antelopepress.com: Sample Chapters

Tolly Hill
(Chapter One)

“Anne, do sell the house.”

She shook her head and turned to the great southern sea rolling up over the horizon. Two thousand miles west of Africa, cleansed of man, the sparkling sapphire water tumbled exuberantly over a narrow off-shore reef and swept across the island shallows to vanish with a flourish on the white sand beach.

“Fritz was in our foursome today. He’s going to call you. Has a couple on island looking for a property like Tolly Hill. Seems they restored a National Register house near Asheville some years ago. They’re about to retire and looking for warmer winters. Are you listening?”

Anne was slight of build with a swimmer’s hardness. Fair under a tropical tan, she was a brown-eyed blonde on the lee side of forty who favored white linen slacks and Jim Tillett shirts.

“Yes,” she replied.

“They like old houses. They like to garden. They want to see the water without being on it and they’d like to have a few acres, preferably virgin.”

“Tom,” she said, turning toward him with a smile, “I appreciate…”

“No, you don’t,” he interrupted, “you’re going to tell me you can’t sell. And what’s more,” he added, grinning, “you’re wishing the old fool would mind his own business.”

“Well, old friend, you’re half right,” Anne admitted, laughing.

“Half-witted is more like it,” Tillie Pearson said drily. “Tom, will you tell me why this pressure on Anne to sell Tolly Hill?”

At seventy-six, Tom Pearson still had a reliable eye for pretty girls and his bride of fifty years was as beautiful to him as the day they’d met on an early Pan Am flight to South America. She, the diminutive anthropologist. He, the dashing Pan Am Captain.

“Tillie Darling,” he said, “Anne has a perfectly lovely house in town. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Where she is now living quite comfortably. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“So, the question follows, on an island this size, does she need a holiday house?”

“What Anne needs and what she wants are two different things, Tom,” Tillie said, dropping a couple of ice cubes into Anne’s glass. “You’re going to pursue some logical tack, whereas I …”

The discussion flowed back and forth. Logic courting cobwebs.

A tiny green lizard skittered across the patio taking on the dusty blue coloring of the old slate floor. Anne marveled at the chemistry involved.

She and Spencer had signed the deed to Tolly Hill the morning they’d met the Pearsons. They’d left their lawyer’s office and walked arm in arm along the waterfront to Hennessey’s, the island’s only restaurant catering to people from away.

The Pearsons were sitting at one of the two tables facing the harbor. They’d introduced themselves. Welcomed Anne and Spence to St.Celia. Knew who they were, of course. What they were doing on island. Ordered a celebratory drink and invited them to lunch forthwith. The Pearsons had been permanent residents for several years. What with similar interests and the shared frustrations of island living, the four were soon the best of friends.

Spencer’s first coronary came two years later. Anne, sensing his concern about her being alone on the Hill while he was hospitalized, moved into a turreted pink Victorian they’d bought in town for a winter rental property. Said to have been built by the descendant of a barber-surgeon who’d sailed with the famous buccaneer Raveneau de Lussan, the front gallery overlooked one of the prettiest horseshoe harbors in the Caribbean.

Spencer elected to recoup in town. Anne was pleased. The hospital was only a block away and the harbor presented multiple diversions day and night.

Afternoons, they sat on the front gallery with their housekeeper, Lucy, admiring the native sloops as they sailed in and out of the harbor avoiding yachts captained by summer sailors and the ancient cement boat which often found itself aground. Loaded with passengers, furniture, an assortment of fresh produce, goats, chickens, pigs, and occasionally, a new car or used truck, these inter-island merchants were the life-blood of the islands. Lucy had marvelous stories about the Captains whose sailing skills were legend.

To escape the hot tropical sun, Anne and Spence divided their time between the front gallery and a small shaded jewel of a garden behind the house where orchids from the Hill flourished in hanging baskets among the trees.

Spencer, out early one morning checking a favorite Scorpio, found it in bloom. He called to Anne, “Come see!”

By the time she got there, he was dead.

Respecting his wishes, she had stayed on in the King Street house and she knew Tom had a valid point about selling Tolly Hill. The Hill’s isolation, cisterns, pumps, gutters, power, all justified his concern. Tillie understood her reluctance to part with the little Victorian cottage. It was a matter of the heart.

“Tom,” Tillie was saying, “Anne has rented the house for November.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Anne said, “to the Thompsons. You remember them. The doctor and his wife from Montana. They stayed there last winter for a couple of weeks.”

“The one with the long-legged, red-haired wife who liked to scuba?”

“The very same. Coming in this evening as a matter of fact. And I’d better run. I want to check the Hill before picking them up at 6:30.” Anne jumped up. “Lunch was great, Tillie. And the company special as always. Thanks so much.” She hugged them both. “And, as for you, sir,” she said, planting a kiss on Tom’s boney cheek, “I’ll take your advice one of these days, but I’m not ready. Not yet.”

“I understand, Luv,” he said as they walked her out to the car. “Not an easy decision. But, you’re young. You’ll remarry, and no, wait. Hear me out,” he continued, winking at Anne, “Tillie, now, will find it harder going. Nevertheless, I hope someone gives her the same good advice I’m giving you.”

“What? Sell this?” Tillie wailed, half a dozen silver bracelets tinkling along her outstretched arms. “Never! But,” she went on, slinking around them like an apache dancer, “you needn’t worry about me, Tommy, Darlin’, I’ll find some handsome laddie who likes your money and my cooking.”

“Bye, bye, you two!” Anne laughed, putting the car into gear.

“Call us from the Hill, Anne,” Tillie said. “I mean it. Otherwise I’ll worry.”

“And that means I won’t get any sleep. So call us, Anne. Whatever you do, call!”

Cresting Billy Goat Mountain, which was mid-island and St. Celia’s highest point, Anne downshifted into the steep mile-long stretch of switchbacks snaking down into the valley. The narrow two lane black top was the only paved north-south road on the island.

Across the valley, a power lineman elbowed his partner, “Hey, Guadaloo, I buy you a beer if she is not in twelve minutes on the road below.”

“Twelve minutes? You know who that is?”

A streak of red flashed past an opening in the woods.

“She is without a top, my friend. The storm comes and she sees it.”

“I see it myself. So hurry. Finish what you do. I begin to load the truck. We do not work in rain.”

“We melt?”

“It is a too bad thing,” Guadaloo said softly, looking up at the young giant who stood spraddle-legged before him, “it is a too bad thing your mother’s milk went to bones instead of brains. But,” he added, lifting his tool bucket into the truck, “the good Lord is merciful and your blessed mother will never know. May she rest in peace.”

“Amen. Amen,” Payter murmured.

Anne had spotted the line of thunderheads closing on the island. Her ragtop was long gone, vaporized by salt spray and the equatorial sun. With six inches of rainfall the annual max, showers were “no big ting.”

She drove the little sports car with an easy hand, leaning into curves so tightly low palm fronds swept across the Fiat’s hood and scraped up over the windshield.

Midway down the mountain, she braked hard and swung onto a narrow dirt drive cut between two ancient baobab trees. Guinea grass and old growth trees prevailed for about a hundred yards before giving way to civilization defined by a split rail fence laced with peach and purple bougainvillea. Anne drove through the open gate and stopped. The rolling lawn was newly cut and the fragrance of frangipani and fallen grass hung in the air. The royal palms and papayas stood motionless in the low of the approaching storm.

The Stevens had bought the house and twenty-one acres on their first trip to the Grenadines. Six months later, they’d flown in with crates of paint and hardware. Spencer was the point man. Starting on the front gallery, he moved like the hands on their tall clock, steadily repairing, replacing, and recycling. Anne came right behind him, scraping, caulking and sanding. Twenty year old Chaz, eager to work and a meticulous painter, rode out with the new sky-blue tin roof. By New Year’s, the pale lemon cottage with its wrap-around galleries and white gingerbread trim was a candidate for Architectural Digest. Old houses are like that. Love, meticulous attention to detail and access to ready cash brings out the best in them. Tolly Hill was no exception.

Billy Goat Mountain was conical, covered with tropical forests sloping sharply to the sea on all sides. Day and night, the view from the west gallery was superb. The old town lay below the house, a cluster of pastel cottages on one of the most beautiful natural harbors in the Caribbean. At sunset, when dusk preempted day and the clouds were flushed with hot pinks and darkness fell heavy from the hills, the old power plant regularly belched a cloud of black smoke and lit up the town.

Anne drove slowly up the drive, stopping once to admire the first blooms on a new ruby-throated hibiscus. Circling past the front gallery, she parked under an arching flamboyant tree off to the left of the house. The wind was rising. Before she could tie down the tonneau cover, the bucket seats were covered with blossoms. Anne tucked one of the orange, orchid-like flowers behind her ear. A gust of wind tore the blossom loose and sent it tumbling seaward.

“Oh, you,” she laughed, scooping up a handful of blossoms and tossing them up to the capricious wind. “You’re why I’m here.”

She grabbed her handbag as the first stinging drops of rain came pelting down, ran across the yard and up on to the front gallery.

Shaking the rain out of her hair, she dropped into a rattan armchair near the front door and leaned back to watch the storm. She loved the tinny staccato beat of rain on the roof and the sound of fresh water coursing down into the cisterns. Naked power drives a tropical storm. Lightning splits the sky and crackles across the mountainside. Thunder roars up and down the valley. The rain comes down in silver sheets. A wall of swiftly falling water cocoons the gallery. The world disappears.

Minutes later, the storm is on its way to the sea, a soft steady rain the only reminder of its passing.

Anne reached for her keys and unlocked the front doors. First, the heavy wooden louvered hurricane shutters and then the original solid mahogany doors with their stained glass insets. Kicking off her sandals, she heard the unmistakable sound of swiftly running water.

“Oh, no,” she mumbled, realizing one of the pipes carrying water from the roof to the front cistern was standing free. Running to the other end of the gallery, she manhandled the pipe back into its floor level connection.

The cement cisterns, each with a capacity of twelve thousand gallons, were in-ground at opposite ends of the house. Anne had never known them to be full. Three months ago, she’d had them cleaned and the men, looking for leaks, had pumped water from one cistern to the other. She’d never thought to check the connections, which were hidden behind jardinières of Coralita, a vigorous vine with tiny, pink, heart-shaped blossoms that grew up around the drainpipes. She walked around the house to the front gallery. The connection there was snug in its fitting and she could hear the solid splash of run-off meeting the standing water below. There would be plenty of water for the Thompsons. That was a blessing. Island wells were brackish and the water barge was not due for a week.

A passing jet reminded Anne of the Thompson’s arrival. She glanced at her watch. Four-thirty. Time enough to check the house, get to town, change clothes cars and be at the airport by six-thirty.

Walking quickly down the center hall, she glanced into the rooms as she passed. Living room, dining room, and book-lined study. She wished she could open the shutters. The living rooms were cool and comfortable with their white walls, white flowered chintz furniture and pale green rugs. Throughout the house the ceiling beams were as dark and shiny as the teak floors. Copper pots and pans hung over a butcher-block table centered in the large inviting kitchen. Anne opened the refrigerator. Much to her surprise, the power was still on. Back-up was a heavy-duty generator in the old detached kitchen.

The guest bedroom across the hall was an inviting re-creation of an early eighteen hundred West Indian bedroom with its mahogany invalid’s chair and an ornate ceiling fan with three-foot wooden paddles. The tester-covered, queen-sized mahogany four-poster, a beautiful reproduction geared to twentieth century living, was covered with a heavy white bedspread of Haitian cotton. A pale blue and white Aubusson rug covered most of the floor. A woven cane chaise stood below the window, its tatted coverlet a gift from Tillie and Tom Pearson on Anne’s first birthday as Mistress of Tolly Hill.

Full baths and dressing rooms separated the guestroom and the master bedroom. Both were finished in blue and white Delft tile.

Anne and Spence had flown to Miami one Friday, certain the tile man would not work the weekend. Mr. Martin was waiting for them when they drove in Monday morning.

“Are they not beautiful, Mistress?” he had said, opening the doors as he passed through from one bedroom to the other.

“Oh, beautiful,” she’d agreed. “Spencer, come see!”

“So, Mistress,” the wizened old man had said, proudly, “John Martin does not keep you from your house.” Behind him his helpers nodded and grinned. “And, Mistress, is it not a miracle that both are exactly the same?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Martin,” she’d said, sinking down on the edge of the bathtub. “It is a miracle.”

Spencer pronounced the tile work beautiful indeed and a miracle exactly what they needed.

Anne ordered raspberry linens for the guest bath, white for the master and never forgave the Puerto Rican tile distributor for shipping the wrong order.

Walking into the master bedroom, Anne remembered she’d promised to call the Pearsons. Her bare feet sank into the light green carpet. No place like this, she thought, unless maybe the greens at Pebble Beach. She laughed aloud at the thought of stepping up to birdie barefoot out there.

The wind had dropped. The rain was still falling, though gently now and steady. In the graying twilight, purplish shadows on the carpet exaggerated the clean lines of their Art Deco bedroom. The white silk counterpane with its wide satin edging hung motionless in the still, quiet house.

Anne picked up the telephone next to the bed and sat down in a small wicker rocker nearby. Pushing off with her heels, she waited for the dial tone, an unbelievable modern plus in the islands.

“Tom? Anne. Just wanted you to know I made it.”

“Before the storm hit?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in town, then?”

“Oh come on, Tom. She no fly. I’m at the Hill.”

“Still raining there?”

“Just a sprinkle.”

“All right, then. Thanks for calling, Anne. Wait! Tillie’s … What, dear? OK. OK. Anne, Tillie’s been out looking at the weather. She says its stopped raining here. There’s blue sky heading your way. If you make a break for it the minute the rain stops, she thinks you can be in town before the next storm. Maybe not. She says they’re coming up fast. Looks like there are thunderstorms all the way to Venezuela.”

“Will do, Tom. Thank Til for the advisory. Tell her I’m on my way. And, Tom, will you please call Lucy and tell her, with these storms coming in, the Thompsons had better spend the night with us in town.”

“I’ll call her right away, Anne, and one more thing,” Tom said, before the line went dead.

Celian phones, even though instruments of a great international communications system did not work in wet weather. Never had.

Anne flipped the hall switch. Candles in the electrified pewter wall sconces flickered and faded out. The Thompsons were always up for an adventure, and while there were lanterns and candles in the pantry and a commercial size generator in the old outside kitchen, she hoped they’d stay in town. Lucy’s stoves were gas and their generator in town would not only keep the plumbing active but the adventure within reasonable limits.

Anne locked the front doors, threw the bolts on the storm doors and headed for the car. The curtain of rain was moving out to sea.

She was pleased to find the tonneau sagging under a couple of inches of puddled water. At that rate, the cisterns would have picked up thirty or forty flushes.

Carefully untying the driver’s side of the canvas cover, she lifted the free edge and drained off the water. Hurriedly folding up the cover, she dropped it behind the seat and was half way to the gate before remembering she’d forgotten to check the downspouts. She backed up the drive. The gallery floor was eye level and dry. She spun around to the back. Dry.

Letting out the clutch, she eased around the house, rounded the front corner and stood on the brakes. Water was pouring off the far end of the gallery.

“What is going on?” she muttered, heading for the flamboyant tree.

Leaving the car running, she sprinted across the soggy grass and slipped on the wet stone steps. Mumbling to herself, she limped across the gallery and rammed the downspout into the cistern connection.

“Things fall down. Not up,” she said aloud, rubbing her skinned shin, “although heaven knows, they don’t call this Wonderland for nothing.”

She stood up, and for good measure, rapped the pipe with a chunk of brain coral she kept in with the Clarita vine to discourage crappos. Crappos were very large frogs who loved to burrow in moist dirt. Satisfied that all was secure, she hobbled off the porch toward the car.

The wind was rising. Suddenly a bank of threatening clouds topped Billy Mountain. Visibility was practically nil. She had to get going. She flew around the corner of the house. A gust of wind caught her full force and pushed her into a dripping oleander.

Head tucked and favoring her leg, she shouldered her way between the wind-whipped branches of the old flamboyant and reached down for the car door. There was no door. There was no car.

“Well, that really tears it,” she muttered, “that really tears it!”

A stateside public service announcement came to mind. “Leave your keys in your car and lead a good boy astray.” There wasn’t a man, boy or beast for miles around. The emergency brake must have gone. No. The car wouldn’t roll. The yard was flat. She moved out from under the tree and saw tire marks in the wet grass heading toward the point.

“Oh, my god. This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

She stepped into the tracks and walked through a natural arbor of yellow allamanda to the edge of the ravine. The little car was upended against a tree thirty feet below.

“No way I’m driving it back up,” she mumbled, shaking her head as she walked back into the shelter of the flamboyant tree. “What a mess.”

A lightning bolt changed her mind. She spun around, took one step toward the safety of the house and crashed to the ground under the weight of a heavy fishing net.

Tolly Hill – eBook – $2.50 US – Add one to Basket!

Return to eBook Department.

The Bully Pushers
(Chapter One)

On a bright November morning in 1863, the Commanding Officers of Companies D and H, 62nd Regiment, Georgia Cavalry ride through dense woods along a narrow trail paralleling the southern shore of the Roanoke River.

The morning sun filtering through the treetops creates a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, perfect camouflage for the pair as they press hard for Hamilton. The War is in its second year and there are neither birds nor squirrels nor rabbits to announce their coming. Brittle oak leaves crackle and spin overhead egged on by a persistent breeze. Underfoot, a damp carpet of newly fallen leaves muffles the steady beat of their horses' hooves.

The big black thoroughbreds have carried them from neighboring plantations in south Georgia to the woody swamps and rich farmlands of eastern North Carolina.

The Captains Duval are lean, black-eyed Georgia boys in dress down uniforms on man's oldest mission—a woman.

The Major had approved their request for leave and designated their mission "Recon." They had twelve hours to find Suzanne Lambersen.

Thomas and Andrew were first cousins closer than most kin. Their mothers were sisters who married brothers and the lads grew up on adjoining plantations across the road from their grandparents.

Friendly neighbors for two generations, the Duvals and the Bennettes were secretly dismayed by their children's determination to wed. Having known all four from birth, each felt their own deserved better.

When it became obvious the children's choice was matrimony or the brambly bushes, the disappointed parents gamely raised their glasses, toasted the goodness they had wrought, and quickly reached consensus on their wedding gifts.

Inheritors of royal grants enhanced by year's of successful farming and wise investments, the Duvals and the Bennettes owned thousands of acres of land on both sides of the Dubee, a red clay road running straight as a parsons forefinger between the two small towns of Friendly and Dashed. A common boundary equidistant from both towns divided the plantations.

As soon as the deeds were drawn up, the families gathered in the Bennette's formal dining room for an auspicious presentation of Bennette ham, lamb, poached fish and the famous Bennette trifle, a recipe passed down with their original land grant.

Breaking with tradition, coffee was served at the table.

The evening had been light and pleasant. Relieved by the tenor of the table, the young couples were unsuspecting when both fathers rose in unison and presented them with slim vellum scrolls secured with royal purple satin ribbons.

Finding their names on deeds to family property across the Dubee, the future bridegrooms were hard put to be grateful. The law office in New Orleans would have to wait.

The girls were ecstatic. "Oh, Mumsy, we're going to be here forever!"

Having come of age that spring, the foursome had received considerable trust monies from their grandparents and much to the dismay of their Atlanta architect, amid glorious magnolias and ancient oaks, they built identical two-story, red brick plantation houses catty-corner across from their parents'. Thomas's mother effected the only architectural change. She topped her columns with Ionic capitals "instead of those gussy Corinthians."

Her father-in-law, Yancy Duval, a strong individualist and lifelong admirer of the great Khans, exploded more than once over his sons' dissolution of their decision making rights.

"How," he raged one Sunday morning, slapping his thigh so hard the bay mare all but bolted on the way home from church, "how did we raise two boys, lawyers yet, whose reply to every wifely whim, is, 'Whatever pleases you, Darlin'."

"They're in love, Dear."

"So were we ..."

"Are, Dear, are."

"Yes, of course we are, but we didn't build a pair of damn bookends."

"No, we didn't. But then, there were only two of us. Tim and Sissie married the following year. remember?"

"And Sissie had the good sense to want her own house, not a copy of yours."

"And if she hadn't?"

"I'd of called brother Billings out."

"Oh, Darlin', don't be silly."

Yancy Duval bided his time. When Tommy and Andy turned five, he bought them black ponies, miniature standards, and toughened them up in the best Mongol tradition. The first thing they mastered was riding hours at a time standing in their stirrups.

Briefed by their grandfather long before they were ten, they'd ridden out of the Great Kahn's grasslands, carrying his standard southeast across the Gobi into Kaifeng and Zongdu. Picked their way west across the Altai Mountains. Ridden the Silk Road into Samarkand and Boukara. Bathed in the sparkling blue waters of the Caspian Sea. Battled up into the Ukraine and jubilantly ridden home again.

They'd traced his campaigns on the map in Poppa Duval's den. Fingered them on the old Italian globe beside his desk. And when a grown-up said, "But he was so cruel," the boys proudly quoted Duval Kahn, "Everything we know about him was written by his enemies."

By fifteen, they'd mastered the Great Kahn's strategies and developed a few of their own. With opposing legions of three-inch soldiers mounted on painted iron horses, they tested their battle plans on a plank table twelve feet long covered with sandy deserts, green felt fields, iridescent mica water and movable paper-mâché mountains.

Satisfied with a new strategy, they'd mount up with Duval Kahn and take to the woods to prove their point.

They were superb horseman, skilled archers and crack shots. They believed in God, family, country, accountability and Duval Kahn.

Yancy wisely abrogated responsibility for their social graces. Their adoring mothers drilled them in etiquette and dance. Their proud fathers introduced them to their tailor, their private club in Atlanta, political meetings in Alabama and their first bordello in New Orleans

Tommy took it all in stride. Often Andy was not amused.

At twenty, they enlisted in the Army of the Confederacy and were commissioned second lieutenants assigned to Company D, 62nd Georgia Calvary Regiment. A month later, they were promoted to first lieutenants. Two years later they were captains and CO's of Companies D and H.

The 62nd Regiment, with seven Georgia companies and three North Carolina companies, fought at New Bern and Windsor. By the fall of 1863, the 62nd was part of a force responsible for containing the enemy north and south of the Chowan River in eastern North Carolina.

Mid-October, much to their surprise, the Captains Duval received a formal wedding invitation from a former classmate at the Academy, Boots Rindell, now commanding officer of a Union unit stationed south of Plymouth, North Carolina. The wedding was to take place in the country near Jamesville.

The Duvals could hardly refuse.

The Major concurred. "Bring back the latest local information and as much bride's cake as you can manage."

On the appointed day, Thomas and Andrew rode south from Windsor with their respective companies. The weather was glorious. The men, glad for a break from camp, were in a festive mood. Weddings meant food. Or used to, anyway. And pretty new faces.

The twelve miles passed without incident. When they reached the Artless plantation, Thomas and Andrew threw out a picket line, dusted of their hats, settled their swords and walked into the house, resplendent in full dress uniform.

The bride's family was struck dumb. The harpist lost her place. The old minister shuffled toward them fumbling for his handkerchief. Suffice to say the groom had neglected to mention his invitation.

Guests rallied at once, genuinely glad to see the young Confederate officers. The Buffaloes could afford no less. Buffaloes were Southerners sympathetic to the Union.

The ceremony was short. The garden reception proved most pleasant.

Early on, Thomas rescued Andrew from two serious matrons who had once spent a week in Friendly and knew they had met his parents. If not his parents, his aunt and uncle. Or his grandparents. Charming people. Charming.

"I owe you, Tom," Andy said, out of the corner of his mouth, as they moved away from the ladies, "Let's get something to drink."

"You may have mine, sir."

Andrew stopped and looked down into the flushed face of a small boy standing by his side. "Thank you," he said, taking the proffered punch cup.

"It's not real punch. You might not like it either. Not even the right color."

Andrew too a sip. "You're right. Not real punch."

He took a bigger sip. The juice and Cruzan rum slid down his throat like oil on ice. Pays to have friends with resources. Especially in wartime.

"I'm Andy Duval," he said, putting out his hand. "Let's go find some real punch."

"I'm Harry Ballington," Harry said, shaking his hand, "And I'd like that very much."

Thomas had drifted off a step or two and was introducing himself to a cluster of admiring young ladies.

Harry took Andrew's hand and they started back toward the house. It was a handsome old Federal, built, Andy guessed, with ballast brick.

Midway across the lawn, Harry broke away, calling, "Uncle Bruce, Uncle Bruce. Come meet my new friend."

Smiling, Andrew walked toward the tall, gray-haired man who greeted Harry by tossing him up in the air.

"Andrew Duval, Sir."

"Bruce Gatler, Captain."

"We were going to get some punch, Uncle Bruce."

"Well, let's go then," Bruce said, putting Harry down.

A moment later, Harry was off again, running toward the house.

"Auntie Suz! Auntie Suz!"

Andy recognized Auntie Suz.

She'd held the bride's bouquet through the ceremony. During the lengthy prayer on faithfulness and fertility, he'd studied the back of her long, pale blue silk dress. Figured her waist to be about four hands. Counted sixty little pearl buttons running from her hips up under her shining ash blonde hair. He'd caught a glimpse of her profile in the recessional. she was stunning.

"Mrs. Gatler?" he asked softly.

"No, Andrew, Harry's Aunt Suzanne. His mother and Suzanne were twins. Florence died a few days after Harry was born. His father is serving with the 1st North Carolina. Until he returns, Harry is living with Suzanne and his grandparents, Gretz and Emily Lambersen. Their plantation, Rivicello, is on the Roanoke not far from mine.

Andrew nodded, his eyes following Suzanne's slow progress across the lawn as she stopped to greet old friends. Watching Harry fend off kissy old ladies, he couldn't help but smile. He remembered those days.

"He's a lucky little fellow, Andrew. Comparatively speaking, that is."

"Yes, sir, he is. Comparatively speaking, of course."

Looking up, Thomas saw Suzanne step out on to the gallery and scan the hundred or so guests socializing on the lawn. Looking for someone. Hopefully not her husband. Admired her carriage as she walked down the long front steps. Could not believe his good fortune when she smiled, waved and headed for Andy and company.

Begging pardon of the young ladies mesmerized by his admiring eyes and debonair manner, Thomas hurried off, edging up to Andy just as Suzanne arrived.

Hugging Bruce, she stepped back to acknowledge his introductions to the young Confederate officers.

Her clear blue eyes met Andy's head on. She surprised him with her firm handshake. When she smiled and said, "I'm very glad to meet you, Captain," he knew she meant it.

Turning toward Thomas, she grinned as he executed a deep, sweeping bow, the brim of his soft gray hat grazing the ground at the feet.

My kingdom for a two by four, Andy thought, watching Thomas slip into his most successful and charming persona, the Young Cavalier.

A splintered two by four applied to your courtly rear, dear Cuz, to launch you head first into yon lily-covered fishpond.

Duval Kahn's warning came to mind. He could hear the old man's deep voice, "Beware of unleashing old desert curses with unseemly desire."

They were twelve, and curious, of course. "I don't know how the curse manifests," his grandfather had said solemnly, "but believe me, gentlemen, you'll know." He'd cleared his throat and added, "Or so I've been told."

"Captain Andy?"

Andy looked down.

"Captain Andy, can we get our drink?"

"Why, yes. Excuse us, Bruce."

"I'll be right here, Andy," the older man answered, with a nod toward Thomas, "keeping an eye on Sir Walter."

The Bully Pushers – eBook – $3.50 US – Add one to Basket!

Return to eBook Department.

Run Weasel Run
(Chapter One)

Nicoli Lenin just knew he was going to love America. It was all smiles and flowers, wonderful smells and happy people. He couldn’t get over the welcome. There were lots of pretty schoolgirls, too. This was somewhere he had wanted to be all his life. Waving to the small but enthusiastic crowd, he moved forward to shake the hand of the first person to welcome him to the Promised Land.

The mayor—it must surely be someone of great importance, he reasoned, by the fine suit and shoes he wore—reached out. Grasping Nicoli by the cheeks with both hands, he said, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my office?"

Nicoli, somewhat confused by this turn of events, attempted to give him a nice Russian Bear hug complete with pecks on both cheeks. At the same time he was saying, "Thanks to you, too."

About then Nicoli saw the light or, rather felt it as a WHACK! on the side of his head. He opened his eyes and realized the mayor was actually a policeman—Sergeant Theodore "Teddy" Baker, commander of the Seattle Drug Interdiction Squad, operating out of Seattle’s Sea Tac Airport.

"Patti, get in here and explain to me who and what the hell this mess is," Baker ordered.

"Sarge, I just put him in here for a minute while I went to the loo and ..." explained Detective Patti Anderson.

"Whoa ... I don’t care why, the question is, who and what? Jesus, he drools and tried to kiss me. The loo? What the hell is a loo?"

"Hey, Sarge, I don’t think the District Attorney wants you getting that friendly with the perps, and the loo is actually British for the can," detective Larry Smith added. "PBS must have been on the boob tube last night."

Peanuts, shut up before I stuff you in a can and ... oh for crying out loud, Patti, is your whole team nuts or what?"

"Sarge, that’s a good question ... and the answer is, two are nuts and we’ve got one what."

"Patti!"

"Okay, okay. This guy," she said, pointing to Nicoli, who had gone back to sleep and, while dreaming of sweeter things, had slid off the couch onto the floor, one arm wrapped around Baker’s leg. "This guy was wandering around the terminal looking lost and a little loopy. So we do a run on him, you know, to see if he’s carrying or anything, and it turns out he’s on vacation and going to Las Vegas to meet a relative or something. That part’s a little vague, because like I said, he’s a little loopy."

"Hold it, hold it, hold it," Baker ordered, trying to get a handle on the conversation while at the same time attempting to untangle himself from Nicoli, who was making soft mewing noises and tightening his grip on Baker’s leg. Directing his question to the senior member of the field team, Detective Patti Anderson, he asked her, "What in the blue blazes is this condition you refer to as ‘loopy,’ huh? Is he strung out on drugs, carrying drugs, drunk, or what?"

Before she could answer, Detective Little Al Whistler strolled in. He was the junior member of the team, the one sent for drinks, lunch, or anything else someone didn’t want to do.

"Lunch guys. Who ordered what? Peanuts?" he asked, displaying a small bag of cashews.

Detective Larry Smith, known to one and all as "Peanuts," not looking up from the papers he was working on, answered, "Yeah, what?"

"No," Little Al insisted, "I said peanuts."

Peanuts, proving he could read and talk at the same time, and sounding more than a little exasperated, blindly answered, "Yeah, what?"

Little Al tried once more. Vigorously shaking the bag of nuts, "Whose peanuts?" he all but shouted.

"I am, dammit! What the hell’s the matter with you, boy? I’ve been in the same room with you for six months now, and suddenly you forget my name? Now, for the last time, I’m Peanuts ... so, what do you want?"

"Wait, guys," Patti interrupted. "What’s the question?"

"The question is," Little Al sputtered, "whose goddamn peanuts, that’s what!"

Baker, not to be ignored—and with the Russian improving his grip on his uniformed leg, his drool puddling on the toe of a very expensive Italian shoe—shouted, "He’s Peanuts ..." pointing to Detective Smith, "My Peanuts ..." pointing to the bag of cashews in Little Al’s hand, "and that’s Patti’s loopy," pointing down to the happily snorkeling Russian.

Beginning to believe he was the cause of all the confusion and in imminent danger of demotion, Little Al cried out, "Loopy? I didn’t bring any loopy," then quickly added, "They were all out."

Nicoli was dreamily remembering how friendly everyone had been on the plane. When he began to become airsick, the passenger in the seat beside him had shared his medication with him. Then there was the puzzling part of the dream where strangers had shouted at him, removed his clothes, redressed him, and gave him lots of hot coffee. This was followed by something to eat, and here it was a little fuzzy, it might have been something called "loopy."

It seems that Nicoli had a slight reaction to his seatmates’ "you’re-not-going-to-barf-on-me" straight off the street corner prescription. Finally, after apologies that included, "Please don’t call the Embassy," and warnings about the kindness of strangers, he was sent by cab to the nearest cheap hotel.

Nicoli could not remember when he first thought to look for the computer disc, but thank God—you could do that in Russia, now—it was still in his jacket with its title folder identifying it as Russian tea music. He’d had a bad moment even while under the influence of the drugs in his system, when Patti had started to play it in the office, but thankfully, whoever had made it had the good sense to use some awful music for the introduction. So, after a few moments, the reviews were in. They were all bad, and the CD was returned to his drool-stained jacket. Now it, and the rest of his personal effects, including the Russian passport that had given Patti such a jolt, were resting on the table of Room 5 of The Acorn Lodge awaiting his full recovery.

"Patti, let’s not have a screw up with another Russian, for pete’s sake," Sergeant Baker said when he discovered the Russian’s passport. "I like being a sergeant and I assume you like being a detective. Give him a quick look-see to make sure he’s not carrying a bomb or anything, then let him go, and pray the Consular General isn’t expecting another nephew."

Run Weasel Run – eBook – $2.00 US – Add one to Basket!

Return to eBook Department.

The Bear Fax
(Chapter One)

There was a hint of the approaching winter in the air as the smartly dressed woman and her well-tailored twelve-year-old son walked from their limousine to the waiting airplane. She paused at the top of the stairway looking at the early evening lights around them.

"Your father is an idiot for ever wanting to come here. Well, he got his wish, but you and I are going to head for the islands for some time in the sun."

"But, Mom, he gets to be the president. That’s pretty neat, isn’t it?"

"That’s not the point. We’ve got to live in this horrible place when we could be back in our own home enjoying our old friends."

Taking his mother’s hand, the boy said, "I’m getting cold. Can we go now?"

With a final look around, Alice Valentine, wife, mother and reluctant first lady of the United States, nodded to the waiting steward and led her son onto the plane. She acknowledged the captain’s greeting with a short, "What the hell are you doing back here, Sky King? Let’s get this show on the road. Get back up front where you belong and get us the heck out of this godforsaken place." She and the boy were led to the forward section of what would have normally been the president’s personal aircraft ("You bet I’m going to use it," she told the new chief of staff. "He certainly isn’t going anywhere without me.")

"Here, sit next to me. We’ll kiss this town good-bye together. Three weeks in the sun will do us both a world of good. No school for you and no nothing for me."

"Mom, are you sure it’s okay for me to just leave like this? I mean it’s really cool, but …"

"Don’t you even begin to worry about that," she assured him. "All your assignments will be sent on. Besides, your father is the president, after all."

"Gee, I was hoping to get to talk to Dad about my school project," the boy said wistfully.

"There’ll be plenty of time for that when we get back. Right now, I want you to put on a happy face, buckle up and get ready to have some fun."

"The Viper and Tadpole are on the way."

The message crackled in Thomas "Tom Tom" Hammer’s ear. Hammer was the head of the Secret Service’s presidential security detail. He’d been doing this for twelve years and was still amazed at the man the "people" had elected to lead them into the future. Ten months after his swearing in he was still greeted some mornings by President Michael Valentine’s hearty, "I still can’t believe I’m the president? Can you?" Lately Hammer had been leaning toward answering, "Me neither. You lost again? Think a GPS might help?"

Most presidents found their way around the big house pretty quickly, but this one had to have an escort for the first six months before the first lady had had enough.

"Listen," she scolded Hammer, "knock off the seeing eye bit. He’ll find his way—sooner or later. And who’s going to complain? Besides, where can he go? This place is like living in a prison. It’s fenced in and he always shows up—eventually. Right? You people are driving me nuts with the "shadow" bit. So back off! Thank you very much."

Consequently, all the inside agents were on double alert. You never knew when or where the president might pop up and it wasn’t enough to just know where he was, everyone had to be aware of where he was supposed to be. That way he could be gently guided toward his true destination.

Believing the president would want to know that his wife and son were safely on their way, Hammer headed for the Lincoln Room, where he had left his charge a few minutes earlier. The "Man" wanted to make sure the room was perfectly prepared for tonight’s guest of honor. Ms. Dawn O’Day, he’d been told, really wanted to see this particular room and was overcome with Hollywood joy when told she could spend the night there. She was portraying Mary Todd Lincoln in a new-age off-Broadway show and was convinced that seeing and sleeping in this particular room would elevate her acting skills to Tony Award status and win her a gold figurine.

"Okay everyone, this is Tom Tom. Where’s Shamu?"

"Uh, I believe he was headed for the Oval Office."

"Roger, Stan. Did you actually walk him there or just point the way?"

"Affirmative, Tom Tom. I walked him to the door and I did—I repeat, I did—see him go inside."

"Roger. I’m headed that way now. If he comes out, keep a real close eye on him. He’s due to greet his guests in about ten minutes and I need to see him first."

The newest president of the United States thanked the Secret Service agent for the escort and mused out loud (to be forever captured on the video cameras that recorded for posterity and possible prosecution every sound and all the action in the Oval Office) how he never understood those people who complained about all the attention you got while serving in high office. "Heck, that was what made all the campaigning worth the effort." Mrs. V certainly resented the lack of privacy, but he enjoyed all these helpful people. It allowed him more brain space for other things. Besides, he really felt they must enjoy helping him.

"Jeez, Alice, they’re always around whenever I need some help getting somewhere." Like now, for instance. He’d checked out the Lincoln Room. It looked perfect to him and he hoped Ms. O’Day would be impressed. She was his favorite actress in the whole wide world. Probably because she was the first real celebrity to endorse him when he announced his candidacy for the presidency. He’d been the vice-presidential candidate and only won the number one spot on the ticket because Edward "Big Ed" Washington, caught a coronary on the eve of the convention. Since "The show must go on," he was the only logical choice. Ms. O’Day had never met him or "Big Ed" before and was just a little confused by all of the excitement. Throughout that turbulent evening she’d called him "Big Ed" so often, he’d accidentally introduced Alice to the Reverend Jes. B. Goode, as Mrs. "Big Ed." "Oh well," he sighed, "she’d get over it—some day."

In the monitoring booth, Special Agent Tabatha Timkins was keeping a close eye on the screen receiving signals from the Oval Office. Muttering to herself, "Now what the hell is he doing?" she’d watched the leader of the free world walk into the office and for the last three minutes all he’d done was stand inside the door with a huge smile on his face. Moving her left hand to cover the newly installed "Ring Button," she kept a wary eye on her smiling leader and at the same time, the minute hand of the large wall clock in front of her. Tom Tom had given strict instructions that it was not to be used unless the man "got stuck" so to speak, for five continuous minutes. Then and only then could the small red button be pushed. This caused a phony telephone signal to chirp in the Oval Office. The idea was to snap the man out of his reverie and bring him back to the real world. The chirp came from a hidden speaker in the room and not any of the operational phone lines. It had been installed after the ambassador to France had been kept waiting for twenty minutes while Valentine had stared and marveled at the wallpaper in the number one office in the world. That was not the first time it had happened. Before the chirper was installed, an agent would be dispatched to gently interrupt this sojourn to the unknown. But it happened with such frequency in the Oval Office, Tom Tom decided the button was the only answer. Usually, one ring would do the trick. He’d blink—look around—then check the door. The first time, he’d gone round the room picking up each phone in turn and softly answered, "Hello, this is the president. Who’s this?" Now the chirp was supposed to be kept very, very short. Just enough to wake him but not long enough to sound like a ringing phone.

Agent Timkins watched the slowly moving minute hand with rising expectations. She observed it approaching four minutes. Speaking softly into the microphone in her headset she keyed the push-to-talk switch. "Tom Tom? This is Tabby. You there?"

"Yes, I’m here. What’s up?"

"It’s four minutes and counting."

"Where is he?"

"Physically, he’s just inside the room. Mentally, I’m not sure."

"Well, just hang on. I’m almost there."

"Oh, goddamn!" she swore.

"What! What? Talk to me girl! All stations! Standby! Come on, Tabby. What’s happening?" he shouted as the adrenaline kicked in.

"Oh sugar, Tom Tom. Nothing happened. He just woke up is all."

"Jesus, woman. You almost gave me a heart attack. Okay, everybody. We’re back to normal. False alarm. Agent Timkins, let’s follow procedures, all right? Like the man said, ‘Just the facts, please.’ Okay?"

"Roger, Tom Tom. Sorry about that."

"Forget it. What’s he doing now?"

"He’s at the desk and it looks like he’s reading a file of some sort."

"Okay, I’ll be right there. Let me know if he looks like he’s going to leave."

"Christ," Tabby sighed, "I almost blew that big-time." But she did get a kick out of pushing the button. The last time it happened on her watch, she’d disobeyed orders and had him running circles around the room. Lifting one phone after another. What a hoot. The most powerful man in the world … she giggled.

Sitting at his desk, the president stared intently at the sealed folder before him, then quickly looked around to see if someone was in the room watching him. Seeing no one, he examined the folder carefully before actually picking it up. It was a plain manila folder, deep purple with a burgundy velvet ribbon tied neatly in front. Across the top, in bright yellow block letters was the warning—PRESIDENT’S EYES ONLY. He gently put it back down on the blotter in front of him. He might not be a genius but even he knew (mainly because everyone from the interns to his chief of staff kept telling him), that this kind of file belonged under lock and key. This looked like a really hot one and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember leaving it laying out here like this. I’m gonna catch heck for this, he thought. Maybe I should just leave it alone and go. As he rose, he was startled by a soft knock on the door. "One second please," he said worriedly, sounding like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Okay. Come on in."

Tom Tom ignored the president’s obvious stuffing the folder under the desk blotter, instead, greeting him happily. "Good evening, Mr. President. I just wanted you to know Mrs. Valentine and Beau are safely on their way. They took off about five minutes ago."

"Thank you, Mr. Claw."

"Hammer, sir."

"Of course—Clawhammer. Splendid. Absolutely splendid. Uh, anything else?"

"No sir. I’ll be right outside and your guests will be arriving in about ten minutes. I’ll be happy to escort you there whenever you’re ready."

"Fine. Let me finish up here and then we’ll go. All right?"

"Certainly, Mr. President." Closing the door behind him, Tom Tom told the agent outside to be sure and check the office for unsecured files (especially under the desk blotter) once he and the president left. He wasn’t worried about the contents per se of the file the man was hiding. That was none of his business. The man was, after all, the president. However, President Valentine did have a habit of leaving things out that should be secured. Besides, there was a tour for the Hollywood people after supper and it wouldn’t do for anything to be out of order.

"Now why did I do that?" the president muttered. And to be on the safe side, he glanced around the room to be absolutely sure he was alone. Pulling the purple file folder from its hiding place, he centered it in front of him while contemplating opening it. Agent Timkins couldn’t stand it any longer. Not waiting for the required five minutes, she gave the red "go" button a quick jab. One little chirp, just to get him back on the job.

"By jingles, there must be a whole family of crickets in here. First it’s those pesky squirrels on the lawn and now this. Well, someone is going to have to do something about these chirpers. I may be the only one who seems to be able to hear them, but they have got to go. Oh great, now they’ve got me talking to myself. But that’s okay. I’m the only one here. Now. What was I doing? Oh, right. The file. President’s Eyes Only. Well, that’s me."

Tearing open the special seal, he gave no more thought as to how this file came to be on his desk. Instead, he focused on reading the report. It didn’t take long before he was engrossed in his reading. So much so that he wasn’t aware of Tom Tom’s soft knock on the door or that he’d stepped into the room.

Quickly realizing the president was still busy, the security chief withdrew without a word, taking up a position outside the office.

The stunned president closed the folder and placed both hands on top of it as if to keep the information from escaping. As his mind tried to absorb the immensity of what he’d just read, his fingers attempted to retie the burgundy ribbon and replace the seal on the folder.

"Why like this? he mused aloud. "No warning? Just here it is? Why would … Who would …? Tonight of all nights. Wait a minute. First off, who put it here? Henry must know about this, but why just leave it here? He’s always after me about leaving stuff out. No … But who else? And why not talk to me first? Sweet petunias! Why tonight?"

"Tom Tom? Four minutes and counting. I’m gonna chirp him, you hear?"

"No, you’re not. I’m right outside the door. What’s he doing?"

"Aw hell, the picture’s down again. But he was finished reading and just muttering to himself and staring at his hands."

"Tabby, don’t do anything. I’ll give him a minute before I go in."

"I bet it was a whole lot simpler when you had the reverse peepholes."

"Yes, but after the last president’s problems, they decided to take them out. And I’ll tell you. I, for one, am glad. There are some things I don’t want to see my president doing."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like, let’s concentrate on the here and now, okay? You have a picture yet?"

"Nope. Still blank. When are we going to get some decent stuff to work with? This is happening all the time now."

"Hey, I work here, too, you know. I don’t raise the chickens. I just fry the eggs."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You’ll have to ask my dear departed Aunt Belle for the answer to that. It was her favorite response to almost anything. Okay. Enough of this. I’ll go in and then we’re off to the party."

"Sir? Hello? Oh Christ. Tabby, where the hell did he go?"

"He’s not there?"

"No, goddammit. Now where is he?"

"I’m trying, I’m trying. Jesus, come on you piece of junk. Okay, okay. I gotcha, you bugger. I’ve got him, Tom Tom. He’s hot-footing it to his quarters."

"Alone?"

"Yes. But he's moving out at a pretty good clip and I think he’s got something under his shirt. I’ll bet it’s that file."

"Don’t worry about that. Just keep him in sight."

"Need any help there, boss?"

"No, thanks. I think we’ve got it. But let me know if he turns up somewhere without me. And have someone check out the Oval Office for unsecured files."

"Ten-four."

"He just went inside, Tom Tom."

"Okay, I’m right behind him. Your picture still working, Tabby?"

"No. it’s crapped out again."

"Jesus," he swore, trying not to run but worried the man had some secret agenda and was trying to lose him. He no sooner arrived at the door to the first family’s personal quarters than the door flew open and the president came out in full stride. The two men almost collided and ended up in each others arms. "Whoa there, sir."

"Hey, Mr. Claw. I’m ready to go now. Mustn’t keep the guests waiting, you know."

"It’s Hammer, sir."

"Why, of course it is. I’m sorry Clawhammer. Someday," he continued, as they walked down the hall, "you must tell me how you came to have such an interesting name."

"Uh, anytime, Mr. President. But right now, with all the preparations for the party and all, would you like me to make sure that all your files are properly secured?" He’d mentioned it because while they were walking to the party, he’d gotten word through his earpiece that there were no loose papers in the Oval Office. That meant he’d taken something, probably the file Tabby saw him reading, to his quarters and more likely than not, left it lying on the kitchen table. Not really Hammer’s concern, but anything that kept the house and its occupants operating smoothly made his job easier.

"No. No thank you. I’m sure all’s safe and sound. Henry checks up on me, you know. I’m sure he’s got it under control. He, well he thinks I’m … say," he stopped suddenly. "Would it be all right for me to call you by your first name?"

"I’d like that, Mr. President. It’s Thomas, although everyone calls me Tom Tom."

"Thank you, Tom Tom." Then with a twinkle in his eye, he started off again for the reception room, chuckling, "Tom Tom Clawhammer. Yes sir, I sure would like to hear that story." And knowing this man hadn’t an ounce of racial bigotry in is bones, Hammer, too, had to laugh as he finished, "You really don’t look like an Indian to me." Stepping into the open doorway to greet his guests, he turned to Hammer and whispered, "If I’m not out in three days, send in the Marines."

"Will do, Mr. President. Have a good time," he replied, as he turned and headed back down the hall.

"Tabby, I’m on my way back. See you in a few minutes." Passing a large mahogany framed mirror in the ornate hallway, he paused to check his reflection and he had to agree with the president. He sure didn’t look like an Indian. Wait until he told his mother this one. Well maybe not. She could trace her family tree all the way back to a particular African village and the closest she’d ever gotten to a real Native American had been in the movies, and she might not see the humor in this.

The Bear Fax – eBook – $2.00 US – Add one to Basket!

Return to eBook Department.

A Golden Opportunity
(Chapter One)

The intermittent bone-chilling drizzle that had been drifting down upon the nation’s capital since midnight began again as the unmarked colorless gray delivery van pulled into the only available parking space on Gladiola Avenue. The sliding door opened and a hooded figure leaned out, carefully looking up and down the deserted street. Satisfied with the quiet emptiness, the skulker stepped cautiously onto the wet sidewalk, bringing with him a large green garbage can that had the bottom cut out. Gently placing it over the fire hydrant next to the van, Fallon Overside smiled happily, What fire hydrant, officer?

Slipping back into the van he eased the door shut before removing his cloth hood and whispering, "And you all laughed. I told you that between the rain and the hydrant under cover, no one is going to even begin thinking about a red zone."

"What about the streetlight on the corner, Oscar?" Diji Simi, the skulker’s soul mate, asked quietly, giving Fallon a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. "It’s awfully bright."

"Got it covered," Oscar Mayer, defacto leader of the group, reassured her. "Gloria, you’re up," he cued the number two in his life and small command.

"Just a sec. Doing this in the dark out here is not quite as easy as when I practiced it in the closet. But ready or not," Gloria Darling announced to her cohorts, "I’m as ready as I’ll ever be." She scooted around so she faced the double doors at the back of the van. One last squirm and she whispered anxiously, "All clear?"

"Clear. Clear. Clear," his nervous compatriots assured her, checking the street from their assigned vantage points.

"Okay, then. Here we go," she muttered, pushing open one door and flipping the toggle switch on the heavy shoebox resting in her lap.

Sighting purposefully down the long slender glass tube at her target, she anxiously held her breath. A soothing hum emanated from the sneaker holder, followed by a blink of red light and a soft ‘plop’ as the light on the pole quietly imploded. The laser pointer had done its job. The booster box, courtesy of the physics department at George Washington University, turned the low power map pointer into a one shot mini-laser powerful enough to burn through the plastic lens cover of the streetlight, effectively causing its destruction without any outward disturbance.

"Quick! Close the door. Here comes a car," Gloria warned.

"Get down. Freeze. Don’t move," they warned each other, waiting until the car drove slowly around the corner before exhaling a collective sigh of relief.

Gloria’s, "Uh-oh, Houston. We have a problem," interrupted the serenity of the moment.

"What? What? What?" the co-conspirators chattered, edging ever close to full panic.

"It’s heating up."

"What is?" Fallon asked.

"The box," Gloria answered curtly.

"How hot?" Oscar asked cautiously.

"Too damn hot," Gloria swore, dropping it on the floor.

"Hit the switch. Turn it off," Diji urged. She may have been the low man on the command totem pole, but she knew her "Booster boxes."

"I can’t find it," Gloria snarled in frustration.

"It’s the little red glowing thing," Fallon offered helpfully.

"Hurry, girl," Oscar pleaded. "It’s getting louder." He joined in as the four of them made a mountain out of a molehill. Much scrambling, kicking and swearing later, the little box was easier to see, glowing as red as the indicator light. No easier to handle though, it began to chatter like an angry squirrel defending its nuts.

The side door slid open. Four pairs of scrabbling legs frantically kicked the chattering hummer into the gutter where, joining the swift current of street debris, it bobbed along, hissing angrily, before being swept down the storm drain at the corner. Listening to the splash and furious bubbling, they leaned back instinctively as a cloud of steam shot from the opening.

"Uh, Diji, my love," Fallon asked quietly, once the door was closed. "What exactly was in that box?"

Before she could answer, there was a brilliant flash. So bright, they hunched up against the coming thunder. Hearing none, they rose as one, peering out the windows just in time to witness a gigantic belch of steam from the storm drain openings up and down the street. As one, very impressed, they lowered themselves out of sight. Breaking the reflective silence, Oscar offered a simple prayer, "Jesus, I hope no none was on the throne for that."

As the nervous laughter died down, Gloria, somewhat less than tactfully, exclaimed, "Goddamn, Diji. What the hell was that? If that thing had gone off in here, we’d all be crispy critters."

"Hey," Diji protested, "You said you wanted something to knock out a light and that’s what you got. Besides, if you’d remembered to turn off the switch, we wouldn’t have had the problem. Anyway, I think the water was the real catalyst of the ‘incident.’"

"Okay everybody," Oscar interrupted, "I don’t think we’ve been compromised—yet. But just to be on the safe side, let’s get into our cover-story positions, all right?"

Their cover being they were two couples stopping off on their way home for a little curbside loving. It sounded better than, "Officer, we are going to accost the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, forcing her to listen to our warning of an upcoming theft of gold bars from the federal repository at Fort Knox by renegade agents of the FBI."

It had started simply enough. Four computer hackers, graduate students all, having a good time enjoying a normal Saturday night game of "See who can break into the most interesting and heavily protected computer system." On this night, Gloria won hands down, shouting, "Goddamn! I’m in."

"Where? Everyone wanted to know.

"The FBI," she gloated.

"Any traps?" Diji whispered fearfully.

"No. No traps. But they are real crafty little devils," she admitted. "I had a super hard time getting … Whoa! Look at this." In an instant, four heads were ear to ear staring intently at the monitor. On the screen was a warning of impending jail time for any unauthorized access.

"Gee, Gloria. How did you get here?" Fallon asked worriedly. Jail was Number One on his short list of places not to visit.

Simi, being new to the group but with a normal fear of invading the fed’s private domain, suggested, "Gloria, maybe you ought to scoot."

"No. No way. I ran my password program and bingo! Here we are. I want to see what happens next."

What happened next was the screen went blank for a second before granting the user access to a file in progress, code-named Golden Locks, asking the user if he was ready to download the material. "Hell yes," Gloria shouted, pushing all the right buttons. With a cheep, chirp, and a tweedle, the printer on the table beside them sprang into action.

Only Oscar saw the light on their Caller ID unit, sitting next to the phone on the desk, blink.

"Arrgghh! Abort! Abort!" he screamed, diving