EPILOGUE

“Nobody calls me Lefty anymore,” George Ho grumbled. A frog croaked in response, and he threw a clump of mud at it.

“Damn, when those twins saved Jake’s ass, I was just about to get called to the murder scene at the Wilson’s estate. Just a dumb detective busting my hump chasing crack addicts and worrying about my 401K.”

George Ho looked up at the sky. Black clouds raced across like a runaway train, but the storm seemed to be bypassing them for now. Helena would be furious.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. He looked across the pond at the spot where they’d buried Evan’s badge, since it was all that was left of him when the Great Fall came.

“That was quite a pair of twins. They were something special. I never got to meet them, though. Now I hear folks make up songs about them. They turned out to be heroes.”

George grabbed a handful of grass and stuck a bit in his mouth to chew. It was sweet and reminded him of his childhood.

Shit. I don’t know why I’m going through this old baggage. There’s nothing there I haven’t looked at a million times already. I can’t think of anything we could have done differently. Jake was such a player. He played Margreth, and then he played Holmstead. In the end, he fooled all of us. Now Hank Bradford, there was a son of a bitch who could spin a yarn. Wonder if he ever made it home again?

Aimee burst through the grass like a jack-in-the-box.

“Grandpa, Ma’s stewing like a kettle. She says you’re out here rumming again.”

“You mean ruminating?” George asked. When he looked at Aimee, he saw so much of his lost son, Evan. “I suppose I am, child.”

“Tell me some more about before, Gramps. Tell me what happened to the twins.”

“Oh goodness. The twins were just fine, my pretty child. They had a little adventure, that’s all. They saved Jake Barnes’ skin—you know. He was the fellow whose evil twin showed up here earlier today.”

“The real Jake had no big toe, right?”

“Right.”

“Why was he special?”

“They were all special,” George mused. “In their own way, each one played their part like a Shakespearean play. You know, it occurred to me that every single person had a role in the Great Fall. Even little Hanna and Ruth.”

“And you, Grandpa?”

“Well, I really hadn’t reached that point in my thinking, Aimee,” George said. “When you try to sort things out, needs be you must start at the beginning. I wasn’t in on the early stages, when things started to rumble and shake.”

“But Hank and Hallie were. And that road out there—Ma says some gizmos carted you hither and yon and spat smoke.”

“Cars, Aimee. We called them cars. That cement path out there carried a lot of traffic from here to there. We were all in a blasted hurry.”

“Why? Where were you going?”

“Well, that’s the point, child. We didn’t know where we were headed. In the end, I suppose we were going nowhere at all.”

“What happened to Digby? And what about your other friend, Dougan O’Donnell?”

“Digby? I heard he just up and disappeared. That was right before everything exploded. He was a fine man, Digby Brown. Dougan passed through a few years back. You remember? That old guy with a cane.”

“Oh, he was nice. He had a satchel full of apple seeds he was selling.”

“That was quite interesting. I asked him to stay, but he said he’d caught the wanderlust bug and was just as happy to keep moseying along.”

“Did the twins actually kill people?”

“They got some bad guys,” George said. “I’d like to say they didn’t kill them, but they smoked them like a couple of ham hocks. They truly did. It was very courageous, but their mom and dad were none too happy, as the story goes.”

“And Hank and Hallie lived happily ever after?”

“I think they did. But I really hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking, Aimee. That came a bit later. Hank Bradford and a man named Armand D’Argenta are the only reasons you’re here, sweetie. They took some specimens to the other side of the world, and an Australian fellow cooked up a batch of vaccine that saved lots of people.”

“Ma says that the Great Fall never happened. She says that life stays the same and calls the twins just a moth.

“I think you mean a myth, Aimee. If that’s what your mama says, you’d best believe her.”

“I’m not stupid, Grandpa,” Aimee frowned. “I hear them talking down at the trading market.”

“Old men love to spin yarns,” George said. “I’ve been known to spin a few myself. I think I hear your ma calling you.”

“It’s not a fib, Grandpa. I believe the Dodson twins are the bravest boys in the world, and I plan to marry one.”

“They’re middle-aged guys with beer guts now,” George laughed. “They probably amounted to no good at all.”

“I’m not done with you, Gramps. I’m going to know the truth!” Aimee turned and ran toward the house. George watched her slender legs piston like his used to, in the old days.

“I don’t doubt it,” George said to himself. “But I’m not sure that it would do any good at all for a little girl to know about the end of the world. Maybe Helena’s right.”

But as he turned back to the pond and watched the mosquitoes dance across the water in a gray cloud, he muttered, “Is it over? Or has it just begun?”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
This is the final installment of No Tour Guides in Hell. You can read it on our website until March 31, 2026. We are happy to have made it available for free, but the story doesn’t end here: There are two more books in this trilogy. All three books are now available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN
Chapter 42
ON WITH THE GAMES

Hank searched for his keys in the dark. The street was empty; even the barber had staggered home.

“Damn. Where the heck is everybody? What kind of police station is this?” Nobody answered.

A Jeep rolled down the street, and Hank turned to watch. The driver slowed down. Hank checked his hip for his holster and realized it was empty. His gun was still with the Sheriff’s Department. His mind was in turmoil. The vehicle pulled up beside him, and Elmo Carter got out.

“Glad I found you,” Elmo said.

“Cripes, Elmo. What happened to you? You look like your best friend just slept with your wife.” Hank pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the station’s main door.

“I’ve got to talk to you, Bradford,” Elmo said, and pushed Hank through the door. “Get off the street. It’s not safe.”

“What in the world crawled up your ass and died? Not safe? I don’t see any little green men landing on the rooftops, Elmo. What do you know that I don’t?”

“It’s not so much what I know as what I suspect,” Elmo admitted. “Sit down, Hank.”

“Damn, are you telling me what to do in my own station? Do you want coffee?”

“You should make a full pot and grab a bottle of cheap liquor because I don’t think I can deal with things anymore.”

“Can you believe this place?” Hank looked around the office. The dispatch desk was covered with pink messages and an empty pizza box. There was a box of empty Coke cans by the door. “Hallie must have jumped ship. The rats always flee a sinking boat, Elmo. I’m doomed.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She left you a note, Hank,” Elmo said, handing the pink note to Hank, who was the pro forma police chief with Barney’s death.

Family emergency. Calls are being forwarded to the county’s 911 dispatchers.

Will call you—HR.

Hank sniffed the paper. The marker’s acetone smell had faded long ago. “It’s been here a while.”

“You’re not Columbo,” Elmo remarked.

“Why do you say that? I’ve uncovered a lot of information in the last twenty-four hours, some of which confuses me.”

“That’s why I’m here, Hank. I’m a short timer. Nearly retirement age. I don’t need this shit, but I stepped in it.”

“Ah. You want to admit to that Firdaus guy’s shenanigans? I think he’s got bad intentions.”

“It’s worse than that, Hank. You don’t have a clue what you’re mixed-up in. But I’m starting to figure it out. I could stay quiet, but I suspect I’m headed for an early retirement with the cement shoes.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Elmo? Did you take a payoff? That little foreign fella pay you to cover something up?”

“No. It’s not as simple as that, Hank. I wish it was. Listen to me. I don’t have much time because I know they’re after me.”

“You want me to call Doc? I can find you a nice room at Rolling Acres where you can read Sports Illustrated all day, take a few pills, and eat gruel.”

“Okay, don’t listen. You’ll be dead soon, too. I think you’re right there on the short list with me, Hank.”

The station was shrouded in darkness except for a few fluorescent lights humming in the back room. Elmo peered through the slats in the blinds. The street was silent.

“Look in that bag I brought in,” Elmo directed, still staring out at the street.

Hank picked up the bag from the table and looked inside. There was a can of cherry soda with a stopper in the opening.

“Go ahead, sniff it.”

“Shit, this smells like almond extract,” Hank admitted. He started to take a sip.

“Don’t drink that, Hank. It’s cyanide.”

“How can you tell?”

“Does it smell like cherry soda?”

“No,” Hank sniffed again. “It smells like Blanche’s almond bars.”

“Look in your refrigerator, Hank. I’ll bet you have a few cans, too.”

Hank opened the apartment-sized refrigerator under the counter. There was a moldy sandwich, a withered apple, and five cans of cherry soda.

“Where’s my soda? I only drink Coke,” Hank said. A thought struck him, and he paled. “Check the empties in that box. Do you see any cherry soda?”

“No, Hank, I don’t. The soda fairy came sometime in the last few hours.”

“What’s happening? This could have killed all of us.”

“Here’s what I know, and it’s all I know, so don’t ask me things I can’t answer. And for heaven’s sake, get rid of that soda.”

Hank poured the dangerous sodas down the sink one by one and listened to Elmo, who was so restless he seemed ready to crawl out of his skin.

“It all began the day we found the body. I was at a meeting in Lansing when the call came through. It was from the Governor’s office, but it was a relay call. From what I’ve been able to gather, it originated from Washington, DC.”

“Someone called and informed them it was a national security matter. We were directed by a man named Firdaus on where to locate a specific body and told to assist in its recovery. He was to have access at all costs.” Elmo continued.

“The plan was to go out there and wait for him to show up. Imagine my surprise when you folks were already there.”

“That’s it? You don’t know anything else?”

“I only know one more thing, Hank. Yesterday, I picked up a man from the train station. He was a goon and claimed he was a government agent. He had the paperwork to prove it, but he didn’t look like a G-man to me.”

“I dropped him off at a rental car place in Ann Arbor. Then tonight, I find this can of cherry cyanide in my fridge.”

“What in the world?” Hank started but stopped as a car’s headlights flashed against the buildings across the street, then light shone through the slats in the blinds.

“Get down!” Hank shouted. “There’s somebody out there,” Elmo dropped to the floor while Hank peeked out. The car drove by slowly. It was a dark, plain sedan with a rental plate.

“Thank God for streetlights,” Hank said. “What should we do?”

“If you want to solve this, Hank, you’ll have to go undercover. Disappear. You can’t get to the bottom of anything from six feet under.”

“Shit. This blows. First Barney, then me. Who’s going to maintain the peace?”

“Far as I can tell, we aren’t truly successful in that area. You can’t help anyone in a pine box.”

“You’re right, Elmo. I need to think outside the box. And I don’t mean a casket. I’d better call Doc Golden before I go and bounce some medical questions off his old brain. You can come back out—the coast is clear.”

“Thanks, but I’m comfy down here,” Elmo said as he sat on the floor behind the counter.

A thud struck the front door, and both men jumped. “It’s just the paper,” Hank said. “Shit, it’s dawn already.”

He grabbed the newspaper from the stoop and spread it across the desk. The headline hit him hard.

Man of God Goes Berserk in Cedar Creek—Kills Two

Unsettled by the cold tone of the phrasing, he looked further down the page.

Children of a local news reporter are missing and FEARED KIDNAPPED

“Shit, shit, and double shit,” Hank exploded. “I can’t take any more of this crap.”

“What’s wrong?” Elmo asked. He had been reading one of Steve’s detective magazines. Hank placed the paper in front of Elmo and dialed the phone.

“Doc? Wake up. I need to talk to you.”

“Make an appointment,” the old physician mumbled.

“I’m going to say this slowly. I’m hunkered down at the station with Elmo Carter. We’ve gotten involved in some kind of conspiracy, and I need medical advice. Now, wake up.”

“Okay, I’m awake. I called the state forensic lab to report that a lab fellow there tampered with evidence, and guess what? There’s no Syringh Firdaus at the state lab or any other lab affiliated with the State of Michigan.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Hank admitted. “I’m not sure what we’re caught up in, Doc, but it involves a chopper.”

“A chopper? Like a food processor?”

“No, Doc. A helicopter. That’s what Fly saw. ‘Whup, whup, whup.’ That’s what he kept telling me. I found a toothpick-made helicopter in his bedroom. The thing was a work of art.”

“The poor soul must have been an idiot savant. What else?”

“Lot of stuff, mostly bits and pieces, but it’s coming together. Sarah Underhill’s real name was Azara, and she was some kind of government asset. That’s not the whole story. I got some information at the hospital that Walker had hidden away in the back of a drawer. Our little friend didn’t find it, but he grabbed everything else.”

“Read it to me.” Doc yawned.

Hank read from the lab book. The silence on the other end dragged on, and he could bear it no longer.

“Doc?”

“I’m still thinking. He’s saying she died from a type of meningitis caused by a protozoan. Like he said, it’s not something humans usually catch. He’s right about that, as far as I know. My knowledge in that area is limited, and I will need to research it further. He’s also saying this child genetically resembles other non-human primates.”

“What is that?”

“Like monkeys, apes, and that sort of thing. Remember when I said she had strange hair? At the time, I wondered if it was malnutrition.”

“I vaguely recall.”

“Walker’s speculating that this could be a very significant find. And, as you already knew, he’s saying she was sexually abused,” Doc paused.

“If you had to guess, what do you think Walker was theorizing about?”

“This might be a stretch, Hank, but I think he believed she was a mix between two different primates, like a human and something else—say, a chimp.”

That’s right, Doc. It matches what I found in Underhill’s stuff. Did Walker have all his marbles?

“I knew him well. A brilliant scientist. Early in his career, he and a French guy did a lot of work in cloning.”

“That explains why someone wanted to kill him. He was hiding a secret.”

“If there’s a clone that age walking around, she’s top secret, Hank. Looks like we’ve stepped into a big mess. You better watch your step, boy.”

“Elmo and I had our own awakening, if you catch my drift. But more likely, it might just be some naturally occurring genetic glitch.”

“Something’s off, Hank. And it involves that raisin-skinned, shady-looking little creep that Elmo brought in. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Elmo’s okay, Doc. He got hornswoggled like the rest of us. I need you to stay quiet. I’m about to disappear for a while. They’ll think I’ve had a breakdown or something, but that’s exactly what I want them to believe.”

“All right, Hank. I trust you to do whatever’s best. This conversation never happened.”

Hank hung up, and Elmo was heading toward the back door.

“Where are you going? Are you ditching me?”

“We’re sitting ducks, Hank. I’m getting out of here. I’d advise you to do the same.”

“I will, as soon as I find out what happened to Hallie’s girls. I can’t leave until I know Hallie is safe.”

“You’d better get her clear of this too. She won’t be any safer than you are if she knows too much.” Elmo slipped out of the back door. Hank wondered if he’d ever see him again.

At the same time, Hallie entered through the front door, followed by two children who seemed to have just experienced a rough time. Their mother’s eyes were red, and her face was swollen, but to Hank, she still looked beautiful.

“Thank God. I didn’t know how to reach you,” Hank said hurriedly. “I saw the paper. Are they okay?”

“They’re still alive, if that’s what you mean. At least for now.”

“What happened? Did someone take them?”

“They left my mother’s yesterday. She was going through one of her dying routines and went to the doctor’s office.” She shot the girls a withering look that would stop a raging bull in its tracks. They looked scared.

“When my mother got home, they were gone. These two delinquents left her a note saying they missed me. Of course, we panicked. The police were searching for them, and so was I. We had to call their father. He hadn’t heard anything, but he made it clear that this was my fault. Finally, I took a chance. I thought they had enough cash to catch a bus to Ann Arbor. I drove back and forth between the stations until I found them.”

“Sounds like great detective work.”

“They scared the pants off me.” The girls tried to look innocent. Hallie looked at Hank, dressed like a hospital orderly. He still wore scrubs from last night. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Career change. I’m becoming a proctologist. Listen, something’s come up. It might be dangerous to stay in Cedar Creek. I should tell you to stay with your overbearing dying mother, but instead I guess I’m suggesting you follow your kids’ lead.”

“Actually, I hoped that maybe the girls and I could stay with you for a while. My ex is threatening to take custody away from me,” she said, wiping away tears, and Hank melted.

He looked at the two waifs sitting side by side on the bench. Hanna was the fairer one, with long brown hair falling in waves, teeth that were just a shade crooked, and mischievous green eyes. She’d be a beauty someday. Ruth was dark, like her mother. She had a cute angel’s face and curly hair.”

“We usually put runaways in jail.” The girls looked at their mother for reprieve. “I’m going to place you in your mother’s custody. You’re not to leave her side, or it’s off to jail, understand?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison.

He turned to Hallie. “Here are the keys. You can come to my house. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up.”

He thought of Steve, the rookie who wasn’t from the academy.

“Have some food, get some rest. There are a few unpleasant truths I need to share with you. In the meantime, don’t answer the door.”

“You’re scaring me, Hank. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later. I need to photocopy the Underhill file before I come home. In the meantime, close the curtains and keep the doors locked. Don’t drink any cherry soda; if you see any in my refrigerator, handle it carefully and put it in the garage. There is poison—cyanide.”

“What is going on?”

“See that?” Hank pointed to the empty cans lined up on the edge of the sink. “According to Elmo Carter, they’re laced with cyanide.”

“You express your point very clearly.”

“We don’t have time for unnecessary words. I’m as serious as a heart attack. You go to the house; he tossed her the keys. And watch out for my pet African gray. His name is Dillinger, and he takes prisoners.”

“Dillinger?” Hallie frowned. “I don’t know anything about birds. Do I have to walk it?”

Hank had already turned his attention to a thick file folder, so she left. He sorted through the paperwork scattered across the desk, culling the Underhill files. The copier spewed out duplicates into a messy pile on the desk. He inventoried the physical evidence, noting each item.

Midmorning, Hank Bradford left the only job he’d ever had, carrying the duplicate Underhill file. The rogue detective suspected he’d never return to the Cedar Creek police station, but he walked away without hesitation.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Subscribe for email notice when a new chapter drops.

GRASS LAKE, MICHIGAN
Chapter 41
ON THE ROAD

Jake Barnes cruised down the highway half-asleep when he caught a whiff of something foul—like ripe roadkill. He was frustrated to realize he was the source of the smell. Movement on the passenger side of the car drew his attention. Blinking, he looked again. Margreth Willson sat there demurely, legs crossed. She was buck-naked.

“What are you doing here? You’re dead. Maybe that’s what I smell, honey.”

She smiled.

“It’s me? Shit, I’m having a tête-à-tête with a ghost. Do you know where the hell we are?”

She didn’t respond.

“Well, I’ll tell you then. We’re speeding along I-94 in lower Michigan. That was Toledo we passed a while back. A hub of higher learning and the arts.” He chuckled. “I was thinking of the Toledo that’s in Spain, I do beg your pardon.”

She smiled once more.

“This is the Land of the Great Lakes: Erie, Huron, Superior, Michigan. Shit, what’s the other one?”

“Ontario,” she supplied.

“Right, Ontario. Hey, you can’t talk. You’re dead.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, contrite. She tilted her head, silver hair swinging forward seductively. He was aroused, much like he’d been at the diner a few days ago.

“Don’t know where the hell I am. This place looks like a wall-to-wall farm, can’t find a shower let alone an outhouse,” he grumbled as he searched road signs for a rest area. “If I don’t stop soon, I won’t have to worry about death by torture. I’ll be wrapped around a tree.”

“Personally, I’d take the tree.” She smiled sweetly, her breasts sagging slightly— not bad for a middle-aged woman of substance.

“What did that bastard do to you, anyway?”

“Cut a little from this, a little from that. My nose was too big anyway.”

“Better off not dwelling, huh? I was a spy myself. I like to think on my feet. I’ve endured a few tough interrogations in my day—which left me a bit worse for wear. Still, I’d prefer a poke with a poison umbrella over torture. What the hell were we thinking? We should have just rented a room, made love, and let you take your problems elsewhere, huh?”

She smiled, crossed her legs again, revealing more of herself.

“It’s a little late for that line of thinking,” Margreth’s apparition wiggled its toes and frowned.

“I’ve got to find this Sanctuary place. I need cold, hard facts if I’m going to get out of this one. Tighter than a virgin’s—oops, sorry. You’re a real lady. I should watch my dirty mouth. Look,” he spotted a road sign. “There’s a campground at this exit. If I don’t take a shower soon, the fumes might ignite. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Little late for that, don’t you think?” Her voice was smooth as Scotch whiskey. “You’re talking to a dead person, after all.”

“Point taken.”

Jake took the exit for Grass Lake on the expressway, part of the Irish Hills of Michigan, a mix of farms with tall corn and cottages crowded with city folks around inland lakes.

An ancient sentinel wearing a fake ranger hat and no shirt guarded the campground; his post was an old ice shanty. Jake pulled the rental vehicle onto the shoulder and planned a sneak attack. He didn’t want a confrontation with the old fogy.

He got out of the car and stretched.

“You wait here.” He glanced toward Margreth’s ghost. The car’s interior was empty. He’d known that.

The ditches were filled with cattails and wildflowers. Even the mosquitoes left him alone, unable to penetrate the miasma surrounding him. He pushed his way through the wetlands and emerged from a cluster of white pines into an open camp dotted with a mix of RVs, pop-up campers, trailers, and tents.

Gaggled in groups around fire pits, the city slickers grilled all kinds of delicious breakfast treats. The smell hung thick in the air, and Jake’s mouth watered.

He ambled past the happy campers toward a building marked SHOWERS. Passing an abandoned skillet piled high with bacon, he grabbed several hot strips and poked them into his mouth. Grease streamed down his chin. The john in the bacon family’s camper flushed, and he scurried along.

Water splattering indicated others in the building. Piles of clothing and towels rested on a narrow bench. Jake quickly shopped for clothing that looked like his size. After a shower, he pulled on a white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with work boots.

He threw away the mechanic’s coveralls and jogged back through the park. He almost reached the driveway when a woman yelled.

“Hey, Bob, that’s your shirt.”

Bob was standing about 50 feet over there, bare-chested.

“Hey, asshole,” Bob yelled. “Stop right there. That’s my UAW shirt.”

Jake broke into a sprint and took a quick shortcut through the deep woodsy thatch to reach the road.

The old fogy at the entrance fired what sounded suspiciously like a muzzleloader. A lead ball whizzed past his ear. Jake scrambled up the bank and into his rental car.

He wasted no time starting it up and pulling away. A three-wheeler shot out from the camp’s driveway. Floor to the floor, Jake hammered the accelerator, sending a spray of dust and gravel at the ATV and its unfortunate driver.

Somewhere between the gravel road and the highway, he lost the man. An hour or so later, he reached Grand Rapids. Turning due north on the Alpine Highway.

Jake thought about his future—if he even had one. By now, his bank account was frozen by the CIA. If they had followed standard procedures, which they would have, all records of his existence, including his school records, would have been wiped out like he’d never existed at all.

“I’ve only got one shot at the uprights, it’s the fourth quarter, and the clock’s running out. If I can’t find enough dirt on Arthur Holmstead to take him down, I’m as good as dead, Margreth.”

He looked at his ghostly passenger. She was again sitting there, gazing out the window.

“Try Dan Urban,” she said.

“Dan Urban? He’s an FBI man.”

“Sometimes we just have to step out with faith,” she reached for him, then faded. The seat was empty.

“That’s just fine,” he grumbled. “Now that I’ve gotten used to you, you up and disappear.”

On the seat, he noticed the map she’d drawn for him at the restaurant. He pulled over to the shoulder and reviewed the instructions.

Six miles north of Newaygo, turn left onto the two-track right after you see a sign for Manistee National Forest. Continue west on the two-track for half a mile. Look for a hunting cabin.

He continued along the route, heading north past the Ranger Station. A rustic grocery store sat at the edge of the National Forest. Jake pulled into the rutted parking lot and looked around. After chugging down cold coffee, he went inside.

An old woman was making an ice cream cone for a overweight traveler. When she was available, he showed his small purchases: beer, beef jerky, and a bag of chips.

“By the way, ma’am, can you tell me what’s up the road? Are there any trails into the National Forest?”

You fixin’ to do some poaching?”

“Of course not. I’m a bird watcher. You don’t carry camping gear, do you?” He tried to look innocent and bird watcherish.

“Don’t stock those items. Got a used bedroll you can buy for ten bucks.”

“Deal.”

She grunted, “There’s an old logging camp, burned down years ago, ‘bout a mile or so north. After you watch the birds, you might want to make a trip to Baldwin and take in a service or two.”

“Church?” He thought about a unique missionary approach. “Thanks.”

The road north was empty except for a pickup truck loaded with carrots that drove past him. One mile later, he saw the overgrown logging trail called Haverkamp’s Mill. Beyond the chain stretched across to stop trespassers, the two-track was a winding path that vanished into the forest.

Jake hid his car deep in a cluster of bushes. He surveyed the terrain— it wasn’t too bad. The forest floor had little undergrowth. The air smelled fresh and clean—a nice change from the city. The pine carpet was littered with old beer cans and trash near the drive.

It was midday, and gnats formed annoying clouds. Mosquitoes flitted and hummed, searching for exposed skin.

After finishing one of his beers, Jake gathered his supplies and hiked into the deep woods. A quarter mile into the forest, he found the abandoned shack. The door swung open easily; the room was furnished with a cot and a card table. A dusty folding chair leaned against the wall, and the slop pail rested by the door. There were no cupboards and aside from the petrified potato, no food. A kerosene stove hunched in the corner.

Jake unfolded the sleeping bag, and a cloud of dust billowed out. Coughing, he imagined the hordes of bed bugs and fleas left behind to bite him during the night. He set the bedroll on the cot and then focused on food and drink.

He was finishing the last of his Sunday brunch when he heard footsteps outside. The door suddenly burst open, and two men in hunting gear rushed in.

“Who the hell are you?” the taller, very dark man asked, rifle leveled between Jake’s eyes. His accent was not American.

“What the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing, walking in on a guy?” Jake gave him a menacing look. “Why, I got half a mind to shoot you.”

“We’re looking for two kids,” the short, stocky man with the shotgun said.

“You see any kids?” Jake tore a piece of jerky free and munched it. He wanted to puke, but that would be a dead giveaway.

“Sorry,” the tall guy apologized. “We need to find our kids, and our wives are hysterical.”

“Yeah, well, knock next time, buddy,” Jake gulped his beer, but his bravado was fading. “Better yet, get out of here and stay out!”

They pulled their door shut behind them. He watched through a soot-covered window made from countless fires. There was only a small oval patch to see through.

The men headed south. Jake thought about the visit.

Those goons have never had consensual sex, much less shown concern for wives or kids. They could be G-men. Maybe they belong to Art the Fart Holmstead. That foreigner doesn’t belong in the game, that’s for sure. This could be a good thing—establish me as a hunter in the area. Maybe give me cover and save my hide. So why don’t I feel better about it?

Jake’s fear faded after the enemy retreated. He stretched out on the cot.

I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. Then I’ll follow the same trail the goon squad took. I’ll bet my left nut it leads right to Sanctuary. Maybe the kids they’re looking for are the same ones in Margreth’s top-secret documents—some of those clone babies. Perhaps they escaped . . .”

Sleep overtook him. Forest sounds shifted to owl hoots and coyote howls as night fell. Thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. Jake Barnes snoozed on, dreaming of Margreth–her gorgeous eyes, sleek silver hair, and ivory skin.

When he woke up, Jake felt energized and refreshed. He poked his head out the door. Civilization seemed a long way off from the scent of pine needles and fresh air, unspoiled by the smells of industry.

A thought crossed his mind. Why not retire right here and now? Get a hunting license and have a wild vacation. Forget this nasty business and avoid the danger. I should just get the hell out of here. But he knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t.

The well was just a short walk from the outhouse. He primed the contraption with a few quick pumps and filled the bucket with icy cold water from beneath the floor.

Back in the cabin, Jake splashed water on his face. He didn’t hear the door open. They waited for him to turn, blocking the only exit.

“Oh, shit,” he boomed. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you face death. Jake thought back to the beginning, when he woke up on a magical Christmas morning and found a BB gun under the tree with a big red bow. And what he would have given to have that toy in his hands right now.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Subscribe for email notice when each chapter drops.

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Chapter 40
GOOD LORD, SHOW ME THE WAY

The Willson estate buzzed with the social activities that follow death. Relatives who had long been crossed off the Christmas card list overstayed their welcome. Political cronies sent flowers but kept their distance.

Everyone on the Hill knew without a doubt that Willson was deeply in trouble. Barbara Hagopian was unusually quiet, reserved, and hard to pin down. In fact, the good old boys on the Hill were as silent as a Sioux war party during a surprise attack.

Margreth’s bridge club showed up. Not because she was a friend who’d be missed, but because they were nosy bitches.

In the busy kitchen, Gloria collapsed, slumping onto a kitchen chair with her legs spread wide. She was taking a break from her endless rounds through the parlor, carrying heavy trays of sandwiches and delicate pastries. She was also hiding from the leering stuffed shirts and roly-poly bridge women, whose noses were held so high they might drown in a drizzle. Her feet ached, and she was cranky.

“Did you hear what they did to the Missus?” Arnella Maybrey beat a bowl of egg yolks into a thick yellow froth. “They nearly decapitated her. Scalped her.”

“Nonsense,” Digby’s voice boomed. “Pure hogwash. You two should be ashamed—talking trash about Mrs. Willson. Don’t we have better things to do?”

“We? You gonna help us out here, Mr. Digby?” Arnella’s face cracked into a beautiful chocolate smile.

Gloria scowled at him. When the butler’s back was turned, she made a face.

“Gloria,” Digby said pleasantly, even though he saw her grimacing reflection in the window. “Please bring a pot of tea and some scones to the library. I’m sure you’ve got something going on tonight, so after you’ve done that, head out. Have some fun.”

“Thanks, Diggity Dog,” she hissed, but she was smiling. Because Digby was, after all, the nicest man in the house.

The butler left, causing the door to flap back and forth until it finally shut.

“You sure ‘nuff give that man the business,” Arnella said. “Digby’s saved your job more than once, Missy.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re attracted to him.”

“Digby Brown? Not on your life. I think he’s a little funny, you know what I mean? He never even looks at me.” Arnella patted her ebony hair, caught in a stiff hairnet.

“Like I told you before, make the first move. Men like it when you’re assertive.”

“Well, honey, you should know. I heard you’ve fried Remington’s potatoes a time or two. You’d better take Digby’s advice and move on. We’re going to have hundreds of these uppity folks after the funeral, and these white folks eat like they’re starving. I’m cooking up a mess of turkeys and hams. You keep an eye on the silver.”

“That woman in her bridge club, the one with the wiglet that looks like a bird’s nest—she already has the cake server in her handbag already.”

“The missus sure did truck with some funny womenfolk,” Arnella said. “And I wish Mr. Willson all the best, but that Harley Quinn is up to something. It just doesn’t sit right. Jesus wept, Gloria. This place is full of snakes and demons.”

“Just don’t worry about the Senator, Arnella. I’ll be your boss at this time next year. I know things!” Gloria tossed her head, blond hair bouncing.

“Ha, you know things, do you? Well, you better be mighty careful, or you’re going to be looking for your head, too,” Arnella advised, squeezing a lemon on the reamer with gusto.

Exhausted, Gloria lifted the tea tray and headed for the library.

Twenty minutes later, Gloria Imbriago climbed the stairs carrying a supper of cold chicken. Her fourth-floor room was at the far end of the hall, tucked into a corner where the roof sloped down. She couldn’t stand fully upright at her window, but that only bothered her when she wanted to be seductive. After all, she couldn’t do a striptease hunched over like a troll. She shared a bathroom with Arnella and had a nice little refrigerator and a hot plate. It wasn’t a bad setup.

“This time next month,” Gloria crowed. “I’ll have that nice suite downstairs, thanks to the laundry chute intercom. I’m going to seal that sucker off, first thing!” She munched a chicken leg.

“This calls for a drink.” Gloria opened the fridge and found a carton of spoiled milk, some cider that had turned to vinegar, and a bottle of Chablis. She poured wine into a glass.

Gloria slipped her uniform over her head and put on a sexy silk nightie. Then, lying back on a pile of pillows, she sipped her drink and thought about what the future might hold.

A knock on the door interrupted her daydream. It’s Remington, ready to dance the night away.

“Come in,” she called in a sultry voice. She tweaked each nipple to make them stand at attention beneath her negligee.

Unfortunately, it was the bathroom door, not the hall. Arnella had wrapped a bandana around her kinky hair and traded her uniform for a purple housecoat and slippers so fluffy they made her feet look like lilac fuzz mounds.

“Oh, it’s only you. I was just thinking.”

“Honey, you’re dreaming. Don’t go after any shooting stars; they’re always falling, you know.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Arnella. But I have a secret weapon. I know things that nobody else, not even Digby, knows.”

Gloria drank the wine eagerly. It burned down to her stomach. She was buzzed.

“Digby Brown knows more than you realize, young lady, and so do I. I know you’ve been snooping, and I guarantee you’ll be sorry if you aim for the Senator.”

“Just think,” Gloria hiccupped. “I’d look so beautiful in those designer clothes.”

“He’s already ditching her duds, Gloria. He sent them off to Goodwill right after the police left. I thought it was a bit hasty myself,” Arnella looked out the window, watching a group of fancy-dressed ladies getting into a limo.

“Those highfalutin bridge friends are finally heading home. Did you see Senator Oldham’s widow? She was really trying to stir up the Senator’s passion. Shameful, just shameful.”

“I’ll handle the stoking, Arnella. I’ll straighten his putter, if you catch my drift,

Arnella let the curtains fall shut and helped herself to a glass of wine, drinking it all in one gulp.

“Lord, save me,” she cried mournfully. “I can’t listen to this depravity without a little medicine.”

“I thought you were Remington. He’s hot,” Gloria licked the rim of her glass. “Really hot.”

“My Savior’s Bones, don’t be telling me this filth.”

“And hung like a horse, too.” Gloria slurred her words, the effect of wine and too little food.

“You’re headed straight to Hades.”

“I am not. If anyone’s headed to Hades, it’s that Holmstead fellow. He gives me the shivers.”

“Hush, now. We shouldn’t be talking this way. I’m going to bed, and that’s that.” Arnella poured herself another glass of wine, telling her conscience it was only medicinal.

“You get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a busy day. You’re such a pretty young thing. You need to find yourself a nice young man. And not Remington. He’s as slippery as a greased weasel.”

“I’m going to marry Senator Willson,” Gloria announced. “I got my tricks, Arnella. I could tell you stuff that would straighten that kinky black hair of yours.”

“That’s enough of that nasty talk, missy. You sleep off this fruit of Satan and get your head on straight. The Senator—well, let me put it kindly, child. He’s in a bad way. He has some nasty habits I don’t condone. I’ve got a notion to leave a Bible in his room.”

“Arnella, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Money talks and bullshit walks. And I’m going for the money, sweetie pie. I’m going to be the lady of the house by Christmas!” Gloria tipped her glass, draining the dregs of white wine.

“Have it your way, child. But mark my words; sinning is like smoking crack. You just can’t get enough—you got to kick the habit and make Jesus your best friend.”

Arnella walked through the bathroom into her room. Gloria was still mumbling as Arnella locked the bedroom door and tuned her radio to the Christian station.

She emptied her glass in a toast to Jesus. As the strains of Beulah’s Land washed over her, erasing the world’s iniquities from her mind, she drifted off.

Gloria, on the other hand, kept talking. “If it’s a tossup between a chauffeur with car wax under his nails or a Senator with a little gambling problem, who do I pick?” No reply came. She looked up; Arnella had vanished like a ghost. “She went to bed, I guess.”

Gloria threw her wine glass onto the floor. The sound of breaking glass made her giggle.

“Which will it be? Remington or William—William or Remington? Harley, William, or Remington? Oops, Harley won’t be coming. Maybe Digby.”

Picturing the old butler buck-naked sparked another round of laughter. She rolled out of bed, searching for more wine.

“Ouch!” she hopped on one foot, a shard of glass sticking from the other. “Son of a bitch.” Sobered by pain, Gloria sat on the bed and pulled the piece of thin glass out easily. Only a few drops of rich red blood dripped from her sole. She grabbed the broom and cleaned up the glass.

“That was stupid,” she admonished. Then she thought she heard a noise and froze. A branch brushed the window, and the tension eased.

“Drat,” she said. “It would frost my melons if they both came.”

Gloria had dallied with the chauffeur for the past two years. Remington was a Greek god, and he had a classy name. She did not know that five years ago his name was Robert Sloan, before that Phillip Thorvaldsen, and at birth, Almarr Afaz Nabeel.

Gloria twirled in the full-length mirror, admiring her long, tan legs. The floor was dotted with blood stains from where her injured foot had landed. Suddenly, she felt exhausted. She climbed into bed, hoping that Remington would crawl in beside her as soon as the guests left.

“William will marry me because I know all his secrets! Then I’ll fire Harley Quinn and sleep with Remington whenever I want. Who said you can’t have your cake and eat it too?”

She admired her reflection in an elegant silver mirror. Her former employer had given her the dresser set, and she’d promptly had it appraised. It was more valuable than her mother’s trailer.

Gloria brushed her long blond hair and re-applied her lipstick. She waited impatiently, but no footsteps echoed in the outer hallway. Bored, she turned on the TV and watched a Humphrey Bogart movie. Just as it began to hold her attention, she heard the door creak open.

“Come on in, sweetie. I’m watching this movie, Petrified Forest, it’s called,” she didn’t look up. “I wish I knew what petrified meant, though. That’s when you’re really scared, isn’t it?” Nobody answered.

She looked up and didn’t see the handsome chauffeur or the silky-smooth senator.

“Who?” Her eyes blinked, refusing the sight. “Where did you?”

She had no time to finish her thought. Her intruder held a rope garrote in one hand and handcuffs in the other. Gloria gasped, unable to move. Her mouth gaped into a soundless scream. As he turned the volume on the television to an ear-splitting roar, she found her voice. A fist to her midsection elicited a groan.

Somehow, as her vision faded, sounds seemed louder. Humphrey Bogart moved in on Betty Davis with that voodoo he did so well, just as Arnella’s radio started a lively chorus: so I’ll cherish the old rugged cross.

Gloria’s spasmodic breaths stopped as the garrote twisted, crushing her throat with a crunch and snap.

She couldn’t see the knife, but she felt the searing pain as it pierced her side. She went to the brink of death rapturously, as her lovers had once lifted her to the pinnacle of joy. Blood soaked into the bedclothes and spattered the floor.

Her mind was still alert. Gloria sought to leave something, anything that would lead them to her killer. It was her last painful grab at lady justice. She felt the skin rip below her breast and the hiss of air as her lung burst. The rush of captured gases that could not escape the garrote pushed toward freedom through the gaping hole in her chest.

Only moments, she told herself. She used a blood-soaked finger to print on the white plaster wall: HARLEY Q . . .

Her assassin’s frenzied adrenaline rush made him oblivious to the artistry influenced by the beat of the dagger.

Arnella awoke, disturbed by the cacophony of Bogie’s charm to the beat of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” . . . comin’ for to carry me home . . .

Aggravated, she pounded fiercely on the wall and stuffed her earplugs deep. She kept these on the nightstand in case Gloria had noisy night guests. Then she dozed off.

The murderous hands released the garrote, entrapped in the folds of Gloria’s fragile neck. Using the tip of his knife, he lifted each eyelid. The pupils, blown wide as black caves, revealed Gloria Imbriago had finished her dance of death.

The stiletto went back into its case. After watching Bogie swagger for a few minutes, Harley Quinn switched the television off. The ensuing silence was louder than the TV had been. He eyed Arnella’s door, visible through the bathroom.

Best not take a chance, he thought.

He tested the knob. Locked. He closed Gloria’s door softly. Harley went down the hall to Arnella’s room. That door was locked as well.

Taking the back stairs, he moved swiftly, leaving a remnant of blood-soaked rope that had caught in the hasp of the door. Harley left the estate at the same moment Gloria’s last drop of blood soaked into her mattress.

Arnella snored. She dreamed of swaying wheat fields, a cabin surrounded by flowering thistle, and a wooden porch swing. She and Digby watched the brilliant sunset and shared tall, cool glasses of iced tea. A shaggy brown dog lay at their feet.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Subscribe for email updates when chapters drop:

YPSILANTI, MICHIGAN
Chapter 39
THE HOSPITAL’S SECRETS

Hank pulled into St. Cecelia Hospital’s emergency lot. Just as he spotted a parking space, a blue-haired elderly lady who couldn’t see over the steering wheel took it. He slammed on the brakes, spilling his coffee into his lap. He ended up in the ER borrowing a set of scrubs from the triage nurse, who couldn’t stop laughing.

“All you need now is a stethoscope,” she giggled, returning to her patients.

Hank turned right, making his way through the hospital’s tunnels until he reached the Pathology Department. With the staff gone for the day, it was quiet and a little eerie. Flo’s desk was empty, and that was a relief.

Hank pushed open doors marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’ The first person he saw was Firdaus, the lab technician who smelled like curry—the same stranger who had made the mysterious incision under the dead child’s arm.

“Mr. Firdaus.” Hank extended his hand, but the man apparently wasn’t familiar with the custom. Syringh Firdaus’s dark eyes darted like a trapped animal.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Hank added. The conversation was noticeably one-sided. “Don’t you work for the State?”

“Sir, I certainly do. I was visiting a colleague this evening. Are you not a policeman? You are perhaps dressed for Halloween?” He smiled nervously.

“Halloween. That’s rich.” He glanced into the empty room behind Firdaus. “I don’t see anyone here. Where’s your friend?”

“My colleague seems to have left already. I shall catch up with him.” Firdaus brushed past Hank, hitting his black attaché case against the wall. Some papers spilled out, and Firdaus quickly grabbed them. Hank watched him disappear down the dim corridor.

“That man doesn’t belong here,” Hank muttered. “Question is: where does he belong?”

Dr. Walker’s lab coat still hung askew on its hook near the door. Hank sat at the pathologist’s desk, examining the paperwork scattered across it. Copies of Dr. Golden’s notes were on one side. He read through them and found nothing different from the report on his own desk. He searched the drawers; every folder was empty. The inbox was also empty. Hank remembered Firdaus’ bulging bag.

A man in green scrubs that matched Hank’s own burst through the doors unexpectedly, and Hank jumped. Since the shooting, he’d been on edge. He patted his gun for reassurance. The man dragged a plastic bag across the room.

“You got any tags?” he asked Hank.

“I don’t work in this department.”

“You sure dress the part. I have an arm and a leg here. They need tagging.” A surgical mask covered most of his face. “Guy got trapped between two cars while fixing a flat.”

“Like I said, I don’t work in here.” Hank backed away from the plastic bag, whose contents seemed to be settling a bit.

“I need to tag these limbs. Be right back.” The tech clearly thought Hank was joking as he hurried away, leaving the bag at Hank’s feet. Hank was certain the bag rustled.

It’s my imagination, he reassured himself. He went into the laboratory to see if he’d missed anything, but kept an ear out for the bag, just in case.

A lab bench held microscopes, various beakers, and other unusual-looking equipment. A drawer contained spatulas, markers, and boxes of labeled slides. At the very back was a journal with scribbled data. He turned to the last entry and read:

Microscopic examination shows evidence of meningitis and possible early nephritis. Unusual structure—DNA. Suspected pathogen: Encephalitozoon cuniculi. Mode of transmission: unknown. It is not typically a virulent organism in humans. Hair appears too coarse for a pediatric case and resembles other primate types. Hair distribution is abnormal for a human, especially a child of unknown age, possibly alopecia areata. Probable sexual penetration by organ or object; likely of a chronic nature. The body has been bathed, including the orifices.

“And I already knew the bit about the bath.” Hank said aloud. He recalled the long red hairs in Underhill’s master bath. He slipped the doctor’s notebook into his waistband and grabbed the box containing Sarah Underhill’s tissue slides.

He turned off the fluorescent lights as he left the room. Mr. Green Scrubs came back and was placing a tag on the big toe of the recently amputated leg. Before Hank could vomit or pass out, the tech grabbed a mutilated arm and tagged it as well.

“Glad you’re back. This needs to go in the fridge.”

“Sure. Right away,” Hank played along. “By the way, do you know a guy named Firdaus? He’s a kind of swarthy little fella.”

“Nope, I sure don’t.”

“What about Dr. Walker? Did you know him?”

“I knew Gene Walker; he was a great guy. A real stand-up fellow. Well, I guess you couldn’t say that anymore. Heh, heh. Sick joke. The job tends to bring it out, you know.”

“What are they saying about the accident?” Hank asked as nonchalantly as he could.

“Most think it’s damn funny nobody saw anything. Plus, everyone wonders why the ambulance took him all the way to County General if he got run down right here at St. C’s. Why not just haul a gurney out the back door and bring him in here?” He looked suspiciously at Hank. “Are those your slides?”

“I’m consulting on a case. I need to review these specimens. Thanks. Appreciate your help.”

“No problem.” The tech squinted at Hank. “You know, there was a picture in the paper yesterday of some cop over by Cedar Creek standing in a field holding a shovel. He looked just like you, spitting image. You got a twin?”

“Nope,” Hank answered honestly. “My mom never had any kids that lived.” He headed out to the parking lot before the tech could figure that one out.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The end is in sight. No Tour Guides in Hell is entering its final chapters.
The full novel remains free to read through March 31 only. After that, it vanishes—but the story continues. The paperback and ebook will be available on Amazon, alongside two additional books in the trilogy. Thanks for being part of the journey.

Subscribe to receive email updates each time a new chapter drops.

SUMATRA BARAT
38
NATAGNA

“Dortha, what’s going on?”

“It’s Natagna.” Tears streamed down her face. “He’s down.”

Dr. Erik didn’t bother to dress but followed the nurse as she hurried back to the clinic. He shuffled behind her, hoping his heart could handle the effort. The Al Amorta guards walking along the wall noticed the commotion and watched curiously. They trained their lights on the scene below.

The night was humid. Manu and Objadu’s voices echoed through the night as they tried to soothe the other orangutans in the enclosure. The guards swept their flashlights back and forth, disturbing them even more. Eric shook his fist in frustration at the men. They didn’t care about what he thought.

In the clinic, Natagna lay on a stretcher. His breathing was shallow. Erik quickly realized that the alpha orang was dying. Manu followed them in.

“Did anyone see him fall?”

“No doctor, the screeching woke us,” Manu said. “We ran into the yard. The guards on the wall shined their lamps onto the arbor, and we could see him, lying helpless under his favorite tree.”

“I tried to rouse him, doctor. But he was breathing funny and wouldn’t wake.” Objadu wrung his hands in dismay.

Dr. Erik lifted Natagna’s eyelids and checked his pupils. They were fixed and dilated. “Let’s start an IV and get some fluids in him. Dortha, get omadacycline, and we need to push that.”

“What are we treating?” Dortha asked as she grabbed a unit of normal saline and set up the IV.

“Anything and everything. We are aiming for a protozoan, at least until we do a few tests.” He slid the needle easily into a vein.

Hours later, after four tubes of blood and some basic tests, they took Natagna to the CAT scanner to get several views of his brain. Dr. VandenHeuvel sat in his lab, examining the slides and then looking at the view box where the films were displayed.

“There is generalized swelling, a midline shift, and some impingement of the ventricles. He has meningitis. Dr. Erik pondered the findings. “We need a spinal tap to identify the infection. It’s possible the children could catch this if it crosses the ape/human barrier.”

Dortha helped the men turn Natagna onto his side; they shaved and prepared his lower back. Dr. Erik skillfully inserted the needle into the spinal canal, removing a tube of fluid. It was tinged with blood.

“Not good.” Erik frowned.

“I’m making coffee,” Dortha said. “This has been a long night.”

“Good idea. Then send Sanctuary a message,” he said. “Just say: We have a crisis.”

Erik sat on a stool and watched over his shaggy patient. The orangutan was silent and still, with barely any movement in its breathing. The only sign of life was the irregular beeping of the heart monitor.

Erik’s eyes closed. His chin drooped to his chest. The primate’s long-fingered, leathery hand clasped his, and he drifted into sleep. The air was thick and humid. Manu and he were young and quick, the best of friends.

Erik sat down on a stump to think, and Manu plopped down next to him. They were tired and had spent the last two days searching for just the right orangutan for their project. But it seemed that each time they found good candidates, they disappeared into the rainforest as if they were psychic.

“I’m tired, Manu,” he’d said. “I want to go back and look at my slides and lie in my hammock for forty years or so.”

And it was at that moment when they heard the leaves rustling. A brazen red orangutan came out of the forest and grabbed the durian right from Erik’s hands. Then, as if they were bosom buddies, the animal sat right next to the men and ate his prize.

They had no trouble choosing this as the right animal. He came to the compound with them almost willingly.

When they arrived, they placed him in the arboreal enclosure. Although it was spacious and filled with lush trees, Erik noticed a change in the orangutan. Natagna began to dislike him, realizing that the white-coated doctor was responsible for his loss of freedom.

Erik awoke, a rough sob pulling him back to the present. Natagna’s monitor was slowing, his once strong heart beating irregularly. Within minutes, the monitor went silent.

Natagna was free once more.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Subscribe to receive email updates as new chapters drop.

SALLY’S LANDING, MICHIGAN
Chapter 37
CHICKEN AND DUMPLINGS

“If she knew you made me hitchhike with that smelly old Amish guy, you’d be grounded until you get married, ’cept nobody will ever marry you because your feet are too big.” He hurled a football at his brother’s head and hit pay dirt.

“You wait until Boyd Johnson calls Ma. You can bet he noticed us getting off that wagon,” Stretch said. Then he spiked the ball into Joey’s stomach.

“Quit it! I’m telling.”

“Where’s that card you took from the van? You’re really going to get it for that.” Stretch dodged the threat.

Joey took the card out of his pocket. Sarah Underhill was written in neat letters.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I guess I’d better send it back,” Joey said as he examined the card. “Maybe that’s why that goon chased us.”

“And shot at us! Over a library card?” Stretch reached over and drew the shade. He was scared, no doubt about it. “I think that was a real spy, Joey. Not that stupid crap you’re always cooking up in your noodle.”

“Maybe he thinks we took something else, like a gun,” Joey said. “Maybe we should ask Dad about it.”

“Maybe we should go stand in front of Boyd Johnson’s scattergun and tell him to shoot us. We didn’t touch that spy’s gun. He thinks we saw something,” Stretch whispered. “We should write and tell them that we didn’t see nothing.”

“Cripes. That’s not our only clue. What about that envelope I found?” Joey reached into his shirt pocket. “AAU, what’s that? What’s Sumatra Barat? I never heard that name in geography class.”

“Check who it’s made out to, dirtbag. Arthur Holmstead, CIA, Washington, DC. That’s where those spies come from. You know. The ones with poison umbrellas and stuff like James Bond.”

“That’s kind of scary, Stretch. I think we should mail that card back to the library. Dad always says you’ve got to fix your mistakes when you screw up. I’ll do it right after dinner. Maybe they’ll forgive us.” Joey tucked the card under his pillow. “Generally, your ideas suck buttermilk, though.”

The front door slammed shut.

“Dad’s home. Ma’s going to call us to the table, and I will toss my cookies.”

“That’s a bad idea, Joey,” Stretch said. “Ma’s got radar when it comes to twin trouble. She’ll be on us like flies on a cow pie.”

The boys chased dumplings around their plates. They weren’t even kicking each other under the table.

“What’s going on with you guys? Fish not biting?” Dad pointed his fork at them.

“Nope—got nothing, Pa,” Joey answered. Something’s shooting, but nothing’s biting.

“You boys shovel a little of that grub into your mouths,” Mom said. She rapped Joey’s knuckles with her knife handle.

“Got a green apple tummy ache.” Joey nibbled on a biscuit.

“Funny, apples aren’t green this time of year,” Dad observed.

“Can we be excused?” Stretch was already standing.

“Go to your room, no TV.” Mom kept eating and shifted her talk to Boyd Johnson’s dry well. With their parents distracted, the boys snuck away.

Joey pulled his junior printing set out from under his bed. He took his time, doing a really neat job.

SORRY WE TOOK THIS FROM THE CAR. WE DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING.

THE TWINS

Then Stretch quietly entered Mom’s sewing room, coming back with a clean white envelope and a stamp. From the back of the card, they copied the address:

If found return to:

Cedar Creek Public Library

42 James Street

Cedar Creek, Michigan 48131.

Joey slid the library card inside along with the crinkled envelope to Arthur the Spy Holmstead, then he licked the envelope.

“Blah, nasty! What do they use in that glue, anyway?”

“Horse hooves.” Stretch had read this somewhere. Joey turned green.

“Okay, I’m heading out. Cover for me, “Joey admonished his brother.

“You got it.” Stretch arranged the pillows on Joey’s bed and covered them to make it look like a sleeping kid.

It was dusk. Creeping past Boyd the Handicapper’s house slowed his progress. Boyd was a snoop. He watched everything that happened within his eagle-eye vision. Joey jogged the remaining mile to Sally’s Landing.

The blue postal box stood on the corner near Granger’s Market and the gas station. Joey slid the envelope into the mailbox and then headed home, walking along the top of Mr. Dollaway’s brick fence. He was nearly invisible from the street, hidden by the branches of a large elm.

A snow-white van cruised slowly down the avenue. Joey stiffened. Its faulty muffler identified it as the same bad guy from their woodsy adventure. Joey jumped to the ground, falling inside Dollaway’s yard. A low growl warned him he was in danger of losing his shorts to their yappy mutt.

The van pulled into the parking lot next to the market. Joey sprinted through the backyard as Mrs. Dollaway emerged from the back door waving her broom.

“Joey Dodson,” she bellowed.

The van’s driver flicked away the butt of his cigar and strained to catch sight of the fleeing boy. Joey scampered up and over the back fence.

In the distance, the rumble of the van matched his progress as he pelted through the woods, parallel to the road. Roosevelt’s WPA had planted the trees in tidy rows, creating racing lanes for mountain bikes and deer. Joey kept his pace until he saw the Dodson barn looming straight ahead.

As the older, smaller twin climbed through the bedroom window, he bumped his head on the frame propped open with Stretch’s ruler. The boys peered over the sill. The vehicle rumbled by, with its tailpipe dragging and sparks dancing off the asphalt. It slowed in front of their house, then sped away.

Molly Dodson sat on the porch swing next to her husband. A mosquito had landed on her arm, and she was busy swatting at it when the vehicle rolled past the house.

“We know someone with a white van?” Scott asked.

“Tourists, most likely,” she grumbled. “They never seem to know where they’re going.”

“Yup, damn nuisance,” Scott agreed.

“The boys are awfully quiet in there. Do you think they’re dead?”

“Probably killed each other,” he said. They chuckled at that. “Got any of that blueberry pie left?”

Meanwhile, down by Granger’s Market, the mail truck pulled up to the postal box, and the driver scooped all the letters into a canvas mailbag. He was late as usual on his rounds, so he gunned the engine down Beaver Creek Lane toward M-37, trying to make up for lost time. Heading south, he increased his speed to sixty and overtook a slow-moving white van that was belching exhaust smoke and leaving a fireworks display behind.

“Damned shitty drivers.” He shot a glance at the van driver, who held his gaze, challenging him to pass. And he did, because he wasn’t afraid of some cigar-smoking Black guy with half his vehicle held together by a coat hanger, flicking tar at 45 miles per hour.

Anyway, what could he do about it? Shoot him?
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Subscribe to receive email updates as new chapters drop. Read the entire novel for free until March 31, 2026.

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Chapter 35
LIFE INSURANCE

She ran a feather duster over the armoire and then remembered she’d left the lemon oil downstairs. She could hear angry voices coming from Margreth’s suite as she went down the stairs. The door, which had been open earlier, was now shut. Quinn and Willson were arguing, but their conversation was difficult to understand.

Intrigued, she hurried back to the third floor and headed straight for the laundry chute. All the hired help knew it was the house’s best intercom. She opened the door and stuck her head in. You would have thought she was sitting right in the room between the two jackasses.

“I said, Sir, cremation is tacky, unless you’re one of those unfortunate slobs who spontaneously combusts,” Harley Quinn noted.

“I’m not going to sit next to my wife’s corpse, with her fake plastic nose, and spout platitudes,” William replied. “It’s disgusting. Besides, the woman was an annoyance in life, and I’m glad to be rid of her. The problem is, I think whoever de-toed her could come after me.”

Quinn rifled through Margreth’s closet. “Look, Sir. She had many lovely outfits. A nice mauve suit by Chanel would have been perfect on her in life.”

“For God’s sake, Harley, I don’t care. Take your pick. The police are going to show up any minute.”

“You must admit your fault in all of this, Sir.” Harley was more than a little distraught.

“Not mine. I didn’t do that to her. I never would have done that. Damn, these latex gloves are hotter than Hades.”

“If you hit that lock with a hammer, it’ll break open. Just do it.”

Gloria heard the clank of metal and wished she was a mouse so she could see what was happening. One of them was apparently banging on the locked file cabinet in Margreth’s closet.

“Senator, you should review this insurance policy. Do you know anyone named Andrew Comstock?”

“Never heard of him. Give me that,” there was a pause. “We never bought life insurance. Margreth’s family had money, and so did mine. Who is this asshole?”

“Her secret lover, maybe? Or a hidden love child?”

“You bastard,” Willson glared at his valet. “Take it back, Harley. That was uncalled for.”

“I really don’t like that word, William. It pisses me off,” Harley Quinn snarled at his boss, and he rarely showed his true colors.

“We need to track down this person, this Comstock guy,” William’s voice grew sinister. “Margreth left him the proceeds of her life insurance. Maybe he’s the one who killed her.”

“I don’t think so. It was Holmstead,” Harley was sure of it. “How much insurance are we talking about?”

“The policy is written for five million,” there was a pause, “and of course it has double indemnity.”

“I’m unsure if they’ll see mutilation as accidental.”

“We will find this Comstock creature. Margreth was tortured. I don’t want to be disfigured, even in death.”

“Listen, this is your problem. Don’t drag me into this.”

“Calm down, Quinn. You really don’t have any family, do you? Need I remind you? And I can count your friends on—oops, that would be on no hands?”

“Don’t believe everything you’re told. What kind of politician are you?”

“Your father was an alcoholic, and he’s no longer alive. Your mother left when you were two. You were the only child. Do the math.”

“It’s not that simple, Senator Willson. That was a bunch of lies,” Harley said. He smiled, and although Gloria couldn’t see him, she felt the tension rise in the laundry tube. “You probably also think our meeting was just a coincidence.”

“You spilled soup on my shoes in the Senate dining room,” Willson said. The entire structure of his life seemed about to fall apart, like a house of cards.

“My brother sent me,” Harley began. “He told me I was a useless piece of monkey shit, and he’d have me killed if I didn’t do something besides screw up every scheme he conjured. He is a conman extraordinaire.”

“Arkansas was a lie as well?” Willson wanted to snap the cadaverous valet in two.

“Maybe,” Harley Quinn laughed. “Nothing you can do about it now. I may fill you in, and I may not. We’ll have to ponder that.”

“It doesn’t matter now. I believe we’re both doomed. Holmstead’s just waiting for a chance to get rid of us. And Margreth was up to something—she took the Top-Secret papers right out of my office. Holmstead returned them, so he must be responsible for my wife’s murder.”

“Holmstead is a dangerous enemy to have. Don’t forget Margreth’s piggies,” Harley noted. “She won’t be playing this little piggy with Comstock anymore, if he was even her lover. She donated them all to the CIA.”

“Shut up. We’ll need to use some clever footwork to get out of this. Who might Comstock be? She knew him for eighteen years. Maybe she was a spy. Until we get the answer, we’re no safer than she was.”

Harley was confused. “It’s probably right under our noses. Think.”

The men fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” the Senator whispered.

“It’s probably Margreth’s ghost. You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

“What happened when you went to Sanctuary, Harley? What caused my wife’s mutilation?”

“It was the usual political crap-throwing contest. They blamed each other, and you, for Underhill’s accident with the clone you gave him. They pretty much have the evidence about you and Underhill, and they’re not happy about it. I kept my mouth shut.”

“I’ll give you that, Harley. You’ve been discreet. I just got word that Underhill’s mishap caused a killing spree in Cedar Creek. The town’s so small you can’t blink or you’d miss it, but there are four more dead.”

“Cedar Creek?” Quinn suddenly felt scared. His voice cracked, and William looked up.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like someone walked over your grave.”

“My mother lives in Cedar Creek, Michigan. I almost stopped to see her when I was so close.

“What a goddamned coincidence. Looks like Holmstead’s going to have a heyday with you,” the Senator sniped. “Just how many secrets do you have, Harley Quinn?”

“Only a few,” the valet admitted. “But I’m getting a bad feeling about this. This whole thing smells like Jim-Bob’s handiwork. He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch.”

“Spill the beans. I really want to hear all the details.”

“So do I,” Gloria whispered from her perch upstairs.

“My name is Harley Quinn. That’s not a lie. But my full name is Harley Quinn Nash. We got run out of El Paso when the community found out that my mother was living the oldest hillbilly joke in the world.”

“What are you rambling about?”

“My mother and my brother are fools. They committed the worst sin. Incest. They’ve taken the highway to hell. Then, unfortunately, there was a kid,” Harley replied. “He’s a fucking mute. All he ever says is ‘Hi Fly’. Poor soul is an inbred genetic disaster.”

“Get out of here,” Willson stammered. Gloria tensed and backed out of the chute.

“I’m damned sorry,” Harley admitted honestly. “I never thought this could happen. I cut them out years ago. They are all insane.”

“Go grab a newspaper. Your brother just killed his kid and his mother.”

“What are you talking about?” Harley felt like he might drop to his knees. He was a rubber band stretched to the limit.

“Fly Carrington,” Willson said. “I told you there were four deaths in Cedar Creek. It was some poor mental case named Fly. His father shot him, the chief of police, and his own mother. I guess you aren’t lying now, Harley, because your whole family is dead.”

The silence was filled with shock. Gloria wanted to quickly go downstairs and slightly open the door to see what was going on.

“Harley, are you okay? Put that down, boy. It’s dangerous,” William Wilson sounded like a cornered rat to Gloria.

“You really don’t want to play games with me,” Harley snarled. “Do you think I’m going to believe that? Just how coincidental would that be, huh? My pedophile with a dead child and my family, all in the same town?”

“Calm down, Harley. Go check it out yourself,” Willson insisted. “I’ll get you the best psychological help available.”

By accident, Gloria let the chute’s door slam. The sound of the metal door could be heard in the bedroom below.

Harley looked up and listened for the footsteps overhead. He didn’t like Gloria Imbriago. He didn’t like her at all.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Read the entire novel “Omega Consensus: No Tour Guides in Hell” for free until March 31 2026. Register to receive email updates when new chapters drop (3 times weekly).

BLOOMFIELD HILLS, MICHIGAN
Chapter 34
MOTHER RUBEN

It was enough to make Miss Clairol cry. Her eyebrows were drawn on with a brown pencil, completing the look. She wore a bright red Japanese housecoat and red satin slippers decorated with feathers like a peacock’s fan. She was a fashion disaster.

“Twinkies? You should be so lucky to see one of those sponge torpedoes in this house, young lady!”

Hanna and Ruth sat eating their Mishka in silence, wishing it was filled with rich, tasty cream filling.

“Your mother has left us,” Rita whined. “She’s left her job. You’re going to be destitute. I’m feeling very verklempt.”

“Grandma, relax. Mom knows what she’s doing,” Hanna advised.

“What you don’t know about life, little one.” Rita struck a pained pose. “I have a pain in my heart. Call your grandfather.”

“Grandpa is at a prayer vigil,” Ruth reminded her.

“Oh, my God, remind me of this at the table.” Rita snapped herself out of it and grabbed the telephone.

“Ramona, it’s Rita. I can’t do lunch today; I’m having a heart attack.” Rita hurried into the living room, clutching the cordless phone to her ear.

Hannaa and Ruth exchange glances and roll their eyes.

“Can you take any more of this?” Hanna whispered.

Ruth shook her head, NO.

“Let’s go find Mom. We could take the bus—I have money.” Hanna concealed their mutinous conversation behind a wall of napkins.

Ruth appeared worried.

“It’s okay,” Hanna said, slipping another bite of Mishka into her mouth. “Mom won’t even be mad. She misses us, too.”

Rita Ruben returned to the kitchen.

“Girls, I’m going to the doctor. If I don’t get home by dinner, tell your grandpa I died of a heart attack. Grandma Ruben headed for the bedroom. What should I wear?”

“If she’s going to drop dead of a heart attack, who cares what she’s wearing?” Ruth asked her older sister.

“Haven’t you noticed? She dies at least four times a day.”

“What if we get lost, Hanna? We don’t even know where Cedar Creek is, do we?”

“We’ll ask someone for help, silly goose.” Hanna picked up her dishes and took them to the sink.

“If we get lost, I’m going to tell.” Ruth poked the rest of her Mishka into a napkin and wadded it up because it wasn’t a Twinkie.

“You won’t have anybody to tell.” Hannah quickly pulled her long hair into a ponytail. “Because you will be L.O.S.T.!”

Ruth whimpered.

“Girls, enough already of your jabbering.” Rita Ruben had returned and now wore a lavender ensemble with rhinestones studding the front of the shirt in swirls of twinkles. She’d exchanged her feathered footwear for gold flats and carried her one and only fur casually over one arm.

“Grandma, don’t take that animal skin with you, it’s going to be ninety degrees today!” Hannah giggled.

“Enough already—if I’m going to die, I’ll do it fashionably.”

Rita left her Bloomfield Hills condo knowing her grandkids were safe with plenty of chores until she came back. After all, she had at least ten heart attacks a day and hadn’t collapsed yet.

Subscribe to receive email updates as new chapters drop. No Tour Guides in Hell will be available to read for free until March 31, 2026.