Nataraja and the Bull Nandi

From his vantage in a void space behind a mechanical room, the assassin Dimitri Petrov watched the tiny dials. They were his only real view of anything happening outside of his enclosure. Was this vertical shaft originally to house a large dumb-waiter, or just the current pipes and conduits? It ran from the basement to the upper floor as a cobra’s lair.

“This space is a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare.” He was at the top of a ten-story well that was only 4 x 4 feet. Two large cylinders were chained in place, further cluttering his section on the upper level. Directly ahead was the back of an air-handling unit, as the duct doubled as part of the ventilation system. Dust of decades coated the walls. Suspended now in a fall restraint harness, Shiva’s Messenger was like a spelunker in an artificial cave.

He closed his eyes and imagined the link between his sniper’s blind and the one behind the fence in Dealey Plaza. His father was alive and standing with his carbine under his jacket. Dimitri took a deep draught of the fresh Dallas air. Thank you, Carl.

Silently, he watched and listened for the infinitesimal sounds that would signal the beginning of the endgame. In his mind, he circulated his plan again, avoiding the myriad of latent disasters. His confidence needed to remain doubt free. The skills his father had instilled in him were running at peak efficiency. Shiva’s Messenger was dangling in limbo and the world took a deep breath in anticipation with him.

…

The President of the Ukraine was at Boryspil Airport to greet the U.S. President when his foot touched Ukrainian soil. There were the customary handshakes and welcoming words. Weeds performed the rituals with his usual panache. This type of formality looked good on the newsreels but it took no special effort. The toughest job was for his stylist to make him look good after his long flight. Weeds would have time to relax and have a good night’s sleep before the grueling stuff began. Good thing, too, because he felt a major dump coming on and Larry hated airplane crappers.

He slid into the limousine amid a knot of Secret Service. Their heads were craning, ever watchful for an out-of-place move that signaled danger. The motorcade whisked him through the streets of Kiev, to his waiting hotel suite. Motorcycle escorts blocked the side traffic while they swept past all lights. His guards and the Secret Service would have already checked everything. He was probably safe but alone in the passenger compartment. Larry Weeds watched the crenellated building tops, for a sniper’s outline.

“Anyone standing on a roof would only appear to be a chimney pot, until a shoulder-fired missile contrail pointed him out.” Images accompanying that thought sent Larry sliding into the corner of the limo seat, out of sight. Weeds felt the familiar knuckle of fear grip and begin to twist intestines behind his belly button.

The POTUS detail was dedicated to his protection, and they performed as well as any agency ever could. He had appropriated a vastly increased budget for his personal safety but he didn’t feel any improved comfort level. “Could any extra spending ever keep me completely safe?” The law of diminishing returns said emphatically, no. A tiny risk must be overlooked. A dedicated assassin, like the innovative Shiva’s Messenger, could always find some way. Weeds gave an involuntary twitch, at the thought of that name.

“I felt so confident of my safety in Kiev but now I’m uncertain.” The president hoped beyond dread that the assassin would show up at the Washington lure but he hadn’t. Nick Taylor must’ve been confounded by that too because Larry’s buddy hadn’t been quite the same man since. Something was different about him and it was uncomfortable. “I didn’t even want Nick riding with me in the limo.”

Under a screen of American agents, the president was ushered to his suite. It was comforting as always to see Marine guards in the corridors. There aren’t many of them: perhaps they’re tucked away out of sight. Standing back a pace, he gently lifted the shade to peek out the window. Could Shiva’s scope see through the glass? Nervously, Larry tucked the curtains, so no daylight could peek in.

“With one outcome or another,” the president referred to his alternate plan, “at least it’ll all be over.”

…

[private_Chevron]Nick had ridden crammed in with other diplomats following the president’s limo. Taylor had not been up to his usual form with his pal but his mind was actively engaged on more important matters than placating an imbecile. On part of the flight, Weeds had been animated and excited about the Ukraine visit. It could have been a state visit to Antarctica and Larry would still have been ecstatic to leave America right now. The president and the chief of staff sipped several glasses of bourbon together, while Nick casually slipped in facts about the Ukraine. Weeds usually liked it when his friend did that. Then Nick had been called away to collect a secure message.

“It’s a go for sure! Bernard was right!” Nick had nearly sung the words. The message was like a Christmas gift with even a crepe wrapping that was of some lesser value. A wiretap of a politician he’d been monitoring since learning of her prior involvement with the Akron assassin had paid a rich dividend. Judith was astute enough to understand the veiled references and so was Taylor.

“She was too upright and unassailable to play political ball but now she will.” Congresswoman Forrester would obey or watch the headline ‘phone sex with an assassin’, kill her career.

“Is that enough to keep an inappropriate or misinformed tidbit of yours from sparking an international embarrassment.” The chief of staff had flagrantly crossed the line by openly calling his chat with Larry as what it really was.

“It’s plenty for now.” Nick recalled the president’s sharp reply but couldn’t care less. The man would soon be dead and if a miracle saved him, Larry would need his subordinate brain more than ever.

The jammed second limo smelling of a long flight’s armpits arrived behind the President’s. Nick stood on the hotel’s carpeted apron and turned a lazy circle. Where would it happen? Taylor felt on the cusp of poignant history that hadn’t repeated since 1963. A person in charge of befouling the security can only do so much. I’ll make further mistakes if possible but it’s now essentially up to the assassin, ‘Nick’s’ Messenger, to complete the job.

Taylor collected the key to his suite but his mind was on the next four days. The killer had that long and several appearances in which to pull his trigger. I would love to actually speak to Shiva right now. All he would like to know was where and when. With that information, the Chief of Staff could have set him up much better. He might have even been able to provide a nice padded sniper nest, complete with an aim here arrow. Nick smiled at the thought.

Throwing his bag onto the bed, he vowed to unpack it later. Right now, he felt a familiar stirring in his lower abdomen. It didn’t matter what time zone he was in. After the limited activity of a long airplane flight, the movements of walking to get to accommodations stimulated the necessary function. Taylor headed for the commode.

Tomorrow the public appearances will commence. Each of those was a target acquisition opportunity. This meant the vice-president’s chair and maybe even more. No more cow-towing to a man who was his intellectual inferior. My presidency is going to be inspired. The deed to that was securely locked in his office safe. Nick Taylor couldn’t suppress the smile that split his face from ear to ear. Go get him, Shiva! He didn’t even dare to utter that cheer in a whisper to the walls of the washroom.

…

“In spite of it all, it’s still good to be king!” Weeds stretched out on the large comfortable bed with a sigh. He loved nothing more than foreign junkets. It was world tourism, at far above first-class style, with foreign leaders and people treating him like royalty. More than just a king, I’m an emperor of the world’s most powerful empire. Nothing but the richest royal red carpet was rolled out.

“How can I be expected to make decisions and steer the country with this hanging over me?” Well, that sounded good and maybe it would even make a great line for a speech but Weeds knew that it wasn’t intrinsically true. He didn’t make decisions. People made them for him. His inner circle made choices and then he only ratified them. The Stryker Group set their priorities but that part would change soon. I don’t even select what socks to put on in the morning: my presidential valet does that.

“I certainly don’t steer the country but that would make for a great photo-op.” There he was, standing with resolve at the helm of a great tall ship. The name America was bold across her stern and he was holding fast the wheel with his thrusting jaw firmly set against a stiff squall. Then after the pictures, a make-up artist would fuss to repair his wind-wrecked hair. Someone who actually knows what a sheet, a jib or a spleen is supposed to do quickly grabs the tiller, before the boat can careen onto a shoal.

“I think a spleen is a body organ and Nick would’ve so rudely pointed it out.” Actually Larry was sure he felt a cramp in his spleen right now that told him that he had ablutions, he had put off. It would have enough bourbon in it to be noxious to the extreme.

“It’s too late now.” One thing that he had forgotten until just now was how much he detested the toilets in Europe. It was nasty having the biffy in a separate tiny water closet room, because it seemed to make the smell more concentrated. Even worse were the German ones, where the feces sat on a porcelain shelf without dropping straight into water. He should have used the presidential lavatory on the plane.

President Weeds unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants around his ankles. He sat down onto the toilet in the small WC. At least the seat was very nice and padded. Squirming slightly, into a more comfortable position, he looked around. Maybe this tiny room with no windows wasn’t so bad after all. It was one place where he was completely safe from Shiva, the gunman assassin.

Larry was suddenly gripped by a shocking memory. Shiva’s Messenger was an enigma to the world but he knew from the file that he was actually a Russian operative. KGB Colonel Vassily Orestovich Antenenko was a highly skilled agent. He was proficient in numerous languages, multiple weapons, hand-to-hand combat, field tactics, marksmanship and demolitions. While the president’s body prepared to perform one vital function, he was sitting on an apparatus, with a dualistic design that did two.

…

In the mechanical shaft, the needle of a gauge shot up upwards and jiggled briefly before coming to rest on an increment. The weight of the president’s butt had pressured up the water gel sealed inside the outer skin of the padded seat. The conforming action of the viscous fluid gave exceptional comfort but it was there for another reason. The semi-liquid pressed onto a plunger, crafted into the barrel of one hinge. The sensor sent its signal through the internal plumbing, to the antenna that was modified to serve also as a flush plunger. The knob, on the top of the surge tank, transmitted its message to a receiver in the nearby enclosure.

“I could turn a double play on foul bowels.” Shiva’s Messenger smiled at how appropriate that was for his strike three. The other gauge had registered just seconds ago.

“This will really shock the crap out of someone.” Dimitri Petrov flipped three toggles, with latex encased hands and then electrical impulses traveled back to the corresponding bombs.

Carl had spent hours carefully crafting the component parts. The luxurious seats were constructed of C4 explosive, painstakingly molded around an aluminum core. He had dipped the work into resin to seal it from emitting any detectible explosive fumes. The structure was then encased in a bladder that held the gel. The whole assembly had been coated with layers of vinyl to give it the impression of factory make and obviously of the finest quality.

With the sensor probe assembly in one hinge, the detonator was incorporated into the other. The power supply was a battery array housed in the tank stopper. Wiring was unobtrusively inside of the plumbing and hollow threaded bolts with nothing showing on the outside. Components of the electrical schematic were waterproofed against short-circuiting.

The whole ingenuous double functionality of the toilets had sat there innocuously waiting to execute a virtuoso performance. Agents from the Secret Service had sat on them while preparing for the president’s visit. Even a member of the explosives team had been caught short and used the one in the president’s suite, without even a flicker of an inkling of what he might be sitting on. They looked, felt, smelled and functioned like ordinary German style commodes.

“Security forces never examine further when they see exactly what they expect.” Dimitri had said this to Carl, when he produced the explosives from his luggage. This was simply one step further.

Shiva’s Messenger felt the major detonation and swung slightly in his harness. A generation worth of filth shook loose into the cramped quarters. Ready for an onslaught of the choking cloud, he slipped on his mask. It was of army surplus design and he looked like a foxhole doughboy.

“Out of the trench and into no man’s land.” He pushed aside the fan unit that was no longer secured to the floor. Maintenance man Dimitri had sawed the bolts off under the base. With the equipment moved, he now gained entry into the closet sized room, where staff previously accessed the dumb-waiter. From the hallway, it looked like only the slotted face of a large furnace because the shaft had been converted to do ventilation.

[Nataraja rides the bull named Nandi.]

“Now is not such a good time but in this case I already know what you’re talking about.” Dimitri distinctly heard the sounds of nearby feet as the Marine guards began to react to the blast. No matter. Those noises would soon cease.

Shiva’s Messenger placed both of his hands over the canisters of his mask and tried a breath. Suction pulled the goggles against his face. Now wouldn’t be a good time to suffer from an improper seal. He pulled the coiled hoses from the chained metal cylinders and clamped the open nozzles onto the vent panel. Leaning back into his vacated space, he cranked the main valves to full bore.

Deadly chorine gas flooded into the hotel corridor like chemical warfare. Liberating the two heavy cylinders of the highly toxic gas from storage at the hotel pool’s purification plant and transporting them by wheeled dolly, had been the easy part. Then had come the excruciating exertion of hoisting them up ten stories by rope and pulley. It had taken supreme effort that tortured his muscles and left him sore for days.

“Some may die but as few collaterals as possible.” He spoke a quote from his father in apology to the Marines outside. One toggle had triggered a small charge above the elevator shaft to disable the electric motors that moved the cables. No additional responding casualties would die in the gas. Taking only a few seconds, the lethal poison first intensified and then stilled the movements in the corridor as the last line of defense was neutralized.

Shiva’s Messenger employed the time by disconnecting himself from his lifeline and stripping off his clothes. Naked, he was more attuned to the surroundings and he could feel individual hairs tickle any warnings. He was connected with nature, even in a man made structure: like the ultimate predator seeking the supreme prey.

The messenger stepped into the devastated hall and the bodies of three Marines lay close at hand. Trapped in the corridor’s end by the shredded wall, there had been no escape from the vaporous death. He bent and relieved one of his sidearm and ammunition: now he had his gun. ‘You don’t need to bring what the environment can provide.’ Akron had also proved that truism.

The nude assassin kicked at the door and it flew open with a shattering of wood. The metal plate secured to the doorframe flew away, leaving only the frangible wood to hold the bolt secure. Dimitri had palmed the screws when he had replaced the piece he had accidentally damaged. The ones he replaced were sawed short and these pulled free easily when subjected to a sharp impact. Shiva’s Assassin paused for an instant while he brought his new weapon to the ready position. With a deep filtered breath, he stepped over the fallen Marine and into the sumptuous presidential suite.

“No shirt, no shorts, no sympathy.”

…

President Weeds hadn’t the opportunity to begin his body’s need, when shock and awe of a next-door explosion shattered his peace. Larry’s physique tensed in reaction and his sphincter clamped. Swiftly, he pulled his trousers up and buckled them before peering out. The immediate coast was clear.

His mind steeple chased the range of possibilities for a blast so close by. It could be a major gas leak, or a catastrophic structural failure. Larry dismissed these possibilities as quickly as they fleeted in. Shiva’s Messenger is speaking out once again.

The president looked into the suite’s opulent salon room. Plaster motes hung in the air and flakes of paint shattered by the detonation fluttered. The room was empty of foe. Hearing muffled shouts and struggles outside of his door, Weeds crossed to the window to look for an alternate escape. He could see some smoke and dust emanating from the next window. That suite was assigned to the second most important man on the junket.

Larry Weeds experienced another painful dread in the pit of his stomach. He had lost another close associate. Tom Albertson had been killed right before his eyes. Now, Nick Taylor was undoubtedly just as dead in the next room. The American President wheeled to the sound of his door crashing open.

Tendrils of greenish fume preceded the masked, but otherwise starkly naked figure that stepped casually over a sprawled body. He closed the door, with the hand that wasn’t holding a gun.

President Larry Weeds watched the unclothed specter of death striding across a carpet patterned with both the intended print and the fallen debris. Recent red scars of bullet holes marked Shiva’s chest. Those should have killed a mortal and the man that killed JFK must be over seventy-years-old.

This was a vision more horrible by far than his worst surrealistic nightmare. The president shrunk away into the open bedroom door. He retreated as the Cobra of Shiva, naked as the god that he spoke for, advanced and narrowed the distance. Larry’s trembling calves impacted gently with the foot of the massive bed, the POTUS could withdraw no further. The emperor is in checkmate. The sacrificed pawns in the corridor had failed to protect.

“You cower behind walls of guards,” the assassin’s voice was steady and deadly as he removed his mask: the smell of chlorine in the room was tart as hell’s brimstone, “but I can come this close to you whenever I wish.”

Demonstrating precisely how near, Shiva’s Messenger leaned until his nose provocatively pressed against Larry’s. Weeds felt the cold aura of death that pervaded his personal space so flagrantly and maliciously, in the form of a primal naked predator. The contact of the face against his was an act so bold, he knew in the heart of his soul there was no deed so violent that this man couldn’t do.

There was no circle of protection so tight that could abate his murderous onslaught. The messenger doesn’t even need clothing! His unabashed nudity was far more spirit invasively frightening than if he had been wearing a black cowl. The president looked deep into the eyes and his vulnerable mortality was reflected in the piercing blue orbs.

John Fitzgerald pressed the cold muzzle against the temple of the man holding the most powerful office in the world and it was as his father had foretold. He felt a wave of freedom wash over him—he had never felt so completely alive. The vow was completed, because John was about to kill President Larry Weeds.

Shiva’s naked messenger thumbed the pistol’s hammer back and the metallic click marked the end of his life and his presidency. The president’s sphincter muscle unclenched in mortal terror and he completed the void that was interrupted by the blast. No! Contrary to his grandmother’s stern advice as a child—Larry Weeds would have to be found dead, with badly soiled underpants.

…

“Third time is the charm.” In the lobby of the hotel, Beth Withers watched a frenzy of futile reactions. The detonation had been subtly felt even on the ground floor. In her heart, she knew that violent death had occurred upstairs. The tenth floor explosion meant the job was done. Her Mensa club qualifications weren’t required to deduce that Shiva had slipped the flimsy cordon, to complete his triad of attacks. “Strike three: the president’s out.”

“There weren’t enough security forces present.” The only way she had got here in time to be now too late was by driving to New York after the Washington speech. Not even Eldon Browning was with her. Beth’s trained Secret Services eyes scanned the bedlam. A knot of men stood huddled at the elevators watching indicator lights that weren’t changing. Screening point attendants had joined the throng. Some men were loosing patience and slowly moving for the fire escape. “No one is effectively coordinating.”

“I can’t take command.” FBI Agent Beth Withers’ decision took a forcing of her conflicting will. She was no longer a Secret Service agent and that wasn’t her responsibility anymore. Larry Weeds had effectively terminated that career. He was now dead and while she could sympathize with the flustered POTUS men, Beth could no longer empathize with them. “I don’t even have a headset to follow what’s happening.”

“I’m here specifically, because I know what the killer looks like.” Again the young agent pressed herself to think clearly amid raging confusion. She knew his appearance as intimately as only a woman can know a man. “The Secret Service attempt to prevent has failed. Now, the FBI seeks to apprehend and that’s my job.”

The young woman’s thoughts changed gears. Remote triggering of an explosive device didn’t require the bomber to be present, or even in the same city. Still, what if he was nearby? The killer she tracked, studied and thought she knew wouldn’t randomly place a bomb and hope for a hit. He was precise. “Allen Powers would’ve been here to do it in a controlled way.”

FBI Agent Beth Withers looked quickly around. Where would he be? What is his escape plan this time? The hotel staff and the presidential entourage were in pandemonium. She wouldn’t find him in this stampede. He might not be exiting through the front. Beth hurried out onto the textured brick sidewalk.

“What if I do see him?” The young woman looked both ways in vain, or was it relief. She tried to call back the hatred she felt on the day she saw Allen’s name on the Shiva Task Force wall. The anger wouldn’t come to heart. Beth had seen too much of what he’d done.

“Was killing the president even wrong?” She asked then decided. “My answer is moot.” Agent Withers took a position near the stairs to a tunnel under the busy intersection.

“If I was hoping for a fast way to vanish,” Beth glanced over her shoulder at the descending stair, “this is where I’d go.” From here, she could observe both the main foyer door and the alley opening from the building’s rear. The agent drew her service revolver: it was the first time in her government career when this action wasn’t just for practice. “This time, there is no convenient ambulance waiting.”

…

John Fitzgerald left the Presidential suite and looked both ways. The chlorine cylinders were almost empty and the scream of gas issuing from the nozzles had dulled to a high-pitched whistle. As soon as that tailed off, the green smokescreen that sheltered his actions would swiftly dissipate. I’ll be gone by then—one way or the other. He retraced his steps to his snake’s lair. After donning his shorts and t-shirt, the assassin buckled on the harness. Taking the quick way down, he stepped into the brink and rappelled faster than an elevator to the basement.

His splayed fingers of both hands, ruffled and freed the clinging dust and plaster from his hair. This would also somewhat dispel the chlorine smell but he didn’t intend staying near anyone long enough to be sniffed. There were no fingerprints on his mask and goggles so he left those behind. After peeling off the latex gloves, he stowed them in his short’s pocket. Shiva’s Messenger stepped into his maintenance coveralls.

The sidearm taken from the Marine was a comfortable weight in the improvised cloth holster under his armpit. His coverall’s zipper was lowered to exactly the point where it would hide the weapon but allow for swift access. If guards were still monitoring the screening point then the assassin would have to shoot through to freedom.

“Hello Dimitri Petrov.” A chrome electrical fixture sufficed, though his reflected image was barely discernable. The bewildered looking maintenance worker emerged into the lobby from a basement door, next to the elevator bank. He blinked innocently at the six Secret Servicemen who were waiting with guns drawn.

One agent looked briefly at the hotel employee coming from the lower level. That was from a non-secured and low priority area. An escaping suspect would be coming from the upper floors by the other stairs or the elevator—if the damn thing was working. The agent’s attention swung away and he finger-stabbed the button four times in frustration. Dimitri walked through a milling crowd to the main entry.

The metal detector gave a squawk at his firearm but the point was unmanned. There’s no value in watching the coop’s door when the fox is already amidst the chickens.

Proceeding through the slowly turning triangular glass prison, Dimitri felt briefly trapped. He controlled the sensation by focusing outside. To his left was a stairwell into the underpass where shops lined the tunnel. That would have been a good escape route but only initially. ‘Don’t get cornered’, his father had said, ‘keep as many avenues open as possible.’ The assassin scouted and that stairwell had only three potential exits but the greenbelt across the road had literally hundreds.

Beth Withers saw the young man in the orange coveralls leave by the revolving door. Something about the way he moved slightly jostled the trigger of her recollection but didn’t quite pull it. He fit perfectly into the scene of what was natural to expect. A number of people had exited and some had entered since she had taken up station here. A few of the hotel staff had even come out for a quick smoke despite the mayhem inside.

He stepped out into the oncoming traffic but still that was normal. Others took exactly the same perilous plunge into the full traffic flow, instead of moving to the subterranean pedestrian ways. He turned towards her and the shock of recognition registered double digits on the Richter scale.

“Allen Powers!” No, it was Shiva’s Messenger in the flesh. Beth cupped her left palm under her revolver’s butt and swiveled around the stairway retaining wall. Leveling her handgun at his back, she began to squeeze the trigger. “I have to shoot: he wouldn’t hear a shout and he’s getting away.”

Beth’s fractional hesitation cost her the perfect shot. Taking two-steps at a time, a pedestrian ran up the stairs and moved into her aim. Pulling the gun aside as she fired, her bullet struck a passing car’s windshield and whined harmlessly past the assassin.

Quickly sidestepping, Agent Withers tried another fast shot but he was now running ducked below the level of the colliding traffic. He sprinted the rest of the way across the street in a crouch and leaped the short brick wall into the park. Beth’s third shot rang off of the brick wall only millimeters from where his back disappeared over it. Rising fast from a roll, he dodged around a thick tree trunk and used its girth for a shield as he raced up the gentle slope.

“Anybody! There’s a gunfight going on here!” Agent Withers was already moving into the traffic as she hollered. Her first shot had begun a chain reaction accident. The screeching of tires and the smashing of vehicles confused the sound of her further gunfire. The snipers on the buildings that ringed the other side of the hotel couldn’t hear them. On this face, the hotel had no neighbor. It only bordered on the street and a park.

The few agents present would be somewhere in the hotel. The security contingent was spread as a tiny pat of butter, delimited to only the slice of bread currently at hand. Secret Service agents were imploding onto an area around their charge.

Having escaped the closing ring, the assassin was in the clear, just as he had been in Akron. The deceased Nick Taylor had performed his own last rites brilliantly.

Where were the news crews? Probably they were patting themselves on the back over the coverage at Boryspil Airport. The president had been whisked away and then slipped into his hotel. Their drinks were costing exclusive footage of a gripping incident.

Beth couldn’t fire again yet, as she required her full attention to avoid the wrecks. She hurdled the wall and sidestepped the tree bole that he had used as a shield. Finding a good target as he reached the crest of the hill, she fired once more. He had launched into a roll over the hilltop and the projectile again missed. Withers had qualified with a marksman rating at the range but practice targets don’t dodge and dive.

John tumbled: Dimitri had vanished with the first shot. Evasion was covered in a different lesson plan. He swiveled and drew the handgun he had carried from the president’s suite. Squeezing off two pairs of double-taps, he aimed only at the tree. He didn’t want to kill whoever it was following him if he didn’t have to. Showing his pursuer that he was also armed should slow the progress, with an infusion of caution.

Shiva’s Messenger sprinted over the grass towards the wooded slope down to the Dneipr River. Ducking around a bronze bust on a pedestal, he watched his pursuer crest the hill at a dead run. He fired five shots in a pattern around the woman coming at her full-tilt. The girl dived for the ground and though John couldn’t precisely see her face, he had a very strong hunch he knew who it would be. She was one of very few people who could recognize him by sight.

“Why did I dive?” The young woman slid on the cropped lawn like a tight steal of second base. “It was reflex.” It had now cost her seconds and she knew from the tree hits that he wasn’t aiming for her. “I won’t do it again.”

Her defensive sprawl gleaned the Messenger sufficient time to jump over the lip of the bank. He ran downhill toward the river but this was definitely not his intended escape path. The slope was steeper and John’s heel slipped on a bare dusty patch. He skidded two meters on the seat of his coveralls before his feet were under him again.

“Is this for my country or really for me?” Beth’s words were more mental but her lips did move as her feet pounded toward where he had again vanished. “Do I forgive him?” It was ironic to ask, as she’d already shot with intent to kill. She topped the crest.

Spotting Beth again, Shiva’s Messenger fired another six rounds over his shoulder. They were spaced full seconds apart and they weren’t even aimed. He intended only to panic her and arrest the chase. John felt another very close miss that sprayed him with rock chips from the footbridge. She had run brazenly through his volley, without checking her speed to shirk or duck.

Now, he didn’t have time to make it far enough over the bridge to be safe and would soon be a perfect target. Changing plans on the fly, John vaulted the railing and dropped behind the bridge root. He ducked under the deck and heard her thundering feet.

“Come out, Allen!” Panting from the headlong run, Beth looked over the side of the bridge. She had him cornered and fired another round to punctuate the power in her words. The slug whined off of the structural metal and whistled away towards the water. “This chase is over! I have both of your only escape routes covered.”

John Fitzgerald grinned at the shot and stepped casually from under his concealment. Gun at his side, Shiva’s Messenger walked fearlessly up towards her and saw her weapon aimed directly at his heart. Her legs were wide splayed and she had both hands on the pistol. FBI Agent Withers couldn’t possibly miss her mark especially at this range but he kept closing the distance.

“You have no more bullets in your gun.”

I don’t want to shoot him dead but he keeps on advancing. Breathless and now mildly panicked, his words didn’t register. She pulled the trigger and the hammer struck with a resounding but harmless clack on an empty chamber.

“I’ll bet your reload is still on your dresser and you only planned to kill six men again today.” The young man had never once seen Beth take the spare rounds with her in Akron.

“It appears I might not get to kill even one.” Beth confirmed his suspicion. She certainly hadn’t expected to find herself in a running gunfight in Kiev. Her mind quickly counted the 15 shots that he had fired back at her. She looked at the standard Marine issue Beretta, in his hand. Her knowledge of weapons wasn’t extensive but she did know this one held a 15-shot clip.

“You’re empty also.” Her optimistic assumption would only level the odds slightly. He was still bigger and stronger than her: Beth was also willing to bet he was trained in hand-to-hand combat.

“That’s where you would be wrong.” John stopped four paces from her. His back was facing the span of the pedestrian bridge. He fired one shot that splashed a divot into the soft dirt. “I now have 14 rounds left. My father always drilled me to never be caught with an empty weapon.”

“I can’t back down.” Beth’s face was set in grim determination. “You’ve assassinated the President of the United States.”

“The explosion didn’t kill Larry Weeds.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“The closest I have to a real name is John Fitzgerald.” How many ways had he hurt Beth already? Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to kill. Only a leg shot if needs be, would prevent her further chase but she at least deserved to know why. “My father killed Kennedy. His motive was pure at the time but later learned he was wrong. I vowed to correct his error and I’ve now fulfilled that.”

“When all the colors have faded, John is what the chameleon really looks like.” Beth’s words weren’t questions and neither was the last, “You’re now telling me the truth.”

“Yes,” he confirmed and then held up his gun, “and this isn’t a bullet that you need to leap in front of.”

“Whether to jump is my decision to make.” Agent Withers saw an apology already in his eyes and knew he would shoot to make his escape. She had been valiant in taking on Shiva’s Messenger but the Secret Service and FBI had caused that task to be single-handed. Yet, she also had her duty to consider.

“Yes it is.”

“Tell me one thing.” A professional reason didn’t provide Beth a clear choice so a personal one might. “Knowing all as we do now, would you have done anything—differently?”

“I wouldn’t have shot at Larry’s hind-flank.” John quipped but he was moderately certain that wasn’t answering her intent.

“You know what I mean.” Beth pressed. Allen had adapted his chameleon personality to what she expected after he failed to break off the dangerous date. Judith initiated the affair without his input and against his best judgment. Interviewing Jessica had given Beth the final clues into figuring him out.

“Retrospectively,” John paused for a breath while his ex-lover’s eyes carved slices off his, “I would’ve made damn sure that you showed me that gun in the evening instead of the next morning.”

“That’s the correct answer.” The young woman smiled and she forgave him. Her official opinion would have to wait and see.

“May I ask you the same question?” John chuckled and stood in a mock cringe of the answer.

“Don’t even dream of going there.” Beth laughed at the cheekyness. “Just go.”

Agent Withers watched him turn and trot away. Every fiber of her government training was screaming at her not to allow him to get away. She fought her conditioned responses with the strength of her humanity and knew she was doing the right thing.

Shiva’s Messenger stopped at the middle of the span and turned. He smiled as he stripped off his Dneipr Palace coveralls and then waved as he tossed them over the side of the footbridge. He jogged the rest of the way in running shorts and a t-shirt. The assassin would disappear amid the fitness conscious people using the semi-wilderness area in the heart of the metropolis.

Beth took one more look at the orange slash of cloth floating in the water’s slow flow. His get-away meant the Shiva Task Force would remain active—but could she find it in herself to stay on it? “I’ll decide that after I find out what happened.” Agent Beth Withers turned and walked back up the slope. She winced at the prospect of the madhouse she was going to find at the Dneipr Palace Hotel.

…

“I don’t care that you missed Weeds this time.” Hamster Man’s nose whiskers had been brushing the television screen since news of the President’s surviving the third attack broke. John’s sudden arrival caught him unaware and emotional. Cobra Boy had said that he would either be successful or dead.

“I didn’t miss.” The grin was satisfaction with a twinge mystery.

“You only got the chief of staff and a couple of guards?“ Carl’s initial voice showed his remorse at having to break this news of the one bomb’s failure to explode. Then he twigged to the suspense in the face and realized that Shiva’s Messenger already knew that. “Don’t you dare play that game now! Give me all the strait dirt.”

“After the president had messed his pants,” John recounted the full details, “and while we were nose to nose, I told him my terms.”

“Tell it word for word.”

“The toilet in your suite is also a bomb, like the one that just killed Nick Taylor. Your body isn’t splattered all over your bathroom walls because as in Akron and Spokane, I allowed you to live. Your toilet seat didn’t detonate because there is one component not sealed. A simple short-circuited can explain how you dodged a third strike. Shiva’s Messenger missed once again.”

“I’ll bet terror was etched in him so deeply,” Carl guessed, “that it shone out his back and cast a shadow of dread on the wall.”

“From here forward, I’m the quiet power behind your throne.” John continued the retelling. “If you ever once falter, fail to obey me or tell anyone of our meeting, you’ll die. We’ll work at undoing the harms you and your corrupt predecessors have wrought. In this, you’re doing the one decent thing of your presidency. If these terms are unacceptable, I can quell your fears with a twitch of my finger.”

“What was his response?”

“He is still alive, isn’t he?” A smile lit John’s face. He had known Weeds was ready to fold when Judith had hedged her assessment based on influence Bernard Stryker wielded. The congresswoman assumed she was condemning Weeds to die. Instead, she was again helping to save his life.

“You didn’t exactly fulfill your father’s request.” Eckert noted.

“My father really asked me to right his worst wrong, even by my killing another president if needs be.” John now fondly recalled his father’s last words. ‘Deadly force in abeyance is mightier than it is in actuality.’ “Larry’s free will is gone and that’s what defines a life. I tied my strings to Pinocchio and his flesh turned to wood.”

“Weeds was already Bernard Stryker’s marionette.”

“That puppeteer still thinks his strings control Larry’s ambitions but my concealed overriding controls are snip resistant. While the president craves life, I own him”

“Bernard isn’t daft. He’ll eventually notice sluggishness in the glove-dummy’s dance.”
“Stryker isn’t the only freight train on our track. Your Shiva file will help us predict the schedules. We’ll just have to dodge or derail each as they roll through.”

“What was the relevance of the Potemkin Stair?” As they drove back to Odessa, Carl was reminded of an unasked question.

“The Office of the Presidency is the illusion of the stairs. The public’s perception is from the narrow top. Pushing the president far to the front, blocks vision of what’s behind but the eye deception is that it appears straight. The power elite looks from the opposite end and the distorted view is double what it should be. They like their width being twice as large so more coins can roll down their way. They rebuilt the stair in this skewed manner on purpose when they replaced Kennedy with their own president.”

“An interesting analogy,” his mind’s eye gave Carl a vision of the attraction in a new way, “but where do they climb from here?”

“With small changes, I plan to maneuver Larry down to the mid-point, where the width is exactly true and proper. I hope when able to clearly see both the president and staircase together, people will determine that the steps don’t quite mesh with reality and fix them.”

“The president will always be an up front and visible figure.” The ex-CIA man understood how a nearby figure or object obscured a view more than a distant one did but it seemed difficult to avoid.

“That’s not quite what I meant.” The young man thought of an alternate metaphor. “A national leader should be as a surfer on a wave. He balances the ride and also steers but in teamwork with the nose, keels and board. Power of leadership is now an outboard motor on a speedboat piloted by only a few. The citizenry bounces in the wake and chop, as a towed tube does. Even the majority has no real input into where they are pulled.

“You’re now holding the office of the United States Presidency in your hidden hand.” Eckert pictured an armed protector of Rome now able to seize it for his own. The thought wasn’t uncomfortable, as Carl now believed young John showed the wisdom to be just. “You can use it to shape the nation to what you think it should be.”

“Shiva’s Messenger only destroys to make room for rebirth.” In the passenger seat, the young man took off his shoes and socks. He put his both feet out the side window and the wind whistled through his toes. “Nataraja plans to stand behind while still able and just to prod the Nandi bull’s forward movements. Brahma’s citizens can choose where they should lead it.”

…

The world media covered the huge event of Shiva’s Messenger’s third failed attempt on the president. Jokes were cracked on about President Weeds’ ability to dodge bullets. Quips were coined about the triple threat— that tripped at the tapes. Guest experts commented and speculated on what had happened and when the next attempt might be. Bookies had to pay off the long odds to the few contrarians that betted against the terminal strike three.

The world believed one thing clearly. In Akron and Spokane, Shiva’s Messenger had deliberately not assassinated the president. In Kiev, he had truly intended to kill but only a tiny glitch caused an otherwise brilliant plot to disastrously fail. Only the bomber and the surviving victim knew otherwise.

Prior to Kiev, the media and public opinion seemed against the president and cheering Shiva’s Messenger on. Savvy politician that he was, Weeds stunned pundits and reversed the downward trend with an unpredictable stroke of genius. Demonstrating his staunchly pro-feminist stance, Larry put a decorated up-and-comer into the Chief of Staff position left vacant by the late Nick Taylor.

“Beth Withers,” the president remarked as he introduced her to the assembled cameras,” has served with distinction in the Secret Service, where her peers view her as elite. On special assignment in the FBI, her singular contributions supplied much of what we do know about the Shiva’s Messenger assassin. Who other than this woman with her credentials could be better at protecting me from further menace?”

In countering criticisms with undeniable rationale, Larry Weeds proved yet again that his strongest political attribute was the ability to take an unwavering stance, on the side of his best interests.[/private_Chevron]

The End

Reflections of the Ferryman

There was room in the drive behind the two prestigious cars but Romero parked on the street instead. He pressed the doorbell and received an almost instantaneous response. Watson’s nose must have been behind a curtain. The young Columbian was ushered into the living room.

The lawyer already does quite well for himself but he obviously yearns for more. The whole house was luxurious and very well kept. Watson’s wife, whose striking face he could see in a picture on the mantelpiece, had done a nice job of decorating. They could be standing in a page pulled from a home décor magazine. Seated on the stuffed leather sofa was a balding, overweight, middle-aged man: he wouldn’t have been pictured in any stylish publications.

An enameled coffee table held a bottle of cognac, three brandy snifters and a huge ashtray. Four legal documents were arranged with caliper precision around a golden penholder.

“Mr. Romero Escobedo,” Watson began a formal introduction, “I’d like you to meet my very dear friend and business associate, Dr. Frank Thomson. Please call him Frank or just Doc.”

“I’m pleased to finally meet you.” Romero extended a hand still wearing leather driving gloves. “I’ve heard many things about you.” None of them were complementary.

“All good things, I trust.” Frank Thompson’s hairline appeared frontally assaulted by the opposed team of male pattern baldness. The few remaining hair follicles were protected behind defensive halfbacks of protruding ears leaving a tonsure like laurel wreath made of steel wool. The man obviously cherished what was left and allowed it to grow long and bushy. The wild tufts at his temples gave the doctor’s head an apparent football shape, with his joined eyebrows as the stitching.

Watson motioned everyone to sit. The lawyer took his seat on opposite end zone of the sofa from Frank. That left the large leather upholstered chair as Romero’s bleacher seat.

The host poured cognac into the three snifters. They talked casually for the first few minutes. William and Doc each had several belts of liquor while Romero deferred. Instead, the Columbian in the audience attempted to steer the conversation to Dr. Thompson’s medical practice and his other exploits. Frank wet his mouthpiece with some alcohol and tooted his own horn.

“So I gave the guy the purgative,” in expounding some unsavory anecdotes, with himself in the lead role, Doc intentionally portrayed himself as moderately reprehensible, “and she had the aphrodesiac. Then the girl spent the night in my bedroom while her fiancé was back at the hotel seated on his toilet.”

“That’s interesting Frank.” Romero commented on the last story told but it was also to himself. Due to my being a drug lord, he believes that the worse person I think he is: the more I’ll like him. Doc Thompson was making the evaluation far too easy.

“Shall we get on with business?” Romero ended the small talk. Please cease the color commentary now Frank! The newest player had enough marks posted on the plus/minus board, for the ringer to happily zero the Doctor’s balance.

[private_Chevron]“Here are the corporation’s papers that we first discussed.” Watson picked up the first legal sheaf. It was impeccably printed and bound with a brass stud. “Please read and sign.”

Romero took the proffered document and swiftly perused it. Picking up the pen, he affixed his signature on each line indicated with a ‘sign here’ sticky.

“This one is the agreement for our partnership in your venture with a commission schedule.” Watson was almost trembling with anticipation. He handed the second document to Romero then stood to access a safe hidden behind a painting. “I’ll get the cash. As you’ll see, we managed to raise 1.5 million. With the half price rate you offered, that doubles our minimum.”

“Bill said these contracts were comforting.” Thompson asked as the lawyer worked the combination dials. “But I don’t understand how having my signature on this should bring me ease.”

“It’s not for your benefit.” The Columbian appraised the query as not showing remorse but selfishness. “It’s my blackmail against your staying faithful to our verbal agreement. You will have to ask William to explain why it’s reassuring.”

“The banks complained about parting with this much of their cash float but we do have sufficient local stature.” Watson heard the exchange and changed the subject. He planned to discuss later how the client’s request for incriminating proof showed the intent was for a long-term arrangement. It was yet one more encouraging sign of the deal’s legitimacy. “We both counted it but you may too.”

“There’s no need for that.” Romero set the case down flat on the coffee table and snapped open the clasps. It was full of neatly wrapped bundles of Canadian banknotes. “I’m certain it’s all here.”
Romero closed the case and set it down beside his chair. Picking up the pen again, he began to sign where indicated on the partnership document. That copy and the next two were signed in a rapid succession. When finished, the Columbian leaned back on the leather upholstery to watch both other men autograph their own death warrants.

As the men were signing a subtle shift was occurring within the protégé’s thoughts. It’s like a two for one Tuesday sale at the victim supply depot! Prior to now, Romero’s persona believed in his ability to deliver the drug cash. His in-character performance improved in the same way a method actor’s would.

The assassin shifted his thoughts effortlessly from his breath’s rhythm, to the cadence of his heart. On entering the realm of spatial consciousness, he could feel the weight of the Ruger nestled snugly next to his armpit. The room took on ethereal quality along with a sensation of time traveling in a slow-motion thunder of seconds. The Columbian cocaine baron methodically removed his driving gloves and he slipped them into his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” Romero began to slide his right hand under his jacket but was interrupted by the rich melody of a door chime.

“I’ll get rid of whoever that is.” Bill was also surprised by the interruption. “It’s probably a salesman or canvasser. Peddlers tend to gravitate to this affluent neighborhood.”

Neither Romeo nor the Doctor spoke during the brief absence but Frank Thompson suddenly didn’t feel as confident as he had in the moments before. He nervously looked about and avoided letting his eyes rest on the young man who was now a source of disquiet.

When Watson re-entered the room a short moment later. He was ashen faced and closely followed by a uniformed police officer. Though shorter than William by at least 4 inches, the Mountie still outweighed him owing to the pickle-barrel shape of his upper torso. A service sidearm was held loosely but aimed at the lawyer’s back.

“Sit down.” The officer pointed with the barrel of his handgun and paused while Bill apprehensively took a seat on the sofa. “I’m fully aware of what this meeting is about and I’m here for my take.”
“Sergeant Roberts is the local detachment commander,” Watson offered. “I don’t know where he’s gotten his information.”

“I have my sources.” Roberts offered a hackneyed cop phrase. In fact, he’d heard from Irene Smith, the Administration Officer for Watson and Associates.

This type of thing never happened in Creston and Roberts had been thrilled by the disclosure. It was an Irish Sweepstakes pay off, with a ticket gained on the Scotch. It couldn’t have come along at a more opportune time in his life. He had his retirement plans to consider. The clever sergeant wasn’t about to miss this chance to capitalize on his position. The Columbian cartels have prospered because they know bananas ripen better with the correct fertilizer on the appropriate palms.

“So am I in or do we all take a drive downtown?” Roberts loved melodramatic police tripe and always wanted to have an opportunity to say that particularly cloying banality.

“This is an interesting development.” Romero spoke wryly and he targeted his next statement to the two men on the sofa. “It’s your town so it’s mostly your decision. Do we cut Sergeant Roberts in for an equitable share, or not?”

“I vote yes!” Dr. Frank Thompson spoke first and confidently. The appearance of the law was actually a minor comfort for him as in the last moment he entertained doubts about the drug lord.

Sergeant Roberts turned towards Watson to add the weight of his ominous presence to the barrister’s decision process.

“I say yes also.” William was rattled by the jolt of this rock on the smooth road.

Romero moved as the policeman swiveled. His gun slipped quickly out from underneath his jacket and stuttered twice in rapid succession. He paid this graft with two ounces of the heavy metal of lead in lieu of gold. Two smallish wounds showed on the Sergeant’s left temple. Officer down! The young killer mentally added a final bit of police jargon as massive internal damage beyond the visual marks crumpled the policeman’s corpse to a heap.

“Motion carried.” That was rather easy. The first kill since his father had been without the slightest hesitation. Romero swung his gun to face the sofa.

“In fact, I’d like to table another ballot.” There followed another double-punt from the Ruger’s suppressor. Frank Thompson’s head kicked back over the uprights of his two ears. Two blood red scores were posted above the one long dash of his single eyebrow. Touchdown! The body remained seated but with eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Doc’s lifetime clock had run down to zero and his team’s spirit would now be watching the soul’s instant replay.

“Who agrees that we give Dr. Thompson his rightful share of the take right now?” Romero turned the gun to face Attorney at Law William Watson, Esquire.

“W-Why?” Watson sputtered in shock. Disposing of the cop demanding payment for a crime license, he could understand. But he couldn’t comprehend what motivated Romero to also shoot the doctor, unless he was next? One look at the deathly resolve on killer’s face and a perfect view down the black hole of the muzzle added up to a sum that William hadn’t ciphered into the equation. Uncontrollably, his bladder let go.

“Why is a very good question and the answer will surprise you.” Romero was cool as a concrete slab in a shady arbor. “You are a greedy man. Who gets hurt for your personal gain doesn’t matter to you. Drugs ruin people’s lives but that wasn’t important, as long as you got your piece of the profit. Your friend the good doctor was just as unscrupulous as you. He knew the harm cocaine causes, yet was eager to reap the financial rewards of complicity. I would’ve had to kill the policeman regardless but I was comforted to find he wasn’t just an innocent man doing a dangerous job. The RCMP doesn’t need corrupt opportunists like Roberts.”

“Why me? Why here?” William had several quick rejoinders for the jury foreman’s surprise verdict. “Many people are immoral.”

“More good questions that I’ll be happy to answer.” Though Romero continued to move and gesture normally as he spoke, the gun remained as immobile as a bronze statue. “Here is as good a place as any for a lesson to be taught. The societal value of Cindy Smart practicing medicine again, greatly outweighs any money you and Dr. Thompson could make at her expense. My motives aren’t complicated. Only my methods are.”

William Watson recalled the malpractice case. He’d made a lot of money and got plenty of free publicity out of ruining Dr. Smart’s career. Thompson had helped him fudge the medical testimony. Looking back, he realized there were many other things in his life that he should have done differently. Now sitting on his Chesterfield in a puddle of urine, the time for atonement was past.

The condemned lawyer studied the killer’s dispassionate face. The elements of the sting fell neatly together—just slightly too late. “Your name isn’t Romero and you probably have never even been to Columbia. You might not even be Spanish.”

“No, Romero’s not my name.” John dropped the persona and the accent with it. “I’m neither part of a cocaine cartel nor a Latino.”

“We’d still be here now,” The lawyer looked sadly at his money, “even if I had flipped the coin and won.”

“That offer was my dice roll and it came up snake-eyes when you refused it. You crapped out and it also gave me Dr. Frank Thompson as a side bet windfall. Now I don’t have to assume a doctor persona, to meet him at a medical seminar.”

“Have you killed Jessica to keep her silent?” The lawyer tried a new tactic. His life was all in on the table against the highest trump of the gun. Perhaps a reprieve could be found in a push with a wild card of feigned concern for another’s welfare.

“Dealing Jessica as my queen of hearts forced me into playing a dangerous bluff but I can’t regret that.” John saw through the ploy. “My time spent with her was more rewarding than the cash or Frank combined. Your worry for Jessica sharply juxtaposes with scheming to manipulate and demean her. If Cindy Smart wasn’t motivation enough, Jessica Ellis taught me the true measure of your character.”

“Who are you?” William folded his hand and asked to see the winning hand even though he had no chips left to call it.[/private_Chevron]

“I’m Shiva’s Messenger.” On seeing a puzzled expression, John added. “At your final destination you’ll understand perfectly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Even a cold wetness in his trousers was bliss compared to the prospects awaiting him. “I haven’t lived a very good life and I’m sure where I’m headed won’t be pleasant.”

“You don’t have to fear death or what’s beyond it.” John’s consoling voice was as unwavering as his gun hand. “We all go to a better place, no matter what we’ve done. I’ve been there and back, so I know this to be true. That is also comforting to me because I can hasten your mortality while still retaining my morality.”

“Can I talk you out of it somehow?”

“We both know how this conversation has to end. I doubt you would enjoy your continued existence very much, even if I allowed you to live. Two dead people are in your home and you’re the focal point of the drama. But I’m not speaking with you now to negotiate for your life. I’ve only given you an opportunity to prepare yourself.”

“Thank you.” William couldn’t quite rationalize why he’d just thanked the man who was about to kill him. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. He thought about the inevitability of his death. There was no way to dismiss the specter. It was now upon him. Would it be a good place—even for him? Why would the messenger lie now, when he had dropped his other pretenses?

Glancing one final time at the murderer, the lawyer thought about his money in the case. He’d paid a dear price for a smooth crossing of the River Styx. But as his fear of the unknown ebbed away, he felt the Ferryman was delivering a fair exchange.

“I’m ready now.” William Watson looked back down the barrel of the handgun. He briefly registered the first muzzle flash but was oblivious to the second.

[private_Chevron]John ejected the magazine and refilled it with six loose rounds from his pocket. The clip slammed home and the Ruger dove back into his holster. Nothing had been fingered without gloves in this house and he now put them on again. As he collected his six spent casings, he considered other things he may have handled. In the law office, he’d used public door handles where prints were now obliterated. With all documents, he’d only touched the edges. If Jessica were to allow her body dusted in any number of places, his jig was up. That thought produced a smile.

After picking up the briefcase full of money, he took one final look at the bodies of his victims. He hadn’t balked as his dream at the springs foretold. His kills had been both effortless and without the slightest remorse. My mind’s gem produced a pure laser beam. In his heart, John believed he had done the right thing. His father killed while retaining his honor and so had the assassin’s protégé.

“I’m not exactly sure where I pulled Shiva’s Messenger from but it is appropriate.” John explained the name to the unappreciative dead. “Operation Shiva was originally postmarked at Dallas in 1963 and I’m the letter carrier tasked with delivering the overdue reply.”

Since he was wearing his gloves again, there was no problem locking the door of the beautiful upscale home behind him. A police unit was parked in the drive where it blocked the path of both luxury vehicles. He climbed into his own sports car and drove away.

“Those two can’t phoque with you anymore.” As he passed the convenience store, he saw lights in the apartment above. “Good bye, Doctor Mom. Go back to the career you love and deserve.”

“Where to next?” John wondered as the BMW Z5 wheeled out of the town of Creston and headed for the Trans Canada Highway. “Now that’s an exceptionally good deception: they’ll see where I’ve been but even I don’t know where I’m going.”

…

Oddly enough, none of the three dead men were reported as missing. The bodies went undiscovered until Saturday afternoon. A neighbor grew concerned about the parked police car and called the detachment. Finally, a patrolman peeped in the windows and that saved Lenore Watson from witnessing a grisly scene on return from her shopping weekend.

An event of this magnitude doesn’t remain a secret very long in a small town. Irene Smith came forward immediately on hearing the news, relating the probable drug connection and of her reporting it to the recently deceased detachment commander. While that tidbit pointed at a potential suspect, it also raised speculations regarding the officer in question.

The police department issued one “cannot comment until confirmed” after another. The local newspaper covered the story on the front page for four issues in a row: that’s a long time for a weekly. The story even got some airplay that lasted a couple of days in the rest of the country. Then it was over and forgotten, everywhere but in Creston.

…

“There are still uncomfortable shadows in here for me as well.” Jessica noted Cindy’s eyes roaming the office that was previously William Watson’s. The young lawyer had moved swiftly in making an offer on the business. The Widow Watson was eager to keep the practice operational with herself as a silent partner, as her husband had drained all funds from their accounts before he was killed.

“The only specters I’m concerned about might be lurking in yellow striped pants.” Cindy had also been quick about capitalizing on her opportunity. The town had been left critically short of medical practitioners. She arranged an appointment with the lawyer on a sham of reestablishing her professional corporation but that could wait until her more pressing issues were resolved.

“I’m already intrigued.” Jessica went to the sofa with her very first new client. The other accounts were included with the package along with the office fixtures. “I’ve found myself occasionally driving behind you, so I know it’s not regarding speeding tickets.”

“Was that you honking?” The doctor saw the results of crashed cars and piloted her vehicle with due caution—and then some.

The casual ease between the two women might seem odd to people in larger centers. Their acquaintance was only to the depth of a nod and a smile in a grocery aisle. Yet each could likely recite accurate histories of the other, from the casual chats with a web of shared contacts in a small town. Jessica’s aunt was a cheerleader with Cindy in high school. Cindy’s late husband’s nephew was also the young lawyer’s previous boyfriend. Ironically, Doctor Smart had even treated a teenaged Jessica Ellis for late-onset Measles.

“As seen in the perspective of life’s rearview mirror,” the doctor got to the critical topic after the pleasantries were finished, “many mysterious details fit together in a previously unimaginable way.”

Cindy told the tale of Roger, from a collapse in the store to the odd offer of repayment at parting. Being wanted by the law would make him as leery of a hospital as a Jehovah’s Witness. Perhaps the young fugitive had even known the store’s proprietor was the physician he desperately needed. He had called her ‘Cindy’.

“The only thing I can truly attest about him is that his Measles were defiantly not a put-up job.” Cindy finished the elucidation.

“This puts you in a situation.” Throughout the retelling, Jessica had noted many similarities between Roger and Romero. The key one being that probably nothing was factual about him either. “Have you spoken with the police?”

“Not yet and I’m of mixed feelings about whether I should.” As a wise precaution Cindy wanted legal advice first. Who better could she ask than a lawyer currently in the same tenuous situation?

“I’m to understand you are also wavering in stance. At first people were suggesting you suffered from Stockholm syndrome but recently your accounts reflect a suitable suffering at hands of a murderer.”

“Psychological trauma to a point of sympathy with captors isn’t treated with pills so I’m not going to trade medical advice for free legal services.” She retorted to Cindy’s obvious awareness that the response to casual queries Jessica gave, had changed intentionally. Many people, especially those prone to gossip, didn’t accept that a pleasant seeming man could commit a horrible crime. The victim had inserted some fictitious sinister elements to avoid the invariable follow-up questions.

“Nor would I ask.” Cindy smiled. “I’m here mostly to compare what we know, to ascertain if my Roger was also your Romero. If the two personalities mesh, I have some difficult decisions to make.”

The two professional women, one older and the other younger, talked through some shared impressions. The similarities in sense of humor, overall body type, hair length, facial features and amicable personality traits swiftly emerged. On the converse side were the accent, skin and hair color along with numerous other differences.

“If Romero was only pretending to be a Latino, the performance was masterful.” Jessica recalled how he spoke in Spanish with one waiter with the apparent ease of a native tongue. “Even in the night, at particularly intimate moments, he still had the inflection.”

“Skin could be darkened at a tanning booth over the elapsed week.” Cindy recalled his base tan and imagined it intensified. “Did you notice lighter colorations—uh—anywhere?”

“He didn’t wear swim trunks at the beach.” Jessica smiled at a blush of embarrassment on her client’s cheeks. “Retrospectively, his palms didn’t match but I discounted it as a racial peculiarity. I’ve seen people of African decent with a marked difference on their hand’s flipped sides. That calls to mind his hairs color. Romero’s was black as midnight—everywhere. As his doctor, did you ever catch a glimpse of Roger’s—nether regions?”

“I would’ve seen that prominently even if I was his accountant.” Cindy’s abashed discomfort skyrocketed and she regretted where the word ‘prominently’ was placed. “He had an aversion to clothing. His sun-bleached hair in a light brown tone matched as if natural.”

“A nudist tendency is another similarity.” Jessica also recalled the day on the mountain where Romero stalled putting his clothes on until the last possible moment. “He was so close to the highway that a turned face in a passing car could’ve seen.”

“Should I take my evidence to the police?” Cindy took a deep breath for a possible plunge into a law-enforcement piranha pool. Their discussions still hadn’t concluded linkage—with all certainty.

“I’ll take your last words as your own musing. If you bluntly ask me the question you were pondering, my professional ethics would dictate advising disclosure—even if I personally felt you’d be much better off remaining quiet.” Jessica worded a careful answer. “You have compelling reasons for not mourning the deaths of Watson and Thompson. I also don’t miss William and personally, I found Frank creepy. On his frequent visits to Bills office, his eyes on me almost caused him to walk into walls. The only time I saw him medically, it bordered on a groping session in a theater’s back row.”

“I often heard that about him with attractive female patients.” Cindy’s mind though was more on her present dilemma. “I suppose my civic responsibility—”

“You didn’t allow me to finish.” The lawyer interrupted. “You and I each benefited from the killings. Anything we officially say will be used in evidence.”

“Could be used,” Cindy corrected, “if we had complicity.”

“Maybe, but the officer’s death hugely changed the situation. The police are slavering for any conviction to avenge the loss of one of their own. Even pinning an unwarranted accomplice tag would help slake the bloodlust.”

“The street talk is he was dirty,” Cindy offered, “but was he?”

“Irene Smith informed Sergeant Roberts personally. Cops, like wolves, tend to operate in packs.” Jessica digressed to answer. “So why would he be there without any backup? He went stealthily in like a ‘graft-y’ fox. That’s not officially confirmed and it won’t be.”

“An investigation would still prove my non-involvement.” She caught the stressed keyword but Cindy decided against further talk on the tangent course.

“The reverse is far more likely. Police never investigate as per any dictionary definition of the word. They play a matching game to draw lines connecting a crime with a suspect—with their crayons.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Cindy’s expression could’ve asked.

“After a blaze, a fire department investigates and studies every detail. Sometimes it’s arson but on other occasions something else like electrical was the cause. If police methodology investigated fires, it would always be determined as arson because that’s all they want to find. A shorted junction box would be discounted as if not seen, because it doesn’t support the desired firebug theory.”

“Even if the police think it was arson they still don’t have a fire starter.” Cindy countered.

“If a bystander says ‘I had a match but only lit my cigarette’, the police just hear the ‘I had a match’ portion.” A factor in Jessica’s choosing her profession was her once seeing an older cousin wrongfully convicted. “Police supply the crown council with material and it’s always in support of a guilty verdict. The role of police is to get convictions and objectivity cuts the chances of putting a perp in the slammer—even if the perp didn’t perpetrate.”

“If I go to the police they’ll start trying to prove I requested the murders.” Cindy was certainly glad now that she came to Jessica before making a costly mistake. She was relieved that she hadn’t even told her mother. That would’ve meant the whole town would know by the day after.

“Aggressively so because a cop is dead.” The lawyer added.

“What will I say to the police when they come to me?” The doctor had another thought and with it a worry. “I can’t lie.”

“I don’t think you need fret that.” Jessica chuckled, as she was about to show her further contempt for RCMP abilities. “Here, the death of the officer even helps your situation. A real investigation might attempt to ascertain if your benefiting was a translation of your complicity. Even if by some miracle one of the officers thought to look deeper, he probably wouldn’t. They don’t want to see if Officer Roberts was guilty. The police knew I was with the killer before he acted and I’ve been a beneficiary but the surveillance on me stalled at my cleavage. If they haven’t contacted you yet, I doubt they will.”

“They did check out your alibi, didn’t they?” Cindy mused.

“They didn’t ask me for one.” Jessica’s eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh my God! With everything else I never thought of that!”

“What?” The doctor started.

“He left it on purpose!” The young woman’s mind up-shifted. “The policeman wasn’t expected but Romero handled the situation. The graft element complicated the situation but that’s not the pivotal piece in the police investigation—or lack thereof.”

“What is the important part?” Cindy urged as the girl paused.

“Romero left the signed contracts at the crime scene.” The whole town seemed aware of each fact but in this instance Jessica had first-hand knowledge. She was shown the documents and asked to confirm Watson’s signature and the company letterhead. “Why did a Columbian drug lord, if he was that, leave his name in evidence? If it was just a million dollar sting, as is more likely, why would a con artist leave the incriminating papers either?”

“He forgot them in haste or panic?” Cindy offered a guess.

“Romero was neither jittery nor rushing. I felt some information was missing about him, as you did, but at the very most I might’ve expected it to be a wife and kids at home in Columbia. That makes me judge him as a consummate professional. He wouldn’t overlook contracts and in fact, why did he even bother to get them signed? Why didn’t he just shoot, grab the money and run?” Jessica’s admiration for the criminal soared to a still higher plateau. “Roger or Romero, intentionally supplied the proof for yours and my benefit. He took the blame onto himself by leaving an irrefutable motive.”

“I’m not comfortable with the motive.” Cindy wasn’t referring to the contracts but to the other implied reason. “I’m not happy about my blessings being at the cost of three lives.”

“We can’t be certain that was foremost in his mind.” Jessica could empathize as she felt a tiny pang of that too. “He also walked away with a lot of money but maybe that wasn’t all of it either. I don’t know about your Roger but my Romero had depths of strata that I wasn’t even close to core sampling into yet.”

“If we can see several reasons then the investigators can too.” She swallowed the main motive issue for now but as a ruminant cow would, Cindy’s mind intended to later chew it like a cud.

“The RCMP aren’t any smarter than their horses.” Jessica felt the assessment may even be insulting to the mounts. “They often can’t fathom a single motive. It’s up to the trial process to ascertain that. A stallion’s hoof tapping out the value of pi is more likely than police following all tracks from a multifaceted scenario. Not asking for my alibi shows the police are trotting along a line of placed carrots.”

“You display an awfully harsh opinion of law enforcement.” The doctor allowed many to slip by but the equine IQ merited comment.

“My plea is guilty as charged.” Jessica grinned grimly. “A path to my career swerved around the easier route of starting off in crown council. I couldn’t stomach the RCMP on a daily basis. We should get together over a lunch and I’ll tell you horror stories.”

“I accept and gladly.” Cindy felt the same growing rapport that Jessica displayed in her invitation. “So, our session is done and the advice is to just shut up and enjoy the boon?”

“Doctor Smart, that is an excellent piece of advice that you just gave me.” The lawyer intentionally misinterpreted the non-definitive question as a statement. “Jessica Ellis will personally follow it.”

“The physician will take her own prescription as well but Cindy Smart expected her legal bill would absolve her of that decision.”[/private_Chevron]

Nursing Mom and the Apron Strings

Returning from her late night mercy mission, Cindy found her worst fear confirmed.  The young man wasn’t alive.  She knew on only a glance but wouldn’t give up yet.

“Wake up!”  She yelled at his slack, peaceful face.

Cindy pinched his nose and tilted his lifeless head back.  Sealing her lips over his, she blew a breath into his lungs but felt the resistance of the fluid inside.  Her fingers groped his neck for the pulse point to prove his flat-line.  She pounded her fist down onto his chest in a hard pericardial thump.

“Breathe!”  Cindy resonated to the newly deceased.

She slapped his face and pinched him.  Listening to his chest, she could detect a flutter of a heartbeat.  She blew him another life-sustaining breath but this time she forced as much as she could into his lungs to dislodge some congesting phlegm.

“Where’s that will to live?”  Picking up the bucket used to wash him, she dashed it over his upper body.  The water had now grown cold.  He convulsed and the next shallow breath he took on his own.  Her fingers found the carotid artery again.  The throb of life was there but tentative.

“Show me some backbone.”  She spanked his cheeks hard enough to make them pink.  “You’re not going to die on my watch.”

[private_Chevron]Roger opened his eyes wide and struggled to focus.  He looked into her face with bewilderment and then clenched his lids shut, as a wrenching pain throbbed in his head.  He tried to speak but was interrupted by more coughing and then unconsciousness.

“How long were you out for?”  Obviously, he couldn’t know but the question to satisfy her primary concern.  Had he suffered brain damage?  She wouldn’t know until he was alert.

“The blood needs a richer brew.”  After placing the ventilator over his nose, she started the oxygen flow.

“That immune system needs to fight back with reinforcements.” The doctor administered the antibiotic injections.

After performing the active measures necessary, Cindy reclined on the bed beside him.  She propped a pillow under her arm and monitored his condition.  It was would be a long night but the woman smiled.  In taking care of someone, Dr. Cindy Smart was doing the one thing she missed more intensely than a lost childhood pet.

…

A metallic twang of the bottled air flavored John’s first waking breath.  His lids flickered enough to see light but he didn’t open his eyes yet.  He was surprised at being alive but was uncertain about whether to be happy about it or not.  Death wasn’t what I imagined it to be. Casually supposing the end of life would be only a long darkness, he’d been amazed at eternity’s vibrancy. The fledgling assassin’s kittenish condition permitted only a weak smile.  I have my own rock crystal.  The facets might be cut differently than my Dad’s but mine can bend photons to emit the cutting ray.

“Death so young would’ve been tragic.”  Cindy detected the eye movement and took it as indicating consciousness.  In response, the patient opened his eyes and focused.  The doctor removed his oxygen mask.  “Are you back to stay this time?”

“I hope so.”  His voice was almost a gasp.  Looking at her for almost the first time, John saw her hair was honey blond, cut shorter than mid-length and curled up at the ends.  Her appearance still marked her more as a professional woman than a store clerk.

“You are one exceedingly fortunate boy.”  She smiled at the gross understatement.  His collapsing in a convenience store staffed by a doctor of medicine was somewhat more than just convenient.

“What time is it?”  His eyes traveled the room and the sunlight streaming through the windows caused him to squint.

“It’s late afternoon.  You’ve slept for over 12 hours.”

When his condition stabilized, Cindy had allowed herself to catch a few brief periods of sleep while remaining close at his side.  Now that he was speaking lucidly, she was relieved his brain hadn’t suffered from too much oxygen deprivation.  That made a prognosis good for a full recovery.

Cindy made him some more broth and gave him juice to drink, but he needed to urinate.  After helping him to stand, she supported him on the walk to the toilet.  Still extremely weak, he was trembling from the exertion.  Being nude, he wouldn’t have to fumble at a zipper but he nearly swooned while reaching for himself.  With his one arm draped around Cindy, he needed the other hand against the wall for support.

“I’ll help.”  Seeing his inability to perform a vital function, she took hold and aimed him at the bowl.  As a medical professional, she wasn’t prone to squeamishness regarding the intimate service.  Strangely, the young man didn’t seem embarrassed by it either.  Cindy’s mind added another question mark to her growing list.

Her womanly hand holding his masculinity in a supportive way caused him to look and thank her with his eyes.  Cindy was bathed in a nearly horizontal afternoon ray and an unreadable expression graced her smile.  “You seem a goddess of the sunshine.”

“Uh,” given the current highly intimate touch, the female doctor hesitated at how to respond to such a compliment, “thank you.”

“How can I repay you for everything?”  After he was finished relieving himself, John was assisted back to the bed.

“There’s no extra billing on human compassion.”  The attending doctor smoothed a cool fresh sheet over his chest with a maternal caress.  With the back of her hand against his forehead, Cindy felt that his temperature had dropped marginally.

“It was more than just that.”  The touch of her warm hand on his skin comforted John in a manner he had never experienced.  “Most people would have turned me away or simply called the police.”

“I almost did.”  Cindy stirred the broth and prepared to nourish him again.  “I thought you might be either drunk or on drugs.  Then I recognized your symptoms.  You have pneumonia and I can confirm your self-diagnosis.  I’ve seen plenty of Measles before.”

“Luckily, I stumbled into someone who knew what was better for me, than I did.”  He stammered.

“Were you a nurse?”

“A nurse!”  She feigned indignation with a playful slap on his chest.  “Why you sexist little wretch!  I’m a physician.”

“A doctor?”  The patient already knew this before arriving in Creston but this was a good segue into the topic he really wanted to discuss.  “Why are you operating a convenience store?”

“This is my job.  I don’t even own the store.  I just manage it for wages and free rent on this apartment.”  How many times had Cindy now explained her situation?  “The reason I’m not working as a doctor is a long sad story you don’t have to hear at this moment.  Right now, you need chicken soup for your health.  The Canadian Medical Association may not recognize the medicinal qualities of consommé but I do and I’m the doctor.”

John’s eyes smiled as the woman helped him to eat it.  Her insistence seemed such, that the spoon would’ve gone in whether his lips opened or not.

“Now you’ll get some more sleep.”  Cindy collected the last drop from his chin before putting the spoon and bowl aside.  “I‘ll nap on the chair.  So just holler out if you need anything.”

“That doesn’t sound comfortable.”  John budged over.  “This is your bed and you can sleep beside me.  I’m too weakened for you to fear anything from me.”

“Maybe you’re too feeble to be worth much.”  Cindy quipped but judged the space on the bed as much better than a lumpy chair.  For a while, she listened to his breathing grow deeper.  She briefly dozed and on awakening found, he had rolled onto his side.  An arm was draped over her. It felt nice sleeping in someone’s embrace again, not for sexual reasons but for a human feeling of closeness.  Doctor Smart sighed.  A tenderness of contact and her bone weary tiredness, gave her the best sleep she’d enjoyed in years.

…

Cindy awoke to a masculine scent, absent so long from her life, now it was better than the smell of coffee brewing.  A naked young man was in her bed and she didn’t even know his name.  She giggled but tried to do so without jiggling.  With careful movements, she extricated herself carefully to avoid waking him.  Sleep was exactly what he needed most.  She noted his vital signs then adjusted the flow of oxygen.  Mentally the doctor moved her patient onto the recovering list.

After picking up his scattered clothing, she carried them over to her laundry area.  As she emptied the pockets of his jeans, Cindy noted only some small change and a set of keys in one pocket.  Strangely, the fob just held vehicle keys.  Her collection looked like a jailor’s ring and she had no idea what half of them unlocked anymore.  In the other pockets, she found a motel key and a wallet.

“Roger Connors.”  She peeked at his British Columbia driver’s license.  Why had he refused a hospital?  Her assumption on that he was an American was obviously false.  Cindy threw his clothes into her laundry machine and bustled to domestic duties foregone since his arrival.  An employee was manning the store below.

“Wake up, Roger.”  Later, the doctor jiggled her patient’s heel.  “How are we feeling this morning?”

“I feel like crap.”  John rolled onto his back and stretched.  He caught the use of his name and thought about his pseudo-identity as fast as his fuzzy brain allowed.  “I feel like I died and shouldn’t have been brought back to life.”

“Feeling like crap is a vast improvement over the other night.”  Cindy pulled the curtains back, sending a shaft of sunlight into his eyes.  “Should I bring you breakfast?”

“No, I want to get up.”  He blinked at the dazzle then inched out of the bed to use the washroom.  His identity ritual was performed in the vanity mirror with a whisper.  “Good morning Roger Connors.”

From his face, his eyes drifted to his chest where the itchy pox pulled at his fingernails like electromagnets.  He fought gamely back and restrained the urge with only gentle rubs.  His head still ached but not as badly as it had.  He coughed hard and the action brought up chunks of lung mucus so big he almost had to chew before spitting.  Yuk—there’s another nasty to be pushed out of mind!

“Tell me something about yourself?”  Cindy heard his shuffling feet in the nearby bedroom.

“There’s not much to tell.”  While he hunted for his clothes, he recited some of the quick ‘facts’ that Roger knew and a reasonable chain of events that brought him here.  He ended his monologue with a plausible excuse.  “My family are Jehovah’s Witness but I needed my own answers.  I guess I’m trying to find myself.”

“Just look in a mirror.”  His tale had pre-empted what her next question would’ve been.  Not believing in blood transfusions would make someone of that religion leery of hospitals.

“I won’t see a reflection in the glass until I satisfy a commitment first.”  Roger offered and then regretted, as the comment made him sound like Count Dracula.

“Are you a vampire that religiously can’t take blood?  That’s too funny.”  Cindy had her back to him while cooking the ham and eggs.  She turned to find a male sitting casually buck-naked in her kitchen.  “Exactly what do you think you’re wearing at my dinner table?”

“No shirt, no shorts, no service.”  He sheepishly quoted his Dad.  “My clothes have disappeared and since you’ve already seen me—I just didn’t think about it.”

His father had chided him about not being dressed for a meal but other than that, he had no problem with the preference for being natural.  ‘If you’re comfortable in your own skin then everything else fits like a glove.’

“The human body is beautiful,” she couldn’t help laughing, “but surely your mom or at least your minister told you to put something on at mealtimes!”

“All the time but what boy ever listens?”  Oops, maybe being too casual was a slip up.  Other than that Jehovah’s Witnesses shunned blood transfusions, the only other thing he knew was they worshipped on Saturday instead of Sunday.  Maybe they were puritanical zealots that believed they were born already in a diaper.

“You must’ve had a sheltered life.”  Cindy was still chuckling as she fetched her pink robe for him.  Her knowledge was also limited but it was odd to see a member of any creed quite so unabashed.

“You’re fairly old to contract the Measles.”

“We lived in an isolated place.”  He went on to tell her about the little girl at the hot spring.  Then he confessed about the frosty dips in beckoning lakes and streams.  ‘Use truth in liberal quantities where you can with specifics changed to protect the identity and purpose.’

“Oh, to have back the immortality of adolescence.”  She sighed wistfully.  “I know your ID says you’re 20 but your innocence makes me conclude you’re more like ten.”

“Actually, I’m only one day old because having died, I’m on life number two.  Cats get nine.  How many do we humans get?”  He felt reborn but with a new vision from having seen life from both sides.  Death is a gift.  It was as his father’s promised reward on completing his mission.  He wouldn’t focus on it but embrace it when it arrived.  Just realizing that was a liberating feeling.

“Then you’ll be about my age before you’re legal to drink.”

“I’ll use fake I.D.”  Roger almost gagged a telling such a bald-faced truth on an identity issue.  “I think I’m strong enough now to give you back your bed.  I’ve got a motel room.”

“No you are not!”  Cindy voice left no wiggle room for argument.  “You have Measles and pneumonia.  Your temperature is still way above normal and you’re on antibiotics. I’m not taking you off the oxygen until I’m good and certain your lung function has stabilized.”  She added finger wagging.  “You’ll stay right here until you’re well.

“Okay.”  The patient meekly accepted her rebuke but his eyes misted over.  He knew Cindy was trying to be the doctor but her scolding seemed more as what a mother might sound like.

Over the next few days, Cindy nursed him back to health.  She made a steam tent with a sheet and some chairs, to sooth his lungs with mentholated moisture.  Interspersed with foul tasting spoonfuls of medicine, they had pleasant conversations.  He had magazines by the bundle when she worked in the store.  The motherless boy reveled in being coddled by a motherly hand, for the first time.

When she wasn’t working shifts, his proxy parent entertained him with games of Scrabble.  Both were pleasantly surprised by the others extensive vocabularies.

“What’s that?”  Roger laughed as the doctor, who possessed decorum to the point of elegance, placed her letter tiles.

“It’s a legitimate word!”  She prickled with embarrassment but the points provided at this pivotal stage of the competition, made it worthwhile.  She’d never say this four-letter word out loud but in Scrabble, it was a perfectly acceptable—if it tallied to a good score.

“If you mean the French word for seal, the aquatic mammal, I believe p-h-o-q-u-e is the proper spelling.”  Roger refused to let her get off quite so easily.

“This spelling,” Cindy’s cheeks glowed a color of sealing wax, “is an English slang term and it’s in some dictionaries.”

Sometimes he invented some good stories to tell but enjoyed listening to her true ones better.  Finally, he begged the ex-doctor to relate the long sad story of why she no longer practiced medicine.

“I had a patient about your age.”  Cindy sighed resignedly and repeated the sordid tale.  Despite her best efforts, the motorcycle accident victim had succumbed to his major injuries.  The parents had sued and an aggressive lawyer used tactics that were straight out of Hollywood scripting.  With expert testimony, the litigator won his case and a huge settlement from her and the clinic’s malpractice insurance. Cindy attempted to give the grimy story a bubbly ending.  “Bankruptcy and unemployment builds character.”

“The financial loss is understandable but why can’t you still work as a doctor?”  Roger mined a vein he’d assayed at the library.

“I’m an unacceptable liability for the clinic.”  She paraphrased words the senior doctor had used.

“The case set a president and if a tongue depressor hits a tonsil too firmly, I might be back in court.”

“Why would patients be expected to complain to a lawyer?”

“This is a small town and everyone knows what happened.  People know the lawyer is ready to pounce at the drop of a scrub cap and the expert testimony set to leap in support.”  She resignedly sighed.  “A lure of cash tends to overbalance decency and patients might even come lurking for a rich settlement.”

“Can’t you move your practice to where you’re not vulnerable?”

“Creston is my hometown and I like it here.  My husband and my father are buried in the cemetery.  My mother needs my help.  Managing a c-store isn’t as satisfying but it keeps the wolves in the hills.  Some friends are still my patients.”  Cindy forced a chuckle she hoped would conceal her hurting.  “I also have the odd stranger collapsing in my store to keep my skills honed.”

“What would happen if the lawyer left town?”  Roger pressed with a feigned innocence.

“That would help but he’s not the only problem.”  Cindy had mused this topic before but the question had never popped up in a conversation.  “The clinic’s senior practitioner would never approve my reinstatement either.  His billing base of patients deepened when I left the practice.”

The talk was swiftly overwhelming her attempt to look stoic and Cindy pressed for an end.  “I have to be content with my life.  Bad things happen and that’s simply the way of the world.”

“Jehovah prefers the nasty things happening to bad people.”

“Dream on.”  As engaged in the process of getting up from her chair, Cindy missed a sly look on her patient’s face.  “And speaking of which, I’m off to dreamland.”

“Me too.”  As Roger followed he peeled clothing to sleep in the raw, as usual.  They had continued to share the comfortable bed.

“If I got you some pajamas, would you even look at them?”  His accustomed birthday sleeping suit wasn’t offensive but as he grew healthier it seemed—slightly disconcerting.  Cindy didn’t expect any unwelcome advances.  Her modesty just wasn’t as liberal as his.

“Probably not unless ordered.”  The young man casually shed the briefs and climbed under the covers.  “Why?  Are you worried I might be caught unprepared for fending off a wild cougar attack?”

“I know a young buck that deserves a good flank biting.”  Cindy chuckled and swatted him on the bare buttocks as sharply as her facing away position awkwardly permitted.

Cindy closed her eyes but a fleeting thought inspired by their earlier conversation gave her an odd memory.  She recalled keeling in prayer at her bedside when she was a little girl.  The vision was a wisp and then gone but it sent her mind somewhere pertinent.

“Did you,” she turned her head slightly up towards him, “have a death dream on your first night here or were you even aware?”

“Yes and it was vivid.  But I really can’t tell you about it.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”  Now she rolled completely over to study his face in the dim light.

“That’s hard to describe,” but he was game for attempting it.   “Some aspects were common elements of other reported post life events but there are no words to fit the more important features.”  It took Roger a pause to find an example to cite.  “Say we are two people with differing languages and we lack the right phrasebook.  We point to objects and assign them words but how do we transmit an invisible concept?”

“I think I might understand that.  My husband passed away very suddenly from an undiagnosed brain aneurism.  We were watching TV and I wasn’t looking at him.  I just knew Dale was gone before I possibly could’ve known.”  Her eyes widened in a mild surprise as she realized, “I’ve never even told my own mother about that.”

“Your comfort with confiding in me, was it due to an awareness, that I wouldn’t scoff?”  Roger began only musing but it turned into a question.  Her eyes answered, yes.  “Was that intuition even akin to the way you knew of your husband’s passing?”

“I’m not sure,” the woman searched her feeling, “maybe.”

“The soul’s sense of certainty behooves description to those who haven’t experienced it.”  Again his further elucidation took a stretch for the illustration.   “It’s like trying to talk about true faith, to a person who can’t find it or to who only pretends.”

“A better description might be describing the sensation of love to someone who has never felt ardor.”  Cindy offered.

“Using faith and love as examples still doesn’t cover it because everyone knows what those are.  They’re natural to us as children but I think adults can outgrow the capacity for one or both.”

“A discussion on that is far too deep for this venue.  We may even have to argue from the same side.”

“Then I just say, no.”  He grinned.  “I don’t think you’re a wacko for sensing a resonance transposed over life.”

“Talking about things outside the physical realm is inviting a nasty label.”  Cindy thought of a groaner to end on.  “Given my non-practicing status in my profession and claiming to possess a non-certifiable esoteric ability, I might be called a ‘quack quack’.”

“That was double fowl.”  He wrinkled his nose and gave her a small cuff on the shoulder.

“Goodnight.”  She captured his wrist and rolled away taking his hand, where she tucked it under her cheek.  Remembering the pain of loosing her doctoring career brought a tear before she slept.  It rolled too quickly to staunch and splashed on his knuckles.

Roger felt the warm moisture and imagined the astringency of the salt, even long after it had dried.  A compassionate and decent person was misused for greed’s sake.  The prospect of a few more dollars into bank accounts is not worth her continued misery.

By her breathing, Roger knew she was now asleep.  Slumber for him would take awhile longer.  In contrast to the strong woman that had saved his life and tended to his recovery, now she felt vulnerable under his bicep.  When Cindy shared her tragic story, she had tried to spare his hurting in sympathy.  The tear was an indicator of the extent of her sorrow.  She works for low pay and free rent when she’s qualified and capable of a career she loves.

“My father left me the means to assist my new mother.”  His words were without even a hushed voice and meant only for himself.  Roger Connors began formulating his plan.

…

“Let me take a look at you.”  Doctor Cindy Smart examined her patient.  His resilient young body had cast off the pneumonia.  The pox marks were fading and with his having rebuffed the compulsion to scratch, they wouldn’t leave permanent scars.  As a doctor, Cindy was aware that she had to release him from custody but as a friend, or even as a mom, she really didn’t want to.  “I’m declaring you fit enough to start earning your room and board—do you want a job?”

“I can’t stay on.”  Roger invented a girlfriend in Vancouver and his mental picture of her was almost tempting enough to drive there.  Creston might’ve been a nice place to gather some life experience but a solitary saline droplet washed that prospect away.  “But I will repay your kindness.”  After hearing his own words, he fumbled for his wallet to cover the small slippage.

“I don’t want money.” Cindy pushed his wrist to set the wallet back into pocket but it seemed like it hadn’t been a full-hearted attempt.  She shrugged off further payment by claiming a value was already received.  “Sleeping with you reminded me of my husband.”

“If you won’t be a cougar,” the ex-patient’s eyebrows flicked as if a flirt or a dig but his face was thoughtful, “then be a bobcat instead.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that urban term.”  Sophisticated women chasing younger men are often called cougars.  Cindy tentatively bit on the doubtlessly lurking jibe.  “Dare I inquire after the bobcat?”

“Plenty of bucks have already seen a few ruts. They aren’t the ones rattling antlers and drawing puma from the hills.”  His hunter’s hinterland wisdom proved a fitting analogy but Roger’s grin was due to his switchback. Being sagely serious as she’s expecting a witty burn is as enjoyable as is the reverse. “A linx might seek the well-seasoned stag with velvet fully rubbed off his rack, just nibbling the foliage unaware.  Our bobcat’s grown contented with just rabbits but she’s more than capable of bringing down her deer.”

“I will miss you.”  Cindy smiled as her mind pictured herself in the pleasant sounding nature drama.  “Come back with chicken pox or better still, the mumps.”

Roger shifted his truck into gear and drove off into the night.  He wasn’t headed west to Vancouver but east to Calgary instead.  ‘Where you’ve been will be seen but don’t be showing where you’re going’.  His father told of writing a biography but an encyclopedia could be filled just with his advice and catch phrases.

His route went past the smallish city of Cranbrook.  “This will be a better place to stay upon return.”  His business in Creston could be done by the one-hour commute.

“I’ll come back afterwards but only long enough to visit Sam.”  Even though alone in his truck, he spoke to Roger’s persona in a pre-apology for breaking a rule.  He’d make a whole new person with the gear stored in Calgary and a dropped identification should be left completely.  The unclosed file took up brain-space but it also made links.  He deemed that Roger’s exposure was of minimal risk and it saved a worse one.  He only had this one really good set of ID and without, just being pulled over by police for a burned out tail bulb could turn nasty, quickly.

The road rolled under his vehicle’s wheels controlled by the brain’s autopilot while his thoughts drove in the streets of recent events and planning.  His father had given him a task to do but he hadn’t been sure he could follow it through.  Even with all his love and trust for his father, he had entertained doubts about the ethics of his future life.  The post death experience settled that issue.

“I won’t be sending my victim to a mysterious unknown.”  He knew what was there.  His father’s code even applied to murder—some should go to their better place ahead of schedule to make the world nicer for those left behind.  He harkened back to some information contained in Shiva the destroyer’s spiritual brushing.  ‘Death is necessary, as life can’t exist without it: just like darkness is, so that light can be.’  Planned and properly executed mayhem is a good thing, in the right context.  “My concern for Cindy only struck a match.  The Who and why if confirmed, lights the fuse.”

As Roger traveled through the Rocky Mountains the hunter’s moon was low and bright.  Snow-capped crags towered beside the highway but one pyramidal form caught his particular attention.

[Mount Kailasa.]

“No it’s not.”  Roger puzzled at where that internal voice had come from.  He spotted a sign with the peak’s real name on it and it wasn’t even close to Kailasa.  He pulled into a road siding and stood outside for a better view.

“The ice at the crown does look like white quartz glittering in the moonlight though.”  Roger had read up on the topic of ‘Shiva’ after his father had told him the Kennedy operation was named that.

The word ‘kailasa’ meant crystal in Sanskrit and a Himalayan mountain of that name was purportedly the home of Shiva the Destroyer.

“Well, have you any more quartz gems to pop into my mind?”  The young man tapped his head several times with the palm of his hand to rattle loose any response.  “If so please out with it now.  I don’t want to deal with anything while in Calgary’s morning traffic.”

“It was just my tired mind playing a trick.”  His consoling words didn’t convince him though.  Is it possible that my spirit brought an essence back from the afterlife?  Roger climbed back behind the truck’s steering wheel.  “I would actually prefer two souls staying on bunk beds in my brain, as being better than having schizophrenia.”

“I’m not converting to Hinduism—so don’t even try.” Just in case, Roger set the house rule for any tenant that might be there.  “Organized religions won’t dictate my dharma.”  For ethics and right actions he’d stick with his father’s values instead.  The soul survivor still couldn’t discount he was already changed in many ways he just didn’t fully comprehend quite yet.

…

Roger Connors arrived in Calgary several hours later and found the large double storage unit his father had leased there.  The boy could almost smell his dad’s presence in the unmoving air, it had been untouched for a long time.  About half of the space was taken up with stores and a small workshop area.  The room left over was enough to park a vehicle.  He already had an accurate knowledge of the contents from his father’s inventories but snooped anyways.

There was equipment to print and laminate ID cards, along with a Polaroid camera to make the photos.  He created a fast set to buy a used BMW Z5.  A car lot just needed a name to write into a blank on a form when the transaction was for cash.  Roger drove directly from the sales lot to an auto body shop.  With a new paint job and no expense spared on detailing, the vehicle would suit the role.

The owner of a fine men’s clothing store took one look at the long scraggly hair and tried to look too busy at the till to be able to serve the customer.  He assumed the boy in the cheap, off-the-rack clothes would take one look at the prices and leave.

Roger however, didn’t bother to look at the tags.  He strode to the counter in the back and slapped a GQ magazine down on the desk.  Much of his recovery time was spent reading periodicals and had already picked out the look he wanted.  ‘Clothing makes the man—whatever he wants to be.’  His father had aphorisms to cover a wide range of topics.

“This is what I want,” he announced matter-of-factly.  His sweep by the offerings displayed in the front of the store had already suggested that if the clothing he desired was anywhere in Western Canada, then it was here, “and before you try to blow me off, I’ll tell you right now, I don’t care what it costs.”

“I’m Dave.”  The shopkeeper smiled with genuine sincerity.  It was such a treat to enjoy a fresh new ending to a well-worn drama.  He tapped a finger on the magazine.  “You aren’t going to recognize yourself when you walk out of this store.”

After spending almost a week in Calgary, he was now ready.  The newspaper archive at the public library provided a name suited his purpose.  Some Internet searching gleaned some examples of the documents he wanted to duplicate.  Then he had set to work crafting a new ID set.  The cards he created wouldn’t stand up under any official scrutiny but they appeared genuine.[/private_Chevron]

A visit to a hairstylist had his hair dyed jet black and groomed meticulously into a ponytail.  Spending some time each day in a tanning shop had darkened his skin tone to suit the role.  Outfitted, as a model stepped from a style magazine’s cover and pampered with a manicure, he now looked the part.

“Hello, Romero Escobedo.”  He examined his appearance in premier hotel suite’s mirror and deemed the effect was perfect.

One week earlier, a Caucasian bush rat boy arrived in Calgary with his beat up pickup truck.  Now a chic Latino man drove from a temporary base in Cranbrook, in his expensive BMW Z5 sports car.

Having already checked his hair in the car’s mirror and done a fast buff on his shined shoes, Romero tugged at his cuffs to smooth the fit of his charcoal suit.  His slightly pointed lapels and the tailored cut of his jacket lent a semi-formal hint of a tuxedo.  He took a deep breath on the sidewalk to enter his sphere of awareness and looked though the glass doors at the client service counter.

[The daughter of the mountain is Parvati.]

“Wherever that came from—knock it out of your head.”  I don‘t need the complications of a hitchhiking spirit, mooning for his consort from another life.  Blocking out any thoughts, Romero found his zone of perception and stepped within.  “Focus!”

Operation Shiva

From an elevated vantage point behind a slatted wooden fence, Jeff Thomas looked over the moderate-sized throng assembled to watch the motorcade pass. A few hands held small flags poised. Casual faces turned his way occasionally but none obtrusively watched him. Jeff scanned above to an unseasonable bright day for conducting a darkly cloaked operation. The sun filtering through the leafy canopy of a large bole tree cast mottling shadows with only his silhouette observable from the plaza below.

He cocked a cheek over his left shoulder. Further back from the concrete and stucco pergolas, no one was close. As a golfer’s on a tee-off swing, this pro’s eyes followed through to a look at his right rear angle. Cars filled the parking lot behind but the drivers and the passengers were all down below the grassy knoll on Elm Street, as a gallery to watch the procession. All here was quiet and still. Was it that time itself had hesitated, to allow a generation to gather an awareness, of where they were at this juncture?

The crowd’s attention was fixed away when he returned his gaze. They were watching where the president’s appearance was anticipated at any moment. A check of the sixth floor window of the brick Schoolbook Depository building showed it was open. That confirmed his partner was in position and ready. Jeff’s blue eyes checked his watch in a habitual manner without even noting the time. It was of no matter. The zero hour would strike soon and the world would soon remember, precisely when it had been.

Jeff took several relaxed breaths and a faint smell of creosote reminded him that railway tracks were nearby. He affixed attention onto a single point of null space slightly ahead of his eyes. The man found his zone, as he called it and he entered it with his skin tingling as if freshly scrubbed. Whenever he achieved this state, Jeff felt the most alive. His perception became so much greater than his normal state of being. His vision sharpened and time seemed to slow—or perhaps it was simply his brain was processing faster. This was the mode where he always performed his very best work.

Intently, he shifted his focus up Main Street as the presidential motorcade slowed at the corner. Like a parade of black ants moving up the shaft and onto the base of an arrowhead, the motorcycles and escort cars turned right into Dealey Plaza. Jeff fixated on the target vehicle and followed its acceleration. His eyes didn’t have to glance up. A heightened perception allowed the peripheral vision to detect a flutter in the window of his teammate bringing a carbine into position. It’s a perfect shot for Oswald now—but don’t let him shoot yet. Jeff could hit from here if he must, but waiting was better.

The president’s open-topped limousine was now pointed at the Depository building. If Jeff hadn’t been ordered to use Oswald as a co-conspirator, he would’ve been in that sixth floor window. The one shot would have already been taken and the job finished. Two shooters weren’t required for this operation. That wasn’t his call.

As the motorcade reached the junction of Houston and Elm, it slowed again to bank the left turn. This one-block detour from the obvious route was the final proof to Jeff that ‘Operation Shiva’ had not only the tacit but full approval from the highest levels of the United States government. The condemned car turned for the final time in this president’s life. It curved towards the arrow’s tip.

Quickly and smoothly, movements drilled to muscle memory, Jeff pulled his Mannlicher-Carcano firearm from its cradle under his jacket. The gunman knew the reasons or at least he believed he did. I couldn’t be better prepared for this action. Pulling the rifle butt into his shoulder, he canted his head over the weapon to bring his eye directly behind the gun sight. His index knuckle tensed on the trigger. He was aware even of the knurl ridges, like a course fingerprint in the metal. With a steady eye and finely tuned hand coordination, Jeff tracked a bead on President Kennedy’s forehead.

Oswald opened fire from the Depository but with less than half of the finesse of an amusement park duck-shoot hawker. Over the gun sight, Jeff could see a flurry of reactions in the car but he couldn’t determine if Lee’s barrage were hits. It appears he’s not struck his target: as I could’ve expected. Jeff required only his one meticulous kill shot. He squeezed the trigger with strait-blade razor professionalism that was stropped on other lives.

So finely attuned to that instant, he nearly saw the blunt tail of the bullet streaking away. John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s head recoiled sharply from the impact of a bullet on a skull. In the president’s last gleaming his crown was as a crimson corona of blood mist. Jeff felt washed pristine clean by a wave of freedom—he had never felt so completely satisfied.

The sound of my one report was likely buried in an echo of all of Oswald’s. The assassin didn’t chamber another round. The job was finished and that action would only eject the spent cartridge he would then have to retrieve. Instead, he slipped the carbine back under his coat and felt the euphoria of closure. As the man strode purposefully away, his gait betrayed no more guilt than to an expired parking meter. He retraced almost the exact steps he had taken on the way to his firing position. The gunman’s execution and attention to detail had once again been calligraphy perfect.

As he slipped behind the wheel of his car, Jeff placed the carbine into his lap with the muzzle pointing towards the rubber mat of the passenger’s seat floor. He ejected the spent brass, then inserted the single round he carried loose in his pocket. Never be caught with an empty weapon. That maxim was one he could never forget. The assassin set the gun down on the seat next to him and concealed it with his jacket.

“Now that’s a souvenir!” He stuffed the spent brass cartridge into his shirt pocket. Normally he would find a place to tuck it where it would never be found. This time I’ll keep it. The shining brass was a coin to pay all debts to both his old country and his new one.

Jeff slipped the shifter into gear and drove away using the route he had planned well in advance. Stopping only once, he deposited the incriminating weapon in the pre-arranged dumpster. Another member of the non-requested support team would be responsible for the final disposal. It was yet another complication in the plan that was neither necessary nor of his choice. The assassin was fully capable of ditching his own evidence.

Simplicity in a strategy is a thing of ultimate desirability. His plot had been exquisitely straightforward. One shooter and one shot. That’s the way it should have been. The inclusion of Oswald and these other impediments to his effortless stratagem had been requirements directly from the clients. Jeff never liked any of them.

Oswald loved the Depository sniper’s nest and wanted to use it even though his shot from there would be at a difficult angle. He bragged about his targeting skills even though the positioning for a right-handed marksman was the worst possible. The staccato of ineffectual shots Lee had fired only showed the folly of his position. The fact that Oswald had even been able to strike in the vicinity of the president was proof of his skill.

No matter, Lee Harvey Oswald was the redundant understudy. Jeff Thomas was the headliner. He had delivered his performance as a virtuoso. His lanyard tug made the curtain fall on the American President. What critic could ever mock the show?

As Jeff drove on, he pondered again whether the next stage of the plan was essential or wise. The objective was terminated and it was sure to be a momentous event in the country. Should they not just quietly disappear? What was the point of meeting up with Oswald? Why not at some later date and as far as possible from the turmoil of this historic event? Linking up on this day, in this city was more the client’s recklessness.

[private_Chevron]On thoughts of the foolhardy next stage, the hairs on Jeff’s neck bristled. A chill traveled his spine like a sword-length icicle was being stabbed down his collar. An intense shudder jerked his hands on the steering wheel and the car lurched towards the oncoming traffic. He pulled the vehicle back into lane but the effort drained the strength from his arms. Prudently, the assassin pulled over and stopped haphazardly on the side of the road.

He looked at his hands. The skin on the backs was goose-fleshy and his fingers were jittery. Why was he having this uncharacteristic body reaction? Was his subconscious telling of a detail overlooked or was it adrenaline? The odd sensation passed and he went on.

Acting on his premonition, Jeff veered off route to park four blocks away from the rendezvous point. On foot, he traversed the remainder of the way and waited at a distance to observe. If things were fine his arrival would only be delayed. He could explain that trifle away with a lie about traffic chaos owing to the event. He crouched behind a hedge and surveyed the scene.

Something definitely isn’t right. Oswald was at the bus stop on Oak Street as he was supposed to be. However, hidden on a side avenue a block from the transit stop, a black sedan sat in front of a Dallas Police cruiser. A man in a dark suit holding a radio was standing beside the police car. Another stood in an alcove where he could discreetly observe the nervous Oswald and traffic approaching in the direction Lee’s teammate was supposed to be arriving from.

The assassin watched as several pregnant moments passed. Lee anxiously fidgeted and was doubtlessly experiencing a similar trepidation about the meeting that Jeff had felt only moments ago. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to take any precautions.

The man with the car and the one in the alcove also appeared fretful. The first paced the length of the car and the latter rocked on the balls of his feet. Both were smoking one cigarette after another. Jeff could plainly deduce that the police car was positioned to follow and stop Oswald and himself after they had made their connection.

Lee impatiently consulted his wristwatch and looked up the street. He even stepped onto the asphalt to get a better view. With his nervousness apparently edging into medium panic, Lee Harvey turned to start walking away. The observer in the semi-concealed recess put his radio to his lips. This seemingly required a change of plans. The police car pulled around the sedan and wheeled the corner to slowly follow the lone conspirator.

“This paints pastel to plaid.” The observing assassin bit down hard on his teeth and pursed his lips tightly. His eyes narrowed to a squint as he focused his thoughts. Jeff and Lee were betrayed by the organizations they were serving. Unwillingly cast in the role of sacrificial goat, this performer wouldn’t follow the stage cues to the priest’s alter. “Lee Harvey Oswald is to his fates, as am I to mine.”

Jeff edged cautiously back from his concealment. He briefly considered going back to the car and then thought better of it. The vehicle was as compromised as the whole escape plan. All of his names, both real and fictitious, were also now marked. He used his well-trained and practiced skills to melt as refined sugar does in hot coffee, into the now very dangerous city of Dallas.[/private_Chevron]

…

From a hotel room in Houston, rented under an undocumented name, the man who was no longer Jeff Thomas watched the rest of the riveting story unfold. Glued to the television, he saw Oswald gunned down while in custody by some nightclub owner.

Bullets fired into his co-conspirator carried twinges of empathy into his own belly. The entirety of his desperate situation seared his stomach lining like the shots felt in sympathy had melted in a forge. “I need to disappear into the world as if I never existed.”

The assassin closed his eyes and reviewed the scenario. As a mystery novel’s ending shows how the reader missed noting the pivotal clues, so was the assassin able to now find the obscured elements in his. The betrayers will not survive. On that thought, he monitored his emotion’s temperature. Cold would be vengeance and he would not allow himself that. The deception’s perpetrators could savor the profits but greedy tongues would experience a bitter aftertaste. A reckoning was required but that was warm like a body.

“Amends will be made,” he spoke to his soul, “even if it takes my life and the lives of my unborn children, this I swear.”

[private_Chevron]Some say time heals all wounds and it was an assisting balm but this malady’s cure would await the invention of a new medicine.[/private_Chevron]