Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

Jacob didn't look right. Jacob is like me, he's a walking appetite on two hollow legs, and when he sat down to supper normally feedin' him is like feedin' a whole company of Infantry. His color wasn't good and he was barely pickin' at his plate. I looked at Esther and she looked at Jacob and then she looked at me and I could tell she noticed it too. I rose and took two steps and Jacob bent over a little and I grabbed his chair and pulled him back from the table. He was hot and he looked sick and I ran my arm under the small of his back and under his knees and the hired girl went a-runnin' down the hall ahead of me. We got out the back door and down the steps and into the yard before he started and I set him down on his feet, he went to his knees and then his hands and he heaved up two weeks' worth of meals. Jacob didn't roll over on his side, he fell over on his side: his eyes was squeezed shut and I heard his teeth click as he bit back the pain that was engravin' his face. I unfast his drawers and run my hand under his belt line, I pressed gently and released of a sudden and Jacob just God's-honest SCREAMED with pain and curled up on his side like he'd been gut shot. Esther was standing on the back porch, hands cupped over her mouth, her emerald eyes wide with shock and with fear and with distress and I r'ared up on my Prayer Bones and I looked at her and said "Get Doc here fast!" Now Esther was never one to let a decision wait, bless her, she snatched up her skirts and she went a-runnin' for the barn, and I'm there in the yard with Jacob and him shiverin' and tryin' not to show how much he hurt and I've got my hands on him and I'm a-talkin' to him and God as my witness I have no idea what-all I said. I recht down and took his hand in mine and he grabbed holt of me and whispered "Pa, I'm scared," and that run the fear through me like I'd just been run through with a bayonet. Esther went a-streakin' out the open gate on that paint mare of hers and I figured things were well beyond my abilities or my troop strength, so I called in reinforcements. I commenced to talk to God about it. Now Doc, bless him, had an eye for good horse flesh, and Doc had him a Physician's Surrey, it was short coupled and two wheeled and he come out at a wide open go-to-hell and that chestnut of his was known for bein' a racer and I reckon Doc rattled his liver loose for I don't think that-there surrey had much by way of paddin' between the axle and his bony backside, but by golly he got here and Esther with him, and we packed Jacob back into the kitchen and Doc already knowed what was wrong with him and he commenced to put a surgical mask over Jacob's face and trickled somethin' on the mask and I looked away and felt half sick. Doc had done this durin' the War, and I'd seen him do it, before he'd saw off a shattered limb. Now I'm not a man with a weak stomach a'tall but there's just an awful lot of memories come Rip Roarin' up from where I'd hid 'em and I stumbled back out on the back porch and I couldn't go back inside no more than fly. God forgive me, my own son was gettin' his appendix cut out right there on our kitchen table, I knowed Doc had attair certificate that said he was trained in takin' out parts when an appendix decided to attack, but I couldn't go back inside no more'n fly. Esther told me later that Angela watched, all solemn and watchful, she listened to what the Doc was tellin' Esther -- Esther, bless her, was right at Doc's side, when Doc washed his hands the way he always did, Esther did too, and he put her right to work -- Doc come out once all was done and finished and allowed as Jacob ought to be put to bed, could I come and pack him upstairs, and once I was inside, why, Doc showed me that neat row of stitches on that frash cut on his belly and he said Jacob was my son, all right, he was young and tough as whang leather and here in the high country he did not expect any infection or any complications, he was talkin' about how Jacob ought to have good broth and not much chewin' substance for his next several meals and his voice kind of faded away into a dull drone and I stood there and looked at my son and I recall thinkin' I never want to feel that absolutely helpless again. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up from the ancient Journal, looked at the bright and attentive young faces hanging on his every word. Joseph and Victoria looked at one another, looked at their Daddy. Joseph ran a hand down to his belt, looked at his hand, looked at his father. "Sir, do they still take out appendixes on the kitchen table?" Linn smiled, slipped an Eight of Diamonds into the Journal as a bookmark. "No. I reckon they could if they absolutely had to, but no, anymore they prefer to operate in an operating theater." Joseph frowned, considering this. Victoria tilted her head curiously and said "Daddy, do they have fat ladies in an operating theater?" Angela, standing between the kitchen and my study, giggled: she cupped her hand over her mouth to try to muffle her amusement, turned away. Victoria turned, then stood, shook her Mommy-finger at her big sister: "Angela that's not funny!" she declared, which only made things worse: Angela began to laugh, and as Angela laid an arm across her belly and bent over, propping herself against the doorframe with her other hand, Victoria planted her little pink knuckles on her belt line, hoisted her nose with a "Hmpf!" and a pooched-out bottom lip, then sat suddenly, crossed her arms and glared at me. "Daddy, it's not, funny!" she declared. Michael Joseph looked at me, chewed on his bottom lip, and demonstrated his increasing wisdom about the female of the species by wisely saying nothing at all.

Ding Ding Ding, the Subdeacon gets the cigar! Your illustrations are exactly the picture I had in my mind, and this is printed out and saved! (The Chinese have a saying, "The weakest ink is stronger than the strongest memory!") My thanks to you all ... a local re-enactor was stumped at my description, and finally suggested "Chevrons" and sent me a photo of his Sergeant-Major chevrons; a career Navy man mentioned the sleeve stripes described by Mud Marine, but he too was left scratching his head at my explanation. Pat Riot's observation is correct -- the ornate, easily-seen sleeve insignia make a fine "shoot me first" marker, just like musicians' ornate uniforms, which they learned very, very quickly, never to wear in the field -- for the same coldly practical reason Pat Riot spoke of!

Unimportant but annoying: I can't for the life of me remember the term for the looping, decorative insignia at the cuff of a Civil War officer's coat. If memory serves, the number of lines making up the design denotes rank ... but this is an old memory, and like my recollection of the fuel crossover switch on startup checklist of a B17, old memory does not equal accurate memory! My Google-fu fails me entirely, thus my deference to those with a greater breadth and depth of knowledge than myself! What is that rascally sleeve decoration called? (It's at the end of the sleeve, not the shoulder ... a local re-enactor could only think of chevrons and that's not what I'm remembering!)

JUSTICE Six men stood on the edge of a floor, where an outer wall used to be, twenty feet off the ground. The floor was splintered, crudely demolished where the edge used to meet a wall; each man stood with a noose around his neck, elbows tied together behind his back. One started to scream that this wasn’t right, he wanted his attorney, he wanted a trial: a man with pale eyes drove his fist into the man’s wind. “ANYBODY ELSE?” Jacob’s voice was hard and unforgiving, the voice of a man who’d had more than enough with crime and with criminals. “NOBODY HERE DESERVES A LAWYER,” he declared: “EVERY ONE OF YOU EARNED A HANGIN’ FOR WHAT YOU DID TO MY LITTLE SISTER!” Jacob went to the man who was still doubled over, trying to choke some air back into his shocked lungs. Jacob Keller held a photograph up in front of the man. “Take a look,” he said quietly. “This is my baby sis. She’s a Sheriff’s deputy and I’m the Sheriff.” Jacob Keller lowered the photograph, stepped behind the man, set the sole of his boot against the condemned man’s backside and kicked him over the edge. Twisted hemp snapped taut. Jacob went to the next man in line. He held up the photograph. The man wouldn’t look at it. Jacob grabbed his stubbled face, held the picture in front of bloodshot eyes. “Look at her, damn you,” Jacob hissed, then shifted his grip to the back of the man’s neck, threw him over the edge as well. Each man, one at a time, saw the face of their victim one last time. Each man carried that memory into Eternity with them. Every man had been identified with trace DNA and other Confederate technologies Jacob neither understood, nor pretended to; the guilty were seized from places they believed were secure, from places they believed themselves safe, and they were brought here. Their bodies would be found, dead, each at the end of a hemp noose, hanging side by side from an abandoned building: there would be no trace DNA on the ropes, no notes claiming responsibility – just six known criminals, executed, dead. Jacob knew this would cause trouble for the jurisdictional police department. He frankly did not care. Sheriff Jacob Keller turned to a woman who waited for him. Ambassador Marnie Keller took her brother’s arm, and they stepped through an Iris, and were gone. Angela looked up, looked across the hospital bed, toward the closed, heavy-wood door. Dana saw her sister’s hand slide into a slit in her uniform skirt, saw the slight bunching of her forearm that meant she’d closed her hand around the handle of a pistol she favored. The door opened and a pale eyed man in a black suit stepped into the room, Stetson in hand, and with him, a pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown. Sheriff Jacob Keller strode across the shining, waxed tile floor: he looked at Angela, nodded gravely – “We need to talk,” he said quietly – then he looked at Dana, his face serious. “You are safe now,” he said. “They’re dead. All six of ‘em.” “Show me.” Jacob pulled out his phone, swiped through two screens, held it so Dana could see. She looked at the first picture – a man, noose around his neck, fear in his eyes. “Yes.” A swipe, another face. A swipe, another: Dana identified each and every last one of them with a quiet, “Yes.” “In accordance with the laws of our world,” Marnie said quietly, “they have been hanged, and are dead.” “Good,” Dana whispered. “Who betrayed you, Dana?” Dana Keller looked at her big brother, looked at her big sister, at her other big sister: her face was almost normal now, thanks to the Confederate devices employed earlier: her expression had been one of relief, but flowed into distress. “Someone on the inside, Jacob.” "Who was it?" Angela swallowed, clenched even, white teeth as she remembered. "I trusted him," she whispered. "I trusted him, Jacob." "Who was it?" Jacob asked again. Dana looked at Marnie, at Jacob, knowing her words would condemn a traitor to the same fate as the six who'd hurt her. Deputy Sheriff Dana Lynne Keller whispered a name. Jacob leaned down, wiggled his mustache, tickling her nose like he used to do when she was a little girl: he drew back, then leaned in again, kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk later,” he said quietly. Jacob and Marnie walked back across the room; as they approached, an Iris opened, then closed, and they were gone. A week later, a police captain looked up as an attractive, blue-eyed woman in a pantsuit and heels, rapped on his open door. He sat up, frowned – “Can I help you?” – he watched, surprised, as the woman stepped inside, closed his office door. It took twenty minutes for someone to knock on his door, to open it, to look around the empty office, to wonder where in the hell he’d gone, how he’d managed to leave without being seen. A blue eyed woman in a nurse’s uniform, and a pale eyed woman in a Colorado deputy’s uniform, watched with no softness in their faces as the red-faced, gasping police captain was fitted with a hemp noose. Sheriff Jacob Keller jerked the hangman’s knot tight, twisted the noose viciously, digging bristles of hemp into the condemned man’s neck as he positioned thirteen turns of braided rope behind the man’s left ear. Sheriff Jacob Keller held up a picture. “You betrayed my baby sister,” he said quietly. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices,” the Captain hissed. “We had to give one up to get what we wanted!” Jacob’s punch drove every bit of wind out of the man’s lungs. He seized the police captain under the jaw, hauled his head up. “My sister,” he grated, “is not a sacrifice!” Sheriff Jacob Keller stepped behind a police captain, raised his leg for a kick. A feminine hand seized his arm. Jacob wobbled, lowered his leg, looked at his pale-eyed, younger sister. Dana Keller shook her head. Jacob’s jaw slid out, then he nodded, and stepped aside. Dana leaned close to the man’s ear and whispered, “I trusted you.” She went around behind him, planted her boot in the man’s backside, drove him over the edge and into eternity. The last face he saw was not that of the pale eyed, diminutive Dana Keller. He saw instead a cluster, a cloud of pale eyed women. One woman, in a tailored blue suit dress and heels, walked up to him and backhanded him, hard. “My name,” she said, “is Willamina, and you hurt my granddaughter.” She stepped back and another woman – identical, but for the old-fashioned gown she wore – belted him with her open palm, hard. “Name’s McKenna,” she said. “I’m the Black Agent.” Another – in a colonial dress and a mob cap, who handed a musket to someone before belting him across the face – another, tanned, in a brief, Grecian gown, with a gracefully recurved bow in her free hand: there were more, many more: the very last one wore a white nurse’s uniform, and had startling blue eyes instead of ice-pale eyes. “This,” she said, “is for my sister.” Just before that last open-handed slap landed, he saw in a bright, brief moment, all of these women, ranked against him. His last memory was every set of those hard and pale eyes, looking at him, utterly, absolutely, without forgiveness. Just before his neck snapped. Just before his eternal soul was ripped from his miserable, traitorous carcass.

Considering the collective intelligence, experience and good common sense here in the Saloon, a question, if I may. First, the situation: My wife's car lives in the attached garage. My wife's car has a keyfob, and like most keyfobs in this Godless and plastic age, it can open the trunk, activate a panic alarm, lock/unlock doors, or remote start. In a moment of utter, absolute, so-tired-I-was-cross-eyed fatigue, I tried to unlock the front door with the keyfob, and had no success, but that's beside the point. My wife's remote lives happily in her purse, along with two frying pans, three pair of pantyhose, a Volkswagen, a spare tire, a double handful of wrapped peppermints and a scaly monster just waiting for me to reach in and try to retrieve anything: as her keyfob has plenty of elbow room, we have no problems with its housing situation. My keyfob, on the other hand, lives in my pants pocket. When I sit down, it's not unusual for compression of said keyfob to lock or unlock doors, set off the panic alarm, or three times now, REMOTE START THE CAR WHILE IT'S SITTING IN THE ATTACHED GARAGE. I don't need to get my name in the paper from asphyxiating due to car exhaust, with the wife's car idling in the attached garage with all doors closed. There's the situation. Here's the question. Although I've found silicone and leather key fob slip over covers, I have found none that are rigid. My next move will be to cut an oval from the next milk jug to run dry, and Gorilla Glue this over the leather keyfob cover: if I need to trigger a button, it slips out of the leather easily enough. So -- Anyone know whether rigid keyfob covers are commercially available, or do I fabricate one, take out a patent and make a million bucks?

A good friend of mine from Malaysia (rest his soul!) said the rest of the world buys quality. He said taxis in Malaysia were generally Mercedes, and he was quite amused at how Mercedes was almost deified here in the States!

"DADDY, CAN I COME HOME?" Angela's hand shot out like a striking viper. Michael tried grabbing for the banister rail: instead of his arm lifting and extending his hand, his body twisted, his right knee collapsed and he pitched forward. Angela seized the back of his belt, pulled hard: Michael tried to regain his balance but he was too far gone -- he went over backwards -- Angela twisted, got her shoulder under his head. Victoria yanked open her bedroom door, her eyes big and scared: she looked at Angela, flat on her back, Michael trying to get up and not having much luck. Victoria went down on her Prayer Bones, grabbed Michael's nearest wrist, looked at Angela. "You've got a hard head," Angela muttered, working out from under her little brother: she came up on her knees, pulled Michael's lower eyelid down, tilted her head and frowned. "Peekaboo," Michael said, then his hand spread, clutched, as if trying to claw up a handful of varnished wood floor. "What's going on?" Victoria asked, and Michael squeezed his eyes shut. Angela gathered his hand into hers: he relaxed her fingers, she squeezed his, carefully. "The world is spinning?" "Yeah," he gasped. "You gonna get sick?" Michael's jaw muscles clenched: Angela knew if his pale eyes were open, he'd be glaring defiance: she'd seen her pale eyed father, sicker'n hell, absolutely refuse to allow himself to be sick, and she knew Michael Joseph was every bit as hard headed and contrary as his Pa. Even if he was too young to grow a mustache. "Just lay there until things aren't so dizzy," Angela murmured. Sheriff Linn Keller's eyes were pale, hard: to his credit, he did not try to crush the telephone in his left hand, nor did he snap his pen in two and heave it across the room. His voice was controlled, tight, the voice of a man who was more than ready to commit murder, and worse. "How badly was she hurt?" he asked. His pen was steady above the blank pad. "Her mental state?" Linn sat up a little as another voice came on-line. "Daddy?" Dana Keller asked, her voice near tears, "can I come home?" It wasn't hard for the detective to recognize the Colorado sheriff. When a tall man with a lean waist, a black suit that would be at home in 1885, and pale eyes blazing from under his Stetson, steps down the short stairway from a chartered Learjet, when that man looks at a younger man standing beside a dechromed, unmarked police vehicle, when that hard-jawed man with an iron-grey mustache strides across tarmac, with no trace of a smile ... well, it wasn't difficult for the detective to realize that, not only had an undercover officer's Chief arrived, this Chief was also a father who looked like he'd be comfortable reaching down someone's neck, grabbing them by the ankle and yanking them inside out. For starters. To his credit, the detective didn't flinch: the two men shook hands. Linn spoke first. "Where is she?" "Get in." Linn's eyes were busy as they drove. Very little was said; Linn reasoned the detective was the luckless soul sent to pick up an unhappy father: he knew what it was to be low on the totem pole, to be given the details that left a man feeling like a recently-incinerated lightning rod. Until he found this detective was complicit in his daughter being hurt, he reserved any harsh words. In the process, he reserved nearly all his words, which only added to the aura of driving with a bomb sitting in the passenger seat. A bomb, with a sizzling fuse. Traffic was thick, aggressive: the detective was perfectly at home in these conditions, he swam like a fish among fishes: their drive to the hospital was without incident. They were met in the hospital lobby by another man in a suit, who introduced himself as Captain Mandrake. Linn cut him off. "Are you this young fellow's boss?" Detective and supervisor shared a glance, then Mandrake said, "Yes. Yes, I am." Linn's eyes were as hard, as cold as his voice. "This fellow needs a raise in pay. He looked me in the eye and he didn't make any excuses, and he did not flinch when I walked up to him." Linn looked at the suddenly uncomfortable, younger detective. Good God, every year doctors and cops get younger, he thought, then looked back at Mandrake. "Now where's my little girl?" "Sheriff," Mandrake said carefully, "we need to talk." Linn took a step closer: he was taller than the Captain by half a hand, and he had not the least trace of kindness in his face as he did. "You are my daughter's supervisor." The Captain hesitated. "Yes. Yes, I am." "You were her handler." The Captain would have traded a year's pay to be somewhere else. "Yes I was." "Now she's hurt." "Things ... didn't go as planned." "I trusted you with my little girl," Linn said, his voice low, a menacing edge to his tone: "I trusted you with one of my deputies. You gave me your personal assurance she'd be safe. Now I'm going to find out anyway, but you might as well tell me now. How bad is my little girl hurt?" The morgue curtain chuckled back, allowing two detectives and an out-of-district Sheriff to view the body. Linn took a long look. "Cause of death?" "Multiple." "Coroner's report." "Officially? A fall with lacerations secondary to landing in a recycled glass bin." Linn waited: silence grew in the viewing room. The Captain turned, lifted his chin: the morgue curtain closed. "That was not from falling on glass." "No." "My little girl did that?" The Captain nodded. "How did it come to this?" "Things got out of hand, Sheriff, you know how undercover operations go." "She wasn't supposed to be that deep undercover. You said she'd be in an office, she'd be listening, she'd be a secretary, gathering information!" "That was the plan --" "You told me you would keep my little girl safe," Linn said, advancing a menacing step. "Now she's in critical condition. You lied to me, mister, and I don't take kindly to liars." "Sheriff, Captain," the detective said, "perhaps if we went upstairs and saw her." Linn's hands were not clenched into fists. The detective honestly considered the possibility he'd be witnessing a Western Sheriff ripping his superior's head free and hurling it against the nearest brick wall. Two officers nodded, stepped aside as two detectives and the Sheriff approached. Linn's six point star was out on the front of his lapel now, and his coat was unbuttoned. One of the officers knocked, pushed the door open, stepped back. Sheriff Linn Keller swallowed hard, stepped across the threshold. A lesser man would have stopped, shocked. He didn't. Linn strode over to the raised siderail, reached a gentle hand down, gripped his daughter's hand, looked at one barely-open eye. "I look a fright," she slurred through swollen, discolored lips. "You look fine, darlin'," Linn rumbled. "I'm takin' you home now." "She'll need to testify --" the Captain said, and Linn spun. This time the Captain flinched back. "My little girl," Linn rumbled quietly, "is coming home with me. Testimony can be via video link. You lied to me, Captain. I can't trust you. My little girl is coming home with me!" A knock at the door again: a uniformed officer leaned in. "Sir, you're needed out here, please." "Which one?" the detective asked. "The Captain." A half dozen hard-eyed young men in grey uniforms, with shotguns at port arms, stood on either side of the hallway as Dana Lynne Keller was brought out on an ambulance cot. Her armed guard preceded, flanked, and followed her into the spacious rear elevator: the guard poured out of the elevator and onto the rooftop helipad, ready for an ambush, took up positions as she was brought out. The detective and his captain stopped, stared. "That," the Captain said, "is not a helicopter." The Sheriff walked beside the ambulance cot, one hand on the siderail, the other holding his little girl's bandaged hand: the entire rear wall of a boxy, stainless-steel craft of some kind hinged down, forming a ramp. Dana was rolled in, with her father, and the guard. A man in a suit came up to the Captain, presented his credentials. "US Diplomatic Service," he said, "what you've just seen is covered by the Official Secrets Act, and will not be discussed with anyone. Please come with me for debriefing." Angela Keller rose from the copilot's seat, paced back into the passenger section as Dana's cot was secured, as Confederate medics took over her care. "Sissy," Angela whispered, her voice near tears. "I'm sorry," Dana squeaked. "Don't be," Linn rumbled as he eased down onto his Prayer Bones, still holding is daughter's hand. "You kilt the b'ar that tried to kill you." "He hurt me, Daddy," Dana squeaked, tears running from her barely-open eye. "He'll never hurt anyone again," Linn said, his voice gentle. "Let's go home." A young man in Confederate grey looked up at the Sheriff. "We've erased their records," he said. "Cameras on the landing pad recorded nothing but birds." "This will feel funny at first," Angela said as she slid a pad under her injured little sister's bruised, discolored, swollen and misshapen head, as she brought a curved plate over her beaten, cut, devastated face. "Let's see about fixing things here." Dana relaxed as whatever this device was, began to repair her swollen, throbbing, aching face. Victoria bent her head forward a little. Dr. Greenlees snipped the black stitches from the shaved area on the back of her head, pulled the cut sutures free, dropped them in a stainless steel pan. "Your incision looks really good," he said: Dr. John Greenlees Sr. had the gift of both looking, and sounding, like a reassuring, kindly, Old Country Doctor. "I'm not seeing any signs of infection, I'm not seeing anything unusual." Victoria debated whether to counter with a comment about the unusual nature of being blasted back by a bolt of lightning, but decided against it. "I understand your sister is coming home today." "Yes she is. She was on an undercover assignment back East." "Oh? How'd it go?" Victoria sighed. "Not very well," she admitted. "Daddy said there were complications." Sheriff Linn Keller glared at the heavy bag. He was alone in the Big Round Barn, there was nobody to see him. Had there been someone to see him, he might have given the impression of a man ready to detonate, and had there been someone to see, they might have seen him vent his every hatred, his every aggression, his every violence that he'd kept contained for the past four-and-twenty hours. Sheriff Linn Keller was well practiced at a variety of disciplines related to less than gently persuading thy neighbor to stop doing whatever had earned the Sheriff's displeasure. He employed multiple fast, vicious, violent and brutally effective techniques. His control was absolute, his attacks were delivered in silence ... again, had there been someone to observe, his silence, his absence of angry roars or shouts of aggression, would have made his performance all the more frightening. He tore into that heavy bag like he wished to tear into the monster that beat his little girl, while she was being held. He tore into that heavy bag like he wished to tear into every one of the criminal association who took turns brutalizing his little girl. He tore into that heavy bag with every last ounce of utter, unadulterated hatred for the lying son of Perdition who put his little girl into harm's way. Heavy bags did not have much of a life expectancy when the Sheriff decided to let his badger out. His Mama acquired a quantity of surplus sleeping bag covers, which were then filled with sawdust, hung in a convenient place, and used as heavy bags: boot heels, batons, rifle muzzles, blades, all had a deleterious effect on taut canvas, and when Linn was done, the bag was torn open and spilling sawdust onto the already sawdust covered floor.

MICHAEL’S CHOICE PART TWO Michael sat up, looked around. He squinted at a familiar figure. “Jacob?” The solemn-faced figure nodded, once, slowly. “What happened?” Michael rubbed the side of his head, frowned: it hurt like hell earlier, but now it felt normal. “Lightning,” was the reply: Michael looked up again, surprised. Jacob isn’t usually that short-tempered, he thought, then he blinked a few times, looked again. “Jacob?” The figure nodded, again, once. “No. You’re not that old.” The figure stared, unmoving, unblinking, and Michael had the sudden realization something was very wrong. The ER cart was surrounded by professionals in scrubs: IVs and oxygen, wires and electrodes, shining, stainless-steel shears whispered through material, destroyed remnants of what used to be clothing was tossed to the floor, kicked aside, picked up and bagged by orbiting members of the team. Two revolvers and a knife were handed off to Security; that Michael was armed, and well armed, was neither surprising, nor unusual: they had a protocol in place for securing weaponry from a law enforcement casualty, and that was the protocol they followed here. Quiet voices, orders, assessments: one nurse stood back, writing quickly: for all their technology, the ER still used a veteran nurse with a clipboard, to note down treatments, orders, medications and rates of administration: of all the nurses in the hospital, Bill was the designated scribe – whether for a critical ER patient, or a Code Blue either one: he printed, rather than wrote in cursive, his spelling was flawless, as was his command of the foreign language that is the Lingua Medica, the medical terminology employed in the professional setting. “Rhythm?” “Irregularly irregular, multifocal PVCs.” The trace across the green EKG screen suddenly went all spikes: gloved fingers pressed down beside his Adam’s apple. “Defib,” the ER doc said, reached for the defibrillator, keyed in the watt-seconds: “CLEAR!” Shelly stood back, white-faced, one hand tight in her father’s grip, the other in her husband’s. Linn’s face was hard and unreadable. Angela came over, spread her arms. “We know what happened,” she said, “we know how to treat him. Perhaps if you waited outside –” “CLEAR!” Capacitors discharged, Michael’s lean young body convulsed. “They know what they’re doing,” Linn murmured: he steered Shelly toward the door, opened the heavy wooden portal, guided her outside: he waited for the Captain to exit, turned and looked at Angela. “Stay with him,” Linn whispered, not trusting his voice. Angela nodded, once, then turned back to the team and its efforts: at the doctor’s order, she picked up a vial, withdrew a measured volume: she called out the medication, the dosage, announced the injection point: her voice went into Bill’s ears and came out the smooth-rolling ball of his gel pen, appearing on paper in regular, block-formed, very legible print. “You’ve a choice to make.” Michael stood, looked around, looked at this older version of his brother. “You’re not Jacob,” he said. “I am Jacob.” “Jacob’s on Mars and he’s younger than you!” “I am Jacob’s grandfather, several times over.” Michael felt his stomach shrink as he remembered the picture on his pale-eyed Pa’s office wall, the one that showed Jacob Keller, Old Pale Eyes beside him, Sarah McKenna, their horses – he remembered the albums he loved to page through, the albums that showed Old Pale Eyes and his Pa looking like twins, the albums that showed Jacob Keller looking like the both of them. “Why am I here?” “You’re not supposed to be.” Michael frowned. “So send me back.” “Can’t do that.” “Why not?” Jacob Keller the Elder frowned, set a boot up on a stone that wasn’t there a moment before: the scene shifted, Jacob’s boot was up on a polished brass rail. Michael was dressed as he’d been before – whatever it was – happened to him. Michael turned and leaned against polished mahogany, looked around: it looked like the Silver Jewel, only … older. “I got hit by lightning.” “Yep.” “I thought that would blow me apart from a steam explosion.” “Wasn’t a square hit. It hit that pole beside you first.” “So what happens now?” Jacob Keller the Elder considered. “I,” he said, “am going to have a beer.” He looked very directly at young Michael. “You can have a beer with me, if you like.” “If I stay, you mean.” “Choice is yours. If you go back it’ll hurt like hell. You’ll likely wish it had blown you apart so you’d be dead and not hurtin’.” Michael thrust his jaw bone out and he saw a look of approval in the older man’s eyes, and for the first time since he picked Michael up and carried him through the deadly rat’s-nest of tangled, live wires, for the first time since a man in a black suit stepped boldly on wires that would have incinerated a living soul, he laid a hand on Michael. His hand was warm, firm, strong on Michael’s shoulder. Michael glared at his ancestor. “I’ll go back.” Jacob removed his hand from Michael’s shoulder, thrust it out: Michael gripped it, and Jacob smiled for the first time. “I know what it is to lose a son,” he said softly. “His name was Joseph Michael.” The world twisted, blurred: suddenly he was in more pain than he thought possible. Voices, distant, confused: a black horse, huge, powerful … he felt the horse lean forward into a slow gallop, and suddenly he was moving faster than any horse could possibly ever run. “He’s not breathing.” Strong hands gripped Michael’s head, held it steady: a thin pad under the back of the head, fingers pressed the rear corners of the jaw, thrust it forward, pulled the unmoving figure’s jaw open. “Straight blade, please.” Pain, light, fear: Michael responded on a very primitive level. Michael Keller, youngest son of Sheriff Linn Keller, inhaled – he inhaled as deeply as he possibly could, then screamed just as powerfully as his young muscles could drive air out his throat. Michael’s jaw quivered: he gave a weak, “Owww,” and the approaching intubation blade stopped. “MICHAEL! DO THAT AGAIN!” Michael took a quick, gasping breath, another. Angela Keller twisted the bag on an oxygen rebreather mask, handed it to Respiratory: the stainless-steel ball rose in the graduated flowmeter, oxygen hissed through clear-plastic tubing. “Sinus tach, rate of 120.” “Let’s see how he does at high flow. Pulse ox?” “Coming up. Pressure rising.” The ER doc stayed at the patient’s head another six minutes before looking at the blue-eyed nurse in the white uniform. “Angela,” he said quietly, “please tell your parents their son will be with us for a while longer.” It took two days and a night for Michael’s thoughts to order themselves along their usual paths. It took longer than that for him to regain full function of all four limbs, for him to return to normal: it took work, it took effort, it took time. The first time he was able to saddle his own horse, the first time he rode, was the first time he realized that he was going to beat the perverse fate that tried to kill him. Shelly watched him ride across the pasture, ride back: she cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, “No,” as Michael leaned forward, as his Pa’s black Outlaw-horse gathered speed, as horse and rider rode the wind itself and soared over the whitewashed fence. Michael knew where he had to go. A lean young man dismounted stiffly, ground-reined his shining black gelding, walked up to a tombstone, removed his Stetson. He looked at the name, his lips soundlessly tracing the incised, chisel-cut letters: On one side, Sheriff Jacob Keller, and on the other side of the stone, Wife, Annette Keller. He looked at the smaller stone beside. “Joseph Michael Keller,” he read aloud. Michael looked at Joseph’s tombstone again, turned his Stetson slowly in his hands. He felt a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Was it worth it?” he heard, and he smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It was worth it.” He felt an approving squeeze on his shoulder, and he turned, and nobody was there.

MICHAEL’S CHOICE, PART ONE Michael felt every hair on his arms stand straight up. Michael yanked Outlaw’s reins free of the hitch, swatted the black gelding across the hinder with his Stetson: “YAAA!” – the startled gelding gathered his strength, surged into three long hops, stopped and looked back. The last thing Michael remembered was feeling like his hair was standing straight out from his head, and Outlaw’s tail wasn’t floating like a nest of snakes now. Then the world exploded. “FIRELANDS FIRE DEPARTMENT, POLE DOWN, MAN DOWN, IN FRONT OF THE DRUGSTORE, TIME OUT THREE-FORTY-ONE.” Victoria heard her twin brother’s shout – she’d heard Michael’s voice when he was happy, when he was angry, sad, hurt – she’d never heard his voice this loud, this sharp … this … desperate! Startled, she turned, and the moment burned itself into her memory and her retinas. Michael, bent at the waist, arm extended, Stetson in hand; Outlaw, jumping away from him, bitless reins dragging. She saw this, but she did not remember it afterward. The magnesium explosion of a lightning strike slammed her back against the building, deafened her, knocked her to the ground. Chief of Police Will Keller braked hard, surveying the scene: a pole was down, half across the street: wires were down, a transformer was smoking: he saw fire trucks and the squad just coming off the apron onto the street in front of the firehouse, headed his way. Will lit up, pulled his white Crown Vic crossways of the street: he popped the trunk, got out, grabbed the lightweight, yellow-and-black-striped sawhorses: he snapped the legs open, clamping them tight on the striped crossbar, hauled them out on either side of his cruiser so nobody would try to go around him (it had happened in the past). Only then did he turned and take a second look at the scene. He thought he saw the hind quarters of a horse disappear down an alley, but he wasn’t sure. His pale eyes hardened as he saw a still figure lying on the sidewalk, its scorched Carhartt coat, smoking. Two-tenths of a second later, Will’s stomach dropped to his boot heels as he recognized who was inside that smoking, scorched Carhartt. Victoria opened her eyes, blinked: something yellow and blobby overlaid a quarter of her visual field, something that was sparkly and diminishing. Victoria’s ears were ringing: she rolled over, reached up, touched the back of her head. Wet. Sticky. Ow. Michael …? “DO NOT APPROACH! THOSE LINES ARE HOT! GET THAT DAMNED POWER TURNED OFF!” Michael fought his way to consciousness. Light. Glare. Explosion. Hurts … … why am I lying on cold concrete? … Captain Crane and Shelly froze, looking at the deadly rat’s-nest of wires. “Around the alley!” Shelly snapped: she and her Daddy seized go-box, monitor-defibrillator and demand valve, and legged it down the gap between the drugstore and what used to be a dry goods store. They could come around behind, down the next alley, they could get to the patient. Neither one knew it was Michael. Sparks, rippling blue arcs, a wire whipped around, coiling, a sizzling, deadly cobra: one of the Irish Brigade spun a line overhead, a wooden block for weight: he’d made this one himself, for just such an occasion – nonconductive rope, thrown over a live wire – someone would have to get around this mess to throw it back, so he could drag the wire out of the way. Fitz clumped at an awkward run toward the scene, bent a little. His gloved hand brought a talkie up. “Dispatch, advise Unit One to get here five minutes ago.” “Unit calling identify and say again your traffic.” “Chief One, tell Linn it’s Michael!” Curved fingers rose, described a tight, brief arc toward the transmit bar on the desk mic. The fingers froze in mid-air as the deep, throaty sound of a large displacement engine under heavy throttle, underlay the agonized, yelping scream of a hundred watts of Federal electronic siren, poured like an audible waterfall from the wall-mounted speaker. “DISPATCH THIS IS UNIT ONE ENROUTE.” Michael felt himself move. He was confused, he couldn’t straighten out his thoughts, he remembered a blinding, searing light, a detonation, the world slammed up against him … … he hurt … “MICHAEL LAY STILL!” Fitz yelled. Michael began to convulse. If he hits that live wire he’s dead, Fitz thought: he saw one of the Brigade on the other side, seize the wooden block weight, skid it underhand, under the wire as it tried to roll. Gloved hands seized braided polypropylene, pulled, just as a set of well polished black boots stopped in front of Michael’s nose. He felt his body, tight, twitching, try to thrash – his movements were jerky, not controlled, not of his volition – he remembered seeing a familiar face, a neatly-curled, Clan-Maxwell-Red handlebar mustache, a brushed black Stetson, a grim expression … Jacob, he thought, and a set of strong and skinny arms rolled the casualty up into his chest and strode boldly, fearlessly, through the tangle of wires, stepping on sizzling copper that was still throwing blinding arcs against the damp pavement. Angela sagged, came up on all fours, raised her head. She saw Jacob, in his black suit, carrying Michael – she heard a whistle, a shout – “OUTLAW!” – saw her Daddy’s shining-black gelding trot out of an alley, throwing his head in either greeting or discomfort – Angela fell sideways, against the brickwork that faced the building. She heard the sharp sound of steelshod hooves on pavement. She heard the rider’s voice. “I’M NOT GOING TO LOSE ANOTHER SON! YAAA!” Angela fought to her feet, stood, her shoulder digging painfully into the brickwork as she willed herself not to fall. “Emergency room, Karen.” “Karen, this is Sharon, the Sheriff is inbound, his son was either hit by lightning or by falling wires, he’ll be there any moment!” “Got it.” Automatic doors hissed open; a shining black gelding trotted easily across parking lot pavement and through the open doors. The rider ducked to get through the doorway, straightened, looked around: he ducked again as another set of doors opened, and a horse and rider, and the limp form the rider held, walked through heavy wooden doors marked EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. It was the only time in recorded history that a pale eyed man in a black suit, rode a horse into the hospital, dismounted beside the emergency room gurney, laid a still, barely breathing figure on the white-sheeted bed, looked at a blue-eyed nurse in a white uniform and a white winged cap, and said, “Save my son.” Angela’s response was automatic: she started stripping the still figure, laying the seared Carhartt open: practiced fingers sought the life that pulsed at his throat, she whipped the stethoscope from around her neck, thrust the eartips home, pressed the bell against the laboring chest. “What happened to him?” she said crisply, her voice was all-business. There was no reply. Angela looked up. There was no horse, there was no man in a black suit. Only then did his curled handlebar mustache register, only then did she think, Jacob, Only then did she realize this was her youngest brother under her hands. Angela Keller, RN, was instantly madder than hell: she glared at Michael, glared at the shocked-still room, screamed “I NEED SOME HISTORY HERE!”

JOURNEY "I can hear you thinking," Linn said gently. Marnie blinked, her train of thought disappearing in a little puff of vapor: she turned, barn fork in hand, smiling a little, then laughed. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I should've drunk some ninety weight to keep my mental gears quiet!" "I do the same thing," Linn said in a soft voice. "Is all well, darlin'?" Marnie parked the fork -- she'd been mucking out stalls, she'd gotten them scraped out, clean, hosed, and not for the first time, she considered the good work of previous horsemen who'd built the barn tight, windproof against winter's cold fingers, who'd dug it into the hillside and kept a slope for drainage, and how subsequent generations plumbed in water, then boxed this in to keep it from freezing: she picked up a hose, turned the valve, hosed off her muck boots. Marnie coiled the hose neatly, shut off the valve, relieved the pressure, closed the insulated door: she turned to her Daddy, her head tilted curiously. "Daddy," she said, "where's Jacob?" "He'll be home directly." "Assignment." "Nnnnooo," Linn said slowly. "At least ... not exactly." Marnie looked around: she'd spread fresh straw, she'd grained the mares, she'd swept up afterward, she was warm with exertion: she reached for her Carhartt, spun it around her shoulders, knowing if she put on her coat now, she'd preserve that exertional body heat. Father and daughter spread a double thickness of saddle blankets on a hay bale, sat side by side, hard up against one another -- Marnie found this reassuring, and it helped keep her warm. Besides, she liked being Daddy's girl, even if she wasn't the youngest. Linn hugged his daughter to him. "Jacob is on funeral detail," he said quietly. "Oh, no," Marnie murmured, looking at her Daddy with wide and serious eyes. "Nobody we know," Linn said reassuringly, "and not a line of duty death." Marnie nodded, tilted her head again, a nonverbal prompt for her Daddy to expand on the idea. Jacob Keller cultivated his father's talent for turning invisible -- that is, if a handsome young man of just over six feet, wearing a well fitted, Western cut suit, with a Stetson correctly tucked under his arm, can ever be invisible: he looked around, considering how many men chose to attend a funeral in ... well, casual attire. He'd discussed such matters with their Parson, and he'd told Reverend John Burnette that he was of the opinion that dressing up for Sunday showed due respect for the Almighty, just like dressing up for a wedding, told the newly wed couple that they were worth the trouble of getting dressed up, they were worth the trouble to journey to the church to witness the service. Reverend John nodded and smiled a little, and said he was of the same opinion, but styles had grown casual over the years: Jacob's pale eyes were busy, his mind mentally cataloging potential trouble spots, gauging voice tones: he'd been called, as a deputy, to more funerals than one, when passions overrode good sense. Here, though, he saw no such tension. It was a funeral; it followed the usual service; when Jacob went past the open box, he reached in and placed a small telegraph key beside the dead man's hand. "You remember you and Jacob set poles for his long wire antenna." "I remember." "Jacob would sit up late with a set of headphones, his fingers running a telegraph key." Marnie nodded. Linn smiled a little, remembering Jacob's description. "He told me once he can talk to the other side of the world on less power than it takes to light the bulb in our refrigerator." Marnie nodded. "He said one of his regular correspondents passed away, and I asked if he wished to attend the funeral." Marnie's head raised, slowly, then lowered: that explained his absence. "He'll be back right here directly." Marnie smiled: her Daddy was prone to interesting turns of phrase, and she'd giggled when he described an inundating rain as "sounding like 'twas pouring dried peas on a rawhide" -- Marnie never forgot the phrase, but used it rarely herself: she preferred to listen to her Daddy, hoping something inherited from his native Appalachian Mama would fall unexpectedly from between his teeth. Marnie looked up from her homework, waved her brother in. Jacob leaned into his sister’s room, grinning, held up three sheets of paper. “Thank you,” he said: Marnie dropped her pencil on the open book, slid her chair back, surged from her chair and skipped happily across the floor. Jacob opened the door the rest of the way to receive his sister’s happy hug. If one were there to view the scene, one would see the sheets he held, were pencil drawings, skillfully rendered indeed: they showed Jacob on the tractor, turned to look back at three poles, chain-bundled and being dragged behind; another, of Jacob, running the three-point-mounted, tractor-powered auger, digging postholes: other sketches, arranged in a circle, showed Jacob stretching wire, connecting a hand-held instrument of some kind, connecting wires to a telegraph key: in the center, Jacob, hunched over a little, frowning in concentration, fingers light on the paddles of an antique Vibroplex bug, earphones in place, eyes distant. He looked at his Sis, smiled. “I’m glad you’re back,” Marnie murmured. “How was the funeral?” Jacob shrugged. “That good.” “Never met the man.” “Why’d you go?” “We talked every night on forty meters.” “Ham radio.” “CW.” “Morse code?” Jacob nodded, his jaw sliding out a little. “I’d heard of the man but never knew he’s the one I’d been talking to.” “Oh?” Jacob nodded, suddenly solemn. “He was Vietnam. Proximity blast, I think a satchel charge. Left him deaf and blind. He had an old set of worn out headphones. He couldn’t hear a thing but he could feel the vibrations, and that’s how he communicated. Morse code was his … well, it’s all he had.” Marnie’s eyes were big and serious. “I used to tell him about riding Apple-horse, he’d ask the colors and how cold the wind was in my face when I rode. He asked me to describe the inside of the barn and the back pasture, I told him about the colts and how they’d run and romp and play tag and how Pa’s Outlaw-horse liked to steal the bandanna out of my hip pocket.” Marnie’s smile was soft as his words brought up those very memories. “His sister came up to me at the funeral and thanked me for those late night conversations. She said she used a computer program to be able to read Morse code, and he’d tell her how much talking with me meant.” Marnie patted her brother’s chest with a flat hand. “Jacob,” she whispered, her expression serious, “never doubt the good that you do.” Jacob looked at the sheets he held, looked back at his Sis. “I could tell you the same thing.”

This does not consider those clocks with a second hour hand. One to point to local time. The other to point to Zulu. I'm sorry, UTC.

CONSTIPATED Michael and Victoria sat side-by-side on the hook rug, legs crossed, listening to their Daddy read from their Gammaw's account of her first years in Firelands. Victoria frowned, looked at her seven year old twin brother. The two looks remarkably alike, for fraternal twins: Victoria took one of her ribbon-tied braids, chewed thoughtfully on its end, looked at her Daddy with big innocent eyes and asked, "Daddy, what's mant-sti-pated?" "It means constipated," Michael hoarse-whispered. "Dad-deee!" Victoria complained in a distressed-little-girl's voice. Linn opened the center drawer of his desk, pulled out a pair of spectacles, slid them on his face: he ran them halfway down his nose, then leaned over his chair and looked over top of them at his son. "Sorry," Michael mumbled. "Dunno what it means." Linn removed the ancient set of Uncle Pete's spectacles from his face, replaced them in the drawer where they'd lived for at least half a century. "It means," he said gently, looking at Victoria the way a father will look at his youngest daughter, "that your Gammaw Willamina became an adult in the eyes of the law." "You can do that?" Victoria breathed, and Linn nodded solemnly. "Yep," he said in a deep, reassuring Daddy-voice. "Butbutbut," Victoria stuttered, and Michael mocked "Butbutbutbutbutbut" -- while parading around in a circle, like an orbiting motorboat. Linn lowered his head, glared over a nonexistent set of spectacles at his grinning, unrepentant little boy, who stopped and reached behind him to turn a nonexistent key: "Brrrr," and his pretend outboard purred to a stop. "Your Gammaw was seventeen years old," Linn explained, and Michael interrupted: "I thought you had to be twennyone!" Linn rolled his wrist, dropped a finger at him: "Twenty-one is the legal Age of Majority, the Age of Adulthood," he agreed. "It's possible for a minor to be emancipated, given special circumstances." "What kind of cir-cump-stantces?" Victoria asked carefully. "Well, in your Mama's case," Linn said, "she came out here to live with Uncle Pete and Aunt Mary." "Howcomwhy'd she do that?" Michael blurted, running his words together the way an excited little boy will when he's trying to keep up with his quick-running thoughts. "Daddeee, howcum Gammaw an' Marnie looks alike?" "Howcum you an' Jacob look alike?" Linn raised his palms, stopping the sudden surge of youthful interrogation. "Stand up, the both of you." Brother and sister stood. Linn squatted, ran an arm around the back of his daughter's bare thighs, around the back of his son's denim-sheathed thighs: he stood easily, two giggling children happily gripping his muscled upper arm as he packed them both upstairs. Linn eased his bedroom door open with the side of his sock foot, packed the two inside this nocturnal sanctum, squatted again, released. "Now. Michael, you stand in front of me and face the mirror." Michael slid in front of his long tall Pa, looked at Linn's image towering behind him in the reflection. "Victoria, stand here beside me and look in the mirror at Michael and I." Victoria sidled up beside her Daddy's leg, looked in the mirror. "Now. Victoria, do Michael and I look alike?" Michael and Victoria both looked at the reflection, both looked at their Daddy's reflected face. Both children shook their heads. "Trade places now." Two children of very similar height switched spots. "Michael, do Victoria and I look alike?" Two sets of solemn young eyes regarded their long tall Daddy. "No, sir," Michael said. Linn squatted again: he gathered his twins into his arms again, turned sideways to get through the bedroom door, squatted and set them down. He picked up Michael, laid him belly down on the bannister, released: Michael, ankles crossed behind him, feet hooked over polished railing, slid down until he hit the end-post, bent legs taking up the impact: Victoria shook her head when Linn opened his hands toward her. "No thank you Daddy," she said, and Linn smiled: his little girl preferred to walk downstairs, holding her Daddy's arm: she practiced this with the mincing step, the nose in the air of a Princess of the Blood. Michael swarmed off the bannister, got his feet under him, waited until father and daughter were at the bottom step before hissing "Show-off!" Victoria turned her head, stuck out her tongue. Linn went over to his desk, opened a deep bottom drawer, pulled out a photo album: he crossed his legs and sat, in that order, and his twins piled up on either side of him. "Here," Linn said, opening the album to a full page sized portrait, "is your Gammaw. She made that gown. And this" -- he turned the page -- "is Marnie." "It is?" "Yep. See how much they look alike?" Linn turned back two pages, revealed another full-page-sized portrait. "And this is Sarah Lynne McKenna." Linn paged back and forth between the three photographs. "Wow," Michael breathed. "Your Gammaw made this gown," Linn said, "she made it off Sarah's portrait, and this very gown" -- he tapped the picture with a nail-trimmed finger -- "is in the Museum. This one" -- he turned the page -- "Marnie made, using the museum gown, your Gammaw's gown and the photograph, all three." Michael looked at his Pa and intoned solemnly, "She's ver-ry very-ry pretty." "Of course she is," Linn winked. "Why do you think I married your Ma?" "Daddy howcum I don't look like GammawnMarnie?" Angela blurted in a distressed voice. Linn smiled at his little girl's discomfiture. "Darlin', you remember when you stood in front of me and look in attair mirror?" Victoria nodded sadly. "Who did you see in that mirror?" "Us." "If I'd stepped to the side and left you there, who would you have seen?" "Me." "Do you know who you look like?" Victoria looked at her Daddy with big innocent eyes and shook her head. Linn knelt and touched his little girl, very gently, on the tip of her nose. "You look very much like yourself, Princess," he said, "and I think that is a very good thing."

MR. SMITH, I PRESUME Willamina Keller sat demurely in the back seat of a taxi, looking out the window, considering what was about to happen. She was dressed for the occasion. Her suit dress was entirely handmade; she wore nylons and heels, her hair was carefully styled, she wore no makeup -- frankly, she needed none -- she carried a fashionable little clutch purse, but its contents were entirely disposable: vital content that might otherwise be stowed in the clutch, rode instead in concealed pockets about her suit coat. She thanked the driver after they arrived, paid him and tipped him, then cocked her head and asked, "What's the easiest way to get to the City?" He grinned, looked at his gas gauge. "Me," he admitted. "I'll wait." Willamina smiled. "Thank you. This should not take long at all." The driver woke from his drowse as the back door opened and someone got in. He looked in the rearview. His pretty young passenger looked at him with pale eyes. "Special mission accomplished," she said crisply, leaned forward: he took the folded slip she handed him, unfolded it, nodded. "Okay," he said. "I can find the place." The taxi idled patiently in front of the blacksmith shop. It was on the outskirts of the City; the neighborhood was not what it once was -- nothing was, anymore -- but the driver felt no need to lock his doors. He watched as a pretty young woman (with really, really nice legs!) looked around, then went down beside the blacksmith shop, out of sight: the driver heard the rhythmic ring of hot metal being hammered, and in his imagination, he fancied an Old West smithy, with a sweating, muscled giant of a man, addressing a glowing-red horseshoe with a short-handled sledgehammer. Seventeen-year-old Willamina Keller, a thick manila envelope clamped under one arm, stood back a little from the anvil, from the ebony-skinned, hard-muscled giant addressing an ornately-curled gate hinge with a fairly small hammer: he held his work with an ancient, pitted set of tongs, thrust it into a sawed-off water barrel, looked at Willamina through the rising cloud of steam. "Mr. Smith, I presume," Willamina said crisply. "I didn't do it," he said, "an' if them papers is for me --" "They're not. I need your help." Black Smith sloshed his work around in the water, laid it up on the anvil, frowned and looked at Willamina more closely, thrusting his head forward like a nearsighted bear. She saw the frown tighten his forehead, but she saw a puzzle in his eyes. "You ... ain't ... Miz Sarah," he said slowly. Willamina laughed, shook her head. "No," she said, shoving out her hand. "Willamina Keller. I understand you do custom work." Black Smith shook his head. "Damned if you ain't ..." Willamina tilted her head a little to the side, smiled gently, then her head came up straight and the shutters behind her eyes dropped as he turned and boomed, "MADDIE!" A stout woman came bustling out at his summons: she came up to his shirt pocket, she was stout and motherly, she looked at the blacksmith and at Willamina, and Willamina saw the woman's eyes grow wide, white and shocked in her flawless brown face. "Now don't she look like what Great-Granddad said!" Maddie clapped a hand to her mouth and gave a little squeak. "Miz Sarah!" she mumbled into her cupped palm. "Do ... I have a twin?" Willamina asked cautiously. "Maddie, go get the scrapbook!" Maddie turned, almost ran back into the house. "You sure you're not Miz Sarah." Willamina shook her head slowly. Maddie came back out with a scrapbook -- from its battered corners, from the wear at the hinge and the faded cover, Willamina could tell the artifact had been handled often, and for some long time. Black Smith took a shop rag, wiped off a clean place on a work table. "You might want to see this." Willamina seized the bridle, yelled "WHOA!" The horse didn't whoa. Seventeen-year-old Willamina Keller, dressed for an appointment with an attorney, bent double as the horse reared, as she was hauled off the ground: her heels pointed straight up, her skirt fell open and she was probably giving the world at large a free show, but she didn't care. Right now she was holding onto something that outweighed her ten times over, something that was far stronger than she, something that could cause her great harm, something that was not willing to listen when she whoa'd at it! Willamina felt herself coming down, and she reacted by instinct. Somehow -- somehow! -- she drove her feet flat against the hard ground, pushed, twisted: she had no idea how, but she slung herself back skyward, using the pitching horse's efforts to her advantage -- she fell a-straddle of the horse -- she seized the other cheek strap, locked her legs around as much of his barrel as she could, she pulled hard and screamed, her lips but inches from the laid-back ears, "DAMMIT, I SAID WHOA!" Willamina Keller, lean and wiry, seventeen years old and feeling like she'd just grabbed hold of a Texas twister, yanked hard, intending to pull the horse's jaw back alongside its neck. It didn't work. What did work, was her cheerleading practice, the acrobatics she'd learned, that she'd programmed into muscle memory. Black Smith, his wife, four children of his own and two from the neighborhood, watched as Willamina released the bridle, tucked, tumbled, stuck the landing flawlessly -- in three inch heels -- she thrust her arms triumphantly upward and shouted "YESSS!" -- and the horse Black Smith had been trying to shoe, paced back and forth, blowing, throwing its head. A grinning little boy ran up, thrust a cellophane wrapped peppermint into Willamina's hand. "Here," he blurted, "he likes these!" -- and stepped back as Willamina squared off with the restless chestnut, as she unwrapped the crinkly cellophane, as the chestnut came head-bobbing over, cautious, suspicious. Willamina fearlessly rubbed his neck, caressed him under his chin, as he rubberlipped the treat from her flat palm. Maddie hugged her husband's hard-muscled arm, looked up at him, delighted. "Grandaddy said she'd come back!" "Damn if she didn't." The scrapbook lay open, forgotten, where they'd looked at several articles cut from newspapers -- they were yellow with age, fragile, preserved in clear plastic sleeves -- articles describing The Black Agent, articles showing a singer in a feathered mask on stage at their fine Opera House -- and a letter, in handwriting Willamina was honestly surprised to see, for the handwriting bore a truly remarkable resemblance to her own script. Just before the horse shoved Black Smith aside, just before Willamina ran to the man's aid and was hoist suddenly skyward, she made a mental note to buy a set of dip quills, to see if she couldn't improve her handwriting to the absoltuely beautiful standard she saw on the two letters on that last open page. She was especially delighted with the signature -- an ornate, capital S, with graceful curlicues and loopy zigzags under it. She'd never heard the name Sarah Lynne McKenna before, but something told her she wanted to know more. Willamina dedicated an entire day to her efforts. She'd not gone to school that day; instead, the taxi let her out at the schoolhouse, and waited while she went inside. When she came out, her gait was brisk, her carriage erect and confident: she'd gone in as a student, and she came out as an adult, for she'd requested a formal meeting, in which she'd presented Principal, Superintendent and President of the Board, their copies of her legal emancipation. That evening, when she finally got home, she had the taxi stop at the end of the driveway: she got out, got the mail from the big rural box: she got back in and they idled up the driveway. Willamina got out, went to the open driver's window, paid the man well for his day's work, and thanked him for his patience: he grinned and said "Anytime, little lady," and Willamina climbed the steps, stopped and looked at her Uncle Pete, just come in from mucking the barn. Willamina placed her envelope and the mail on a handy chair, tilted her head, looked at Uncle Pete, blinked rapidly. "Uncle Pete," she asked hesitantly, "can I still be your little girl?" Uncle Pete hugged her and laid his cheek over on top of her head as she seized him, almost desperately, like a drowning man will seize a float. "Darlin'," he rumbled reassuringly, "you'll always be m' little girl!"

Now by the Prophet's beard, Reaper miniatures are her favorite! This is perfect, an Occasion is upcoming on the calendar, and that'll be the very thing! Many thanks! Subdeacon, I rejoiced at your wisdom: Just think, Monday is the best day of the week because it's farthest from the next Monday! ... until I realized that, with my typical luck, the rest of your incisive observation, We all know that Wednesday is called "Hump Day" because everything is humped. ... is in all probability, spot-on! I know my luck! We were supposed to be covered in a crystal layer of icy Magic Shell this morning ... no sign of it as of 6 am ... I am wondering if this means Nature is winding up a Sunday punch that just hasn't arrived yet ...

My beautiful bride was tired and went in for a nap. As it was crowding noontime, she said I should get whatever I wanted for lunch. Shrimp basket sounded good. Off to Wellington to our south, to the ATM to withdraw some shekels. Tire went down on me while on the road, aired it up with the little cigarette lighter compressor, right there in the bank parking lot. Got home, finished bringing the offending tire up to working pressure with the 110 volt compressor in my garage, went over to the pub, sat down and had a shrimp basket and waffle fries. Came out and found the tire was not just flat, it was clear down on the rim. Parked on blacktop, parked on the level, if I aired it up again and took it home to change for the spare, I'd be changing a tire on a sloped driveway ... no, better handle it here, on the level. I went ahead and changed the tire, used the aluminized windshield sun shield as a hillbilly creeper so I wouldn't get wet and filthy when I set the jack under the axle. Took the tire to the dealership -- I have all my work done at the dealership -- tire had to be replaced, which explains any howls of financial agony you may've heard shivering on the chilly and damp wind this morning: it run me twice what I expected. Got home and pulled the property tax bill out of the mailbox. More financial howling, along with wailing and gnashing of teeth. No rending of garments. Still too chilly for that. No rending of garments until the temperature is above my age. Looked at my driveway with a grim satisfaction -- it took some effort, but a few days of persistent shoveling, snow blowing and profanity, and the concrete is free of snow and ice ... and then the phone went beep, weather alert, we're supposed to have Magic Shell ice tonight. So much for my nice clean driveway. I get inside and don't realize my waffle stomper soles were tracking ice into the house. The drowsy wife came padding out to get a drink of water, she stepped in fresh ice melt and came to full wakefulness, which explains the higher pitched yelp, as opposed to my own lower-frequency but just as heartfelt, financially related sounds of distress and agony. Since she was now at full wakefulnes, she sat down at the table and proceeded to touch up some modeling scenery pieces. She shifted her chair, she bumped a stacked plastic set of pantry shelves and dumped our total accumulation of pantry goods to the floor, knocked over the trash can and spilled a bottle of paint. (Her luck is better than mine. The bottle was nearly dry, one drop escaped to hit the floor, and was intercepted by a box of something called Quinoa) Anyway -- Considering all the lovely happenings this day, my wife and I concluded that yes, this is indeed, a MONDAY!

My wife wished most sincerely she'd had a Roo Bar on our little Nissan pickup, some years ago. The deer she hit, came out in second place. Unfortunately, so did our little Nissan pickup!

I'm not far from Rye, and his report is correct. Sunny and warm. I took the electric leaf blower out and cleared the driveway from last night's light, fluffy accumulation -- I'm doing my part to promote global warming -- the more concrete I strip bare, the more sun can soak into it and turn it into heat!

ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN Chief of Police Will Keller eased his white Crown Vic cruiser down the recently plowed driveway. The sewage treatment plant was technically in town, though removed from the town proper, on the sound engineering principle that Everything Runs Downhill, especially the second hand political speeches which municipal treatment facilities specialize in processing. He slowed as he approached the wide-open, chain-link gates. A cloud of something snowy and rather noisy was advancing toward the gate: occasionally a half-seen figure could be glimpsed, but the sun was out and glare alone was hindering visibility: it wasn't until the operator turned, not until the breeze-borne cloud of sparkle and glare drifted a little away, that Will saw it was the sewer plant's operator, wearing a backpack leaf blower, using the hand held wand to blow snow away from where it wasn't wanted. Will considered this and nodded. Shoveling that much white stuff would be more work; this wagging of a plastic air blast nozzle did the job faster and more completely, and besides, it was probably more fun -- or at least less drudgery -- than employing the Hillbilly Dragline. Will could call it that. He and his twin sister Willamina originated from Appalachian Ohio, and more times than one, both had been called a damned hillbilly -- which gained the speaker either a good laugh in return, or a punch in the gut, depending on the situation. Will waited until a larger area was blown free of snow before easing into the fence enclosure; the snowy, sparkle-hooded, melt-beaded-goggled figure raised a glove, a finger with it -- Give me a minute -- he blew out a turnaround area, backed away, returned to what he'd just cleared, gusting the fine return-flakes that rode back in his wake. Will eased in, turned around, pressed the switch, his window hummed down: the leaf blower gratefully accepted the sedative of the kill switch, and Grant came over, hoisted his goggles. "I'm tryin' to think of a good smart remark," Will admitted, "but the mind just went blank." "What, like I'm the Abominable Snowman or something?" Grant laughed. "That, or I didn't think you wore white coveralls." Grant turned, swatted his belly a few times, revealing Carhartt brown: "I'm wearin' my insulateds today, but it's warm enough I'm ready to burn up!" "Yeah, if it's not below zero, those get warm in a hurry," Will agreed. "They feel good if I'm tryin' to waylay meat for the pot." "Oh, they do that, I'll grant you!" "What brings you down here to my foundry?" Will laughed. "I saw a big snow cloud and heard a two cycle engine and I couldn't figure what in the Sam Hill you were doin', so curiosity got the better of me!" Grant turned, looked at the stretch of bare concrete. "It's cold enough and the sun hadn't yet hit the Corn Crete to warm it, I figured I'd just leaf blower it off rather'n hurt my back shovein'." "Spare your back," Will agreed. "Voice of experience!" "That's what your sister told me," Grant grinned. "I can offer you hot coffee, if you don't mind instant." Will reached over, picked up a faded, dented metal thermos: "Still half full, but thank you anyway!" "Other'n that," Grant said, "can't think of a thing. If I tell you anything else I'd have to lie to you!" They both laughed; it was a standing joke between them, that one or the other laid awake all night to tell the other a big lie, but their mind went blank and couldn't come up with a single thing. Grant stepped back, waved; Will waved back, eased the Crown Vic the rest of the way around, headed out the gate, chuckling. "Abominable Snowman," he muttered, and as he headed back down the long, plowed-open drive, he realized he was still grinning, and in a considerably better mood than when he'd arrived.

Sounds like the Eastern whitetail around here!

Much good wisdom here. A fine tribute to someone who improved his world!

DAMN STRAIGHT!!!

THE BUILT IN HEATER Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller swiped irritably at her goggles, wiping blown snow from the lens: she eased the snowmobile to a stop, looked around. She pulled a glove free, unzipped a pocket, brought out the little square speaker-mic on its curly cord. "Dispatch, Angel One. I'm downhill from Hatfield's cabin, nothing in sight." "Roger your location, Angel One. Proceed as discussed." "Roger that." Angela thrust the black plastic speaker-mic back in the pocket, drew the zipper across: she looked over her shoulder, at the oversized infant carrier that started out life as an accessory for a bicycle. "You okay back there?" she called. Something huge and black raised a massive head, looked out at her, laid back down. Angela smiled behind her quilted snow mask, twisted the throttle: she knew this terrain, and she knew where to look. She didn't have to go far. Sharon's head came up as she heard the repeater kick in. "Dispatch, Angel One." "Dispatch, go." "I found a boot." Sharon stopped, curved fingers poised over the transmit bar: she looked over at the Sheriff, who was bent over a table, studying the map he'd weighted with coffee mugs and a sheathed knife to keep it from rolling up again. Linn opened his mouth, but closed it when he heard his daughter's voice. "There's a foot in the boot," they heard, "and a little boy bolted to the top end of the foot!" Angela Keller unzipped the child carrier. The Bear Killer gathered himself to leap out and join her. "Stay," Angela commanded in a quiet voice as she brushed snow off the chilled, stuporous little boy: he was dressed for the weather, but he'd gone headfirst off the side of the hill, apparently missing the dropoff he used to run along in warm weather. Angela stripped off his coat, brushed snow from his drawers with quick strokes of her mittened hands: she snapped the blanket open, laid it over the seat -- "Bear Killer, stay," she said softly, and The Bear Killer, interested, curious, watched as she pulled off the child's boots, then a mitten: she gripped his foot, frowned -- wet and cold, she thought -- she dunked him down into the blanket lined cocoon, wrapped him part way. "Bear Killer," she said, "lay on him." The Bear Killer was no stranger to being used as a pillow, a backrest, a cuddle buddy for the Keller young: Angela had used The Bear Killer in this same manner with her youngest siblings, in the back seat of her Daddy's Jeep: she knew that her best bet was to get back to where she could get this little fellow into a warm bath, where she could pull a hospital around her like she'd pull the flaps of a welcoming, sheltering tent together once safely inside, out of the rain and where she could get this little fellow warmed back up. His sock feet, wet though they be, would warm quickly in proximity to the great mountain Mastiff. "Dispatch, Angel One." "Go, Angel One." "There's no way the squad can make it up here. We're going direct for ER." "Roger that, Angel One." Angela zipped the cover shut -- a little air would circulate, but not enough to lose the heat the two of them would generate -- she threw a leg over the padded seat, cracked the throttle on her snowmobile, scooted downhill to where she remembered the ground was flat: she turned around, throttling hard, she assaulted the grade like a personal enemy, lips peeled back from her teeth under her insulating snow mask as she fought her way uphill, as she exploded over the rim in a great spray of powdery-fine snow. Michael Keller stood up in his stirrups, binoculars to his eyes. He heard Angela coming, and he knew about where she'd be. He dropped the binocs -- they came to the end of their neck strap, he raised the camera -- Come on, Sis, come on, Sis, come on, Sis, he thought, then his finger pressed hard on the shutter button. He heard the digital camera sing, knew it was biting off chunks of time in thin, rapid slices, knew it was engraving what he was seeing through the viewfinder, onto a memory chip the size of his thumbnail: Michael had never known film photography, he thought digital was all there'd ever been, and he was determined to put a picture, his picture, on the front page of The Firelands Gazette. He did. Bruce Jones published the photograph just as Michael saw it through his viewfinder. Michael cut the photo from the newspaper, framed it and hung it over his desk in his upstairs bedroom. It was a dynamic shot, it was the kind of picture you can hear, just looking at it: an anonymous figure in goggles and helmet, wearing a snow mask and mittens, screaming up a grade and getting a foot of air as she did, and behind her, a trailer, also in mid-air: snow was exploded around them as they blew through the little crest of a drift at the top of the grade, and Michael grinned unashamedly the first time he saw the picture, his picture, when Bruce handed him a fresh copy of the weekly. The article discussed a lost child, a deputy with an encyclopedic knowledge of her county, a modified child carrier attached as a trailer: a second photograph, with the article, had the deputy, in her snowsuit, with helmet under her arm and mask hanging from her fingers, at the bedside of a little boy who was grimacing happily as a great black mountain Mastiff happily laundered his face, right there in the hospital bed. The deputy was quoted as saying she'd originally helped fabricate the trailer so she could take her younger siblings for snowmobile rides, and that she'd enlarged and reinforced the trailing child carrier so it could contain a certain curly-furred canine as well. When asked about this, she said, straight-faced, that "The Bear Killer makes a fine built-in heater."

It's aggravating, yes, but it's completely understandable. Consider that in a day's time we make thousands of individual decisions, and tens of thousands of information bits have to be processed. An occasional slip of the mental gears is perfectly understandable! I also read -- and have to consider it might not be wrong -- that the older we get, the more stuff we know, and simply sorting through that sheer mass of experience and knowledge, takes longer because there's more to be sorted through! We're not old. We're freaking brilliant! To this let me add -- back in '90, during the flu epidemic in SE Ohio, when I was a nurse on the Med-Surg floor -- we had every bed filled, we had beds in the hall, we were racked, stacked and packed, we agreed we nurses should have worn roller blades ... and the every last one of us started to have a bad case of the "Oh what was I going to do next?" moments. We compared notes and we were honestly getting scared, and speculation grew as to whether this was some kind of Contagious Oldtimer's Disease. By some fluke of fate, the corporate headshrinker set foot on the floor shortly before end of shift, so we buttonholed him: "Hey Doc, this is what we're experiencing, what the hell is going on here?" He laughed and said, "First of all, you're all nurses." Comparing notes later, we agreed we were debating whether to beat him to death on the spot, or later when we could avail ourselves of jack handles and ball bats. He raises his palms and said "Here's what happens. "When you come on shift, you sit for report. "During report, you automatically prioritize care to your assigned block of patients: who is seen first, who's next, meds when, bandage changes when, treatments in what sequence, who is on oxygen, who'll be seen by Respiratory, whether a patient goes down for x-ray. You're arranging priorities on your assigned block of patients. "At the same time, you're listening to report on everyone else's patients, and you're setting up the same priorities list with them, because sooner or later everyone has to cycle off the floor to drain the bladder and take a break. "Your mind then has to rewrite all this given real world changes, new admits to the floor, a patient is discharged or dies, your mind gets loaded up with such an overwhelming amount of very important information, that the human brain throws up its hands and screams "I'M OUTTA HERE!" and goes on a mini-vacation. "That's the momentary mental blank you're all describing. "It's perfectly normal, it's absolutely healthy, if our minds didn't take that emergency vacation, you would quite literally go insane from overload." Suddenly we weren't quite so alarmed at our collective mental lapses.

That great gusting sound was my big sigh of relief from this side of the Mr. and Mrs. Sippi! DELIGHTED to hear this good news! Still standing up on my knees for you both!