House. ***** Notah accelerated and climbed to 20,000 feet. Our airspeed was 600 mph. We had cruised for 20 minutes with still no sign of Mohamed's plane when a buzzing alarm sounded. Notah shut the alarm off and pointed to a spot on the heads up display. Some sort of radar device illuminated eight points of light closing in on our craft from the west. I turned and looked out the rear window. The F-16s from Memphis came into view. They were gaining on us fast. "Unknown aircraft, this is the United States Airforce, you are flying without a flight plan, identify yourself now or you will be shot down," boomed the radio in the Impala. "Oh shit," I moaned. "Don't like worry," said Parna with reassurance, "Notah has like got the force field like up. This is too groovy." She was obviously excited by the chase in a way that I could not quite get into. I was in love but scared shitless. If I had to die at least Parna would be at my side. I pulled her closer. "Grand," said Wilson with resignation as the lead F-16 pulled along side of us and slowed to our airspeed. This was a lot more serious than Elmer Hood's earlier interception. I could see that the pilot's face in the cockpit was covered by an oxygen mask but I knew his mouth was open as he gazed at the red Impala. "What the hell," the radio boomed again, " what the hell are you?" "Allow me to introduce myself," answered Notah. His voice sounded different somehow. "I am Notah of the Planet Kregnek." Notah had dropped the hippie talk. "We will assist you in intercepting the nuclear terrorist." "Yea, and I am Snow White and these are my seven dwarfs," blared the F-16 leader as he took up a position directly behind us and seven of his comrades fanned out beside him. "Identify your self or I'll fire!" Notah touched the button that should have been the cruise control. Space seemed to warp around us. Suddenly Wilson, Doc and I were sitting in a large oval space with a clear Plexiglas dome over our heads. We were sitting in a flying saucer. Parna had disappeared from my side and now sat with Notah in two seats directly in front of us but their appearance had altered. Their clothing had turned to light gray jumpsuits, which matched their complexion. Tall gray aliens they were. Parna turned and looked at me. I could read her thoughts, "I'm sorry Joe, I have to help Notah now." Her hippie talk was gone too; I liked her even better. "It's OK," I thought my reply. "I love you." Notah turned and looked directly at me with huge, somewhat oriental looking dark gray eyes. I could hear him think also. I could tell that Wilson and Doc heard him too. Now I knew how he knew of the real nuclear bomb. They could read minds. The FBI had "told him" as he had said. I wondered what Parna had read in my thoughts. "Everything will be OK," Notah projected. "We will not be harmed." Then he turned his attention to the F-16 pilot and spoke audibly. "I am Notah of the planet Kregnek. We are here to help you. We will intercept the terrorist and deal with him. There is no need for hostility. We will do no harm." "I like that part," said Doc. Doc was an MD too, remember. The lead F-16 fired a single air to air missile. The saucer lurched slightly in the rough air as the missile exploded on our rear shield. The rest of the formation of F-16s cut loose with all they had. It was a bumpy ride but there was no apparent damage to our saucer. "Activate the transcender boost," said Notah and Parna threw a lever on the controls in front of her. Notah punched a red button and we accelerated smoothly out of range of the fighter jets. ***** Mohamed Atwar Al Houdi was dreaming about the virgins when we caught up with him. Soon he would detonate the nuclear device as he nose-dived his plane into the White House, then the party would begin, or so he thought. He mused on how clever he had been. The dirty nuke that he had sold Spencer Turnwall had served as a diversionary tactic while Mohamed slipped away from Spencer's real target, the Saudi lawnmower factory. The Feds, whom he knew were only a step behind him, had swooped in on Mudslide just as Mohamed had planned. How cunning he was indeed. By the time the Feds figured it all out he would have detonated the real nuclear device inside the White House and he would be in paradise with his fifty virgins. Notah slowed his craft to match that of the twin engine turboprop. "Activate the tractor beam," Notah ordered and Parna entered the commands into her touch-screen console. "You have a tractor beam," beamed Dr. Jake, "how does it work?" "Just like the one in Star Treck," replied Parna, "that's where we got the idea." "It is just another application of utilizing matter reintegration and intranuclear space," explained Notah. "Of course," Doc nodded. "What are you going to do?" asked Wilson. "Just watch," said Notah but by then I had intuited the plan as Notah locked onto his target. There was a sleight bump as we latched on to Mohamed's plane. Then Notah began to climb. We climbed and climbed until the clouds were far below and the sky turned black and the stars came out. "Oh, I see," said Doc and Wilson in unison as they realized Notah's plan. Inside his plane, Mohamed marveled at the stars and wondered. Had he already crashed into the White House? Was he in heaven now? He smiled. He would soon meet the virgins but wait, something was wrong here. The plane was still climbing. It was not responding to the controls. Mohamed stopped smiling and started to panic as he fought with the yoke in front of him. Notah pushed a button and the flying saucer smoothly whooshed through the blinding white light where Mohamed's plane had been. There was no sound. A moment later we felt the jolt from the nuclear explosion. The saucer rocked and then steadied. Notah began his decent and no one said a word. Space is a beautiful place. I looked out the window and gazed at the blue green Earth. For a moment I felt that there could be peace in this precious world if only we could stop hating. As we approached the clouds, we could see that the F-16 squadron had caught up with us. "Oh shit," I muttered coming back to reality. "No problem," replied Notah, "the force field is on but I think your Air Force will have a new attitude now that we have taken care of the terrorist for them." "Escort leader to Notah," the radio blared, "come in Notah." "I am listening," replied Notah. "We see now that your intentions are honorable and we have new orders. We will not fire," the F-16 leader said calmly. "We will be your escort." "Roger that," said Notah as he made a sleight course correction and pitched downward. "Escort? Where are we going?" asked Wilson. "You are going to like it," replied Notah. I nudged Wilson then Dr. Jake and pointed out the window. We were approaching a large city on a river. It was a beautiful view. Then they spied it as I had, a tall stone spire pierced the sky, beyond it a familiar domed building came into view and in the distance was a tiny white house that was growing larger by the moment. Not a tiny white house at all, we were almost there now, a large white house, The White House. The north lawn came towards us. There were lots of people. A man stood at a podium under the north portico. We were landing at the White House and the President was there to greet us. The F-16 squadron flew above the flying saucer, tipped their wings and turned towards Andrews Air Force Base. We touched down gently, not a bump. ***** Notah threw a switch on the control panel and a section of floor lowered to the green lawn beneath us and an honor guard of Marines rolled a red carpet into place then stood at attention to either side of our exit. Notah led the way followed by Parna who reached back and took my hand. Even in her true gray form I was still fascinated by her. Wilson and Doc followed us. The carpet took us toward the man at the podium, which stood beneath the north portico of the White House. A single microphone sprouted from our own podium, which faced the president's. It was much later that I would realize that there was no press to be seen, no TV, not a single camera. Notah and Parna stood at the podium with me holding Parna's hand on the right and Wilson and Doc took up the position to Notah's left. "Welcome to Planet Earth and The United States of America," the president began. "We shall be forever grateful to you and to the people of Kregnek for the invaluable assistance you have afforded us today. May this great day forge a bond of friendship with the people of Earth and those of your home planet." "We bring greetings from the planet Kregnek and a pledge of friendship. We came to Earth hoping to find a place filled with the love and harmony, which we have achieved on our planet. Instead we have found that your Earth is still troubled by war, hatred of brother against brother, crime and disease. We are happy to have been of assistance in resolving this latest attempt at violence and disruption," Notah replied. "We have many problems here as you have seen," said the president. "We have no right to ask, but can you help us further?" Notah nodded in the affirmative and intoned, "We will help you with defense against evil but only with defense. Our weapons are used solely for self-defense. We can teach your scientists the technology of the force field so that your cities and your homes can be protected. We can help you with medicine, which will cure many of your great plagues and we can give you alternatives to the addictive drugs that are destroying your society. But we cannot help mankind with what lurks in his heart. It is ironic that your own planet inspired the ideas that have brought peace, love and hope to Kregnek and yet those same ideals have languished here on Earth due to greed, bigotry and moral failure." "We are grateful," said the president. "Is their anything that we can do for your people?" "Yes," replied Notah. "If they wish, we would like a few of your people to return with us to Kregnek. There are many among you that have held onto their dreams for a better world. We have selected these three that are with me today." Notah turned to Wilson and Dr. Jake then looked at me. "What about it my friends, will you come with us?" Wilson and Doc were struck speechless for only a second. "Yes," they replied in unison. Wilson's dream had come true. He would get to see an alien world, a better world. And Doc would get to assemble the faculty for his new university. "And you Joe?" Notah asked looking directly at me with liquid gray eyes. "I must stay here Notah," I responded. "I have learned much from your brief visit. But my place is here. I will try to spread your message of peace. I will miss you and I will miss Parna most of all," I said looking at her alien incarnation. Parna gazed into my eyes, touched a button on her jumpsuit, and suddenly she was my hippie dream-girl once again. She put her arms around me with a total lack of shame in her affection for me. "I am staying with you Joe," she said softly. "I love you. We will work together to make a better world for the people of Earth. My dream also had come true. A tear rolled down my cheek but Parna kissed it away and the crowd cheered, even the president. The ceremony went on but I will not bore you with the details. That night Parna and I had dinner with the president. It was then that he asked us to remain silent for one year on the events of the day. That would give our scientists time to learn the technology of the force field and develop production of the Kregnekian miracle medicines. Later that night, Parna and I made love in the White House. Wilson and Doc had taken off for Kregnek with Notah. Notah said they would return but did not say when. A year has passed and we can now tell the world what happened that day. I expect that the government will soon break its silence. Parna and I are very happy. We have taken good care of Wilson's farm and Doc's lab. On certain nights when the planets are right, we go up to the bio-organic magnifier, smoke weed and wait for their return. And we wait for the rest of the dream to come true -- peace on Earth, peace at last. The End THE RETVIRAL STORY What more could happen to poor Joe Keller? The tan car in front of him was literally crawling along at 10 miles per hour. He'd be late for the lousy job interview. He had already blown two marriages, $100,000 of his inheritance, he knew he drank too much and he was only 39 years old. Now he had been fired to boot because his boss was a crook and this fucking, shit tan car was in the way. Joe blasted his horn as he crowded the bumper of the creeping car in front of him. There were two men in the car. The driver was blond. Joe could only see the back of his head. The man on the passenger side turned, looked directly at Joe and flipped him off. The face was thin and rough, the hair dark and oily, the profile was hawk nosed, and an ugly scar slashed through his right cheek and eyebrow. Scarface was no more than 15 feet away and his ugly face gave Joe the creeps. "Fuck you," Joe thought, but there was too much going on in his life to let a fucking stranger get to him. He had enough problems already. It was a big mistake he'd made. You just don't go accusing James Shea of fraud and not pay a price. After all, Shea was on the board of everything in the stinking town of Middleburg, Illinois. It was an unlikely location for a startup biotech firm but Joe had been a minor technician at Shea's company. The publicly owned Retviral Inc. was Shea's private toy. Retviral was developing a new AIDS drug called Fraction X that had shown great promise in vitro at the Middleburg lab and in a few sloppily done clinical trials in Bolivia. Shea was Chief Executive Officer, Chairman of the Board and Chief Science Officer. He controlled every detail of what went on at Retviral—in the lab and in the boardroom. Firing Joe Keller had been Shea's revenge for Joe's outlandish accusations. Now Joe was on the way to try and get a crummy job at a convenience store and Shea was still collecting his fat salary and padding his fortune with stock options at give away prices. Joe had accused Shea of stock fraud and manipulation of the market but ended up with apparently not enough evidence for the SEC but too much for Shea's comfort. Shea had blackballed Joe at every other drug company in the country. Joe made a hard left onto Madison Street as the pokey car continued to block his way. He could see that the street was empty ahead. "Fuck the rules," he thought as he snapped his car into the left lane and stomped the gas. Joe sped up the empty street in front of him—maybe there was still time if he hurried. In his rear view mirror he saw the tan car speed up and dart toward the curb as he swung wide and fast through the soft curve onto Fourth Street and crashed his left headlight into the green Volvo headed the other way. His car spun around, his head smacked against the windshield and blood trickled into his eyes. The ex-wife had always reminded him to fasten his seat belt but he had never missed her advice till now. He never heard the noise of the crash or the gunfire as the scar-faced man in the tan car riddled a suit on the street with a 9 mil on full auto. The driver of the green Volvo was Margaret Wyatt, owner of a local art studio and artist in her own right. She gazed with double horror at the smashed cars and at the man on the street as red spray exploded from his chest, then glanced up to a third story window where a gray headed fat man held a wiggling dog. Joe wasn't sure where he was but he knew it wasn't heaven as he came to with the blare of a car horn changing pitch as it sped past the wreck at a high rate of speed. He thought it was the same tan car that had made him late. In the hazy fog a blurry form appeared at his window. "Are you OK? My God, you're bleeding. It was all my fault; I wasn't watching where I was going," said the cute, young redhead that briefly came into focus, then faded. "I'm having a great day," said Joe just before he passed out again. ***** The next morning Joe woke up and looked around the hospital room just as the sternest looking nurse he had ever seen entered. Joe felt like he had downed a quart of booze but he knew he had not had a drop; the accident was yesterday morning he realized. "Time for breakfast," the old bag said in a pseudo cheerful voice as she handed him a cup of juice and a rock hard pastry. "You've got a visitor when you're ready. They've been here since eight, so hurry, hurry, hurry." "What time is it now?" Joe asked. "Nine," replied Nurse Ratchet. "Who the fuck would be here at 8am," Joe thought. He only had one friend and Big Don Rawlings wasn't a morning person. "I'm dying," thought Joe, "otherwise he'd show up tonight with a six-pack and some bimbo—but never at 8am unless it was terminal." "I don't feel like I'm fucking dying," said Joe, "but I wish I was—it couldn't be much worse. Send him in." "It's a lady," said the cheerful, scowling nurse, "and watch your language. I'll get her." The nurse left. "A lady," Joe thought, "if it's my ex-wife, I am dying and she wants what's left of the money. I've got her this time—there isn't any left! Ha!" It hurt to laugh but Joe smiled at the thought of screwing his ex out of non-existent cash. The door opened and a petite redhead in her mid 20s stepped tentatively into the room. The bright light from the hall set her hair ablaze and her tight, tan sweater fit her perfectly. Her breasts were firm and well proportioned, her waist was tiny and her petite hips and shapely legs were just right Joe thought. "I'm dead and you're my guardian angel, right?" Joe said as he gazed at the beautiful young woman. "No, you are the girl I ran into yesterday," he corrected himself finally recognizing her. "I ran in to you; I'm so sorry. I was shopping and I saw a dress in Carrels' window. Are you hurt badly? Oh, my name is Margaret Wyatt; my friends call me Peg." "Joe Keller," he moaned. The pain pills were wearing off. "My friend's call me shit-head," he thought. "If there is anything that I can do for you please let me know. Here's my card; my home number is on the back." Joe could easily think of a few things that she could do for him but he was polite. "I can't stay; I'm late for work and Fourth Street is all taped off with the crime scene." "Crime scene?" Joe asked squeezing his call button. "Yes, where that gangster was shot down. It was only half a block from our little get together. Didn't you hear the shots?" "No, I didn't even hear the crash. What gangster?" "Oh, it's your head injury," Peg said with sympathy. "His name was Sal Glory-something. Yes, they shot him to pieces right behind us; I saw the car; it was tan. Did you see it?" "I saw a tan car and I guess I saw the killer," Joe said flatly. "Glorioso is the name you're looking for—small time gangster—drugs, numbers, you name it, he's been in the news before." Glorioso was a local hood who was big only in petty crime. Joe thought it great to hear that another asshole had bitten the dust. Joe had a low tolerance for punks. As he spoke, Nurse Ratchet entered with a medicine cup. "Speaking of dope, can I have some?" Joe asked the nurse. "I've got it right here and it's medicine, not dope." "I've got to go," said Peg blowing Joe a kiss. "Want me to come back tonight?" "Yes, please; I'll be better by then; I'll be loads of fun," Joe said and downed his pill. Peg was gone when he lowered his head. "That your girlfriend?" asked nurse Ratchet. "I don't know yet," replied Joe. "Figures!" said Ratchet as she left the room. ***** Peg Wyatt was late for work but that was OK, she owned the place—the only successful art gallery in Middleburg. Still it was a modest little shop. Becky Wilson, her friend and only employee, was cleaning the jewelry cases as Peg arrived. Becky was a full figured brunette with large breasts and pretty as a cherub. A tall blond haired man in a dark suit studied one of Peg's landscapes. A short man in a brown leather jacket cocked his head at an abstract oil painting. "There's someone here to see you," Becky said taking Peg's coat. Peg turned and looked at the blond man in the suit. "Not him, the other guy," Becky said indicating the short, balding stranger who was approaching them briskly like a hound hot on a trail. "Cecil Smiley," said the frisky little man flashing a badge, "I'm with homicide." "I didn't do it," Peg laughed nervously brushing her hair from her shoulders. "We know that mam; but we want to know what you saw," said Smiley in a southern drawl as he shuffled his feet like a pit-bull about to bite. "Nothing," said Peg, "I saw a tan car speed up the street." "What else?" continued Smiley, obviously growing impatient. "Nothing." "Did you close your eyes, Ms. Wyatt?" Smiley asked sarcastically. His southern accent and hyper manner made him sound stupid Peg thought, and what the hell was he getting at? She looked at him dumbly. "You talked to that man Keller that ran into you, you talked to the cop, there were people all around. I want to know every single thing you saw and heard. I even want to know what dress you were looking at. Understand?" "I understand, let's go to my office if that's OK." "Perfect," said Smiley. Peg rolled her eyes at Becky and led Smiley toward the back of the shop. The blond man in the dark suit turned and watched them pass. Peg didn't look at him. Peg Wyatt told Detective Smiley every detail that she could remember. It wasn't much she thought, hardly worth all this time. No, she didn't see the killer or the driver. No, there was no one that stood out in the crowd. Joe Keller was knocked out; they hadn't really talked. She didn't mention her visit to the hospital. Smiley was asking about yesterday, not today, and it was none of his business. Besides, Joe could speak for himself when he was better. Yes, that was all she knew. Wait, there was a man in a window—a fat, gray haired man. Maybe 50; maybe 55. It was the third floor, she thought. She told Smiley the name of the building. No, she had never seen him before. No, she did not think that she could identify him. That was all she knew. Cecil Smiley finally turned to leave. He opened the door to Peg's office and started toward the front of the store. "Wait," Peg cried rushing after him. "The fat man had a little dog—he was holding a little gray dog." Smiley shushed her. "We only talk in an office from now on," he said. "Understand?" Peg nodded not sure of what she had done to warrant his correction. The blond man in the dark suit turned and watched Smiley leave. "What was that all about?" asked Becky. "Just stupid cop stuff," said Peg. "Let's have lunch." Smiley had grilled her for two hours. ***** James Shea pushed his computer keyboard under his desk, unwrapped his Italian sub and popped open a cold beer. The computer monitor on his desk at Retviral's corporate headquarters, changed to a screen saver hiding what he had been intently studying. Shea was a short, chubby and swat man with graying hair and a manner as intense as the gray and white Shih Tzu dog that scurried about begging for a piece of salami. The dog, Killer was its name, looked like a diminutive version of Shea with its pushed in face and pudgy torso. A suit coat was thrown over the back of the chair and Shea's tie was loosened as he worked in shirtsleeves. He looked like a caricature of a newspaperman but in fact held a PHD in molecular biology from Harvard. Shea claimed to be the inventor of Fraction X though that claim was in litigation foisted by Shea's hated rival, a man named Brent Milner. Shea took a swig from the cold beer and was about to bite into the sub when the phone rang. "Hello, Shea here." Shea listened to the voice on the other end and slipped Killer a piece of pepperoni. "I need to talk to you," the male voice on the line said. "I told you never to call me here Malone," Shea said then listened. "It's important," Malone insisted. "Well it had better be damn important." Shea scowled and found a piece of cheese for the Shih Tzu. "A guy behind us got a good look at Vinny," Malone said. "If he got a clear look at him you'll have to take care of it; no one could ever forget that face," Shea barked. Killer begged for the cheese. "Vinny turned and shot him the bird. The guy saw his full face," Malone explained. "Well, that was stupid; I thought this guy was a pro." Shea let the dog grab the morsel from his hand. "It's OK, we'll take care of the situation," Malone assured him. "And then send the stupid mother fucker back to Chicago-- pronto." The Shih Tzu wolfed the cheese. Shea listened. "You should not have been there," Malone added. "I don't pay you for your opinions; I wanted to see the prick get it," Shea barked. "Some broad saw you in the window; you and the dog." Malone waited for instructions. "How do you know she saw me?" He asked now seeming more concerned as he listened again. "I heard her tell the cop; we've been tailing her; she was on the street just below you." Malone waited. "Well, take care of it; whatever you have to do and don't call me here again." Shea hung up the phone and took a large bite of the greasy sub as Killer stood on its hind legs and begged for more. ***** "Hospital food sucks," Joe thought as he stared at his lunch. Staring back was an unappetizing piece of "Spicy Meatloaf, Garlic Parsley Potatoes, and California Mixed Vegetables." They had even substituted juice for the coke he'd ordered. Oh well, at least the grease meant that he was getting better. The headache was almost gone but so was the appetite. The door to his room swung open with a bang and a blond teenage boy at the awkward age, about 16, shuffled in. The kid was carrying a notebook computer. His clothes didn't help Joe's appetite—baggy black jeans and a black T-shirt. "Why black all the time, and do you take that computer to bed with you?" Joe asked but he was glad to see the kid and happy that his son was interested in something healthy instead of just smoking weed like most of the kids Pete hung with. Pete Keller was a hacker and could do amazing things on a computer, but he was a good kid. Pete ignored his dad's question, as teens are known to do. "Dad, you really messed up this time," was the greeting. Joe smiled. "Yea, I didn't even see the UFO. Are the little green men OK?" "They're fine but you look like shit," said the kid as he approached the bed. "You gonna' eat this stuff?" "Hell no. I'm bustin' out of here tonight. You eat it." The kid set his computer on the nightstand, took Joe's plate and started wolfing the food. "Where's your…" Joe's ex walked in the door. "Oh, hi Pooky." That was her nickname. "What did you do to your hair?" "Hi Joe. I dyed it red as you can see. You look terrible. Does it hurt much? Are you glad to see Pete?" She seemed as superficial as ever Joe thought as he stared at her red hair. It was the same color as Peg Wyatt's he mused—how ironic. Pooky really didn't give a shit for Joe; he knew. If she did, he wouldn't have to nearly get killed to see his kid. "I'm great; it's just a flesh wound. And I'm always glad to see Pete when you can work it in," said Joe sarcastically. Joe still had a lot of resentments towards the ex and could never seem to avoid starting a fight with her. "Now let's—don't you start. Maybe I should wait in the hall," said Pooky. "Maybe you should," Joe growled. Pooky left in a huff. "Dad, why can't you two get along?" "Maybe because she's always dyeing her hair, Pete. I don't know. You were there for most of the war. But now maybe it's because I just don't want to get along with her anymore. So tell me, how's school and are you getting any pussy." "Dad!!!" Pete moaned and picked up his computer. "Want to see me hack into your bank account?" "Why bother," replied Joe. "How about we look at your Mom's?" ***** "Isn't that the same man that was here this morning?" Peg asked Becky as they prepared to close the shop for the day. "Yes, same guy," said Becky. "Looking at the same painting. It's one of yours; why don't you go sell it to him?" Peg walked toward the blond stranger in the dark suit. "Can I help you. We are about to close?" "I was just admiring the subtlety of color in this landscape and wondering where it was painted to find such light." "It's a studio painting and I'm afraid it was painted here in Middleburg. The artist has traveled abroad; but this light is Midwestern. Are you interested in a purchase?" "I'm afraid it is out of my price range but I will consider it. It's so hard to think these days with shootings in the street and such." "Well, we don't usually have too many shootings in Middleburg; it was a terrible thing though. The newspapers are saying that he was a gangster." "Did you see the shooting?" the blond man asked. "I saw the car." "And I heard there was an auto accident?" The gentleman seemed to know a lot about the events of yesterday. "I was in that. I ran my car into this poor man; he's in the hospital. I'm going to see him tonight." Peg was starting to feel funny about the turn in the conversation. "So you were in the street when the shooting occurred? What else did you see?" the man asked. "Yes, I was in the street but I had just crashed my car. I wasn't looking for killers. Why are you asking all these questions? Are you interested in the painting or not?" "Just curious. I'll think about the painting. Good day." "That guy was weird," Peg said to Becky when the man had left. "How so?" asked Becky. "He had more questions about the shooting than about the painting." ***** Visiting hours started at 6:30pm and for once Big Don Rawlings was on time. Bunny was with him; she really filled up her low cut sweater. Don had another bag with him and immediately walked to the tilt in window and started stowing a six-pack between the screen and glass. "Lucky thing your room's got a fridge," Big Don said as the cool evening spilled in. Bunny giggled and Don popped open three beers. He handed one to Bunny then one to Joe who took a long pull. "So, how's the market?" Joe asked. Big Don was a broker. "If it gets much worse we'll all have to get a job," said Don. "Don makes all kinds of money," said Bunny. Pete Keller walked in carrying his ever-present computer. "Hi, Dad; feeling any better?" the kid asked. "It's not too bad," said Joe. "The Doc says I'll be out of her by tomorrow. He's from India; so he should know." Joe did a poor imitation of an Indian doctor. Pete said hello to Don and Don introduced Bunny who batted her eyes at young Pete as he checked out her massive cleavage. Don offered Pete a beer. He declined—he was a good kid. "Well, here's to good health," said Don as he raised his can in a toast. There was a strange, muffled thud in the hallway. The door burst open and a man in a dark suit lowered his silenced pistol at Joe's head. Pete dropped his notebook computer and dove for the man's legs and Big Don dropped his beer and grabbed the outstretched arm with his left hand as he smashed the man's face with his right, delivering a powerful tranquilizer. Don forced the gun arm upward. The intruder's pistol fired into the ceiling with the same muffled sound that they had heard before. The man fell to the floor as Pete let go of his legs, leaped on top of him and started pounding. Don grabbed the gun, which had popped loose from the fray, and yelled, "That's enough!" Joe was on his feet now dragging an IV stand as he pulled Pete off the stunned intruder. Bunny screamed when she saw his pock marked, scarred face. A woman screamed in the hallway and Ratchet rushed through the door. "What in the world is going on?" she asked in shock as she spied the beer cans, the bloody face of the stranger, and the turmoil. "Call the fucking cops," Joe screamed while he and Pete held the hit man to the floor. A voice blasted on the overhead paging system. "Code Blue, 2 West; Code Blue; 2 West." "What's that for?" Joe said ripping the IV tube from his arm. "No one's hurt." "I think the woman in the hall is dead," said Ratchet as she rushed out the door and yelled to someone to call 911 for cops. Joe followed as Don covered the stranger with the pistol and Pete continued to hold him to the carpet. He struggled once till Big Don smashed his face with the butt of the pistol. Pooky lay in a pool of blood on the floor of the corridor; Ratchet and another nurse bent over her; a crowd of white coats rushed up the hall led by a man pushing a crash cart. Bunny stepped from the room. "Keep Pete in there," Joe ordered as he went to check on Pooky's condition. Ratchet looked up and shook her head in the negative as the other nurses threw Pooky's limp body onto a gurney and rushed off toward the operating room. ***** Cecil Smiley, the bloodhound cop, was there in twenty minutes. Pooky was in surgery by then while Joe, Pete, Big Don and Bunny waited in Joe's room, which was now guarded by six uniformed cops. The assassin's bullet had passed just above Pooky's heart and had also collapsed a lung but Pooky would make it. It was nurse Rachet who had informed Joe and the others of her condition. Pete was holding up like a man and Joe was proud of that. As much as he hated Pooky, he knew she was a good mom and the kid loved her. The uniforms had carried Scarface away in cuffs. He turned out to be Vinny Labrouski, a professional hit man from Chicago—Big Don knew about such things. Joe had always known that Big Don had another side to himself. Peg Wyatt arrived in the midst of the hubbub. Smiley gathered everyone into a small conference room and stationed uniformed officers with them instructing them not to talk about what they had seen. He questioned them one by one. Peg Wyatt was last. "Ms. Wyatt, we think you saw something you shouldn't have at the scene of the accident," drawled Smiley as he cocked his head like a fox terrier. "Tell me if this is the man with the dog that you saw." Smiley showed her a picture of James Shea. Peg hesitated as if trying to decide what to do. "It could be," she finally replied. "It looks like him; I'm not sure." "You have to be sure in court," said Smiley frustrated. "Look again." Peg insisted that she could not be certain. "You realize, Ms. Wyatt that the bullet that almost killed Pooky Keller was meant for you," Smiley said bluntly staring at her with bug-like eyes. Peg recoiled in horror. "But I didn't see anything," Peg pleaded, "why would they want to kill me?" Smiley showed her another picture. "Does that look like the dog?" Smiley asked sarcastically. "Yes," said Peg. "So you see, you did see something," Smiley said with a look of mock-concern. "By the way, do you know anyone who lives in Chicago?" "No, no one," said Peg still musing about the dog question. Cecil Smiley questioned the lot of them but gained no more information and Vinny Labrouski, at the station, wasn't talking till he saw his lawyer. Joe decided to check out of the hospital against medical advice. He'd pick up his gun, a .38 special Ruger pistol, at his apartment and he and Pete would stay at Big Don's place. The cops followed them and posted a guard. Peg called Becky and arranged to stay at Becky's place; she also would be guarded. The cops also escorted Peg. Smiley's rule not to talk had fallen apart and everyone told what he or she knew before they went their separate ways. ***** Big Don fetched two more beers from the fridge and handed one to Joe. "Sal Glorioso was a minor hood. He's done time or been a suspect as a cocaine dealer, extortionist, and blackmailer; I can't imagine what connection he might have with Shea," Joe mulled to Big Don and Pete as he took the beer that Don was offering. Big Don had dumped Bunny at her place; Joe and Pete's safety were more important than pussy. Big Don pulled on his beer and Pete sat on the edge of his chair fiddling with his notebook computer and half listened to the men. "It had to be Shea that Peg Wyatt saw with that little dog. Maybe he was into cocaine somehow," said Big Don. "Either selling or using." "Shea is a Republican," said Joe. "He hates drug dealers." "Maybe Glorioso was into something else that Shea was into," said Pete looking up from the computer briefly. "Yea, but what?" asked Joe. "That's the $64,000 question," said Big Don. "Shea is a pretty big shot in this town and Glorioso was just a petty crook," said Pete. "Maybe Glorioso was going to rip Shea off somehow." Both men turned and considered Pete's point. The boy returned to his computer work. "Maybe he already did rip Shea off," said Joe. "You think Glorioso was involved in that corporate theft thing?" said Don with curious incredulity. The basis of Shea's lawsuit against Brent Milner was that Milner had stolen Shea's secret formula and was developing his own version of Fraction X. The lawsuit, a patent dispute, was all over the local newspaper. "Well," said Joe, "Milner did apparently steal the formula or had someone do it for him. Maybe Glorioso was the thief." Everyone in Middleburg knew of the lawsuit between Retviral and Immune Development Corporation and Joe had a special interest in Retviral. He still held 10,000 shares of stock purchased for dimes. But the lawsuit and Shea's plundering had driven the stock down to pennies. As much as Joe hated Shea, he wanted the company to succeed. Retviral was Joe's last hope to get back on his feet financially. He followed the company news closely. "Maybe Glorioso was trying to steal the formula back," said Pete. "That would make no sense," replied Joe. "Shea owns the formula anyway. He'll win the suit." "It is possible that Glorioso was out to steal something else," said Big Don. "What?" asked Joe. "What if Glorioso was hired by Shea to discredit Milner but turned into a double agent and was somehow helping Milner instead? So Shea had his own mole killed," said Don. "It's too complicated for me," said Joe. "But that would make sense." Pete looked up from the computer again and said, "Maybe Glorioso did get the goods on Milner, but decided to blackmail Shea. "Too outlandish," said Joe. "You've been watching too much television." "I don't know," said Don, "The kid here may be onto something." Pete grinned at Don's apparent approval of his theory and returned to clicking the keyboard of the notebook. ***** That evening James Shea was sitting in his comfortable leather chair in his office with Killer in his lap and brooding about the lawsuit that Retviral was embroiled in. Someone had stolen the secret formula for Fraction X, the drug Retviral was developing. The thief, a man named Brent Milner had once worked for Shea. When Shea fired him in a dispute over how best to proceed with the foreign trials in Bolivia, Milner had made it out the door with the secret formula and managed to beat Shea to the patent office- or that was Shea's version of what happened. Now Retviral was suing Immune Development, Milner's company, for the patent rights. Retviral had a pretty good case on circumstances. Malone entered without knocking and Shea angrily came out of his funk and listened to Malone as he tried to explain the sleight miscalculations of the day. An innocent woman had been shot, Labrouski was in jail, and Joe Keller and the broad were still alive. Shea slammed his hand onto the desk in front of him and the Shih Tzu scurried for cover behind the chair. "Do you think that you can finish this job without fucking up again," Shea roared at Malone. "We've got to get this show on the road. With what I've got from that goddamn prick Milner, he'll have to get out of my way. But first we have to make sure that a few big mouths are shut for good. Do you think that you can do that?" "How were we supposed to know the Keller woman dyed her hair?" Malone defended himself. "Because I pay you to know. Now do it right this time and get Keller and the right redhead," Shea ordered looking around for Killer. "Come here boy," he said in baby talk, coaxing the dog from its hiding place. "And don't forget to make it clean this time," he added with sinister politeness as Malone left the room. "When Milner learns what we got from Glorioso," Shea said to the dog, "the son of a bitch will have to sign over the patent. He won't have a leg to stand on in court, will he Killer?" The dog jumped back into his lap. "Then I'll be positioned to move things forward and I'll still have him dancing on a string. We're gonna have a whole new company here and once the suit is settled there will be no stopping us." Killer wagged his tail. "And Glorioso thought he could blackmail me—now that was a mistake." Shea switched on his computer. "In the mean time, there is lots of money to be made in the information business," he added stroking the little dog. The screen glowed with cryptic data beneath the banner at the top of the page, which read "Immune Development Corporation." ***** The phone rang at 4:00 am at Big Don Rawlings' place. Big Don and Joe were crashed on the couch and the recliner; empty beer cans were strewn about the living room; Pete had been asleep for hours in Big Don's only bed. The men had even changed the sheets for him. Joe grabbed the phone first. It was Becky Wilson in hysterics; someone had broken into Peg's empty and unguarded house. The cops outside Becky's house had doubled their guard there and wakened Becky to be sure everything was OK. The girls were all right—just scared. "You'll be OK for the night," said Joe. "But we all need a safer place to hide till this is over. We'll be there in the morning." The boys showed up at Becky Wilson's house at 8:00 am. Big Don had armed himself, though he would not need the .44 magnum Smith and Wesson this day. He left it under the car seat when he saw the crowd of cop cars at Becky's house. Their own cops had followed them, which made the scene look a little like a major riot had ensued. Smiley wasn't there; Joe decided to pay him a call later. Everyone had coffee and compared notes. Joe left Big Don and Pete at Becky's place and headed to the police station. Big Don didn't seem to mind a bit. Peg Wyatt noticed the way he kept looking at Becky. And Becky seemed interested in Don as well. ***** Joe walked into the Homicide department at the Middleburg Police Department at 10:00 am; he hadn't bothered to call first. Smiley was out they said. Joe couldn't wait; there were things to do. It might be quite a while; Smiley was on a case. Joe looked around the station house room. Three walls were lined with glass fronted cop offices-- the cop names on the doors. Detective Sanders, Lieutenant Fripp, Investigator Matheson, and so on. Smiley's name was missing. A homicide detective without an office? What the fuck was going on? It took some doing to shake the cops but it was a short drive into the hills south of town to a log cabin owned by one of Big Don's clients. It was the perfect hiding place, tucked away in the meadow of an old farm at the end of a winding gravel road that climbed into the rugged hill country. Despite its remote location, the cabin had all the amenities—phone, electricity, even the Internet. Big Don often borrowed the place for weekends with female clients and he didn't care for roughing it. Joe and Peg settled in the two bedrooms and Pete set up in the loft where the computer and a cot were located. Big Don listened to Joe's account of his trip to the police station. It was odd that Smiley did not seem to have an office. Big Don would do some checking. He knew almost everyone in Middleburg but he didn't know Smiley. Surely he knew someone who did. ***** "What the fuck do you mean, he's out for the day?" Big Don Rawlings was at the Middleburg police station looking for Cecil Smiley. Lieutenant Fripp should have seemed annoyed with Big Don's attitude but he wasn't. "He's out," Fripp stated mildly, "he's investigating. That's what we do." "Well then where the hell is his office?" Big Don demanded. "I want to leave him a note." "I'll see he gets it," Fripp reassured. "He doesn't have a fucking office here, does he?" Big Don snapped back with a 'got ya' leer. "There may be more involved here than you and your friends realize," said Fripp mildly. A side door opened and a high-pitched male voice interrupted, "I'll see him, Fripp," the voice said, "I'll take care of this." Don turned to see who was speaking. He knew the man; it was Saul Applebaum. Applebaum was the investigator at the SEC that had headed the inquiry into the behind the scenes goings on at Retviral. "What the fuck is going on and who is this guy Smiley?" Big Don demanded when the door closed on him and Applebaum. "I can't answer all your questions but I can tell you that Detective Smiley is legit. He's a special operative of the police department. But you must tell us where you have taken your friends. They are in a great deal of danger." "I'm not telling you a thing till I see Smiley and get some answers of my own," Big Don replied coolly. "I can't tell you everything but I can tell you that Detective Smiley is a good man. He is on special assignment from another agency. That's why he doesn't have an office. It's nothing sinister," explained Applebaum. "What agency?" Big Don demanded. "OK," Applebaum began, "Smiley is a Federal agent but none of you can let this get out. There is a lot at stake here. We have reason to believe that Glorioso was black- mailing Shea and that Shea was behind his murder." "That ain't Federal," Don snapped. "No, it isn't," replied Applebaum as he fingered a paper on the desk then covered it with an overnight mail envelope. "But this is a case of a blackmailer blackmailing a Federal suspect," Applebaum continued. "Glorioso was killed because he knew what Shea is up to. And we think Shea is involved in some things that violate federal law." Don studied Applebaum's face and glanced at the envelope on the desk. "Why would you be involved?" Big Don muttered. "You guys have already looked into the fraud and stock market stuff and you got nothing on Shea." "Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers. That is all I can tell you and your friends right now and you must tell no one else. Smiley is under cover here. If you blow that, you blow the case and you would be putting your friends' lives at risk," Applebaum concluded. Cecil Smiley entered the room. "Cecil," said Applebaum, "Show Don here your real badge." Smiley reached into his breast pocket, produced a worn, leather ID pouch and handed it to Big Don who flipped it open. "FBI," Don mumbled. "Now tell us where your friends are," said Smiley. "They are in a lot of danger." "Oh yea, and you guys will protect them like you did last night right?" said Big Don as he turned and slowly walked out the door. "He'll have a tail," said Smiley to Applebaum, "We'll find them." ***** Brent Milner was a wheeler-dealer. At one time, he and James Shea had been the best of friends. It was a great team. Shea had the connections but trusted no one. Milner was a multicultural glad hander— good with people. At Retviral he had been in charge of foreign operations. His job was to cause Fraction X to become an approved drug in a foreign market. This would produce a revenue stream for the company, which was sorely needed for continuing research and clinical trials in the United States. But Milner and Shea had a falling out. Milner felt he had some tight connections in Bolivia and the initial trials were going well there. But Shea didn't trust the South Americans and refused to pay the "bite", which is more like a kickback than a bribe in Latin countries. Shea thought company resources would be better spent "someplace other than in a banana republic", as Shea put it. Shea killed the Bolivian connection and withdrew all funding for the clinical trials that Milner had managed to initiate there. Milner was incensed by Shea's ego, control and bigotry, and told him so. Milner was out. When Shea fired him, he had actually gotten the cops to escort Milner from the building. But Milner still walked away from Retviral with something very valuable, the recipe like formula for Fraction X. What ensued was a turf war of epic proportions. Milner had scooped Shea at the patent office and Shea wanted his patent back. Now Brent Milner sat in his own corporate office in Chicago mulling over the situation. The phone rang. It was Milner's contact in Middleburg who always used a code name when calling headquarters, even on the back line. "It's me, Whiskey," the voice on the line mumbled. "I was wondering when you'd call," said Milner. "What can you tell me?" "The Mole that was messing up your lawn was removed by its maker. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," said Whiskey. "We figured that," said Milner. "He'll attempt to give you the credit," Whiskey whispered. "After all, it was your turf that was getting chewed up. I'm working on locating the contractor. I know who he is but I have to get him to talk right," Whiskey went on. "Any progress on locating the borrowed tools?" asked Milner. "Not yet. They are at his house I'm sure but I have to find out where his garden is and locate the toolshed," Whiskey replied. "Well, keep me posted. I need those tools back or the weeds will take over the lawn," said Milner. "I won't let that happen," said Whiskey. "I'm counting on you," said Milner and hung up. ***** It was late afternoon at police headquarters when Cecil Smiley and Applebaum heard the tape. Smiley frowned and pushed rewind. "This doesn't tell us a thing that we did not already know," said Smiley. "Did they trace the call? Applebaum asked. "A phone booth on 4th Street but we couldn't get there in time. Whiskey was gone." "Well, keep on it. We really need to talk to this Whiskey man," said Applebaum as he turned to see who was rapping on the glass in the office door window. Lieutenant Fripp opened the door and entered. "We lost Don Rawlings," said Fripp. Applebaum banged his fist on the desk. "How the fuck did that happen?" demanded Applebaum. "We are trying to figure that out. The guy took his car to a gas station to get an oil change and I guess our man got careless. Rawlings just disappeared; his car is still at the gas station." Fripp explained. "He switched vehicles," said Smiley, "Oldest trick in the book." Big Don sat on the Honda Shadow 1100 motorcycle and studied the road behind him from his vantagepoint behind an oak tree on State Route 3. The road was empty. The bike came to life and Don dropped the visor on his helmet and roared off, smoothly clicking the gears with his left foot till the bike hit 60. "No speeding," Don thought, though he would have loved to go faster on the lightly traveled farm road. ***** Joe and Peg left Pete fishing in the crystal clear pond west of the cabin, and took the hike east to the high bluff know as Indian Point which was to the rear of the property. Joe was happy to see Pete take an interest in something other than computers—something out doors. From the high ground they could see the cabin far below and Pete was like an ant crawling around the bright jewel that was the pond. Further west, across a cornfield, a river snaked through a grove of dark trees along its bank. The view was as beautiful as one of Peg's paintings and the air was tinged with romance. The sun beyond the river was getting low and it would soon be time to head back. Joe and Peg had climbed and talked, picnicked on the bluff and talked some more as they looked out on the peaceful scene. Joe had told his story- his ambition to further his education and become a real scientist, how he had loved his job at Retviral and his hope that Fraction X would still make a difference in the treatment of AIDS, accusing Shea of fraud and getting fired, his failed marriages, his joy in being a father, and his hopeful investment in Retviral. Peg had told hers- her ambition to become a real artist, her difficulties at getting the gallery on sound financial ground in provincial Middleburg, and her failure to find a male partner who was both strong but gentle. The sun would soon be setting. It was time to go. "It's time," said Joe indicating that it was time to head back. "Yes, it's time," said Peg as she leaned across the blanket and brought her face close to Joe's. The first kiss was tentative. The second held more conviction for both Joe and Peg. The third kiss was deep and long as the young couple fell slowly onto the blanket. The frenzy of feeling each other's bodies and groping for buttons, buckles and hooks began and proceeded into the fourth kiss and the fifth till the few secrets that remained between them were dissolved along with all the cares of the day. And when it was over Joe held Peg close by his side as they gazed at the setting sun. ***** Big Don lit the headlamp on the bike as he turned onto the private road that led to the cabin. Pete lifted his head from his fish cleaning chores as he heard the rumble of the motorcycle coming up the trail. Joe and Peg rounded the corner of the porch and climbed the steps. Pete noticed that they were holding hands but said not a word about that. "Someone is coming," said Pete, "How was the hike?" "That would be Don," said Joe, "and the walk was wonderful. Looks like we'll have one more for supper. Hope there's enough fish." "Two four pounders ought to do it," said Pete. "I'll make some slaw and homefries," said Peg as she reluctantly let go of Joe's hand and entered the cabin. Now it was time for Pete to let his father know that he was paying attention. "Looks like Peg and you are getting to be good friends," he said with a sly teenage smile. "Looks to me like kids should mind their own business," said Joe betraying from whom Pete had inherited the sheepish grin. Big Don's bike pulled into the yard. Supper was great—fried bass from the clear pond, Peg's special barroom coleslaw, and home fried potatoes dripping in real butter and smothered in onions. Now the men, who were stuffed, lounged on the sofa drinking beer while Peg tided up her bedroom. Joe was moving in with her, which would clear a room for Don. Pete said that it was OK with him if Joe and Peg wanted to sleep together as long as they didn't make a lot of noise— he meant bed noise of course. Pete was now in the loft playing games on the computer or so they all thought. "Dad," Pete yelled from the loft. "What is the name of Shea's dog?" "Killer," replied Joe. "Why do you ask?" Everyone who had worked for Retviral knew the mutt's name. "Just curious," said Pete. "It probably won't work." There was a brief lull in the conversations and the cabin was almost as quiet as the night itself. Peg could be heard fluffing pillows in the bedroom. Big Don burped. Joe yawned. Outside the crickets and pond frogs chirped and croaked. "HOLY SHIT!" Pete yelled from the loft. "I'M IN!" "Into what?" Joe asked as both men looked up at the loft and Peg came into the main room. "The back files at Shea's corporate headquarters," was Pete's reply. "What the fuck?" Joe cried as he shot off the couch and up the ladder to the loft. Big Don was right behind him. "What is going on?" cried Peg. "Maybe nothing," Joe said to Peg, "Maybe a lot. We'll see." Joe glanced at the screen then patted his son on the head. "That's my boy," he said. "Quite the little hacker aren't you," said Don. Pete gave up the sly Keller smile and let the men take over. On the computer screen, beneath a banner that read Immune Development Corporation, was the first of 30 pages which Joe and Don would learn, as the evening progressed, outlined the invention of Fraction X. There were a few surprises. And as other files were explored there were even more questions. ***** The next day at the cabin everyone slept late. Joe and Big Don had been on the computer till 3 am rifling Shea's secret files. Peg lounged in bed even later than the men did. She and Joe had stayed up later than the others, so Peg was feeling quite satisfied in every way as she slipped under the outdoor shower to the rear of the cabin. It was nearly noon. Peg's lean, nude body was concealed only by the steam, which rose in the damp air. The men had agreed not to peek. Peg was thrilled to be naked under the sky's blue canopy and completely exposed to the world though there was not a soul for miles save for the men in the cabin whom she knew would honor her privacy. Earlier, Peg had called Becky Wilson. "Becky likes Big Don," Peg thought as she soaped her perky breasts and recalled the way the two had checked each other out when they were all at Becky's place yesterday morning. "Was that only yesterday?" Peg thought. It seemed like years ago- so much had happened. But now all that mattered was that she and Joe were together. There was a romantic air to the remote old farm with its quaint old log house and especially Indian Point. Perhaps it would bring Becky some luck as well. Besides, a girl has got to tell her best friend when she has finally located the love of her life. The men had reluctantly agreed to Becky's visit thinking no one would be watching her. Still they had cautioned Becky to be very careful to make sure she was not followed. Becky was on her way. "Who knows," thought Peg as the hot water flowed over her erect nipples, which still tingled from the night's activities, "Big Don seems like a nice guy. I think he's just her type." Becky was a very attractive woman but rubenesque so she preferred big men. Inside the cabin, Joe, Big Don, and Pete reviewed the discoveries of the previous evening. Shea's secret files had obviously been stolen from Immune Development Corporation; the I.D.C. name and logo were all over the documents. The first document seemed to be a legal argument that claimed that Milner was the true inventor of Fraction X. The second document was an investigational new drug application to the FDA. It was unclear if Milner had actually filed the INDA or not. Curiously, this document again purported that Milner was the inventor of Fraction X, which was called PNA2 at Immune Development. Though it was well known that Milner was claiming independent discovery of the drug prior to Shea's work, the document itself proved nothing in this regard. The curious part was contained in case studies sited in the document. Apparently Milner had been conducting his own research on human subjects- AIDS patients. Joe was well informed on the current state of drug development at Retviral. They were nowhere near this stage. How could Milner be testing the drug on humans? Some of the documents were in Spanish, which no one at the cabin could read. More questions than answers. The rest of the documents were e-mails and other correspondence between Shea and Milner and private correspondence from Shea and Milner to other entities. It would take weeks to sift through it all but one thing was clear. The documents as a whole were a legal brief. These documents were to be a big part of Milner's defense in the lawsuit. They had all been somehow stolen from Milner, probably by Glorioso. "Then Glorioso would have deleted all this from Milner's computer system and stolen or destroyed any back up discs and the hard copy," said Big Don. "Could a punk like Glorioso have done all that?" Joe wondered. "Not if he had to hack into the computer," said Pete, "But if he broke into Immune Development's offices, like at night, it would have been pretty easy if he knew what he was looking for and where to look." Peg came in the back door covered in a terrycloth robe just as Becky Wilson's car pulled up in front of the cabin. She hurried into the bedroom to get dressed and the men walked to the front porch to greet Becky. Big Don would do most of the greeting. Now even Joe noticed the mutual attraction. After the small talk, and after the girl talk, which was out of earshot of the men as Peg showed Becky around the grounds, all had a late lunch. "Why don't you and Becky hike up to Indian point," Peg said to Big Don when the conversation dwindled. She shot a knowing glance at Joe who nodded. "What do you think?" Don asked Becky. "I'd love to, Donald," Becky said to Big Don. She glanced at Peg and mused over the obvious matchmaking ploy Peg was playing. Becky was already dressed for the great outdoors in tan hiking shorts and a white cotton shirt. "Better take this," Joe said as he stuffed a canteen of water into his daypack. "What is it?" asked Don. "Just stuff you might need," said Joe. Don stuffed his .44 magnum into the pack and the two were off. The backpack now contained only the gun, the canteen, a pair of binoculars and the soft, old, cotton blanket that had just yesterday been Joe and Peg's love bed at Indian Point. Below the cabin and near the main road, Malone hid his car behind some bushes and under a dense stand of trees at the far side of the low meadow. Malone reclined the seat and got comfortable. He'd wait until sunset—no need to hurry—that is when you make mistakes. ***** On the hike Don had time to bring Becky up to speed on what he and Joe, with little Pete's help, had discovered. But that was just for starters. Don did not really want to talk about Retviral and the conversation soon turned personal. Before long the couple were holding hands. Don did not want Becky to slip as they climbed the bluff. It was getting warmer. Becky's asked to stop half way up, wiped her brow with a bandana and instructed Don to turn his back. Becky unbuttoned her shirt and removed her hot brazier. For a moment she enjoyed the warm breeze on her large, naked breasts. Then she knotted the shirt at her waist and hung the 38D bra on an old stump. She could pick it up on the return trip. Becky left most of the shirt buttons undone revealing a firm cleavage that Don thought quite attractive when he was again allowed to look. Her ripe, hard nipples protruded from the thin cotton blouse. Was she flirting hot or just hot hot? Big Don wasn't sure. They continued to the top and were soon at Indian Point, which overlooked the entire valley below. "Let see what is in the pack," said Don. He removed the gun, then the binoculars, then the canteen, then the soft blanket. "Spread it out," said Becky. He did. Becky came close to Don, reached up and touched his face, then without a word loosened the knot in her shirt, let it fall open and drop to the ground. A warm breeze stirred the leaves above their heads. Indian Point was working it's magic once again. Afterward, they napped, woke once and drank from the canteen, and then made love again as the sun fell lower on the horizon. Still naked on the blanket, Becky picked up the binoculars and scanned the valley. "Who's that?" said Becky as the binoculars picked up some movement at the side of the private road. Becky gave Don the binoculars and directed him to the spot where Malone slowly moved from tree to tree carrying a scoped, high-powered rifle. He was halfway to the cabin already and Don and Becky needed to cover twice that distance to warn the others. Don instantly realized that Becky had been followed. "Hurry," was all Big Don said as he pulled on his pants. "For God's sake, hurry!" ***** Joe and Peg sat on the front porch of the cabin in the squeaky old wicker rocking chairs that were part of the quaint furnishings. Pete had headed out for the river after lunch intending to catch a catfish for supper. Pete had taken a trail west and north of the cabin road and so had missed Malone who now settled into a prone position at the far side of the pond. His body was concealed by the pond's earthen dam. Only Malone's head and shoulders protruded above the earthworks. There was just enough light remaining for the two shots Malone would need. He would take Joe out first, he thought, and before the woman could react the job would be done. Malone steadied the crosshairs on Joe's chest. Don and Becky were running as fast as they could across the meadow at the rear of the cabin when the shot rang out. "Damn it, we're too late," cried Big Don as he pulled the .44 magnum from his belt and continued toward the rear door of the cabin. Another shot from the high-powered rifle rang out followed this time by the pop, pop, and pop, of Joe's .38 special. "I'm coming Joe, hang on!" Don yelled at the top of his lungs when he was close enough to the cabin to be heard. Joe's gun popped twice more just before Big Don and Becky burst through the back door. Joe was sitting against the front wall of the cabin with his back to the solid logs, trying to reload the five shot Ruger pistol. Bits of glass from the bay window, which Joe had smashed to return fire, lay on the floor. Joe's bloody left shoulder told the tale. Malone had missed his mark only slightly but it was enough to let Joe off with a flesh wound. Peg was beside him, unhurt. Big Don motioned for Becky to get down as he did the same. "Where is the shooter?" asked Don as he took up a position on the other side of the cabin's bay window and broke out a windowpane. "Near the pond," Joe replied. "Where is little Pete?" asked Becky. "Not back yet. He's out there somewhere." Peg motioned toward the trail on the north side of the pond. The sun was gone and Joe shuddered to think of his son, alone and unarmed, in the open darkness of the farm's meadows with a hired killer on the place. ***** Pete Keller waited for the right moment. He had waited and watched all night long. The dawn's first glow was in the east—it was 6 am. The boy had moved Indian-like to within ten feet of Malone when he saw his chance. Malone leaned his rifle against a tree and stepped up to a bush a few feet away and unzipped his fly. Pete made his move and with one motion closed the distance, scooped up the gun, disengaged the safety, and leveled the rifle at Malone's back. The startled Malone wheeled around and grabbed for the muzzle but he was no match for the quick reflexes of the sixteen-year-old boy. Pete took two steps backward and fired into the dirt at Malone's feet then jacked another round into the chamber. "Now get your scummy ass moving," ordered the kid as he nodded his head toward the cabin. The men had taken turns watching but no one got much sleep. Joe's wound was nothing; he had more or less been hit in the armpit. The bullet had passed clean through. Peg had washed it up nicely with peroxide and found bandaging in a first aid kit. The shot brought everyone to attention. Joe and Big Don peered out opposite sides of the bay window as Malone approached followed by little Pete whose eyes and rifle were locked onto Malone's back. Big Don stepped onto the front porch with .44 magnum in hand. "Well, well, well," said Big Don, "If it isn't the hired help here for conversation." "I ain't telling you nothing," growled Malone. "Oh, I think you will," said Big Don as he slapped Malone in the face with the huge Smith and Wesson. "Becky," Don ordered. "Go to my bike, there's a roll of duct tape in the saddle bag. ***** Big Don was very persuasive and Malone wound up singing like a bloody canary. Joe and Don were right. Shea had hired Glorioso to infiltrate Milner's company, find and steal certain computer files, delete them from Milner's system and make sure he got all the backups. Glorioso did a good job working as a janitor at night in Milner's building. But Glorioso got greedy and wanted more money to keep quiet. That was a mistake. James Shea does not take kindly to doublecross and blackmail. But there was more. Shea was juggling the books as Joe had suspected. "Product Development" costs were padded to supply Shea with cash, a second home, several cars and even a private helicopter. Malone thought the Feds were still working on it and there would be an indictment but what did he care as long as he got paid. To add insult to injury Malone explained that Shea was secretly trading his own stock through an offshore account and timing press releases to his trades. It was about 8 am. by the time Malone finished his tune. There was probably more, he said, but this was all he knew. "That should be enough," said Big Don. "We got murder, attempted murder, fraud and embezzlement. That ought to do." Big Don turned to the others. "I have to make a phone call," he said. Little did Big Don know, but Malone was also thinking of a call that he was supposed to make. That was OK. If he did not check in with Shea, Shea would know what to do. "Go ahead," Joe said to Don, "This bird isn't going anywhere." Malone was trussed up in enough duct tape to give him the appearance of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz strapped to a straight chair. Don dialed the number. The voice on the other end answered at once. "Milner here," said the man who answered. "It's me, Whiskey," said Big Don. "We got to talk." "Go ahead," said Brent Milner. "What you got?" "We got the contractor," said Don as Whiskey. "He is singing a sweet tune. It is very clear who hired the mole and who exterminated him. The grass is withering at the enemy encampment due to the gardener's sins. We have also seen the tool shed but only at a distance. I still don't know how we will get the tools back to their rightful owner. The contractor claims he has told us all he knows but you may want to come down here. We have him in a secure location." "Where are you," asked Milner. Don gave the location of the farm. "Should I bring in the marines yet?" asked Big Don. "Not yet," replied Milner. "I have a few questions of my own for the contractor. I'll be there in an hour and a half." Big Don hung up the phone. "What was that all about?" asked Joe. "It is a long story," said Don as the others gathered around to hear his explanation of the cryptic phone call- how Milner had hired him to ferret out the goods on Shea. ***** At nine o'clock they heard the helicopter. "That can't be Milner yet," said Big Don rushing to the window. Joe and little Pete followed. Between the cabin and the pond the meadow grass started to boil and the beating sounds of the copter blades grew louder. Don and Joe could clearly see the Retviral name and logo on the helicopter door. "This is not a good thing," said Joe as he grabbed for his pistol. Big Don's gun was already out and Pete hefted Malone's rifle and cleared more broken glass from the window, which Joe had smashed the previous evening. Peg Wyatt pulled the only remaining weapon, a double barreled 12 gauge shotgun, from a rack on the wall, opened the breech and loaded two rounds of double ought buckshot. As the copter set down, eight armed men poured from beneath the beating blades and fanned out across the meadow looking for cover. Joe and Big Don could see James Shea and Killer sitting next to the pilot. Both remained on board. "What should we do?" cried Pete. "As soon as they fire the first shot," Joe yelled to his son, "start taking them out. They aren't here for a picnic." "Peg," he added, "cover the back door." "Becky, get on the phone and get the cops; tell them what we are up against. And everybody—stay down!" Peg flipped over the dining table to cover her back and Becky headed for the bedroom already dialing 911 on the wireless phone. Pete headed to the loft with Malone's rifle and Don and Joe took up positions at either side of the bay-window. Joe glanced at Don. "I think you covered it all," Don shouted as the first man in the meadow opened up with a fully automatic Uzi sub machine gun riddling the front of the cabin with a hail of fire. A few bullets whizzed past Malone's head so that he began to rock his chair prison back and forth till it fell over. Before he ducked, little Pete had marked the position of the shooter behind a bush in the meadow. He rose briefly from his vantage point at the loft window, aimed and fired. The man behind the bush, who had been prone and propped on his elbows, collapsed face down into the grass. Red oozed from his exploded skull. "Good shot Pete. One down, seven to go," yelled Joe smugly as he peeked from the corner of the window looking for targets. Don peered from the other side but both men ducked fast behind the protective logs as six of the Uzi toting thugs opened fire and fanned out towards the sides of the cabin leaving only one well protected man near the copter and behind a large oak tree. The stupid punks were all firing at the bay-window leaving little Pete free to fire from the window in the loft. Pete managed to take one more man out as the other thugs found better cover. "Six to go," Pete yelled from the loft. "Still pretty bad odds," Joe said to Big Don. "If we were a stock, I wouldn't buy us. Would you?" "I bought Retviral, didn't I?" replied Don grinning. Don held twice as much stock as Joe. "Let's see, we got two on this side and three on the other. At least two will probably head for the back. Pete has the front covered. Lets see what we can see out the sides." Both men moved quickly to the two side windows and broke the widow-panes with their pistol barrels. This drew more fire from the meadow that surrounded the cabin and lead was now coming from the rear as well. Peg's shotgun boomed once and another Uzi-packing villain bit the dust. "Five to go," yelled Peg, but Big Don was already firing the 44 magnum from the north window. "Make that four," yelled Don. Becky cheered from her spot on the bedroom floor. "The north side is clear," yelled Don as he slithered across the room to Joe's window. Two men were still throwing a lot of lead from that direction and one was shooting out back. Pete had the fourth man pinned down at the oak tree in front. Joe had found a target and rose to the window's edge. Joe's 38 barked three times. "Make it three to go," yelled Joe. This time Peg cheered. But there was no time for celebration. The remaining man at the cabin's rear started to run and Peg stood and got her lead like she was shooting skeet. The shotgun roared; another bad guy bit the dust. "Two," yelled Peg as she reloaded. The remaining man on the south side of the cabin began to run back toward the helicopter. Joe and Big Don blasted away from their position but were only kicking up dust at the heels of the running hit-man. The helicopter blades changed pitch and began to rev up. The man behind the oak ran for the chopper. In the loft Pete Keller passed up an easy shot, leveled the crosshairs instead on the gas tank of the helicopter and squeezed the trigger. There was a spray of fuel then a flash of flame engulfed the rotor hub. Pete fired another round into the spinning hub and all hell broke loose as first one blade then the others let go and sailed across the meadow. The two fleeing hit men hit the ground and covered their heads. Shea, with Killer in hand, and the pilot bailed from the plane and were running for the cabin road when the parade of cop cars and ambulances careened into the meadow. Cecil Smiley and Saul Applebaum were in the last car but by the time they leisurely disembarked their vehicle it was over. Several officers, guns drawn surrounded each of the two thugs on the ground. Shea and the pilot raised their hands as the other cops closed in and behind them the helicopter exploded in a huge ball of fire. Killer, the Shih Tzu, ran for the cabin. It was 9:30. Brent Milner surveyed the scene from his own chopper, which was in final approach to the cabin's rear. "Looks like Whiskey has been quite thorough," Milner commented to the pilot. "I'll have to give him a bonus." ***** Milner greeted Big Don with a bear hug and wanted the full story. He got it with a few interruptions from the cops as they dragged everyone out for a statement. Joe waived off taking an ambulance to the hospital insisting that Peg could drive him later. When things had settled down, Milner finally was ready to speak. "Well, Whiskey, getting the tools back may have just gotten a little complicated but I think the cops will have no problem getting search warrants," he said to Big Don. "None at all," said Don, "the files we saw are obviously yours. Besides, we made copies." "One thing is still confusing me," said Joe. "In the files we looked at, you claim that when you took the secret formula from Retviral, you were only taking what was rightfully yours because you invented Fraction X. What gives with that?" "That's right Joe," said Milner, "in fact it was I who brought Fraction X to the company. It was a handshake deal. Shea could raise the money and had the contacts. It was to be a fifty-fifty split of our share of the eventual profits. But Shea took complete control of the company and cut me out. It has taken me a while to get the proof and it was all on the files that Shea stole from me. That is why I hired your friend. He's good at this stuff." "So you think you will win in court?" asked Joe. "I know I will now that I have my files back. And the mere fact the Shea stole them is like an admission of guilt on his part and who would believe a convicted murderer, embezzler and perpetrator of corporate fraud. Let me tell you, not only Malone, but also the other thugs that were taken alive and the pilot—they will all talk. The SEC wants Shea; it doesn't give a damn about the punks." "That makes sense," Joe had to admit. "But it looks like our little stock is going to be worthless." "Maybe not," said Big Don with a wink and a smile at Milner, "I'd hold on to that stock if I were you." "And I owe you boys," said Milner, "so I'd also hold on to the 100,000 shares apiece that I'm going to give you guys for helping me out." ***** Two years later Joe Keller is working for Milner and putting the finishing touches on his final research paper for his Ph.D. It has to do with the ability of Fraction X to pass the blood brain barrier, which for some reason is very important. Pete Keller is enjoying his first real job managing the security system of the mainframe computer at Retviral Immune Development Corporation, Milner's post merger name for the combined companies. It seems that Milner had been planning the hostile takeover for some time secretly buying millions of shares of Retviral in his own off shore account. Pete's mother recovered but no longer picks fights with her ex-husband. She let her hair return to its natural color. Cecil Smiley is now a chief inspector with the FBI. Saul Applebaum is Chairman of the SEC. James Shea is serving life without parole for the murder of Sal Glorioso not to mention his convictions on stock fraud, embezzlement, attempted murder and a host of other securities related charges. Malone and most of the thugs got plea bargains but are still doing time. Brent Milner is the CEO of Retviral Immune Development and made the cover of Time Magazine as man of the year when the full potential of his AIDS drug was realized. Milner's gift to Joe and Big Don was purchased for $5000 for each man. When Shea's indictment was announced, Retviral's stock sunk to a penny a share and Joe was tempted to sell and take his thousand bucks. Big Don said hold—big news was coming. The very next day Immune Development announced its merger with Retviral and the stock rose to twenty cents. Joe wanted to sell again, $20,000 was a lot of money to Joe but Big Don said hang on, more developments were in the offing. A month later the new company, Retviral Immune Development, announced that secret trials had continued in Bolivia under the auspices of Milner. The drug was a breakthrough treatment for AIDS and had reached the marketing stage in South America and gained a free trade certificate so that it could be sold in other markets as well. The stock went to $5 in a day- $500,000 for Joe if he had sold- but he didn't. The price per share has never looked back. New markets open every day. When it was announced that the FDA would fast- track the drug in the USA, the stock hit $20. Joe and Big Don sold half their shares—both men are now millionaires. They are still holding the rest of their RIDC stock which is now at $35 and they are also holding on to Peg and Becky. No one knows what happened to Bunny. Big Don retired and moved to Costa Rica with Becky. Joe and Peg visit him often. Peg paints tropical scenes on these trips and Joe and Big Don drink beer and reminisce. Joe and Peg always bring their adopted Shih Tzu, the former Killer, which they renamed Baby. THE END AN ALIEN ABDUCTION DIARY THE BEGINING The story you are about to read is true. I know that some will scoff and some will say I’m crazy but the story must be told for there is danger in secrets. I know because I almost lost myself in their lies. I know for I have only recently escaped their influence. Yes, I was abducted by Aliens, and I bear the Mark. Yet I know I will prove nothing save to those who are stirred to a vague recollection. My first memory of the encounter is of a blinding light that painfully engulfed me. My memory of the Before was instantly erased. An entire pre-existence was totally washed clean. Who was I, where had I been, where was I going? I was clueless. They do this to make us forget and they hide the four Keys well. But eventually I was able to find those Keys and with them to unlock my memory of the Before. I record the location of the Keys in this Diary, so guard it wisely for they are watching you. The Alien beings were huge—three times my height. That alone was frightening. But I soon discovered true terror for the first time in my life. I was paralyzed and naked. My body was so weak that I could barely move. I immediately knew that I was at their mercy so I had better play it smart. I would not resist. Resist—what a ridiculous word. I was as weak as a kitten. That blinding white light filled the room but I could sense the giant humanoids moving around me. They seemed to be quite interested in my anatomy. They poked and prodded my body with strange implements. Their clothing was bland and featureless and colored in basic pastel hues. Each of the