15
NATAGNA

WESTERN SUMATRA

While scratching a deep itch on his shoulder blade, one of the females approached. Natagna growled, showing a bit of his teeth. This successfully warned her off. His head hurt too much to be interested in mating.

An intriguing animal outside the enclosure emitted a familiar call, its kiss-squeak cry demanding his attention. He smacked his lips together and gave a loud reply. The animal stretched a bare limb toward him, offering a durian. The stench of the luscious fruit, which smelled like rotten eggs, was filet mignon to an orangutan. Natagna accepted it joyfully.

The other animal’s skin was hairless and cool. Its fingers reached out, gently stroking the pad of Natagna’s cheek. Natagna sniffed, then backed away to a tree, giving a loud call that echoed through the compound. He crossed the enclosed arbor hand-over-hand. The sun sparkled off the razor wire, blinding Natagna to the soldier holding a loaded gun on the wall.

The Old One stepped out from the nearby house, waving his arms and shouting at the small animal that had given Natagna the tasty durian. Natagna watched as the creature ran off and rejoined the others of its kind.

He scratched his chest and ran his fingers through his long, fiery orange hair. He rubbed his head and let out a soulful moan. His head was aching badly.

Natagna disliked the old one who often poked him with sharp sticks that left holes in his skin. Now he saw the snowy-haired man move away from the enclosure and felt relieved. Natagna’s offspring played in the branches of nearby trees. He watched them suspiciously. Unknowingly to him, more of his offspring played jump rope on the playground below. He was not burdened by paternal longings anyway.

He tried to tear down the metal walls of his prison and escape into the rainforest. Freedom was on his mind today, along with pain.

---

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14
THE CITY OF LIGHTS

WESTERN MICHIGAN

Harley followed the ramp up to the first level of the city underground. Gardens, lit by ultraviolet lights, lined the walkway. In the main corridor, conveyors moved men and women in both directions. They wore white jumpsuits and had ginger hair. They cruised past him like ducks in a shooting gallery.

People turned with suspicious glances as Harley boarded the northbound conveyor. He disembarked at the third exit and scanned the choice of passageways until he found the Conference Concourse.

Negotiating a busy revolving door, he entered a circular lobby with rooms arranged like spokes on a wheel. Finally, he found the door labeled Omega and opened it.

A half dozen people stood chatting in a group, but their conversation halted when he entered. He could read their thoughts.

Where’s Senator Willson? Where’s the big cheese? They were all thinking it.

He smiled and nodded hello.

Damn Willson. He set me up to take the fall for him. Harley Quinn squared his shoulders and took a seat.

A woman in a gray suit gave him a hard stare. Harley held her gaze steadily, unflinching. She was creepy. She made his skin crawl. A pitcher of ice water sat sweating in the middle of the buffet, and Harley poured himself a glass to wash away the nerves he was feeling. He waited for his anxiety to ease. You never know what might happen in these situations.

His immediate neighbor was General Howard Robinson, a tall Black man. The officer had so many military decorations that he probably needed a forklift to move them around.

They were a pack of wolves waiting for the alpha female. Barbara Hagopian was a tough, no-nonsense senior United States Senator. She burst through the door and hunched over the lectern like a vulture.

“We have a crisis with Omega.” Her eyes swept the room, selecting targets for her verbal strikes. “I want to seal this coffin before the US Senate becomes the night of the living dead. Omega is compromised, and we need to wipe our fingerprints off this sucker yesterday.”

“Omega has been operating covertly for decades, but I believe it’s about to come into the bright light of day,” General Robinson said. “It’s a Pandora’s box with a tiny crack. And I don’t think the world wants to see what might spill out.”

“A crack? Is that what we’re calling it, General?” Hagopian’s smile masked her disdain. Harley expected her tongue to flick from between her narrow lips and snatch the general into oblivion. “We have three fronts in this battle: Underhill and the dead kid, an infection that’s affecting clones here in Sanctuary, and a meltdown in our relationship with Al Amorta Ujung. I sense there’s a pattern to this chaos.”

“The misappropriation of a cloned child by a United States Senator was news to me,” the General said. His sharp look shot a quiver of arrows through Harley. “Now we discover that at least one other child has been pilfered. You know what I’m saying? Or shall I be more candid?”

“Please, spill all,” Hagopian replied gently.

Robinson said, “Blake’s adopted kid.”

“No,” she gasped. “As payoff for what? Does Blake have something on Willson?”

“No.” General Robinson looked at Harley, who pretended to be confused by the turn of the conversation. “This Quinn guy shouldn’t be here.”

“Willson’s deal is that he’ll run as Nicholas Blake’s Vice President in the next election.”

“A bipartisan ticket?” Hagopian laughed. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she sneered. Then she turned the Howitzer on Harley. “What do you have to say about this?”

“The Senator apologizes for any inconvenience his absence causes the Committee,” Harley replied curtly. “As he told you, he has unavoidable business on the Hill today.”

“Inconvenience!” she snorted. “He’s caused more than an inconvenience! That man has single-handedly jeopardized the Omega Consensus. We were quietly shutting down this project, you son of a bitch. Removing the bullets from Al Amorta’s weapons so we could leave them with rubber band guns—that would have reduced oil prices for American citizens before the next election. Now we’ve got a mess on our hands.”

“What about the Sumatran Compound?” General Robinson asked. He looked at Firdaus. The man seemed a little too squirmy.

“Dr. Syringh Firdaus is Holmstead’s man and our liaison with the Sumatran branch of Omega,” Hagopian turned to the raisin-skinned doctor. She sent the message that she preferred his answers. “You were born in Sumatra Barat, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is true,” Firdaus replied, and waited for the drilling he knew was coming.

“What are your thoughts on this mess?”

“I’ve heard nothing from Sumatra,” Firdaus admitted. It was true, but he hadn’t made contact because he knew Dr. VandenHeuvel would be in a murderous rage over Azara’s death. “I’ll be checking for you, Madam.”

“Good, at least someone has a brain around here,” she snapped. “What about you, Watson?”

“The Justice Department needs a heads-up on how serious this situation is,” the round-headed bureaucrat replied. “The Attorney General wonders if this requires a special prosecutor.”

“Are you seriously oblivious? This is as urgent as a heart attack. We have a dead clone lying in some hick’s field, and we still need to recover the evidence. That’s in progress, isn’t it?”

“Right,” Firdaus and Robinson said in unison. They glared at each other threateningly.

“And we’ve got a perp wandering around who knows God knows what about the inner workings of the government,” Hagopian was foaming at the mouth. “Christ almighty, he could have state secrets stashed in his underwear drawer.”

“May you excuse me, please?” Syringh Firdaus mopped his brow with a hanky as they fixed their eyes on him like a half dozen bayonets.

“This afternoon, I visited the site where the clone unit was abandoned. I examined the body and removed evidence linking Omega, specifically the ID chip. I can assure you this was not a case of violent death. In fact, it seems to be the same infection that is spreading here at Sanctuary.”

“And what about the transporter? Why was he disposing of the body like roadkill?” Hagopian demanded.

“We picked up the clone known as Kowa last night,” General Robinson said. “He was forced to abandon the body when his vehicle had a blowout. He wasn’t familiar with the area and encountered a rather nonverbal young man. Then a tow driver surprised him when he was unloading the trunk. He had to hide. Given the turn of events, he thought it was best to conceal the body and return for it later. We picked him up in a Black Hawk without incident.”

“Without incident, General? It sounds like a damn media event. Why didn’t you pick the body up right then and there?” Hagopian sniped. “Eh? Just send in a team and take care of business?”

“Infrared revealed a patch of heat in the middle of a tree—it might have been the possibly autistic man. We sent a rescue team the following day. We were within fifty feet of the site when the farmer’s little girl found the body.”

“You should have killed the child and finished the whole business,” Hagopian suggested. “Then, you should neutralize this Underhill fellow.”

“Kill the child? Do you think we’re just common thugs?” General Robinson was appalled.

“Don’t you people know anything about damage control?” Watson bleated. “Sometimes you have to kick ass and take no names.”

“Just rub them out?” Harley blurted, then, seeing the hostility building around him, he shut up.

“My God.” General Robinson’s face showed his disgust. “We aren’t in the business of killing citizens, especially innocent children and disabled folks. I never signed up for that duty.”

“Are you a warrior?” Hagopian turned the blade she’d stuck in his back. “Or aren’t you?”

“Madam,” Syringh Firdaus tried to soothe the infidels. “The local authorities are unlikely to discover any DNA abnormality. I don’t believe this is a widespread crisis.”

“Mr. Quinn,” the chairwoman hissed, turning her furious face toward Harley. “How did this clone end up in the hands of a predator like Underhill? And what’s this about Blake’s baby?”

“Actually,” Harley hedged, “there’s a good explanation. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. Senator Willson will have to answer those questions.”

He paused, and hostile faces fixed on him like a bug in a collection. “I don’t know about Blake’s baby. That’s news to me. The other—well, the Senator does get himself in a pickle sometimes.”

“More than likely, his pickle is the problem,” she nailed him. “So, can I infer Underhill’s connection to your boss is of the sordid variety?”

Harley admitted, “That’s safe to say.”

“The clone’s body is in St. Cecilia’s Hospital morgue. The case’s pathologist is Dr. Gene Walker,” General Robinson interrupted. “We’re confident the body can be recovered and all traces of the investigation eliminated within twenty-four hours.”

“General, please excuse me,” Dr. Firdaus said. “These people will suspect something other than death by natural causes if we intervene. I have examined this child. There were no serious or life-threatening wounds.”

“And if this Walker fellow figures out that this child is a clone?” Hagopian asked. “What then? Is your boss going to eliminate him?”

“If that is necessary, we will consider all options. Let us first see what he discovers. In the past, Dr. Walker has published cloning abstracts and journal articles.” Dr. Firdaus said. “Mr. Holmstead has been watching him closely. If he makes a move, the CIA will know.”

“The CIA can’t operate within US borders,” General Robinson pointed out. “I suggest Dan Urban of the FBI is the man to contact.”

“Nobody tells Holmstead to butt out,” Hagopian confessed. “I don’t want my name on his ‘retaliation list’. I’m not that stupid.”

“Let this fellow run his studies and carry out his testing routines. Their tests are too rudimentary and their experience too limited to discover anything,” Firdaus said with an authoritative manner that quelled their dissent.

“I agree, Madam Chairperson,” Watson, the Justice Department’s loyal supporter, nodded. “Thank God, Holmstead’s man has a brain.”

“It’s the safest course for now. I hope we don’t live to regret it.” Hagopian pinned them to their chairs with her glare. “But let me warn you. If there’s one more goof, Art Holmstead will need to bat clean-up. The evidence will never be found after he runs you through his inquisition team.”

Harley assured, “Senator Willson will deny everything if any of this becomes public.” He told me to say that.

“Denial of culpability is not one of his options,” General Robinson snapped. “He should resign and slink back under whatever rock he crawled out from.”

“We’re completely aware of Senator Willson’s leisure activities, Mr. Quinn. As his VALET, I’m sure you know that.” Senator Hagopian gave him a wicked grin.

“Anything you care to add, Doctor?” Hagopian looked at a very old man in a white lab coat who had yet to speak. “Josef is an old friend of Senator Ashton. And he’s the Medical Director of Sanctuary.”

“There is a slight problem.” His German accent was as thick as that of a new immigrant. “Several clones at Sanctuary have succumbed to a mysterious infection.”

“Why is it a mystery?” Dr. Firdaus asked. “Do you not know the pathogen?”

“The bacterium is usually harmless. Doesn’t cause serious illness, much less deaths in the zoo animals that carry it,” the old man replied. “These clones are succumbing within a few days of the symptoms’ onset.”

“Well, Josef, isn’t that nice?” Hagopian said, almost furious. “Our clones have been contaminated like the monkey house at the zoo?”

“I’m telling you it is not a strange coincidence that they are susceptible to the same bugs as the common orangutan, or any other barnyard beast,” the wizened physician replied. “If we are lucky, this pathogen will ONLY affect clones.”

“And if we aren’t? What then? You’re saying that it could affect everyone?” Hagopian asked intensely. Harley imagined shards of light shooting from the top of her head, but it was just the natural adrenaline kicking up his fight-or-flight system.

“Is this a fucking plague?” Barbara Hagopian grasped her temples as if she were suffering an impending stroke.

“You have a very coarse manner, Madam,” Sanctuary’s Chief of Medicine noted. “Are you Jewish, perhaps?”

“Armenian,” she spat. “What’s it to you?”

“Very interesting,” he noted. “Very interesting indeed.” He sat down, having said all he was going to say about the matter.

“Jah Lo has made contact,” Barbara Hagopian said, a bit shaken, and changed tactics. “He’s demanding that we buy one million barrels of oil at four times the market rate. He says this will compensate the Al Amorta Ujung for their security services in Sumatra this month. That bastard has upped the ante for the last time. We’re going to shut him down.”

“Then what?” the General asked.

“We’ll evacuate VandenHeuvel’s team from Sumatra and disperse them. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll nuke the region and remove the Sultan of Timoresh from his throne.”

“Just what the country needs,” General Robinson grumbled. “Another Vietnam.”

“We have no options left,” Watson agreed. “This highway robbery is the biggest boondoggle in US history. Everything, including Omega, must end here and now. The world won’t tolerate another human rights scandal.”

The meeting ended on a bleak note. The participants drifted away in groups, engaged in tense conversation, leaving Harley by himself.

Quinn found the lobby, sat down, and packed tobacco into his pipe’s bowl. He struck a match and watched it burn to his fingertips.

“No smoking here.” The uniformed guard suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Fine,” Harley agreed, handing his pipe to the redheaded soldier. “You want to pound that up your ass for me?” Then he took the elevator back to civilization.

As he moved through the trap door, a wave of relief washed over him. It just didn’t feel natural to explore an underground city.

Kowa had anticipated his arrival and waited with Harley’s carryall bag. “Watch the north edge of the driveway. It’s a regular minefield.”

“Are you shitting me?” Quinn gaped. His pulse had to be about two hundred beats per minute. Snagging his tote, he walked through absolute darkness. Once in his auto, Harley followed the gravel drive, staying so far to the right that he took out small spruce trees.

At the log cabin near Sanctuary, Kowa and Onu sprawled on the porch, watching the night sky through the treetops.

“You didn’t really tell him that,” Onu chastised his companion.

“Yup. Probably shit his pants,” Kowa replied.

As Harley turned south onto M-37, a gray sedan pulled out behind him. His surveillant remained two cars back.

I made it. His chest muscles and arms relaxed just slightly. Quinn reached into his glove box. The compartment was empty. I was sure I left my gun in there.

Holmstead’s man parked a quarter mile away in a private driveway, watching Harley Quinn with his night vision goggles. The senator’s valet sat on a dirt berm, smoking a fat cigar and clutching his flask.

The agent recorded in his log:

Time: 10:45 PM; Location: M37, six miles north of Newaygo; Subject: HARLEY QUINN stopped for a brief rest.

---

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13
The Site

CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN

Maggie O’Bryan spelled her name with alphabet noodles from her soup. They stuck to the table like gummy charms. Crossword with lunch. Using her M, Robbie spelled Mortshoe. The referee was busy doing the dishes.

“No fair,” Maggie howled. “What’s a mortshoe?”

Robbie shot her a look of disdain.

“It’s the big metal thing that holds the milker; it’s in the barn, stoopie pants.”

“I never heard daddy say that word,” she frowned and ate her name, dismissing the false entry of mortshoe. “Let’s play hide-the-carrot.” She waved her vegetable under her brother’s nose as if to lure him.

“That’s a stupid game. Besides, the underside of the table is already crammed with vegetables. You’re such a baby.” He skillfully hurled the ultimate insult, and it hit its mark.

Amelia watched her children. They were hunched over the table, having an animated discussion that seemed to involve a carrot. She washed a mug, scrubbing at the stubborn coffee ring. It seemed she was constantly washing something. If she wasn’t scrubbing dishes, then dirt off Mike’s boots, or Jell-O off the sofa. Her world was never-ending drudgery. Through the window, she could see Mike’s blue hat crossing over the top of the corn.

He was a farmer, but also a regular at the bar, always with a beer in hand. Hard farm work and life’s monotony had worn him down. Mike’s energy was poured into the land, and what was left was drowned in beer. Still, Amelia felt a spark of hope when the tractor rolled into the yard at day’s end. The night seemed to promise romance, until John Barleycorn dashed those hopes.

“We’re done!” the children shouted in unison, running through the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind them. They reached the yard before she could respond; their legs churned like whirligigs.

She raised the kitchen window. “Don’t go past the yellow tape!” Unsure of whether they heard her, she turned to the task at hand. A mountain of laundry needed sorting.

Maggie took Robbie’s hand. He did so reluctantly because she was the Dead Body Finder, a title that would earn her respect for at least a week. The fence was brightly decorated with saffron ribbon.

“DO NOT CROSS . . . BY ORDER OF POLICE,” Robbie read. He hoisted himself over as if the sign read . . . EXCEPT ROBBIE. Maggie scrambled after him. Though he was reluctant to set a precedent, Robbie helped her to the ground.

“You’d better be carefuller, Maggie. Ma’s gonna whip ya if you wreck another dress.”

“Carefuller is not a word. It’s like mortshoe.” And on that note, she sprinted for the woods.

The field lay fallow. Their dad will plant sugar beets next year. The children hugged the tree line, unnerved by thoughts of a body on their farm—a body with real hair.

“Look, it’s Bite’Ems wrappers.” Robbie dug through the poison ivy patch scattered with colorful papers. “Fly’s been out here.”

“How do you know?”

“Cause, stupid,” Robbie said. “Everyone in town knows Fly’s partial to Bite’Ems. He leaves a trail of wrappers everywhere he goes—like Hansel and Gretel.”

“They left crumbs.”

“You’re a dumbbell,” he replied. Then, adding insult to injury, he said, “You’re a girl and girls are all stupid.”

Robbie collected some of the pink waxy wrappers and put them in his pocket.

“I’m not as stupid as you! You’re digging in the sumac, and Ma’s gonna dose you with pink lotion.”

He ignored her. “Look, a free decoder ring coupon. And I got enough wrappers to send for it!”

The rumble of a motor drew Maggie’s attention. “Someone’s coming. Pa’s gonna whup you good, Robbie O’Bryan.”

“He can’t, because this is evidence,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m Colombo.”

“Go ahead, be him. Dad says he’s got a glass eyeball. You got a fake eyeball, Robbie?” Her voice was sweet, but she was holding a sharp stick.

“You’re gonna get it. I’m telling you. Do you want to go stick some frogs?”

A police car pulled into the two-track. The kids ducked behind a bush and peeked out; Barney Deters spilled out one side, while Hank climbed out the other. The back seat revealed a new guy and a pretty lady.

“Duck, it’s the cops,” Robbie shoved her. “Let’s pretend they’re really the killers and we’re hiding, okay?”

Maggie nodded solemnly and tightened her grip on her stick. Hank and Hallie stepped over the chain and walked toward them. Barney and Steve stayed close behind. Seeing the children crouched near the trees, they decided to leave them alone for now.

“Hallie,” Barney muttered. “You stick around here. Keep an eye on those gosh darn kids for me. Steve, keep those news hounds away. No offense, Miss Ruben.”

“None taken,” she smiled.

“I’m going to take Hank with me,” he added. Hank adjusted his holster, just in case.

The two veteran cops walked side by side, scanning for any overlooked clues between the road and the clearing where the body lay. They examined for bent grass, fibers, or any other unusual items. When he reached the top of the knoll, Hank called out.

“Look. The grass has been tamped down. Our perp came through here. We can forget about getting any good footprints back on the road. We never took castings or a single photo, and then those blamed reporters stomped all over the place.”

Barney wiped a dirty handkerchief across his forehead.

“What the hell? We could ditch our shoes anyway. Of course, that means all the trash scattered around looks like the Oregon Trail. Half the county trampled through our crime scene. We look like country bumpkins.”

“Face it, Barney, we are bumpkins. The prints near the burn barrel are intact,” Hank was moving again, his eyes sweeping the terrain. “Look, Barn. A condom.” The shriveled balloon was old. “I think I parked out here with Edie Banks one time. It could be . . .”

Barney covered his ears. “Too much information, you son-of-a-bitch. And don’t pick it up. It might be contaminated with some nasty social disease.”

“We’d better take it anyway,” Hank said. “We’ve made enough unforced errors.” He used tweezers to drop the evidence into a plastic bag. It probably had nothing to do with their scene, but you couldn’t be too careful.

The men searched the area they had explored the day before, reaching the clearing without finding anything new. Hank used a trowel to scoop soil from the makeshift grave into a plastic tub. The debris revealed nothing important, just a few tubers and some root fibers.

Barney collected debris from the burn barrel: shards of bone from a dinner of pork chops, bread wrappers, and shiny tatters of a magazine that failed to burn.

Plastic sheeting covered the footprints: a man’s shoe and a bare foot. Hank pulled back the tarp, took photos of the prints, and then poured quickset plaster of Paris into the shallow marks.

A silvery gleam in the soil caught his eye. He pulled out a silver disc hanging on a chain. The tag was dull and well-worn. On its face, in tiny letters, was stamped “Property of US Government E-20028.”

“Looks like some kind of dog tag, Barn.” Hank dangled it from his tweezers. “Not like my Army tags, though.”

“Don’t look familiar to me.” Barney shook his head. “May be important. Let’s not lose it.”

Finally giving in to exhaustion, the men gathered their evidence and headed back to the cruiser. Suddenly, the air filled with shrieks, and the men ran. Well, Hank ran while Barney tried to. Robbie and Maggie were wailing like banshees.

“Help, help!” Robbie shouted.

Steve held Robbie tightly, and the boy flailed like a fish on a line. The young cop also had a solid grip on Maggie, but she kept fighting back.

“These hooligans really scared me.” He had his hands full.

“We were playing Colombo,” Maggie wailed. “I didn’t mean to poke him with my stick.”

“Yeah, we were just playing,” Robbie sniffed.

Steve brought them back to solid ground, and the children ran toward Hank and Barney, whom they recognized.

“Wanna see my evidence?” Robbie begged the Chief.

“Sure, Robbie, what do you have?” Barney rested a gnarled hand on Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie grabbed Chief Deters by the hand and pulled him along. Barney waded through the brush behind the boy. Robbie retrieved a bag and pulled out a handful of candy wrappers.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Barney said. “Where’d you find these?”

“Right here, Chief Deters. There’s more,” declared Robbie. “Look.”

Barney followed him to a patch of poison ivy. The crushed leaves surrounded the massive tree. Candy wrappers were embedded in the ivy like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

“Fly must have one hell of a rash!” Barney noted.

Back at the car, Hank tossed the evidence bag with the medallion to Steve.

“Guess it wasn’t a bust after all. Look at this. What do you make of it?”

Steve caught the parcel. Hank watched the blood drain from the rookie’s face.

How in the world did he get this? Steve’s heart pounded like a trip hammer, but luckily Hank couldn’t hear that.

“What is it, Hank? Some religious item?”

“Maybe, if it’s from the Church of Uncle Sam. It says Property of US Government,” Hank said.

Steve shrugged and threw the bag back. Hank watched the young man—his hands shook as if he were struck with palsy.

“Hey, fellas,” Barney ambled along like the pied piper with the children in tow. “It looks like Fly Carrington was out here all right. Is he our perp or a witness?”

“He was acting a little hinky in the squad,” Hank noted. “He kept making that stupid noise. Whup, whup, whup. And that’s odd because ‘Hi Fly’ has always been the extent of his conversation.”

“Just what do you suppose it means?” Steve tried to sound normal. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Hank’s pocket—the medallion was so close.

“He’s a mental case. I don’t think he’d kill a ladybug. But maybe he saw something.” Barney ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “Question is, how do you squeeze a lemon that’s got no juice?”

“What difference does it make? He’d make a piss-poor witness,” Hank replied. “Let’s get back and try to put this together. Come on, Hallie.”

“Oh yeah,” Barney grinned. “You just go on, you two. Don’t stop for lunch unless he’s paying, Hallie.” He watched them walk away. Damn, this might just work out despite the tragedy.

“What?” Steve interrupted Barney’s thoughts.

“Oh, I was just hoping that young lady might lift Hank’s spirits. He’s been missing his wife who passed away,” Barney replied.

“He does look happy. I don’t think I’ve seen him without a frown since I started working for you.”

“Right,” Barney climbed into the passenger seat of the cruiser. “Hey Steve. Does Art Hughes still work at the academy? Did you have him for any classes?”

“Art Hughes, Art Hughes. Yup, I believe I did. Name rings a bell,” Steve replied, backing into the road.

“It should,” Barney said. “He’d been there about a hundred years.” He watched the familiar countryside slide by as he thought about his dilemma. Because there was no Art Hughes at the academy. There had never been.

An icy dread chilled Barney’s heart and made his knees weak. It was the skin-crawling anxiety that always signalled some catastrophe, like an old man’s gouty toe shouting about rain on the way.

The redheaded child’s ghost taunted him. Now he had to include Fly in the chaos for a guaranteed community disaster. Then there was Steve Brooks, the elusive rookie who seemed to appear out of nowhere and appeared to have all the correct answers except one.

Steve pondered the medal and E20028. He watched Barney, who was lost in thought. Personal danger wasn’t something Steve expected in Cedar Creek. Art Hughes, Arthur Hughes—the name seemed as elusive as smoke. He thought about the academy and tried to picture his instructors, but nothing and no one came to mind. Not even faces.

In the other vehicle, Hank sat quietly, recalling hot afternoons fishing beside the creek. Young Fly Carrington often sat on a nearby log, but not too close to bother him. Fly would pop a candy into his mouth and use the wrapper to bait his hook. Over the years, Fly had become more of a loner. Or was it Hank who made him that way? Had he neglected the boy?

Hallie watched Hank from the corner of her eye and thought of Ruth or Hanna’s face replacing the dead little girl’s. She reflected on their growing beauty and delicate naiveté. And she considered the pain of some unfortunate mother, soon to receive the tragic news of her little girl’s death.

Back at the O’Bryan Farm, Robbie and Maggie headed home, following the ditch and making wishes on Queen Anne’s lace.

“Robbie,” Maggie asked her mean, ugly brother, “Do you think it was a real person out in our field? Do you think the monster will find us, too?”

“Monsters don’t come after boys.” Robbie kicked a stone, sending it skittering into the road. “Just girls.”

A clump of mud hit the back of his head and knocked him into the ditch. He surfaced from the water with a bloodsucker stuck to his cheek. He was holding a soggy teddy bear.

“HOOHA!” Maggie yelled.

“Don’t just holler, pull this sucker off my face,” Robbie squealed.

“That’s Hooha! Sarah’s bear.”

Pull this thing off right now. I’ll get rabies and foam at the mouth like Ol’ Yeller and bite you,” Robbie threatened.

Maggie grabbed the bear and held it tightly to her chest. Then she ran, unaware of her brother’s situation. Robbie followed her muddy footprints, bleating like an injured goat all the way to the house. All was not well in Cedar Creek on this hot summer afternoon.

---

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No Tour Guides in Hell:
Chapter 12
Hollywood Bound

The bright morning sunlight pressed through the blinds. Hallie woke up, wondering who she might find lying next to her. Nobody, thank God. It must have been the Magic Fingers bed and remnants of a dream.

She sighed, knowing that the dreaded call to her mother was the first thing on her agenda.

What a way to start the day. Why don’t I just shoot myself and get it over with?

She dialed a brief snippet of Proud Mary on the phone and waited for her mother’s squawk on the other end.

“Yallow?” Rita Ruben was every daughter’s nightmare.

“Yallow to you, too,” Hallie was embarrassed to think this poor neurotic woman was the source of half of her genes. It wasn’t very comforting. Even though she loved her mother, Hallie lived in fear of becoming just like her. The dowager embroidered every ache and pain, pawed every inch of skin for the slightest discoloration, and then hung her problems out for the world to see like wash on a line.

“Oh, Hallie dear! I haven’t had a bowel movement in four days; I’m about to explode any minute! The pain is awful.”

“Yes, Mom. I know, but . . .” Hallie interjected.

“I’ve got a call in to Dr. Goldstein. I can’t stay on the phone. I might be dying,” Mother Ruben continued shouting into the mouthpiece, one hand pressed against the pounding artery in the flesh of her generous neck. “I’ve still got a pulse, but it’s getting weaker. Ahhh—I’m hanging on by a thread!”

“Yes, the pain must be unbearable.” Hallie knew this diatribe by heart. You interrupted at your peril. “Ma, can you watch the girls for a few more days?”

“Honey, are you eating?” Rita’s impending demise was interrupted. “Has your weight gone up? You know, I have this blood clot in my bad leg. I can’t walk more than two feet, and I must sit down. The girls are fine. They miss their mother. Enough already, Hallie June Ruben.”

“Mom, I think father . . .” but she was not allowed to finish that thought either.

“And that’s another thing; your lousy father doesn’t help. Levi says I’m bat-shit crazy. He spends all his time at meetings of the Moose old-timers. Mrs. Kaufmann next door, you know, the one with hemorrhoids? She says I should leave him already. I’ve got this black spot on my lip; it could be cancer.”

“Mom, please listen. The station sent me on a real assignment. I feel good about this one.”

“Hallie, what you need is a husband. Goldie Weisenberg has a son—Harvard, lots of money, a good family,” Rita finished her sales pitch.

“I’ve got to go.” Hallie fought the urge to toss the phone into the trash. “Call me on my cell if there’s an emergency.”

“His name is Franklin. Drives a nice little sports car. Of course, with the girls, you would need a minivan. . .”

“Oh mother, never mind.” Hallie wanted to share her big moment with someone she loved, but Rita Ruben was determined to be a matchmaker. God forbid Hallie should end up single for the rest of her life. Rita kept rambling about the man’s prospects. It was too much for Hallie on an empty stomach.

She slammed the phone into its cradle. Her mother’s voice was still audible. Rita spent most of her life dwelling on death’s brink. It was always some disease just mentioned on the Morning Show. The ailment-of-the-week is what her father called it. She had melanoma one day, an aneurysm the next. Always deadly. Anything with pus was considered a bonus.

Hallie looked in the mirror and saw a younger version of Rita. She changed her gloomy expression to a smile, and like a fuzzy caterpillar turning into a monarch butterfly, she looked almost beautiful. She wore a navy blazer over a calico shirt and indigo jeans. Not precisely the haute couture of news anchor standards, but it would do.

She was surprised by the phone.

“Miss Ruben? This is the front desk. I’ll need to charge another day to your credit card if you don’t check out within five minutes.”

“You go ahead and try, Mack. I can tell you right now that maxed-out plastic will catch fire if you even hint at the price of a morning paper. Anyway, I’m leaving now. Thanks a lot for taking the time to . . . blah, blah, blah!”

The phone clicked off in her ear. Just another irritating, underpaid minion told to stay on the straight and narrow. She gathered her gear. Her car would serve as a mobile condo until she could find a hole-in-the-wall dive.

Hallie’s puke-green auto finally groaned to life after two backfires that sent bursts of black soot into the August morning. She was easing out of the parking space when someone knocked on the passenger-side window. She nearly fainted at the sight of the smart-ass intern, Martin Fishbein, hanging onto the door handle for dear life. She resisted the urge to accelerate. With a sigh, she released the power locks. He slid into the seat beside her, with cameras clanking from each shoulder.

“Marlin! So nice of you to join me,” Hallie gushed. “I suppose you’re pretty used to chasing cars, huh?”

“Jennifer Chambers is looking for you. She says you must send the feed directly to her. She’ll enhance it a little, add some color to your piece. She’s even offered to lend you her camera crew.”

“And you’re telling me this for what reason?” Hallie Ruben was no rube. She saw the pubescent turd was all lathered up about something.

“Give me a chance to do the video, and I won’t tell her where you are.” Martin beamed as if he’d just pulled off a Brink’s heist.

“Dead men tell no tales. Besides, that bitch would probably have the technicians cut my entire body out of the shot and insert hers.”

“Not a chance. It would leave too much empty space.”

“Open your mouth one more time and you can do a half-gainer out the side window.” She spat this out through clenched teeth, and the teen knew she meant it. “Besides, Barney Deters said I’m the only one the media can get info and updates from on this dead child case. I’m Queen of the World.”

She pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Cedar Creek. As she drove, she reflected on the potential career benefits that being the press pool representative for a significant case could offer.

“You know, Marlin,” Hallie saw no harm in bouncing ideas off the delinquent camera jockey. “It’s damned odd, Chief Deters picking me, a nobody, to represent the press on such a big case.”

“I didn’t think so.” Martin fiddled with his camera, avoiding her watchful eye. “He picked you because you aren’t a player.”

“A player? You, who probably thinks tiramisu is made with Hostess Twinkies and Hershey syrup, imply that I’m not a player?”

“Yeah. It’s obvious,” he said. “Either that or he has the hots for you.”

When Hallie stopped laughing, she punched him in the arm, and his shiny new camera fell to the car floor.

“Hey! Watch it! I mean it. He picked you because you stood out. You’re different, not your usual well-polished jerk.”

“Marlin, my boy, don’t you think you’re a little different?”

“Course I am. That’s the way I like it. Chief Deters picked you because you weren’t part of the knot of reporters sniffing for blood. He figures you’re new to the game, and he can control you. Or he wants to have a grab at you. Old men do that, you know.”

“Oh, really? Well, I suppose that makes some convoluted sense. You might have a point there. I get an up-close and personal look at a murder investigation, and he finds a reporter he might trust. Or a date. Let’s hope it’s not the latter, Marlin. I’m not into that Viagra crowd. Don’t you think that other detective is rakishly handsome in a down-home sort of way?”

“Bradford?” Martin said, recognizing who she meant. “Or maybe that young stud.”

“Hank Bradford,” Hallie said, loving the sound of his name. “He’s simply what a real man looks like.”

“Women,” Martin grumbled.

They arrived in Cedar Creek and drove past the charming houses with neatly kept lawns lining Main Street. She parked at Dell’s Shop-N-Save, next to the police station, and went inside. Martin followed her like a loyal pup.

As they stepped through the front door, Sheila looked up. Hallie offered a cheerful smile. Martin was already lost in thought, examining his camera and contemplating fame and fortune.

Barney Deters arrived, followed by Hank Bradford and the young officer from the scene of the crime.

“Say, glad you’re here, young lady. I’d like you to meet Steve Brooks. He’s a little pale right now because he just watched his first autopsy. Who’s the teenager drooling over his fancy camera?”

“Nice to meet you, Steve. That’s Martin, an intern at my station. He’s my camera crew, so to speak. He’s harmless.”

Hallie followed the men into the Chief’s office. Barney plopped down in a chair, and everyone followed suit.

“We’re going back out to the scene.” Hank got right down to business. “We’ll scour at least a fifty-foot radius and see what we can turn up. We may have to increase that to a couple of acres. We also need to sift all the dirt at the burn barrel site.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Barney wheezed. “Steve, I want you to check every missing kid within a 500-mile radius. Let’s see if we can identify this poor child,” Barney yelled, as if he thought they were all deaf. Reaching into his top drawer, the Chief pulled out a bag of cheese curls. He didn’t bother to share. He dove in and started munching.

“Are you going to share, Deters?” Hank reached for the bag, but Barney ignored him.

“We need to get a few things straight,” he said, aiming this at Hallie. His chin was growing a cheese crumb thatch. “Are you able to keep anything you hear under your hat until we tell you exactly what we want released?”

“Sure, whatever you say,” she eagerly nodded.

“You’re going to be under a lot of pressure to produce some breaking news for your station. It could make or break our case if something important is released inadvertently.” Barney eyed her with skepticism. “Quid pro quo, we can help each other. We’re going to need some information disseminated. And you want to make it to the big time. Are you in or out?”

“In, of course.” She met his gaze. “I want this monster behind bars. You can count on me.”

“You’ll hear from famous people. They’ll flatter you and do almost anything to get a scoop,” Barney warned her. “It won’t win you any friends, and it might make you a few new enemies.”

“I can handle it.” Hallie thought this was going to be a cakewalk. “What about my cameraman? Martin is unseasoned. I’ve found him useful, and he responds to threats of bodily harm.”

“Lose him.” Barney grabbed the bag of cheese curls and headed for the door.

Feeling a bit bored, Martin Fishbein was filming the office.

“Sheila,” Barney hollered. “Don’t you have work to do?”

The woman slunk away, and Martin dropped his camera to his side.

“Marlin, go back to the station,” Hallie ordered authoritatively. “And stay away from the interlopers. That’s an important assignment, son.”

“What’s that?” he asked, with the camera hanging uselessly from its strap.

“Seriously, go back to the station and don’t say a word to anyone. One peep, and I won’t call you back here.”

Barney choked on a cheese curl.

“How will I get back?” Martin looked discouraged.

“Call Chambers. Tell her you have a choice package,” Hallie advised. The officers were leaving; she turned to follow them.

“You said choice package? What’s that?”

“If you’re going to work in the broadcasting industry, you need to know the lingo. It’s a finished story. Ready for airing.”

“I don’t have a package, Miss Ruben. I just took some close-up shots of this office,” Martin admitted.

“Don’t worry, Marlin. They won’t fire you. Crap, they don’t even pay you. If they hadn’t pawned you off on me, you’d be fetching coffee.”

Martin wasn’t reassured.

“Hank—you take Miss Ruben with you,” Barney ordered. “Go the back way. And use the hard road.”

“No one calls pavement a hard road anymore, Barn.”

But Barney, already out of earshot, grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him toward the cruiser.

“Will those reporters follow us?” Hallie whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Hank asked in a normal tone.

“Hank, they have microphones that can pick up conversations from a great distance. I was trying to be discreet.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll follow Barney. He leaves a trail of cheese curls wherever he goes.”

They laughed, momentarily forgetting the small child lying dead on a cold metal tray.

---

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11: THE AUTOPSY

CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN

Hank leaned against his cruiser, finishing a smoke; Barney Deters sat on the fender. Both men seemed unruffled in the heat of August, while Steve was sweating like a pig. He approached their blind side, hoping to scare the sweat out of them.

“HEY!” he was right behind Hank. The seasoned cop cuffed him on the head.

“What an asshat,” he chided. “You sneak up on a guy and you’re going to get hurt, little fella.”

Barney snorted. Hank flicked a quarter toward Barney; the old man shoved it deep into his pocket.

“You’re on,” Barney said as he slapped Hank’s hand in a high five to seal the deal.

“I know,” Steve frowned, “you both think I’ll puke.”

“Aye-yah.” Hank took a long drag on his cigarette; he blew smoke out of his nose like a dragon. “Ready for your first carving party?”

“You’re sick, Bradford.”

“Maybe Shirley wishes he’d signed up for stewardess instead of entering law enforcement,” Hank’s sarcasm dripped like honey. “Let me guess, you watch every rerun of Hill Street Blues. As a child, you had a toy gun and holster, a badge you fished out of your Barley Flakes, and a set of toy handcuffs. Right, Bucko?”

“You missed the uniform my Ma made from Dad’s old Sunday suit.”

“Leave the kid alone,” Barney wheezed. “I recall your first autopsy–had to have my damned shoes hosed off.”

Hank puffed up like a blowfish and spat a piece of tobacco toward Barney’s leg. The juice left a dark brown stain that splattered like a scene from a forensic case.

“There, Barn. Why don’t you get an analysis on that?” It was a kind of surrender.

Barney grumbled and dabbed at the stain, knowing his wife would give him a hard time for the mess.

“Now let me educate you, young fella. The Chief Ghoul, also known as the medical examiner, makes the call,” Barney explained. “Let’s say you find an old lady dead in her bed. If there aren’t signs of foul play, and you have a medical history consistent with death by natural causes, then Doc won’t order an autopsy or an inquest. He could just weigh the facts and make an educated guess as to what killed the deceased.”

“Right. However, if grandma happens to have a shiv in her stomach, the M.E. will need to consider other possible causes of death.” Hank had a coughing fit, then continued. “Like maybe she fell on it while baking cookies.”

“And Doc Golden makes the call? Poor bastard. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes with that little tyke’s body,” Steve said. The memory of her lifeless eyes haunted him even in the bright daylight.

“It’s a desecration, that’s a fact. But Doc Golden won’t be doing this one,” Barney reflected. “Too high profile for someone like a retired family practice doctor. It’s St. Cecelia’s territory. When we catch the perp, and we will, we don’t want to look like OJ Simpson’s nemesis, Marcia Clark. That was one sorrowful prosecutor who had Simpson try on that bloody glove. Old OJ got away with that one; wet blood is bound to shrink up good leather.”

“Doc doesn’t even have a laptop. Poor guy probably couldn’t find the on switch even if he tried,” Steve said. “He’s trying to survive in an age of new technology and forensic magicians. He probably thinks Windows are just those holes in the side of his house.”

“He may not be high-tech, Stevie boy, but the man can sense a case like a bloodhound,” Barney sputtered. “Matter of fact, he’s seen things that’d turn you off your feed for a good while.”

“Tell you what, old iron gut. I’ve got twenty in my pocket that says I won’t blow lunch.” Steve patted his pocket. “This will be a cake walk.”

“You’re on, Shirley,” Barney laughed. “Now let’s move it before those remains are fossilized.”

The entire Cedar Creek police force piled into the police car that rolled along the highway just a bit lower to the ground, the rumble of an aging muffler serenading them. The ride to St. Cecilia’s took them on a scenic tour through the lush countryside of Washtenaw County, leaving them plenty of time to bounce around theories about why a little Jane Doe ended up in O’Bryan’s field.

“It’s a kidnapping,” Barney thought out loud. “Went bad on them. They gagged her, and the poor kid was smothered in her own vomit.”

“It’s a dad who took that spanking a bit too far and then tried to bury the evidence,” Steve pronounced with conviction.

“Okay, hotshot.” Hank eyed the rookie skeptically. “Where are the injuries? You saw her. No cuts or scrapes. No rope burns, cuts, or indentations.”

“Suffocation!”

“Her eyes would look bloodshot if that was it. I didn’t see that at all.” Hank flicked the remnants of his cigarette out the cruiser’s window.

“We’ll need to get a list of all known sex offenders from a computer,” Barney advised. “Children’s Protective Services maintains lists of suspected child abusers. We’ll track down each of the bastards and collect their shoes. We got a madman on the loose wearing one shoe.”

“The only problem with that list is it’s full of people who might or might not have committed an offense.” Hank scratched his crotch, emphasizing his point. “You get mad at your neighbor and make a call. Wham, your neighbor makes the list. Half the time, addresses are wrong even on our convicted sex offender list.”

“No kidding,” Barney agreed. “Last year I executed a search warrant on a Liberty Road address looking for a flasher and ended up sharing pie with Hank’s Aunt Tillie. She gave me a tongue lashing I won’t forget anytime soon.”

Hank nodded, “The old bag hasn’t let me live that one down yet.”

I know I’m a rookie, but I think we should review the scene again. Then we need to bring Fly and O’Bryan into the office.” Steve waited for Hank’s reaction—it didn’t take long to come.

“What’s this we shit, bucko?” Hank craned to see what was at the side of the road ahead. “Barney, look. We can interrogate Fly right now. We could do a search and rescue of the pink panties Mrs. VanderLaan reported stolen from her clothesline last week. They’re about the size of Kansas.”

Barney pulled over to the shoulder where Fly Carrington sat by the roadside, messing with his flat bicycle tire.

“Get in,” Barney barked.

“Hi Fly?” Fly replied.

“Jesus, Steve, get the poor bastard in the car before I change my mind,” Barney whispered far too loudly.

Steve loaded Fly’s bicycle into the trunk.

Fly climbed into the back seat, still muttering. Steve scooted against the door, trying to keep as much distance as possible between them.

They soon forgot about the dimwitted man in the back seat and resumed their discussion, thinking of Fly as a mute and harmless witness to their thoughts. Fly reached into his dirty trench coat and pulled out a crumpled package of Bite’Ems. He popped two into his mouth and then shot a glare at Steve.

Upon their arrival at the hospital, Barney, Hank, and Steve got out, leaving Fly alone in the back seat. Hank had rolled the windows down so Fly wouldn’t suffocate. Fly smiled inanely, as if not a single synapse in his brain was firing.

“Fly,” Barney spoke slowly, enunciating his words. “Don’t go ANYWHERE.”

“Hi, Fly,” was his reply.

Once inside the building, they made their way to the Pathology Department, where an obese receptionist sat like a toad on a rock. On her name tag was FLO in block letters. She looked like a Flo.

“Hello.” Barney smiled graciously; that always worked. “Chief Deters, Cedar Creek Police. We’re here for the autopsy.”

“Just a moment, please.” Flo rummaged through her desk for a pen, revealing a stash of chocolate cream drops as her top office supply. She pressed the intercom button firmly.

“Those policemen are here for the postmortem, Dr. Walker.”

“Flo,” the voice came from the box, “Are you eating candy this early in the morning?”

“Wow. Are you psychic or something?” Flo shot back into the intercom.

“Turn that damn speaker off,” Dr. Walker snapped at her. She obeyed and stuck a candy in her cheek.

Dr. Walker’s assistant appeared as if summoned from the underworld and led the officers to the morgue. The doors swung open easily with a gentle touch from the short, round assistant.

“Barney, Hank, come on in!” Gene Walker slapped Barney on the back and shook hands with Hank.

“This is our new man,” Barney said, “Steve Brooks.”

“Ah, a virgin,” Walker chuckled. “It’s just like riding a roller coaster for the first time, son. You think you’ve made it over the hill, and then that big dip comes.” Gene moved to the autopsy table.

Dr. Eugene Walker was a slender, middle-aged man with dark hair. He had an impressive Hercule Poirot mustache and calm gray eyes. A white coat masked his gruesome profession. Like all pathologists, he was somewhat eccentric.

A metal table with a drainage gutter around its edge occupied a large part of the room. Its cold metal surface overshadowed the swollen body of the child lying on it. Walker adjusted the microphone over the table. His observations would be recorded on the hospital’s dictation system. He checked the instrument tray, put on latex gloves, and began.

Gently, he lifted each eyelid. Once beautiful green eyes were now speckled with clusters of fly eggs, staring back at the men with a blank, opaque gaze.

Steve remained standing, focusing on his leg muscles. The smell of ammonia rose from the lifeless child. He took shallow breaths, trying to filter the foul air through his teeth. A muted gurgle rose in his throat as saliva filled his mouth. His nasal passages burned; a pattern of dots danced before his watering eyes. Just before darkness took over, Hank pushed him into a folded position. In the distance, Steve could hear faint voices.

“For Christ’s sake, will someone get down to 101 with a stretcher?” Dr. Walker changed gloves, annoyed with the interruption.

The sound of doors opening brought a refreshing breeze—real, breathable air. Steve inhaled deeply, the freshness contrasting with the sharp scent of formaldehyde. A pair of strong yet very feminine hands guided him into the hallway, where he immediately sat on his heels. She giggled.

Smitten by his classic good looks, she blushed. Steve had a deeply tanned, handsome face with bright hazel eyes. His hair was a deep, rich auburn, cropped very short.

Embarrassed by his autopsy performance, he stayed silent.

“I suspect you are the new guy.” She was beautiful, enchanting.

“Bathroom,” was his clever reply. As he stood up, she supported his well-muscled arm at the elbow, noticing there was no ring on the third finger of his left hand.

Inside the autopsy room, the nameless child’s dissection continued. After inspecting the body’s surface for marks and discolorations, Gene Walker took her weight and measurements. Then, the autopsy truly got underway.

“This child appears to be malnourished. She has notable bruising on her lower extremities. The skin is in the early stages of decomposition. X-ray evidence reveals an old spiral fracture of the radius. She is a white female, approximately six years old.”

Raising her arm, he examined the incision made by the mysterious Dr. Firdaus.

Walker continued, “There is a gaping incision in the right axillary area, approximately 0.5 centimeters long. It is superficial, with no signs of bleeding. This aligns with it occurring after death.”

Looking up at the men, he explained, “The wound in the armpit occurred after death.” Turning back to the microphone, he added, “There are superficial scratches, but no open wounds on the upper extremities.”

“The scalp shows a somewhat sparse hair distribution consistent with the typical female pattern. The hair appears coarser than expected for a child of apparent Northern European heritage.”

“External genitalia are those of an unremarkable prepubescent female.” Before proceeding further, he carefully examined the body for fiber or foreign hairs.

“The vulva shows signs of chronic inflammatory response. The hymen has a healed 5.0-millimeter tear. There is no external bruising. Examination of the vaginal tissue reveals some recent abrasion of the mucous membranes and chronic inflammation with a thin exudate.”

“Examination of the rectal area reveals no external tears. Digital examination reveals no foreign objects in the rectal cavity or vaginal vault. Smears are taken from both cavities for cytologic examination and prostatic enzyme evaluation.” Aside to the officers, “That’s the microscopic exam for semen.”

Walker made the standard, large “Y” incision from the shoulders to the pubes. He removed the child’s internal organs, making detailed notes on their weight and any potential pathological significance.

Methodically, he handed specimens from each organ to his assistant, explaining, “These sections will be mounted in paraffin, shaved into tissue-paper-thin sections, and placed on slides for microscopic tissue evaluation.”

Exposing the brain, he explained, “The meninges show signs of focal inflammation consistent with mid-grade to acute meningitis.” His voice carried a hint of surprise. He looked at Hank and Barney. “I’m taking tissue samples and cultures from each area of inflammation.”

After the autopsy, Dr. Walker had his assistant repair the “Y” incision with coarse twine using a ‘baseball stitch.’ He removed his gloves, hesitating before speaking to Hank and Barney.

“I can’t determine the exact cause of death right now. My initial assessment indicates meningitis. We’re awaiting lab results to identify the unknown pathogen. There is clear evidence of sexual and physical abuse. Additionally, she has a congenital anomaly in her throat that is not related to her death.”

He examined what was left of his young patient and was not pleased.

“We need to review the slides, get the drug screening results, and analyze the stomach contents. There may be some other contributing factors here. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have a more definitive finding.”

“We can’t do much until we know for certain the cause of death,” Barney said. “We can, however, pursue the abuse angle.”

“You can take that to the bank. It happened more than once, there’s no doubt. She wasn’t strangled or suffocated. I don’t see the signs that would be present in such cases. This seems like a death by natural causes, but I don’t want to steer you in the wrong direction.”

Gene glanced at the clock. “Sorry, guys, I have to go—there’s a frozen section due in ten minutes. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know anything.”

“That’s okay, doc. We’ll stay in touch.” Barney waved him on as Walker turned and strode through the double doors.

“This one’s going to be ugly.” Hank watched Walker’s assistant patch the small girl’s deep cuts with thick, black stitches. The man pulled her scalp back over her skull, causing Hank to cringe. Unable to endure the ongoing violation of the lifeless girl, the men left, emotionally drained.

They located Steve in the cafeteria. He was crammed into a booth with his nurse savior and gesturing wildly.

“So, I chased them. Took that cruiser up to ninety. I was about to shoot out a tire, so I aimed…”

Steve was lost in his imaginary gunfight. The nurse listened with rapt attention, admiration evident on her face. Barney tapped his shoulder. Steve sheepishly looked at Hank and Barney, who were grinning from ear to ear like two Cheshire cats.

“Let’s go, Rambo.” Hank led the parade to the car.

Outside, Fly sat cross-legged on top of the cruiser, making siren noises. A small group of passersby watched him warily.

“Hi, Fly, get in the car,” Barney commanded.

“Hi, Fly.” Fly jumped down and sprang into the seat next to Steve. The young woman had accompanied Steve out of the building and now laughed heartily as Fly reached across Steve and offered her a Bite’Ems.

“No thanks,” she smiled and winked at Steve. “Call me. I’m in the book.”

“Yeah,” Steve blushed. “Tonight.”

As they pulled out of the parking lot, he said, “Hank, this guy’s a moron. I don’t think he could be involved in this dead kid thing.”

“Tried to tell you that,” Hank noted. “Fly is harmless. But he might know something, and we need to find a way to get it out of him.”

“Without scaring him,” Barney added.

The police cruiser turned onto the Interstate as Fly wondered what color the nurse’s panties were. He popped a dirty, oval Bite’Ems into his mouth. Its tang brought tears to his eyes. He bounced on the seat, twirled his scarf in a circle, and chanted, “Whup, whup, whup, whup…”

“Shut up, Fly!” echoed loudly from the boys in blue.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..End

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10: SANCTUARY

WESTERN MICHIGAN

Quinn’s aftershave carried a subtle old-money scent. Harley thus woke up amid a sudden burst of muffled droplets from the flight attendant’s sneeze.

“Gosh, Mr. Quinn, I’m so very sorry,” she looked appropriately contrite; his eyes told her nothing. “We’ve landed in Grand Rapids.”

“Yes, of course. Could you please step back a little?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Tricia lost interest, watching the pilot exit the cabin.

“I need to get on the road,” Quinn said as he stood up to retrieve his attaché and the leather tote with his toiletries. The plane was empty. Only a few peanut wrappers and a stale smell from the close quarters remained.

Tricia stood at the doorway, ready to put on one of those plastic smiles as she assured him it was her pleasure to serve him. Quinn ignored her.

Thus, Harley Quinn, possibly a great valet but not a true assistant to Senator Willson, walked down the ramp and into the terminal as if he were the Secretary of State.

The terminal doors opened as Quinn approached. A rush of heavy August air hit his face. A baggage handler waited at the curb.

“I need a rental car. Can you help me?”

“I’m on a break,” the man muttered, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Do you know who you’re speaking to?” Harley Quinn’s eyes shot through the man like a shard of danger.

The man thought, I need this job, as he flicked his cigarette aside.

“Come with me, Sir,” he said, feeling a bit worried after stealing items from the baggage area last week. “Here you go, just follow the yellow brick road.”

The signs were clear, and Quinn located the auto rental desk. The anxious agent appeared to be hopped up on something.

“I just think you should know,” he told the rental agent in a hushed tone, “you have an extremely rude baggage handler out there.” Harley eyed the fellow for a satisfactory response.

“Oh, you ran into Porky. He hates turtlenecks and briefcases. You want to give him a wide berth. He also pickpockets.” The agent dangled keys in Quinn’s direction. “Fill ‘er up before you return these.”

Harley Quinn drove the sedan along M-37. Familiar landmarks from his previous trip with the Senator guided him north toward Sanctuary. The meandering road was lined with orchards that turned into rolling pine-covered hills at the edge of the Manistee National Forest.

Harley daydreamed of greyhound races and cigars, and before he was ready, the dirt road to Sanctuary loomed. The driveway looked like any other two-track to a hunter’s cabin. The car bumped along the trail deep into national timberland. A Burma Shave pattern of NO TRESPASSING signs decorated the trees, drawing him into the depths of the forest.

Using a rustic cabin built by some pioneer to hide the entrance to a top-secret government facility was brilliant. In Harley’s opinion, the USA seldom achieved brilliance on its own.

Harley thought about the group of jerks he’d be facing. Last time, guards were hiding in the bushes with guns. Quinn’s boss was unaware, but he knew a lot about guns. He wasn’t eager to have weapons pointed at him.

The crunch of gravel alerted the guards of Sanctuary to Harley Quinn’s arrival. They had been tracking his progress as he passed the cameras mounted on each No Trespassing sign since the man had left M37.

Kowa sat with his coffee cup balanced on the window ledge, a rifle aimed at Harley’s head. Mr. Quinn was stylishly dressed in a black turtleneck and a suit that certainly wasn’t off the rack. He was weighed down by his attaché and a leather tote bag. Kowa laughed.

“Here comes a real fancy gentleman,” he sneered. His cohorts chuckled.

“He will be more entertaining than Holmstead’s thugs. I hate it when they show up.”

“Quiet. I’ve got a headache,” another man snarled from the top bunk bed.

Harley’s wingtips made snapping sounds on the pine needles. The woods were so quiet that the skittery noises around him seemed louder. A woodpecker’s rat-a-tat unnerved him as he stepped onto the porch.

A handsome man with striking auburn hair aimed his gun at Quinn’s midsection.

“ID,” Kowa snapped.

Harley reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open, revealing his ID card.

“That’s a credit card, mister. Was there anything specific you wanted to buy?”

“Oh. Excuse me,” Harley Quinn rummaged through the assorted cards and grabbed his ID.

Kowa ran a scanner over it.

“Harley Quinn.”

He nodded. He was nervous, and that was an unfamiliar feeling. Even the hairs on his arms were standing at attention.

“You got a password you want to share with me?”

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m not used to artillery at such close range,” Harley snapped.

“Mr. Quinn, I’d suggest you come up with a password pretty quickly, or you’re going to end up with some extra holes where your liver is now.”

Harley considered this.

“Gospel of Luke.”

Praying he would be wrong, Kowa was disappointed. His fun was over as he nodded at Quinn’s luggage.

“You can’t take that gear with you. If you’re authorized to stay, we’ll bring them down,” Kowa stepped aside. “Proceed at your leisure, Quinn.”

Harley entered the cabin, concealing his nerves well. The inside looked harmless, with bunk beds built into the walls, a pine trestle table, and mismatched wooden chairs. A fieldstone fireplace ran along one wall, and an icebox sat in the far corner. The smell of fresh coffee was tempting, but no one asked if he wanted a cup.

On his first trip, Willson showed him the ropes, so Harley knew what to do. But these clones were intimidating. Every damn one had that stupid red hair.

He quickly moved to the center of the room and lifted one end of the bearskin rug, revealing a trap door.

An extraordinary-looking guy, Onu, watched Harley’s every move. He offered Harley a harmless grin. Another handsome man with messy auburn hair was scratching himself vigorously as he observed Harley from an upper bunk. All the occupants were dressed like typical Michigan outdoorsmen, wearing red flannel shirts and jeans.

“Mr. Quinn, I’m coming with you. You seem a little confused.” Onu held the trap open, and Harley inserted his ID into the proper slot in the clasp. An LED display lit up, the clasp clicked, and the lock snapped open.

“Your name was?” He was reluctant to have a stranger behind him, especially one who was armed.

“You can call me Zippee.”

Kowa burst into a fit of raucous laughter, and Harley had no doubt the joke was on him.

“I was here a few months ago, with Senator Willson.” He didn’t add that they were picking up an odious bundle of joy.

“Yes, I know.” Onu’s face twisted with disdain.

Harley Quinn remembered the looks he got as he carried the squirming blue bundle to the car while the Senator patted a guard on the back and handed him a cigar.

“Are you coming back for another?”

“Not today. There is a big meeting that the Senator couldn’t attend. Probably a real bore,” Harley assured, though he wondered what awaited him. This place was creepy, and there were more redheaded creeps down below.

The door opened quietly, its hinges smoothly lubricated. Fluorescent lights illuminated the stone staircase. Willson’s valet nervously started down, and Onu followed. He didn’t appear to be very talkative.

The elevator had stainless steel walls broken up by a panel of two buttons. Onu pressed one, and the elevator activated. The doors silently closed.

“Thanks, Zippee.” Harley grasped the rail for support. The drop made his stomach flip-flop.

“It’s Onu… I lied before.”

“I figured.”

The doors opened to a bright, stark-white hallway, tiled and immaculate. The corridor was wide and tall, easing any fears of a claustrophobic traveler—no doors—just a vast expanse of space.

At the end of the corridor, a guard station with thick glass windows had a small opening for conversation. The guard sat still at his desk, watching until the men reached the booth.

“Harley Quinn, here representing Senator Willson.” He showed his ID. The man looked like he was on display in a wax museum or in a trance.

“Baylor,” Onu shouted. “Wake up.” The man’s open eyes suddenly blazed with life. The guard opened the doorway that had been invisible before.

“Onu, my man. I’ve got one hell of a headache. Are you my relief?”

“Not a chance, guy. It seems headaches are as common as mosquito bites these days.”

“Well, I think my head’s going to implode if I don’t find some aspirin,” Baylor said. “What makes you venture this far south of the earth’s crust?”

“I’m just helping Mr. Quinn. He doesn’t realize how much he wants to stay on the straight and narrow down here.”

“You tell him about General Almquist?” Baylor asked, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

“No, I didn’t. Thought I’d breeze through it and hope that Almquist doesn’t find out he’s really the Senator’s valet and not an administrative assistant. Bad enough that Willson played hooky.”

Baylor gestured for him to proceed to a setup resembling an airport security checkpoint.

“You want to step through there for me, son?”

Quinn obeyed, knowing unseen eyes observed everything, including his tattoos. A metal gate opened, granting entry into the most extensive and most secret military base in the free world.

Onu and Baylor were deep in a discussion about a mysterious infection spreading through Sanctuary. They appeared unaware of him, so he entered Sanctuary alone.

The wonder he felt when he was first introduced to this place hadn’t faded. Harley Quinn stepped into the light with just a moment of hesitation.