Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

Your second update looks encouraging. Still standing up on my knees for the three of you!

Likely I'd say something really intelligent -- something like "W'al I'll be damned!" -- but I'd have to winch my jaw up from belt buckle level first!

Many thanks for this! Passed this along to the group Snub Noir, the new home of Gats and Hats!

BOOKMARK "William." "Yes, sir?" "William, would you read tonight, please." "Yes, sir." "The place is marked." "Yes, sir." William took his father's Bible, turned a little and sat, so as to get the best light across the page. William looked up at his father. "Second Kings, sir?" Jacob closed his eyes, rocking a little, the youngest curled up on his lap, cuddled into his shirt front: he nodded, just a little, his arms protectively around a blanket wrapped infant, and William wished he had one of those camera things he'd heard about, for this moment -- where his Pa had that quiet smile -- was something he wished to remember forever. William opened the Book, looked at the bookmark. It was grey wool, and quite old: rectangular, neatly hemmed at the edges, and in the center, what looked like a bullet hole. He'd seen it a thousand time and more -- at least, his eyes beheld it -- but he never really saw it. He looked up at his Pa and saw Jacob's eyes were on him, those knowing eyes of a father who remembered what it was to be young. "There is a question in your eyes," Jacob said quietly. "Yes, sir." Annette smiled a little, rocking as she sewed: there were always repairs to be made, and though the hired girl did an outstanding job, Annette worked hard to keep a proper household for her husband, for her family: she had a sock on a darning egg and was busy weaving a repair across the hole. Her fingers knew the work; she looked up at her son, at her husband, with the knowing eyes of a wife, of a mother, who knew that Second Kings was going to be somewhat delayed. "That used to be part of a blanket that belonged to your Granddad," Jacob explained, his voice gentle, reassuring, for the infant he held was asleep, or near to it. "Sir?" Jacob smiled, just a little, as he rocked, slowly, thoughtfully. "Pa was headed West. He'd been in that damned War, he'd been a lawman back East, he'd got the Fiddle Foot" -- Jacob looked at his wife, who smiled indulgently: her brother had the Fiddle Foot, and never stayed in one place more than a couple of months -- "when he finally told a dirty little Kansas town he'd not be cheated out of his pay, he knocked the Dog Stuffing out of Mayor and Council, he took his wages from the Mayor's wallet -- I think there was the small matter of having smacked the man across the back of the head with a chair or something of the kind --" Jacob managed to look innocent as he described the event -- "your Granddad always did have a way of getting his ideas, understood." William smiled, then grinned. "Yes, sir," he agreed, "he still does!" "You mean the horse trough thing?" Jacob chuckled. "I reckon he give that young fellow a bath so he'd not get so hot under the collar as to set his hair afire!" "Yes, sir." "Now about that blanket." "Yes, sir?" "That good old blanket ..." Jacob's voice trailed off and he got a distant look about him, as if he was looking at a memory, and William waited, knowing his Pa was likely looking at something through his own father's eyes. "Pa had damn little when he come West. I don't recall if he'd found gold in that streambed yet or not. I do know he was asleep under that same blanket when some fellow snuck up and tried to steal his Sam-horse." William frowned a little. Horse theft was a serious matter, and he'd seen men hung for the crime. "Your Grampa fetched up his Navy colt and fired one shot." "Yes, sir?" "Trouble was, 'twas under the blanket yet when he fired." "Yes, sir?" "He did not miss, William, but he was distressed that he'd set his blanket afire." "Sir?" "Oh, it didn't catch fire, wool doesn't burn easy at all, but that much smoke under a wool blanket would likely look like 'twas a-smolder somethin' fierce!" "Don't get any ideas," Annette cautioned her son as she saw an idea dance across his young eyes. "No ma'am," William replied, his ears reddening, which told the perceptive Annette that their son did indeed have thoughts of replicating the event as an experiment, to see just how smokey such a blanket would look. "That blanket got kind of thin and worn with time," Jacob continued, rocking slowly, gently, the weight of their sleeping infant warm and reassuring on his front, in his arms. "It got cut apart and re-used, re-sewn -- you recall how your Mama split that worn bedsheet and sewed the sides together to form the new center." "Yes, sir." "Your Granddad is a thrifty man, William. He wastes nothing. He's known privation and he's known a slim pocketbook. He's still that way. I reckon if he was rich as them steel barons back East, he'd be just as thrifty." "Yes, sir." "That bookmark" -- Jacob nodded toward the open Book -- "is about all that's left of that blanket. That, and an oiled gunrag I keep in my office." William grinned, slowly, broadly, for he remembered using that selfsame oily rag for that very purpose. William considered the bookmark, frowned a little, looked up at his Pa. "Sir, is there a significance to tonight's reading?" "There is, William." Jacob looked at his wife, who gave him a warning look. "You see, not long after your Mama and I took up house keepin' -- you probably don't remember, but you were ringbearer at our weddin', and your little sister was flower girl --" "JACOB!" Annette hissed, shocked. "Well, maybe that ain't quite what happened," Jacob said innocently. "No, y'see, shortly after we taken up housekeepin' an bein' man and wife, I asked her why I ought to be doin' dishes, y'see." Jacob gave his wife an innocent look as she hefted the darning egg, clearly debating whether she could bounce it off his skull without hitting their sleeping child. "Your Mama is an educated woman, and she knows her Scripture. She quoted me from Second Kings when I asked why I'd ought to be doin' them supper dishes, and she quoted from the Book. You'll find it right there directly, that part where God says He will wipe Jerusalem like a man washes a bowl, wipes it out with a rag and turns it over." Annette resumed her darning, rocking as she did: something went *pop!* in their cast iron stove, and William paged forward a little, scanning, stopped, smiled. "William, if that old book mark passes itself on to your hands, remember where it came from." "Yes, sir." "And remember that God said men-folk can warsh dishes too." William grinned, chuckled quietly. "Yes, sir." He looked at the open page, began to read.

Just read your update. Still talking to God about it!

IF YOU’RE INTERESTED Mr. Baxter waited until the Hard Hand of Doom descended on two boys’ shoulders. “You boys,” the Sheriff said quietly, “oughtn’t try that.” The two were caught, and fairly so: they’d tried cutting up barbershop trimmin’s short and with paste and subterfuge, tried fabricating some facial hair in an effort to patronize the bar. “Now was I to run you boys in,” the Sheriff continued quietly, “I’d have to turn you over to your Pa’s custody. How do you reckon he’d like hearin’ you were expected in court for a case you’d not win?” Two boys felt all hope drain out of their very marrow. “Tell you what.” Two boys dared not breathe, let alone move. “I might let you both go if you’d do somethin’ for me.” Two pale, sweating boys with hair stuck to their faces, assented. “I might need a favor sometime. ‘Ginst I do, I’ll let ye know. Deal?” Two boys nodded; their dual “Yes, sir’s” hovered in the air behind them as they fled down the hallway, past Daisy’s kitchen and out the back door. Sheriff William Keller looked up at Mr. Baxter, grinned that contagious grin this young Mr. Baxter remembered seeing on William’s pa’s face, back when William’s father Jacob was still Sheriff. “Boys,” Mr. Baxter sighed, shaking his head and polishing the bar. “Don’t they realize drink’s been outlawed?” “God help us,” William muttered. “Prohibition will be the ruin of us all!” “Tell your wife I do admire her piano playin’,” Mr. Baxter called as the Sheriff strolled to the front of the saloon, and out the front doors: he nodded to a pair of well dressed strangers: “Gentlemen.” Mr. Baxter looked up as the pair came in, looked around, looked pointedly at the nearly empty shelves behind the bar. “What do you have for two thirsty travelers?” one asked. Mr. Baxter considered these two strangers in suits and Fedoras, two men who were obviously more at home in the big city than clear out here. Mr. Baxter looked left, looked right, leaned closer and said quietly, “I rigged up a little pump to run good cold wellwater in a tub.” “Oh?” He winked. “Been cooling a couple bottles, if you’re interested.” The two strangers looked at one another, looked at the pomaded barkeep. “Sounds like just what we want.” Mr. Baxter reached under the bar, picked up a bottle – it was an old-fashioned, heavy-glass bottle, with a wire bail and cork arrangement – he brought down a tall glass, another: they heard a *pop* and the hissing gurgle of something carbonated being decanted. Mr. Baxter straightened, placed two brimming glasses on the gleaming mahogany bar. Two men looked at one another, picked up their glass, took a drink. They both recoiled, surprised. “Sarsaparilla!” one exclaimed, as the other swallowed, coughed, grimaced. “Good and cold, too,” Mr. Baxter nodded. “Nothing but the best for men of your quality!” “I was hoping for a beer,” came the disappointed response. “Wouldn’t we all,” Mr. Baxter sighed. The Silver Jewel was barely making expenses with the restaurant trade, thanks to the railroad and the nearby mines; Mr. Baxter waited until the pair were gone, until after he dropped their coin in the till and muttered, “Damned dry dicks!” “Revenue agents?” William asked, and Mr. Baxter jumped: “Jehosophat, Sheriff, don’t sneak up on a man like that!” William grinned again: “Yeah, but I’m good at it!” “Yeah, they were Revenuers, all right. Thought they’d found me out until they took a good cold slug of genuine high powered Sarsaparilla!” “Did they say where they were headed next?” “Nope. Didn’t see which way they went, either.” “They headed on toward Carbon Hill.” Sheriff William Keller paused, leaned across the bar a little and said quietly, “I let Carbon know, too!” Michael Keller stood in his Pa’s study and took a long, thoughtful look at a pair of framed portraits. Both were of truly beautiful women. He knew one was his Gammaw: she wore her usual tailored suit dress and heels, she was standing in her office, under the framed revolver Michael remembered hanging there, when he’d visit his Pa in that selfsame office. He looked at the portrait beside, that of another genuinely beautiful woman. This one wore a floor length gown, her hair was elaborately atop her head instead of Marine-short like his Gammaw. Michael knew this was the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna, the justly famous Black Agent. Like most children that grow up looking at something every day and every day, he took the two portraits for granted: he looked at them, but didn’t really see them, and as sometimes happens, he stood and studied one, then the other, and genuinely saw them, probably for the first time. He’d honestly never appreciated just how identical the two of them were. He compared them to his mental image of Marnie. He felt the edge of his Pa’s desk. Michael carefully orbited, backwards, around the rim of his Pa’s solid old desk, found the high, padded back of his Pa’s chair, drew it out, sat. His pale eyes never left the two portraits. Michael frowned, considered, applied all the young knowledge he had on the subject, and came up dry. A quiet voice behind his right shoulder said “If you think too hard, your hair will catch fire.” “Hi, Marnie.” Michael smelled sunshine and lilac water and felt a familiar hand grip his young shoulder. “Your father is working on a puzzle.” “He’ll figure it out,” Michael said proudly. “I know he will. He always does.” “You’re puzzling over something too.” “Marnie, are you a ghost?” Feminine laughter, light, delicate, hands gripped his shoulders, massaged him through his heavy denim vest: “Does this feel like a ghost?” “Marnie, how come you and Gammaw and Sarah all look alike enough to be clones?” The hands stopped massaging, gripped him gently instead. “I don’t know, Michael. God’s honest truth, I don’t know.” “The Parson said reincarnation’s not real.” “He might be right.” “Then how come there’s so many examples of it?” “That,” came the soft-voice reply, close up behind his ear, “is for wiser heads than my own.” “Pa and Jacob and Old Pale Eyes, and there’s a couple more –” “I know. Remarkable, isn’t it?” “Pa said someone with a big black horse got that trucker out of there just before the thing blew up on ‘em. He doesn’t know who it was and that’s eatin’ at him.” “Your father doesn’t like puzzles.” “No.” Michael frowned. “Sometimes a puzzle can’t be solved.” “Don’t tell Pa. He’ll hammer at it until he does.” He heard the familiar, feminine sigh behind him. “Your father sounds so very much like Papa.” Michael frowned, surprised, turned. He was alone. “Marnie!” he exclaimed, annoyed, then movement at the corner of his vision: he turned, looked out the window, saw a pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown astride a truly huge horse, smiling at him as she walked her horse past the pane. Michael was out of his father’s high back office chair like a shot: he scrambled for the front door, yanked it open – Nothing – He drew back, shut the door, went to the window, looked again, then returned to his father’s padded, high back office chair, sat. He looked at the portraits again, looked out the window, looked back. “Pa,” he said aloud, “isn’t the only one that doesn’t like puzzles!”

I've also developed a fondness for Anna Lapwood -- she's a British artist, in the finest sense of the word, and she makes the biggest pipe organ in the WORLD sit up and talk! I thought I was genuinely Hot Stuff, playing first chair French horn, UNTIL I SAW ANNA LAPWOOD RUNNING AN ORGAN ... ... suddenly my skill level seemed more like drunken honking on a harmonica, compared with hers!

Standing up on my knees for all three of you!

Back when dirt was young, and so was I, I could swing a sledgehammer like that. This level of effort would kill me today. My respect and my admiration to these craftsmen and the work that they do!

YOU DAMNED TIN PLATED KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR I came through my own front door like I always did. I hung my Stetson on its peg the way I always did, hooked my boots off and left them in the boot tray and came sock foot into the kitchen, like I always did. Shelly turned, looked at me, waited: I came silently over to her, gathered her gently, almost carefully into my arms – she joked in moments of confidence that “My husband holds me like I’m a delicate porcelain teacup!” – Shelly brought her arms up, shoved my embracing arms away. Her fingers ran down my shirt front, freeing the buttons: her expression was serious, she gripped the tabs on my vest, ripped them away, looked up at me as I murmured, “Now, dear? What will the children think?” “I need to check something,” she snapped. “Strip to the waist!” I did. I pulled my shirt tail loose, hung my uniform shirt over the back of a chair, then the body armor; I brought off my T-shirt and Shelly gripped my shoulders, turned me a little to get the most light on my chest. She took my elbow, lifted my arm, turned me, studying my ribs: she was clearly looking for something, though I had absolutely no idea what: she turned me a little, then did the same for my left side: she finally turned me clear around, examined my back, turned me again, snatched up my T-shirt, shoved it into my hands. “Get dressed,” she snapped. “You’re buying tonight!” I long ago came to the conclusion, or perhaps the realization, that women are contradictory, confounding and confusing creatures, and no man – especially not I! – would ever figure them out, and so, when faced with the unexpected (like tonight), I took what I’d found to be the wisest course, and did as I was told. Shelly folded her arms, turned away from me: she went to the sink, viciously scrubbed at a platter, rinsed it and carefully placed the heavy, older-than-she-was oval ceramic in the drain rack, pulled the stopper, emptied the sink and rinsed it, her moves deliberate, controlled, almost … angry. I dressed, wordlessly; I came up behind my wife, gripped her shoulders, lightly, gently, looked at her barely-visible reflection in the window over the sink. “Darlin’,” I said in as gentle a voice I could, “is there –” Shelly whirled, thrust herself against me, her jaw thrust aggressively forward, her arms suddenly stiff against her side: she honestly glared at me, then twisted away and stomped off toward the front door. I raised an eyebrow. I had absolutely no idea a’tall what I could possibly have done to upset the woman. Reckon I’ll find out eventually. Not a word passed between us as we drove to the Silver Jewel, as we went inside; not a syllable escaped Shelly’s clenched teeth until she told the evening waitress that she’d reserved the back room. I brought my hand up, unobtrusively turned on my body cam. Whatever was about to happen, was apparently serious, and if something unexpected was about to happen, I’d want to be able to document everything that was said. Shelly ordered the special, and coffee, for us both, waited until we were alone in the back room. She gave me a long and penetrating look, her expression almost unreadable. “Darlin’,” I said gently, knowing my choice of a first word would be like tossing a pebble in a still pond, “what’s going on?” Shelly’s jaw was set: she looked away, she looked back, she opened her mouth to say something when the door opened and the hash slinger in the pink-and-white checker-print dress came in with coffee and salads. I watched the door shut behind the waitress, looked at my wife again. “Shelly?” Shelly leaned forward, the inside of her wrists against the edge of the cloth-covered tabletop. “I talked with Angela,” she said. “And?” Shelly’s eyes ranged upward, then to the side, and she blinked rapidly as she did: she looked back, bit her bottom lip. “Linn, you nearly died.” I raised an eyebrow. “They re-grew and replaced your left lung entirely.” She swallowed, looked to the side, looked back. “The right lung… they replaced half. “You had surgery to both your retinas and while they were in there, they took out the cataracts that run in your family.” “I see,” I murmured. Shelly ignored my remark. “They worked on your brain to take care of concussion damage.” My wife honestly glared at me. “I don’t see how anything could damage that thick skull of yours.” She stopped, took a breath, closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, then continued. “They rebuilt your entire right inner ear, including new enervation, replacement cilia, they had to completely regrow and replace the semicircular canals that let you keep your balance. You have two new eardrums. Angela said they enlarged the arterioles in both inner ears so you would not suffer that lifelong tinnitus anymore.” Shelly closed her eyes, clenched her jaw in frustration as she heard the door open again: that cute little hash slinger (is it my imagination, or do waitresses, doctors and State Troopers get younger every year?) brought our supper. I automatically salted my mashed potatoes – taters always need salt! – and threw some pepper on taters and gravy just for general principles. I picked up my fork, looked at Shelly. She was staring at me, staring with an intensity I hadn’t seen for some long time. I set my fork down. One tear came a-rollin’ down her cheek. “Mr. Keller,” she hissed, “you glorious, heroic, self-sacrificing, tin-plated idiot, do you realize you nearly died?” I looked my wife right square in the eye and said flatly, “Mrs. Keller, I was not going to let you die. I figured to bust the corner of the windshield and rip it free and get you out of there, peacefully or otherwise.” “Or die trying?” she squeaked, her bottom lip quivering like a little girl. I come out of my chair and reached for her: I took her under the arms and honestly picked her up out of her seat just as the water works started, and I held her, and held her tight, the way I used to hold our children if they were hurt, or scared, or terribly upset, and needed to feel safe while they rained out their sorrows on my shirt front. Once her rainstorm passed, I laid my cheek against hers and whispered, “Why did you strip me in the kitchen?” “There are no scars,” she whispered. “They did all that surgery and there are no scars!” I kissed her forehead: the door opened, the waitress stopped, took a look, pulled back, closed the door, and I made a mental note to thank her for that discreet withdrawal. “Darlin’,” I murmured, “do you recall I told you Michael saw there was no give-up in you?” She sniffed, nodded. “You jumped in that dumped-over crackerbox for the same reason I come after you. You weren’t going to let someone die on your watch.” She nodded again. I tightened my arms around her and whispered fiercely, “Mrs. Keller, you are the reason I draw breath in the morning and the reason I come home at night. You are why I don’t cash my paycheck at the beer joint. You are the reason I don’t open a house of ill repute and make a million dollars” – She pulled her face back, looked up at me, and I looked down at her. “Darlin’,” I said, “I knew what I was ridin’ into when I come after you, and I knew I would likely get killed, but if I’d done nothing and you had been killed, I couldn’t live with that.” “Michael and Victoria don’t need a folded flag and a picture. They need their father.” “I could say the same about their needing a mother.” “You damned tin-plated knight in shining armor!” “Flattery,” I said solemnly, “will get you everywhere.” Shelly started to cry again, and then she hauled off and kicked me in the shins. Hard.

FROM BREAKFAST TO DEBRIEF I saw that little girl’s eyebrows raise a little. When Shelly jumped into my arms, why, I hugged her like I always do, and I hoisted her a little like I always do, and I give a little shake like I always do, and her spine gave kind of a rippling pop like it does when I haven’t stretched out her back for a while. Shelly slacked her grip and leaned back enough to look at me. “You idiot,” she smiled, “you damned fool, you stupid hard headed contrary –” I picked her up again and put my mouth on hers. I had no idea who-all might be watching. I genuinely did not care. Breakfast was good. We ate with a good appetite, and as I finished my coffee, Angela gestured for a podium to be set on the table at the front of the room. “The debrief will begin,” she said: “Sheriff, could you come up and give us your recollection of events, please.” I winked at Shelly: she looked at me and said “Please, Linn, don’t be so long winded!” “Does yas knows me or what?” I asked in a nasal drawl. I placed my Stetson beside the wooden tabletop podium. “Sheriff Linn Keller, Firelands County,” I said, lifting my chin: “My wife, Paramedic Shelly Keller, Firelands Fire Department.” Heads turned; Shelly colored delicately and she shot me a complex look that I think meant she loved being introduced but she was ready to clobber me for making all those people look at her like she was something special. “Nurse Angela instructed that I should tell you what I remember.” I looked at my daughter. Angela folded her arms and lowered her head a little, looking at me through her lashes, just like her Mama was prone to do in such moments. “I remember, just now, eating a loaf of bread toasted up and buttered, a dozen eggs fried up, a pound of bacon fried crispy, a big plate of fried taters and two pots of coffee for breakfast.” I looked at Angela with my very best Innocent Expression and added, “It isn’t wise to eat too much on an empty stomach.” Angela began patting her foot like a schoolmarm and I looked at the rest of the assemblage: the men were grinning, or hiding their smiles behind casually-raised hands. I looked back. My voice and my face were now serious. “We responded to a reported tractor trailer wreck. Upon arrival we observed it was on fire, unknown cargo. The fire department responded, with the paramedic squad. “I observed a particular color and texture of smoke that told me a nitrate based fertilizer was not only burning, it was close to detonating. “The Fire Chief realized we were in too dangerous a situation, we were too close, he ordered all hands to drop their hoses and pull back, fast.” I swallowed as I looked at the memory of my wife atop that laid-over truck’s cab. “My wife was making entry to evacuate the driver. My concern was to get her away from there. To that end I jumped on my horse and we rode for the front of the cab. “My wife was coming through the windshield with the driver. “Another rider was there and grabbed the driver, I grabbed my wife and we proceeded to get some distance, at least until a giant kicked us all in the backside and I ended up flat on my back with every bit of wind knocked out of me, every locust in three states singing in my ears, and I wondered why in two hells I was just a-layin’ there on the damp ground. “Rescue arrived and took charge of my wife. I got in the saddle and headed for the ridgeline a quarter mile distant, where I’d seen the driver and the other rider’s horse. By the time I got there, the other horse was gone. The driver and I walked back.” I chuckled, just a little. “I will admit the driver was walking considerably better than I was. If I didn’t have an arm over my Outlaw-horse’s neck, I’d have been eating dirt, for all the way back the deck assumed a distinct series of maneuvers – roll, pitch and yaw, all three.” A dignified older man raised a hand: “Sheriff,” asked he, “how would you rate your hearing?” I considered for a moment. “Sir” – I looked very directly at him – “Doctor?” “Doctor will do.” “Thank you, Doctor. I seem to have no more locusts singing in my ears. I would say my hearing acuity is better than I remember.” Another hand. “Yes, sir.” “Sheriff, how would you rate your sense of balance?” I could not help but laugh, just a little. “Doctor, is it?” – a nod – “thank you, sir.” I squared my shoulders, laughed. “I am most pleased to report the deck underfoot neither rolls, pitches, nor yaws, and that is quite honestly a great comfort!” “Sheriff, have you questions for us?” “I have.” I looked at my darlin’ daughter, sitting back beside my wife, doing her best to look professional, competent and innocent, not necessarily in that order. “First, please forgive my bluntness, but where exactly am I; how did I get here; what has been done to me; but first and most importantly, is my wife entirely well?” Shelly lowered her head, her face positively aflame. I raised an eyebrow to my daughter, looked at men and women alike, assembled and paying very close attention to me. “Sheriff, perhaps you’d like to sit down, this may take a while.” I picked up my Stetson, walked back to Shelly: Angela rose and followed discreetly, sat beside Shelly. I looked over as Angela leaned forward a little. “You might know this as an M&M,” she almost whispered. “Mortality and Morbidity. It’s where cases are discussed, frankly and without accusation.” I raised an eyebrow, nodded, then turned my attention to the dignified older man behind the podium. More coffee appeared: Shelly passed, as did Angela, but like Fitz told me once, “The Navy runs on coffee, and so do I!” I sipped hot, fragrant coffee, smiled a little – Angela must’ve told them I like vanilla and honey in mine, I thought, and made a mental note to thank both the cook and my daughter for that kindness. “Sheriff, you are in the Millersburg Hospital. I feel safe in saying we are the premier treatment facility for this quadrant of the galaxy. You were transported here courtesy your daughter” – the Doctor nodded to Angela, who inclined her head a little in acknowledgement – “I understand she arranged for your and your wife’s transfer from your local Firelands facility, back on Earth.” I nodded, my eyes never leaving his: I wanted it evident I was listening carefully to the man’s words. The doctor then described matters which were quite honestly well above my understanding. On the one hand, Mama was a nurse, my daughter is a nurse, my wife is a paramedic, and I am not entirely unintelligent. On the other hand, when a clinical discussion of repair of inner ear cilia goes into far greater and technical depths than I’d ever known existed, all I could do was sit and listen and hope that eventually he’d say something that would make sense to my admittedly limited education in the Materia Medica. That wasn’t bad enough. I’d heard Shelly and Angela professionally discuss something called “shock lung” in context of IEDs or other overpressure events. Apparently mine were and it damn near killed the both of us, they admitted they honestly had no idea why or how I was able to mount up, ride a quarter of a mile, walk a quarter of a mile back with the driver and not just up and die, let alone live long enough to get to our local hospital and then get transferred out. The Doctor yielded the floor to another specialist, who discussed retinal damage due to concussion and acceleration-deceleration injuries, and how these injuries were treated: damn near every word of that work, done to both Shelly and myself, went sailin’ over my head, and I am not the least bit ashamed to admit to it. Once another couple of fellows spoke, and by then I was feeling completely outclassed and absolutely at sea, Angela rose and adjusted a little near-transparent boom mic I hadn’t noticed, apparently some kind of an earpiece apparatus. “The Sheriff and his wife are alive,” she said bluntly, “because he was wearing a belt plate. Unfortunately it did malfunction, it did result in their being hit by the pressure wave and injured, but it worked well enough to keep them alive until we could treat them. The original belt unit is being examined to see why it was not working as it should have; if there is a flaw, we wish to disseminate this information, system-wide.” She looked over at me, her expression solemn. “You should each be wearing one, not just the Sheriff,” she said quietly. “To that end, you are each wearing a new, tested unit, and should you be in another explosion, it will muffle both sound, and will cushion the overpressure and acceleration waves. If you are touching another person, if you are touching another living creature, the protective field will safeguard them as well, and that brings us to Outlaw.” Angela lifted her chin; the front of the room, where I’d stood and where other speakers had just vacated, became a grassy pasture. Red barns with white trim appeared in the background, white-painted fences ... it looked like a scene I'd seen in Kentucky, many years ago. Outlaw was surrounded by at least a dozen children, all about Michael and Victoria’s age, and Outlaw was quite obviously enjoying a currying. He always was an attention hound, he always did love being fooled with, and between being fed little dainties off flat palms – the only thing I recognized was an apple, halved and offered up – and multiple carefully-applied curry-combs, why, I reckon he must have felt like equine royalty. “The veterinary corps is not here to deliver their report,” Angela continued, “but bottom line, Outlaw was seriously injured but is now healthy, and he should have no memory of the event – which I’m sure you’ll forgive the lengthy veterinary presentation that memory block alone would generate.” I nodded but said nothing. “Sheriff, if you’d like to bring your coffee, you and your wife will be given a final examination, and a written back-to-work authorization.” I frowned at my coffee mug, looked up at Angela. “How long have I been here?” I asked. “One week,” she said crisply. “You were between your wife and the blast. You took the worst of it.” Shelly’s hand found mine, under the table. “Are there any further questions or comments?” Shelly and I come down from Outlaw-horse’s back and I tossed his reins over the hitch rail. The firehouse door near to exploded out and the entire Irish Brigade came charging out at the top of their lungs: we were seized, glad-handed, back-pounded, bear hugged, and somewhere in all that confusion, I managed to ask Fitz if anyone else had been hurt when she went boom, and he said no and it’s about time I got back to work, and I was a good-for-nothing layabout and seven kinds of a scoundrel for scaring them like that and he’d even gone to the expense of having his good suit cleaned for he was sure he’d be pallbearer at my funeral, and I allowed as it does a man good to smell like Moth Balls in church, and I am not the least bit ashamed to admit that we seized one another and crushed one another in a long, tight bear hug.

FROM HERE TO BREAKFAST “Fitz?” My heart dropped to about my boot tops. I knew what I was seeing, my mouth was dry, my hand clamped down on the Fire Chief’s shoulder. He turned suddenly, the way he did when he was aggravated at being interrupted, then he saw what I was seeing. The truck was over on its side, it was afire, the smoke coming off it was a dirty yellow and getting thicker, and my wife was on top of the laid-over cab, just muscling the door open. “PULL BACK!” Fitz yelled – it was little short of a full-voiced scream, then he grabbed his talkie, raised it, squeezed hard. “DROP HOSES AND PULL BACK, GET SOME DISTANCE, SHE’S GONNA BLOW, GET A QUARTER MILE BACK, NOW!” I turned, thrust a boot in Outlaw’s stirrup. I didn’t bounce and boost into the saddle like I usually did. I drove into the hurricane deck and Outlaw spun under me and the spirit of the century-dead Cannonball must have gone rip-roarin’ out of the grave and into his living soul because we launched toward that burning wreck like a ball out of a Napoleon field gun. I’m screaming like a madman, I’m screaming “SHELLLEEEEE!” and she’s already in the cab and I’m thinking Easiest way in is the windshield, bust the corner and rip it free and there was a hiss and that old ugly yaller smoke started out almost like a jet and I’m a-comin’ up beside the laid-over road tractor and I see the windshield peel away and someone is kickin’ it free from the inside and Midnight he comes around and we’re off the pavement and throwin’ clods as he was diggin’ in and we launched toward Shelly and she’d got a man around under the arms and I recht down and grabbed her and someone else was there and got the driver and I hauled my wife up across the saddlehorn and I’m yelling “GO GO GO GO GO!” and Midnight he lays his ears back and punched his nose out and we’re bustin’ a hole in the wind and I reckon my Guardian Angel was streaming along behind me like a gauzy kite-tail and a madman between my ears is screaming SHE’S GONNA BLOW GET SOME DISTANCE DISTANCE DISTANCE and something kicked Midnight and me in the backside and the both of us flew forward and he’s trying to keep his legs under him and we went over a fence and ‘twas to no effort of my horse that we went, we just kind of got booted over the bobwarr and he landed and we landed and I rolled over and I had a death grip around my wife and I heard her grunt and I heard me grunt and we come to a stop and I let go and just laid there and the wind was plumb knocked clear out of me – I couldn’t hear – I blinked, confused, looked up at the sky, the clouds – Shelly – I fought to get some wind in me. Damned if I was going to die a-layin’ there so I rolled over and Midnight, he was layin’ over on his side and not movin’ and Shelly was dead still. Dear God I’ve killed ‘em both! Midnight’s hind hoof twitched and then he grunted and r’ared up his head and I got a little more wind in me and retcht out and I grabbed Shelly’s hand. She brought up her other hand, rubbed her forehead and she had this funny puzzled look about her and then she looked at me and I’m still tryin’ to breathe and she looks all concerned and I rolled over and fought up to knees and elbows and I taken as much of a breath as I could and that warn’t much and then I stood up on my knees and so did Shelly and Outlaw, he’s workin’ his pins under him too and I got my feet down ag’in the ground and stood up and Shelly she come up with me and we looked around and I staggered over to Outlaw and ten thousand field crickets were singing in the hot August sun and every last one of ‘em takin’ up residence inside my skull and Outlaw he got to his hooves and I leaned ag’in him and got an arm over his neck and I sagged some and then we walked over to Shelly and I got my arm around her and we walked back towards what was left of that truck. I squinted. It felt like my eyes were full of dirt. I pulled out a bedsheet handkerchief and wiped my eyes. I was dizzy as hell. I had one arm over Outlaw’s neck and one around my wife, for she didn’t feel none too steady neither. I handed my white hankie it to Shelly. Movement, left -- Who in the hell is that? When I turned my head to the left, the earth took a hard list to starboard underfoot and then went down hard by the bow. Had I not an arm over Outlaw’s neck, I’d have hit the ground for sure. I reckon that’s the truck’s driver yonder up by the ridge line but how in the hell did he get that far away that fast? The boxy red rescue truck was coming around the crater, around the wreckage, stopped. I saw fire coats and the men that wore them, pouring quickly out of every door on that machine. One raised an arm toward us, pointed. Men ran toward us. I pushed Shelly toward them, I got a boot into the near stirrup, I swung up. Outlaw turned under me and we headed for the driver. I squinted some and could have sworn there was another mounted rider, someone else on a black horse. A big black horse. I looked again and all I saw was the truck’s driver. It took a while for the red ringing in my ears to subside. Me and the driver both was talkin’ at one another in a loud voice, I found out later he was hard of hearin’ to start with so he was used to it. He allowed as he got his bell rung when his truck blew a tire and bit the ditch and come to grief, and he was wonderin’ why he was standin’ up inside the cab of his truck and why was it over on its side when this blond haired keg of dynamite ripped his door open overhead and jumped in with him, she took him in a bear hug and brought up both her feet and kicked the windshield at its edge – she kicked it twice, both feet at the same time – she taken a two hand grip on him and spun him around and slammed him into the glass and busted it out and then he said he got grabbed by someone on a big black horse, and next thing he knew something went BOOM and the world shivered underfoot and he was near to a quarter of a mile away, up on the ridge overlookin’ the explosion, and no idea how he'd got there. We walked back, and it took a while. He walked on my left, and my right arm was hung over Outlaw’s neck. That-there hard of hearin’ truck driver walked considerably better than I did. Outlaw wasn’t doin’ terribly good neither. I recall bein’ grabbed and laid down on something padded and I looked up at a black handlebar mustache with a man attached to it, and I said “Shelly?” and I recall a man’s hand laid over on mine and I read his lips, he said “She’s fine,” and I had to close my eyes and reach down to grab the side rails on that aluminum ambulance cot to keep it from spinnin’ around underneath of me. That’s the last I recalled until I woke up and reckoned I was in a hospital bed. I recall there was a young flock of lovely ladies around me, all of ‘em in pin striped dresses and winged nurses’ caps. I felt a gentle, cool hand on my forehead, a thumb pullin’ my eyelid up and there was a bright light shinin’ in my one eye. I twitched my head away, blinked, frowned, looked up. “Angela,” I whispered. She laid the backs of her fingers against my cheek, across my forehead, like Mama used to when I wasn’t well. “How do you feel?” she asked in a professional voice. “Shelly,” I whispered dryly. Angela leaned over, tilted her head to look very directly at me. “Look at me, Sheriff,” she said quietly. I looked at her. “Shelly,” I repeated as fear tried to claim my stomach. “She’s fine,” Angela said in that quiet voice of hers. I frowned, blinked. “I can hear.” Angela looked up, smiled, patted my hand. “Story at eleven,” she said. “Get some rest.” Something cold and hard pressed against the side of my neck, there was a hiss, and I didn’t wake up until the next morning. I woke up, looked around. A tent-folded card was on the hospital bed’s sidetable. Get a shower and get dressed, I read in a familiar hand. Your wife requests your presence at breakfast. Debrief afterward. I raised an eyebrow, set the card back on the sidetable. I laid there for a minute, gathering my memories, looking at what I recalled happening, then I sat up, stood. A shower, a shave, and I felt a new man: my clothes were clean, folded on the bedside chair and hanging up, even to my pocket watch, my Stetson and my gunbelt and boots. I came out of the hospital room fully dressed, my hat in my hand, looked around. One of the pretty young girls I remembered from – last night? Yesterday? – hell, it might’ve been a week ago or more – looked up and smiled. “I beg your pardon,” I said gently, for wherever I was, it was no hospital I’d ever seen, and that made me a guest, and a guest’s duty is to be polite – “I am expected for breakfast?” “Yes, Sheriff,” she said, and damned if she didn’t come up and claim hold of my arm like she owned me. “This way please.” I can’t say I was displeased. The attentions of a lovely young lady are guaranteed to warm the heart of an older man. We walked down a shining, spotless hall, turned: a set of stainless steel doors opened. We went either up or down, I’m not sure which, but curiosity was working on me. “Would you know,” I asked carefully, “about my horse?” She inclined her head slightly, smiled quietly, then turned and looked up at me. “I understand,” she said carefully, “he is not only well, he is being outrageously spoiled!” I smiled, nodded. “Thank you,” I said quietly, and the doors opened, and of a sudden I had a double armful of wife, and I can’t say I was at all displeased.

(admiring whistle) NIIICE!!!

Interesting!

INVESTIGATION Emma Cooper's smile was quick, bright, genuine as she greeted the Sheriff, as she took his hands, as she declared her delight in the achievements of his son Jacob, who'd only just started going to their little one-room school: she happily recounted the precision of his work, his unwavering attention, how he'd quietly, unobtrusively, helped two other students puzzle out the arcane mystery of sums and subtractions, how he was helping two others memorize multiplication tables and the names of the Presidents. "He is a quiet student, Sheriff," she said in a motherly voice, patting his hand as she did: he recognized her gesture as an unconscious reflection of her naturally maternal nature, otherwise he would never have allowed another man's wife to behave in such a way -- especially in public. As Emma Cooper was expressing her delight, Jacob was busy driving his fists in a quick one-two-three into another student's guts: he spun, kicked a second attacker's knee from behind, faded away from a punch and let it sail past his left ear before he grabbed a double handful of galluses and vest and threw the third tormentor over his extended leg. He stomped a belly, grabbed the collar of one who decided he'd had enough, seized th seat of said soul's paints, hauled him off the ground and drove him down atop his fellows. "Just lay there," Jacob said quietly. They didn't. As each got up, Jacob put them down, hard: there would be cracked ribs and bruised muscles in the morning: when they stopped trying to get up, Jacob addressed them in a quiet voice. "You three," he said evenly, "started pickin' on me from the minute I walked into that schoolhouse. I want to know why." A rustle of skirts behind him, he never turned around. "Hello, Sarah." Sarah Lynne McKenna was two fingers shy of Jacob's height, and the same age, or near to it: she leaned casually against Jacob, as if leaning against a tree or a fencepost, with her arms crossed and one foot crossed daintily over the other. "What'cha doin', little brother?" Jacob looked at her. "I'm investigating, little sister!" Sarah drew back, lifted a fist, waved it threateningly. "Who are you calling little, little brother?" Jacob looked at the three, rolled up on their sides, curled up some, trying hard not to groan: he hooked a thumb toward Sarah and said, "See what I have to put up with? My Pa's the Sheriff and she beats up on me every whipstitch, I can't get by with nothin'! Now how about it? How come you three pick on me every chance you get?" Sullen expressions; they looked away, came painfully upright, looked at one another. "Tell you what," Jacob said. "My Pa will give any man one chance. You've had yours. Give me any more grief and I'll drive you through the floor of that schoolhouse like a fencepost." "I prefer a frying pan," Sarah offered, "but Jacob just uses his fists." She gave them a wide-eyed, innocent expression as she added, "He's done it before!" Jacob looked at the three, turned, walked away: Sarah took his arm, minced along beside him until they were well out of earshot. "You were investigating?" she asked. Jacob looked sourly at her, nodded. "Did you find the answer to your question?" "No." "I know why." Jacob stopped. Sarah turned and looked very directly at her pale eyed half brother. "It's because you're quiet," she said. "They don't know what to make of you." "So they broke my slate, stole my chalk, tripped me and slapped me across the back when Miz Emma wasn't looking." "They don't know how else to make you react." Jacob turned, looked back, looked back at Sarah. "They know now."

THE MOTHER’S WISH The human body is an amazing machine. It can do incredibly fine work, unbelievably precise work: in motion, dance can enchant the eye; in seduction, it can enchant and beguile the hardest of hearts; at labor, fantastic edifices can be constructed, swift races run, watery depths plumbed. The running of a race, however, can be negatively impacted by a hard-swung wine-bottle, delivered precisely across the bridge of the nose, and when the impact of a wine-bottle serves to redirect the runner into a door-frame, one might consider the race to be both lost, and over, especially when the runner’s fore-head bounces off the steel door-frame briskly enough to cause the front of the store to vibrate, and the runner to fall to the tile floor, unconscious. A father knelt between two parked cars, held his shivering son. “You’re safe now,” the father whispered, his arms strong, reassuring: the boy nodded, swallowed. “There are cameras inside. We’ll get the recordings.” The eleven-year-old boy nodded. “Where’s your sister?” “She’s with Mama.” A pale eyed man raised his phone tapped the screen, spoke. “Shelly? Heads up. Someone just tried to snatch Michael.” Lean young men in Confederate grey consulted scanners, spoke quietly into their comm-links. “I’ve got three vehicles at idle.” Pause. “All three tagged with trackers. One is a cargo van, suspicious.” “Seize it.” Outside, a windowless green van disappeared. “Sir?” “Yes, Michael?” “I don’t want Mama to dress me anymore.” “She does like to do that, doesn’t she?” “Yes, sir.” Michael paused, chewed on his bottom lip. “Sir, honor my father and mother, but if she wants me to wear shorts and sneakers again, I’m going to tell her no, but I’ll need your help.” “I’ll speak to her.” “Thank you, sir.” The jurisdictional law enforcement accompanied the bleeding, bell-rung, would-be kidnapper to the hospital, and just before the ambulance carrying said soul arrived, a dozen lean young men in black suits filed in through the ambulance doors and quietly informed the charge nurse that a wanted felon was being brought in, and that security would be maintained. It was clearly not a request. When the ambulance cot was brought in, young men in black suits fell in behind, followed it to the treatment room, and quietly informed both physician, nurses and hospital security, that the hospital’s authority was now overridden. The appearance of short, black, businesslike shotguns – and a quiet word to the patient, whose screaming protestations earned him a hard-driven gun butt to the belly – confirmed his suspicions that he’d made a very, absolutely, extremely poor, victim selection. “Sir,” Michael said, “when I was grabbed, I responded as I have been trained.” Linn nodded. “He grabbed me from behind.” “Go on.” “He got his hand around my mouth and neck.” Linn nodded again. “I bit him, hard, I stomped the arch of his foot and I pulled two knives.” Michael saw the gleam of approval in his father’s pale eyes. “Icepick grip right, I stabbed his leg behind me. Upright blade left, up into his gut. I hit his leg again and second stab went into his arm. He let go and I ran.” “There is honor in running,” Linn said seriously. “Running saved his life.” “I ran to the front of the store, sir. I knew you were outside and about to come in.” “I knew something was wrong, Michael. I saw that Jack Doe running after you, and I beerbottled him across the face.” Linn smiled, just a little. “Well, winebottled.” “Yes, sir.” “He hit the doorframe and cold cocked himself. Remind me to get my cuffs back from the jurisdictional.” “Yes, sir.” Linn consulted his phone. “Your mother and sister are picked up, they’re safe.” “Thank you, sir.” “Your thoughts.” “Sir, I don’t like wearing sneakers, the heel is too soft. If I’d been wearing my boots I might have broken his arch when I stomped him.” Linn nodded. “I agree, Michael. I will see to it.” Linn came into the firehouse through the back door. If he came in the front door, he strode boldly in, called cheerfully to whoever was in sight, happily profaned the Chief and shook hands all around. If he was here for a quiet word with his wife, he came in the back door. The Sheriff came in the back door. He and Shelly withdrew to the far side of the squad, sat on a waxed, polished, slick-varnished bench under a row of cupboards marked SQUAD SUPPLIES. “The Jack Doe that tried to snatch Michael.” Shelly shifted uncomfortably. “He’s dead.” She blinked, surprised. “He tried to escape his hospital room. He grabbed a nurse as a hostage, snatched the pen from her hand, put it to the nurse’s neck and was shot for his troubles.” “I see.” “Michael’s testimony will not be required.” Shelly nodded. “It seems that a suspicious van was found. It contained items and materials that are associated with kidnap and human trafficking.” Shelly paled a few degrees. “The testimony of the van’s occupants was also damning. The Jurisdictional passed all this along to the Federal boys.” “And Michael?” “He’s using this as a training aid.” Shelly hung her head, a defeated look on her face. “All I wanted was a normal family,” she whispered. Linn put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, hugged her into him. “Here’s a Marine Corps white paper for you, darlin’,” he murmured. “Nobody has a normal family.” He smiled gently. “Nobody. Every family is screwed up, every family is dysfunctional, every family is a hot mess, and there are no exceptions to the rule.” He kissed the corner of her forehead. “All we can do is the best we can. You’re doing that.” “Am I?” Linn slid a little away from her, took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him, his face serious. “Mrs. Keller,” he said, and his voice was the one he used when he brooked no disagreement, “our daughters are Ladies, because of what they see in you. Marnie gave me hell because I set the bar so damned high for what to look for in a husband, because of the way I treat, you. Do you know why you wanted Michael to wear shorts and sneakers the day he was grabbed?” Shelly looked at him with vulnerable eyes: her walls were shattered, her shields destroyed, and Linn knew that he had to choose his words carefully, for a woman’s heart is easily bruised. “Darlin’, you wanted him to be a Normal Little Boy. You wanted him to feel safe and you wanted him to be comfortable.” Linn’s voice was lower now: he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “You, did, nothing, wrong!” He drew his wife into him, held her, sighed. “Darlin’, do you know he’s alive because of you?” Shelly shook her head, leaned into her husband, laid her head over on his shoulder. “Shelly, he’s watched you bust your ever-lovin’ butt on a squad run. He’s seen you run a code, he’s seen you attack a wrecked car like a personal enemy so you could wiggle in like Sneaky Snake to get to the wounded. He’s seen you don’t have any give-up a’tall, and that’s what he called on when he needed that strength.” Shelly lifted her head, looked at her husband with big, luminous eyes as he caressed her cheek with a bent forefinger. “Mrs. Keller,” he whispered, “you are a fine and shining example of what a wife and mother should be.” He felt his wife flinch as the howler went off. “Firelands Emergency Squad, car-bicycle accident, main and fourth, time out one-twenty-one.” Shelly snatched up her short-tailed helmet, dunked it on her head and pulled the chin strap tight. “Showtime!” Linn stood back, stayed the hell out of the way as the squad was unplugged, as his wife and her father jumped in, as the door chuckled up, as Firelands Squad One rolled on an accident call. Fitz came strolling over as the bay door came shivering down, walking with the rolling gait of a salt water sailor. “Now there,” he said softly, looking at the closing door, “is a wife to be proud of.” Linn rested his hand on his old friend’s shoulder, nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, she is.”

Welcome to Old Decrepit Geezerdom! Until he broke his hip, my dear old Dad could work me into the ground any day he wanted, and I routinely worked our seventeen year old summer help into the ground before I retired! Never underestimate the power of an old man! We didn't get this age by being stupid, weak nor ineffective!

Is it bad? Most emphatically not! This proves you are a knowledgeable and well rounded individual!

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR "Sir?" "Yes, Jacob?" "Thank you." The Sheriff inclined his head. "You're welcome," he said with a solemn gravity. Silence for several long moments. Linn could tell there was something on his son's mind, and he knew the best way to bring it out was to say a whole lot of nothing, and he was right. "Sir, I don't ... I never knew my sire." Linn nodded again, once, his face carefully solemn. "You've conducted yourself as a gentleman, sir." Linn worked hard to cultivate a poker face. It almost worked this time. "Thank you," he said at length. Jacob frowned, looked away, uncertain, then looked back. "Sir ... you've never hit me." Linn raised an eyebrow, brought his chair down on all four legs, leaned forward, clearly ... well, either interested, or surprised. He nodded again, slowly, his palms sandpapering themselves together with an equal deliberation. "Jacob," he finally said, "my Pa would hit me." "Yes, sir?" "Time and again, he was not justified, or he was way too ... harsh." "Yes, sir?" "It took me a lot of years to realize it, Jacob, but I finally figured I could either keep holdin' all those ag'in him, or I could make some use of 'em." It was Jacob's turn to be surprised. "Sir?" "Jacob" -- Linn's jaw thrust out, he frowned, looked off to the side, rubbed his hands together again -- "Jacob, I can either whip my own back with those memories, or I can learn from 'em." "Learn from them, sir?" Linn looked at his son, one eyebrow tented up. "Jacob, you recall when your Mama's lamp got broke?" Jacob looked uncomfortable, shifted in his seat. "Yes, sir." "Do you recall how you felt when it happened?" "I do, sir." "Do you recall how it happened?" "I do, sir." "You'll recall the maid opened a window, and when you opened the hallway door, a gust hit the house and blew the lamp right off the table." Jacob nodded carefully. "I did, sir, and it did." "Now." Linn raised a finger. "You had no intent to break the lamp." "No, sir." "You did nothing intentionally to break it." "No, sir." "All you did was open the door." "Yes, sir." "Do you recall I wasn't happy the lamp was broke?" "I recall, sir." "Do you recall what I said?" "You didn't say a thing, sir, and that terrified me." "I know it did. I saw the look on your face." Linn looked closely at his son's face, chose his words carefully. "Do you recall what I did?" "You asked me what happened, sir." "Do you recall your answer." "I do, sir. I said I opened the door to the parlor and the lamp blew off the table." "Now Jacob, if I'd belted you -- would that have been right?" "No, sir." "Exactly right." Linn winked on eye shut, dropped a bent forefinger at his son. "Jacob, I'm not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but I'm not entirely stupid" -- he grinned, that there-and-gone grin that meant he was poking fun at himself -- "but I learned what not to do, from havin' it done to me." "Yes, sir." "Jacob, when someone does us wrong, we can cherish that hurt and pack it around with us for the rest of our life, or we can learn from it and toss the hurt aside." Linn frowned, then smiled a little. "I had a schoolteacher -- a real witch, damn her! -- she laid me across the shoulder blades with a little wooden paddle she favored. She died a year later of the apoplexy. She'd been a genuine sweetheart the year before, but for whatever reason, she just turned into a waspish old harridan. "I hated that woman, Jacob. I hated her with a deep purple passion, and I don't reckon there were more than two mourners at her funeral, other'n the parson and the gravedigger. Do you know how I laid that memory to rest?" Jacob shook his head, slowly, his eyes never leaving his father's. "Promise not to tell anyone," Linn said in a quiet and confidential voice, "but I donated her a beer." "Sir?" Linn winked, nodded. "Sir, you poured a beer over her grave?" Linn smiled quietly. "Almost," he admitted. "I run it through my kidneys first. Haven't give her a minute's thought since." Linn could see the smile at the corners of Jacob's eyes. "Everyone I talked to that was in school that year remembers her for the witch she'd become. Doc allowed as maybe she had the apoplexy for some time, for she wasn't that mean the year before, she just ... turned ... of a sudden, and he said he'd known folks with a light case t' change, and never for the better." "I see, sir." "I had my Pa so high on a pedestal it's a wonder he didn't get nosebleed. He made mistakes, yes, and he hurt me, yes, and there were times when it was not justified, but I looked in the mirror and realized my feet were made of the same clay as his, and that was a terrible day." Linn was quiet for a long moment, looking off to Jacob's left, looking at memories only he could see. "A son builds his universe on the ashlar that is his father," Linn said quietly, "and I did, and the day I realized my feet are made of the same clay as the Grand Old Man's, why, that was the day the very universe trembled." "Yes, sir." "The mirror was my friend, Jacob. I looked at it and saw a man that was just as prone to err as my Pa, and I've never forgotten that." "Yes, sir." Jacob was quiet for a long moment: he looked down the hallway that run between the cells, looked back. "You really run a beer through your kidneys for her?" Linn nodded slowly, then smiled quietly. "Don't get any ideas."

THE SOUND OF A PISTOL SHOT Sheriff Willamina Keller was no stranger to Man Splaining. She was also no stranger to stress, nor to working with eager young men who'd just been through something that was not only unexpected, but somewhat more than startling. Sheriff Willamina Keller was a mother, she was a wife, she was a Marine: when she took a troubled-looking young man by the arm and steered him across the street, those who witnessed the moment had no way of knowing whether this meant well for the young man, or whether it boded some more serious outcome. As she intercepted him in front of Digger's funeral parlor -- it wasn't called that nowadays, of course, it had been run by a man profanely nicknamed Digger back when the town was very young, thus the colloquial term of the day -- but as she'd sized him up, as she'd apparently taken custody of him, and she was steering his course, it was evident that the Sheriff was in charge, the Sheriff had something definite in mind. One of the morning regulars saw them coming up the steps to the Silver Jewel: he gripped the polished brass door handle, hauled the heavy, ornate-frosted-glass-paneled door open for them. Willamina looked very directly at him and murmured a polite, "Thank you," and she smiled, the way a woman will when she is treated in a gentlemanly fashion. The Sheriff, and a young man in a shirt and tie, sat down at a table in the far corner of the room: Willamina smoothed her skirt under her, sat with all the feminine grace of the Queen upon her throne, smiled as the hash slinger came back to inquire after their order. "Coffee, please," Willamina smiled, "and a plate of garbage, I'm hungry!" The waitress looked at the young man, who was staring a hole in the salt shaker, his expression that of a man who'd seen things he wished he never had. "Bacon and eggs, over easy," he mumbled, "and rye toast." Willamina waited until they had coffee. "Francis, you look like you just survived your first firefight." Francis looked up at the Sheriff with the eyes of a genuinely troubled young man. Willamina sipped her coffee, nodded her approval. "Now that's a good brew," she said quietly, then tilted her head like an interested mother. "Out with it, now. What happened?" "I quit," Francis said, his voice flat. Willamina nodded. "I've walked off the job myself. What happened?" Frances stared at the Sheriff with troubled eyes. He wasn't seeing a good looking woman in a tailored blue suit dress. He was looking at a nightmare. He'd been sent to a nursing home to pick up a deceased for the local funeral parlor. The call came in at oh too early in the morning, and it was a good distance away: he took the company credit card, he took the out-of-town coach, and as usual, he wore a shirt and tie, pressed slacks and shined shoes. "I got there," he said quietly, "and we got the deceased over on my cot. I sheeted him and belted him down, I covered him with the funeral home blanket and got him loaded and secured." Willamina forked up another tumbling payload of garbage -- it was a heaping plate full of everthing edible: hashed and well browned taters, fried onions, peppers, sausage, cubed and fried chicken, it was different every day, it was always good, and it looked like garbage. "The deceased," Francis said quietly as bacon and eggs lowered into place in front of him, "slept sitting up for the past twenty years." "Chronic lunger," Willamina murmured, and the young man nodded. "Eat your eggs before they get cold." Francis blinked, realized he had a plate in front of him: he picked up his fork, cut some egg free, stabbed it, chewed. "It was out in the flat country, about two in the morning. Thunder storm. When I'm driving at night I make a circle with my eyes -- instruments, speedometer, rearview and back to the windshield -- I'd just looked up in the rearview when lightning hit the median a quarter mile ahead of me." His fork lowered to the table, forgotten, as he looked at the mirror in the memory. "There was the sound of a pistol shot, Sheriff. The body sat up and broke the chest strap and it groaned, and I'm glad there was nobody next to me in the passing lane!" Willamina nodded. "If he slept sitting up for twenty years, his abdominals would have shortened. Lactic acid builds up when the blood stops flowing, the belly tightens --" She looked very frankly at her breakfast companion, she reached across the table, laid her hand over his: "Francis, did you have any trouble staying awake for the rest of the trip?" Her words were gently spoken, and they were not at all what he expected to hear: he blinked, he laughed a little, he reached for the pepper shaker and sprinkled some black flakes over his eggs. "No, ma'am," he chuckled. "I did not have any trouble whatsoever staying awake!"

Outstanding! Proud of you both!

RESCUE SWIMMER The ocean was dark, blood-warm, the waters were almost calm: starlight reflected from the oily wavelets, shimmering with the swimmer's emergence. Victoria looked around, startled -- She shouldn't be here -- Something could get her -- Something almost did -- She pulled deep inside herself, shelling herself with a carapace of crystallized fear, fragile, delicate, like a wall of sugar -- Your dreams are your own, she heard -- a whisper, a voice, calm, confident. Her Daddy's voice. Victoria remembered what it was to turn, to see the rock snake lower its coffin-shaped head, broad as two of her Daddy's hands at full spread -- she remembered its nose-down posture, she knew it was about to open its mouth and expose its fangs, it was about to slap down on her leg, bite -- You have the choice, she remembered. Your dreams are your own. In the Kingdom of Dreams, you -- only you -- command. Victoria blinked, remembering how she'd directed her dreams in the past. A child does not think in words, but rather in an incredibly series of impulses: the realization that her Daddy was right, that she'd directed her dreams in the past, filled her with an instant delight, a feeling of anticipation. She waved her hand and the glittering, crystal sugar-wall dissolved. Victoria giggled as she breathed the darkness, as something with a coffin shaped head swam toward her. A pretty little pale-eyed girl-child with French braids and tight-laced boots, bent forward, opened her jaw, directed a conical stream of shattering destruction at the attacking rock-snake: her belly was tight, her hands fisted, she tasted what it was to hate, and the taste lit a fire in her soul. The rock-snake shattered, fell like a long string of black gravel into the limitless depths. Victoria had never felt the Rage. She'd never known what it was to be filled with a dark strength, with the realization that she could absolutely, utterly, DESTROY! The realization scared her. Her Daddy swam up beside her, all big strong and protective, weapon in hand. "Daddy, what's that?" Victoria asked uncertainly. Linn looked at the three-foot dowel he held -- shining black, gleaming, with a spray of bright-red feathers on the end. "This?" he laughed. "This is in case those rascally rock snakes come back!" "But Daddy," Angela protested, then she took a quick breath as something black and sinuous twisted toward them. Linn reached out with the feathery-stick, tickled the rock snake. It stopped. It laughed. It giggled, it shrieked with laughter, it twisted itself up into a black, tangled knot and disappeared in a little cloudy *poof* and it was gone. "Daddy," Victoria asked uncertainly, "am I dreaming?" Linn turned -- he was swimming, fully dressed, but completely dry -- "Yes, Princess, you are." "Butbutbut," she protested, "what are you doing in my dream?" Linn took his little girl's hand, placed it on his breastbone. "Feel the Rage," he whispered, and she did: she felt a scaly monster, great and powerful, ready to lash out and destroy, to shatter, to level mountains with a slash of his scaly tail, to lay waste to cities with a breath of liquid fire -- Victoria blinked, surprised. "It doesn't ... you keep it ... butbutbutDaddy --" "How do I control it?" Linn laughed. "It's my Rage. Mine, no one else's, just as yours is your own. "If I let it run free, it will rule me, and I will become that monster." Linn curled a gentle Daddy-finger under his little girl's under-jaw, looked at her with almost a sad expression. "If I did that, Victoria, I would cause great harm, and I would disappoint many people." He brushed a wisp of silk-fine hair from her forehead and whispered, "I do not ever want to see that disappointment in your eyes, Princess!" "Butbutbut --" Victoria bit her bottom lip uncertainly. "The Rage felt good, didn't it?" She nodded. "You felt strong." She nodded again. "We are each responsible, Victoria. We are responsible for our choices and for our actions. When that rock snake came at you, you chose to stop it. If it bit you, it would kill you, so you were justified in killing it." "You didn't kill it, Daddy," Victoria protested. "You tickled it." Linn nodded, then laughed, winked, gestured her closer: Victoria floated closer to her Daddy, suspended in limitless warm dark waters. "If I make them so silly they realize how ridiculous they really are, they poof! -- disappear, and they're gone!" Behind him, Victoria saw shadows of monsters, terrible creatures of fear and terror, slobbering as they lurched toward him: suddenly they wore silly hats, red clown noses, pink ballerina tutu skirts -- faintly, in the distance, their menacing howls became oogah-horns or silly barnyard sounds. The Monsters of Terror turned, shoulders slumped, defeated: they dragged themselves off into the distance, the very image of dejection, their menace made harmless, turned into silliness. Linn's hand floated up under his little girl's: they barely touched, and they were at the range, standing in front of a block of ballistic gel. Victoria heard the timer -- BEEEP -- her hand went to her waist, gripped a bigger pistol than she was used to -- she raised it, caught the flash-sight-picture, her finger came straight back the way she'd practiced -- The block of clear gel blew apart, flew off the table, wobbling, half its mass gone. Victoria's eyes were big as she saw the result of her shot. A hum of an electric motor, the clatter of sprocket-driven chain, a ballistic dummy rotated into position. BEEEP -- Victoria watched, fascinated, as the bullet she just fired devastated its way through the semi-transparent, anatomically-correct, simulacrum. Victoria heard her Daddy's thoughts as the bullet traveled, as the shock wave expanded, as she truly realized the extent of destruction she'd just brought to a lifeless exemplar. "Darlin', we can cause great harm if we let our emotions rule us. This is why we must rule them." Victoria's eyes snapped open in the quiet and the darkness of her bedroom. She blinked, looked around, not moving her head at first: small fingers gripped her bedcovers, and she realized she was under her own roof, in her own bed. Victoria giggled, rolled up on her side, curled up a little, and just that fast, was asleep again. Across the hall, Shelly felt her husband laugh in his sleep: his hand found hers, gripped gently, the way he always did. "Something funny?" she murmured, and Linn rolled over on his side. She felt his silent laughter, heard the smile in his voice. "I dreamed I was a rescue swimmer."

"MARNIE DID!" "You could run in sneakers," Michael suggested. Victoria shook her head stubbornly. "You could!" she countered. "Nope," he grinned, puffing out his chest: "Jacob didn't!" "Marnie didn't either!" Michael blinked, considered. "You're right." Pale eyed twins pulled on thick socks, carefully smoothed out the wrinkles, dusted the inside of their boots with genuine GI foot powder. Their boots were new, well polished, carefully fitted, never worn. Michael and Victoria intended most sincerely that the same could not be said upon their return. "Whatcha takin'?" Jacob asked. "Bond," Victoria said, pitching her young voice comically low: "Jane Bond." Michael nodded his approval. He and Victoria dry-fired in their stone-walled basement every evening. Victoria showed an affinity for one of her Daddy's James Bond guns, a Walther PPK/S. Her Daddy had two of them, and Victoria had been putting mileage on them both. She dry-fired with the .32, and she live-fired with the .22 rimfire: Michael stuck with a brace of single action rimfires, and dry-fired with plastic snap caps. By his own admission, he beat the plastic snap cap rims to death, but replacements were affordable. Tonight he and his ten year old twin sister unlocked the gun cabinet, removed their engraved Winchesters, shrugged into vests and hung earplugs around their necks. Two shadows jumped happily off the front porch, set out on a two-track jeep trail they'd traveled many times. The evening wind was cool on the Sheriff's face. He'd had a long day, he'd had a day he'd as soon forget: as soon as the Judge ruled on two particular cases, he could dismiss those matters from his mind, file them with the other reports in steel cabinets and in computer hard drives. Until then, he was content to assume what he called "Undignified Positions" -- with a 20 pound kettlebell in each hand. The Sheriff drove himself mercilessly. He always did, after a day like today. He waited for a pair of runners, moving at a steady cadence, approaching on the long upgrade: he disciplined his breathing, set down a little less than half a hundred pounds of cast iron. The steel plates were hung, freshly coated with the cheapest white spray paint he could find: they almost glowed in the evening's dusk, four white plates arranged in a square, a red-edged plate -- the stop plate -- in the center. Linn's youngest two children ran up to him, un-slung their Winchesters, stacked them in the holders placed for that use: Linn pressed the timer's button, held it near his little girl's left-hand French braid, just under her Stetson's brim. BEEEP -- Victoria drew, fired five times -- the stainless Walther spat five times -- she pulled back into administrative position, just like her Daddy taught her, and as she dropped the mag and slid in a fresh, as she thumbed the half empty hopper in a vest pocket and holstered, Michael drew his left hand revolver and fired, five rounds, five hits, at the same speed his twin sis ran her shiny self shucker. This time Linn held the timer near his youngest son's hat brim -- BEEEP -- Michael drew his right-hand revolver, five shots, five hits -- his fifth shot was Victoria's start signal -- Michael punched out empties, reloaded, holstered, did the same for his other revolver, as Victoria thumbed fresh rounds into both her magazines. She looked up at the Sheriff with big and innocent eyes. "Did I do good, Daddy?" she asked in a sweet little girl's voice, and Linn laughed, nodded. "You did good, Princess," he affirmed, his approving hand on Michael's shoulder: "So did you." "Thank you, sir." Michael looked at Victoria as they both picked up their Winchesters, slung them over a shoulder: they turned, resumed their run. Linn could have run with them -- he commonly did -- but he knew tonight they were testing themselves, pushing themselves, trying their steel against the standard set by their older sis, their older brother. Linn worked his shoulders, squatted, picked up the kettlebells. He'd run enough for one day. It was time for some Soviet style exercise.

RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES "But Mama, he did!" A mother smiled indulgently, pressed the gravy ladle down into her little boy's pile of mashed potatoes, deposited the fragrant, steaming gravy with her usual precision. "Of course, dear. Eat your vegetables." "But Mama --" "Eat." A dejected little boy planted an elbow on the tablecloth, leaned his head against his knuckles, his bottom lip pooched out in disappointment. He'd tried to tell her. He'd tried to let his Mama know that he, Johnny Hettix, he alone of all his chums, had gained the favor of a man of legend, that he'd stood shivering in the high, treeless tundra with the Great Man's coat wrapped around him, staring through a heavy glass filter at what was a common wonder, made uncommon by his companion. He'd tried to tell her, and she didn't believe him. Disappointed, he stuck his fork obediently into his bacon-and-beans. "I understand you caused trouble today," Marnie said quietly. Sheriff Jacob Keller laughed. "I'm good at that, Sis," he grinned -- supper was always better with good company, and Ruth delighted in Marnie's mealtime company -- "which trouble are you referring to?" "The one that made the Inter-System." Jacob chuckled. "Which one, Sis?" Marnie lowered her head, glared at him over a set of nonexistent spectacles, then shook her head. "Sis," Jacob declared, spreading his hands the way his pale eyed Pa used to when stretching a tale, "when I got that hand written note from a little boy on Tortuga, hey! I couldn't disappoint him, now, could I?" Marnie smiled. The note was sent by that planet's post to the Embassy, it was scanned, analyzed, forwarded: Marnie herself had handled it, as it was written in a child's scrawl, it was vetted as having come from a little boy, and once it hit Marnie's hands, it was passed along to Sheriff Jacob Keller, Firelands, Mars -- a feat that was little short of impossible, owing to the sheer volume of mail addressed to that now-famous horseman. The Inter-System was seen by the Central Confederate as a grand way of keeping the Confederacy unified. Each of the Confederate states was its own entity, and free to tell the rest of the Confederacy to go pound sand: there were those worlds which had been Confederate, and were now independent; some maintained a relationship with the Confederacy, and a very few, did not: the Central Confederate wished to maintain its union, and one way to do this, was a unified communication system, of which the nightly news was a part. It was not difficult at all for news of a living legend, a horseman, a mounted lawman, to be broadcast through the Inter-System, and so when an adoring little boy hand wrote a request to this famous individual, this request was passed along, unopened, intact. Jacob's eyes were the first to read words carefully written, in pencil, on a young schoolboy's lined page. Jacob smiled a little as he read it, for he knew what it was to be a little boy, and he knew what it was to be infatuated with a hero, and Jacob felt a laugh bubbling up inside him as he read, as he thought, as he consulted. Much had been made of a solar eclipse, back on Earth. Jacob knew such phenomena were regular on Tortuga, that they occurred four times a year, and that one was coming up in three days. Jacob Keller read the note his sister handed him; twenty-four hours later, with the Diplomat's help, he rode a shining-gold stallion through an Iris, onto a planet, and asked a little boy in knee pants and sandals if he'd like to watch an Eclipse with him. It wouldn't have mattered if Jacob had asked if the boy would like to watch paint dry. The mother tilted her head, regarded her son's disappointment. "Dear," she sighed, "I appreciate that you wrote the Sheriff a note, but he is a very busy man." "But Mama," he whined, "he really did come and take me to see the Eclipse!" There was a knock at the door. The mother looked up, startled, then rose: she went to the door, opened it. She stood in the doorway, frozen, as a legend on a shining Palomino, someone she'd seen on the Inter-System, swung down, swept off his Stetson. "Ma'am," a legend said in a gentle voice, his grin broad and boyish under a curled handlebar mustache, "I thought young John might like to have this." He handed her a yellow envelope -- it was big, but slim -- she stared, looked him down and looked him up. It was him. Boots and gunbelt and watch-chain across his black vest, a six point star on the lapel of his coat: he turned, thrust a polished boot into a doghouse stirrup, swung easily aboard his tall stallion, touched his hat-brim: "Mrs. Hettix," he said in a deep and gentle voice, and turned, rode down their hand laid brick walkway to the street: she watched as he turned, disappeared behind the privacy bushes, and was gone. Mrs. Hettix went back inside, closed her front door, stared at the envelope she held. "Johnny," she called, her voice quavering a little. "I think you should see this." The Inter-System did not cover a genuine Western Sheriff arriving at a widow's little house in a small town on one of the Confederacy's most distant planets. It did not show a widow and her son placing an envelope flat on the table, nor did it show the round red wax seal at the end of a string, dangling from under the envelope's sealed flap, a round seal with a rose impressed into it: the string was pulled, cleanly tearing the flap free, and the mother reached in, extracted a single, large sheet of paper, then turned the envelope over and caught a dark, smooth-edged rectangle of heavy glass as it slid out into her waiting palm. "That's what I used, Mama," Johnny declared, delighted, jumping up and down the way an excited little boy will. Mother and son examined the single page: it was heavy paper with an eggshell finish, and hand-drawn, her little boy, in perfect detail. Johnny stood, the heavy glass held up, a delighted look on his face. Behind him, down on one knee, a man in a black suit, a man with a curled mustache and a big grin, his coat wrapped around the little boy -- shorts and sandals are chilly attire, that far north in the Tundra -- the man's Stetson was on the little boy's head, tilted back as the child looked through dark glass at the celestial wonder, and behind them both, a Palomino, saddled, snuffing curiously at this little fellow's shoulder blades. The picture was matted and framed and hung in a place of honor in the household, proof that a little boy's imagination was not imagination after all, and back on Mars, when an Ambassador asked a Sheriff about it, he showed her a photo he'd taken of the drawing he'd made and allowed as yes, he'd been causing trouble again. Ambassador Marnie Keller delivered her Ambassadorial speech in her usual succinct manner. She said "Show-off!" and smacked him with a precisely-tossed sweet roll. Right between the eyes.