Nimrod Ostinnate read the instructions as the thin lips of his tiny mouth formed the words. Glasses were perched atop plump cheeks that threatened to spill into jowls. He wore one day’s facial growth of sandy blond hair as fine and wispy as the disheveled clump of hair on his head. When he walked, it was more like a waddle, the tousle moved like sea grass in a gentle breeze. Nimrod’s humpty dumpty shape carried black pants too short to hide the white socks he wore with battle scarred black shoes. The wax laces of the shoes danced as he waddled. They had been tied only and that was the first day he wore them. His white button down shirt enjoyed an encore performance. Nimrod wore the same shirt all week. By Friday the collar would sport a thick film of body oil.

White light poured from the overhead florescent fixtures. Stark white floor, walls and ceiling contrasted the brushed aluminum tables and shelving. A wall of windows, counter height to ceiling, looked out onto the dawn of the day. Nimrod was usually the first post-doctoral student to arrive. He liked watching the day dawn; refusing to allow the white blinds to temper the encroachment of nature’s eye.

The sweeping cursive handwriting held the instructions for his everyday laboratory routine.  He moved the clipboard up as his head moved down slowly in counterweight. Checking each of the vials he jotted the progress of each experiment. His hand shook from the aftereffects of the drug that counteracted the heavy dose of sleeping pills he took to sleep. Lifting one of the beakers he placed it on the stand before lighting the Bunsen burner.  Pouring liquid into the glass container he connected the test tubes to travel tubes using rubber stoppers. When he completed the intricate network he stood back admiring science’s version of an erector set.

Turning his attention to the caged animals he observed their reaction to the prescribed stimuli.  As he observed the white mice in their cages he felt the beginning of a headache. On the job three months Nimrod fought the urge to release the research specimens. As he moved from cage to cage he wanted to sweep the entire tangle of tubes, beakers and test tubes onto the floor. He practiced controlled breathing to overcome the destructive urge. He reminded himself that once he completed his research work, published a few papers and earned an academic research position he would begin his quest to change science.

Checking his watch he expected his boss, the principal investigator, in thirty minutes. Replacing the clipboard on the hook above the cluttered desk Nimrod focused on the uneven piles of papers that flanked the large computer monitor. Switching on the monitor he typed his user name and password. The computer thought for a moment before springing to life. Launching the access program Nimrod typed with his index fingers, flying over the keyboard. He glanced up from the keyboard between commands watching as each program launched; accompanied by a banner screen.

When he had all of the programs open he moved from one to the other executing commands after modifying code based on his research.  Checking his watch he had twenty minutes. Grabbing his lab notebook he flipped to the pages that held the product of the prior evening’s research. Scanning the chemical combinations he compared the molecule chains to what was displayed on the computer monitor. Changes the molecule configurations on the first program he saved the changes. Nimrod repeated the process on each of the open programs before verifying the changes, saving them one last time and closing the programs.

At the top of the hour the principal investigator walked into the lab. Grabbing the lab notebook he flipped through the pages until he located the information. The PI looked down his beak-like nose; the reading glasses perched at the tip of the hook. Combing the fingers of his left hand through the long gray mane he tapped a size 11 shoe at the end of a gangly leg. His brown eyes burned a hole in Nimrod’s forehead as the PI searched his assistant for an explanation.

“This isn’t exactly how I would have structured the molecule.” The PI said. Nimrod felt his blood pressure rising.

“I wasn’t finished with the research. That was just one string; there are other alternatives that I want to explore before putting any configurations into play.”

“You will show them to me before taking this process any further.” The PI’s voice was strong, almost forbidding. Nimrod felt his shoulders slump against his will. Taking the notebook that the PI had slammed shut on the desk Nimrod retreated to the lab bench across the room. Pulling open the drawer of the bench he tapped his fingers on the lab notebook that held the configurations that he fed into the computer moments earlier. He had swapped lab notebooks just prior to his boss’ arrival.

As the newly constructed chemical compositions were being manufactured, Nimrod thought about the implications. The Phase III clinical trial through which the experimental drug would be administered was scheduled for a week from today. Nimrod considered whether he would be able to control the anticipation. The PI had forged the Phase II test results; disposing of the animals that had been killed by the dosing protocol. Nimrod’s formulaic changes to the Phase III drug’s composition would even the playing field; killing three human subjects for every animal subject that died.

The principal investigator refused to acknowledge any culpability for the animals’ deaths. He threatened Nimrod with termination of his research contract if he breathed a word of the altered test results. Nimrod knew that reporting the irregularities would create a long and drawn out investigation perching a dark cloud of suspicion over him for being complicit.  He had no choice but to disgrace his boss in a way that would be irreparable. That would allow him to slip away while the investigation’s spotlight was trained away from him.

Getting even was one thing that he could check off his list. The headache that threatened to kill

Think of sentence construction. Look at the building blocks. Can you find the hidden meaning in each word? I dissect speech to determine the speaker’s meaning. Is s/he making a point so subtly that a touch by a feather would feel like a slap to the face in comparison? The answer is there; it’s a matter of listening. I know how difficult that is. We barely have the time or inclination to focus, especially when we have so many distractions. Funny how distractions such as smart phones and their surfeit of applications shone a bright light on psychological / physiological deficiencies like ADHD and the alphabet soup of diagnoses festooned about the psychiatric community.

Next time you watch a commercial, listen closely. I challenge you to sit still long enough to surprise yourself with laser focus. Put the phone on mute; put down the puzzle book; close the computer. Block out everything but the noise from the television. Lest I forget you will need to sit closer to the television in order to read the fine print that flashes usually at the bottom of the screen – and probably only long enough to recognize it’s there before it disappears. The fine print, written by the litigation conscious, is meant to clarify the message. Results not typical; must be combined with diet and exercise; lash enhancements added to accentuate the effect of mascara; etc. In most cases you will see that that woman-child professing the age defying properties of the face cream is really a professional actress. She is probably ten or more years younger than the audience to which the advertiser is appealing.

As I contemplated the misleading advertisement, silence abandoned me. I railed long and loud about the misrepresentations. I was enjoying the company of a diverse group of friends. Among them were most walks of life including lawyers. Some say lawyers don’t walk, they slither. I’m not passing judgment, just passing along what I’ve heard. The lawyers were the first to offer rebuttal.

“You can’t expect the advertiser to put up a real world amateur; the product would never sell.” Micah said. He was a trial lawyer. I love Micah to death; he’s been a willing confidant and has helped me burrow from beneath my share of legal morass. Micah was short and dumpy looking. His clothes looked like he slept in them. His hair looked like bed head. His chubby face framed beady brown eyes shaded by bushy eye brows. He said the look was his way of throwing off opposing counsel.

“This is a product of the world in which we live. People want gratification; yesterday if possible.” Lydia said. She was a personal injury lawyer. Lydia knew all about instant gratification; her clients had high expectations and an overactive sense of righteousness.

“So what you’re saying is that lying is acceptable?” I asked.

“That’s not lying.” Micah said.

“That’s right, it’s not.” Lydia added. I smiled. Lydia was beautiful; her full figure tall and sensual. We dated twice before she realized I was two inches too short and too skinny. Her shoulder length black hair danced as her head moved to enable her to address the entire room. She epitomized confidence. She could absorb you with her blue gray eyes. When she smiled light twinkled off her complexion. The discussion was heating up and the lawyers were aligning. The other four people in the room watched as we knocked the discussion ball back and forth over the net of public apathy.

“It sounds like you two advocate buyer beware.”

“Absolutely.” They responded. I wanted to shout ‘personal jinx’ but thought better of it.

“Listen to you two. You advocate for the seller yet you represent the buyer against the seller.” I shook my head. The others, the non-combatants, smiled with me. I straightened up, topping out at just under five feet ten and tried to look miffed; my brown eyes stared out from deep set eyes. Salt and pepper hair brush cut topped my bony head.

“That’s the American way. We don’t find fault with the seller who is mildly off center with the message. We find fault with the seller who misleads.” Micah said. I double hitched; prepared to respond then stopped short.

“Micah’s right. There’s a fine line and we catch the seller who crosses it.” Lydia said.

“Yeah but you keep moving the line. You move it to where it’s convenient for you and your client. You do it to make your case.” George finally interjected. He stared at the shiny penny loafer at the end of a crossed leg that moved in rhythm with his words. His jaw tightened. As he spoke the vein above his right temple pulsed. His eyes burned with residual displeasure. George was a GQ wannabe with his laundered and pressed button down shirt and creased trousers (you could cut a medium-well steak with that crease). George’s company was sued for false advertising. The plaintiff had used the product inappropriately and then sued because there was no warning on the label for his method of use. The plaintiff was awarded a stiff sum. George’s company lost market share. After three years they are finally recovering.

“You guys are amazing. You empower the stupid; the opportunists; the leeches; the hangers on.” I said as I rose, staring at the lawyers who looked like they were going to slither away. Turning I stormed out of the room. I marched into the master bedroom to use the master bath.  At that point I needed to get far away from the discussion. My temperature was rising and my reasoning was falling.

Five minutes later I walked slowly out of the bedroom and back to the den. The group was kicking about the last incredible catch just inside the end zone. I stood at the back of the room, breathing slowly. When the game cut to a commercial I focused. It was another of those true but untrue messages. Micah and Lydia looked at me and smiled. Micah hiked a thumb towards the television.

“There’s a law suit buried in that commercial. It’s just a matter of time before one of us sinks our teeth into the poor bastards.” Micah said. Lydia shook her head.

“I could make the case in minutes.” Lydia said; her voice playful. “They’ll settle because a public suit would kill them.” She continued. George lunged at Lydia, hands gripping her throat.

“You suck you know that!” George squealed as he choked my guest. I looked on passively. This was more fun than the game. The others scrambled. Two attempted to subdue George, the others backed away. George looked like a few nuts and bolts had shaken loose.

“You’re not going to sue anybody, do you hear me?” He continued to punish my ex-girlfriend. When it appeared she might expire I acted. Extracting the .45 from my waistband I pressed it against George’s neck.

“Let her go, now!” I spoke in a firm voice. George’s grip loosened. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “So help me I’ll end your pain right now.” I pushed the barrel into his flesh forming a red pucker. George pulled himself back, falling hard into the empty space on the sofa. Bringing his hands to his face he cried. Micah helped Lydia. She recovered slowly before punching him dead in the face.

“You ass, you watched while that maniac choked me!” She screamed. Micah covered his wounded eye. He’d have raccoon eye in a couple of hours.

“This is assault and battery. I’ll have you arrested.” Micah threatened. Before I could react Lydia ripped the gun from my hand and pointed it at Micah.

“You think so? Try filing suit from your grave you puny bastard.” Lydia said just before she pulled the trigger. Micah’s eyes opened wide enough to swallow the room. He stopped breathing as he gripped his chest. The hammer dropped; a single click. There were no bullets. I would never present a loaded gun. We looked at Micah. His face reddened as his fingers clawed at his chest. He tried to speak; his lips forming words without sound.

“I think he’s having a heart attack.” George said calmly. “Let him die. Maybe it will teach the lawyers a lesson. You’re all a bunch of whores; what’s one dead one.” Lydia glared at George before rising. She slapped George hard; His pale face throbbing red; his eyes burning impotent frustration. He stood; shoulders slumped and exited. He couldn’t stay. I watched George leave as I summoned emergency assistance.

Micah’s heart stopped long enough to savage his brain from lack of oxygen. A vegetative state was brought to the court’s attention as Lydia filed a civil suit against me for making a deadly weapon available. She successfully argued that duress left her incapable of discerning appropriate action and I was reticent to prevent her from taking the weapon. She argued it was my fiduciary duty to my guests. Failing that, I should be found guilty. I wondered if the wrong lawyer was silenced.

Glaring brake lights screamed traffic jam. Winnie was already late for work. Switching the makeup applicator to her left hand she braced the steering wheel against her thighs as she tuned the radio to the local news station. She interrupted a commercial in progress; mouthing a curse as she grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the right. Stabbing at the brake pedal the car leaned forward. The traffic was still moving but slowly. The car bucked as she released pressure on the brake pedal stopping just short of the car in front of her.

Emerald green eyes staring into the vanity mirror in her visor she dabbed the brush in the makeup before filling in the gaps in her morning face covering the hint of freckles on her fair skin. Satisfied, she applied eye liner almost jabbing herself in the eye when the infernal car horn surprised her. Shifting her gaze to the rear view mirror she shot reflected daggers. The rude man staring back waved his hands as if fluffing feathers.

“Keep your shirt on pops.” When she looked ahead she saw there was unobstructed blacktop. Tapping the accelerator the car moved smartly. “Fast enough for you mister?” She said as she checked the rear view mirror again. Her antagonist was slow to react. As she smiled she realized she wasn’t finished prepping. Picking up the compact she opened it and balanced it atop the steering wheel. Splitting her focus between the road and the tiny mirror she steered with the ‘compact hand’ as she applied a thin black line to each eye lid.

Traffic snarled again. She reacted with choppy brakes – a recipe for minor whiplash. The compact slipped from her hand, dusting her cotton slacks with flesh tone base. Frustration mixed with rage as she screamed. Fighting back tears she didn’t want to ruin her morning masterpiece before it was complete. Picking up the compact and dusting pad, she replaced it before snapping the compact closed and dropped it into her makeup case.

Fishing out the cherry red lipstick she flipped the visor down again. She wasn’t going to repeat the compact mistake. Removing the top she turned the base. A cylinder of shimmering color rose. Checking her lips she was about to apply it when the horn interrupted her again. The look in the mirror, the same feather mixing but this time he was speaking to her. Winnie angered as she flipped her middle finger. His gesticulation transformed into balled fists. Winnie applied lipstick to full lips, checked her work, capped the tube and dropped it into her handbag when banging on the driver’s side window sucked three years from her life. She jumped as she turned.

The face that was the star of her rear view mirror was making a cameo appearance to her left. He was yelling; his chubby face and bulbous nose were beet red – his dark eyes burned. He was bald; the blood flowing into his complexion made him look like a tomato with facial features. Winnie thumbed the door lock button just before she heard pulling on the door handle. Grabbing the cell phone from the cup holder she punched 911 and held the screen for Mister Road Rage to see. He raised balled fists and beat them against the glass. She found the ‘send’ button and pushed it. Mister Road Rage watched as the call connected.

Winnie brought the phone to her ear as she felt a jolt from the side of her car. Fear crawled up her back and into her throat as the operator asked the first question. Winnie swallowed hard trying to wet her dry throat. As she verbalized she forced herself to face the demon at her car. He was gone. She heard the operator’s voice.

She screamed as the operator tried to calm her. Blood smears on the window; did he cut himself pounding on the glass? Serves him right!

“Ma’am are you okay? Calm down and tell me what is happening.” The operator said in a flat voice. Winnie took a deep breath. “I’m okay; some crazy man was beating on the window of my car.” She turned as she spoke. Opposing traffic had stopped; two males rushed towards her.

“What’s going on?” Winnie punched the button; the window disappeared silently into the door. She popped her head out the window. Someone yelled call 911. Winnie blinked.

“I’ve got them on the phone.” Winnie called out the window.

“Are you talking to me ma’am?” The operator asked.

“Someone’s yelling to call 911. Let me find out what…” As she opened the car door she saw. Her assailant was crumpled in a heap on the ground. “There’s a man injured here.” Winnie looked for a reference point and screamed again.

“We’ve got your GPS location from your phone. We’ll notify emergency services.” The operator said. Winnie ended the call.

“Stupid fool should not have been standing in the middle of the road. The truck clipped him.” One of the onlookers said. The truck driver was shaken; sitting on the front bumper of his truck staring blankly ahead.  This was more than a clipping this was the whole story. Three people looked on helplessly. The assailant’s body was broken. They speculated he was probably dead. Winnie shook her head. Climbing back into the car she took two deep breaths to calm herself before proceeding to complete her makeup.

“I figured it out; poor slob you didn’t have a chance.” He blabbered. I let him talk. What was I going to do?

The problem stemmed from a broken tie rod. I hoped that would be the revelation that would halt the investigation. “Success, sweet success was difficult to corral. Police investigators in this Podunk town weren’t motivated to turn over every stone. If the rat was discovered under the first rock, there was not need to find the balance of the family.

He continued to dig. I watched, handcuffed to the workbench. I tried not to focus on the pain in my wrists. Detective Arthur Whitfield caught me by surprise. He gloated as he watched me put the bracelets on my wrists; his .38 pressed into my left temple. The detective was about as crazy as a neurotic cat. He would have pulled the trigger except writing up the death, along with the discharge of a weapon was about three times as voluminous as an arrest.

“That tie rod was broken for a while.” I tried to deflect his sudden interest in finding Waldo.

“That’s not what I’m looking for scumbag.” Whitfield said.

“You’re wasting your time my man.” I replied. Whitfield looked over without replying.

“Johnny, run your light over those lines.” Whitfield pointed the mechanic to the power steering and brake lines. Johnny McCain was an acquaintance who handled my mechanical problems. He wasn’t Einstein except when it came to cars. I whistled a Van Morrison tune hoping Johnny would remember the last time we heard that song. He paused, looked over at me and smiled. He got the message.

Whitfield studied the exterior of the car hoping the answer would appear. The only message the exterior would send was “did anybody get the name of that can opener?” the right front quarter panel was mangled; the passenger front door was crushed; the window blown out. Fragments of glass littered the front seats.

We disposed of the body several hours before the police found us. Johnny buried it on his farm. This was going to be a crime scene without a victim. I liked the way that sounded.

“Ah, the fluids on these brake lines are only partially dry.” Whitfield said as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The Cheshire cat smile made me want to hurt him. Johnny ran his light over the hoses.

“Let me check the fluid levels. If there’s a lot of fluid in the reservoir then that fluid is from the accident.” Johnny spoke with conviction. The hood of the car was twisted; bent up in an awkward fold from the passenger side. Johnny pressed the release valve. The lift lowered. Whitfield was preoccupied; he did not realize the lift was moving until the he felt the weight of the machine pressing against the top of his five foot two inch frame.

“What the hell…” The detective ducked and scrambled. His rear foot slipped on the greasy floor under the lift, causing him to stumble forward. His groin muscle popped shooting pain down his leg and freezing him in a half bent position. “Stop the lift, stop the lift!” he called. The mechanic watched as the detective folded under the weight of the vehicle snapping his back.

When the groaning stopped McCain grabbed a bolt cutter and snapped the chain connecting the handcuffs. I watched as he grabbed a hack saw and a screw driver. Leading me to a stationary vice grip he locked a corner of the bracelet on my left wrist. Before he began sawing he closed the garage door and locked the entrance to the customer area of his shop.

Fifteen minutes later my wrists were freed. Grabbing a pry bar and pulling tools we ripped the covers from the rear seats and extracted the tightly packed kilos of uncut heroin. Johnny and I had been planning the run from Mexico for months. An untimely collision with a preoccupied driver wrecked the car. The detective tracked me down. He figured he had me on an insurance scam. He had no idea. Johnny was impatient.  He feared the car would be impounded. He had his life savings invested in the kilos of raw dope harvested from the vehicle.

The lift rose as I looked on. They approached the broken body, twisted and bent unnaturally. Johnny wheeled a creeper over.

“Help me lift him.” I hesitated before engaging.

“You got gloves or something?” I asked. Johnny flashed his grease blackened hands.

“You think I wear gloves?” He asked. I didn’t bite on the rhetorical question. We strained to get the corpse onto the low slung mobile sled.

“Where are we taking him?” A bolt of ice shot up my back as I realized I was handling a dead body. Johnny tugged his head.

“I got a chroming shop next door. We’ll drop him in.” My face twisted into a question. “Acid; you get it now?” Johnny shook his head as if I should have known. Across the threshold and into the room with the sinister vats the chemical fragrance struck me like smelling salts.

Three hours later, after Johnny had pulled and replaced the vehicle identification numbers in every place they were displayed and hidden we returned to the chroming room. Detective Whitfield had dissolved. I wretched again; my stomach empty from hurling several times after watching the body sink into its final bath.

“You don’t have to act like it’s the end of the world.” Roxanne said. Ryan slipped an arm over her shoulder.

“I’m worried; that’s all.” He said.

“Tell me about it.” Roxanne replied. She looked at her feet as she moved them nervously on the floor in front of her.  “You think I’m enjoying this? If you do you’re nuts.” She continued.

He thought she should have taken precautions. He wanted to wear protection; she told him it didn’t feel natural “taking a shower with a raincoat on” is how she described it.  That conjured up an image of a little boy in shiny bright yellow coat with metal clasps, matching hat and boots. Just the thought of a condom made him flaccid.

They had been doing it for months.  She was beautiful, tall lean and all legs, breasts and lips. Her alabaster skin, silky smooth beckoned him. Natural brunette, her hair flowed like cream through his fingers. Her wanting eyes begged for attention.  She assured him she couldn’t get pregnant. Her cycles were erratic. Sure they didn’t happen for months at a time. The gynecologist told her she wasn’t ovulating.

When she finally broke the news she hadn’t been feeling well. Thinking it was the flu, pregnancy was the last thing on her mind. “You’re joking Roxanne, right?” He said, looking at her with a playful gaze. She liked practical jokes. This was a doozy.

“I wish I was joking; really.” She said. “Do you think I wanted this?” She continued. He wasn’t sure – not at that moment.

“How long?” He asked.

“That’s what the doctor’s going to tell me. But if I had to guess I’d say a couple of months. Remember my periods were unpredictable.” He held back a response. He wanted to grab the gynecologist by the throat.

“Roxanne.” The receptionist called. As she stood Ryan stood with her. As she moved towards the door to the examination rooms he followed.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“I’m coming back there with you.” Ryan answered. Determination chiseled into his face.

“Only if you promise to behave yourself; I don’t want to be looking for another doctor.” She admonished.

“I want to be with you. Can’t the father of the baby be with the mother when the doctor gives the verdict?” The word ‘verdict’ fell like a rock. Roxanne elbowed him. He doubled over feigning pain.

“I don’t think an expectant mother is supposed to be beating on the baby’s father. I think that’s trauma. I read that expectant mothers are supposed to keep the baby from experiencing trauma.” Ryan said. Roxanne smiled; the realization that her boyfriend might be warming to the thought of being a father. He’d been distant since she told him of the possibility of a bun in the oven.

The receptionist opened the door and ushered them in. Leading them to one of the examination rooms she promised the doctor would be with them shortly before closing the door and leaving them alone. They made small talk while they waited. Ryan talked about baby furniture in a freshly painted nursery.

“You know I’m not ready for this; but then again who is?” He said. Her stare fell heavily on him.

“You think I’m ready?” Her expression dampened. He had a tendency of making life mostly about him. She hoped the advent of the baby would bring him around to a broader thought process.

“I’m sorry Roxy; I didn’t mean to make it all about me.” He swallowed his pride as he spoke.

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. The doctor opened the door with a flourish and entered the examination room.

“I’m doctor Winchester.” The doctor introduced herself to Ryan. “How are you feeling Roxanne?” The doctor took Roxanne’s wrist and checked her pulse.

“Lift your blouse.” Roxanne complied.  The doctor warmed the end of the stethoscope before applying it to several places on her abdomen.

“We’ll need a urine sample.”

“I gave one to your nurse before I came back here.” Roxanne answered.

“Roll up one of your sleeves; we’ll need a blood sample. I want to make sure there’s nothing to worry about.” After drawing blood the doctor placed a cotton ball and tape over the injection point.

“Doc, she wasn’t supposed to get pregnant.” Ryan said.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it? What a pleasant surprise to know you’re bringing new life into the world.” The doctor answered.

“But you said she wasn’t ovulating.” Ryan said as images of the child in the raincoat danced mockingly across his mind.

“She wasn’t – at least not when I examined her.” Winchester turned laying a cold stare on him.

“I thought it meant she couldn’t get pregnant.” He said. This time the doctor turned to Roxanne whose complexion reddened with embarrassment.

“I told Roxanne that she should not read anything negative into my statement. I told her that ovulation could begin without warning.”

“Is that true?” Ryan’s voice danced up the vocal scale. Roxanne looked away; scared to engage. “You let us have sex over and over without ever telling me there could be a chance you’d get pregnant?” He asked.

“I didn’t think…” Tears halted her response.

“You’re an intelligent man. You couldn’t figure that out without a script?” The doctor defended. Ryan turned on her.

“Who asked you? This is between me and my woman.” Ryan said. Winchester steeled herself.

“You’re in my house; you’ll act appropriately.” The doctor said.

“Or what?” Ryan asked smugly, arms folded across his chest. The doctor snatched the receiver from the handset hanging on the wall. Punching three numbers she listened.

“Get security up here stat.” Before she could drop the handset back into the cradle the cord was around her neck.

“I’ll choke the self-righteous snot out of you.” Ryan whispered in Winchester’s ear.

“Stop it Ryan. What are you trying to prove?” Roxanne asked.

“Doc’s got an attitude. She needs fixing.” He responded. Roxanne watched for a long moment hoping he would release. The doctor flailed, struggling to extricate herself.

“Ryan she’s turning blue you’re going to kill her!” Roxanne screamed. Rushing to the door she fumbled with the handle trying to turn it with sweaty hands. As she pulled the door open she heard a gurgle; an asthmatic struggling for breath. Turning she saw blood spurting from Ryan’s neck; a pen jutting from the wound. The doctor slipped to the floor, a tangle of phone cord still wrapped around her neck, the receiver in her lap. As she fought with the cord her assailant pawed at the projectile in his neck. A combination of fear, shock and weakness from the mounting loss of blood stymied his attempt to save himself.

Roxanne watched the gore as the father of her child fought for life in front of her. The doctor, ligature marks on her neck, scrambled to the dying man. Jerking the pen from the wound she slapped a palm against the puncture wound.

The receptionist and nurse assistants canceled appointments for the balance of the day as the police took statements, the coroner bagged the dead and the doctor and her patient recovered slowly from the shock of the unexpected events. Roxanne would face the pregnancy alone; the doctor would apply make up to her neck in an effort to maintain an air of normalcy until the swelling and black and blue marks faded.

This is how the law professor opened the inaugural lecture every semester. He was a gray beard; given to prosaic diatribes. His colorful approach to sometimes mundane subjects galvanized the students into learning. Five feet four inches of legal scholar, he was once considered a candidate for several government posts. When rumors swirled about a run for District Attorney he quickly dismissed them. When the same rumor mill churned out an Attorney General of the United States short list achievement he allowed that one to germinate. Before long he was being approached by the university population to congratulate him on the honor.

Make no mistake; Orville Hammerstrom would have made a fine Attorney General. Doctor Hammerstrom was a centrist. He taught the logic of the law. “Law, in its most raw and unadulterated form, was never intended to stand alone.” He preached. Very rarely was his instruction called teaching. He insisted on developing converts. He cranked up the ‘passion’ dial to boil. Heated discussions could turn friends into adversaries. Lectures would spill into the hallway after class. He was so popular that his debates were touted as labs. His first year law class was the only one to ever garner four college credits.

“Orville, this is a real problem.” The chairman of the law department spoke softly. He was a Theodore Rooseveltian. “I think your approach is too far right for the university to sit idly by.” Hammerstrom watched his boss. Below the surface he cogitated; his blank expression (poker face) revealed nothing.

“Chas, I have no idea why this is a problem.” Orville said. “Nothing has changed; nothing at all.” He continued. “Why suddenly is this earth shattering?” Steepled fingers shaded his mouth as he spoke. The department chairman shifted in his seat. He was department chair because he brought donors to the university. They endowed a chair in his name, The Charles Reynolds Law Chair.

“Things have changed. Not all at once. The change has been subtle; like the movement of the continents. Each year the change is negligible. Taken over time the shift is more than noticeable.” The chairman said. Orville sighed as he absorbed. His response, no matter the temperature in the room, was always measured. A warm smile hid the sharp wit and explosive intelligence that buried anyone who challenged him.

“Chas, you know it is impossible to maintain complete inertia. Even objects at rest experience some change.” Orville said. The chairman was unhappy with the way his subordinate reacted.

“Damn it Orville, I’m trying to help you. If you continue to dismiss that help I will be forced to address the matter in a way that will be unpalatable to you.”

“Is that a threat?” Orville asked. Reynolds’ eyes burned with frustration. He wasn’t a negotiator, he was an administrator. That role placed him squarely between university administration and the rank and file professors.

“You know I don’t make threats, at least not idle ones.” Reynolds smiled; a tension breaking tactic. Hammerstrom rose and paced in front of the desk before retreating to the windows overlooking the courtyard between the two oldest buildings on campus.

“Beautiful day; the stateliness of the architecture accentuated by the gentle sun of early autumn.” Orville was a master of subject change; another disarming tool. Reynolds turned his chair to face his colleague.

“Come back and sit down. I’ve got scant time to clean this up. After I explain my expectations I’m certain you’ll understand and accommodate my wishes.” Reynolds said. Orville stood with his back to his dean his arms folded in the shape of an “L”; the index finger of his right hand tapping his lower lip. “Orville, are you heeding me?” The word ‘heeding’ struck a chord. Orville’s mother used that word when she chastised.

Turning on his heels Hammerstrom shot a deadly look at his dean. “I don’t appreciate your approach. I’m not flattered by the way you’ve sold out your constituents.” Emotion infiltrated Hammerstrom’s body. He began to move as if he was afflicted with a lethal combination of Turrets Syndrome and Parkinson’s disease. “Do you understand any of what you are saying?” His eyes burned with intensity. Reynolds looked past his colleague until he was prepared to engage.

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under to conform. There are forces beyond anything we can fathom coming to bear on this situation.”

“I understand; more than you realize. You’re a sell out; a soiled sell out.” Orville said. Reynolds’ complexion acquired color. He stood slowly. The combatants would do battle fully erect – two human swords prepared to clash.

“The odds are stacked against you. The board of governors and the faculty senate have already blessed the action I am taking.” Reynolds spread his arms as if to plead. The intercom buzzed. Reynolds lifted the handset and punched the flashing button. He listened before answering. Dropping the handset into the cradle his expression serious, turned ashen.

“Are you alright Reynolds?” He waved off Hammerstrom’s question. Dropping heavily into his chair he sat, summoning strength.

“That was the Provost.” Reynolds said. Hammerstrom knew her.  A snot of a woman; rail thin and gangly – almost gaunt. Her pride was only exceeded by her vanity. He despised everything she was about. She was three years into a five year contract. Orville thought she made more enemies than friends. Her tactics of pressure and leverage to increase the endowment were creating subterranean shifts. Orville thought she would be removed before she completed the contract term.

“She’s playing the game.” Orville said.

“It’s not a game. She’s serious; intending to hold you to the letter of your contract.” Reynolds said.

“It’s just ink on paper; blots on an otherwise utilitarian byproduct of the forest industry.” Orville replied.

“You love to twist the law for your own ends. This time it’s not going to work.”

“What are you telling me?” Hammerstrom pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator in the corner of the office.

“There’s no wiggle room here. You signed on agreeing to abide by the university charter as well as the faculty handbook.” Reynolds reminded.

“Interpretive reading; that’s what I conclude. I’ve had some of the brightest legal minds read that contract. I have their opinion, which I value more than the legal beagles this institution employs.” Orville sipped as he watched Reynolds’ reaction. His attention was broken by the knock at the door. As he turned he felt constriction in his chest. The door opened as he collapsed into one of the guest chairs. Reynolds watched him as Hammerstrom’s world slowed. He tried to speak but the words were filtered through molasses.

Deprived of vital oxygen Hammerstrom blacked out. When he awoke he was prone in a hospital bed tethered to intravenous lines. Standing next to the bed was Emalene Tannenbaum, the Provost.

“How are you feeling Orville?” Her tone was a mixture of gravity and sincerity. He blinked several times as if the rhythm of his eye lids opening and closing would trigger verbalization.

“Fine, I feel fine.”

“You aren’t fine. You suffered a heart attack. You are lucky to be alive.” She said.

“How did I get here?” He asked.

“By Campus EMS; they saved your life.” His face contorted. The thought of life abandoning him without warning raised perspiration on his forehead. Tannenbaum pulled a tissue from the table beside the bed and mopped his brow. He thought about the action; she wasn’t as bad as he thought. Her presence and attention to minor details painted a different picture of her. Hammerstrom regained composure.

“Your presence here, well it’s totally unexpected. You must have moved heaven and earth to clear time in your schedule.” His tone was apologetic, as if he had been caught in an indiscretion.

“Doctor Hammerstrom, I assure you my presence here is strictly business. I have come to exercise, on behalf of the university, the clause in your contract that effectively terminates your employment if your health is in jeopardy. Clearly the magnitude of the heart attack is considered a jeopardy event.” As she spoke she extracted a one page letter from her briefcase. She held it up for Hammerstrom to read. The tones emitted by the heart monitor climbed steadily until the ICU nurse stepped into the room.

“I think the doctor has had enough excitement for one day. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The nurse watched as Tannenbaum lifted her briefcase and moved towards the door.

“This is not the end, it’s the beginning.” Hammerstrom called after Tannenbaum. As the words left his lips his world slowed again; this time accompanied by alarm tones and shouting. As he lost consciousness he heard the nurse call for the resuscitation team.

Tannenbaum walked deliberately out of the hospital knowing she would have no further problems with Orville Hammerstrom.

“I don’t do surprises, dear.” She said, attempting to gain control over the situation. Nobody knew where she was. There wasn’t anybody she could tell without jeopardizing her professional accomplishments.

“Relax baby.” He said. She turned, scanning the room for an advantage.

“Do I know you honey?” she asked. He carried her to the bed and dropped her unceremoniously onto the spongy mattress. “You’re not the student…” Before she could finish his mouth was on hers. Slipping her arm out of the loop of the handbag she tucked the barrel of the gun against his neck. The cold steel stopped his tongue in mid-thrust. After biting his tongue and then releasing she pressed the gun deeper into his neck.

“Who are you?” Her voice was more emphatic.

“You bit my tongue, you…”

“Shush. Just answer my questions and maybe I’ll let you have what you want.” She said.

“I’m someone who wants to get into your pantyhose.” He answered. She pulled the hammer until it clicked.

“Name; now or the next click will be followed by an explosion. You won’t have to answer any more questions.”

“I’m Alexi.”

“Does Alexi have a last name? And, how do you know me?” She asked.

“My friend knows you.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“He’s the student who sent you the message.”

“How did you know I’d come?”

“You have a, shall we say, history of smelling out rendezvous message.” Alexi said. “And my last name is Smith.”

“That’s very original Mr. Smith. My guess is that you’ll see some of your relatives in the morgue.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Okay, okay, my real name is Ray Gomez. My buddy is one of your students.” Ray said.

“The student part I know. Just answer the questions I ask.” Arlene said. Her free hand probed his loins. “Oh my friend you are excitable.”He moaned under her touch. Lowering the gun she released the hammer and slipped it back into her handbag. “Let’s see if this little escapade is worth my time.” She unsheathed him. “You’re kidding right?” She cackled. “Put that thing away and get off me.” His attempt to push his case ended with a knee to the family jewels sending him reeling onto the floor. As she stood, the door opened flooding the room with light. She squinted at the silhouette in the doorway. He stepped inside, closed the door and flipped on the switch.

“What are you doing here? Come to try for sloppy seconds?” She asked. He just looked at her, a mixture of contempt and pity spilling from his gaze.

“Sloppy seconds, ha! I’ve come to see if you were stupid enough to fall for this little ploy.” His tone was powerful, stopping her sarcasm before it could gain a foothold.

“You have no idea what it takes…” Before she could finish he raised a hand to stop her.

“You’re here, aren’t you? Now it’s time to see if the vaunted Miss Shea is everything she thinks she is.” Greg Martins, the student whose coded message lured her to the motel, approached with an air of superiority. “Take off your clothes and let me see what your demure dress code is hiding.” He folded his arms across his chest. She looked at him, her complexion softened. She smiled the smile of a woman preparing for a carnal pleasure cruise. Slipping out of her shoes she watched his expression as she unbuttoned her blouse. Ray Gomez moved around to face her, standing next to Greg.

She allowed the blouse to slip from her shoulders, revealing a lacy bra that lifted her breasts to a crescendo. As she breathed her chest heaved, bringing her perfect orbs to life. Stepping out of her skirt and slip, she folded them neatly and placed them on the bed.  Turning her back to the young men she wiggled her tight ass flirting with slipping out of the black lace thong. When she turned, she held the .22 pistol, training it on the two men. Color drained from their face.

“Did you think I was stupid enough to come here helplessly?  Ask your buddy Ray, who by the way isn’t too bright. He’s already felt the cold steel of the gun barrel.” She pointed the gun first at Ray and then at Greg.

“You don’t think we’re afraid of you, do you?” Greg’s voice wasn’t confident enough to convey arrogance.

“There’s plenty of lead for each of you.  Three well-placed shots and neither of you will be siring anything.” She pulled the hammer back as she spoke. “You have two choices, turn and leave or stay and suffer the consequences of your foolishness.”

“This is our room, if anybody’s leaving, it’s you.” Greg responded. Arlene smiled.

“Fine, it’s your room.” She stepped forward. “Move over there and kneel.” As they moved she grabbed the handbag. “Turn and face the bed then put your hands behind your back.” She dragged the handbag from the bed and dropped it on the floor immediately behind the two. Extracting handcuffs she applied the metal bracelets to each of the two. They complained as she snapped the cuffs tightly, the steel biting into the wrists. She added a nice touch by interlacing the cuffs so that the men were awkwardly joined.

“Now, you two will watch as I dress and walk out of here.” After buttoning her blouse and adjusting her skirt Arlene grabbed a pillow from the bed. Placing it snugly against the barrel of the gun she fired one shot into the neck of each of them. Blood shot from the ruptured carotid artery as their bodies wilted. Arlene backed away, careful to avoid the blood that began to pool around the bodies.

After they expired she removed the handcuffs, wiped them on a towel she pulled from the rack in the bathroom, tucked them into the handbag along with the towel and waited until dark. Checking activity outside the motel, she slipped out of the room with the pillow under her arm.

Behind the wheel of the car she sat contemplating the rush as she watched life’s precious fluid escape, taking two budding young men’s future with it.  Stabbing the key into the ignition she turned it. The engine did not respond. Pumping the accelerator she turned the key again, this time pleading with the automotive gods to help her. After the third try a face appeared in the rear view mirror.

“Doctor Shea.” The voice said. “Don’t turn around. I’m Tom’s girlfriend and you are his whore. He stood me up last night for you.” Shea’s attempt to respond was cut short by the nylon rope around her neck. Lucy pulled tightly as the good doctor struggled. Arlene reached back. Lucy yanked the rope maintaining enough distance to remain clear of the doctor’s attempts to grab her. When Arlene’s body yielded, Lucy checked for a pulse before collecting the rope and slipping out of the car.

Walking three tenths of a mile to her car Lucy sat wondered if Tom was worth the effort.

Dropping heavily into one of the chairs in the center of the classroom Tom looked around as if his appearance would elevate the level of enlightenment.

“Mister Doucet; very nice of you to join us. Your auspicious entrance is eclipsed only by your perpetual arrogance. Class started ten minutes ago. I would sincerely appreciate your purchasing a watch or better yet, setting your alarm early enough that you could grace us with your presence before I begin teaching.” Doctor Shea was confident as she approached Tom’s seat; her pace deliberate. The rhythmic clicking of her pumps against the hard linoleum floor foretold a woman who got what she wanted.

Shea received tenure at the local college twelve months ago, teaching ethics to senior year students mostly. That’s when she experienced her first teacher-student sexual encounter. Young men, twenty-one years old or older were her current drug of choice. The first student that approached her for tutoring survived two tutoring sessions before Arlene’s exhibition of low cut skin tight sweater, short leather skirt and five inch sling back peek toe patent leather shoes.

Fifteen minutes into the session she brought her pupil to the edge of orgasmic pleasure. Thirty minutes later the tutoring session ended with the two willing participants dancing the horizontal mambo. Arlene terminated the tutoring session at the end of the semester; sending the student into the real world with an advanced degree in sexual education.

The truth about Arlene Shea was her desire for virile men of any age. She was in love with herself. It was difficult to castigate her for her obsession; she worked hard to look the part of temptress. She looked more sensual, youthful and put together than most of the women in her class. At first she thought her burgeoning beauty would engender rapt attention from her students. When the need for sexual satisfaction threatened to erupt she knew she had to address it before it distracted her.

That morning she rose early. When she rolled out of bed, golden shoulder-length hair danced across her alabaster shoulders. Her supple naked five foot four inch curvaceous body moved slowly to the master bath as Tom Doucet slept. She wanted time alone to caress her body in the shower. Arlene loved herself. Unfortunately for her and even more unfortunately for Tom, Arlene’s need was deeper and stronger than Doucet’s ability to satiate her carnal desire. She needed to get off to sharpen her focus. She wanted it selfishly. This is how it started; she felt unsatisfied. Arlene took matters into artificial territory. She tutored less and bedded even less frequently. Within a month her latest conquest could be nothing more than a yesterday’s news.

As she grabbed her briefcase she woke Tom and told him to follow the ritual. On the nights they screwed he was to come to class late. She thought a confrontation in class about his failure to respect her might play well.

As she watched Doucet’s smug face radiating confidence she felt a twinge of sadness. She would distance herself from him slowly. Like most men she used, he would fail to see the end until it was too late.

Tom’s girlfriend sat across the room; jealousy burned in her eyes. Tom stood her up the night before. Lucy wanted Tom; he shook her world like an 11.0 earthquake. Her mistake was telling him as much. Doucet was as shallow as a puddle. Lucy thought her pleasures would turn him into a compliant and devoted man. She thought that she might even consider something permanent with him if he pleased her enough.

Arlene moved to the front of the room, her perfect body hidden under soft clothing and oversized glasses she wore for effect.

The power she felt as teacher, rapt attention of her male students contrasted by the jealousy of her female students, helped to fuel the sensuality that mutated into something north of unhealthy.

After class she retreated to her tiny enclave. Sitting in her small office grading term papers, Arlene’s focus was riveted to the response from one of her students. Flipping to the first page Arlene checked the name. Returning to the essay Arlene read.  The writing was stilted, uneven and almost nonsensical. The student was one of her better ones, not her type, purely and simply a student. Every fourth word seemed out of place. Grabbing a notepad Arlene read the essay again circling each errant word.

Scribbling each circled word onto the notepad she dropped the pencil and read the result. Her body heated with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Tucking the notepad into her oversized handbag she slipped back into her shoes and rushed out of her office. Hurrying across campus she slid behind the wheel of the car, cranked the key in the ignition and bolted into traffic.

Driving like a woman possessed she swerved in and out of traffic; running three yellow lights.  When she pulled up to the corner just shy of the motel she shuddered with anticipation. Pressing on she pulled into the parking lot slowing to a crawl seeking the number from the notepad.  As she scanned the room numbers that were painted on the door of each room, a hint of familiarity sparked a glint of recollection. When she was in college she played in this sandbox with married men who needed a spark of pleasure to enhance their mundane personal lives.

As she pulled up to the designated room, she checked her handbag. The pocket-sized .22 caliber gun was nestled in the inside pocket; the clip holding six bullets.  She extracted the gun, pulled the slide to chamber a round before slipping it back into her handbag.  Pulling it over her shoulder she slipped out of the car and slowly approached the motel room. As she raised her hand to knock, the door opened. Arlene pushed it open. The room was dark, except for the light leaking in from around the edges of the curtain.

“Step inside and close the door.” The voice called. Arlene ran the voice through her mind hoping the memories of pillow whisper would reveal a clue about her mystery man. Taking a deep breath she gathered enough courage to step into the room. She felt that familiar feeling between her legs; the one that brought her to the point of unbridled desire.

The article read: Two days ago a teenage boy and his dog were gunned down in cold blood while they walked through the neighborhood.

Turning to the patron to his right Harry spoke. “What do you make of this crazy sum a bitch?” The old man’s craggy features moved slowly, a ripple insinuating itself through the wrinkles on his face.

“Can’t trust anything these days, makes me want to go back to Richlands. Never had any problems like that back in southwest Virginia. Hell we could sleep with doors and windows wide open.”

“Yeah, know what you mean. Wasn’t that bad around here until recently. What do you think the kid was doing to make the killer react that way?” Harry could see the man straining to come up with an answer.

Shrugging his shoulders he answered, “Got no idea, ain’t no good reason to go around killing people. After all he was just a kid.”

“Musta been something, people don’t just kill for nothing.” Harry responded.

“Yeah can’t argue there but what kind of coward kills and then disappears?” The old man stared into Harry’s face as if he was searching for the answer.

Harry’s expression softened before he responded. “You think a killer’s gonna stick around and wait to get arrested. Maybe he should post a sign telling everybody he did it.”

“So you think it’s a man’s done this?” The old man’s voice deepened, carrying an accusatory tone.

“You think a woman coulda killed a kid? Women’s too sentimental to be killing young kids.” Harry prodded with his statement.

“You’re naïve if you think only a man’s got the nerve to put bullets into people they dislike.” The old man signaled for the check, obviously tired of the conversation.

“Bring my check too Fred would you?” Dropping singles on the counter Harry rose and walked the old man out to the parking lot.

“Enjoyed the conversation, have a good day.” As Harry walked to his car he thought about the rapports from the pistol as he pulled the trigger. He didn’t want to do it but he had warned the kid that letting his dog leave little brown presents on people’s lawns was not a good idea. He had to send a message. After all what good’s it do if kids don’t respect their elders?

Van Sant Airport is a small airfield in Bucks County with a grass runway. Single engine prop planes of varying vintages call the airfield home. A destination point, Van Sant was a good spot for a lazy morning soaking up the high sun with hundreds of others who came to watch planes take off towing gliders.

Stopping short of the entrance to the airfield we laughed. Several of us had seen the man in the hedge on previous rides, others in the group saw him for the first time today. The hedge neophytes laughed until we told them the man was there regardless of when we came by. Their looks changed from lighthearted to concerned. Questions rattled around the group. There was no satisfactory explanation for the strange omnipresent figure.

My lady snagged a picture of him with the digital camera. After parking the bikes the boys gathered around her as she set the camera to review what she had captured. The man looked like an apparition.  Shrugging off the minor event we proceeded to the food tables. Two dedicated women peddled hot and cold food, prepared snacks and cold drinks. We ordered up and waited for our number to be called.

Falling into impromptu clusters we talked about the ride behind us and the roads ahead. As we talked several of us lingered on the topic of the strange bearded figure that watched us ride by. Why was he standing there? Did he own the land? Did he have a secret he taunted the world to discover? One of the group peeled off and rode off to confirm the man’s continuing presence.

Five minutes later Jake’s bike thundered back to report the man was gone when he passed but when he turned around to return to the airfield the man materialized. “I almost ran my bike off the road when I saw him again. He looked almost ghostly.” Jake’s face displayed a mixture of awe and confusion. Jake wasn’t the type that scared easily. He wasn’t scared now, just confused.

Milling around with biker brethren we chewed the fat about the next ride, the vintage World War I bi-plane and how cockpit mounted machine guns were fired through the propeller wash. We marveled at engineering that could synchronize the timing of machine gun fire with the spinning propeller.

“Hey, what do you make of the bearded man standing down by the road?” I couldn’t help asking figuring he’d be the topic of conversation outside our group. The big burly dude wearing the sleeveless denim vest with the Freedom Rider patch prominently displayed across his broad back stopped in mid-chew. Contemplating he looked at me and after swallowing he tossed back half of the bottled water before clearing his throat.

“Yeah I saw the guy, not sure I know much about him. Yo Sully, get your fat ass over here!” A large leather clad mass moved in our direction.

“What do you want phlegm wad?” Sully’s face was cast in granite cold features.

“The name’s Boyd, Mister Boyd to you boy.” My newest acquaintance shot daggers at Sully. I watched the interaction expectantly. The tension broke like fragile china. Both men extended a beefy paw and they shook vigorously.

“You old bastard, I didn’t see you back here.” Sully smiled, his face now softer.

“That’s because you’re blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other. I’m surprised they let you out of the nursing home.” The words danced from Boyd playfully.

“Boyd this is my friend… what did you say your name was?”

“I’m Willy, pleasure.” I extended a hand. Sully shook it vigorously. I watched as my arm seemed to disappear up to the elbow.

“Pleasure’s mine. Let me give you a nickel’s worth of free advice; stay away from this loser.” Sully hiked a thumb in Boyd’s direction. Boyd slapped Sully hard on the back as we enjoyed a brief laugh.

“So Sully what do you make of the dude in the hedge?” Boyd’s voice dropped to just above a whisper.

“Got no idea man. I see him every time I come up here. He stands there and watches as the bikes roar by. Maybe he owns the place.” I watched Sully’s face for any betrayal of the words he spoke. My curiosity piqued. I wanted to know about this guy.

“I’m going to go ask him what’s up.” My eyes moved from Sully to Boyd and back as I spoke.

“Now you got me curious, damn it.” Sully looked at Boyd and winked. “Let’s go with Willy. I gotta know what’s up with the mystery man.

After informing the group I ushered my lady to my iron horse and we headed off. I was bookended between Boyd and Sully. At the bottom of the hill we found a spot just off the Macadam to park the bikes. Dismounting we looked around. The spot where the bearded man stood was now just a hole in the hedges.

“That’s the damnedest thing. He’s not there.” I was disappointed but not willing to accept the vacancy. Turning to my rider I beckoned her to join me. She smiled her thousand watt smile that told me she was in. The four of us moved slowly towards the opening in the hedge. Sully was the first to step through. Boyd pulled up the rear. Stepping through the opening we stopped just inside. We looked at each other. It was like we stepped through a time warp. The other side of the hedgerow was blanketed in mist. You know the kind that comes from dry ice in water. It swirled around our ankles and threatened to engulf us up to our knees.

“This is nuts.” My lady gripped my hand tightly. I was glad to feel her close to me.

Sully continued deeper into the mist. The sun which had shone brightly at the airfield was conspicuously absent. It was like we entered a high domed structure. The air was cooler. Goose bumps formed on my exposed forearms.

“How deep you going Sully?” Boyd called to his friend with a voice that seemed far away. I turned to see how far we had ventured. Boyd’s head was barely visible over the mist that closed in behind us.

“Hey it’s clear up here, come on.” Sully sounded like he was miles ahead.

“Come on baby let’s pick it up.” I pulled her along. “Boyd let’s go dude, we’re moving.” By the time we reached the clearing the mist had disappeared and Boyd had caught up with us. Looking around we tried to make sense of the scene. The sun was high in the sky again but it was not generating warmth. It had become a large white fluorescent light above us.

“Weird as weird gets. Where do you suppose we are?” Boyd sounded awestruck.

“The other side of the hedge. There’s road on the other side.” Sully tried to sound confident but his voice betrayed him.

“Listen.” My lady spoke.

“I don’t hear anything.” Sully responded.

“Exactly. The road’s gone or we’re in a different dimension.” She looked confident of her assertion. As we began to quibble over the state of our location the mist seemed to kick up.

“You’re in my world.” The voice was hollow. We stared at each other knowing it wasn’t any of us who spoke those words. Before we could respond the voice spoke again. “You are curious, you couldn’t leave well enough alone. So now you’re going to regret what you could not dismiss as a curiosity.” The voice was firm but hollow, almost tinny. I wasn’t sure whether it was the climbing mist but Sully and Boyd looked ghostly white. I figured I wasn’t looking much healthier.

“What do you want from us?” My lady asked. We stood in a crooked semi-circle watching as the man in the hedge approached us deliberately.  Continuing to walk towards us we parted like the Red Sea in front of Moses. The man wasn’t happy just moving between us. He made an abrupt course change and walked right into me. Only he didn’t bump into me he walked right through me. You know that feeling when somebody walks over your grave? Well magnify that feeling about a million times and that’s how I felt as the man – apparition moved through my essence. It was like I had been frozen in time, frozen inside an iceberg.

When I recovered from the shock my companions had turned white as sheets staring at me as if I had somehow changed. I didn’t feel as afraid as they looked. Finding our unwilling host I confronted him with a direct question. “Why did you do that? How did you do that? Are you real?” Okay it was one continuous question.

“I’m dead but I’m not really dead.” He responded.

“Well yeah!” My lady shot back.

“You see I was murdered by an evil person.” The apparition spoke. Holding up both hands to preclude further discussion he continued. “If you’ll allow me to finish I’ll attempt to answer your questions.” We nodded in unison.

“Good, now follow me. We stepped aside, giving him a wide berth, following at a safe distance. He turned several times during the walk to insure he hadn’t lost us. Stopping in a cluttered clearing he waved a semi-transparent arm around the area. The ground was strewn with remnants and artifacts.

“See all of this junk?” We nodded, continuing to heed his request for quiet. This is stuff I pulled off the road, even this coil of piano wire.” Picking up almost invisible strands he held it up. “You can see my blood on the wire. This was strung across the road. I made the fatal mistake of riding alone very early one spring morning.” We gawked at the wire. Then he did something that unnerved us. Turning his head up revealed a jagged line across his neck where the wire had caught him. “Knocked me clean off the bike and almost took my head completely off.” I felt my stomach drop and checked the ground to see if it had bounced.

“I caught the bastard who did this to me. He’s buried over here.” The apparition walked over to a slightly raised mound and as if music suddenly rose from the earth danced a jig on the mound. “Now I hang here to make sure all motorcycles can ride safely.” He folded his arms and stared down at us. “So you be thankful to the almighty that he granted my request to watch over my brethren over this little patch of the planet that draws more of us than most any other place on earth.”

He disappeared leaving us alone. We turned to get our bearings. The mist had cleared. A path of beaten down earth led us back to the opening in the hedge, back to our world. Mounting our bikes we let them idle under us until the sun had baked us back to reality. Back at Van Sant we decided an eleven on our weird shit-o-meter was too much to reveal to the larger group.

My number was being called. I paid for the food and drink. My lady found a shady spot and I settled in next to her. I watched as Sully and Boyd found their group. Sully turned and winked at us as if to seal the secret that had been revealed to us today.