Overseer Prologue: 2037

In a walled fortress deep beneath the island surface, hidden from human eyes and people of a curious nature, a man, a genius of a man with a vision for the future, sits at a computer terminal. Extrapolating upon his plan for global unification, he realizes that his plan is a paradox. On the one hand, many will suffer and die. On the other, most will benefit and be blessed. One cannot be accomplished without the other; one is dependant upon the other.
He rubs his tired fingers across his forehead, trying to erase the ache behind his eyes. Yes, again a headache has formed as a result of continual efforts to bring his plan to its ultimate success. So much to do; so little time. But the ends justifies the means. Man has always striven for world peace and domination. Wars have been fought; lives have been lost; cities have been destroyed; governments have been overturned. And why? The answer is simple: Too many individuals, without having the means to do so, have decided they were the chosen one, the one who would bring order to the planet. What disillusion-
ment! What inanity! What foolishness! One must have a fool proof plan AND the ability to carry it out in order to attain world unity. And this one man, this visionary has those means literally at his fingertips. How can anyone deny the obvious? How can anyone oppose him? All things considered, how could his plan possibly fail? That which divides mankind will no longer exist. This in itself is cause for exultation.
Forcing his concentration back to the task at hand, the genius presses on. Typing on the keyboard at exceptional speed, he gathers information from several different sources; analyzes the data; disperses the details to their respective locations; and saves the updates on backup disks. ‘I will succeed; I will rule the world. With righteousness and goodness and mercy, I will unify all peoples in a way never before imagined. As for those who stand in my way? They will be dispatched to their personal promise lands. Death will be the minimum punishment. No one - NO ONE - will stand in my way.’
As with most megalomaniacs, this man’s genius has affected his sense of self worth. He has set himself up as judge, jury and executioner. Indeed, although he would never admit it, he has set himself up as God incarnate, the Messiah of the 21st century. History will exalt him to a greater distinction than that of Ghandi, Mohammed, even Jesus Christ! Undeniably, he will have a greater affect upon humans than Jesus or the others could have ever conceived.
A bead of sweat forms on his forehead and drips unopposed into his eye. He shakes his head and wipes away the salty liquid. He must continue; he must complete his purpose; he must not fail as he had in times past. Unaware of the madness which drives him, he ignores the body’s desire for rest and relaxation and presses forward. In fact, he would tacitly deny his insanity. Of course people would claim he was insane. They would claim anything to stop him from succeeding. No doubt there would even be those who would try to usurp his position of world sovereignty in order to exploit mankind for their own personal greediness. This too will be dealt with harshly.
Some experts would simply call him mad and leave it at that. However, they don’t realize the depth of his madness. He suffers from an insanity commonly referred to as Dandelion Madness. Why this particular designation? Once considered little more than an irritable weed, the dandelion has made a startling comeback. Its leaves can be used in an ancient recipe, now revived, called ‘wilted lettuce‘. Its golden flower, once the bane of lawns throughout the United States, is used to produce a sweet tasting wine. Its real strength, however, is its resiliency, for the root runs deep into the soil. So deep, in fact, that homeowners found it nearly impossible to completely remove them from their yards. Thus the nom de plume, Dandelion Madness. On the surface, those having the illness appear to be quite normal. But, deep down inside, where the psyche itself resides, lies sturdy, unmovable, almost unrecognizable roots of dementia.
Hence, this genius, this illusory individual has been seduced by his own personal demons into thinking he alone will supply the world what it needs. The folly of man continues to surface despite all efforts of doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, historians and world leaders. One wonders: will we ever learn?

In lieu of the aforementioned, there IS an unknown factor at work. A presence as yet unidentifiable. An unascertained solitary figure not having the slightest clue as to the utopian whose blueprint for world domination has already achieved considerable success. Who is this mystery man? Who is the only wrench to unseat the schemer’s creation?

Murphy, Tex Murphy.

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 Overseer: chapter one, 2043

Arriving home from a 36 hour stakeout at a steakhouse was like transferring from hell to heaven. I empty my pockets on my desk, removing a Lucky from its pack. After lighting up, I take a couple of quick drags. It’s 11 a.m. Sheesh, what happened to the regular routine of drinking myself to sleep every night. This working a real job pays well, but, it messes up my internal clock, not to mention Murphy’s SOP (standard operating procedure).
I place the smoking smoke in the ashtray and retreat to the boudoir. Forget taking a shower or shaving. I’m just too pooped. Glancing around, I seem to remember something I’m suppose to do later. What was it? My mind is so taxed I can’t even recall the day’s schedule. Oh well, its probably not important.
Removing my clothes and placing them in a neat pile on the floor, I finish my cig and sit on the bed. Opening the drawer to the nightstand, I withdraw a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and the latest issue of Playbub. Two giant swigs and 20 pictorials later, I’m out - for the count.

There’s a point of light off in the distance. Like the sun, only not as big and not as bright. Rays emanate in all directions. The light seems to be slowly rotating to the left. Moments later, it starts rotating to the right.
There’s a heavy haze hanging in the air, moving almost unnoticeably. Fog, yeah, fog, that’s it. Breaking through the fog on a dead run is a man. He keeps looking behind, as though he is being chased. I can’t quite make out the face. An older fellow, I believe.
Next, a chessboard appears out of nowhere. Close behind is the man on the bridge; the Golden Gate bridge. It’s Carl Linsky! Suddenly, overlapping the foggy bridge are dozens of watches and clocks, moving rapidly, as though time is flying by.
I hear a voice say, “My life is nothing.” Now the man, Linsky, is climbing through a roman numeral on the face of one of the clocks. Another voice sounds in the background; a voice with an Australian accent. “Things could get worser.”
Now, for some strange reason, my face appears on the minute hand of one of the clocks! And its moving counter-clockwise. A new voice asks, “Is your daddy dead?”
As the man teeters on the rail of the bridge, another voice avers, “Overlord is the HOPE!” Now a syringe-injector device comes into view, followed closely by Linsky holding his left hand over his left eye. He seems to be experiencing considerable discomfort; pain even. Disoriented, he will fall into the icy waters at any moment if he doesn’t get off        the railing. Next, a decorated egg appears. Could it be a Faberge? Before I can identify it, numerous similar eggs begin to revolve around the lone Faberge egg.
In a shocking instant, the larger egg shatters into several pieces, revealing the face of a beautiful woman. It cracks again, allowing the face of a mutant to appear. It’s...it’s...
Before I can recognize him, his face is replaced by the face of a handsome, older, wiser man. Before his identity is known, the older man, Linsky, in an absolute state of despair and confusion, falls - no, jumps - off the bridge! He’s screaming loudly, as though he didn’t really want to leap into the bay.
Now I hear a ding - ding noise. Then a woman screaming, like Linsky. Out of her mouth, another woman’s face appears. More tinkling noises. The other woman I know. It’s...it’s...none other than....
I wake up in a start, perspiration dripping off my face, down my neck and into the small of my back. What is that infernal tinkling noise? It sounds familiar.
“Tex?” Oh my hell! Its Chelsee on the vidphone. She has woken me from my recurring nightmare. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Sheesh! I can’t let her see me like this. In a flash I’m off the bed and onto the floor, trying to hide my disheveled appearance. I no sooner hit the floor when I realize I left the latest issue of Playbub on the bed. I sure hope Chelsee doesn’t see it. Not that I’m ashamed of reading the best men’s magazine on the market. After all, we guys buy the periodical for the articles, not the pictures. But, knowing Chelsee, she wouldn’t believe me if I swore on a stack of Playbubs.
“Tex?”, she asks again. “Sit up so I can see you.”
“No! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”
“Come on, let me see the real you.”
“Okay, as soon as you let me see you first thing in the morning.”
“Morning? I have never understood P.I. standard time.”
I contemplate that last remark for a moment. P.I. standard time, or PIS, for short. That doesn’t sound very inviting. Maybe I should change it to SPI - standard P.I. time.
“You probably forgot, but, our date starts in exactly twelve minutes? Lucky for you, there is a one hour grace period.” THAT’S what I was trying to remember earlier. Shoot! I’m in trouble again. After the Black Arrow Killer incident at the Ritz, how could I possibly forget my date with Chelsee? Maybe the BAK hit me harder than I thought.
“Thanks, Chelsee, you’re the only one who understands me.”
An inviting smile appears on her luscious lips. “I want you to freshen up, don a clean white shirt, put on the tie I bought you for solving the Malloy case, and zip on over here. I’ll be waiting.” With that she sends me a vidphone kiss and signs off. The tie she gave me? Well, I suppose its better than nothing.
I move with the speed of Superman on uppers. Off the floor, into the shower. Minutes later I’m staring into the mirror at my grizzled face. To shave or not to shave - that is the question! Naw! I shaved the other day, that’s enough for one week. But I do brush my hair and polish my teeth. That’s the least I can do for the woman I...... Then, I put on my khaki slacks, white shirt, the tie she gave me (I’ve worn better, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings), a clean pair of socks, my sneakers, my look-a-like Bogey coat, and, finally, my soft felt fedora. Boy, that brings back some memories. So does the nightmare I had again. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out. A lot of it seemed familiar, but some of it was totally foreign to me. “Things could get worser?” That’s not only bad English, its also bad Aussie.
One last look into the mirror confirms what I already know to be the truth - I make this ensemble look good! Now, how do I exit the building? Since I’m caught up on my rent, I could go through the lobby. But then I would have to see and maybe even talk with my landlord Nilo Paglio. Ugh! No way, Jose! I decide to use the customer entrance, a.k.a. the fire escape.
As I step onto the customary steel grate that forms the steps to the street, I reach into my pocket and retrieve a new pack of Luckys. Well, I know I’m running late, but I have to go through the traditional ritual of packing the smokes. Grasping the pack with my right hand, I place my thumb on the front logo, my forefinger on the edge, and my other fingers on the rear logo. Holding my left palm upward, I slam the pack into it seven times. This causes the loose tobacco to set deep into the wrapper of each smoke. Then I tear off the clear cellophane, rip off the protective foil cover, and gently tap the pack against my left hand. One Lucky forces its way out, ahead of the others, as though they were racing to see which one can be the first to give me cancer. I raise the pack to my lips, adroitly retracting the lead smoke with a precise movement of my lips. The pack finds its way back into my left shirt pocket. Simultaneously, my left hand removes my Zippo and flips open the lid with a soft clink. One flick of the wheel and voila!, my cig is lit. I take a deep drag and exhale into the open, polluted air. Cough! Cough! Ah, the traditional P.I. breakfast. I only wish I had time to stop at Louie’s for a mug of his famous Armageddon coffee, chased by a bowl of his even more famous firehouse chili.
Finally making it to the street, I survey the activity on Chandler Avenue. To my left is Nilo, evicting a dead beat; across the street, Rook is debating furiously with a destitute pawning his last known treasure; a couple leaves Louie’s with satisfied smiles on their faces. Yup! Another normal day in the city I love.
Moving around the rear of my speeder, I espy Zack Williams stepping out of the Electronics Shop. He too is enjoying a quick smoke. Interesting. He owns the store, but obeys his own rule of a non-smoking establishment. He sees me and a thin smile creases his mouth.
“Hey, Zack, how’s tricks?”
“So’kay, Mr. Murphy, how’s by you?”
“Can’t complain, but then, you already know it won’t do any good anyhow.” He smiles at that statement and tips his hand to his hat brim in a mock salute. I return the gesture and get in the speeder. Before I head for Chelsee’s apartment I decide to stop off at my contractor’s office and bring him up to specs on my stakeout. This will probably cause me to be late for my date tonight, but this is something I have to do after each watch at the steakhouse. He likes to be kept well informed. I give him the short version. It still takes longer than I anticipated and now I will definitely be late - again!
An hour later I’m bound for Chelsee’s apartment at the Chevron Arms complex. Indelibly stamped in my mind is her apartment number - 104 - how could I ever forget? Maybe, just maybe, Chelsee and I can get to know each other in a more personal way.
On the way over, the images from the nightmare reappear in my conscious mind. The faces are all too recognizable, as are most of the events. It was at the time of my departure from the Colonel’s detective agency. I was a brazen young P.I. trying to make it on my own. It was my first case and one of the most memorable of my entire life. Someday, I’ll tell Chelsee all about it. But not tonight. I’m already well past the one hour grace period and speeding won’t help. I’d probably get caught by the cops.
As far as the Aussie’s grammatically incorrect statement that “things could get worser,” Bah! I spit on it! My latest stakeout will net me about a grand, which will keep me in rent, booze and smokes for at least two weeks. In your face, Aussie-man. Things are getting better, not worser.
On the way to Chelsee’s I feel like I’m playing ‘dodge ‘em cars’ with all the floating audio/visual advertising cubes. Everything from AAA Insurance to Zoological Parks flashes by, each trying to outdo the other in the latest display technology. Sheesh! There’s even one promoting the upcoming Faberge Egg Exhibit, a.k.a. FEE. What will they think…..Wait a minute. Why does that seem so familiar? Déjà vu? Huh! Probably. Still, I can’t seem to shake the thought from my weary mind. Hmmm.
Before I know it, the Chevron Arms comes into view. I park the speeder in a no parking zone and take the stairs to the first floor. I knock on door 104 and cringe at the thought of Chelsee chewing me out.
“Uh, sorry I’m late.”
“Well, at least you showed up. C’mon in and let me take your hat and coat.” Her smile allays my fears of a good tongue lashing.
“You know, in this light, you kind of look like a princess.”
“Well, thank you. So, which one of the seven dwarves am I blessed with tonight? Happy, Grumpy or Dopey?”
“Sleepy, actually,” as a huge yawn escapes my throat. “But, hey, I’m wearing the tie you told me to wear and a clean white shirt. Get me a couple of drinks and I’ll wake right up.” Chelsee moves to the wet bar and pours a stiff bourbon. She considers dropping a couple of cubes of ice into it, but soon remembers I take it neat. She hands it to me and two gulps later my eyes are wide open.
“Just so you know, I already called the Golden Pagoda and changed our reservation.” She wags an accusatory finger in my direction and continues, “You know how hard it is to get into that place? Shame on you for being late.”
“Yeah, well, after the stakeout last night I hit the hay and had trouble sleeping.”
“That same nightmare again?”
“Yeah, again.”
“You going to tell me about it?”
“Naw! But, since you’re in charge of the dinner arrangements,” I move off the chair and slide in next to Chelsee on the couch, “why don’t I handle the early evening entertain-ment?” I try to slip my hand onto her knee, but she quickly moves to the edge of the couch. Uh oh! This is not good.
Nervously, she says, “Tex, it’s not that I’m not interested, I AM, it’s just, well, you know, I would like our relationship to go a little further.”
“What, like all the way to second base?” Ooohh, I bet that hurt. And it wasn’t too smart, either. I shouldn’t be so sarcastic with her. Or, presumptuous. She deserves better.
Undaunted by my cutting barb, she continues, “No, no, not like that. I just want us to be open and forthright with each other. And, well, some things are bothering me, that’s all.”
Frustrated, I blurt out, “Is this about Sylvia?”
“No!” she says adamantly. “It’s about the ability to commit and make us potentially happy.”
“What does Sylvia have to do with us?”
Putting her right thumb against her ring finger, she flashes her hand before my eyes. It’s a reminder of the ring I still wear on my left hand; the ring from my marriage to Sylvia. She demands, “You tell me.”
I knew that one day I would have to tell Chelsee the whole sordid tale of my first case and involvement with my ex-wife Sylvia. But, I wanted to do it on my own time, when I felt it would be the most prudent. Looks like I’ve just been finagled into relating it in spite of my future intentions. I take a double swig of my bourbon and, with a heavy sigh, I decide to let her have it - the story, that is.
“Okay, but remember, six years ago I was pretty much a moron. I had just been fired from the Colonel’s detective agency and, as a young, starch-pressed P.I., I decided to start my own business. Among other things, I was arrogant, self-righteous, straight-laced and over-confident.”
“Well, it’s nice to know that some things never change.”
“Oh, that’s real cute.” My snippety rejoinder causes Chelsee to smile. “I was in the market for my own personal office when I saw an ad in the S.F. Daily. I called and set up an appointment.”

MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CITY........
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” With that, the man with the pointed nose checks his tranquilizer gun one more time. “This is a neat little weapon. Are you sure it’s gonna work?”
“It’ll work. After the dart penetrates the skin, unconsciousness occurs in one to two seconds. That’s why they call it the ‘Two-step Sleeper’. Just make sure you don’t miss. Murphy first, then the girl.”
“What sort of bloody drongo do you think I am? I never miss,” he retorts in his natural Australian accent. After checking the gun, he places it in the speeder. “Who you got lined up to steal their speeder?”
“Some kid. He owes me a favor. We’re gonna tail Murphy after he leaves the girl’s apartment. We planted a wire there a few days ago. Right now he’s telling her some sort of stupid story. Anyway, they should be leaving soon for the Golden Pagoda restaurant. Just be watching when they come out.”
“I’ll take care of my end; you just worry about yours.” They exchange warning glances and the Aussie departs. He flies directly to the restaurant and waits patiently for the plan to unfold. ‘This will be easier than fallin’ down,’ he muses.


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 Chapter two: October 1, 2037

The visionary contemplates his future. Cogitating on the overall scheme, he envisions the perfect government manned by perfect officials all of which are controlled by himself, the perfect sovereign. Filled with renewed vigor, he presses on with the plan. Oh, he does anticipate problems. Whenever one deals with imperfect humans there are always problems. A coup d’etat? Never! Problems? Possibly, probably. But, he designed this system to succeed, not to fail. Built in safeguards would prevent any one person to usurp his authority or overtake his project and use it for their own greedy ends. Eight people in eight different venues with eight different passcards and eight different passwords with eight different computers all of which have a security protect feature. And, although these computers are connected to the main computer via land lines, they interact and compli-
ment each other through the use of undetectable and undecipherable vistion wave bands, developed and created by his own scientists. Even the electric and phone companies had no idea that their respective lines were being used to transmit secret information. This was a tight-knit organization of highly qualified specialists whose sole purpose was to do what they were instructed to do. And why should they? For the simple reason that he paid them more than the going rate for their efforts.
As he continued meditating, there was a knock on his study door, startling him back to the present. Even though these doors were rarely locked, he used his remote control to allow the visitor to enter. He knew who it was and was expecting him. Checking his watch, he smiled to see that his friend was punctual, as usual.
“El Tigre, welcome to my humble abode,” a broad smile covering his face. This was his one true friend in his shrunken world. Extending his hand, the visitor, Samuel Q. Jones, took it warmly and firmly, placing his left hand over both in a gesture of mutual respect and compassion. “Well, I see you haven’t lost your iron-like grip, old soldier.”
“El Toro, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again,” holding his friend’s hand for an extra moment. This was a friendship that pre-dated WWIII, back to their early military days when they were young and eager adherents to the just cause.
The next few minutes were spent exchanging toasts, sipping smooth scotch and puffing on Fuente Fuente Opus X cigars. El Tigre, Sam Jones, got his name from using stealth in the field, coupled with a fierceness unparalleled in his division. El Toro, the visionary, got his sobriquet, not because of his size and power, but, rather, through his bullish nature in accepting and attacking his assignments with the aggressiveness of an enraged bull. After a few quiet minutes, cigars reduced to butts, several ounces of 50 year old scotch in their bellies, they broke out into an eerie laughter. The mere fact they were still alive after all they had been through was cause for shared sniggering.
Three drinks later, for that was their tradition (one to quench thirst, one to stimulate the mind, one to loosen the tongue), and tradition never suffered for any reason, especially after thirty years of established tradition, they got down to brass tacks.
“El Toro, what can I do for you?” asked Sam, knowing he wasn’t summoned for pleasure or entertainment. He assumed he was about to be invited to join his old comrade in some covert operation. This would be a welcome change from the lifeless existence he had been experiencing since the death of his loyal, respectful and loving wife less than a year ago. She died from an extremely rare form of cancer; there was no cure. And now, while perched in the depths of despair, at age 72, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel and for the first time in many years, he felt invigorated and uplifted. It was difficult to inform his children, whom he loved and admired, that he would be going under cover yet once more. But, he needed this opportunity to prove that he was still able to compete, to prove he was still a valuable asset for society’s welfare. His entire life was spent in the pursuit of world wide peace and justice, believing in the American way and the United Nations as the only true organizations that righteously sought that which was always so elusive. Whether this would be El Toro’s reason for asking him to his study or not was irrelevant. El Toro always considered the welfare of humankind to be the ultimate objective and he expended his energy in pursuit of just that. Sam would offer himself and his expertise willingly, no matter what the request. Besides, the invitation stated that two weeks would be all the time Sam would need to complete his assigned task.
“First, let me extend my condolences on the loss of your dear wife, Diedre. I, of all people, knew how close you two were.” Sam lowered his head in silent acceptance of El Toro’s sympathies, allowing a pang of grief to filter through his heart and mind. He had met Diedre in England back in 1990 while on assignment as a newly commissioned officer in the U.S. Marines. She stole his heart and never gave it back, cherishing it more than her own heart. Her death in 2036 was staggering, to say the least. They shared nearly 50 years of marital bliss, and this in spite of his profession. She never realized he was a spy and most of his work consisted of eliminating this official or that politician or handing over an escaped tyrant to whatever coup currently ruled until the next rebellion. She just thought he was an officer in the marines and as such, was required to move all over the globe in defense of his country. She served him selflessly and lovingly despite current trends regarding woman’s rights. He never patronized her, belittled her, or humiliated her, either publicly or privately. A closer friend he never had; the closest was sitting in front of him at this very moment.
“Thank you, my old friend,” was all he could muster; indeed, that was all that was needed. El Toro acknowledged his thanks with an almost imperceptible nod.
“Second, as I stated in my communiqué, I have need of your services, especially in relation to defense systems. Your reputation in this area is a well known fact. I can vouch for that personally,” and he allowed a faint smile to cross his face. “You are unrivaled by your contemporaries.”
“Defense systems? You planning on taking over the world?” When El Toro’s counten-
ance changed from smile to serious, Sam got the impression he was close to the truth. “You stated in your letter that my future, as well as the whole world’s future, depended on taking an aggressive stance in the matter of righteous government. This was a pursuit we were never able to fully realize, in spite of all our activities and efforts. Are we talking about WWIV?”
“Not at all,” the bull answered unwaveringly. And for the next couple of hours he expounded and expanded on his plan involving scientists, biologists, computer pro-
grammers and electrical engineers, all experts in their respective fields. To round out his elite group and to ensure the safety of the program, he needed a defense master and that is why Sam was invited to his study this day. A total of eight people working through a vast network of high tech computers would need advance security and protection. Although Sam would not be privy to all the names and locations at this juncture, he would eventually be the bull’s right hand man and second in command.
An uneasy silence followed for a few seconds, broken by El Toro’s query, “Well, are you interested?”
Sam looked him dead in the eyes and answered, “You know I am. I was just thinking of my children, that’s all.” And the two shook hands and embraced. If they were less prideful, tears would have flowed. But, as it was, this was the very objective they had both sought for decades and now it was within their grasp. No time for tears; time to get crackin’.
Equipping Sam with a passcard, password, passcard reader and a security protect computer, he gave Sam directions to the secret location that would be used as his work place. Once it was used by the military for defensive purposes to protect the northern border of the United States. Now it would be used to create a defense system that would benefit the whole world, only the world was yet unaware of the visionary’s global plan. Sam knew of the secret base, having been entrusted with military secrets for several years. He also knew that the military sold a number of these abandoned installations to private concerns after the threat of war had been eradicated. He wondered if El Toro had purchased more of them and used them for the same end. Well, not to worry. If the bull wanted him to know more he would have told him. Right now it was his sincere pleasure to carry out El Toro’s wishes, which happened to be his wishes too.
“Success,” they said, clinking their glasses one more time and sealing the deal with two more ounces of MacIntyre’s 50 year old scotch. Sam saw himself out and took off for the wild blue yonder. The visionary let out a long and deep satisfying sigh, knowing the project took a turn in the right direction. His goal of world order was finally reaching maturity.

Oct. 19, 2037
Colorado Springs

Samuel Quirinius Jones II summoned his siblings and their marriage mates together to discuss their father’s disappearance. It had been 18 days now with no word from the aged patriarch. He promised them he would return in 14 days and he always, always kept his word. Never knowing their father’s line of work, they knew enough to refrain from delving into his business. But, in this case, and in lieu of their mother’s death, they felt they had to do something. Simply put, they were worried.
Sam II surveyed those present on this occasion. His brother Endicott, a computer analyst, and his wife Valaris; their younger brother Cedrick, a civil engineer and a world class long distance runner, and his wife Catherine; and their only sister and the baby of the family, Nicole and her husband William Jackson Jackson, a.k.a. Billy Jack Jackson, the sole heir of the Avatar Speeder Corp. All of the grandchildren were either outside making snowmen or downstairs in the rec room.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Sam II.
Nicole, the youngest and Papa’s favorite, an outspoken woman if there ever was one, was the first to speak up (then again, she was always the first to speak up). “We must contact the local authorities, the FBI and the military immediately. My horoscope this morning was unnerving, to put it mildly. And it’s unlike Papa to be overdue.” Everyone saw the logic of her request. Father was well known in those circles and had befriended many an official in his day. They owe the family this one favor. So, after a unanimous vote, each of the brothers contacted a respective group, notifying them of dad’s disappearance. Not one of the authoritative bodies shrugged at the request. They were more than happy to provide assistance.
APBs were sent out; operatives contacted; street informers approached; all to no avail. None of them were aware of the fact that Samuel Q. Jones, the family head, had no intention of being found. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t lost. After accomplishing his original orders from El Toro, he was given a new set of instructions and was all too eager to carry them out. He simply lost track of time. This project was the most important assignment he had ever received. Time was of the essence. In fact, he couldn’t tell what day it was, let alone keep his promise to his children. The future of his family and all of mankind hung in the balance and it was critical that he fulfilled his mandate in the short-
est possible time.
Of all people, Sam knew the importance of maintaining communication silence. In his many sorties as an agent for the USA, and as a general in the US Marines, even the briefest of contacts with the outside world could spell disaster. It was like the little boy whose thumb plugged the huge dam and kept millions of gallons of water, the most powerful resource on earth, at bay. But, if he removed that little thumb, the ensuing deluge would be utterly disastrous. So, even if he wanted to contact the children, he simply could not. Some day he would explain all of this to them and they would understand.

-------------------------
 Overseer: chapter three

Nathan James Smith was born on Sept. 24, 1999 in Perth, Australia. Robert John Smith, a department store manager, met Elizabeth Anne Endicott after she hired in as a cashier/stock person. If there’s such a thing as love at first sight, this was it. However, she wanted children and he did not, at least not so soon. So, when she became pregnant after six months of marriage, she soon realized that love could be fleeting, especially when the responsibility of parenthood is unexpectedly thrust upon a husband. When Nathan was only a year old, Robert ran off with a well-to-do former fashion model and they headed for the USA. That left Elizabeth and Nathan to fend for themselves.
As the child grew up fatherless, he lacked the toughness to cope with inner city kids who tested his timidity daily. Nathan wasn’t sports minded; in fact he wasn’t big enough to participate in any of the local sports. Short, rail thin, quiet and shy, he became the target of bullies and all around general punks, too scared to pick on someone their own size. This caused Nathan to retreat into a make believe world of martial arts where he envisioned himself as a modern hero of the lowly and depressed. ‘If only I could be like Bruce Lee, then I would teach these guys a lesson’, he thought ruefully.
In May 2007, Elizabeth, tired from working two full-time jobs in order to make ends meet, succumbed to the advances of a swarthy, but gentle, fishing boat captain. They married in a fever and that, for all intents and purposes, described their tumultuous coupling. The Captain, as Eddie Ballantrae was called, seemed to have a fever all the time, as far as his temper was concerned. He hid it well from Elizabeth when they first met, but now that they were wed, he allowed it to break through and dominate their marriage. He considered himself to be a man’s man, and shy young Nathan was his exact opposite. Within weeks, The Captain was slapping quiet and mild mannered Nathan for the slightest of offenses. In fact, it got to the point where no offense was necessary. He would just smack the boy for no good reason whatsoever. Elizabeth tried to object, so The Captain started to abuse her as well. The mere thought of living on her own again and trying to support a child did not appeal to her, so she simply endured the verbal and physical barrage heaped upon her. To help soften the blows, she turned to drink. That seemed to placate her just enough to go on each day. When asked by neighbors as to the reason for her apparent madness for staying with The Captain, she openly replied, “He provides for our daily needs and we have a roof over our heads.”
It all came to a head one late summer. The year was 2013; Nathan was 13 years old (just shy of 14); it was September 13th; and it was a Friday. This was critical given the fact that young Nathan had developed a superstitious fear of the number thirteen. He also hated the sound of police sirens as the authorities were often called to their home by con-
cerned neighbors. The children at school stilled teased Nathan endlessly and his fanta-
sizing became more realistic in his mind. He began to view himself as a super hero who would someday enact revenge on those who caused him pain and suffering. His first target would be his stepfather who continued his assaults on the defenseless boy; his next target were the boys at school; and he even felt a loathing for his mother who, because of the drink, had totally ignored him for the last few years. However, some fond memories lingered from his early training and he allowed these thoughts to soothe his anger towards her. Maybe he would just put her out of her misery. Then he would break down and cry. He had never had such evil thoughts and now they constantly occupied his mind. He tried to suppress them, but to no avail.
School had let the children go home early as a result of a gas leak. Upon arriving home, he found his mother battered and bloody, much worse than he had ever witnessed. He went into an uncontrollable rage, shocking his mother to the point of fearing for her son’s life. She tried to restrain him from approaching his stepfather, but he would have none of it. Nathan stalked determinedly into the den where The Captain was drinking Foster’s and watching Australian Rules Football, a man’s game as he called it.
“You son-of-a-bitch!”, he screamed at the heavy set fisherman. “If you ever touch my mother again, I’ll kill you!” This was the first time in a very long time that Nathan had stuck up for his mother. He left the room and immediately went to his mother’s aid. The Captain, filled with instant fury, rose from his favorite chair and stormed out to the living room. He grabbed Nathan and tossed him to the floor like a rag doll. Then, in full view of Nathan, he grabbed Elizabeth by the throat, raised her to her feet, and slugged her with the power of a canon, square on the jaw. The blood from the blow spattered on the walls and the curtains. She fell to the floor, cracking her head on a wooden end table. She lay their unconscious.
“Oh yeah? Well, what do you think of that?” The Captain, eyes ablaze, slithered back into the family room like the snake that he was.
Nathan, eyes filled with tears, ran to his mother’s side. He tried desperately to wake her up, but she just wouldn’t open her eyes. He finally realized that she was dead, killed by a merciless pig of a man who once claimed to love her. He held her close, wishing he could impart life, like the super hero of his dreams. He called out to her, but received no response. Finally, he broke down into uncontrollable sobbing, laying his head on head blood-stained clothes. When he raised his head minutes later, he was transformed. He had metamorphasized into the savior he had created in his mind. It was now time to exact revenge; to pay the pauper; to fulfill his destiny. At that precise moment, Nathan James Smith’s life changed forever.
After making a brief stop in the kitchen, Nathan headed for the family room. He saw his stepfather, relaxing in his chair, watching TV, totally oblivious to the fact that he had just killed his own wife. Nathan approached stealthily, a large butcher knife in his left hand. Sweat formed on his brow and the palms of his hands. What he had to do was not the norm for children his age. And yet he knew he had to do it. So, he brought the knife down with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer and buried it deeply into The Captain’s shoulder. A blood-curdling scream filled the air, resonating out into the street, causing the hairs of neighbors to curl on the napes of their necks. But Nathan wasn’t finished, not just yet. He pulled the knife from The Captain’s shoulder, surprised by the amount of strength needed to remove such an object (the muscles tighten around a foreign device when the skin is pierced). Again and again he stabbed at the mountain of a man while he was attempting to escape the young boy’s onslaught. Try as he may, he eventually ended up on the floor, Nathan kneeling beside him, continuing the death strokes with the fury of a gale force storm. Finally, tired and exhausted, Nathan ceased his brutal attack. Looking down, he saw the corpse of Captain Eddie Ballantrae, his ‘former’ stepfather, laying in a large pool of reddish-purple goo. The sudden realization of his actions began to set in and the floodgates of his eyes opened wide. He never cried so hard in his short life.
By this time, one of the concerned neighbors had approached the house and peered in the rear windows. She saw Nathan kneeling beside The Captain, the bloody knife still locked in his grip. She screamed and headed for her house to call the police. Nathan’s fear quickly subsided as he realized that he would soon be captured and detained at the local juvenile detention center. At that moment his metamorphosis was complete. His life would never be the same.
Not thinking of any possibility for acquittal, he ran out the back door and headed directly for the docks. He had no plans for escape and he knew his time was short. All he had was the clothes on his back and five dollars in his pocket. As he ran from the house, he noticed the military time on the wall clock: 13:00 hours. Bad luck.
Once he was a considerable distance from the house, he heard the sound on sirens. Instead of fear, instinct took over and finding a hiding place became his primary objective. The very thought of incarceration filled his soul with dread. He needed a place to hold up until he could think of a solution to his dilemma. Upon reaching the docks, full of activity at that time of day, he merged into the commercial fray and was virtually lost in a sea of people. However, two things quickly became apparent. One, he was hungry and five dollars would barely pay for lunch, let alone supper. And two, he had no place to sleep for the night.
In the interim, the police had issued an APB detailing Nathan’s description. He was wanted for questioning in a double homicide. According to the neighbor, Nathan had killed his mother and stepfather, a la Lizzie Borden. Although the police had found the murder weapon at the scene, they made the usual statement that the suspect could be armed and dangerous. When captured, he would be tried as an adult, facing life impris-
onment at a maximum security prison. Of course, a 13 year old fragile boy of Nathan’s stature would be a sexual target for the hard-line criminals and he would probably end up committing suicide by age fifteen. That was all too often the fate of such ones.
After spending several hours on the lam by the waterfront, Nathan, tired, hungry and desperate, ended up walking through Chinatown just as dusk enveloped the city. He was in a strange place and he was out of place. The streets began to fill with all sorts of undesirables, many of whom looked greedily at the young boy.
As a group of thugs approached, Nathan, trained by experience to recognize such ones, thought that discretion was the better part of valor and ran down an alley. It was a dead end. The toughs neared hungrily, eyes narrow slits and shooting vile stabs of hurtfulness in Nathan’s direction. Just as they grabbed him, a door opened suddenly. An old Chinese man wearing a cook’s apron was about to dump garbage into an already overflowing can. When the thugs saw him, and when the cook had discerned the nature of the situation, the boys fled the alley with their tails between their legs. Not a word was spoken.
The cook eyed Nathan suspiciously and said, “You no belong here. You go now.”
Nathan, still wearing bloodstained clothes, head bowed, managed to whisper, “I got no place to go.”
The old man looked pitifully upon the young lad and asked, “You hungry?” Nathan nodded, still looking down. “Hold head up boy; come inside.” Nathan followed the old man into the dingy restaurant. Seated at a dirty kitchen table, Nathan ate until his stomach ached. Then he noticed his eyes were heavy and the old man led him to a cot in an adjacent room.
“You sreep here. We talk in morning. Don’t wolly, everting be okay.” He covered Nathan with an old ragged table cloth and before he left the room, gentle snores emanated from Nathan’s mouth. He slept like a baby, somehow knowing that everything would indeed be okay.
By morning, Nathan felt refreshed. After using the toilet, though, the terrifying memor-
ies of the previous day flooded his mind. Filled with fear, he thought of running away. That’s when the old man entered the kitchen.
“You sreep good, eh?” Nathan nodded. “Now we have talk.” Nathan’s heart skipped a beat. The old man sat next to him and stared him directly in the eyes for several moments. “You in trouble, yes?” Nathan nodded silently. “My name Sam. I feed you; take you to prace where no one find you. Okay?” Nathan nodded and smiled.
The old man fixed Nathan some breakfast. Afterwards, Nathan helped clean up and performed other chores much to the old man’s delight. They hit it off and became friends. Over the next three days, despite intensified police searches, Nathan and the old man talked freely about the events leading up to their chance meeting. Sam explained in detail as to how he would help get Nathan out of the country. He had a relative in Thailand by the name of Soon Tan Lo. Sam would wire him and have Lo meet the boy at the secret port where others had been met. Lo, an accomplished master of the martial arts, was always interested in new talent, especially one so young as Nathan. Young and trainable. Who knows? He just might make an expert troubleshooter for the Chinese Mafia, whose tentacles had stretched throughout the civilized world. In the meantime, the boy, Nathan James Smith, timid, cowardly, hiding in a fantasy world, had ceased to exist. A man emerged as a black belt martial artist, international hit man for hire and all around terrorist extraordinaire. His alias? Big Jim Slade.

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 Overseer: chapter four, Mon. Oct. 26, 2037

The Aussie sat in his speeder, eating salad and drinking spring water. He had been watching this apartment building for three days now, since receiving instructions from his new employer. As to the reason why he wanted this woman eliminated, he had no idea. At this point it didn’t really matter. What did bother him, though, was the old man’s statement regarding the world’s future. Could it be the old guy has aspirations of ruling the world? Just what kind of plan did he have? What part would the hit man play in all this? Would he be used only to eradicate those who threaten his plan? Or would he too be eliminated one day? The last possibility was more real than he cared to admit. Twice before he had to kill his employers. After receiving payment for a job in France, the entrepreneur tried to cover his tracks by personally blotting out the assassin. Then a mere six months later, an industrialist in Japan attempted to do the same. But this hit man is perfect in mind, body and thought. He had anticipated the attempts on his life, for he knew the old saw: First order of business in an assassination is to kill the assassin.
He shook himself back to the present. If Val Davis followed her usual routine, she should be exiting the building in 3 to 5 minutes. She’ll enter her speeder, let it warm up for three minutes, and fly over to the U.S.F. biological lab. Except for today. When she gets about half way in the 10 minute drive, her maneuvering computer controls will short out, causing a terrible accident. And the best part is the number of witnesses who’ll testify to her mishap. CYA: cover your.... There she is. Time to get serious.
Three minutes later, Slade was tailing Miss Davis on her way to work. About half way, he pushed the red button on the remote control in his right hand. A small green LED lit up to manifest signal transmission. Within a second, the speeder made a sharp 90 degree turn, and veered into oncoming traffic. Horns blared, speeders twisted to avoid collision, people swore at the out of control, lousy woman driver. Miss Davis struggled furiously to regain control, all to no avail. She had been traveling above the San Francisco skyline, but now she was spiraling to the streets below. Screaming to anyone who would hear, shouting at anyone who would listen, and knowing that neither would do any good, she continued to pull vigorously on the control arm. Finally, mere feet from the pavement, she braced her hands against the windshield, as though this would prevent injury. The speeder crashed and buried its front end six inches into the asphalt. Val Davis, USF professor, biological researcher, divorcee of recent years, was dead. Her face torn from her skull, ravaged beyond recognition, the police had to identify her from her driver’s license and credit cards. Witnesses gave testimony that she had lost control and crashed. No other inves-
tigation was required.
The hit man mingled with the crowd that gathered at the crash site. He surveyed the wreckage and deemed it unnecessary to retrieve the small device used to disable the speeder maneuvering control. There was nothing left of the speeder’s front end, including the small device. Overhearing the police detective in charge, he smiled to himself. No, there would be no further need to investigate this accident, for that is exactly what it was.
As he walked away, he could not resist the urge to approach one of the officers assigned to crowd control. “Too bad, she seemed so young.”
“Yeah, too bad,” responded the cop, not having the slightest idea that one of the most dangerous men in the world had just spoken to him.
Rounding the corner, the Aussie laughed uproariously despite the carnage he just witnessed. ‘Stupid flatfoots’ he said. ‘I just can’t resist a flare for the dramatic. Must be the acting role I had in the school play all those years ago’. He laughed again as he flew away, knowing that on the morrow, there would be a substantial addition to his Swiss account.

Later that evening, BJS broke into Val Davis’ lab, hoping to find her passcard. He figured she would not take it with her to and from the lab and her apartment. If it was as valuable as the old man said it was, she’d probably leave it here at work. Earlier, dressed as a doctor, he had finagled his way into the morgue and searched her effects before they were sent off to the police department, just to be sure. He had also searched her car, bribing the lot attendant under the guise of her visiting brother. Both searches came up empty. Ergo, the card must be in the lab.
After several minutes of ransacking the lab, he came up empty. He searched the cupboards - empty; he searched the counters - empty; he searched in and around the animal cages - empty; he even took a chance and entered the Radiation Chamber - empty. However, a warning siren went off as he entered. It shook him to his foundations. Sirens, how he hated sirens. “Warning, radiation at level one,” said the computerized voice. The ‘Perfect Body’ was having trouble controlling the ‘Perfect Mind.’ He became disoriented, unsteady, claustrophobic. He needed to get out of this room. He headed for the door’s opening but ran smack into an iron wall. This rattled him even more. “Warning, radiation at level two.” He began to abhor the warning voice. He had to get control.
‘Breathe, breathe deeply,’ he told himself. ‘Control your thoughts. Concentrate on the present; suppress thoughts of the past.’ Slowly and surely he regained his composure. Next, he found the control panel, opened it and pushed the slide switch to the off position. The sirens stopped; the warning voice ceased; the doors parted like the Red Sea for Moses; and his panic abated. He was back in control.
Thinking he may not be the only one to visit this lab, he devised a plan to kill anyone who might be following in his footsteps. CYA. If someone gets suspicious, he’ll have to deal with the ‘Perfect Mind.’ Extricating a small pencil-like object from his shirt pocket, he pressed the tiny button at one end which ignited a small laser beam from the other end. A couple of swipes back and forth through the wires on the PC board would cause enough damage to thwart any attempts to shut off the radiation after the next person enters. At this thought he laughed. ‘Boy, would I like to see what kind of a crispy critter would exit after the radiation hits its highest level. Can’t be worse than the poor excuse for food served at Big Sur’s Family Restaurant, though.’
After exiting the chamber he pushed the ‘close’ button and the big, heavy-duty iron doors closed like a vice. The Aussie left the lab with mixed feelings. He had seen to it that no one would survive a visit to the Radiation Chamber; but he was not successful in finding Val Davis’ passcard. ‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ he thought. The boss will just have to do without. And he flew back to his secluded lodge, eager to get a good night’s sleep; eager to get on with his job.

That afternoon, he met with his employer. “Well, have you seen to the demise of ‘contestant number one?’”
“As a matter of fact, I have. You’ll probably read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
“How did you do it?”
“Oh, it was nothing really. Just a little speeder accident. Happens all the time.” They both smiled at that.
“Excellent! Here’s the lowdown on ‘contestant number two,’” and he handed the Aussie a manila envelope.
“Hmmm, let’s see. A mutant named Rona Morgan. Lives in an apartment building down in the old city, in ‘freaktown.’ No problem. I’ll get started on it tonight.”
“Uh, no offense, but it would help if this one looked like an accident as well. Don’t you agree?”
“As a matter of record, I do.” The Aussie had no problem with that suggestion.
They were parting ways when the ‘boss’ turned and said, “Oh, by the way, where’s Val Davis’ passcard?”
The hitman’s face went blank. He was hoping the old guy wouldn’t remember. “Well, you see, it’s like this,” he began. The gray haired employer’s face fell from smile to frown. He knew this wasn’t going to be good. “I searched everywhere and, well, uh, no passcard.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I need those passcards. It’s imperative that I get a card from each and every person you eliminate. Now, don’t let me down again. If you do, I’ll have to withhold your payment. Do I make myself clear this time?”
The Aussie glared at the man. A thousand evil thoughts zigzagged through his mind. But, in the interests of good sportsmanship and in lieu of the money he was getting paid, he simply said, “Yes, you have made yourself clear.”
“Thank you,” and the ‘boss’ smiled and flew off into the afternoon sun. “Oh, one more thing. Here’s a key to a post office box with directions to its location and number. From now on, when I call, you’ll pick up your orders from there. It’s safer that way.” He turned on his heels and departed, still reeking of arrogance.
‘The Body, The Mind, The Man’ watched with rage in his heart as the old man left. His animosity toward his employer grew every time they met. Still, he had a point. If the passcards are as valuable as he leads on, then it will be worth his while to attain as many as possible. ‘On the other hand, if he tries to withhold payment, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.’ That was his last thought as he flew off to his next assignment.
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 Overseer: chapter five, Wed. Oct. 28, 2037

I park my speeder in front of the Andrews Business Complex at 813 Fourth Street in New San Francisco. My appointment is 9:00 a.m. sharp; it’s 8:30 and I am way early. Punctuality is a virtue; tardiness is a peccadillo. However, I am a little tense at the thought of opening my own personal PI agency. In fact, I’m as nervous as a tightrope walker with vertigo. I pace the front sidewalk to the point where a groove begins to appear. My hands are firmly entrenched in their respective overcoat pockets. The left hand clutches the rental ad cut from the S.F. Daily; the right hand retains both of my pride and joys - my P.I. license and my new business license. After all, the landlord may ask to see them for verification.
It’s a light radiation day, so, I don’t mind waiting outside. With little else to do, thoughts of the last several days flitter through my mind. I still don’t understand why the Colonel is so upset with me. After all, he did break the rules. And ‘if you break the rules, you pay the fools’ as the old saying goes. In his case, the ‘fools’ are the state appointed officials who monitor the activities of private investigators, a.k.a. the ethics board.
As far as I’m concerned, the future is now! There should be no reason for my efforts to fail. I’m absolutely confident that I will be a success. Leasing this recently vacated office space will lodge my career in the annals of history as an extremely successful P.I. Perhaps even more successful than the famous Dobbs Investigative Services owned and operated by Colonel Dobbs. ‘I bet that would stick in his craw,’ I muse to myself. Not that I dislike the Colonel; after all, I owe him for helping me get into the business and personally taking me under his wing. But, the way he fired me is unforgivable. Yelling and screaming at me in front of the office staff and a number of my fellow PIs was very embarrassing and humiliating. However, ethics are ethics; rules were NOT made to be broken.
My thoughts were interrupted when a man rounded the corner and gave me a hardy “Hey you! You th-th-th-the c-c-c-clown who wants t-t-t-to rent 1015?” Clown? CLOWN? Who is this Bozo, speaking of clowns. He obviously needs to work on his people skills.
“No, but I AM the private investigator who might be interested in leasing 1015,” I reply with a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get th-th-th-the lead out, p-p-p-pal, I’m in a hurry.” He slips through the revolving door with the expertise of a modern day Houdini. I follow him to the elevator. He presses the up arrow and turns to face me. “S-s-s-seets, Endro S-s-s-seets,” and extends his hand.
I shake the old callused hand hardily and respond, “Murphy, Tex Murphy. Nice to meet you Mr. Seets.”
“Yeah, likewise,” and we enter the lift before the door closes on us. He presses number 10 and we take off like a rocket to the moon. These new turbo lifts travel at near the speed of sound, causing the stomach to come into your throat and then bolt back down to your midsection within a span of a micro-second.
Gulping, we exit the elevator, turn two right corners and end up in front of office number 1015. “Here we are,” he announces as though I can’t read the sign. Sheesh! What a character!
After entering, I make a quick survey and notice it’s more spacious than I thought. There’s even an adjacent room which could be used as a bedroom. Cool! That means I can move out of my current apartment and move in here, saving big bucks on rent.
“So, whadda’ya th-th-th-think? Like it?” He’s plainly in a big hurry. But, I do like it.
“Yes, I do. How much do you need today for a down payment?”
“No d-d-d-down p-p-p-payment, just th-th-th-the first month rent in advance. I’ve already p-p-p-prep-p-p-pared a one year lease, just in case you wanted th-th-th-the j-j-j-joint.” He oughta get that fixed; it’s rather annoying. Then again, stuttering is a problem most people are unable to conquer. I instantly regret my callous thought.
Boy, he works fast. He hands me the lease and I begin to read it.
“Hey! You’re n-n-n-not going t-t-t-to read th-th-th-that now, are ya’?” he asks impatiently.
“Well, it’s standard procedure to read a legal document before signing it, don’t you agree?”
“Look, I’m in a hurry,” no kidding pal, “so, I’ll t-t-t-tell you what, k-k-k-keep th-th-th-the contact for a d-d-d-day or t-t-t-two, read it over and let m-m-m-me know. If you like it, d-d-d-drop it off at m-m-m-my office with a ch-ch-ch-check. Okay b-b-b-by you?”
“Sure, why not,” and he hands me a business card with his name and address on it. I slip it into my pocket, shake hands with Mr. Seets, and off he goes. This gives me some time to get acclimated to my new surroundings. I begin to picture in my mind where everything will go. Cabinets here, shelves there, desk and chairs in the middle, a cot in the boudoir, the stand-alone-closet in the corner, and so on.
With an air of excitement, I bring up the few small items I brought in my speeder. For you see, Mr. Seets, I also anticipated taking the ‘joint’ as you would say. After three trips up and down the elevator from hell, I hasten to the used office furniture store and pick out several essentials. I give the salesman the cash and my address for delivery the next day. I’m happier than a plethora of lottery winners.
As I fly back to my apartment, which just so happens the rent is up tomorrow, I’m thankful for having the foresight to save money while working at the Colonel’s agency. Prudence and preparation are also virtues I live by.
By nightfall the succeeding day, I’m completely settled in my new digs. I call my mom on my new vidphone which came with a two week subscription to the American Information Database. She writes down the office number as well as the fax number. “I’ll fax over the baked beans recipe straight away,” she says excitedly. In moments, I hear the all too familiar recording, “You have a fax.” Yup, I sure do. Mom’s famous baked beans recipe, complete with secret ingredients.
Feeling higher than an astronaut in orbit, I lean back in my chair and wait for the phone to ring itself right off my desk. Maybe it will be someone who needs to find a missing person; or someone needing to spy on an adulterous mate; or someone needing a stakeout a syndicate hangout. Yessiree, things are definitely looking up.

A week later I’m still waiting for my first call, except for my mom. She calls me daily to remind me to brush my teeth and comb my hair. Gee, thanks mom. She also asks if a client has called. When I answer in the negative, she encourages me to continue the vigil and soon I would be rewarded with a case.
There is one thing that is progressing nicely, I’ve honed my skills playing Parcheesi. I just might enter a tournament and blow everybody away. Also, I refill the candy ashtray every day. It seems I’ve developed a sweet tooth. Well, better than smoking. That is truly disgusting! Another way to pass the time is studying Harley Fenwick’s Little Red Book Of Rules For A P.I. I’ve pretty much memorized the twenty tried and true aphorisms Harley came up with; now I have added several of my own in my effort to become the creme-de-la-creme of private investigators.
Suddenly, the vidphone rings. “Tex Murphy, private investigator, how may I help you?” I ask, using my most professional voice.
“Hi Honey, how are you today? Any clients yet?”
“No, mom, no calls except from you,” I answer dejectedly.
“Well, don’t worry, Honey, you’ll get some calls soon. Just give it a little time.”
After the daily mechanical Q & A with mom, I decide to peruse a couple of law books on my book shelf. Just as I pick one out, I notice a movement in my peripheral vision. The mail slot is starting to open. A letter forces its way through. I race to the door in a vain attempt to catch the envelope before it hits the floor. Damn, just missed again. A muffled laugh seeps under the crack of the door. It suggests that the mail delivery man has a twisted sense of humor. Great! Even the post office mocks my misery. What next?
Ripping the envelope open reveals what’s next. A letter from the Colonel. Hey! Perhaps it’s an apology. Or, maybe he’s begging me to come back. Or, maybe he needs my help to solve a major case. Hmmm. Let’s see what it says.

Murphy:
I thought I’d write this note to wish you well in your new adventure. Also, you might think I still hate your guts for that little stunt you pulled on me with the ethics board.
As it turns out, a few of my friends at the S.F.P.D., among others, were able to help me clear things up and get my P.I. license reinstated. So, other than the character smearing and public humiliation, everything’s worked out fine. And I do still hate your guts, you ungrateful, two-faced little turd. I put a lot of trust in you, took you under my wing, showed you the ropes of the business. And for what? A knife in the back.
A word of advice: Someday, you’re going to learn that not everything is black and white. Sometimes you have to bend the rules a little to make them work right. And even more important: NEVER BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS. That kind of thing comes back to haunt you.
So, again, good luck running your own agency. If anyone ever needed it, it’s you. And don’t expect me to send any business your way - I don’t like seeing people waste their money.
The Colonel

Sheesh! This is just ducky! Has the whole world become aware of my plight? Is there anyone out there who can find it in their heart to give me just one chance? This is becoming more and more depressing as each day slowly passes by.

Thursday, Nov. 12, 2037 a.d.
Another week goes by and still no calls. Even my mom doesn’t call every day anymore. I stare out the window, watching speeders, hacks, buses and cops fly by in all directions and levels. Feeling lower than dung in a sewer, I contemplate quitting the business and going back into journalism. That’s what I did during my college days to help support myself. As a deep sigh escapes from my lungs, I notice a speeder speeding straight for me. Feeling like a bug on the highway, I wonder what goes through a bug’s mind as it collides with a windshield? Hmmm. What’s that old punch line? The last thing to go through a bug’s mind as it hits the windshield is it’s rear end. But, no pun intended, I’m not laughing. Quite the opposite. I begin to feel like a bug on a windshield. Just then, the speeder makes a quick right and heads for the street below. Just my luck; I’ll live to see another day.
Moving away from the window I slide into my desk chair. Looking at the door, I wonder if anyone will ever come waltzing in and ask me to take their case. Then another thought filters through my mind: On the outside of the door, in between the first and second windows, is a sign that states, “Tex Murphy, Private Investigator.” It reminds me that we Murphys are not quitters; we were not cut from that kind of a mold. I meditate on that for a sec or two, take a deep breath and get back to the task at hand: Parcheesi.
The most amazing significance of playing this fascinating game alone is the fact that I am losing. How can that be? Maybe it’s because I am honest, trustworthy and kind and would never think of cheating my invisible partner, or anyone else for that matter. So, I grab the dice container, shake it from side to side three times, and dump the dice onto the board. The number 3 pops up. “Well, a five would be nice here,” I whisper to my partner.
As I roll the dice again, a lovely figure appears in the three small pane windows of my door. An attractive, well formed, smooth face peeks in. She has blonde hair and blue eyes and is wearing a red tam with black ribbons tied on it. The tam is cocked to one side, accentuating her sexy bearing. A shapely midsection shows through the middle pane of glass. She’s wearing a one piece outfit, cream colored with black polka dots. The lower window exhibits a hem line about knee high, with just a hint of a white slip peeking below its lower seam. She opens the door; I pretend not to notice. I don’t want to seem too eager, as though I’ve never had a case before (even though that is true). She needs to think that I am very busy and don’t really want her case. It’s a psychological affect.
As she enters my office, she asks, “Are you the private investigator?” Flashing a smile that could melt the north pole (who am I kidding, it’s already melted!), she slowly heads for the chair in front of my desk. I begin to hear the rhythmic, whining sound of an alto sax, playing a sexy aire as she crosses the room. It’s like something out of a love story.
Collecting my thoughts, I answer, “Uh, that’s what someone painted on the door.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she replies and flashes a pretty smile in my direction. “Am I interrupting you?”
“Uh, no, actually, I was losing anyway. Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.”
She settles into a chair, dumps the hard candy out of the ashtray (I put those there in hopes that people would forgo smoking for something more wholesome), slips a dark wrapped smoke between her ruby red lips and proceeds to flic-a-bic and light up. Blowing the smoke away from me (which I really appreciate), she leans back and casts an inquisitive look, staring straight into my eyes.
“You know, there’s a rumor going around that those things are bad for you,” I stam-
mer, chuckling nervously afterwards. At this juncture I won’t reveal my true feelings regarding smokers, or, for that matter, drinkers too.
“Lots of things are bad for you, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying them.” It immediately registers in my brain that this woman and I could debate morality, social comportment and the effects of smoking in a group environment till we were both blue in the face. But now is not the time. I need a case, not a contest!
“So, what can I do for you, Miss....”
“Linsky, Sylvia Linsky.” She takes another draw off the cancer stick and blows the smoke upwards. “My father died last week and I would like you to investigate his death. The police think he committed suicide.”
Trying to impress her with my knowledge of police matters, I say, “The police are usually pretty good in matters like this. I mean, I can’t believe they’d make that big a mistake.” I almost sound apologetic. Conversely, I know the police can be bumbling fools at times, especially when investigating a death. I once heard an officer reply as he was looking down at a cadaver, “Yup! He’s dead!” Profound.
“My father wasn’t suicidal and I’ll pay you to prove it.”
Bingo! The magic words. Reflecting on the last three depressing weeks of inactivity and food faxes from mom, it takes me all of two micro-seconds to answer.
“Well, okay. Your father’s name is...sorry, was?”
“Carl Linsky,” as she knocks an ash from her cig into the ashtray.
“Okay. Well, if we rule out the suicide,” and here’s where I overwhelm her with P.I. savoir faire, “that leaves three other ways for a person to die. One, it could have been an accident; two, it could have been the result of natural causes; or, three,” I pause for effect, “it could have been murder.” Let’s see how this hip-swinging Mae West type responds to that bit of intellectual deduction.
Without hesitation, still in control, she replies, “The police say they have witnesses that saw him jump off the Golden Gate bridge.”
There goes my brilliant prognosis. “Well I guess that rules out the first two. So, you think your father was murdered?” She notices the twirling of the pencil in my right hand. Infernal habit.
In a firm voice, she answers, “He didn’t kill himself, I know it.”
Her persistence is beginning to annoy me. After all, I’m the expert here. If anyone is taking a leap, it’s this dame, by implying that the police and everyone else is wrong about her father jumping off a bridge. Not to mention that, although I’m desperate for a case, I need to level with her.
“Look, if I take your case, you got to understand there’s no money-back guarantee. And, it doesn’t sound real promising.” There, I said it. Now the ball is back in her court. Her...bare shouldered.....court...with...the...black bra....strap...showing. Sheesh! Calling Tex Murphy! Ground control to Major Tex! Are you there? Here?
Taking another step toward death, she takes a deep draw off her smoke, exhales, hangs her head and pleads, “I just don’t know what else to do.”
That’s it; she’s got me, hook, line and sinker. I feel like I’m a kazoo and she’s the one playing the tune. So, I take another deep breath deciding the least I can do is make a visit to the S.F.P.D.
“Who’s the officer in charge?” I hope it’s someone I get along with. Most of them are okay, but I sure she doesn’t mention….
“Clements. The detective’s name is Eve Clements.”
Oh my God! The wicked witch of the west. I’d rather talk with Adolph Hitler, though there’s little difference between the two. “Alright, I’ll go down and talk with her. We can get together later and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.” I don’t relish the idea of conversing with E.C., but, I need the work.
A smile of relief washes over her exquisite face. She reaches in her purse and extracts a slip of paper. “I’m staying at my father’s house. Here’s the address.” With those words, she rises from the chair and sits her perfectly rounded sacra-iliac on my desk. Bending over as she fills out her address, I get a clear view of ‘peaks and valleys.’ I shake the spectacle from my mind and refocus my eyes on the person of S.L. Finished, she stands erect. “Now, about the money up front, how much do you need because I haven’t got a lot.” Great! A broke P.I. hired by a broke client to clear up her father’s suicide witnessed by who knows how many people. Maybe I should go back to playing Parcheesi.
“I’m running a special this week. If I decide not to take your case, there isn’t going to be any charge.” Not a lie; just an exaggeration. There is a difference, you know.
Smiling broadly, she says, “Thank you. I’ll be waiting.” And she does a 180 and exits my office. I think I hear the boom-boom-boom of drums that precede the music of “The Stripper” as she nears the door. Hips swaying savagely in tune with the beat, it’s a wonder none of the vases shatter. As she exits, I let out a sigh of relief.
Finally! A case! Even though it doesn’t seem to amount to much, it gives me something to do; something constructive.
Before I leave, I scan the contents of my office. What should I take with me that might be useful? Water bottle? Nah! Latest issue of Boyd’s Life? Nyet! The book of rules for a P.I.? Sure, why not. Tape measure? That could come in handy. The letter from the Colonel? Only if I need to start a fire. How about my little buddy Raymond? A toy? Why not? Remembering my boy scout days, you never know when something like this would prove useful.
A few scant minutes later, I’m climbing into the speeder. Putting the tape measure into and Raymond the glove compartment, I fire up my machine. Oh, one more thing. I take the P.I. rules book out of my inside coat pocket and toss it on the passenger seat. It falls open to P.I. rule number one: Never fall for a client. Huh! An omen? Naw! Miss Linsky is a meal ticket at best; someone who needs my professional expertise, not my manhood. I close the book and with a gleam in my eye, I regard my meeting with Eve Clements. Yuk!

---------------------
 Overseer: chapter six, Monday, Nov. 2, 2037

Rona Morgan was born in San Clemente, California in the year 2002. An exceptionally gifted child, she moved through her elementary and high school grades with the ease of an tern in full flight across the ocean. Within a short time she had graduated magna cum laude from UCLA. Her specialty was electrical engineering, her success was all but guaranteed. Except for one inescapable fact: she was a mutant, living in the mutant section of San Francisco, living among the lowly and destitute. The schools did not discriminate against her, but, several commercial concerns certainly did.
All but one - Gideon Enterprises. Mr. Gideon himself was a norm, one of those unaffected by the radiation of WWIII. When he looked at a person, he saw in them their beauty and personal worth. He looked at the secret person of the heart, not the deformed shell on the exterior. He was all too happy to hire Miss Morgan in 2028 and immediately put her to work, taking advantage of her superior skills.
For seven years she worked for Gideon Ent., enjoying a fond friendship with Mr. Gideon. But her aspirations went beyond working in someone else’s employ. She needed to branch out, expand her horizons, broaden her field of expertise. And, most important of all, she wanted to own and operate a business which employed mutants only. She did not do this in opposition to Mr. Gideon. She deeply appreciated the break he gave her. No, she did this because the mutant world had come under considerable attack from ‘norms.’ Their claims that a defective body harbors a defective mind were completely unfounded. And she would make them learn a hard lesson, even if it took her entire life to prove it.
Shortly after leaving Gideon Ent., she was covertly approached by a fellow mutant, also in the employ of G.E. Although details of his work were sketchy, it afforded her the opportunity to enhance her income. These monies would be used to supplement her growing business in the ever expanding field of electronics. The pay was good, in spite of its enigmatic source, and the work was rewarding. For as she assisted in the secret project, she was able to use the latest technology in her field. She had already made plans to purchase said equipment for her own commercial endeavor. Needless to say, she was excited beyond comprehension.

It was on a Monday evening when Rona Morgan ‘bumped’ into the Aussie (he had picked up her file from the drop point about a week earlier and studied it carefully). Every Monday, just like clockwork, she would stop at the local Shop N Fly, a floating party/grocery store near her apartment complex. Docking her speeder at one of 20 platforms available for that purpose, she entered the store, waving to Fast Freddie, the night manager. As she rounded the dairy aisle, she noticed her favorite milk was out of stock. It just so happened, that as she questioned the stocking clerk, Slade sacrificed his quart of the same milk in the spirit of friendship. Well, this was the very sort of thing she was trying to implement in the mutant/norm society. She thanked him sincerely and he said a most humble ‘your welcome.’
Minutes later she was inside her apartment. Relaxing after a hard day at both locations of work, she decided to have a quick snack before bedtime. She undressed from her work clothes, put on her flannel pajamas (the ones with the bunny tail and feet), and poured herself a large glass of milk. She also opened a package of chocolate chip cookies. “Hmmm. I could eat the whole bag and drink the whole quart of milk.” She was famished!
After a few cookies and one glass of milk, she began to feel cramps. They intensified despite her efforts to reduce them by means of antacids. Soon the cramps became pains, and then the pains became insufferable, and then came dizziness, vomiting and, last but not least, death. She collapsed on the bathroom floor, head hanging over the toilet, blood trickling from her mouth. Rona Morgan, advanced electrical engineer, unmarried woman, mutant and small business owner was dead.
It was then that the Aussie used his special craft to enter her apartment. No one else was around, no one else knew he was there. He checked for a pulse but there was really no need to do so. Rona Morgan had been effectively eliminated. But now, how to make it look like an accident. For the crème de la crème of hit men, it was a simple task.
In the electronics industry, there are times when certain connections are sealed using a special, odorless, tasteless epoxy. It was also extremely deadly if ingested. He knew she would buy the low fat milk, just as she did the week before. So, using a very thin syringe filled with the epoxy, he injected it into the carton of milk. Watching her through a pair of field glasses, he saw her enter the bathroom grasping her stomach.
Now, to make it look like an accident. Her small dining table was placed adjacent to the kitchen. A shelf above the table held several items of food and some cleansing products. Since the epoxy was common to her line of work, no one would think it had been planted by a professional killer. He loosened the cap enough to allow a small amount of glue to seep out when it was laid on its side. He positioned it directly above the glass of milk, which was almost empty. He allowed a very small portion to drop into the glass. Using gloves the whole time, there was no need for him to fear discovery.
After faking the ‘accidental’ death, he decided to search her apartment for the passcard. Would she be like Val Davis and hide the card in a secret location? Other then her apartment? Time would tell.
He tore apart every room in the apartment, carefully returning each item to its original location. Bathroom, bedroom, living room, dining room, kitchen - all his efforts proved futile. He searched the cadaver, the clothes she wore to work, the hamper where she put them, the shoes she wore, even her purse. Frustrated, he calmed himself and gained control over his emotions. When he opened his eyes, he noticed something under the dining table, next to the wall. A briefcase. How did he overlooked that?
Putting it on the table, he popped it open and went through every compartment. Great Lo above! How many different dividers does this thing have? he wondered. Finally, angered by his unsuccessful efforts, he tossed the briefcase across the room. It hit the wall with a loud bang. Realizing he had to retrieve it and put it back under the table, he dejectedly went over and picked it up. The entire bottom piece of leather fell out revealing a secret location. There it was! The passcard! Glory be to Lo! He stashed it into his pocket and replaced the case.
Taking one last look at the dead body of Rona Morgan, he felt no remorse, no grief, no compassion. But he did think of the money that would be transferred to his Swiss account. That made him smile. And he left the apartment, undetected by any neighbors. After all, this was the mutant section of the city and the police wouldn’t go out of their way to investigate a mutant’s death. He laughed as he flew off in his speeder.

Later that night Slade placed a call to the private mobile number of his employer. After informing him of his current successful project and the retrieval of Morgan’s passcard, he received new orders. Although he detested his boss, he liked the action he was receiving. Even when he worked for the Chinese Mafia his assignments were few and far between. There was a lot of layoff time where he became bored. This guy, however, kept him hopping, thus the need to keep his wits honed to a high degree.
“Excellent! Tomorrow you’ll pick up your new mission. But, this one will be a little different. Instead of killing him, all you need to do is follow him for about 24 hours. I, uh, used a new device on him and his pain will become unbearable. Within a day or two he’ll see the need to relieve himself of the pain.”
“You mean suicide,” Slade interjected.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“And if I catch your drift, if he doesn’t commit suicide, then you want me to see that he has an accident.”
“Very good, Mr. Slade. I love it when criminal minds think alike. Oh, by the way, make sure you leave the passcard in the P.O. box. Good night, Mr. Slade.”
Slade did not acknowledge or return the courtesy; he simply touched the off button. Smiling at his most fascinating and successful evening, he picked up his favorite book and laid back on his bed. Reading ‘How To Be A Professional Hitman And Get Away With It’ by Carlos ’The Knife’ Pantano was considered to be his most desired past time. Soon he would roll over and get a refreshing night’s sleep. After all, he earned his keep today. He deserved a good rest.

Thursday Nov. 5, 2037
Following Dr. Carl Linsky around for the last two days was becoming boring and frustrating. When would this old codger die? If the implant was as effective as his employer maintained, the old fart should have kicked the bucket by now.
Sitting in his speeder which was parked at the end of Linsky’s street, Slade finally got what he wanted. Linsky opened his front door and staggered out into the heavily fogged evening. He seemed to be talking erratically, mumbling about seeking his daughter’s forgiveness. Within a few moments he was headed for the bay, only a few blocks away. Slade couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing. When they both approached the Golden Gate Bridge, then he knew: the doctor was about to hurl himself into the rocky, gurgling, shark infested waters below. The whole world knew this was a favorite spot for suicides and Linsky was about to become the latest victim.
Traffic was light as a result of the fog, so when Linsky began to scale the protective barrier, there wasn’t anyone around to stop him. Standing on the top rail, swaying like a bough in the wind, Linsky teetered for what seemed like an eternity. In fact, a few people stopped nearby and were running in his direction when it finally happened. Linsky dove off the edge, screaming hysterically, arms flailing about, legs kicking wildly, all the while diving to certain death. It was over. Dr. Carl Linsky, father of one daughter, divorcee, principal neurosurgeon at a local and very prominent clinic, was dead.
It took Slade but a moment to realize he had a problem: Linsky’s passcard. While a small group of people lingered, waiting for the police to arrive, Slade slipped away and headed back to Linsky’s house. Because of the good doctor’s daughter’s line of work, Slade knew she wouldn’t be home for a while. So, with every fiber of his being and using every talent available to him, he thoroughly searched Linsky’s house, once again careful to return each item to its proper place. This was necessary to keep from casting suspicion in his employer’s direction. However, as with Val Davis, his search had been unsuccessful. This enraged him beyond measure. Finally, taking some deep, relaxing breaths, he decided to head back to the lodge. His boss would be furious, but he felt it was academic. No reason to go on worrying about something over which he has no control.

The next morning found the hitman in surprisingly good spirits. He performed his daily routine of exercises, meditation, stretching and breathing followed by a super-invigorating cold shower. Once he reached the preferred level of control, he called his employer and gave him the good news/bad news report. He was surprised by the answer.
“That’s quite alright, Mr. Slade. I know Linsky has a secret base of operations and the passcard is probably hidden there. Unfortunately I have yet to locate this place. When I do, and I will, I’ll let you know. Good work. I will have another ‘contestant’ for you soon. Good day, Mr. Slade.”
‘That was unexpected,’ Slade mused. But, it was a relief just the same. The morning news said it was going to be a light radiation day, so, the native Australian felt it would be good to catch up on some much needed rest and relaxation. He gathered up his swimming gear, a large soft blanket and headed for the beach. After all, even a hard working hitman deserves some R&R now and then.

--------------------
 Overseer: chapter seven
Friday, Nov. 6, 2037

On the lam since the deaths of Val Davis and Rona Morgan, Larry Hammond rises from a restless sleep. He scanned the one room apartment he was renting and decided it would serve his interests for the time being. Sequoia Avenue was located in the old city and was home to every type of mutant derelict, drunkard and vagrant imaginable. Theft and death were commonplace occurrences, especially in this hell-hole of an apartment building. The door could only be secured by using a hasp and lock combination, which, of course, was not very secure at all. Often, while lying on the insect infested bed, trying to fall asleep, he could hear screams or gunshots coming from the street below. So then, why was he staying here? Why choose a flop when he could afford much better? If he felt he was in danger, why not move to another part of the world?
The project and his fellow workers were the answer. Additionally, he needed to talk with his best friend one more time. Things have become ugly since someone on the inside of the project was selling them out. First was Val Davis. Dying in the speeder accident seemed acceptable until Rona Morgan died a few days later. Accidental poisoning was totally unacceptable. And then he knew that both ‘accidents’ were really well planned murders. Greg Call had warned him after Morgan’s death that things could become rather dicey from then on. With his work on the project just finished on Nov. 1st, he immediately went into hiding.

However, he still needed sustenance and that made him vulnerable. So, only at night would he venture out into the dangers of the neighborhood; only at night he dared traverse the shadows and alleyways in an effort to find food. Oh, not from garbage cans or trash bins. No, no! He would use those hidden routes to find a 24 hour liquor store or convenience store. Buying foods that didn’t need cooking was becoming monotonous and routine, but the lack of major appliances in his room demanded it.

Therefore, he opened a new box of Flakes of Frost, the most popular sugar-coated cereal on the market today. Kids loved it; so did Larry Hammond. Munching away, he popped open a can of soda and washed down the little bits of soggy flakes stuck to his teeth. It was not the healthiest meal, but it would suffice. While chewing a mouthful of flakes, he reached over and picked up an ear piece that resembled a hearing aid. But this one was different. Contained within was a microscopic AM radio tuned permanently to NNC (National News Center), a 24 hour local radio program. To activate the radio, he merely had to gently squeeze it. Once to turn it on, again to turn it off. He squeezed once and stuck the device in his right ear.

After the weather, sports and several commercials, after a half box of cereal and two cans of soda, they finally got around to the news. Headlining last night’s events was the apparent suicide of Dr. Carl Linsky, noted neurosurgeon currently on leave from the North Hill Clinic, whose body was still missing. Larry dropped the box of cereal, spilling flakes on the floor for the ants and cockroaches to feast upon. He didn’t care. Carl Linsky dead? He was shocked! That makes three down, five to go. And he was one of the five.

The news devastated Hammond. Reporters on the scene have interviewed several eyewitnesses as well as the detective in charge, Eve Clements. Since Linsky was well known in the San Francisco area, six people identified him from photos provided via the news media. The problem the police were having was locating the body. The current under the Golden Gate Bridge was strong and the body could be far away by now. Still, divers were working tirelessly and they hoped to find him soon.

Larry squeezed the fake ear piece a little harder than normal, but the radio shut off just the same. What to do? What to DO? He needed to talk with his friend, Greg Call. But how would he find him? He had been in seclusion since the project’s inception. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Larry jumped, holding his breath, heart racing like a bongo player recording on fast forward.

“Larry, open up, it’s me, Greg.”

Recognizing the voice, Larry relaxed a bit and unlocked the door’s makeshift security. “Hey, Greg, did you hear the news?”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m here. We need to talk.” The next hour or so was spent raking over the details of the project and the direction it was heading. Neither of them knew the one who was selling out the project from the inside, but one thing was for sure: it wasn’t Val Davis, Rona Morgan or Carl Linsky. And they knew it wasn’t either of them. That left only three possibilities. One was highly unlikely, the other two much more likely.

Finishing with a warning, Greg Call left the apartment and his friend alone. He had to return to his lab and finish his work. Not on the project, but, rather, a secret project of his own. So much to do, so little time.

Larry, on the other hand, was shaking in his shoes. How in the world did Greg find me? he wondered. And, if he found me, so could others. Maybe the person or persons responsible for the deaths of the other three. This was getting out of hand. There were few places as unknown as the Redwood Hotel. And yet, his friend had found him. Tonight he would move again. Also, he would no longer take a back seat to the events unfolding around him. He needed to take positive action and now!

Sunday, Nov. 8, 2037

Larry Hammond, relocated to an abandoned warehouse, was listening to his ear size radio. The anchorman had just announced that Linsky’s body had been recovered from the icy waters some distance from the bridge. Identification was possible only through the efforts of the coroner’s office and by his daughter’s verification.

That was the break Larry was waiting for. He knew where Linsky lived and he would dare to venture out in an effort to tail his daughter to see if he could find a clue. If necessary, he would contact her personally. Something needed to be done and time was running out. It would be risky, but it was better than sitting around waiting to be killed.

Tuesday, Nov. 10, 2037

The funeral went without a hitch. Attended by his daughter Sylvia and several friends and colleagues, there was another visitor no one even noticed. Larry Hammond, parked on the far side of the cemetery, watched in earnest as the eulogy progressed. But he was not watching or listening to the deacon conducting the services. He was scanning the crowd, attempting to recognize any familiar faces.

He spotted Arnold Sternwood, director of North Hill Clinic. Also, he recognized John Klaus, an expert surgeon in his own right, standing next to Linsky’s daughter. Several others he did not know came up to her after the ceremony and offered their condolences. She thanked them, tearfully, and then headed for the speeder waiting to take her home. Unknown to Hammond, she was still suffering from the frightful experience of having to make the final identification of her father’s body. That particular memory would be long lasting, to be sure.

Once Miss Linsky’s speeder was airborne, Larry followed her at a safe distance. She went directly home and entered her house. Larry parked in his usual spot, behind a dumpster at the end of the street. While each house had its own garbage cans, the dumpster was used by the local residents for dumping non-recyclable materials. Ergo, it provided good cover for Larry and allowed him to spy on Miss Linsky from a safe distance. No one came near the dumpster for two days now, and he hoped it would stay that way.

Now, if only she would make a move that would give him some reason to continue following her.

Thursday, Nov. 12, 2037

Munching on his favorite cereal, washing it down with his favorite soda, Larry Hammond was becoming restless. How did PIs do this stuff? Stakeouts are for the birds, he thought. ‘If she doesn’t make a move soon, I’ll just give up and move to another state.’

At this point, he leaned his head back and stared at the blood red sky haunting New San Francisco. Relaxing his vigil, thoughts of his past began to weave their magical trail through his memory as they so often did in days past. He recalled the orphanage where he grew up; the sisters; his fellow mutated refugees; the long years of hope that one day he would be adopted and/or found by his real parents only to have those hopes dashed as he approached his teen years. Finally, after a 17 years of frustration, humiliation at the hands of other orphans, and countless nights of crying himself to sleep, Larry Hammond escaped into a dark night. He did not know that his parents, Frank and Jill Hammond, had given him up for adoption immediately after his birth. He did not know that, although the radiation had not affected his parents physical appearance, it had affected the baby growing in his mother’s womb. Upon birth and upon seeing the mutated infant, they shuddered in agony and put him up for adoption. What Frank didn’t know was his wife’s last ditch effort to give him their common name. A note neatly attached to the baby’s blanket would forever identify the child as Larry Hammond. The sisters who accepted him into their abode assured Jill that they would call him by his legal name. Then Frank and Jill Hammond left, never to return, never to be found again. The shame of it all!

And yet, if they had just accepted him for what he was, oh how proud they would have been! In 2009, at the age of 14, Larry had won President’s Young Youth Scientist’s Achievement Award. For you see, the sisters recognized his genius early on, in spite of the terrible teasing heaped upon him by lesser children. They sought out an expert tutor (another mutant, for they were the only ones to have anything to do with mutants), to teach the young lad the depths of scientific knowledge. As Larry reflected on this, he was saddened by the thought that the sisters were sorry to see him go. As a result, he would stop in and visit with them on occasion. He was musing over the possibility of calling on them when something caught his eye.

He sat bolt upright when he saw Sylvia Linsky exit the house and open the garage roof. She lifted the speeder out through the gaping hole and headed for the new city business district. Larry followed closely, careful to change lanes, drop back, pull forward, so she would not notice. On the other hand, Sylvia had no reason to suspect anyone of following her. But Larry was not aware of that, so he just kept tailing her cautiously.

Minutes later, Miss Linsky parked her speeder in the parking garage of the business complex located at 813 Fourth Street. Pulling in a few spots away, he let her exit the garage before he followed her. Watching the lights on the elevator, he made a note of the floor where it stopped. Pushing the up button, he patiently waited until the doors opened. Entering, he pushed the button for the tenth floor.

Exiting the elevator, he slowly walked around, peering into each office until he heard Sylvia’s voice. It was office number 1015, apparently leased by some flunky PI by the name of Tex Murphy. He stood outside the door, listening intently to every word. She seems to be in the process of hiring him to investigate her father’s death. Like Hammond, she did not believe her father was suicidal.

Now all he had to do was start tailing the PI. If he’s any good, he’ll drop him a line and help him along the way. Larry didn’t know everything about the project, but he knew enough to supply some needed leads should the opportunity arise. And if he lived long enough, he just might be able to bring this whole sordid affair to a successful conclusion. If he lived long enough.
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 Chapter eight: Wednesday Nov. 11, 2037

The trip out to the Anasazi Ruins didn’t take that long, but it afforded the Aussie an opportunity to reflect on the issue at hand. His employer had another ‘job’ for him. After stopping by the post office and grabbing hold of the manila envelope, he removed its contents and read them carefully. Contestant #3 was some prissy named Bosworth Clark. The guy looked like a bloody Drongo. Whoever he was and whatever he was doing was not important. What was important was the method of execution. The first two had to look like accidents, a result of where they lived and their living habits. But this one would be different. For the first time since being hired, he would be able to use his favorite method of contract killing - forced Russian roulette. The Aussie smiled. Handing a gun with one round in the chamber to his mark would be completely exhilarating. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth, clearing his lungs, clearing his mind. Thoughts from Mexico emerge again.
He recalled the woman in Mexico. After pummeling her for several minutes while she was tied to a cactus (the pain was excruciating), he loosened the leather strips binding her and sat her in a folding chair. Barely conscious, he slipped the gun into her hand and said she had five chances in six of living, one chance in six of dying. Weakened by the thrashing, she could barely hold the loaded weapon. So, being the good guy he was, he helped her by holding the gun to her head while she pulled the trigger. He was very disappointed when the gun fired on the first try, but not disappointed by the results. The woman who nearly caused his downfall was dead.
He smiled as he approached the ruins. They were huge, covering several acres. Ancient stone structures, devoid of flora and fauna, the very atmosphere containing the hint of death. Come to think about it, it was refreshing. After all, death was his life. It uplifted him, sustained him, soothed him. Having power of life and death in his hands was the most rewarding feeling he ever had. And once again, he was going to augment this feeling via another summary killing.
Now, if the instructions from the ‘old guy’ were correct, there should be a back way into this place. He spotted the main entrance, the one used by archeologists and tourists, and flew to the opposite side. Landing in a small open area, he exited the speeder and looked over his hand written map. ‘Through that opening and down the corridor on the other side should take me to a steel door’ the Aussie thought out loud. Folding the map, he started off toward his goal.
Moments later, he was facing the electronic steel door. ‘No problem’ he said and proceeded to short it out. The doors parted, like the hair on Pee Wee Herman‘s head. However, he knew the doors would automatically shut in mere seconds, locking themselves afterward. That’s why the Aussie picked up a large and heavy stone (about 20 pounds) en route to this juncture. He stepped through the doors and centered the stone so the doors would close tightly on it, leaving him an opening to fit through upon leaving.
He found himself in a small room, facing another steel door. Great. He wasn’t told about this. How was he going to get through this one? If he shorted the circuit, the door would open, but he didn’t have another large rock to keep it open. He approached the door for closer inspection and then he heard it. A warning sounder filtering through from the inside. He looked up and noticed he had tripped a motion sensor. With his murderous instinct, he quickly pulled out his gun, taking a defensive posture. But, why should he do that? If his info was correct, the only person on the other side was Bosworth ‘the nerd’ Clark. He certainly was no threat. It was then he recollected the blunder in Mexico. He maintained his stance, revolver at the ready.
Seconds later, the doors split apart. Must have been on a delayed timer, allowing the tenant to walk through without using a key or keypad or swipe card. Excellent! He walked in, like he owned the place. Despite the alarm, Bosworth Clark sat at a computer terminal, his back to the assassin. The Aussie hated sloppiness. Who was this Drongo expecting, his wife? A mistress? His employer? Perhaps. But who he was expecting and who was there were vastly different expectations.
Dressed in black denim slacks, dark shirt and tie, wearing his dark green overcoat, the Aussie regarded his prey. Smiling, he asked, “Bosworth, Bosworth Clark?”
“Oh, yeah...Yes,” he answers with a wide grin, turning to face his visitor.
That’s when the Aussie pulls the revolver with one round in the chamber out of his pocket. He spins the chamber, holding it six inches from Clark’s face.
“Wha...what... is that?” Now he’s getting nervous, very nervous.
“We’re going to play a little game,” and he hands the gun to Clark. Bosworth is shaking like a leaf on a windy day, shocked by the very thought of even holding a gun.
“Wha... well... uh.... I,” he stammers, on the verge of peeing his pants. The Aussie pulls the fully loaded gat from behind his back and sticks it into Clark’s face. “One in six chances.” Clark gets the message and nervously raises the gun to his head, having to use both hands. The Aussie is ecstatic at the prospect of achieving his goal.
Clark, on the other hand, is whimpering like a whipped puppy. He barely gets the gun to his head, theorizing the advantage of one shot in six verses a fully loaded weapon. Sweat is beginning to form on his brow. His hands are shaking. His knees knocking. Closing his eyes, praying to some unknown god, he pulls the trigger. Click! No shot rings out. Elated, he laughs apprehensively, hoping he had won and the evil that recently entered his life would go away.
“Lucky boy. Now, one more time.” That was NOT a request; it was a command. Bosworth was terrified, realizing the end was near. There was no escape, no back up plan, no police riding on white horses to his rescue. Tears streaming down his face, Bosworth pulls the trigger. BANG! Bits and pieces of his skull splatter on the floor, walls and computer consoles. Blood gushes from the wound. Bosworth Clark, ‘contestant’ number three was dead.
Now to find the passcard. With the attacking force of a wounded grizzly, he searched the entire lab, looking under counters, rifling through Clark’s personal items, examining the computer area, searching the small cabinet in the corner - all for naught. There wasn’t an inch that was overlooked. He even found a clipboard hanging on one end of the monitor counter, but it just had a piece of paper with some gibberish on it. Sighing heavily, he decided to search the corpse. No luck there. This was getting really annoying. He had killed three persons and found only one passcard. His ‘boss’ wasn’t going to be a happy camper. Tough. He would just have to get by without it. Wanting to relax a bit, he sat at Clark’s dining table and smoked a few cigarettes. This was not a usual habit of his, but there were times when it helped to calm his nerves. He knew nicotine was a drug and would provide a minor soothing of his emotions. Now, getting back to Clark.
The only negative side of killing someone is the stink. Nature releases any pent up bowels or urine upon a catastrophic death. Unavoidable as it is, the Aussie regards the cadaver with disdain. Considering his ‘subjects’ to be far inferior, he loathes this part of his vocation. At any rate, what’s done is done; time to remove the evidence. Clark was still slumped in the rolling chair as the Aussie wheels him to the door. The motion sensor on the inside of Clark’s lab activates the door mechanism and the door slides open. He looks up at the smoke detector on the wall and smiles. ‘Probably a tiny CD camera inside,’ he muses aloud. ‘But, who’s gonna see it? My employer is one of only two people who knows of Clark’s whereabouts. The other is Clark’s employer, and he’s never going to visit this place.’
As the Aussie goes through the door, Clark falls from the chair. Before the door automatically closes, the Aussie, in a rage, flings the chair back inside the lab. He quickly grabs Clark by the collar before the door closes on him and drags him to the steel door that leads to the corridor. Thinking of an arid and empty gulch he espied on the fly over, the Aussie is unaware of several items that fall from Clark’s pockets. It wouldn’t matter anyway. By the time someone gets around to inspecting this place, he’d be in Brazil, free from punitive charges, living like a king for the rest of his life, out of harm’s way from the authorities.
The Aussie watches with amusement as the body of Bosworth Clark tumbles down the rocky slope to the bottom of the gulch. It lands with a thud. Soon, vultures will feed on the cadaver and help to remove evidence that Clark was even here. Now he can get on with his next assignment, whoever that might be. He looked forward to it with eager anticipation.
Before he turned to go, he thought about someone who just might stumble onto this place. If so, he decided to leave a little present. He took the gun that Clark used to kill himself, scratched the letters BJS on the handle and tossed it into the gulch. Then he smiled a wicked smile and left.

Later that day, the Aussie met with his ‘boss’ and gave him the good news.
“Did you, uh, get the passcard from Clark?” the boss asked.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bads news. Which do you want first?”
“This is not a game, Mr. Professional Hitman,” was his sarcastic retort.
“Right. Well, here’s the passcard from Rona Morgan. But, I couldn’t find Clark’s passcard. I searched everywhere, but no luck.”
The boss’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. His anger and disappointment were obvious. “Well, one is better than none, but I can’t overemphasize the importance of those cards.”
With that, he turned on his heels and stomped off. ‘Good riddance’ thought the Aussie. And then he was off too. A cold shower is just what his psychologist would order. That is, if he had a psychologist. The last one who tried to psychoanalyze him woke up dead. Too bad, she was kind of pretty, too. Ha! Ha!

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 Chapter nine: Thursday, Nov. 12, 2037 a.d.

Parking the speeder in the main lot of the S.F.P.D. Headquarters, I can’t help but notice all the activity, like ants on an ant hill that’s just been stepped on. Every type of criminal is being processed perfunctorily, as though no one had a care in the world. The criminal is just doing his job; the police are just doing their job; the courts are just doing their job; and so on and so on. Maybe if people actually started to have real feelings for each other, then maybe, just maybe, the world would be a better place to live in.
I enter the main door and approach the desk Sergeant. “Tex Murphy to see Detective Eve Clements.”
“You got an appointment,” he asked, not even looking up from his pile of paperwork.
“Uh, no, not exactly. I’m here on behalf of my client whose father died a week ago. You see, my client doesn’t believe...” He cuts me off in mid sentence.
“Hey, Sam Spade, I don’t need no song and dance routine. Take the elevator to the fourth floor.” Gee, thank you, Sgt. Wonderful, servant of the people.
He makes me walk through the metal detector and I’m thankful I didn’t bring Raymond with me. I’d never be able to live it down. I find the elevator and whoosh!, fourth floor in a nano-second. Swallowing my stomach, I find my way through the Major Crimes Unit to Eve Clements’ office. As I near her room, I overhear a butt-chewing of epic proportions. She’s ripping on some slovenly dressed detective, screaming insults and abuses as though she was getting paid for it. As the sore-butt detective leaves her office, we pass each other in the hall. He’s a big nosed cop with an easy saunter. As we pass, we eye each suspiciously, but I’m not sure why. I don’t recognize him. One thing’s for sure, I’ll have to tread lightly when approaching Det. Clements. She’s primed for action today.
“You busy?” I ask with a smile as I stick my head through the door.
Upon recognizing me, she smirks and waves me to enter. “Well,” pointing to a chair for me to sit in, “if it isn’t Tex Murphy.” Uncharacteristically pleasant, maybe the butt-chewing took the wind out of her sails. “Sold out any fellow P.I.s lately?” So much for the wind out of her sails hypothesis.
Recalling her friendship with the Colonel and in the spirit of good faith, I continue her metaphor. “Well, now that you bring it up, how is the Colonel doing anyway?”
“We had a drink together a couple of nights ago. He said if I saw you to be sure and tell you to ‘go to hell.’” Gee, don’t hold back on my account, Eve.
I have no remorse for turning in the Colonel. I did what I did and I’d do it again. And I tell Det. Clements my true feelings. “He broke the law. You of all people should appreciate what I did.” Back at ya, honey.
“Officially speaking, you should’ve turned the Colonel in. Off the record, I wouldn’t trust you to walk my dog.” Maybe a further explanation is needed. I’m sure she’d understand.
“Well, I won’t apologize. You see, I’m a slave to my rigorous boy scout training.”
As quick as a wink, she retorts, “Then why don’t you be courteous, kind and obedient and get the hell out of my office.”
Whoops! Time to shift gears. “Look, I’ll be so quick, you won’t even know I was here.”
“The last thing I need is some pansy P.I. wasting my time.” Pansy? Moi? How dare she? “Give me one good reason why I should do any favors for you,” she challenges.
“Listen, I just went into business for myself and I’m kind of relying on people like you to help me out,” I plead. Out of her line of sight I cross my fingers for good luck.
“All right, Murphy. You’re lucky you caught me in a charitable mood. But be quick about it.” I wonder if ole big nose appreciates her generosity.
At any rate, I proceed to ask her several questions regarding Linsky’s death. She tells me there were six witnesses to his jumping from the bridge. After interviewing each of them, there was no reason to assume that anything but suicide was the cause. However, the fog made it impossible for a 100% identification, even though their general descriptions fit his profile. It wasn’t until they fished the body out of the bay that they found out who jumped. Using his personal effects, like his wallet, they determined his name and address and contacted his next of kin. Besides the wallet, there was a suicide note sealed in a ziplock bag. The handwriting was a perfect match. Boy, this doesn’t bode well for my client.
“Can I see the personal effects?” I ask.
“No. They can only be released to the next of kin. If she comes down, I’ll give them to her.” I’ll ask Sylvia to do that later.
Something else of note. The coroner found a small scar at the base of Linsky’s neck. The police assume he had surgery recently. On his neck? That’s strange. Coincidence?
My notebook was filling up quickly. I thank Eve for her help and rise to leave. As I reach the door, I hesitate for a moment.
“Forget something, Murphy?”
“I was just wondering. Aside from my turning in the Colonel, what do you think of me? Oh, and be kind, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
She perceives my sincerity, so she gives me a straight answer. “The Colonel seems to think you’ve got the potential to be a good P.I., once you wake up to reality and get your priorities straight. I agree with his assessment, by the way.” A small smile appears on her face.
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” and I exit, feeling a bit better than when I entered.
Eve’s information has given me plenty to think about. Linsky writes a suicide note, seals it in a waterproof bag, jumps from the bridge in front of six witnesses, the coroner finds nothing unusual, and the police deem it a suicide. Despite this overwhelming evidence, my client believes it was murder! At this point, I’m leaning in the direction of suicide. How can I not?
As I fly to Linsky’s house, I prepare a speech to inform Miss Linsky that I will not be handling her case. Taking money from her at this point is tantamount to stealing candy from a baby. And I’m not a thief. Broke, yes, but no thief.
The house is a modest brick ranch with a high peak at each end. Located in New San Francisco, it shows more than the usual wear and tear. Somebody has been too busy to keep up regular maintenance. Before I can knock, she opens the door, anticipating a positive report from me. I don’t relish the idea of giving her the bad news.
I take out my notebook and share my findings with her. Then I tell her that her prognosis doesn’t look very promising. Her back is to me and she’s holding a drink with both hands. She’s upset; I can sense it with my P.I. instinct.
“So, you’re saying you’re not going to take my case.” She sounds despondent.
“Well, I don’t want to take your money if I can’t help you,” trying to sound reasonable.
Her voice becomes stronger as she says, “Fine. Leave.”
I search for excuses to soothe her soul. “I’m just being straight up, okay?”
Not bending a hair, she comes back with, “If you won’t help me, I can do what I can on my own. It certainly won’t be the first time.”
I sigh deeply, trying to think of what to do. Considering I’m broke and considering she seems desperate to find the truth, I finally cave in. “I charge $400 a day, plus expenses.”
She does a 180, literally and emotionally, and tells me she only has a thousand dollars. But, if I’m successful, she’ll pay me a total of ten thousand when it’s over. She thanks me warmly as we shake on the deal.
“Now you’re going to need to tell me everything you know so I can get started.”
“Oh, I will. Thank you, Tex.” Her voice quivered slightly, as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Taking out my pencil and notebook, I begin asking her several questions. Apparently, her father was physically fit, had a positive outlook on life and was going to celebrate his 100th birthday by going skydiving. Doesn’t sound suicidal to me. As to who would murder him, she didn’t have a clue. He was a kind man and everyone liked him.
Next item on the list: I inform her that she should go back to the police station and get her father’s personal effects. I understand it’s difficult, but they could contain an important lead. She concurs.
As for the suicide note, Miss Linsky claims it was a forgery. Really? Either this is a murder masked as a suicide or this young woman is stretching her claim to its furthest limit.
“One more thing. How did you hear about my services?” I’m just being curious. She says she found a note written by her father that had my address on it, no name. She inspected the building’s directory, but didn’t recognize any names. After looking around for a while, she came across my office. She feels fate had a hand in finding me. I personally feel that fate has dealt her a poor hand. But, I’ll give it my best anyway.
Before she leaves for the police department, she hands me a key to the house and says I can come and go as I please. I’m also welcome to search anything and everything in order to find a clue or two. We agree to meet later, so I bid her farewell.
The furnishings were unremarkable, but pleasant nonetheless. Logs crackling in the fire place added a warmth I could get used to. Unpretentious cupboards devoid of anything useful lined the kitchen walls. Drawers gave up nothing important either. But, on the side board, next to the fridge, was a green case just asking to be inspected. I opened it and found some sort of drugs or medicine with a couple of syringes. Could addiction be the real cause of Linsky’s suicide? DeLeon Health Services was the provider of this little ditty. I’ll want to contact them later, if necessary.
Putting the case aside, I espy the fridge. All this detective work has given me the munchies, so I decide to check it out. Nothing spectacular, except for that bunch of bananas. Who keeps bananas in the fridge? Seeing that I was very hungry and that the six bananas were rather ripe, I decide to help myself. I devour one and put the rest into my coat pockets for later consumption.
My next stop was the living room to warm my hands by the fire place. It was then I spotted a piece of paper on the coffee table lying amidst a set of dominoes and some kind of electronic game board. The note said blackjack in dominoes and 21 horizontally, vertically and diagonally. Sounds like fun. I mess around with the placement of the dominoes, hoping the board will light up and set off some fireworks or something. But, apparently I was unsuccessful. Still, I put the dominoes and the board into my speeder. It’s probably a ruse, but I can use a diversion from time to time. Backgammon is starting to get boring.
Linsky’s bedroom proved to be quite interesting. It seems he delighted in expensive boudoir furniture as evidenced by the cherry wood armoire, dresser and desk. The armoire contained clothes about 20 years out of date. Not much for fashion, just a fashionable bedroom motif. On the other hand, the desk produced two items of interest. First, a half finished ‘Dear John’ letter to someone named Delores. Second, in the middle drawer I found a letter from Banter Publications. It would look as though Linsky signed a book deal, received $22,000 in advance and did not deliver the goods. Another oddity.
On either side of the bed were two nightstands. The one contained a green address book. I flip through it until the name Delores Lightbody stares back at me. If this is the Delores Linsky was about to dump, maybe she could be helpful. My note book now contains her home address. The other nightstand had a chess set on it. Only something seemed amiss. The set had only 31 pieces; a bishop was missing from the black team. Aw, maybe it just fell on the floor.
As I exit the bedroom, I notice a closet door. Opening it revealed a ladder to the attic. Well, I could use the exercise, so, up I went. After pulling a string/chain to lighten up the place, I found exactly what every attic contains - junk! Stuff that never found its way to the garage for a sale or the curb for disposal. Just as I was about to go back downstairs, I noticed a door in the corner. A door in the attic? Upon opening it, I found a furnished office. This is really fascinating. Sort of a tree house without the tree. A getaway that was only missing the ‘girls keep out’ sign.
On a table were some neurology textbooks and a tape recorder. Unable to resist the urge, I flip the ‘play’ switch and immediately wished I hadn’t. The terrified voice of a man screaming, “There in my head...there in my head...get ‘em out.....oohh, get ‘em out.....I can’t take it any longer” It was unnerving, to say the least.
In the titanium file cabinets I found a threatening note from someone named Blaine Warner. It looked rather childish, but serious just the same. I fold it and put it into my pant pocket. The credenza drawers were all empty, except for the one that was locked. I try to pry it open, but all I did was bend the blade on my pocket knife. Maybe there’s a key around somewhere.
Over on the other side of the room was Linsky’s desk. I slide open the roll top and latch
onto a credit report for Sylvia Linsky. Looks like she didn’t major in money matters. There were several claims against her for defaulting on some bills. Interesting. I search the drawers, but found nothing worth while. So, I head downstairs, out to my speeder, and using the on-board street finder, I lock in Miss Lightbody’s address and take off. I’m hoping she can shed more light on this otherwise dull case. I am anxious to see what kind of dame Linsky would date. Probably a wet blanket.

Not! I’m treated to a big surprise when Delores Lightbody answers the door - literally. A rather easy going, flashy dresser, cigarette in a long mother-of-pearl holder, prim and plump woman in her early forties bids me welcome. Not the shy and retiring type, she practically absorbs my presence with the grace of a hippo racing down a hill. Her apartment matches her personality, gaudy with a neo-Vegas twist. Movie posters cloak the otherwise tawdry and brightly painted walls. The lighting was more fit for a house of ill repute than that of a woman in mourning. Wet blanket? Hardly. But that’s what I needed to put out the fire of passion.
“Delores Lightbody?” I ask.
“Yes indeedy. Won’t you please come in.” I’d rather not, but that isn’t very polite. Safe, but not polite.
“My name is Tex Murphy and I’m a private investigator.”
“Well, well, a real live private detective. You know, I’ve always had a certain fascination for private dicks.”
Oh my God! A 250 pound sex machine in overdrive. Just what I don’t need. I adroitly work around several sexual innuendoes until finally I’m able to ask her some questions. Sticking to business will be a real challenge with this woman. Her mourning lasted until
the next available bachelor came along - and that was me!
Anyway, I learn that she and Carl Linsky were sort of engaged, or at the very least, close friends. Linsky’s original purpose in visiting was due to her profession - probate specialist, including the designing and implementing of wills. That’s when I informed her that my client is Linsky’s daughter Sylvia. A look of disdain immediately covered her face. It seems that she and Sylvia were not as close as she and Carl. Continuing, I mention that Sylvia was not convinced that her father committed suicide.
“Surely, you don’t mean murder?” she asked shocked by the insinuation. That really took her back. So did the ‘Dear John’ letter I showed her. She refused to believe its validity. “Carl would never resort to such skullduggery.” He loved her deeply and vice-versa. I say she could love a man, any man, any time.
Moving on, I ask her about the will. She said it consisted of very little; the house and the speeder, a small bank account, not much else. But she did add that Linsky had recently purchased a million dollar life insurance policy. Bingo! Warning bells sounded in my head.
“And who are the beneficiaries?” I ask.
“Sylvia is the only beneficiary,” she answers, implying a possible motive. Indeed, a million dollars could make a lot of innocent people do a lot of terrible things.
Additionally, she tells me the money from the estate is to be split equally between Sylvia and the North Hill Clinic, where Carl had worked for years as a neurosurgeon.
“If you like, I can get you an appointment with the director, Arnold Sternwood. Then you have to owe me one,” she said with a sly look in her big brown eyes, flapping her false over-lengthened eyebrows. I don’t want to owe her anything except a short good-bye. But, I’m not done yet.
The next point was disconcerting, in a way. She said that Carl loved to play chess. If that’s the case, then why does his set have only 31 pieces? Awfully careless. And, besides chess, he liked backgammon and dominoes. It brought to mind the set of dominoes I have in the speeder and the note I found with them. Strange bed fellows, if you ask me. A blackjack note and dominoes? Strange indeed.
When I asked her about DeLeon Health Services, I got a bit of a reprieve. It would seem that Carl received regular shipments of vitamin supplements for his health. This caused an inward sigh of relief. A neurosurgeon on drugs and suicidal would have me think twice before ever going to the doctor again.
The last bit of information concerned Sylvia’s background. Her mother left her at an early age and Carl raised Sylvia the best he could. As she matured to womanhood, she left home abruptly and went into some sort of unsavory work, perhaps the escort business. I don’t think she was talking about chaperoning kids to the prom. It’s a well known fact that escorts earn most of their money in the bedroom, not the ballroom.
Finally, in a continued effort to refine my investigative abilities, I ask her what she thought of me. Big mistake. “It’s too soon, Tex. Allow me to grieve first, then we’ll see what grows between us,” she ended that statement in a seductive tone. Time to exit, Murphy. Get out before the ole hormones kick into high gear - hers, not mine!

Several minutes later, I’m back in Lisky’s living room, talking with my client. I have a number of vital concerns to discuss with her, particularly the life insurance policy. Earlier, I had certain reservations about Sylvia’s murder claim. Now I’m beginning to see some motives come into play.
She hands me the manila envelope containing her father’s personal effects. I really hope there’s something in here that will shed some light on this case. Before I rip open the envelope, I decide to tell her of my meeting with Delores Lightbody.
After telling her of my visit with Delores, Sylvia relates her concern that her father would give a woman like that the time of day. I’m not getting into a mud-slinging contest here, so I parry her thrust with a thrust of my own - her father’s will. She takes exception to my insinuation.
“Why are you treating me like a suspect?” Because you just might be one. “For your information, if I sold the house and the speeder and added it to the cash, I might be able to pay off my father’s debt. I’m not going to benefit from this will.” The inflection of her voice denotes increased anger and frustration. But I need to know where my client fits into this scenario. I need to know if she’s really on the up-and-up.
“Except of course the million dollar life insurance policy.”
“I’m not going to get a cent of that! I’m surprised you’re even asking me about that. You know life insurance companies don’t pay off in case of suicide.”
“And that’s why you retained my services.”
“Well, you can think that if you want, but I don’t have to stick around here and be insulted by the hired help.” With that she up and left in a huff. I realized, only too late, that I had violated P.I. rule number 17: Never upset a client. I should have thought of that before I sounded accusatory.
But Sylvia was right about one thing - I was the hired help and it was time to get back to work. I empty the envelope into my lap. Four items appear. Two small keys, Linsky’s wallet, and the suicide note. In part it said ‘the pain is unbearable’ and he ‘could not go on any longer.’ Pain from what? The drugs? A guilty conscience? Some secret incurable illness? Maybe that explains the shipments from DeLeon Health Services.
In the wallet was Linsky’s license with his photo on it. I may need that for later reference. I have yet to have seen his picture.
Looking at the two keys made me think of the locked credenza in the attic office. I climb the ladder, go to the secret room, try the smaller of the two keys and voila!, instant access. The only item in there proved to be very important - I hope. It seems Linsky leased a warehouse from San Francisco Properties at 6752 Federal Drive. If I’m not mistaken, that’s out by the old space port. Off I go into the wild red yonder!

Later that day, at a secret location
The visionary continues to update and allocate the data streaming to him from certain designated sources. He is saddened by the loss of three of these sources, but, at least they were able to complete their tasks before their untimely deaths. They would have been secondary foundation stones of his new order. But he would remember them, eulogize them when the proper time called for it, indelibly etch their names into his New World Constitution.
He sat back and reflected on their friendships and loyalty. Dr. Carl Linsky, famed neurosurgeon and provider of infinitely critical information necessary for people control. Val Davis, biological researcher, whose contributions to this project cannot be overstated. And finally, a close friend and electrical engineer extraordinaire, C. Rona Morgan. Hers was the friendship that would be most missed. He shook his head in temporary grief. One committed suicide (he could not understand this), one died in a speeder accident, and the third died of accidental poisoning. Had he given it more thought, he may have made a connection, since all of these died within eleven days of each other.
Forcing his concentration back to the task at hand, he resumes his undertaking of gathering bits of information still coming across his computer screen. He must not be deterred. The project must go forward. Overlord must be implemented within the next few days. His own sanity demands it, his very being craves it, his entire soul necessitates it. As the madness grows within him, so does his determination. All will be accomplished despite minor setbacks, as though the loss of life was reckoned of little consequence. “To achieve that which is unattainable, sacrifices must be expected,” he said to no one in particular.
Yes, the visionary suffering from dementia in very advanced stages will push onward with all his very being. Nothing will be allowed to stand in his way; nothing can possibly stand in his way. Just a little longer and it will be finished.

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 Chapter ten: Thursday afternoon, Nov. 12, 2037

Thanks to Linsky’s personal effects, I was able to locate and enter the warehouse he had leased. Nothing fancy, but definitely suitable. Several 55 gallon drums containing dangerous fluids were scattered throughout. Wooden pallets, an old mattress, boxes galore, and even a fork-lift. No key for it, though. Too bad, looks like fun. I also notice a desk, computer, bookshelf, drafting table, a cot and a file cabinet had been set up. No doubt Linsky used this as a secret office. With the number of reference books on the shelf, he may have intended to write his book, although it never came to fruition.
As I begin to move around, I trip over a small box on the floor. The box was new and partially opened, so, I looked inside. Nothing much in here, except a circuit conductor repair kit. What would I do with that? Well, it must have something to do with Linsky’s work, so I slip it into my coat pocket. Hey! I almost forgot! As I put the kit into the pocket, I grab a banana, peel it and inhale it in 30 seconds. Hmmm, hits the spot. I love bananas. Four left; at least I won’t starve for a few days.
I continue my search and notice a first aid kit on the wall almost hidden by a step ladder. My schooling at U. I. of U. and the training from the Colonel has taught me to follow my instincts and leave no stone unturned. So, I fold up the ladder and sloppily lean it against some boxes. Inside the first aid kit was a box of Heal Aid bandages. I flip the lid and, to my delight, several pieces of plastic fall onto my hand. Looks like someone cut up a charge card, or maybe a security card. I put the pieces together and two things become instantly apparent. One, this was a security card, the kind that’s used in conjunction with a security card reader. Two, there’s a piece missing. I wonder if Linsky did that on purpose? I guess that would depend on what Linsky was doing here.
Turning, I decide to inspect the cot. I shake the blanket and it reveals nothing; I pick up the pillow and it seems the tooth fairy left a little present. Say, this is a bottle of prescription sleeping pills; powerful ones, to boot. One of these could knock out an elephant. I’ll remember that if one ever charges me. All I’d have to do is jump on its trunk and force one down its throat. Easy as falling down. Into my pant pocket they go. However, I wonder why Linsky used these? Could the pain have kept him from sleeping? Did he have a drug habit? I might have to discuss this problem to Sylvia.
Next stop is the filing cabinet. The middle drawer contained a hand written fax with the initials S. F. on it. He says the first two on the list from Linsky were dead. Was S. F. a hit man? Why would Linsky need to cancel people’s subscription to life? Opening the bottom drawer revealed another mystery. A note mentioning a top secret project. Items needed for the project included a specially designed computer, like the one on the table next to the filing cabinet; a computer passcard, like the pieces of which I now hold, and a passcard reader, which I have not yet found. It also mentions a scrambled password. This note raises some serious questions. First, what is the secret project? How many people were involved in it? And who was running the project? Suddenly, this case was taking a significant turn for the better.
On the lower portion of the memo were two handwritten questions to add to my own. Who are the other seven working on the project along with the ‘contact S. F.’ in parentheses. And, Who is Overlord? Overlord? Now that is most curious. Could it be possible that eight people are involved with a special project and it is controlled by someone dubbed ‘Overlord?’ Is there any relationship between the seven mentioned on the memo and the two who are already dead mentioned on the fax? I shake my head as the possibilities begin to mount. The more clues I find, the less answers I have.
By this time I have had a long day and a massive headache continued to increase in my head. However, I was finding too many interesting leads to let up now. So, the drafting table became my next target. The top drawer contained a newspaper clipping relating the death of 37 year old C. Rona Morgan. Once an employee of Gideon Enterprises, she died of accidental poisoning. But, it appears the police were not all that sure the death was accidental. The article mentioned ‘mysterious circumstances.’ Could she be one of the other seven? Naw! She was probably a friend of Linsky’s and he cut this out for sentimental reasons.
The middle drawer of the drafting table coughed up three direct deposit slips. These things were used to give written proof that funds had been added to one’s account. But, they haven’t been used in years. Who would need something like this and why? At any rate, the slips added up to $60,000 in Linsky’s name. Someone was paying big bucks for something and one thing’s for sure, this isn’t the same money from Banter Publications. That amount was only $22,000. Maybe ‘Overlord’ is the payer. Now I know my headache is getting worse; I’m grasping at straws too early in this case. Nevertheless, I keep adding these tidbits to my notebook. I’ve only been on the job for a day and this little book is already filling up.
Taking a deep breath, I spot a corkboard on the far wall. It’s covered with drivel, but ignoring it could prove detrimental. Nothing worth while on the board; I wonder if there’s anything behind it. Sure enough, when I remove the corkboard I find a slip of paper tacked to the wall. It read, ‘HIP S.O.B.’ I never thought Linsky would use common profanity, he didn’t seem to be the type. This paper goes into another pant pocket.
Last but not least, I rummage through Linsky’s desk. The drawers gave up nothing substantial, but the plastic tray on top of the desk had an interesting note in it. Signed by a woman named Wanda Peck, it made reference to an investigation against Carl Linsky. Probably some kind of malpractice suit, that’s all. Still, better safe than sorry, so, into my notebook it goes. Looks like I’ll get a good use of my free two week subscription to American Information Database.
Well, I think that’s about all I’m going to find in this place. A little disconcerted over the fact there’s a piece missing to the security card and I have yet to find the passcard reader, I decide it’s time to go back.... Just then, I hear a strange noise, difficult to identify. My cat-like reflexes kick into overdrive as I take a defensive posture. In a flash, the noise turns to a BANG as the ladder I folded earlier falls to the floor, taking a couple of empty boxes with it. Whew! I heave a sigh of relief, shake my head for being so overtired, rub my temples to ease my headache, and start for the door. But something caught my eye. Behind the stacked boxes was a calendar on the wall. Who would pile up boxes in front of a calendar? Upon close inspection, the calendar was dated June 2037 and this was November. I keep staring at the calendar, a little voice in the back of my head (right next to the headache) is telling me something’s afoot. So, I move the boxes, open the step ladder, climb to the calendar and remove it from the nail. Voila! A safe! Behind the calendar! Ha! My P.I. instincts were right!
Now, to examine and open the safe. Hmmm. Four rows of numbers, like on a vid phone, with three in each row. The bottom row had the zero with an asterisk on the left and the word ‘enter’ on the right. I continue to stare at the safe, trying to figure a way to open it. My search of Linsky’s warehouse revealed no clue or hidden numbers. Wait a minute; hidden numbers. Of course! The set of dominoes! If I place them in their respective slots on the electronic game board, according to the instructions, some lights will appear. Could that be the secret to opening this safe?
I run out to the speeder and bring the appropriate items back to Linsky’s desk. Let’s see, ‘blackjack in dominoes’ and 21 horizontally, vertically and diagonally. Rather actually placing the dominoes in random order in a vain effort to arrive at the desired solution, I get out my pencil and notebook. Working on a blank page, I feverishly add, subtract and re-add and re-subtract until an answer presents itself. Okay, let’s see, if I place the 4 and the 9 and the 8 in the top row; the 11 and the 7 and the 3 in the middle row; and the 6 and the 5 and the....I hold my breath...10 in the bottom row... Yes! The lights by the 4, 9, 8 are flashing. Great! Now, back to the safe.
I climb back up the ladder and press 4-9-8 onto the keypad. Then I press ‘enter.’ The safe pops open as though a Jack-in-the-box was going to jump out. Two items were inside the safe. The passcard reader I was looking for, which I immediately attached to the computer, and the original copy of the million-dollar life insurance policy Delores had mentioned. And guess who is the sole beneficiary? None other than Sylvia Linsky. A bit despondent, I consider the possibility that she is the murderer, if there really is one. And why not! It wouldn’t be the first time in history that a family member killed for money. The suicide angle would be the perfect cover up. Except for one thing: how does one get another to commit suicide in front of six witnesses? Now THAT could be difficult.
Now I can exit this place and continue my investigation. Despite my raging headache, there’s still time to make one more stop before heading back to my office. I fly back to see Delores Lightbody. Although the hour is late, somehow I just know she’s still up and raring to go....probably to bed with the next guy who walks through the door. Since I’m the next guy, I need a plan of attack, or, should I say a plan of defense. I’ll need to tell her the way it is, that we’re never going to get it on. If I’m firm and professional, I’m sure she will understand.
After knocking on her door, it didn’t take long for her to answer. Dressed in a sheer, almost see-through pink nightgown, still smoking a fag in her expensive holder, she states in a sexy voice, “I knew you’d be back. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.” She then motions me inside.
Here we go! “ I don’t want to appear ungrateful, Delores, but you and I, we’re never going to get it on. I’m sorry, but we need to keep this on a purely professional basis.” I can’t let her down any easier or more direct than that.
“Say what you want. Your hungry eyes tell a different story.” Sounds like she’s reading a line from an Anna Nicole Smith movie.
“Okay...in the meantime, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” It was the best I could do on such short notice.
She plops down on the sofa, causing the end table to tremble, and flashes her baby blues at me and responds, “I’ll do anything to help, anything.” I’m sure you would, Delores.
It’s in my best interests to be short and, well, not sweet, that’s for sure. So, I rifle off several questions regarding some of the names I’ve compiled recently. No, she doesn’t know who Wanda Peck is, or Overlord, or Rona Morgan. But, when I asked about the initials S. F., she had a different response.
“I seem to remember Carl mentioning somebody with those initials. It was Sonny....Sonny something or other. Uh, Sonny...Fletcher! Yes, I’m certain it was Sonny Fletcher.”
“So, who’s Sonny Fletcher?”
“I think he was a P. I., like you. Although I doubt he was as handsome. I don’t know what he was doing for Carl.”
“Great! You’ve been a big help and I do mean that literally.” And with that last little tidbit I’m out of here. My exit is so quick, the door closes behind me by shear force. I head to my office, anxious to feed the names I found into the AID. However, when I get there, a message is waiting for me - from Sylvia. She sounds completely inebriated and requests my presence as soon as possible. My headache told me no, my heart told me yes. After my earlier accusation I felt it was only right to see what she wanted.
When I get into the house, I notice an empty bottle of vodka on the floor. Looks like Sylvia and Mr. Absolute had a contest and he lost. I knew she would be difficult to deal with - most drunks are - but, by the same token, she needed my assistance. And, as I found out, she needed my shoulder to cry on.
At first she mostly felt sorry for herself. Things like her daddy being dead, her mother walking out on her, etc., spewed forth like an exploding volcano. When I tried to comfort her, she told me to stuff my pity, she didn’t need it. But I knew that wasn’t really so. Why would she have asked me to come to her if she didn’t want pity? But again, never argue with a drunk. Finally I had had enough. I told her she didn’t need any more alcohol, loathsome liquid that it is, but what she really needed was some beddy-bye. Hence, I picked her up and took her to her bed, laying her down gently and covering her up. We said good night, but I don’t think hers will be that good. I’m sure the morning will come all too soon and she’ll regret this night’s episode. Shaking my head, I decide to cruise on back to my office, looking forward to a well deserved night’s sleep.

2043 Chelsee’s apartment

“You know, Tex, when we met, it wasn’t all that different from your night with Sylvia. But, of course, you were the one that was sloppy drunk.”
I furrow my eyebrows, trying to recall the event Chelsee is talking about. “What? You talking about the Bastille Day celebration at the Brew & Stew? I wasn’t that drunk.”
“Oh no. We met before Louie’s party. Come on, Sweetie, don’t you remember?”
Lighting up a Lucky, I look off to one side, exhaling a huge puff of smoke. Through the foggy mist of cigarette evil, my mind begins to float back in time. An early foggy morning, on the street, head down on Chelsee’s counter. Yes, yes, it’s coming back to me. I was fitfully drunk and passed out at her Newsstand. Another puff of smoke jilts my memory even more. I hear Chelsee’s voice, “C’mon buddy, time to get up.” She pokes me with...
with... the end of a broomstick! Sheesh! This woman is mercenary! She’s trying to clean up the mess around her stand when I got up, still in a drunken stupor, and tried to help. I accidentally knocked over some magazines. Apologizing, I attempt to assist her in picking them up. She refuses and I trip over something and fall into her open arms. And then she said something like, “Keep your hands off of me you pervert!” And then she....
“Hey! Now I remember, you punched me. I mean, my jaw hurt for a week and I never did figure out why.”
Totally unconcerned, she remarks, “Things have gotten better since then, haven’t they?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Maybe a little sarcastic, but she deserves it. I think my jaw still hurts.
“Listen, forget about that, let’s get back to your story. It’s starting to get interesting. So, what happened after your night’s sleep?”
“Well, okay, if you insist. The next morning .....”

Friday, Nov. 13, 2037 a.d.

Freshening up after a good night’s sleep, I’m enthusiastic at making some calls using my AID. Before I get started, though, I get a call from Delores Lightbody. Uh-oh! I hope she doesn’t pick up where she left off. She doesn’t. Instead, she informs me of an early morning appointment with Arnold Sternwood, director of the North Hill Clinic.
Early as usual, I wait patiently in the lobby for Mr. Sternwood. A few moments later, a well dressed, fiftyish African American approaches me and introduces himself. After a few brief pleasantries, he asks me what I want. Okay, no @#%$-footin’ around with this guy.
“Did you or did you not have anything to do with the death of Carl Linsky?”
Totally taken aback, he quickly defends himself by stating, “It’s my understanding that Carl’s death has been ruled a suicide. Is there anything else?”
“Well, I’ve been hired by his daughter to investigate his death.”
“So, little Sylvia has her claws into you,” he retorts, almost accusingly. I can’t help but wonder if my client has any friends at all. Seems like everybody has had an unpleasant run in with her.
“Are you saying I should keep one eye on my Client?”
“A word of caution. I would keep both eyes on and both hands off Miss Linsky.”
“I’ll give it some thought. In the meantime, I need to ask you a few questions.”
He tells me of Linsky’s employment at the clinic, his outstanding reputation, and his surgical competence. Because of age, Linsky gave up surgery in favor of research in recent years. He also related his sadness over Linsky’s death.
As I perused my notebook, I decide to see if he knew Wanda Peck. Yes, she was investigating charges of malpractice, supposedly by Linsky. The charges were completely without merit, according to Sternwood. Carl took a voluntary leave of absence and Ms. Peck dropped the investigation. However, what he added was even more shocking. Wanda Peck was the director of the S. F. office of CAPRICORN. Wow! I will definitely make an appointment with her.
I asked him about DeLeon Health Services. He said they supplied, among other things, anti-aging drugs. This could be some good news. I’m having a hard time believing Linsky was some kind of drug addict. But, it did raise an interesting question: If Lisnky was clean, taking anti-aging drugs and wanted to skydive on his 100th birthday, then why would he commit suicide? It just didn’t add up.
Asking him what he thought of Sylvia Linsky caused him some degree of discomfort. He said, “That young woman is trouble. I won’t burden you with the details. Suffice it to say that she has a way with older men and knows how to get what she wants.” Hmmm.
Well, I thank Mr. Sternwood and head back to my office. My list of names has grown significantly and I’m desirous of using my subscription to AID. Maybe there will be a clue or two among the faxes I receive. So, I head directly back to my office.
The first fax made me chuckle out loud. My hot and horny ‘friend’, Delores Lightbody, had a slew of fiancées, applying for marriage licenses five times, but never had married. As a child, she entered several beauty contests successfully, but, as an adult, she had to join Overeaters Anonymous to loose weight. Maybe she should ask for a refund.
Rona Morgan’s fax was less farcical and more serious. She had a degree in electrical engineering, having graduated the top of her class at UCLA. Only 35 years old, she died Nov. 2, 2037 of accidental poisoning. That’s strange. Maybe I should check that out. Also strange was the fact she died just a few days ago and her name has come up in my investigation of Carl Linsky’s death. Could there be a connection?
Next fax to mechanically appear in the machine was Sonny Fletcher’s. Born in 1985, married one Maria Cartagena in 2016, survived her death in 2031, and he’s had a few DUIs of late. Looks like ol’ Sonny has a drinking problem. Something else caught my eye. He was a P. I. and, up until 30 days ago, had occupied the same office I just leased! Talk about coincidence! But this in itself doesn’t answer the question as to why Linsky hired him. Maybe I should go see Eve Clements and ask her if she knows his address.
CAPRICORN’s fax helps me to partially understand their operations and activities. It didn’t mention Wanda Peck specifically, but, I put her on my list of people to visit. What really struck me oddly was the fax on Ms. Peck. It said no information available. Hmmm. Looks like she’s as secretive as the organization she works for. In fact, I know more about CAPRICORN than I’ll probably ever know about Wanda Peck. However, the possibilities are challenging, to say the least.
The last fax told me pretty much what I already knew about my client. She’s 26 years old, had three misdemeanor arrests, and her current address is unknown. Well, looks like I know more than the AID. Huh! I need to see her about a couple of things, too. But first, I’m off to the S.F.P.D. to interrogate Detective Clements. Hey, there’s a switch. I’ll interrogate her, instead of the other way around. I get excited just thinking about it. 
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 Chapter eleven: Thursday, Nov. 12, 2037, around midnight

Unknown to Sam Jones, trouble was brewing in the form of a rebel. One of the eight experts empowered by the visionary was about to use his own power and sell out the entire project. To the authorities? No, not at all. He was so enthralled by the very concept of ruling the world, controlling politicians and influencing (albeit by misuse of the commodities that would soon be at his disposal) the affluent persons of commerce, he simply could not resist the glorious opportunity to procure Overlord for his own personal greed.
Strip the creator of his creation; commandeer the self appointed commander’s plan; supplement the visionary’s plan via his own supplanting. However, timing was everything. He had to make sure that each of the seven individuals had accomplished their assigned tasks before he had them eliminated. This was difficult solely because the visionary concealed info that others were not entitled to see. Only through personal influence, advanced computer training and an inordinate amount of cash was he able to even begin to scratch the surface and learn of the visionary’s final objective. Once started down that path, the rest would be easy, for indeed, he had already seen to the demise of three of the seven. Four more to go and then the visionary himself would be killed.
There was a snag in his manipulation - Big Jim Slade. He hired the best in his field to erase the best in their fields, a calculated risk in view of the ultimate prize. Thus far, Slade had performed admirably, killing Val Davis and Rona Morgan, making it look like unrelated accidents. Then he killed, or so he says, Bosworth Clark by means of his preferred method of forced Russian Roulette. But, he was beginning to sense a rebellion on the part of the Aussie; something not totally visible on the surface; something from within his soul. He himself had been an expert at sensing a man’s desire to challenge his authority. Others had tried and they had died. This was the main reason for his tremendous success. Just when someone thought they were getting the upper hand on him, they found themselves waking up dead. And one day soon, after he had killed off those he was hired to, Slade himself would have to be eliminated. And, since he could not trust anyone else to do the job, he would have to do it himself. Now THAT would give him great pleasure.

Slade’s employer called with another ‘job’ for the eager Aussie. He was excited by the prospect of carrying out another chore. Who would it be this time? Another prissy like Clark? Or, perhaps another woman? He especially enjoyed killing women. Val Davis and Rona Morgan provided a small amount of personal satisfaction, but the woman in Mexico last year was absolutely enlivening. He was able to torture her first, then he exacted his revenge when he forced her to shoot herself in the head. And her husband, coward that he is, will get the same someday, as soon as this other business is out of the way. And, as soon as he rids himself of this poor excuse for a human who hired him to do his dirty work. A thorn in the flesh, he loathed his employer and his superior attitude, and when all was said and done, his employer would be dead and done. He smiled to himself at the sound of that little quip. In fact, he began to laugh aloud and repeat the saying over and over. ‘And when all is said and done, my employer will be dead and done.’
“Something funny, Mr. Slade?” asked his silver haired employer.
“Oh, just a little ditty I thought of - makes me laugh.” And he grinned an evil grin.
“Well, why don’t you share it with me?”
“Perhaps someday.”
“I look forward to it,” the boss said, sporting an evil grin of his own.
“So, you got some more work for me.” It was a statement, not a question. He knew full well the reason his boss wanted to see him again.
“Yes, contestant number four, to borrow a phrase from your vernacular. You know where to pick up your portfolio. Call me when you get the package.”
“What for? Is there something special about the next participator?” Slade could feel the excitement begin to rise in his bones. Maybe this one would be a bit more challenging. That’s what he liked; something with a little more oompf to it.
“Just call me,” the boss demanded and then he rang off.
Slade didn’t waist any time flying over to the post office and retrieving the all too familiar manila envelope. Since the place was virtually empty (it was open 24 hours and this was later than most cared to be out and about), Slade didn’t wait till he was back at his insufferable lodge.
“Let’s see,“ he said aloud. “A retired general named Samuel Q. Jones, defense systems expert, age ..... 72? For a minute I thought you may have found someone a little more challenging. I like a good challenge now and then, you know. But, a 72 year old decrepit, retired general, what sort of bloody Drongo do you think I am?” Of course, there was nobody there to hear his words. Still, he felt an insatiable desire to talk as though his employer was right in front of him.
This was getting tiresome. He would rather have another female to kill; at least they provided him with a certain amount of amusement. ‘Oh well, might as well go back home and call the big shot’ he mused to himself.
Slade called his boss and complained about the 72 year old retiree being his next target of his special affection.
“Be careful, Mr. Slade. This Jones character is not to be trifled with. He doesn’t look, feel or act 72 years old. He’s in great physical, mental and emotional condition. Do NOT underestimate him. You made that mistake a year ago and it nearly cost you your freedom. Remember?”
It was all Slade could do to prevent himself from reaching through the phone line and killing this crusty old duffer. How dare he keep throwing that blunder in his face over and over. The Aussie closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out through pursed lips, and reopened the eyes. “Sure thing, boss.” The contempt on the last word was evident to his employer.
“Look, Mr. Slade, it’s obvious that you and I see things differently. But, keep in mind the goal we are reaching for - world supremacy! Think of it! The ability to literally control all those in positions of power and authority, to make them do as I please. Now, in order to keep them and their armies in check, I’m going to need a second in command who is ruthless, heartless, intense and murderous. I know I’m being blunt, but it’s necessary.” He paused for effect. “Do you, uh, know anyone who fits that description?”
Slade smiled and said, “Yeah, me.”
“There now, you see, you and I DO think alike at times. Now, let’s not waste any more time quibbling. General Jones needs to be eliminated fast. And this time, see if you can find his passcard. I need it to carry out my portion of the plan.” With that, he abruptly hung up.
The hit man smirked and thought of ways he would kill this reprobate. Breaking his neck seemed to be the one that pleased him the most. But that will have to wait. His employer put a lot of emphasis on those passcards. ‘Maybe I will formulate a way to secure those cards for myself. Although I enjoy my work, the more I kill the closer the authorities get to finding me,’ he thought. ‘And this may be my ticket to a long and healthy and wealthy retirement in Brazil.’

Following the directions in the portfolio, he arrived that night at Bunker 13 on the northern U.S. border. At one time, the bunker was heavily fortified, but now it was run down and unkempt. The old cameras on its exterior probably no longer functioned. ‘I wonder why they named it Bunker 13’ he thought aloud. If he only knew. It’s real des-
ignation was The Northern Border Bunker, manned to the max during WWIII. But it was unlucky to those who manned it. The winters were unforgiving, the wild life voracious, the mountains, forests and rivers protective and dense enough to have caused several deaths among the soldiers stationed there. It was the military personnel who dubbed it Bunker 13. And 13 was always an unlucky number for a hitman.
The door wasn’t locked, another bad omen for Slade. Why would a retired general, specializing in defense systems, leave the outer door unsecured? he asked himself. He decided to be cautious and put his hands into his coat pockets, caressing the two guns located in them. That gave him a warm and friendly feeling. So did his old proverb, “Caution is my life line; over confidence severs it.”
Listening intently, he simply followed noises that were similar to those of Bosworth Clark’s lab. Computers whirring, printers printing, keyboards clicking, and another sound that wasn’t quite as familiar. Not to worry, he has the element of surprise in his favor. A few moments later, he entered a room and espied the general working at a computer terminal. Wow! He was a big one. ‘I wonder if he’s as healthy as my boss claims?’ he asked himself, thinking that it might be amusing to flex his beautiful, well toned muscles in a little tete a tete. His martial arts skills hadn’t been tested for some time now and he needed a formidable opponent to keep him sharp.
Unseen to the hit man was something that merited his suspicion. The general had been alerted to the Aussie’s presence by one of the dilapidated cameras outside. They still worked efficiently after all those years of inactivity. Although the general was punching a keyboard, he was actually just going through the motions, keeping an eye on his ‘guest.’ He was all too aware of Jim Slade’s profile, seeing it many times over the years spent involved in covert operations. And now he was finally within his grasp. This would be a bonus, to say the least.
The hitman neared, confident of his ability to catch his prey off guard. This is going to be as easy as shooting kangaroos.
The general readied himself, elated as the Aussie slowly approached. He allowed his right hand to slip from the keyboard to his lap, where a baretta was waiting. This is as easy as falling down, he thought.
When the hit man was three feet away, the general twirled so fast it caught Slade completely unawares. “Welcome to my humble bunker, Mr. Slade.” His eyes narrowed, expecting the hit man to make a sudden move. But Slade was too cool for that anticipated action and he remained unnaturally calm, considering a gun was aimed at his chest. What did bother Slade was the fact that the general had been waiting for him. Did his boss set him up? Or was he just careless, like in Mexico? His eye twitched at the latter. He was finding it difficult to control his anger. His employer’s words were suddenly haunting him. And that irked him even more. Breath deeply, he told himself, relax and don’t lose your concentration. Everything will be alright.
“So, you were expecting me, eh?”
The general moved the wheeled chair a few feet to his left, revealing the monitor showing the outside of the bunker. “You telegraphed your moves, Mr. Slade. Bad form for a man of your profession. And setting off the siren alerting me to your presence. Tsk! Tsk! Sloppy, don’t you agree?”
Siren? I set off a siren? Bad luck, that. And the number 13 also is a bad sign. Siren and 13, both rang terror into the Aussie, bringing back memories of long ago. Bad memories. He had to meditate, concentrate, focus, ponder the future, not the past. He couldn’t allow himself to lapse into a psychological trance, letting his mind control him instead of the other way around. Breathe, breathe, relax, relax, yes, that’s it. Get centered on the present, not allowing the past to get the upper hand.
“Yeah, I agree. So, you got the drop on me. Now what?” Slade maintained strict eye contact, hoping the general was too mesmerized to notice the hitman’s fingers curling around the guns in his pockets.
“Well, for starters, why don’t you remove your hands from those pockets.” This was Slade’s chance to redeem himself. But, the general was too experienced to fall for such an amateurish trick. “Slowly, please, very slowly,” even saying the words slowly. Slade had no choice. He was being out maneuvered with each passing moment. If he didn’t get a break soon, he would become the general’s abductee. Not an inviting thought in lieu of his resolve to never, ever get captured.
“I’ve been hoping to meet you personally someday, I just never thought it would actually happen. You know, I was once very close to laying my eager fingers on you. Yeah, about six years ago, in Mexico. You remember Mexico, don’t you Mr. Slade?”
All too well, he thought. So that was it. A combined effort on the part of the U.S. and the Mexican authorities. That’s why he was nearly captured. And this old goat of a retired general had been a part of it.
“Well, well, well. What a pleasant surprise. One of my pursuers now has the opportunity to haul me in. Funny thing, though. We seem to be out in the middle of nowhere. The closest town is a 100 miles away. How do you plan to get me there? In a speeder? I don’t think so.” The hitman’s confidence and sereneness was beginning to wear on the general. Although not easy to upset, the hit man made a valid point. He would have to secure him somehow, and that would be difficult at best. The situation was nearly untenable. His next move would be critical.
“Turn around and place your hands on your head,” the general commanded. Slade just glared at him, refusing to budge. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you. I’ve killed dozens like you during my career; another will not make a bit of difference. But, I would much rather take you in alive.”
‘No way,’ Slade thought to himself. ‘I’ll go out feet first before I will allow some over the hill retired general run me in.’ But, for the sake of buying a little more time, Slade did as he was instructed. Then he consolidated his thoughts, focusing on the general’s every move, anticipating when to strike.
The general cautiously arose out of the chair and slowly moved toward Slade. Having been in similar situations on previous occasions, he calculated his every step, not taking his eyes off his prisoner.
The Aussie closed his eyes, centering his thoughts on each and every noise in the room. One by one, he eliminated them from his audio faculty; the computer was whirring no more; the printed had stopped in mid-print; the keyboard ceased as soon as the general pulled the gun; even his own nasal breathing technique could no longer be heard. There was just the general and nothing else. Then he heard it. The chair creaked ever so slightly. Yes, come to me, general. Then he heard the khaki pants flutter and stretch as the general lifted himself to a fully erect stance. Boots, yes, the boots made soft thuds as Jones moved towards him. Wait! Patience! The hitman’s mind screamed to be heard. Even with his back to the general, Slade knew exactly where he was, exactly how far and how soon before the general was within striking distance.

Samuel Q. Jones had his man. All he needed to do was close the gap, the six foot gap between he and Slade. But Slade wasn’t moving; he wasn’t even breathing, it seemed. He was perfectly still. He was waiting for him, the general could feel it. This was the way things should be. The prisoner plotting his escape; the captor counter-plotting the move. Two men, all alone, about to resolve the greatest contest of all time: who would really win in the fight between good and evil.
The hitman was ready.
The general was waiting.
The gap closed slowly. Five feet, four feet, three feet.
General Jones knew Slade would make his move soon... And then WHAM! A round-
house kick to his gun hand, sending the weapon flying across the room. The general waited one second to long. Slade stood there smiling at his foe. But the smile was short lived. The general moved like a tiger attacking his next meal and Slade hit the wall, Sam’s head buried in his stomach. The breath quickly left the Aussie’s body, causing him to flinch one micro-second more than the general needed. Sam raised his head fast and furious, connecting with Slade’s jaw, nearly knocking him unconscious.
But Slade was ‘The Body, The Mind, THE Man’ among men. His training had been so complete that the general’s blows only temporarily incapacitated him. As the general reared back to land a powerful right cross, Slade flattened his hand and jabbed his extended fingers into Sam’s throat. This momentarily stunned the general; he began to cough and choke. With cat-like reflexes, Slade leapt into the air, turning 360 degrees, landing his right boot squarely on the general’s jaw. Whack! The sound reverberated around the room, as the general staggered and fell to the floor.
Slade didn’t waste any time. He ran to his fallen victim, intending to stomp him in the chest, crushing his lungs, ending his life. But the general, still groggy from the super kick, had enough presence of mind to raise his right leg taut, connecting with Slade’s groin as he his foot was descending towards Sam’s heart. Slade screamed in agony and rolled to the floor, writhing in extreme pain.
Sam had two options: one, try to keep up the good fight with Slade, a fight he now realized he would probably loose; and, two, go for his own baretta on the far side of the room. He opted for the latter, reaching the gun in a split second. But the general had forgot one very important fact: when he told Slade to slowly remove his hands from his pockets, he did not disarm the man. In most cases, that would be a fatal mistake. This was one of those cases. For, as the general turned to aim and shoot, the Aussie didn’t aim, he just shot. The bullet went through the general’s chest, collapsing a lung. That dazed the general long enough for Slade to aim the next shot at the general’s head. Click! Nothing happened! Slade was awestruck. That’s when he realized the error of his ways. He had pulled the gun he used for Russian Roulette! It only had one bullet in it! Lucky for him the bullet was in the first chamber. He dropped the gun and reached for his fully loaded weapon. And that’s when he saw the general draw a bead on him.
Jones knew he had only one chance to kill the killer, to eliminate the eliminator, to exterminate the exterminator. With great effort he raised his revolver to eye level. His hand was shaky. Sweat formed on his forehead. Blood was gushing from his back where the projectile had exited. His time was short, but he was more determined than ever to rid the world of this maniacal murderer. Slade, on the other hand, had shot his last shot. The gun merely clicked when Slade pulled the trigger. The general smiled.
“It’s my turn, now,” Jones said with a cough. He took aim and fired. But Slade was a professional, able to keep calm in the face of extreme danger. As soon as the general fired, Slade rolled to his left and stood erect, the general’s head in his sights. But Jones’ bullet had hit the wall button for the alarm system, sounding a deafening siren. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Continuous, monotonous, ear-piercing. Slade instinctively covered his ears. Sirens! Bunker 13! The past; long ago; sirens; 13; sirens; 13. And then he opened his eyes. The general had HIM in his sights! It was too late, the end was near, he was bested by a man twice his age and not as nearly strong.
But the general’s aim faltered as his breath quickly left his body. The bullet from the hitman’s gun had done its damage. Sweat pouring into his eyes, darkness creeping in all around, strength waning, the general fired the gun with his last breath. And missed. The bullet hit the clock on the wall and knocked it to the floor. Samuel Quirinius Jones, El Tigre to his old friend, retired general, father of four, grandfather of six, was dead.
Slade, though dazed and confused by the din of the siren, managed to recover enough to press the shut-off button. The whooping sound abated. He too was sweating profusely. Never had he come so close to being killed, especially by his prey. Fate, for some reason, had dealt him a new opportunity. “Must be my superiority as The Man, as The Mind, as The Body.” He was breathing heavily himself. So, like in other instances requiring control, he closed his eyes and performed numerous relaxation exercises, simultaneously chanting his favorite mantra. Soon he was back in complete control.
Looking around the bunker, he noticed the clock on the floor. Picking it up gave him another unexpected shock. The bullet damaged the mechanism but allowed the date and time to remain in tact. It read: 12:30 a.m., Friday, November 13, 2037. Oh my Lo! It was after midnight! Friday the 13th! Bunker 13! That is why he had so much difficulty. Time itself was against him. He flung the broken time piece against the far wall, inflicting even greater damage.
He closed his eyes again, this time sighing in relief. He had been most fortunate. Tempting fate was not a wise thing to do. To be safe, he went over and checked the general. Deader than a door nail, he thought. “Dirty S.O.B. How did I ever let him get the best of me?” He knew no one was listening, but the tension eased as he spoke only to himself. Except in his groin. He winced as he gingerly reached for his privates. Wow! What a kick!
A few minutes and several relaxation exercises later, Slade was back to his normal height. The pain was still there, and he knew there would be some bruising and aches over the next few days, but he was alive. The general, on the other hand, was dead. And that in itself was it’s own reward. Now, to find his passcard.
The search was furious and futile. No passcard could be found anywhere. He upended tables and chairs; tossed aside computers and printers; rent pictures into dozens of pieces. He was a man possessed, on a quest for the key to the future. His boss’s future and quite possibly his own. He was convinced those passcards were valuable. And if he had one, just one, then someone might pay handsomely to retrieve it. And how much more would they pay if he had all of them? The possibilities boggled the mind.
Then it dawned on him. Search the cadaver. So he did, and more thoroughly than the others. Still, he found no trace of the card. He tore the clothes from the dead general and still no card. Frantic, he ripped the boots off and check them as well as the socks. Still no card! ‘Alright, big guy, calm yourself. This has been a strenuous day. Breathe, breathe, relax. That’s it.’ Then it came to him. The general was security conscious and would have had a secret locale for an item of such importance. After thinking and racking his brain, he noticed the boots. As a kid, he watched some old spy movies and often the spies would hide small trinkets and items in the heels of their shoes. Slade smiled. The heel of the right boot, when twisted, revealed the missing passcard. He slipped it into his coat pocket and dragged the general outside to the edge of the forest. ‘Who says it’s against the law to feed the bears.’ And he laughed an ominous, crazed, heinous laugh.
The Aussie fired up his speeder and lifted off. Happy to have in his possession the precious passcard, he felt renewed. However, he quivered at the thought of his sloppiness. That old codger nearly bested him. The very thought was repugnant, especially when he recalled his boss’s caution. Maybe he was getting overconfident. Maybe he was getting old himself. Maybe it was time to retire. Havens of peace and solitude were dwindling fast with each new assassination. Soon the police and Interpol would close in on him. They might even capture him, if he allowed that to happen. Which he promised himself it never would. Never! 
-------------------
 Chapter twelve: Friday Nov. 13, 2037

The trip back to the S.F.P.D. was quick, and, if I have any smarts, my visit will be likewise. My last trip caught Det. Clements in a good mood, if there is such an animal. This time, I might not be so lucky.
Eve approaches while I’m waiting in the hall near her office. “Sylvia Linsky came by to pick up her father’s personal effects. Must be nice having a job...for a change.” So much for the good mood routine. Some things never change.
“It really is. She’s paying me a small fortune, too.” Now for the coup d’ grace. “Do you want to know what it’s like to make really good money?” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but, I’m tired of people using me as a sounding board.
“With all the kickbacks, I make a pretty decent living,” she snaps back.
“Yeah, you’re kidding about that.” She leads me back to her office, like a lamb to the slaughter. I carefully consider my next remark. “You know, lieutenant, I mean, we could sit here all day and trade friendly insults and that might be pretty fun. But, you know what I need right now? I need the help of an intelligent, knowledgeable, not to mention, gorgeous policewoman right now.” Well said, Murphy.
“You’re not as charming as you think, Murphy. What do you want?”
Sitting in her special ‘interrogation’ chair, I pull out my notebook and flip to the names page. First on the list is Sonny Fletcher. If I can locate him, maybe he’ll give me a lead on this whole sordid mess. Clements tells me he’s a retired P.I., like me. Hey! I’m not that old! He also has a little problem with the bottle. Definitely not my type of P.I. After buying Harley Fenwick’s P.I. rule book, the first rule I added was: Don’t drink, smoke or take drugs; they cloud clear thinking ability. However, she still hasn’t told me anything useful, so I ask about Sonny’s record. That gets a rise out of her. It seems she and the Colonel like this guy for some reason. If I keep my mouth shut, she’ll call his parole officer and get me his address. It’s a deal. While I’m sitting there, she calls Sgt. Henderson and gets Sonny’s address. Thank you, Ms. Clements.
Next name is Rona Morgan. I’m hoping Det. Clements can give me further insight to this woman’s death. No help there. Once the investigating officer deemed it accidental, that was finito. Overlord got me an even less than helpful response. Nobody knows anything about this character, except Linsky. So, after her negative, I take a positive and exit out the door.
Leaving the police headquarters, I fly back to my client’s home. She eyes the insurance policy in a subdued manner and says she’s not hopeful. And, guess what? She doesn’t know anything about Overlord. Or Rona Morgan, for that matter. Another dead end. Hands in my pockets, I walk out to my speeder, deep in thought. But, not so deep to have forgotten my snack - another ripe banana. My spirits are lifted as I peel, eat and swallow nature’s yellow boomerang. Hmmm, hmmm, good! Only three left; better conserve them.
As I enter the speeder, I punch Sonny’s address into the on-board computerized street finder. Once it pops up, I lock on the locating device and set sail. When I get to his motel, I’m shocked to see the type of neighborhood he lives in. The streets are filled with prostitutes, destitutes, malcontents and miscreants. This is the bottom rung of society’s ladder. Crime is an every-second occurrence; a no man’s land, with the police being noticeably absent. What really disgusts me, though, is Sonny’s apartment building. Over-
run down, falling apart, and smelly too! Probably full of cockroaches and other undesirable bugs. The big question is: Why would Linsky hire a chump like this? Just because he once rented the office I’m now leasing? Can’t be! I’m mean, this guy’s a loser. Sighing deeply, I decide to check him out anyway.
After knocking twice, a man with straggly, gray and white hair, in his 50’s, donning a cowboy hat and jean pant outfit to match, answers the door in a less than exciting mood.
“What do you want?” He’s holding a glass of whiskey and smells the same. Peering through the chain-locked door, I get the impression he’s expecting his parole officer’s mother-in-law. Sheesh! What a winner! But, I do need to talk to him, so I resolve to make the best of it.
“Yeah, I’m on a scavenger hunt and I need a paperclip, an empty toilet paper tube, and the answer to one question: Why would anyone want to kill Carl Linsky?”
“What makes you think I know Carl Linsky?” he responds with a gravely voice, taking another drink of the booze.
“Listen, Sonny, I know you’re busy trying to solve a lot of cases, but I could really use you help.”
“So, you’re a P.I.”
Well, duh! “Well, that’s what I tell all the chicks. My name’s Murphy.”
Taking another drink, he offers, “Alright, you can come in, Murphy.” He unchains the door and backs away. As I enter, I survey his one room dwelling. It was dirty and messy. Beer cans, whiskey bottles and empty take out containers covered the TV stand. Dirty glasses and unwashed dishes filled the sink. The tiny dinette table was filled with junk mail, used napkins, food-crusted silverware, and several other items as yet to be identified. While I’m doing this, Sonny goes to the door and peeks down the hall. Is he expecting someone else? He shuts the door and smiles at me.
“Mi casa es su casa,” he says in perfect Spanish.
“Gracias,” I respond. I know a little Mexican/Spanish I picked up in my travels.
“Nice place,” I add.
“Yeah, my travel agent got it for me,” he responds in true P.I. personna.
“I’d get a new travel agent.”
Nervous, suspicious of my motives, he raps his knuckles on the back of the dinning room chair. Finally, he blurts out, “C’mon, whaddya want?”
“Okay, what were you working on with Linsky?” Might as well be direct; I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.
Bringing his hand up to his lips, he kisses his thumb and avers, “I had nothing to do with Linsky’s death. Bible truth.”
“I’m not hear to talk about the Bible and I didn’t ask you about Linsky’s death. I just want to know what you were doing for him?” He seems to be evasive.
Worried, acting strange, as though he’s still expecting someone, he decides to be helpful. “Look, I just tracked down two people, alright? It was a Val Davis and a Rona Morgan.” Rona Morgan? Linsky must have had a special attachment to her. He had her obit in a drawer in his warehouse and then asks Sonny to track her down. Was Linsky suspicious of her fate? And who is this Val Davis? Another mystery person, I’m sure.
“Did you find them?” I ask.
“Yeah, and it didn’t take me long. There were in the ground and they hadn’t been there very long!” His voice rose in pitch with each passing word. This guy is rattled, to say the least.
“Is that when you dropped the case?”
“Yeah, right,” he answered much softer. “Look, I prefer not to talk about this anymore, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Gracias.”
“If you could just give me some more information about the names on the list.” I know I’m pushing, but I need a lead - big time! He’s withholding some info, I can sense it.
“I can’t remember!” he yells back.
“Come on, don’t hold out on me,” I yell in return. Then I go for the brass ring. “Do you want a bribe or something? You know that’s illegal,” although I believe that doesn’t matter to Sonny.
“I can’t remember, Bible truth,” and he kisses his thumb again in some sort of pseudo-
religio ritual.
“Look, Sonny, I’m gonna give it to ya straight. I’m working on Linsky’s suicide and I just need some info, a clue or a lead, something to keep the thing going.
He pauses, trying to recall something tangible, thinking through the booze-lined veil that covers his gray matter. He snaps his finger signifying a triumph, of sorts. “Wait a minute. All right! Linsky told me to hang onto this, avisa, in case anything happened to him.” And he goes to the dresser and reclaims an item and hands it to me.
Well I’ll be snockered! It’s the missing black bishop from Linsky’s chess set in his bedroom. I twirl it in my hand, not quite figuring out why this would be important to Linsky. He tells Sonny to hang onto it unless he dies. And now he’s dead.
“It’s just a bishop. Anything else?”
“Just a warning.” His tone became more serious, almost ominous. “You better get off this case right now. Judgement Day is looking for me. It could look for you too. You better get out, amigo.” And he slugs down another shot of whiskey.
“I’ll keep your warning in mind.” We don’t exchange ta-tas as I leave the apartment. We just sort of looked at each other, like there was a psychic connection or mutual understanding between us.
As I get into my speeder, I take a closer look at the chess piece. The bottom has a piece of felt glued to it, but one corner seems to be sticking up just a tad. So, being the curious sort that I am, I pull on the corner and remove the felt. Lo and behold, I find the missing piece to Linsky’s passcard! Meditating on the possibilities, I fly directly to Linsky’s warehouse, making a brief stop at the local VCS drug store for a bottle of epoxy.
Once at the warehouse, I set out all the passcard pieces and glue them together. Let’s see, the passcard has a large letter E on it, along with the letters STG in pale yellow in the background. STG is probably the company who is paying Linsky’s tab and the E is most likely the number of people working on the project. So, there is at least five persons, among them Val Davis and Rona Morgan, no doubt. And if I recall the memo I found, it asked a question about the other seven. Are there eight people on this secret business? Or am I grasping at straws? Then I notice eight yellow pawns. Hmmm.
I slide the card through the passcard reader I hooked up earlier and the screen cursor starts flashing next to the ‘password’ prompt. Okay, so what is Linsky’s password? It has to be an anagram of HIP S.O.B. Let me think for a moment. Hmmm. Then it dawns on me: The missing chess piece was a bishop. So that’s what I type onto the keyboard. Voila! A secret message appears and reads thusly:
MR. FLETCHER:
IF SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED TO ME, YOU CAN BE SURE IT WAS
MURDER. LET MY DAUGHTER SYLVIA KNOW. AT THIS POINT, I CAN’T
SAY FOR CERTAIN WHO WOULD WANT ME DEAD, THOUGH IT MAY BE
RELATED TO THE PROJECT I CONTRACTED TO WORK ON. OTHER THAN
VAL DAVIS, RONA MORGAN AND BOSWORTH CLARK, I HAVEN’T BEEN
ABLE TO FIND OUT THE NAMES OF THE OTHERS INVOLVED IN THE
PROJECT. IF YOU CAN TRACK DOWN BOSWORTH CLARK, HE MAY BE THE
BEST BET FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.

ALSO, I HAVE AN ADDRESS FOR YOU TO CHECK OUT:
ROUTE 12, BOX 4, FRESNO, CA 9365002
WHOEVER’S RUNNING THE PROJECT COULD BE BASED THERE.
C.L.

Murder! So, even Linsky felt he was in line to be murdered. But why? What was he working on that would put his life in danger? Who would hire a surgeon with Linsky’s experience only to put him in harm’s way? And why did Linsky want to find out the names of the other project members? To warn them? Or, since Linsky’s estate consisted of only his speeder and house and very little cash, was he in the process of bribing his employer? Who is his employer? Overlord? Sheesh! The more info I glean, the more questions I have. And why are other people turning up dead? Is there some special attachment between Linsky and Rona Morgan? And who is Bosworth Clark and is he next to be murdered?
While still deep in thought, I find myself flying to the Fresno address. It was located in the heart of the hot zone. I assume the place is a front, designed to throw people off track, if there is a track to be on in the first place. However, Linsky seemed to think it was important, so I better check it out.
Upon entering, I step on an envelope lying on the floor just inside the door. It was a bill from the Electric Company postmarked Nov. 5, 2037. That’s just a few days ago. So, this place is still getting the mail which means someone is actually using this dump for some reason. I may have to check back here every so often to see if any other mail is delivered.
On the wall opposite the door is a rather unusual decoration. A plaque with decorative plates attached to it. One is a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. Hmmm, that’s rather suspicious since that’s the bridge Linsky used to end his life. The middle plate was the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and the third plate was the opera house in Sydney, Australia. Strange; it looks like the plates can be rotated and there’s a number of LEDs on them. I wonder why? Also, there’s a piece of electrical conduit protruding from the display down to something behind a bookcase. I slide the bookcase to the left and to my amazement the conduit is attached to a wall safe. A safe! Why would someone do that? And what’s in the safe? Well, since cracking codes to safes is my specialty, I’m determined to find out. I just need to find a clue to opening it, probably something to do with the plates.
Empty boxes galore, none of which revealed anything exciting. A map of the world on the wall; big deal, like I’ve never seen one before. Another box on the floor...hey! What’s this? Looks like someone’s day planner. I enjoy seeing what other people are up to. Well, well, well. It says he or she had an appointment for dinner in San Francisco on Monday at 6 p.m.; lunch in Paris, France on Tuesday at 2 p.m.; and breakfast in Sydney, Australia at 9 a.m. on Thursday. Boy! Am I glad I don’t have this kind of sched.... Hey! These places in the appointment book match the places on the rotating plates. It dawns on me the two are somehow connected. Then I turn quickly to peruse the wall atlas. Three time zones are highlighted; S.F., Paris and Sydney. Alright, Murphy, concentrate. It’s obvious this is all linked together and probably has something to do with opening the safe.
So, like a good little P.I., I sit down on a box and put on my thinking cap. I figure the number of hours that separate the three cities, starting with the 6 p.m. appointment in S.F.
Okay, now, let’s set the first plate to 6 p.m.; the second plate to 3 a.m.; and the third plate to 12 p.m.; push the set time button and voila!, a red led lights up above the S.F. plate. Now what? There are still two more lights to activate. I look back into the day planner and turn the page. There’s another clue stating three sets of three. Alrighty-dighty! I reset the plates and start with Paris and rotate it till it reads 2 p.m.; Sydney now reads 11 p.m.; and S.F. is set at 5 a.m.; push the set time button and the led above the Paris plate lights up. Great! Two down, one to go. I reset the plates, set Sydney to 9 a.m.; S.F. to 3 p.m.; and Paris to 12 a.m.; push the set time button and the safe pops open. That went just like clockwork (pun intended).
What secrets lie within? What treasures are about to be taken as spoil? What kind of crap is this? A photograph? Are you kidding me? Who would go to all the trouble of locking a photograph in a safe? Must have some significance. There are two men standing side by side, dressed in suits and smiling. One is Carl Linsky (I recognize him from his driver’s license picture I found in his wallet), but the other guy I don’t. Maybe my client can identify him for me.
Suddenly, I’m busier than a one arm paper hanger. After I see Sylvia, I need to stop and see Wanda Peck at CAPRICORN Headquarters. Then, depending on what further info comes my way, I’ll need to pay another visit to the ‘evil queen of detectives’ Eve Clements and see if she has any helpful info concerning Val Davis and Bosworth Clark. I’m really starting to get into this case. It’s suddenly become very exciting. The only thing that preoccupies my mind is the possibility that I may end up on someone’s hit list. So far, a noted surgeon is dead as well as an electronics expert, not to mention Val Davis, who, according to Sonny Fletcher, is dead too. If I can gather enough info quickly, maybe I’ll be able to get to Bosworth Clark before he ends up dead.
My client was sitting quietly in the living room when I entered. It appears she’s deep in thought. When I say hello, she jumps a little, not realizing I had come in the room. The good news is she identifies the other man in the photo as John Klaus, an old friend of her father’s. The bad news is she doesn’t know anything about Val Davis or Bosworth Clark. Oh well, off to see Wanda Peck. but as I fly to her office, I can’t help but wonder why this photo was in the safe? Could John Klaus be next on the list of people to eliminate? Is he one of the ‘other seven’ Linsky referred to in his memo? If so, and if Val Davis and Rona Morgan were part of the mysterious seven, and they are dead, John Klaus
may be in mortal danger. I sure hope this Peck woman can be of assistance. I wonder what she’s like? Probably the school-marm type, old and decrepit, glasses that matches her repulsive personality, hair up in an unkempt bun, etc., etc., etc.
As I land my speeder on the roof of CAPRICORN Headquarters (I was told to do so when I set up the appointment with Wanda Peck), I’m unduly anxious over the meeting about to take place. Why was CAPRICORN investigating Carl Linsky? Could they have driven him to suicide? He may have been hanging by a thread and then Bam! in walks Wanda Peck and, next thing you know, Linsky is dead.
I descend the well lit steps down to the roof top lobby and ask for Ms. Peck. My mind is playing and replaying my introductory comments as though I was at a job interview. Dealing with a stiff-necked op like Peck can be difficult, but, if I play my cards right and inundate her with the famous Murphy charm, she’ll be like putty in my.....
Oh My God! If that’s Wand Peck coming down the stairs, then I wish I was the King of Monaco. Medium height and build, short blonde hair, extremely beautiful eyes and face, silken dress cut to the knees, and a figure that would delight an entire CPA convention. She was the kind of woman that could make a man write blank checks. Of course, since I’m broke, that’s the only kind of checks I can write. And, somehow, I don’t think she would be impressed either way.
As she neared, I espied a “sun” tattoo on her right shoulder. Her grace and comeliness was complimented by several rings on her supple fingers. And her air of confidence was overwhelming, not to mention the aroma of Chanel No. 25, the most aromatic and alluring perfume on the face of the earth. No wonder Linsky committed suicide; he was enraptured and denied all in one encompassing moment.
“Wanda Peck. How may I help you, Mr. Murphy?” The voice of an angel, the beauty of a mermaid and the grace of a flamingo in flight, and she wants to know how she can help me? Marry me! That’s how!
“I’m interested in what you people do here at CAPRICORN. I’m a Pisces, by the way.” Sheesh! Is that the best I can do? As least I didn’t bite my numb tongue or drool.
“We’re a private organization that infiltrates and exposes any group whose intent is to infringe on civil liberties. I’m a Leo, by the way.” Touche! Glad we cleared that up.
“So, CAPRICORN has nothing to do with horoscopes?” What is wrong with me? That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever asked a woman. I think I turned into the putty.
“No, not officially. So, what brings you here?” Modesty is her temperance, coupled with a determination to get to the point. I guess I’m not impressing her much. I might as well get to the reason I’m here and forget about the hope of a lover’s rendezvous.
“I’m a P.I., and I’ve been hired to look into the apparent suicide of a man named Carl Linsky. Your name was in his notes.” Oh, this is getting better with each passing instant. First, I fall all over myself as I set eyes upon her, then I accuse her of murder. Is there any other way I can screw up this meeting?
She’s totally taken aback by my insinuation. With a tone of deep remorse she answers, “I read about Linsky’s death. I’m sad about it. But, why do you want to talk to me?” Good question, Ms. Peck. Before I can reply, she tells me to take a seat. So I sit in the only chair in the reception area and she sits on the table in front of me. As she does, her dress rises well above her knees, revealing gorgeous long legs. Wow! Between Sylvia’s cleavage (no pun intended) and Wanda’s legs, I’m going to start taking salt-peter.
“I wanted to find out whether his run in with CAPRICORN had anything to do with his death.”
“I get the feeling you’re not convinced that Linsky’s death was a suicide. If that’s the case, I’d be glad to help you in your investigation.” Her candor inspires me. It also allays my fears that CAPRICORN was responsible for Linsky’s demise.
Reports of unethical practices by Linsky had filtered through the grapevine to Wanda’s attention. She checked him out, but found nothing to prove the allegations. And, since Linsky took a voluntary leave of absence, CAPRICORN dropped the investigation. But, she did mention that Linsky had other projects to work on. That much I already knew. The book deal and the secret project that people are just dying to be a part of.
Next I handed her the Linsky/Klaus photo I found. I’m very concerned for Klaus’ life. However, her response was more than enthusiastic. In fact, she was down right stunned and her shock heightened my interest, as well as her following remarks. She was genuinely surprised to see the two together. Why? Weren’t they old friends, as my client had verified? Nonetheless, she asked to borrow the photo and report any findings to me.
Surprised at her surprise, I asked her who exactly was John Klaus? Her answer jolted me. While I was concerned for his life, she had the exact opposite feeling. She called him scary, which made me sit up straight in the chair. Although he is not the leader of the Law and Order Party, he apparently has the power to ‘pull the strings behind the curtain‘, speaking metaphorically. And I’m all too aware of the Law and Order Party’s agenda; extreme bigotry, especially for mutants, is the very foundation of their organization. While many people find that attractive, I find it repulsive. It was the political groups of the world that caused WWIII which resulted in the horrible mutation of countless thousands of innocents. It was good to hear that CAPRICORN’s agenda conflicted with that of the L & O Party. They were working feverishly to infiltrate and expose this lawless group of reprobates (my personal addendum, by the way). I marked an asterisk next to Klaus’ name and the L & O Party in my notebook.
Knowing my time was short with Ms. Peck, I quickly asked her if she knew anything about Val Davis, Rona Morgan and Bosworth Clark. No, she didn’t. But, when I asked her about Overlord, well, that was another pleasant surprise for me. It was, shall I say, interesting to learn that Wanda had heard Overlord mentioned before, especially in connection with the Law and Order Party. She didn’t know if it was a person, place or thing, but she DID know that it seem to represent a lot of power. This was the best and worst news I’ve heard so far regarding this Overlord ‘thing’. A breakthrough, finally!
Since there appears to be an unusual amount of reference to chess in this investigation, I decide to ask if she was a player. Her answer was enticing. “I play occasionally, but I like my sports a little more physical.” I bet she does. Makes me want to take up power walking again. I can only imagine what she would look like in a pair of tights. Whew!
Leaving CAPRICORN, I head on back to my office. I want to ask the AID for info on a slew of names that has come to my attention. Several contentious thoughts race through my mind. Overlord is powerful, but what kind of power, and for or against whom? John Klaus, who I felt needed protection, seems to be the most dangerous man I’ve come across so far. CAPRICORN investigates Linsky, then drops the investigation, then acts saddened over his death, then makes scathing remarks regarding a friend of Linsky. This whole case is one huge paradox, and it’s in my lap!
Faxes flowed freely after I disconnected from the American Information Database. Boy, these guys are fast. Anyway, Overlord didn’t even register, but Law and Order Party’s fax was like reading Hitler’s resume. Originally conceived to fight rising crime, illegal immigration and the perceived ineffectiveness of the American criminal justice system, it seems to have taken a detour for the worse. It’s now involved with racial hatred, despicable acts of bigotry, and political narrow-mindedness. The scary thing is it’s growing popularity.
Bosworth Clark is married and has five children. What really bothers me was the statement that his current whereabouts is unknown. That does not bode well for my investigation.
Val Davis was a University of San Francisco professor who currently was assigned to the biological research department. Let’s see, she was married and divorced, and she died recently in a speeder accident. Yeah, right. I’m willing to bet it was no accident. This is not good. The death toll is rising and unless I get a break soon, I’ve got a bad feeling that it will continue its upward swing.
John Klaus’ resume read like a valedictorian’s. Graduated from Stanford Medical School; top of his class; later appointed as head surgeon at North Hill Clinic; accepted position as chief surgeon at San Francisco General; and has membership in three contro-
versial groups: Knights of Columbus; The National Rifle Association; and the Law and Order Party. What really caught my attention was his status as a grandmaster chess player. There has to be some special connection between Overlord and the game of chess, but what I don’t know. Maybe I should pay Klaus a friendly visit. Nope, no can do. His current residence is unknown and I’m willing to bet he’s not listed in the phone book.
CAPRICORN is an organization whose letters stand for Civilian Agency for the Pro-
tection of the Rights of Individuals and the Creation of Order, Reason and Neutrality. Sheesh! What a mouthful; no wonder they use an acronym. Anyway, they work closely with the local authorities as well as the FBI and Interpol.
Boy, all this crime stuff has given me the munchies again. So, I reach into my pocket and eat another ripe banana. Hmmm, good. Only two left. Better conserve them or I’ll have to buy my own. In the meantime, I call Wanda Peck to see if she’s got anything on the photo, but she’s not in. I call Eve Clements to ask her if she has any info on Bosworth Clark or Val Davis, but she’s not in. I don’t have anything to ask Sylvia and I definitely do NOT want to visit Delores Lightbody again, so, I decide to pay a visit to my new P.I. buddy, Sonny Fletcher. Maybe he knows this Klaus character. However, he wasn’t in either, but, he did leave me a message. How did he know I’d be back? Must be his P.I. instincts. Anyway, the note read thusly:
Murphy,
I warned you to get off the Linsky case and didn’t tell you why, but you have the right to know.
A long time ago, believe it or not, I was like you...young, driven, invincible. I got caught up in an investigation that was too big for me. It cost me the most precious thing in my life. My wife was murdered by a man who calls himself Big Jim Slade. For me, he was the Angel of Death.
I’ve lived in fear and shame ever since, but have tried to find reasons to go on. Not long ago, I was tracking down the names on the list Linsky gave me and got a lead on the whereabouts of someone named Bosworth Clark. I ended up near an old Anasazi ruin, about 40 miles southeast of Tucson.
Something was waiting for me there - a sign from the Angel of Death....a sign that I’m sure he meant for me to find. At that moment, I knew that my Judgement Day was drawing near.
Meeting you made me take a hard look at myself. I’ve decided that it’s time I faced my demon. Slade feeds on fear, but not this time. I intend to avenge what he did to me or die trying.
I know my words of caution will fall on deaf ears....I still remember what it was like to be young. I only ask you to do one thing: Don’t end up like me.
Sonny Fletcher

My hands were shaking by the time I finished the letter. I feared for Sonny’s life; I was irked by the murder of his wife; I was dying to get my hands on this Slade nut case; and I was sweating with the fear of being found out by Slade or anyone else connected to this bizarre case. Like I said, a paradox if ever there was one.
Before I head out to the Anasazi Ruins in Arizona, I decide to stop at my office and punch Slade’s name into the AID. Here’s what the fax said: Big Jim Slade, considered to be an alias; Australian National; birth records unavailable; on Interpol’s ten most wanted for over three years; suspected of crimes dating back almost fifteen years; extremely dangerous, possibly psychotic; preferred method of execution: forced suicide via Russian Roulette.
Oh my Hell! This guy, mentioned by Sonny in his letter as the Angel of Death, is one mean hombre. Could he be responsible for all the deaths and accidents I’ve been hearing about? If so, it must be a very powerful and resourceful organization to finance such an assassin. I sure hope Sonny is careful or he may be the Angel’s next victim. In the meantime, I’m headed for the ruins to see if I can locate Bosworth Clark. He might be able to shed some light on my investigation - if he’s still alive, that is.
However, there’s one more thing I need to do before I go to the Anasazi Ruins - I need to get a good night’s rest. I’ve had a long and strenuous day. There are times when being a P.I. can severely sap one’s strength. Today was jam packed with interviews, traveling and meditation. Tomorrow may prove even more difficult. I really don’t relish the idea of exploring the ruins, but it’s a must according to Sonny. Dreamland here I come!
--------------------
 Chapter thirteen: 2043
Chelsee’s apartment

“You know, Tex, this story is getting to be very interesting.”
“Yeah, well, it turned out to be more than interesting as time dragged on.” I said this while finishing my fourth bourbon and fifth Lucky. Or, was it my fifth bourbon and fourth Lucky? The hands of time were moving quickly and our reservation was now given to someone else. But we really didn’t care. I was in to telling the story and Chelsee was in to listening. The tale of New San Francisco and its mean streets as told by the P.I.-out-of-time Tex Murphy was more important than any meal - even at the plush Golden Pagoda.
“So, what happened at the Anasazi Ruins?” Chelsee asked excitedly.
“Well, I won’t bore you with ALL the details, but, it went something like this.
“Upon arriving, I noticed the main entrance was closed down due to reconstruction. One of the crew’s ladders was propped against an nearby wall, so I took the liberty of using it to reach several old, protruding rods near the top of the ruins. I warily walked from rod to rod in an effort to arrive at the covered archway that led directly into the ruins. As I entered, I felt like I had taken a step back in time.
“As a good little P.I., I began to scour the area for any clues that would lead me to Bosworth Clark. Besides a few snakes and scorpions, the entire region had little to offer. Or, so I thought. After many minutes I came across an old guidebook lying on the dusty ground at the base of an ancient, leafless and lifeless tree. The cover was well worn, but the contents proved helpful in identifying numerous rooms and passageways.
“Among my discoveries were several bricks spread over the ruins entire expanse. Each had a drawing on it and, according to the guidebook, each of the drawings represented one of the Anasazi’s gods. Thus the reference to them as God-bricks. Big deal. My worship of God has been similar to a brick - dull, defunct and reduced to looking at pictures. Besides the bricks, I found some long, sturdy poles, a pile of sticks, a length of old rope, a Y-shaped stick with 10 feet of rawhide attached to it, a wooden box and two very unusual wall panels.”
“Oooh, tell me about the wall panels.”
“All in good time, my dear. Be patient. I’m just getting started.”
“Well, you’re talking too slow. Speed it up a little. I haven’t got all night.”
“Is that a hint?”
“Maybe. But, for now, tell me more.”
“Well, my persistent search unveiled a large door at the top of some age-old stone steps. But, there seemed to be no way to open it. So, I consulted the guidebook. On the same page as the God-bricks there was a picture of a wall panel, identical to the one at the bottom of the steps! It mentioned a hidden corridor would open up if the God-bricks were placed in the slots of the wall panel in a certain order.
“Needless to say, I wasted no time in retracing my path and gathering as many of the bricks as I could remember, stacking them on the ground in front of the wall panel. How-
ever, the book said there were eight God-bricks and I only had five. Ascending another set of steps led me to a room called the sacrificial chamber. There I noticed a rattlesnake curled around a brick and it was NOT going to move any time soon.”
“Don’t tell me; you used one of the bananas to lure out the snake.”
“Really, Chelsee, you’re laying a brick with your lack of P.I. acumen.”
“Laying a brick? A typical Tex Murphy pun, to be sure.”
“Monkeys like bananas, snakes like mice. Hint, hint?”
“Oh, I’ve got it! You had taken along your pet toy mouse Raymond. Let’s see. You got the wooden box, propped it up with the Y-shaped stick and leather rope, wound up the mouse and set it down inside the box. The snake came out, you pulled the string and the snake was trapped. Yes?”
“Elementary, my dear Bando. That was exactly what I did. How did you guess?”
“Well, I once saw that on a Bonanza rerun. Is that where you spotted it?”
“No, smarty pants, I learned that trick in the boy scouts.”
“You trapped rattlesnakes when you were a boy scout? Wasn’t that in the days when rattlesnakes were on the endangered species list because their rattles had become popular as an aphrodisiac and getting caught with one would result in a huge fine?”
“Uh....well....(cough, cough)....uh....let’s go on with the rest of the story. Finding the other two bricks wasn’t as easy. That brings me to the second wall panel. It was located near the main entrance and consisted of three interlocking cog wheels. Above each wheel was a lever that could be pulled down or pushed up. It probably caused the wheels to rotate. On one of the cogs of each wheel was a red dot. On the wall above each wheel, but below the levers, was a corresponding red dot. I assumed that if I pulled or pushed the levers, that would cause the wheels to rotate in the hopes of lining up the red dots. No problem. A safe by any other name.
“The guidebook confirmed my assumptions, but it didn’t give me a clue as to which levers to use and/or how many times. Studying the poser thoroughly it finally came to me. I simply marked the present location of the red dots on the wall. Pulling the left lever, I counted the number of cogs on each wheel that moved. I repeated this procedure with each lever, first down, then up. After this, I reversed the process and the dots returned to the markings on the wall. Then, being the clever puzzle expert that I am, I pushed the left lever up once and the middle lever up three times. Voila! In an instant, a two foot square section of the wall opened revealing brick number seven. I grabbed it and pushed the wall section back into place.
“Now to find brick number eight. I figured it was probably right under my nose, but where?”
“If it was under your nose you would never have found it.”
“I see that your smart-alec-ometer is in high gear tonight. May I continue?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Why not indeed. Anyway, I did another complete search of the grounds and still no brick. The search made me very thirsty, so, I started to head back to my speeder. That’s when I noticed an old well. Figuring it was dry, I decided to inspect it anyway. And that’s where I found the last brick. A root to an old dead tree jutted out inside the well. An old pail was hung up on the root and in the pail was the brick. It was well out of reach, so I had to think of something. I went and got the long rope I saw earlier. Then, breaking a hook-shaped branch off the dead tree, I tied it to the rope to make a rather peculiar grappling hook.
“Back at the well, I lay prone and slowly lowered the hook over the edge. With a very skillful swing of the rope, the hook went under the pail’s handle. I quickly pulled it taut and started to raise the pail. That’s when things got interesting. As the pail neared the top of the well, I reached over to grab it. When I did, the stick snapped, causing the pail to overturn and begin to tumble down to the darkness below. With the swiftness of a cheetah, I latched onto the pail’s bottom rim. However, it was upside down! The brick was on its way to the well bottom. But, when I pulled the pail out of the well, a look inside verified the brick was still there. It had gotten stuck in the pail. With a sharp pull, it was free and I was on my way to the God-brick wall panel.”
“So, now all you had to do was place the bricks in the panel and the secret passageway would open.”
“Well, I wish it was that easy. Unfortunately, the bricks had to be placed in a certain order. Envision this: eight rows with eight slots in each row. And, according to the guidebook, the bricks could not be in the same row horizontally, vertically or diagonally. It took a while, but I finally had the bricks in their proper order.”
“But, nothing happened.”
“Have I told you this part of the story before?”
“No, but I know you. Something always goes wrong. No puzzle seems to have a simple solution.”
“For once, you’re correct. What I failed to take into consideration were the pictures on the bricks. Each ‘god’ had to be placed in order of rank and distinction. The most important ‘god’ in the top row, the least important in the bottom row.”
“How did you figure out which was which?”
“That wasn’t easy. Upon examining each brick, I determined who was the big chief god and went on down the line from there. So, in the first row, I placed the god of heaven in the seventh slot from the left; the god of earth in the second row, fourth slot from the left; god of family in the third row, second slot from the left; god of nature in the fourth row, eighth slot from the left; god of air in the fifth row, sixth slot from the left; god of water in the sixth row, first slot from the left; god of fire in the seventh row, third slot from the left; and the god of war in the bottom row, fifth slot from the left. Easy as falling down.”
“Gee, Tex, that’s pretty amazing! How did you come to those conclusions?”
“Well, as you are well aware, I have superior ethical intuitiveness as a first rate P.I. It was simply a matter of adroitly concluding each god’s caste by their own accoutrements. Then, using an advanced degree of discernment, I merely set them in their proper pecking order.”
“Impressive! However, knowing your lack of spirituality and the difficulty you have in determining the sex of the God of Christianity, I find your deductions extremely flawed and desultory.”
“I haven’t insulted anyone!”
“No, no, sweetie, not INsultory, DEsultory. You know, shallow, superficial, flimsy?”
“Oh, why didn’t you just say so.”
“I wanted you to elevate yourself as much as possible before I brought you down. By the way, on what page of the guidebook did you find the order of the gods?”
“Uh…page twelve, if you must know. Anyway, when the last brick was in place, I heard a loud sliding noise. The huge stone door at the top of the stone steps opened wide. After ascending the steps, I entered a long narrow corridor. About a hundred feet away was another set of steps leading to a smaller corridor. That’s when I ran into a snag. That corridor ended at a deep chasm where a bridge once spanned it. But, the bridge was gone. I leaned over the edge to see how deep it was. At least three hundred feet down, maybe more. I imagined the Anasazi throwing their enemies..... Crunch! The ledge gave way, causing me to lose balance. I was about to find out just how deep it was. Desperate to stay alive, I turned like an over-wound top and reached for the new edge of the cliff. Barely able to grab it with my right hand, I hung there, dangling by my fingertips. My life flashed before my eyes. My feet were frantically feeling for any rock or root or anything to get a foothold. Just as my hand slipped free, my left foot found a rock to steady myself. But, it was loose too! I had one chance and one chance only to save my hide. I pushed with all my leg strength and grabbed the ledge. That’s when the rock broke loose and fell to its new resting place. Pulling myself to safety, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I brushed off the dirt from my clothes and surveyed the situation - from a distance.
“The long poles came to mind as well as the pile of sticks I saw earlier. Maybe I could erect a ladder that would act as a makeshift bridge. All I needed was something to tie the rungs to the poles. The small room between the two corridors had several leather strips scattered about the floor. Must have been the local jerky hut. An hour later the ladder was ready.
“Using the hand over hand method, I extended the ladder to the other side. It barely made it, the last rung hooking over a large rock. Since this wood was very old, I had some doubts about crossing the ravine. But, in lieu of the fact that I just had a brush with death, I figured I was due for a break.”
“You were due for something, that’s for sure.”
“Cute. However, the break I needed was different from the one I was expecting. With the sticks and poles creaking with each move, I was beginning to wonder if this was a bad idea. Like in BAD idea. About half way across, the ladder rent in two. My hands were tightly gripped to the front part of the ladder and my feet were maintaining contact with the back half. I was the only thing holding the two pieces together. Once again I was facing death. Sweat was forming on my brow. I was expending a lot of muscle power just trying to keep the two halves together. In about five more seconds, I was going to be iguana meat. Frantic for a solution, I looked at the far wall of the chasm. It appeared to have been repaired at one point, so I figured it might be a little soft. Closing my eyes, I released my feet from the back half of the ladder, causing it to crash on the rocks below. At the same time, I was hurtling towards the wall. I brought my knees to my chest, pushing my feet forward. The impact of hitting the wall nearly caused me to lose my grip. But, I hung on for dear life and, sure enough, the wall gave way, just enough for me to fall inside. The rock and the ladder fell behind me, making a din I would not soon forget. Twice, in a span of mere minutes, I had faced death and won. I sure hope this doesn’t happed again, was my only thought.
“I found myself inside a small room with a steel door to my left and another steel door to my front. That one had a motion sensor above it, the kind used to automatically open the door when someone approached. It also doubled as a warning device to alert the person on the other side. Could this be Bosworth Clark’s workplace? If so, was he still here? I hope so. I have a lot of questions to ask him.
“That’s when I noticed some unusual items on the floor as well as a trail made as though something heavy had been dragged out through the door. An eerie feeling crept into my bones and a morbid thought into my head. Among the unusual items was a pocket watch, some loose change and a pair of broken sunglasses repaired with a piece of electrical tape. If these belonged to Bosworth Clark, then my suspicions of his probable demise grew larger.
“So, I approached the door and walked in front of the motion sensor. Nothing happened. I waved my arms and still nothing happened. This was not good. That’s when I noticed the electrical panel next to the door. It seemed to have been tampered with for the cover was only partially secured. I didn’t have my pocket knife with me - it has a screwdriver attachment - so I had to improvise. Using a dime from the change I found, the panel cover was off in seconds flat. But, the wires had been cut! Someone didn’t want anyone getting inside.
“Not to be deterred, certainly not by an obstacle so simplistic, I removed the winder from the watch and out popped a small spring. I wrapped the cut wires to each end of the spring. Other than getting a small jolt, the door still did not open. Maybe it needed to be insulated, I pondered. So, I removed the tape from Clark’s sunglasses and wrapped it around the spring. Bingo! The door slid open.
“With due precautions I entered the room on the other side. Immediately nausea edged up into my throat.”
“What did you see?”
“Blood - a lot of blood - all over the floor. There was some on the monitor counters as well. It was sickening. Something very bad happened here and I was determined to find out exactly what it was. The place was devoid of bodies and that explained the trail outside the door. A body HAD been dragged out. The question was: where was Bosworth Clark?
“Since I was here I felt the need to perform a thorough inspection of the room. There were a number of monitors on the west wall. Flipping a switch on the main console turned them on. It looked like some kind of satellite system. On the south wall were some compartments that I could not open. Just as well. They looked ominous. However, on the end of the monitor console was a note secured by a magnet. The magnet went into my pocket as those things are always useful. The note had one word on it: TCKACHEME. The name of an Anasazi deity? Or something even less obvious?
“Since my stomach was still queasy, I thought it would be a good idea to feed it something. I remembered the bananas. A minute later I was feeling a bit better. A banana is even better than that pink stuff - PeptoDismol. And, if I felt out of sorts again, I still had one banana left.”
“Tex, this constant reference to bananas has me confused. Why mention them?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Let me finish this part of the story first. On the north end of the room was a security-protect computer like the one at Linsky’s warehouse, except this one had a color-coded keypad on it. Touching one of the colored buttons made a musical tone. As I pressed each one, they all made different sounds. I figured if you pressed them in a certain order, something really cool would happen. In the meantime, a small cabinet on the east wall had a passcard reader in it. That meant there was a passcard nearby. At least I hoped there was. Maybe it would be similar to Linsky’s.
“Over in the northeast corner was a cot. Under it was a CD player. You know the kind. It could play multiple CDs and, using the control buttons, you could switch from one CD to the other. Anyway, I theorized that if there was a CD player, there should be some CDs. I didn’t see any, which was disturbing. Why have a CD player and no CDs? As I was thinking on this, I noticed two smoke detectors on opposite walls. Based on my training in the security industry, I knew that wasn’t kosher.”
“Why? Smoke detectors are common throughout the world. Why would you suspect these?”
“Good question, so, I’ll give you a good answer. First, smoke detectors are most effective when placed on the ceiling, not the wall. Since the ceiling was conducive to holding the detectors, I thought that was strange. Second, a room this small only needed one detector. The average smoke covers about 900 square feet. Clark’s workplace was smaller than that. Pulling them off the walls and examining them closely confirmed my suspicion. Each smoke had a miniature camera on the inside. Taking the tiny CDs out of the detectors and placing them into the CD player was my next move. My only concern was the possibility that the info on these had been recorded over. I know a CD can hold a lot of gigs of data, but how long had it been since the recording began? I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I turned on the player, put the back button on continuous and watched the vids fly by. What I saw next made my skin crawl.”
“Oh oh, I’m almost afraid to hear the rest.”
“And well you should. Using the A and B switches on the control pad, I watched, in consternation, the execution of Bosworth Clark. First, when the killer approached the outer door an alarm went off alerting Clark to someone’s presence. He quickly arose from his chair and walked briskly to the computer. Although I couldn’t see what he was doing, I could hear the musical tones from the computer’s keypad. Shortly after sitting back in his chair, a man entered and walked straight to Clark. The man was about six feet tall, 200 pounds, well dressed, handsome and, unless I’m grossly mistaken, he was quite physically fit.”
“How would you know?”
“Please, Chelsee, this isn’t easy.”
“Sorry, Tex. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“You’re forgiven. But, I’ll never forgive the man who entered Clark’s lab. Walking straight up to Bosworth, he handed him a revolver, pulled another gun and said, ‘We’re gonna play a little game.’ By his demeanor and facial expression I could tell this guy was psychotic. Could this be the nut case Sonny mentioned in his letter? At the time I wasn’t sure, but what happened next convinced me of his identity. Apparently, there was only one bullet in the gun he handed to Clark. Holding a fully loaded gun to Clark’s head, he forced Bosworth to keep pulling the trigger until it discharged, ending Clark’s life. If that’s not bad enough, I switched to camera B as he dragged Clark from the lab. The hit man was smiling. He actually seem to enjoy forcing other people to blow out their own brains! That was truly disgusting.”
“I’m really sorry for joking earlier, Tex. I didn’t know it was going to be so bad.”
“It’s alright, Chelsee. That was a long time ago.”
“But, it still bothers you.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I mean, here’s a guy, married, father of five, trying to make a decent living in a cruel and heartless world, and along comes a guy like Slade to put an end to it.”
“So, it was Big Jim Slade who killed Clark?”
“Well, according to the info from the AID, that was his preferred method of execution. He called it forced Russian Roulette. So, to answer your question, yes.” I take another drink of bourbon and light another Lucky. Telling this part of the story to anyone can be discouraging and depressing.
“Tex, that wasn’t the end of it, was it?”
“No. I still had a job to do. I watched the camera CDs for a few more seconds. After killing Clark, Slade had the gall to reenter the lab, sit at Clark’s dining table and smoke a few cigarettes! Can you believe it? Anyway, I decided to check out the ashtray for clues. The butts were inconsequential, but the matchbook was interesting. It was from some lodge. It had partially burned to the point where I couldn’t quite make out the location. That, too, was frustrating. If I could track down Slade, that would have made a real nice addition to my resume.
“Slade did something else I found unusual. He tore apart the lab, overturning chairs, searching every nook and cranny. At the time I had no idea what he was looking for.
“Next, I went to the computer and gazed long and hard at that musical keypad. To assist me, I replayed the CDs several times in order to get the right tones in the right order. After a couple of attempts, I finally hit the jackpot. The drawer opened and there it was - Clark’s passcard. That’s what he hid in the drawer. It seems these passcards have some importance. That is what Slade must have been looking for.
“The passcard was earmarked ‘G’ and was identical to Linsky’s. I attached the passcard reader to the computer and swiped the passcard. The prompt asked for a password. Immediately I recalled the note I had found earlier. The word TCKACHEME was staring back at me. Those letters didn’t do much, but I decided to type them in anyhow. The computer said ‘Invalid Password.’ I continued to stare at those bold, upper case letters. Then it hit me - it was a word scramble. Rearrange the letters - like I did at Linsky’s warehouse - and I would have the password. And, since there were a lot of references to the game of chess in my investigation, I spent a couple of minutes trying different combinations. Finally, the word CHECKMATE appeared. I typed it in and BOOM!, instant access.”
“What did you find?”
“Well, if memory serves, it went something like this: Aug. 3 was the start date and Nov. 10 was the end date. Project goals and milestones were:
Aug. 24 - Outline for Implementation of Interface;
Sep. 15 - Stage 1, programming complete;
Oct. 6 - Stage 2, programming complete;
Oct. 13 - Satellite Relay Link Established (Alpha);
Oct. 27 - Completed Interface (Beta);
Nov. 10 - Testing Complete.
“Besides these deadlines, the computer showed an animated flyby of a satellite in outer space. There was writing on it, but I couldn’t quite make out what it said. Anyway, I finally left, feeling a little down after watching the CDs of Clark’s death. It seems I’m always one step behind this killer, assuming, of course, that he was responsible for the four names I have gathered so far. Val Davis died in a speeder crash, Rona Morgan died of accidental poisoning; Linsky committed suicide, supposedly; and Bosworth Clark was forced to execute himself. Was Slade responsible for all of these? How did he get Linsky to jump off the bridge? Did he have a gun on him and the witnesses, because of the fog, just didn’t spot him? If his method of execution was forced Russian Roulette, how did he cause the deaths of Davis and Morgan? What are all these references to the game of chess? Who is Overlord? The more data I accumulated, the more questions arose.
“I exited through the other steel door in the room where I made my spectacular entrance. There was a long corridor that finally led to the outside; at the other end of the ruins. An hour later, I was back at my speeder and heading back to San Francisco.”
“So, what was your next stop?”
“CAPRICORN and Wanda Peck.”
“Figures.”
“Purely professional visit, that’s all,” I said aloud. Then, in an undertone, I added, “Although I wish it was pleasure.”
“Excuse me? What was that last remark?”
“Ahem, I said it was a real pressure dealing with her.” My fingers were crossed out of Chelsee’s sight. “I had to find out if she discovered anything noteworthy regarding the photo I dropped off.”
“Was your visit revealing?”
No, no, no Murphy, you’re not touching that one. You’ve come too far with Chelsee to ruin it now. “Actually, it was quite illuminating. Let me tell you what happened.......”
------------------
 Chapter fourteen: Saturday Nov. 14, 2037

Going back to CAPRICORN Headquarters after my excruciating excursion to the Anasazi Ruins was like a waltz in the park. Speaking of waltzing, Wanda Peck came to the reception room with the air of a prima-donna-ballerina-diva-par-excellance. Boy, this woman is something. Her very presence causes goose-bumps to arise all over my body. It was like the effects of a nitroglycerine pill when it explodes into action. What a rush! Okay, Murphy, it’s now or never. Ask her to marry you.
“I thought I’d stop by and see whether you’d finished your examination of that photograph of Linsky.” Not exactly a marriage proposal. Besides, she’d probably say she was married to her work. I know the type.
“We did, but we only found one thing of any interest. Both Klaus and Linsky were wearing ID badges with the STG logo on them. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, not yet,” I respond, not exactly lying; more like a gross exaggeration. I am aware of the STG letters on the passcards, but I won’t share that info with anyone until I know more. “If you’ve got a couple of minutes, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Sure.”
“What’s up with the STG logo?” Good place to start.
“I’ve heard of only one reference to STG. It was in a letter sent to me anonymously about a month ago.”
“An anonymous letter? From who?” Oh, that was profound, Murphy. Sheesh!
“The letter was sent by someone calling him or herself the ‘Poisoned Pawn.’ I would have figured it was written by some psychopath, but there was enough verifiable infor-
mation to make me take it seriously. The letter said that there was a project called STG which was in the process of being swallowed up by the Law and Order Party. The letter advised us to check out John Klaus, STG and the Law and Order Party’s connection to it.” How does she keep a straight face with me ogling her?
“Well, that’s really involved,” was what I said, but Holy Cow was what I was thinking. Some of my research was starting to come together. Linsky, Davis, Morgan and Clark may have all been working together; the passcards I’ve found thus far have STG lettering on them; Linsky and Klaus appear to have been buddy-buddy; Klaus is connected to the Law and Order Party. And, to top it all off, Wanda receives an anonymous letter inferring the connection between them, not to mention another reference to chess.
Wanda notices my far off thoughts and asks, “Is there something you want to tell me, Mr. Murphy?”
“Uh, no, nothing tangible, as yet. You said the letter mentioned someone called the ‘Poisoned Pawn?’”
“I have no idea who that is. We examined the letter for clues to the author’s identity, but came up dry. He or she did say that we could contact them through someone named Jorge Valdez.”
“And who is Jorge Valdez?”
“There are a handful of Jorge Valdezes in the area as well as several that I’m sure are not listed. I’ve checked out the ones I could find, but none of them appeared to be the one I was looking for.”
“Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ll do some personal research and let you know if I come up with anything else. If I do, I’ll be back.” Where have I heard that line before?

I fly directly back to my office and immediately dial AID. “What topic would you like us to research?” asked the automated voice. I punch in Jorge Valdez and STG. I didn’t really expect much in the way of data, but I was optimistic that my efforts would provide even the smallest of clues.
Fax #1 told me what Wanda and I already knew: there were 23 matches for Jorge Valdez in the New San Francisco area. Only 23, huh? And no addresses or phone numbers. Gee, that should make it easy.
Fax #2 turned up eleven matches world wide. There was a Satellite Tele-video Group in central Ohio; Sunspot Theater Group in Florida; Song Ti Granaries in China (they’re the miracle wheat producers); Sure Thing Gyro in England; just to name a few. However, the one that caught my eye was the last listed. It was called Security Technologies Group based here in California, a subsidiary of Gideon Enterprises. But that wasn’t the clincher. It opened for business in January this year and closed in early November. Coincidence? Maybe, but a little too obvious for me. Clark’s work was finished by November 10th, just four days ago. And he was killed around that time. I need to go back and ask Wanda some more questions.
Fortunately, Wanda was still at her office.
“Back so soon?” she asks. Perhaps she’s loosening up a bit. Should I start asking her the questions or should I just stare flirtatiously for a while?
“I just couldn’t stay away from you for so long.” There, I did it. It’s out in the open.
Totally ignoring my flirtatious remark, she asks, “So, how is your investigation going?”
Well, now that you mention it, my investigation has led me to believe that you will fall head over heels for me. We will get married, have lots of kids, a small house in the country with white picket fencing, and we’ll live happily ever after.
“I found out some things that might interest you,” was all I could marshal.
“I thought you might. You seem a resourceful and persistent fellow.” Was that slur aimed at my earlier remark?
“What can you tell me about Gideon Enterprises?” I already know it’s one of the world’s largest security companies. What I don’t know is the relationship between Gideon Enterprises and my case, if there is one.
“Gideon Enterprises had a little shake up recently. The Chairman of the Board, Frank Schimming, pulled a coup on J. Saint Gideon, who’s now practically out of a job. It was all legal, but underhanded.” Big deal. Millionaires in cat fights doesn’t phase me. Still....
“I’ve heard of J. Saint Gideon. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“Gideon helped us design some of our most valuable and top secret surveillance equipment. We even invited him to join our organization, but he said he was too old for the cloak and dagger business.” She smiled faintly with that last quip. Nonetheless, the part about surveillance equipment piqued my interest. As I recall, Bosworth Clark was working on a project involving that type of equipment. Coincidence? Hmmm.
“Okay, Ms. Peck, what, if anything, do I need to know about Frank Schimming?”
“Rumors have circulated that Schimming is connected to the Law and Order Party. If that’s the case, we’re gonna have a hard time doing anything to stop them. Gideon Enter-
prises has more money and power than it knows what to do with. They would make an opposing enemy.” Those last words were spoken with a defeatist connotation. It seems that Wanda is worried about the relation between L & O and Gideon Enterprises. Maybe I should be worried as well.
Let’s see. CAPRICORN is investigating the Law and Order Party; John Klaus is the power behind that nefarious group; he was pals with Linsky; they wore STG badges; STG may deal with surveillance equipment; Gideon Enterprises deals with that kind of stuff; and Schimming, who has connections with L & O, just overthrew the head of Gideon Enterprises. This is getting scary. My mind is reeling with one notion after another. What about Overlord? Didn’t Wanda say before that she heard that term in association with Law and Order? Could Schimming...or, Klaus... be Overlord? That may be a stretch right now, but I won’t completely discount it until I have more information.
I thank Wanda and head back to my office. It takes a concerted effort to keep my mind on my driving. Thoughts are whizzing around the inside of my brain like tse tse flies in heat.
As I enter my office, I hear the all too familiar digital voice advising me that I have a fax. Not now, Mom, I’m hot on a case. I peruse the fax anyway and am quite surprised to see Frank Schimming’s direct number staring back at me. The fax was simply signed, ‘A friend.’ Yeah, right. He or she wants me to call Frank Schimming on his direct line and they call them self my friend? We shall see.
However, it may be the course of wisdom to make the call. The facts, as supplied me, are still fresh in my mind. What’s the old adage? Strike while the iron is hot? Yeah, that’s it. So, without further ado, I make the call. It’s plain as the nose on my face that I will need to exercise caution dealing with this Schimming character. If he was able to legally, but underhandedly, overthrow the prez of Gideon Enterprises, he will have no difficulty in manhandling me. Except for one thing - I’m a Murphy.
Still, I need a plan of action. One thing’s for sure. If I tell him I’m a PI, he’ll probably think that stands for ‘pathetic individual.’ So, why don’t I make up a little white lie?
“Yes,” asks a balding, fiftyish, conservatively dressed man, annoyingly looking over the top of his reading glasses who implies that I have intruded on his privacy.
Confidently, I answer with, “Mr. Schimming? My name is Murphy. I’d like to ask you a few questions about STG.” I realize right away that I need to deal with him on his own level. Anything else would imply cowardice and he would chomp me to bits. He wasn’t an imposing figure, but he definitely had an imposing demeanor.
“Is this an official investigation?” he demands.
“You better believe it, pal,” I shoot back at him with an air of Murphy-style confidence.
Without a hitch, he challenges my authority. “I believe it’s within my rights to ask for whom you work?” I hate it when someone looks over the top of their spectacles to talk with me. If you’re going to look over the top of them, why wear them at all? Sheesh!
I better think of something quick. And I do.
“Well, I’ll give you a hint. It’s between Sagittarius and Aquarius.” Not only do I hope that’s correct, I hope he knows his zodiac signs.
Removing his glasses and placing them in his inside suit coat pocket, he sidles to his massive, sumptuous chair. Taking off his jacket, he lays it over the back of the chair and proceeds to take a seat. Cool, calm and collected.
“So, you’re with CAPRICORN. I thought you people had gotten tired of pestering me.” So, he’s talked with them before. Curious.
“We never get tired of pestering; that’s our motto,” and I hope it is.
Sighing with annoyance, he asks, “What is it you want this time?”
Not wasting any time, I launch directly into my interrogation. He knows nothing of several names I mention and he seems to be developing a short fuse. “Get to the point, if you have one.” Yeah, good idea.
The mere mention of Rona Morgan actually made him smile, I think. She was a top engineering consultant for Gideon Enterprises at one time. However, she lit out on her own and started her own business. I knew that much.
Taking a big chance, I decided to go for the brass ring. “What can you tell me about J. Saint Gideon?” and I hold my breath.
Without hesitating, he replies, “Mr. Gideon founded this corporation and brought it to prominence.” Nice platitude. “And he did this despite mediocre business skills which have diminished along with his general mental state over the past several years.” So much for platitudes. “He became obsessed with pet projects and was leading the company in a counter productive direction. For that reason, the Board of Directors saw fit to limit his authority in business matters.” A.K.A. a coup d’etat.
“So, what does Mr. Gideon think about all of this?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit from someone other than nurses and wheelchair repairmen.” What a nice man! Not! “I’ll let you know where to find him.” Whoa! Get out the notebook, muy pronto. He proceeds to rattle off Gideon’s home address. I know he lives somewhere north of San Francisco, in a secluded area. But, now I have the exact location. What a stroke of luck!
I ask him to tell me a little about himself and he, in effect, tells me to go fly a kite. Okay, let’s move on. He knows John Klaus, supposedly only on a social basis, but he doesn’t recognize Linsky as I show him the photo. He seems proud of the fact that he is now Chairman of the Board at Gideon Enterprises. He tells me they are the world’s foremost innovator and implementer of surveillance equipment. Besides all of that, they are a parent company to dozens of smaller firms, including research facilities. Now that’s very interesting. The correlation between L & O and Gideon Enterprises is becoming more apparent. My suspicion meter just went up two notches.
In lieu of the research facilities comment, I decide to ask if he knows anything about STG.
“If I remember correctly,” a term normally used when one is trying to throw another off track, “STG was researched based and probably more of a write-off than anything. I know it’s no longer in existence and was unimportant to say the least.” Yeah, I bet. It’s no longer in existence because you have finished your research. And now you and the L & O Party are going to rule the world. Well, maybe only the USA.
Now, for the coup d’ grace, “Who or what is Overlord?”
“I haven’t heard of it,” was his direct response. No flinching, no clearing the throat, no break in eye contact. Nothing to suggest that he is even remotely connected to the STG project. Either he is telling the truth or he’s the world’s greatest prevaricator.
“Well, Mr. Schimming, I would like to thank you....”, click, he hangs up. Mr. Personality he’s not. But, I did get Gideon’s home address and that’s my next stop. I look forward to meeting the man known throughout San Francisco as ‘Mr. Security.’

On the way to Gideon’s hideaway I take time to meditate on the case as it is unfolding before my eyes. Carl Linsky commits suicide and Sylvia says he didn’t. Is that because she drove him mad? Did she cause him to jump from the bridge? Is she that desperate for money? Or is she merely an innocent bystander, as the saying goes?
Val Davis dies in a speeder accident. No biggie. Happens all the time. So why is there a little voice in the deep recesses of my mind whispering that that was no accident at all? Is it because she may have been working on the STG project with Linsky? The same Linsky who committed suicide? Because she was mentioned in a letter by the same Linsky? Because the same Linsky asked Sonny to check on her whereabouts?
Rona Morgan, top engineering consultant for Gideon Enterprises, dies of accidental poisoning. So what! Accidents are common in that field of work, especially when working on new or experimental projects. The little voice in my head is gone, replaced by bells and whistles. How does someone accidentally poison them self? Because she may have been working with Linsky on the STG project? And with Val Davis? The same Davis who died in a speeder accident? The same Linsky who leapt from a bridge?
Of course, I’m surmising regarding their association with the STG project. In fact, I don’t have any hard evidence that the STG project even exists! Maybe Carl Linsky was really going mad and jumped because he wanted to end it all. Maybe Val Davis was a lousy driver. Maybe Rona Morgan would get so involved in her work that she really did accidentally poison herself.
But, what about Bosworth Clark? Now here’s a situation that begs for a different answer. Mild mannered computer programmer, father of five, amateur musician, trying to make ends meet and provide a living for his family. Goes to work one day and completely disappears. He had a STG passcard; I know because I’ve got it now, along with Linsky’s. And I saw a video of a hired professional coercing Clark into taking his own life. Who would hire a hitman to kill such a meek and innocuous man? Was the passcard that important? Because he was working on a satellite surveillance program? Because he was mentioned in a letter, too?
And what about the passcards? One guy cuts his into several pieces; hides them in two different locations. Another guy hides his in a secret drawer that could only be opened by a special tone/touchpad combination. Do I consider myself fortunate to have two of these cards in my possession? Or, should I feel threatened? And what about Val Davis and Rona Morgan? Did they have passcards? If so, where are they? In the hands of the hitman? If he was responsible for their deaths? I mean, Slade searched Clark’s lab. Was he looking for Bosworth’s passcard?
Frank Schimming and John Klaus - now there’s a match made in Hell. Reminds me of Leopold and Loeb; Hitler and Mussolini; Darth Vader and Emperor Palpatine; George Steinbrenner and Billy Martin. Except for one inescapable fact: Klaus and Schimming are virtual unknowns as far as the general public is concerned. That’s the scary part. And let’s say, for sake of argument, there really is a secret project called STG. Why would the Law and Order Party be so interested in absorbing it? Is Frank Schimming backing this endeavor? Does Gideon Enterprises have a personal stake in this coup? Could these so-
called men of high standards and positions of responsibility be the evil behind the deaths of four persons? Suicide, murder, accidents? Or, am I simply making a mountain out of a mole hill? Or, worse yet, have I stumbled onto a mole hill at the foot of a mountain? And, if Klaus and Schimming are NOT behind the curtain pulling the strings, who is? Have I yet to meet the real master-planner? Is Overlord a person, a group, or a thing?
Needless to say, my head is spinning. Sorting out this web of intrigue is causing me internal consternation. One thing is for sure, however. Wanda Peck and CAPRICORN are following up leads involving the Law and Order Party. In fact, they are actively pursuing an investigation in L&O’s activities, hoping to bring them down. That’s enough for me to continue my own personal investigation.
Again, though, maybe I’m just being overly suspicious; maybe I should be; maybe I should pay attention to my driving. I zip right past Gideon’s mansion. Before I left I plugged the coordinates to his house into my on-board travel computer, but I forgot to set the reminder switch. It would have beeped softly when I neared his location.
I do a 180 and fly into his compound. Absolutely impressive. Secluded, difficult to find even for someone stumbling along in the forest. It sits high up on a rocky crag, complete-
ly imbedded in a clump of trees, shrubbery and other foliage. Age-old ivy covered the outer walls like the barriers of Wrigley Field. I can see why it would be easy to pass up, especially flying at 1,000 feet.
As I land the speeder in the circular drive and exit the vehicle, I notice several cameras garnishing the eaves and peaks of the mansion. If it weren’t for the colorful greenery growing everywhere, coupled with lush gardens of exotic flowers and ferns, fenced in by well groomed hedges, I’d say this place reminds me of a penitentiary.
Approaching the main door, a voice bids me welcome and asks for identification. I hold my new PI license up to the camera portion of the vid-com and shortly thereafter I hear the familiar click of the door strike being released. Entering a huge foyer with a cathedral ceiling, I’m met by a man in a wheelchair. Gideon himself? No servants? Hmmm.
After exchanging greetings and friendly handshakes, we transfer to a receiving room, I think. Difficult to say. In a house like this, one has to be a genius just to remember the names of all the rooms. Maybe that’s why I didn’t pass the entrance exam to the Mensa group. We only had a ten room house - living room, dinning room, kitchen and family room on the main floor; four bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs; and a rec room in the basement, which didn’t qualify as a room because it was the basement. Boggles the mind.
Speaking of the mind being boggled, there’s an air of pleasantness about Mr. Gideon. Although he’s immersed with the finer things of life, indeed, he appears to be the very personification of opulence, he has the ability to put someone totally at ease. Good. My anxiety level had reached the danger zone and I am apprehensive at channeling our forth-
with conversation to my interrogation. But it might not be as bad as I had originally anticipated.
“Nice little place you got here,” I said, eyeing the walls, ceiling, stained-glass panels and art work.
“You must find it ostentatious. I admit, I do as well.” Gideon’s demure was equally impressive as his mansion. Late fifties, handsome, brown hair streaked with silver, clean shaven, confident, but not overbearing or condescending, like Schimming. And his voice! The air of English aristocracy. Perfect articulation accentuated with impeccable pronun-
ciation.
“Did you buy this house as is?”
“No, actually, I did not. Incipiently, it belonged to an English earl. Built in the 12th century, I bought it from the British government. As you probably know, the monarchy of England has had huge costs overruns for the past several decades. After WWIII, the crown deemed it prudent to auction off a number of estates, including castles, stables, servants quarters and so forth. Once in my possession, I hired an international remodeling and transporting firm to take it apart, quite literally, stone by stone, brick by brick, piece by piece. They shipped it here to be reassembled in this quiet part of California’s northern forest. The entire process was long and meticulous, but well worth it from my stand point. Upon completion, I spent years furnishing it with the trinkets and tokens you now behold.” Trinkets and tokens? Humble and modest, too! Just one of these trinkets could keep me in my office for the rest of my life.
“I hope this next question doesn’t embarrass you, but, where are the servants?”
“Ha! No servants, Mr. Murphy. I live alone here and wholly enjoy my solitude.”
“Aren’t you concerned for your own welfare? I mean, this place is a thief’s paradise.”
“I appreciate your deep feelings, but they are unfounded. My fortune has provided me with a fully automated, self-sufficient existence. I suppose my disability has given me an aversion to reliance on others. I want for nothing. Except, perhaps, human companion-
ship. And that only after my somewhat forced semi-retirement.” Those last words said with a tinge of angst and bitterness.
I was awestruck by the size and decor of the room we were in. Two fireplaces, one at each end, provided a homey atmosphere in which to carry on casual conversation. Although I entered the house with a bit of apprehension, yes, even a smidgen of fear, I now felt totally at ease. Between Gideon’s empathy for others and the crackle of the cherry wood coming from the fireplace, I felt completely relaxed. Even the majestic stained glass windows could not lessen my mood.
Gideon continued, “Besides, Gideon Enterprises defines state-of-the-art with regard to security systems. I am surrounded, perhaps imprisoned, by the very finest electronic moat. No, I don’t worry about my safety, though I thank you for your concern. Now, to what do I owe this welcome visit?” Thoughtful, kind, empathetic, considerate - a man’s man, if there ever was one. I can only imagine what it would be like working for him. In fact, if more corporate executives adopted Gideon’s approach, friction between the white and blue collar factions would probably dissolve completely. Now that I think about it, there would be no ‘collar’ distinction at all! Impressive.
“I’m investigating the death of Carl Linsky,” I answer straight-forwardly. Then a thought occurred to me. Since Schimming admitted there was an STG division to Gideon Enterprises, why not act as though I’m aware of Linsky’s connection to Gideon’s company. “He was an employee in your corporation.”
“Oh, no, no. Gideon Enterprises is no longer mine, I’m afraid. I’m sure that Frank Schimming would be a better source of information than I.” It caught me momentarily off guard at first, but, he didn’t answer my question. Rather, he deftly avoided it. Could that be intentional, or is he just pre-occupied with Schimming’s coup?
“I already talked to Frank Schimming. He was about as helpful as a DMV employee in the middle of his two week notice.”
A quick smile broke out upon his face. It faded just as quickly. “Well, that doesn’t sur-
prise me. I won’t mince words,” his face hardened as though he were about to enter the field of verbal battle, “I don’t like Schimming. My complete trust in him was repaid with his exploiting my lack of management acumen, then usurping my position as head of Gideon.” My own fellow feeling began to permeate my heart and mind. Gideon was clearly upset and I don’t blame him. How would anyone feel if they built a company from scratch, took it to the top of the commercial world, and then had it rent from their grasp by a so-called friend? I know how I would feel, that’s for sure.
“But, you’re still president of the corporation.”
“Oh, yes, yes! But I have no more real authority to run my company than the king of England has to run his country. I’m merely a figurehead, nothing more.” The open sore of forced semi-retirement was beginning to ooze infectious pus. I was starting to get angry myself. I already don’t like Schimming, but now I was beginning to loathe the man.
Through clenched teeth I said, “Why don’t you just sack him, as the English say?” A hopeless laugh popped out from Gideon’s throat.
“Even if I could, what would be the point? My time has passed. I’m as outdated as this antique,” he said, patting the arm of the prehistoric wheelchair. “Such is the cutthroat nature of business. Though I dare say the world itself has become nothing more than a business, run by a select few.” Oh great! We just moved from commercialism to politics. I may never get to ask any questions if he gets me started on world affairs. Still, I’m a bit surprised at his defeatist attitude. Gideon doesn’t impress me as a loser or one who gives up so easily. Well, I’m a Murphy and we’re certainly no losers.
“I’m not sure I agree, Mr. Gideon. I think there are a lot of people out there who want to make the world a better place.” Gideon eyed me incredulously. But, sensing an oppor-
tunity to meet my challenge, he quickly recovered.
“Oh? And you, my fine friend, how do you intend to make the world a better place?” A head-on question the answer to which I did not have. But, I do believe that if enough people care, the world could be a better place to live in. I’m just not sure about all the details; in fact, I really hadn’t given it much thought.
“I don’t know. Keep an open mind, respect others, buy girl scout cookies.” Sheesh! What a dumb response. Girl scout cookies? Does that answer qualify me as an intellectual idiot?
“You think that will make a difference?” Back at ya, bozo.
“I think if enough people care, it just might catch on.” All in all, a hopeless hope. Now he will probably chop me up into chaff and let the winds of mediocrity carry me away.
“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding his head in mock agreement. “I used to think like you at one time, but idealism costs nothing and I lived on it for many years. But, its taste is bittersweet. It’s, in large part, the reason why I can no longer walk.” Emphasizing his point, Gideon wheeled his chair away from the fire’s warmth and ended up near a large array of stained glass windows. Settling there, he prepared an oration for my benefit. But, considering my stupid answer to his question regarding the world’s future, he had not yet begun to belittle me. I don’t think it’s in his nature. I’m thankful for that.
“You’d like to hear what happened, wouldn’t you?” Whether I did or not was irrelevant. He was determined to tell his story in spite of any objections from moi.
“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. You don’t have to tell me anything,” I lied. Actually, I was dying to hear his life story. I was just being nice.
“Oh I’ve been in this damn cage for more years than I care to remember. I’ve had to grow accustomed to it.” Rising out of my chair, I walked towards Gideon and took a seat next to him. With a deep sigh, he began telling his yarn.
“It was 2013,” he started, looking off to the side. His mind was working its magic, recalling details to share with me. “I was in Geneva to attend a covert meeting of UN operatives. There were fourteen of us. And at least one was a traitor armed with an explosive device. I was the only survivor.” Traitors and Gideon go together like politics and corruption. Too bad.
“Did you find out who it was?”
“No. It could have been any one of a score of countries or organizations. Well, I don’t suppose it matters anymore. It was the beginning of the end. There are no heroes any more, only villains of varying degree.” His distaste for the past was becoming more apparent as the tale progressed. Maybe I should try to detour the direction it’s heading.
“What about CAPRICORN? You support what they do, don’t you?” Wanda Peck even offered him a position.
“Oh, CAPRICORN does what they do, but they’re merely fighting the fine fight. Greed and corruption have the upper hand.” No argument there. “When I was younger, I sincerely believed we could achieve a semblance of global order and harmony. Humpf! That was only the foolish dream of a youthful idealist. Once I was crippled, I was no longer of any use. No, no, I was turned loose into the world, a cruel and deadly steeplechase where survival was a matter of social Darwinism. I was lost,” he said, almost on the verge of tears. “I believed that my handicap had denied me my destiny.” He swung his chair around, venting his angst like a gang member on cocaine.
“Years and years passed before I realized that I still had much to offer. With little more than a plan, I laid the foundations of Gideon Enterprises. Among the mutant population, I found other social misfits whose skills and talents had been overshadowed by their physical abnormalities.” He now turned to face me again. I felt like a priest in a confes-
sional, hearing a long overdue unbosoming.
“Oh, those were difficult times. We were openly ridiculed. Finding investors and finan-
cing was an often humiliating series of rejections. How could someone like myself, a cripple, ever hope to accomplish such a venture?” A rhetorical question, if ever there was one. Also, he was swiveling his chair, similar to that of a person pacing nervously.
“But, eventually we did succeed, becoming the wealthiest and most powerful corporation of its type in the world. I had recaptured the idealism of my youth, the belief that through sacrifice, commitment and hard work, anything was possible.” His face was beaming as he recalled those days of wine and roses. However, his countenance quickly changed to one of torment and grief.
Closing his eyes, he started up again. “But, then it happened again. In the blink of an eye, all those years of investment and careful nurturing were torn from me by thieves and liars masquerading as board members and stockholders. And now, towering over them all is Frank Schimming! His disregard for integrity is matched only by his worship of divi-
dends and profit margins.” Gideon’s voice, fueled by animosity and disheartenment, was rising in pitch, pace and power. Sort of like listening to a rousing rendition of Ravel’s Bolero.
“So....so, nothing has happened,” voice transforming to a pleading tone just above a whisper. “I have come full circle. And, once again I’m unwanted, unneeded and facing a purposeless existence.” Moving closer, only inches from my face, Gideon prepared to add the finishing touch to his lecture. “So, so, you listen to me! If you insist on striding through life, arms laden with hope, you will only meet with one devastating disappoint-
ment after another.” That was more of a caution than a warning. I don’t think Gideon is capable of issuing a flat out warning.
After this harangue, Gideon faltered, remembering he was in the presence of a humble PI, not one of his former board members. He quivered slightly, recapturing his strength and bearing.
“Oh, oh, please,” he pleaded candidly. “Please forgive me, Mr. Murphy. You must be a very busy man. I must apologize for my ramblings.”
“I don’t mind,” I stated truthfully. I’d exchange conversations with this mountain of a man any day. After all, Schimming admitted that Gideon had few visitors lately.
“It’s good of you to indulge me. It’s just that I receive so few visitors these days. Please, tell me what I can do to assist you.” I would rather crawl under a rock and hide, knowing my ignorant response earlier had caused him so mush emotional distress. But, I was here for a reason and he did invite me to continue. Besides, I sense we had bonded, in a fatalistic sort of way. He, the disencumbered chairman of the board; me, a down on his luck PI.
So, in spite of the foregoing, I set about the task of asking him several questions. My notebook was getting fuller as each hour passed and I assumed it was about to become gorged.
He didn’t know Linsky, except by reputation; Klaus was unfamiliar; Bosworth Clark didn’t engender a positive response; Val Davis was unknown by him; Sylvia Linsky was someone he did not know; and, unfortunately, he had no idea who or what Overlord was. That’s a double strikeout in any baseball book. Too bad baseball went out in 2020. But, I guess the general paying public just got tired of multi-million-dollar crybabies arguing every strike, fighting at the drop of a hat and going on strike for more benefits.
I took a chance and asked him about Frank Schimming, hoping to glean more info that might link him to STG. Gideon simply said, “Suffice to say that Mr. Schimming will not be receiving a Christmas card from me this year.” The ultimate insult. Good for Gideon.
When asked about Gideon Enterprises, he spoke forthrightly by saying, “I feel like a parent whose child has left the nest. I created Gideon Enterprises, nursed it and raised it to adulthood. And now it has left me with an empty home and too many hours in the day.”
Jorge Valdez, on the other hand, caused Gideon to smile with delight. “Mr. Valdez runs a chess shop called The Rank and File in the old city. We play quite often over the ethernet. Yes, he’s one of the few worthy opponents I’ve found.” Make a note to see Jorge Valdez. That little tidbit made me feel very good. Wanda and her organization was unable to locate Valdez, but not me. I’m a Murphy. We never quit. However, another reference to chess. This seems to be the interwoven theme to this case. Why? It escapes me, big time.
“Who or what is a Poisoned Pawn?” I ask. Turns out to be - guess what - a chess term. It seems a Poisoned Pawn is the bait in a trap. If someone is going by that alias, he or she probably considers their self to be a sacrificial lamb.
He feels CAPRICORN’s efforts are laudable, but futile when compared to the wall of iniquity they’re up against. Maybe, maybe not. I like what CAPRICORN is doing. More to the point, I love Wanda Peck. Okay, maybe it’s just lust.
Rona Morgan’s name ballooned his sagging spirits. “Rona Morgan was a beautiful, intelligent woman trapped in a deformed shell. She joined our engineering team early on and soon proved her immense value. She went into business for herself some time ago, with my blessing.” Based on his response, I’d say he’s not aware of her death. And I am NOT going to be the one to tell him.
I straightened in my chair in anticipation of asking the next question. STG has become the key to my investigation, along with the chess terms. As head of Gideon, he should be able to tell me something about it.
“I need some information regarding the project called STG - Securities Technology Group - a division of Gideon Enterprises.” A directive, not a question.
“I’m afraid I know not of its existence.”
“How can that be? It’s inception was January this year and remained in operation until earlier this month. Surely you would know of its conception and its purpose.” I was totally shocked.
“Not necessarily, Mr. Murphy. You must remember that Gideon Enterprises is a very large corporation. We have several divisions, such as research, finance, supplies, sales and installation to name a few. Many of these had their own annual budgets, and, depending on yearly growth, they would have their budgets adjusted accordingly. Some of these divisions could handle undertakings in the millions of dollars range without my know-
ledge. I trained those people personally and trusted them implicitly. If there was a sub-
sidiary by that acronym, I was not aware of it.” I shook my head in disbelief.
Well, if he couldn’t tell me anything about STG, maybe he can help me with learning more about the Law and Order Party.
“The Law and Order Party is merely a Machiavellian bi-product of our society’s decay. Their goals are not altogether unworthy, but those ends do not justify their means. Unfortunately, they’ve struck a chord with the public and, with an appealing candidate like Robert Knott, they will surely gain a great deal of power.” This seemed to worry him and well it should. L&O is anti-mutant and anti-everything else that gets in their way. Sort of like a 21st century version of the KKK. What concerns me is not Robert Knott, the L&O Party’s candidate for governor, but rather, the possible ‘marriage’ of L&O and Gideon Enterprises in the hands of Frank Schimming.
“Well, that’s about all I have for now. If I need to ask you more questions, would it be okay if I returned?”
“Absolutely. I would consider it a great pleasure.” With that, he extended his hand and shook mine warmly. We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, as though we had indeed developed a bond of friendship. “Mr. Murphy? Do you play chess?”
Before answering, I looked into his eyes with great earnest. I recalled - again - the words of Frank Schimming, “I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit from someone other than nurses and wheelchair repairmen.” All alone in this spacious mansion had to have a neg-
Ative affect on Mr. Gideon.
“Well, now that you asked, I tried out for the high school’s chess team back in 2018, but I wasn’t good enough to earn a spot. I still play once in a while, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t give you much competition.” I wasn’t only being modest, I was also being truthful.
“It just so happens I have a little time to spare. So, if you care, I would like to show you a thing or two about the game.” Then he flashed a warm smile and added, “Forgive my intrusion, but I perceive that you exhibit a smidgen of stress, no doubt related to the case you’re working on. Chess can be an excellent diversion as well as infinitely relaxing. Are you game?”
I still had a long day ahead of me, but he was right. This case is causing an undue amount of anxiety. And, Mr. Gideon could probably stand a little company, although I wouldn’t tell him so. “Sure, why not. However, if I win, I don’t want you to throw the board and pieces in my direction. Promise?”
He smiled broadly and replied, “I promise.”
“Then, let the match begin,” I stated with an air of aristocracy.

I don’t have to tell you that he took me to the cleaners in five of the briefest games of chess I ever played. Trying to show my good nature in defeat (actually, destruction would have been more correct), I said with a smirk on my face, “Okay, Mr. Gideon, I’ve toyed with you enough for one day. But, I will return soon for a rematch and next time you better be ready.”
“Ha! That was pleasant in view of your staggering defeat. I shall reserve a seat for you.” His smile slowly turned to a kind stare. “Thank you for your time. You will always be a welcome guest in my house.” With that, he extended his hand, which I grasped firmly. We shook, held tight for an extra moment, and released. There is not a more selfless man I have ever met. I hope our new friendship will be long and peaceful.
“Thank you, Mr. Gideon.” I twirled and exited the gorgeous house which now held Gideon prisoner. Thinking of all the wealth, art, decorations from all over the world, this man was probably one of the loneliest on the face of the earth. I intend to make good on my promise to return.
Next stop: The Rank and File. I’m excited about meeting the Jorge Valdez. But, I will need to exercise caution. Located in the old city, Freaktown as it is called, the local mutants will not take kindly to the presence of a NORM. Things have been heating up between the two groups and could be heading for WWIV. I would like to live long enough to find out the solution to this enigmatic case.

Freaktown, a byname I never really liked, was called such because of its high concen-
tration of mutants. The name, conceived by NORMS, propagated by NORMS and utilized by NORMS, was never accepted by the overall public. Sure, many who promote bigotry and racism have adopted the cognomen in a vain effort to support their own so-called superiority, a la Hitler and his ‘pure’ Aryan race. But I don’t. I find it despicable and repugnant.
In lieu of my own personal feelings, I’m greeted by numerous hecklers casting racy dispersions on my normality. I don’t blame them. They have good reason to feel the way they do. And it would be useless to attempt a truce. So, I simply ignore them and head on into the store.
A tall, slender, youthful mutant with long curly hair is fussing over a chessboard. He appears to be ardently involved in a game with no one but himself. I hope he’s better at his solo game of chess than I was at my games with Gideon.
“How’s the game going?” I ask, breaking the ice.
“Welcome to the Rank and File. What can I do for you?” Seems friendly enough.
It’s very late and I’m getting tired, so I skip the normal formalities and diversions and get down to cases. “I’m a friend of J. Saint Gideon’s. He gave me your name and address and said you might be able to help me with a case I’m working on.” So-so truth, but not necessarily a lie.
“Well, any friend of Mr. Gideon is a friend of mine. What sort of case are you talking about?”
“I’m a PI investigating the death of Carl Linsky.”
“Nice guy. I heard about his death. Too bad. He used to come in here often and we became friends.” His remorse was sincere, like Gideon’s. Wow! Two nice people after my ‘friendly’ conversation with Schimming.
The next several minutes were spent covering the names on my list. No, he didn’t know anything about STG, Overlord, Val Davis, Rona Morgan or Bosworth Clark. Yes, he knew and liked Gideon, he knew and hated Schimming. CAPRICORN was the modern day messiah for mutants, but, the Law and Order Party was the Fourth Reich. Knott was the pretty facade behind the Law and Order Party war machine (I personally liked that one). He had no idea why he was mentioned in the anonymous letter to Wanda Peck. He recognized Linsky in the photo, but Klaus he wasn’t sure about. He thought he may have seen him and Schimming together some time ago. Fascinating. And scary.
He aped Gideon’s reply concerning the Poisoned Pawn, with the addendum, “If I had to guess, I’d say that the author of the anonymous letter felt like he was the first link in a dark chain.” Ominous, at the very least.
I thanked Mr. Valdez and left the building with the door open to a return should the need call for it. Exhausted, headache-a-raging, and just plain tired, I made a bee line for my office. Hoping to get a long well deserved rest, I walk in and started for the bedroom. Before I could even get my coat off, the vid-phone began its familiar ting-ting. Just my luck. Should I answer it or shouldn’t I?

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 Chapter fifteen: Saturday, Nov. 14, 2037

Slade awoke in a cold sweat. His night’s rest had been disturbed by images of Samuel Jones choking him to death. All night he tossed and turned, unable to control the fire within his soul. Sam Jones; Bunker 13; Friday the 13th; sirens blaring loudly; all in his mind. Whether he turned hither or thither, back, left side, right side, or stomach, he was plagued by a kaleidoscope of psyche-permeating visions.
As usual, he sat up on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes, concentrating on his mantra. Breathing deep through the nose, exhaling through slivered lips, he soon regained the control he needed to carry on. Standing, he began to perform several Tai Chi moves, focusing on the present, forcing past events into the deep caverns of his mind. Soon, all would be normal again.
‘But why? Why am I having so many problems carrying out a few assassinations? Does it have anything to do with my near failure in Mexico? Was that the beginning of the end? Maybe I should finish this job as soon as possible and retire to the quiet confines of a nice little bungalow in Brazil, the only country where authorities will not extradite known criminals.’ These thoughts tumbled through his mind, looking for a place to coagulate into a single thought pattern, discernible to the human whose mind was now being tor-
mented with doubts and adversity.
A cold shower would be the next step in recapturing his vitality. After several minutes, he was toweling off when he happen to look out the sliding door towards the ocean. The sun was bright (must be a low radiation day), the sky was as clear as it could get, and the wind was calm. His next stop would be the sand, lounging on a lawn chair on the beach. There he could fully refresh himself and concentrate on the next order of business.
As he was about to exit the lodge, his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Slade?”
“Yes.”
“I have another contestant for you. However, it’s becoming too dangerous for us to the same post office box.. So, here’s what I would like you to do. In the next hour, you will receiver a small packet from UPEX. Inside is a key to a different P.O. box and some instructions as to how to figure out which Post Office it belongs to. I’m taking these precautions for a very good reason. Carl Linsky’s daughter has hired a PI to investigate her father’s death. His name has been added to the entire list of people I want you to eliminate. Now, of course, some of them you have already killed, some have yet to be assassinated. But, in order to ascertain the names on the list, you will need to connect an electronic chart to an electronic grille by using the adapter cord. Once you have worked out the grille/chart puzzle, the names will light up on the LCD screen attached to the chart. Then, electronically, the names will move in a certain pecking order and the name of the Post Office will become apparent. Is that clear?”
“Clear as spring water.”
“Good. By the way, your Swiss account is getting pretty fat. I hope you are pleased with our arrangement. And remember, there’s plenty more where that came from. Oh, I almost forgot. Did you get the passcard from Mr. Jones?”
“Yes sir, I did. It’s hidden right here in my lodge.” Slade was being polite because of his good humor. He knew today would be special and he had a feeling it would be one he would not soon forget.
“Great! I’ll make a point to pick it up later. Leave it in the P.O. Box.” Click! The line went silent.
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I’m beginning to think those passcards are the key to my future success and subsequent retirement. Right now, though, I’m heading for the beach. I better take my key with me. If some PI is on my tail....’ And off he went, with renewed vigor and a new attitude. Things were starting to brighten on the horizon of this violent man’s life.

Not many of Big Surf Lodge’s renters have visitors, especially when one considers the reason why most people come here. But, today would be different. A run-down, rust coated speeder lands in the parking lot. An old PI dressed with a southwestern flair exits the speeder and heads for the manager’s office. Upon opening the fully worn main door, a little bell tinkled, signaling Papa Johns that someone had entered. However, Papa Johns was in the ‘library‘, a more polite handle for the restroom, reading the morning paper. Ergo, he either did not hear the bell or he simply ignored it. Nothing short of a 6.0 or higher earthquake would move him off the pot.
After a few seconds, Sonny Fletcher realized the desk clerk or manager was not coming, so, he helped himself to the register. He knew that Big Jim Slade would not use this alias when signing in, but he had an idea of what name he would use. In Mexico, he used an anagram of his name. Sure enough, Lodge #6 was rented to James L. Digbi, aka Big Jim Slade.
Exiting the office, he located #6 and covertly approached it, keeping his eye open to spot any nosy neighbors. Nary a soul was stirring, so his approach was kept secret. Now, though, he would have to worry about Slade himself. Where would he be? Inside? On a mission? Cautiously he rounded the corner of the lodge, espying the door wall on the back deck. That’s when he spotted Slade on the beach, getting a suntan. ‘That egotistical maniac was actually enjoying his stay in the San Francisco area‘, Sonny mused.
The door wall was locked. No problem. Sonny took out his lock-pick and adroitly popped it open. Then he entered and quickly began to search every room. The kitchen drawers and cupboards contained nothing of interest; the living room was devoid of any important items; the closet held clothes, but little else. Frustrated, Sonny checked the bathroom. He even lifted the top off the toilet, but found nothing but water inside. He was getting anxious, unsure of how much time he had left before Slade would return. Since Sonny did not carry a gun any more, he did not want to confront Slade; he just wanted to take something important from him.
Exiting the bathroom, he looked on the bed. There was a briefcase on it, but it was handcuffed to the metal railing. Sonny tried to remove it, but his efforts were futile. He had a lock-pick set but not a handcuff key, and this type of handcuff required a special key. He then checked the covers, the mattresses and under the bed. Still nothing. Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He looked up, but it was just a sea gull that had landed on the deck furniture outside the sliding door. Whew! Sonny wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Heart pounding, he carefully checked to see if Slade was still on the beach. He was. Good.
Sonny felt something in the room was trying to tell him to ‘look here.’ He surveyed the room carefully, and then he noticed it. The large picture above the bed was slightly askew. Could it be that Slade hid an article of some importance behind the picture? Slowly, but surely, Sonny removed the picture. That’s when he heard a speeder approach the lodge. Breathing shallow and fast, Sonny looked behind the picture, but nothing was there! “Damn!” he muttered aloud. And just as he was returning the picture to its hangers, the tip of his fingers of his right hand touched something foreign. Feeling for it, he removed a green computer card of some sort from the frame. It had the letters STG stamped on it. Sonny smiled. He knew he had found something worthwhile, because Slade had hidden it.
Time becoming a factor, Sonny replaced the picture, making sure to leave it exactly the way he found it. He knew Slade was a professional of a superlative degree and he would notice if anything was out of place, even the tiniest of faults. That’s when he heard the same speeder leave. Good. Must have been another renter who stopped by to get something they forgot. So, he slipped the computer card into his pocket and turned to leave. That’s when he froze in his tracks.
A figure in the door wall, partially blocking the light shining through, was standing there, unmoving and staring at Sonny. Seconds went by before Sonny realized he was holding his breath. The Angel of Death was watching, waiting for the right time to strike. But Slade was the type who enjoyed striking fear into his victims. Sonny knew this, and, although his heart was beating loudly and quickly, he wasn’t afraid. At least not like he was afraid since Maria’s death in Mexico.
Moving slowly, Sonny approached Slade. Each noticed that neither of them had a gun. This fact may be Sonny’s only chance of escape. On the other hand, Slade was known as a martial arts expert and Sonny was no where near the man he used to be. Too much drink, too little exercise.
“So, the coward has returned. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. If it’s anything I hate, it’s to leave a job unfinished. You should have let me finish you off in Mexico.”
“Like you did Maria?” Sonny’s bravado was growing. He hated this man more than anything in the world. This poor excuse for a human being took from Sonny the only thing he loved - his wife. And, Slade didn’t just kill her, he mutilated her, torturing her before she died. His abhorrence for this walking piece of excrement was magnified by these thoughts.
Slade smiled. “Yeah, like Maria. Only I’m going to enjoy killing you even more than killing her.” And Slade began to slowly approach Sonny. In a move to deflect Slade’s attention, Sonny acted nervous, looking down at the floor. Slade smiled. His superior skills had the old PI shaking in his boots. But that’s not why Sonny looked down. He saw that Slade was standing on a small rug designed to catch the sand from one’s feet as they entered the lodge. If he could distract Slade somehow, maybe he could....
That’s when Slade took the small UPEX package (it had just been delivered) and tossed it on the end table. Of course, in order to do that, he had to glance sideways for a mere second. Sonny charged, his head lowered and connected with Slade’s stomach. But Slade was lightening fast. Only momentarily did he lose his breath. Just as quickly, he brought his right knee up to meet Sonny’s chin. Sonny’s head snapped up, lower lip cut and bleeding down his chin. Staggered, he knew what was coming next. Slade punched him in the stomach, causing him to drop to his knees. The plan, however painful, worked. When Slade turned sideways and cocked his right leg for a karate kick, he paused long enough to smile down at his victim. That’s all the time Sonny needed. He grabbed the rug and yanked it with all his might. Slade tumbled backward and bumped his head on the floor knocking him silly. Sonny leapt to his feet, left arm cradling a breathless midsection, and stepped over Slade. He slid the door open as Slade was trying to grab his leg. But Slade only took hold of Sonny’s boot. Looking up at Sonny, Sonny looking down at Slade, he smiled and plowed the boot into Slade’s face. Slade’s grip loosened, allowing Sonny to skip free.
The old PI made tracks to his speeder, about three lodges down the lot. He was almost home free.
Slade scrambled wearily to his feet. He could chase Sonny, but the old fart might make it to his speeder before Slade could get to him. So he ran to the bathroom. On the hook was his overcoat. Reaching into the left pocket, he removed the gun. And THEN he ran outside to find Sonny.
Sonny got near the dilapidated vehicle and pressed the remote to open the driver’s side door. Just a few more feet and he would be gone.
Slade rounded the back corner of the lodge and headed for the parking lot. He saw Sonny about to enter the speeder. He smiled and took aim. Click! Oh no! He grabbed the wrong gun! It was the new one he bought to use for Russian Roulette.
Sonny turned sideways to throw his right leg into the speeder. He saw Slade out of the corner of his eye drawing a bead on him.
Slade fired again and again. Click! Click! Click! Bang! Smoke and fire spat out of the barrel as the hammer connected with the firing pin.
Sonny reached for the door to close it when a sharp, burning pain shot through his lower left side. He grimaced in agony, but was able to shut the door as the speeder left the pavement. Off he went, Slade becoming a miniscule dot in the distance.
Slade was angry, livid and cursing as the speeder flew off into the sunlight. But he took some solace in the fact that he knew the one shot he fired had hit its mark. Disappointed beyond measure, he returned to his lodge. The first thing he did was check the back of the picture. The passcard was gone! “Fletcherrrrr!”

Sonny landed the old rust bucket of a speeder outside his decaying apartment house. Wincing, he exited the vehicle and staggered to his room. Off balance, he pushed his way through the door. At the sink he cleaned up a bit, taking a warm wet cloth and pressed it against his wound. The pain made him take a quick breath, but he pressed it just the same. He had to stop the bleeding.
Next he called UPEX and had them stop by his room. He wrote a note to Murphy in hopes he would receive it before he passed on. He knew he should have gone to the hospital, but that would just stir up unnecessary trouble. Besides, his soul was at peace and he no longer cared if he lived or died. He just wanted to join his lovely Maria. Looking up to the ceiling, he prayed aloud, “Please, Lord, just give me a little more time. I know I’m not the best servant of yours, but I’m ready to make amends.” With that he lowered his head and prayed.
Opening his eyes, Sonny looked at the clock on the wall and noticed mere minutes had passed. If he just sat there, he might not have enough will to live. So, he reached under his bed and pulled out an old metal box with a broken clasp on it. He toss back the lid and extracted a yellowed envelope. Contained within was a black piece of plastic with worn grooves on it. Memories of long ago danced a ballet in his mind as he went to the ancient victrola and placed the disc upon the spindle. Flipping the switch, the disc dropped onto a turntable and the needle arm slid over the first groove, settling upon it ever so gently. The 33 1/3 disc moved in a circular motion while the diamond needle read the grooves in order to put forth the music he loved most dearly. “Maria,” the singer began and Sonny smiled.
Next, he opened the drawer to his nightstand and withdrew a small notebook and pen. He had some things of interest to share with his new friend, Tex Murphy. Events that he knew he would not have time to share with him personally. His life force was flowing out of him with every drop of blood oozing from the gunshot wound in his side. So, there he sat, writing and listening and dying. Soon, soon he would see his sweet Maria again.

Slade regained his composure and set about his business. First, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of spring water. It went down smooth and fast. Next he went to the front room, picked up the small rug and tossed it over the edge of the deck to the beach below. “Damn thing nearly got me killed.” Finally, he opened the UPEX packet and drew out the items inside. Post Office key with no number on it; a chart with numbers and letters on it; a grille to place over the chart; an adapter cord for the grille; and a LCD attachment for the chart. He put the last several items together and started working out the puzzle. Minutes later he had the complete list of names. He read over the list carefully and then decided to burn it, but not before he pinpointed the Post Office’s location.
Going to his overcoat, he took out the handcuff key and unlocked the cuffs securing the briefcase to the bed. Using his favorite numbers to open the case, placed the chart, grille and cord inside and locked it. Then he dressed, took the P.O. key and headed for the Mill Valley Post Office. Maybe, just maybe, he could salvage what was left of this miserable day. Recalling an old saying, he shook his head in disgust. ‘Don’t worry about Friday the 13th; be wary of Saturday the 14th’. But in Slade’s case, both days had been horrible.

The Post Office box contained a new portfolio of Slade’s next victim. Some mutant named Greg Call. He’s back in town after some hiatus at a secret location. Staying at the Simpson Arms Hotel in the old city. Room 212. There was a note attached that stated it had to be done right away. Apparently things were moving faster than his boss had originally anticipated. ‘Sure, why not,’ thought Slade. ‘I need something to perk up my spirits. Nothing like a good killing to cap off a lousy day‘.
So, Slade sped over to the hotel, hoping to find his prey waiting to be killed. But, the room was empty. It seems Greg Call was out somewhere. Disappointed but not deterred, Slade waited in his speeder. It would give him time to mull over the last two day’s activity in an effort to analyze the infamous events that nearly cost him his life.
-----------------------

 Chapter sixteen: 2043
Chelsee’s apartment - still

“Wow, Tex, you actually met J. Saint Gideon? In person?”
“Yeah, you want to shake my hand?”
“Uh, no thanks. I would hope that you have washed it at least once since then.”
“Funny, very funny. Now can I get back to the story?”
“In a minute, sweetie, I just want to briefly recap what you’ve told me so far. First, you met Sylvia Linsky six years ago when she entered your office. She hired you to investi-
gate the suspicious death of her father. Doing so, you get to meet some interesting people. Det. Eve Clements, Delores Lightbody - did you ever date her? Never mind. Who else? Um, Arnold Sternwood, Sonny Fletcher, Wanda Peck, who I’m getting to dislike more and more, J. Saint Gideon, Jorge Valdez and a Frank Schimming. How’s that so far?”
“Very good! I’m very impressed.”
“But, if I understand the story thus far, you seem to be getting more confused as each day passed. It certainly sounds confusing to me.”
“You’re right. It was like I was trying to piece together a large puzzle. Most people would start with the edges first and then work the areas that appear to be colored the same. Well, that’s what the case was like up to this point. However, after leaving the Rank and File Chess Shop, I returned to my office for some much needed rest. Boy, was I in for a surprise.” I pause for emphasis and to let Chelsee stew for a minute. We men just have to do that to women now and again. Keeps them begging for more. Anyway, I light up another Lucky and gulp down my fifth glass of bourbon. Say, I’m starting to feel pretty good. I could tell this story all night. Booze has that effect upon the tongue.
“Uh, Tex, do you mind?”
“What? Oh, the story. Yeah, right. Well, when I opened the office door, the vid-phone was ringing. Upon answering, I come face to face with a short, balding mutant who talked out of the side of his mouth. He wanted to know if I was investigating the death of Carl Linsky. We exchange verbal thrusts and parries for a minute or so, then finally settled upon the issue at hand. He told me that if I left my office right away, I would find the lab of Val Davis unoccupied. This spurred my interest since he also informed me that she and Linsky were working together on the STG project.”
“That was your first hard evidence proving that the project really existed,” Chelsee stated excitedly.
“Exactly. Also, the impression I got was the project was definitely secretive in nature. Well, needless to say, I rushed right over to the lab, using the directions provided by my mysterious friend. Sure enough, the door was unlocked and the place was empty. Well, almost empty.”
“What do you mean, almost empty?”
“It seems Val Davis was a biological engineer and did research in that field using various kinds of animals. They were in cages, but they looked sickly and unhealthy. I shuddered to think what experiments were performed on these poor, helpless, dumb animals. Especially once I noticed the Radiation Chamber.”
“Radiation Chamber? Sounds like things are about to heat up.”
“Nice pun. You know, with that kind of wit, you might become a PI - when you grow up, that is.”
“Gee, thanks, Tex.”
“Anyway, I searched the room carefully and found some things of interest. There was a computer on the counter that was identical to Linsky’s and Clark’s. However, it seemed there was a powerful microscope was attached to it. I thought that was strange. But the mysterious informant said I was to find ‘the chess move,’ so I figured it might have something to do with this peculiar setup.
“My search was quick, but thorough. I knew from previous experience that I would need a passcard and a passcard reader if I was to get into the computer.”
“What about a password? Wouldn’t you need that too?”
“Very good, again. As a matter of fact, there was a small piece of paper taped to the side of the microscope with the letters NEQUE written on it. Surmising this was probably a scrambled chess term, it took only seconds to rearrange the letters to read Queen. But, I still needed the passcard/reader combination to get the computer to work.
“After a few minutes, I realized that one or both of those items was probably inside the Radiation Chamber. Ignoring the two large yellow warning symbols on the door, I pushed the open button and entered. Walking but a few paces, the door automatically shut behind me. That’s when the siren sounded and I heard a computerized voice say, ‘Radiation at level one.’”
“You entered that chamber knowing there could be radiation poisoning awaiting you? That was a bit foolish, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily, Chelsee. Most chambers of that type have a control panel on the inside in case of emergencies. All I had to do was open the panel and push the button.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was that easy.”
“Actually, it wasn’t. When I found the control panel and opened it, someone had taken a laser blade to the circuits. Several of them where cut and unless I repaired them soon, I’d be toast.”
“Who was responsible?”
“I wasn’t sure, but my PI instincts told me it was probably Slade. He seemed to be one step ahead of me throughout this entire case. At any rate, I needed to do something and quick. Remembering the circuit repair kit I pocketed when I was searching Linsky’s ware-
house, I pulled it out and opened it. The automated voice blared again, ‘Radiation at level two.’ I quickly checked the radiation gauge. If that level reached ten, I’d be fried.
“I tried to connect the small repair circuits, but I wasn’t having much success. That’s when the voice announced, ‘Radiation at level three. Danger: radiation level extreme.’ Oh boy! This is fun. The faster I worked, the behinder I got. Finally I came to the conclusion that I needed to slow down and think things through.
“I traced each damaged circuit and determined that if I completed one vertical and one horizontal circuit, it would act as a shut off. So, taking one repair piece, I connected it to the far left vertical circuit and twisted the bare wires to it. Nothing happened. ‘Radiation at level four.’ I was beginning to dislike that guy’s voice. Taking another repair piece, I attached it to the same left vertical circuit at another location and I was rewarded with a green connection light.
“Now for the horizontal circuit. I took the tiny repair piece and went to attach it to one end of the damaged circuit. But, I dropped it! No problem since I had one piece left. ‘Radiation at level five.’ I quickly connected it. No green light. But I thought I had it all figured out! Sheesh! This is frustrating! That’s when I noticed there was one more connection to make. Looking on the floor, I couldn’t find the piece I dropped. Sweat was beginning to form on my forehead. My mouth was as dry as a cotton ball. My head was starting to pound to the beat of the blaring siren. ‘Radiation at level....’ I know! I know! Radiation at level six you computerized moron!
“I needed to settle down if I wanted to survive this ordeal. Thinking of the great Sherlock Holmes’ favorite slogan, I soon found the last tiny repair piece. It was in the cuff of my pants. I took it out and connected it to the horizontal circuit, causing it to turn green and shut down that hideous siren. The doors popped open and all was well.”
“That was a close call. By the way, what is that slogan the great detective used?”
“‘When you have eliminated the obvious, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ If it wasn’t on the floor, it had to be on my person. The cuff was the most logical place to look.”
“Impressive.”
“Elementary, my dear Bando.” Chelsee smiled at that tidbit of wit. “Anyway, on the seat of the experimental chair was the passcard reader I needed. But, try as I did, I just could not locate the passcard itself.
“I exited the chamber and attached the reader to the computer. Once again, only more slowly, I searched the entire lab. Finally, I ended up in front of the large cage containing a small gorilla. His name was Koro. I looked at him squarely, but he hardly noticed my presence. He was too involved in trying to open a small metal box. I said to him, ‘Say, Koro, you wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a computer passcard, do ya?’”
“Sounds like you and Koro talk the same language. That’s not too hard to accept, considering you and him are not that far apart on the evolutionary scale.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“My point exactly, monkey boy.”
“Never mind the bad jokes. Let me finish my brilliant deduction. Uh, where was I?”
“Talking to your cousin, the gorilla?” She received a big smirk for that one.
“Oh, yeah. The gorilla. Well, feeling dejected, I put my hands in my pockets. That’s when I extracted the last banana. It looked very inviting, especially since I had little to eat all day. As I was about to peel it, a thought occurred to me. The metal box!”
“That’s where the passcard was hidden.”
“Have I told you this part of the story before?”
“No, but it just seemed the logical hiding place. Elementary, my dear Murphy.”
“Touché. And you’re right. I took out the bottle of sleeping pills and stuffed three of them into the banana. Tossing it into the cage at the feet of Koro, I enticed him to eat the banana. He quickly grasped it, tore off the peel, and devoured it in one gulp. Two minutes later, he was out for the duration. Now all I had to do was open the cage and get the box. I searched everywhere, but no keys were to be found. However, I did find an animal control device.”
“What was that?”
“Well, you lay people would call it a pole. I extended it into the cage and urged the box over to my eagerly waiting fingers. Opening it rewarded me with Val Davis’ passcard. I went to the reader, swiped the card, typed in QUEEN and... nothing happened. This had me confused until I remembered the attached microscope. So, I placed the card under the scope and the computer screen automatically magnified it 20 times. On the bottom left corner of card ‘A’ was the letters Qxd7. This must be the chess move the informant was referring to. That’s when it hit me.”
“Koro?”
“No, smarty pants. The idea that if one passcard had a chess move on it, then maybe the others do as well. So, I took out passcard E, Linsky’s, and placed it under the scope. It had the letters Rd1 on it. Clark’s passcard, G, had the letters Rxe7 written on it. These are chess moves, but I was only a novice player and wasn’t sure what they meant. However, I made a special note of them in my notebook. I had a feeling they would come in handy.”
“Did they?”
“Not so fast, my dear. I have a long way to go with the story. I had determined that I reaped all the info I could from Davis’ lab. It was getting very late and I was extremely tired. Besides, I’d had about all I could take of those whimpering animals. And the possibility that someone would return soon was increasing. So, I left.
“When I got to my speeder, I remembered the informants words that he would be watching. Without turning my head, I looked everywhere to see if I could find a tail. None, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t following me. He could have been anywhere. There were still several speeders in the parking lot and even more flying overhead. Bushed, I decided to forget about him and head back to my apartment.
“When I opened the door, I stepped on a hand written message. It must have been delivered while I was at Davis’ lab. I picked it up and was surprised to see it was from Sonny Fletcher. It beckoned me to come to his room immediately. He had some info on Slade he wanted to share with me. So, tired or not, I headed right over. To this day I’m glad I didn’t go to bed and wait to talk with Sonny the following morning.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why.....”

Saturday, Nov. 14, 2037 11 pm

I land my speeder in front of Sonny’s despicable and run down apartment building. It reminded me of a grease trap on an army base just after noon mess. And it smelled even worse, like a porta-potty at a chili cook-off. Maybe this would be the last time I would need to visit Sonny. I can’t take much more of this place.
As I traverse the short hall to his room, I notice the door is partially open. This seemed odd considering the last time I left the door open, he checked the hall and closed the door. It appeared that he was worried someone was watching. But not today.
I lightly knocked on the door.
“Come in,” said a voice full of confidence and elation. Was this the same Sonny?
Entering, I heard a delightful tune playing on an old style record player. It was called ‘Maria’ and sung by, if I got my Texans correct, Bob Wills who was surnamed The King back in the mid twentieth century, by Texans, that is. We all know the real King was Elvis Presley.
Something else caught my attention as I entered. Sonny had metamophasized into a new creation. His hair was combed back, he had donned a clean, pressed pair of khakis, a clean dark shirt and a cowboy strand tie with a turquoise broach holding it together. I was thoroughly impressed.
“Sonny, que paso, hombre?,” I asked animatedly.
“Hey, adelante,” he answered equally and motioned me to a chair at the table.
“Compadre, I didn’t expect to see you looking so good.”
Sonny was smiling and eager to talk. “Murphy, I’ve come face to face with my demon.” This was a major revelation taking into account the shell of a man I had met 36 hours earlier.
“Slade?” I asked, but sure that’s who it was. Sonny nodded. “What happened?”
“In the depths of my despair, I had a vision of redemption. I realized I couldn’t pass on without confronting what I feared most in life. Slade,” he said through clenched teeth. I can imagine the feeling for I have come to abhor this Slade character myself. “I tracked him to his lodge. I broke in,” he said rubbing two fingers together a la a safe cracking expert. “I’m still a good detective.” I couldn’t help but notice Sonny seemed tired, out of breath. Maybe he was just exhausted from the day’s activity.
“So, was Slade there?”
“No, not at first,” he answered, laboring more as the conversation progressed.
“So, what happened?”
“I had to take something from him. Something important. Nothing could replace my Maria. I found something, Murphy. I know it’s important because it was hidden. Here,” and he handed me a bloodied STG passcard. In fact, his whole hand was full of blood. I panicked.
“God, you’re hurt! I’ve got to get you to a hospital,” I said, rising out of my chair.
“No, there’s no need,” he averred, voice unsteady and weakening. Was Sonny dying in front of my eyes? Apparently so.
“But, Sonny, there’s so much more I need to know. Mexico, the sign Slade left for you at the Anasazi Ruins, the....” Sonny held up his hand in a gesture meant to silence my ramblings. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a handwritten note and held it out to me.
“This should answer your questions. I wrote it while waiting for you to arrive.”
However, I was desperate. Sonny needed medical help muy pronto. “Sonny, please, let me take you to a hospital. Now!” I was pleading with him. But, it was not to be. That much I could discern from Sonny’s eyes.
“It’s okay, Murphy. Don’t you fret over a washed up old PI like me. Just take care of yourself. You’re a natural, Murphy, I can tell. You got a gift for PI work. Just don’t turn out like me.” With that he turned his head away as though he were shamed. A lump came up into my throat.
I started to say something, but he beat me to the punch. “I’ve had my last drink, amigo.” His eyes closed for a second and his breath was becoming quite shallow. “Maybe not. Maybe there’s time for one more.”
“Uno mas,” I said softly. He nodded in agreement. I reached behind me, grabbing the half empty bottle of bourbon from the counter along with a clean glass. I poured two fingers worth and handed it to him. He raised it to his lips, but stopped short.
“Salud,” was all he said. I shuddered within, like a man about to allow the tears of sorrow to burst forth. His calmness in the face of death was overpowering. I was losing it as fast as Sonny was fading. But he didn’t drink the booze. He stopped short again.
“No, pour one for yourself,” he commanded with an extra burst of energy. How could I tell him that I hate drinking? I’m not about to break one of my addendums to the book of PI rules. That’s sacrilegious.
“I’m not really much of a drinker,” was my flimsy excuse. Can I actually refuse a dying man’s wish? Would that qualify me as cold hearted? Squeaky-clean, but cold hearted. My conscience was doing flip-flops, engaged in a three way tug of war with my brain and heart. Just what kind of man are you, Murphy? Was the Colonel right? In order for things to work properly, will I need to bend the rules at times?
After a moment’s thought, Sonny added, “For old time.” That did it. I can’t take any more of this.
“Alright,” I conceded. Turning my back to Sonny, I grasped another clean glass and started to pour the bourbon.

Sonny smiled to himself, although he could not repress the physical evidence of it. ‘Young Murphy; straight-laced Murphy; Mr. Can-do-nothing-off-the-cuff Murphy. If my suspicions are correct, he probably hasn’t had a drink since college.’ Sonny was musing over these thoughts when a warm feeling washed through his entire body. It was the kind of feeling he had when his mother made him take a warm bath on Saturday night. Hopping out of the tub and shivering because of the cool November night, he would wrap himself in the large, soft and cuddly beach towel. Moments later he would find himself shivering on cold sheets; but only for e second or two. Once he was comfortable, he would soon slip into a long night’s sleep. That is how he felt now.
He continued to watch Murphy grab a tumbler and pour a couple of ounces of the ‘cheap’ stuff. Once again a warm, calming effect soothed his tired mind. It was then he saw her - Maria. She was alive and healthy, reaching for his hand. Her surroundings were paradisiacal. A bright light was shining. There was a soft breeze blowing her long locks into her eyes. She brushed them away, just like he remembered. A huge smile greeted him as she started to touch his fingertips. She was reaching for him, expending extra effort to take his hand. ’Take it, Sonny. You’re home now. Take it, join me in this wonderful place of peace and happiness.’ Unable to refuse her benevolent request, Sonny grasped her hand tightly. He made the transfer from ’here to there’ with the ease of a hind leaping over a low fence. And then he was home, with Maria, forever and forever.

“So, what happened when Slade got back?” I turned to face my PI compatriot. Death was staring back at me. His head tilted back, eyes closed, small smile on his lips, Sonny Fletcher, old time PI, husband of the late Maria, hater of Slade, was dead. My jaw was clenched tight, forcing back the tears. Anger replaced the sorrow; anger against Slade.
I looked at Sonny and the two fingers worth of cheap bourbon I was holding. Clinking my glass to his, I said, “Salud, hombre,” and downed the entire drink. It burned like fire, the cleansing fire that burned away my self-righteousness. My goody-two-shoes comportment was definitely unnecessary at times; especially times like this. The Colonel was right. And I enjoyed the drink. And had one more before I left. That’s when I recalled my words earlier. The old saying pricked my mind. ‘Be careful what you ask for; you just might get it‘. I’ll never see Sonny alive again.

2043 Chelsee’s apartment

“At least he was able to die in peace.” Ashamed of the way I acted back then, I hung my head and stared at the empty glass in my hand.
“I didn’t know it was going to be such a sad story,” Chelsee said in a soft feminine tone. “Who killed Sonny? Was it Slade?”
“Well, Sonny didn’t actually come out and say so, but I surmised it was him. After my second drink, I called the police. While waiting for them to arrive, I searched Sonny’s apartment and found a note with the address to the Big Surf Lodge, Slade’s digs. I was going to pay him a visit, but, since the clocked had chimed midnight, I decided to go back to my apartment and crash. Flopping onto the bed, I took out the note Sonny gave me and read it.
“It went like this:
Murphy,
I thought you deserved to know the truth about the events that led to my wife’s death and my eventual confrontation with Slade earlier today.
A little over a year ago, my wife and I were approached by a Mexican government official and asked to take part in a covert operation. A weapons manufacturing company, located just south of Nogales, Mexico, was suspected of selling illegal arms to a group of international terrorists. Since these transactions had been taking place over a period of two years, the government was able to place a covert operative in a key position. Gaining the trust of the guilty party, he contacted necessary personnel in the FBI, UN Security and the Mexican version of the ATF. What they needed to finalize the last of the shipments was a go-between or mediator to set up the sale. That’s where Maria and I came in.
We negotiated the date, time and place of the meeting. But, we did not have to be present. So, after we set it up, a UN Operative, Gen. Sam Jones, advised us to disappear quickly. He was concerned for our welfare. It seems that the arms company representative had hired an international hitman to clean up any loose ends. That hitman was none other than Big Jim Slade, the Angel of Death.
Needless to say, we hightailed it back to our ranch near the Arizona border. I made a few calls to some friends here in San Francisco (including the Colonel), where I once had a successful PI business, and had them make arrangements to hide us until things cooled down. Part of the trap was the capture of Jim Slade. That’s where the UN Operative came in. It was his job to nab the wise guy before he could strike again. Apparently, they had been after him for at least a dozen years.
Maria and I surveyed our supplies and decided it would be a good idea to pick up several items before leaving. I went into the city and hit a couple of stores. When I returned to the ranch, I got the shock of my life. Slade had slipped through the trap set for him and, before leaving the country himself, he opted to stop at our ranch to ‘pay a bill.’
I found my wife slumped at the foot of a giant cactus, still tied to it. She had been beaten, tortured and shot in the head, Russian Roulette style, which is Slade’s trademark. The gun was still in her hand. One spent shell lay on the ground near her feet. Shaking like a leaf, I pried the gun from her hand and examined it closely. The initials BJS were carved on the handle. Also, there was a note attached to her blouse. It simply said, “You’re next, Fletcher.”
For several minutes I held my wife close to me and bawled like a baby. Then I got angry and swore revenge upon Slade. This was followed by a more realistic emotion - fear. Yes, I feared for my life. After Maria’s funeral, I moved back to San Francisco and set up a small PI business with a little help from Colonel Dobbs. A few weeks ago, I heard that Slade was in town. That’s when I went into hiding. Carl Linsky was the last person to contact me at my office on Fourth Street before I packed up and moved into this dump.
But, I was only kidding myself. Wallowing in self pity, barricaded from the outside world by unceasing fear, and plagued by a guilty conscience, I knew it was just a matter of time before Slade found me. Alcohol was my only companion until you dropped in. You renewed my spirit and inspired me to be the man I once was. That’s when I paid a visit to Slade’s lodge. You know the rest.
One more thing. I mentioned in my previous note that Slade left a sign for me at the Anasazi Ruins. As I flew by the ruins, I saw a gulch a short distance from them. There were some vultures and other scavengers picking the bones clean off some unfortunate soul. It may have been Bosworth Clark, but I’m not sure. Anyway, something shiny reflected the sun in my eyes. I decided to go down and have a look see.
Next to the body was a gun with the initials BJS carved on the shiny handle. Slade knew that I was on his trail. How, I don’t know, but he knew. That’s why he left me a sign. At first it scared me. But, after your visit, I feared him no more. Thanks again.
Time is short, Murphy, so I’ll be signing off. Soon I will join my Maria in the hereafter. And who knows, maybe someday we’ll meet again. Till then, keep up the fine fight. And if you see the Colonel soon, give him my best regards.
Sonny

“You know, Tex, I’m beginning to see why you and Sonny hated this Slade character. He was a real low-life. Torturing and killing a woman is insidious.” Chelsee’s heart was speaking through her mouth. I appreciated her candor.
“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. But, it wasn’t the end of the story. After a fitful night’s sleep, I decided to rise nice and early and head out to the Big Surf Lodge. I figured Slade was not acting on his own, so, he must be getting orders from someone. And if I could get my hands on them, they just might lead me to the Overlord.”

Sunday, Nov. 15, 2037

Slade checked his watch for the hundredth time. It read 3 a.m. Although he was tired of waiting for Greg Call to show up, he really didn’t have anything else to do. Besides, the victims owed him a debt. The last two confrontations were just that - confrontations. He had lost control and had been embarrassed. No one knew this except himself, and possibly his boss. That bloody bathplug knew everything. It disgusted ‘The Mind, The Man, The Body’ to no end. And, like it or not, he still needed his boss. Collecting all of the passcards was the key to his future. He could feel it. Once they were in his possession, he would sell them to the highest bidder. Coupled with the bulging Swiss account, he would have enough to live like a king in Brazil the rest of his life.
Slade’s thought processes were interrupted by the landing of a speeder. His senses kicked into high gear. He smiled as he saw Greg Call exit the speeder and head into the building. Once the door closed, Slade aptly walked over to it and, using a credit card he stole from Rona Morgan, he nimbly slid the card down the door frame and coaxed the lock open. He was in and on his way to the fifth floor.
Standing outside room 525, Slade listened for noise. He could hear Call walking from room to room. Finally, a door shut and he heard the shower turn on. Using the same trick on Call’s apartment door as he used on the entry door, he slipped inside and sat down on the couch. Ten minutes later, the shower turned off and he could hear Call drying off. A few minutes after that, Call came out dressed only in his underwear. He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Good evening, Mr. Call,” Slade said while holding a gun on the unsuspecting tenant.
“I know who you are and why you are here,” Call said calmly, although fear filled his heart.
“Really? I’m touched. If that’s the case, then let’s get down to business. I want your STG passcard and I want it now. Oh, by the way, don’t try anything stupid. I won’t hesitate to use this,” and he waved the gun at Call.
“The passcard is in my nightstand drawer. I’ll get it.”
“You mean, we’ll get it.” Slade was no fool, even though Sam Jones and Sonny Fletcher played him for one. None of his victims kept their passcards in such a flimsy hiding place. He wasn’t sure if Call had a gun, but he surmised Call had something in the drawer that would prove harmful to Slade. So, he just played along.
Call moved slowly to the bedroom.
Slade moved cautiously behind him.
Call was six foot six, 280 pounds.
Slade was ‘The Mind, The Body, The Man’.
Fate was going to deal someone a bad hand.
And it wasn’t going to be Slade.
When Call opened the drawer, a large throwing knife, like the ones used in a circus, was sitting right on top. He grabbed the handle expertly, for he had learned to throw knives when he was a boy. As a mutant, the only place he felt wanted was a small travel-
ing side show. An old knife thrower had taught him the ins and outs of knife-throwing and he was prepared to deal this murderous scum a death blow. It was his only chance.
Wheeling around like a spinning top, Call flung the knife towards Slade. Only Slade’s cat like reflexes allowed him to twist out of the way as the knife whiffed pass his ear and stuck in the wall only millimeters from Slade’s head.
“Wrong passcard,” Slade said and shot Call between the eyes. The big mutant fell to the floor with a thud, blood and brains splattering the blinds behind him. Slade smiled and proceeded to tear apart the apartment. All his searches proved bootless. Once again he had been foiled. His boss wasn’t going to like this - not one bit. He shook his head in disbelief. How could this be happening? His line of work had brought him immense joy over the years and he didn’t really want to retire. But, in lieu of recent events, he would have to retire out of necessity. Additionally, Slade seemed to be loosing his touch.
Taking one last look around, Slade left the apartment. And he left the door open. Because he had used a silencer, no one yet knew that Call had been shot. But, in order for his boss to be satisfied and in order for the money to be transferred to his Swiss account, he wanted someone to find the cadaver as soon as possible. Then he left.
Greg Call, Mutant League member, proficient computer programmer, friend of Larry Hammond and former employee of Gideon Enterprises, was dead. Lying on the floor of his own apartment, the big mutant had known his day was coming. He had prepared for it. Earlier that evening, he had written a note to Larry Hammond and mailed it. Contained therein were instructions in case of his demise. Larry would know what to do. They had talked about it after the death of Carl Linsky. It wouldn’t bring him back to life, but it would be helpful in stopping the genius, the touched genius behind the STG project. If he wasn’t stopped soon, Hell would move to earth.

Slade landed his speeder in the parking space designated #6. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he got out and walked around to the sliding door of his unit. Taking the key from his pocket, he twisted it into the lock and entered, closing and locking the door behind him.
Flipping the key in his hand, like George Raft flipping a coin without watching, he sidled to the kitchen to get a tall, cold glass of spring water. Tossing the key on the counter, he downed the water like a camel preparing for a long journey across the desert. Feeling even more satisfied on taking care of #6, he opened a small package of Norton’s Fig Bars and chewed two of them into oblivion.
After undressing and hanging up his clothes, he pounced on the bed and quickly fell asleep. He dreamed of killing people and wresting passcards from them. Concluding the dream was a delightful trip to Brazil where he lived in the lap of luxury surrounded by beautiful woman. What a good night’s sleep he had!

Outside Chelsee’s apartment, 2043

“Have they left, yet?”
“No. He’s telling her the history of the world up there,” answered the man with the pointed nose. He had been waiting outside for two hours and was getting impatient. “Why don’t I just go up there and do them both right now?”
“Patient, my fine feathered friend, patience. I’ve got this thing planned perfectly.”
“If you say so,” the watcher acquiesced. And he continued the vigil outside, listening through an earpiece to the conversation inside. Tonight would be the night for revenge. Tex Murphy, meddling, bumbling and unpolished detective would soon get what’s coming to him. And his girlfriend, too!

------------------
 Chapter seventeen: 2043
Chelsee’s apartment - STILL

“You didn’t go out to the Big Surf Lodge alone, did you?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, I mean, with Slade’s reputation and all, I just figured you would have taken the police with you.”
“Well, you figured wrong. I wasn’t ready for the police to get involved. Not yet, anyway. Remember, I was a young, eager, and fearless PI back then. If Sonny took something from Slade, then so could I. Not to best Sonny, by any means. No! I just thought Slade may have something else that could further the case I was working on.”
“So, was he there?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, he was. After landing my speeder, I slyly snuck around to the back of the lodge. Peering around the corner, I could see wooden steps leading up to a small deck. On it were unremarkable wooden chairs, painted to look like actual redwood. Papa Johns ran the best cheapest place on the coast. I looked into the kitchen and saw it was empty. Tiptoeing up the steps, I noticed the widows were slightly ajar, but not enough for me to climb in. Also, they had a security protection device on them so I could not wind them open any further. Tiptoeing over to the sliding door, I could hear some noise coming from the bathroom. Apparently, our hitman was taking a shower.
“My desire to ransack his lodge was insatiable. On the bed was a briefcase which I just had to have, but it was chained to the railing. Zeroing in on the chain, it turned out to be handcuffs.”
“But you carry a spare key, right?”
“Wrong again. But that was not the issue at the time. First I needed to get into the lodge. The door wall was locked and my campaign to search his belongings began to look futile. That’s when I saw it. On the counter in the kitchen was a key and it just might fit the lock on the sliding door. Now I had to figure a way to get it.”
“I can hardly wait to hear your brainstorming idea.”
“Do I detect boredom creeping into your voice?”
“Uh, no, Tex. Please, continue.”
“Thank you,” and I light up another Lucky Strike, drawing deeply off the newly lit cig. I’m going to make her wait a few more seconds before I begin again. Serves her right.
“I know what you’re doing, Tex. It won’t work,” and she smiles cunningly. Rats!
“Right! Well, you know how I like to put my hands in my pockets when I’m stymied or thinking?” She nods. “That’s when my hands rested on two items - the magnet from Clark’s lab and my tape measure. I put the two together, slid the tape through the open window, guided it across the counter until it made contact with the key. Then I simply retracted the tape and the little bugger was in my hand.
“I could hear the shower going, so I figured I would have a few minutes to rifle through Slade’s stuff. However, if Slade came out during my rummaging, I would not only have to hide, but I would need to be certain to replace anything out in the open to its original location. I mean, if he spotted something askew, he would know someone was in there and I’d be another notch on his belt.
“My heart skipped a beat as I unlocked the sliding door and entered. I took a deep breath and closed the door. That’s when I saw his wallet on a small table. Upon opening it, I took out a lotto ticket and a scrap of paper. To make double sure I had the right guy, I also peeked at his license. The picture staring back at me was the guy I saw at Clark’s lab. My eyes burned into his - on the picture, that is. Yeah, I was a little nervous searching his place, but I was equally angered over the deaths of Clark and Sonny. I was determined to get the briefcase and anything else I could get my hands on. But first, I replaced the wallet on the table.”
“Uh, Tex, I hate to interrupt, but, why take the lotto ticket? Were you hoping it was a winner and claim the prize?”
“Really, Chelsee, you must trust my judgment. Back then I considered such activity as mundane and depersonalizing, if there is such a word. No, the reason for the ticket was simple. A man like Slade usually has superstitions, including things like lucky numbers. Even from across the room I could see the briefcase required a numeric combination to open it. Ergo, the numbers on the ticket could be the key to opening the case.”
“Was the ticket a winner?” Her persistence is beginning to annoy even me.
“Uh, no, actually. I checked the paper the next day and....never mind. Anyway, the two items went quickly into my pocket. Then I went into the kitchen. I rummaged through all the cupboards and drawers, finding only two things of interest. One was a Gideon’s bible. Although I left it in the drawer, I couldn’t help but wonder if J. Saint made a royalty off of them. Ha! Ha!”
“Was that an attempt at comedy? If it was, don’t quit your day job.”
I smirk at her attempt at comedy and responded with, “I don’t have a day job. In fact, under normal circumstances, I don’t have any job! Oh well. The other item I found was a vial containing some white powder. On the vial was a piece of tape with the words ‘chloral hydrate’ written on it. We PIs call it a ‘Mickey Finn’. A few drops in a drink and you’re out for several minutes, maybe hours. That goes into the pocket as well.
“After I was done with the kitchen, I checked the adjacent living room. Less than moderate furniture with nothing to offer. I was about to leave the kitchen when it hit me.”
“Slade hit you?”
“No, silly! Think for a minute! Everything had to be replaced in their exact locations. What one item did I have that needed to be replaced?”
Chelsee thinks for a moment and then lights up like the aurora borealis. “The key!”
“Bingo! So I took it out of my pocket and set it on the counter. But, another thought occurred to me. What if I need to come back here? I mean, it was possible. If so, I may need another key. As I was pondering this possibility, I searched the fridge, hoping to see something I could use for a mold. The only food in there were several bottles of spring water and some fruits and vegetables. Sheesh! A health nut, no less. But, on the counter was a box of Norton’s Fig Bars. Carefully removing one, I took the key and pressed it firmly into the bar. It made a perfect indentation. All I would have to do is go see a good locksmith - one that will not ask troublesome questions - and have him make a copy.”
“Since you were now out of bananas, did you eat any of the fig bars?”
“Get a grip, Chelsee. Of course I didn’t!”
“Tex, why would a health nut like Slade have a box of cholesterol filled cookies lying around?”
“For the same reason we all do. Each of us has certain weaknesses. A lot of health conscious people still indulge in certain snacks in order to satisfy their sweet tooth. I know a woman who is the epitome of health, works out every day, eats no fats, etc. But she does have a sweet tooth. Every Friday she goes to the Dairy King and gets a hot fudge sundae.”
Chelsee glares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be sliced ham. “What woman?”
Pretending not to notice, I light up another cancer stick and take a drag. Blowing a couple of smoke rings, I then take a sip of my bourbon. “Say what?”, I ask innocently.
She grabs my tie, pulls me close, and demands, “What woman?”
“Oh! Kerry Perry, from the company who hired me to steakhouse the stakeout.”
“Steakhouse the stakeout?”
“Did I say that? Just a slip of the tongue.” And I give her that stupid grin of mine.
“It better be. Now,” she says, releasing my tie, “Continue the story. And no sidetracks this time.”
“Sure, Chelsee, sure. Uh, where was I? Oh, yeah, the fig bars. Well, after making an impression of the key, I left the kitchen and checked around his bedroom. Lifting the mattress and box spring was useless; there was nothing on the chairs or under their cushions; the pictures showed up nothing; the nightstand had only Slade’s cell phone, but I left it there. Only the briefcase remained.
“That’s when I heard a noise that rattled my teeth. His cell phone began to ring. Shoot! I knew I wouldn’t have long, so I started to look for a place to hide.
“The shower turned off.
“The shower curtain slid open.
“I saw the closet by the front door.
“The bathroom door opened.
“I made a silent bee line for the closet.
“On the next ring, I opened the closet door, turning to see Slade with the towel over his head. He was drying his hair. I slipped into the closet and closed the door on the next ring. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. That was a close call. I’d be dead if he saw me. Standing there, I could see him through the movable slats on the door. He answered the phone and proceeded to have a business conversation with his employer.”
“Who called him and what did they say?”
I stand up and walk to her wet bar. Pouring another bourbon, I pretend not to notice her exuberance. I know I shouldn’t frustrate her like that, but, I am a man, and we just have to do those sorts of things.
“Tex? Sweetie? I know what you’re doing and I don’t like it one bit!” She sort of sang those words, trying to emphasize her displeasure. Should I?
“What? Oh, the story. Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure who Slade’s boss was, or even if it was his boss. But he apparently told him he had new orders for Slade asked if he was to pick them up at the same drop point. Immediately, my mind perked up. If I could find out where his drop point was, I might be able to intercept those orders and temporarily prevent another murder. He also mentioned that he took care of number six. I felt my stomach sicken. Has he killed six so far? If so, this guy had to be stopped and soon. I thought, maybe I should have gone to the cops. But, it was too late now.
“Slade was still drying himself off when he walked up near the kitchen. He turned and suddenly, I was staring into the eyes of a cold blooded killer. The dark background of the closet was the only thing that kept him from spotting me. It gave me pause, my nerves at the limits. He then proceeded to mention a little problem from the past. He told his phone mate that he would take care of it. I figured he was talking about Sonny, not knowing that he had already taken care of it. Bastard! Oh, sorry, Chelsee.”
“That’s okay, Tex. I can imagine how you feel. Please, continue.”
“Anyway, I was even more resolved to steal his briefcase. But first, I had to get out of this closet - alive! Seemingly, Slade’s conversation was coming to an end, for he said he was going to get dressed and leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his clothes hanging next to me. My body went rigid. He closed his phone, ending the call, and then walked to the closet. With a lump in my throat, I balled my hand into a fist. If I punched him the second he opened the closet, I might have a chance to get away.
“He reached for the handle, turning it till it clicked. My heart was pounding. It’s a wonder he didn’t hear it - I sure could. Then he looked over his shoulder and muttered aloud, ‘I’m going to get something to eat first.’ He let go of the knob and headed for the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Although my life had flashed before my eyes - again - I let out my breath and wiped the cold sweat off my brow.
“I opened the closet and walked out. As I went to close the door, I decided to give a quick search to his pants pockets. I found a post office box key. I didn’t know which post office or which box, but I had the key. And it just might lead me to his new orders. Then I closed the door. I went directly to the bed, trying to figure out a way to get the briefcase. Then I realized something. Since I had checked every room thus far and had not found the handcuff key, it must be in the one place I hadn’t checked.”
“How did you know Slade didn’t have it with him?” She stared at me for a moment and then smiled in defeat. “Never mind.”
“Good thinking. Besides, if he did have it on his naked body, I wasn’t about to search all the nooks and crannies to find it. So, the one room left to search was the bathroom. I opened the door and entered, closing it behind me.”
“Tex, can I ask you a question? Why didn’t you leave the lodge and return after Slade left? You did have an impression of the key, after all.”
“A couple of reasons. First, with Slade in the kitchen, he would have seen me leaving through the partially opened windows. That sliding door was the only way in or out of the lodge. Second, he might take the briefcase with him. Third, I wasn’t about to leave until I had that case in my grubby little paws.
“So, I did a fast but thorough search of the bathroom, finding nothing. I realized that Slade wouldn’t be in the kitchen all day, so I looked for another hiding place. That’s when I heard the kitchen door open. Turning, I espied the bathtub with its heavy plastic privacy shower curtain. It was my only chance. But, as I saw that, I saw his overcoat hanging on the door. I thrust my hands into the pockets, grabbing anything I could, except the guns. I dove into the tub, getting as low as possible. While I was hunched over, I heard the bathroom door open. By the racket the hanger made, bouncing against the door, I assumed Slade had taken his overcoat. He must be getting ready to leave. Good. That would give me a chance to get the brief....
“My mind went into complete shock. What if Slade wanted to take the briefcase with him? He would notice the key was gone and start searching for it. Only time would tell if I survived this ordeal or not. I waited with bated breath. A number of defense possibilities wove through my mind. What would I do if he opened the curtain? My mouth was dry as a desert at midday. But my fears were unfounded. A few minutes later and Slade left the lodge. I deduced this by the opening and closing of the sliding door. Again I sighed in relief. My visit to the lodge was one of the most memorable ransacking events of my entire career.”
“You know, Tex, all kidding aside, I’m really impressed with your PI instincts.”
“Thanks, Chelsee. Some PIs struggle with their trade. Me? It just seems to come natural, like Sonny said. I have a penchant for deductive reasoning. Don’t get me wrong! I’m not boasting. The ability to make rational deductions has saved my life more than once over the years.”
“Except when it comes to women.”
“Hey! We all make mistakes,” I say defensively.
“Easy, old paint. I wasn’t attacking; I was merely making an observation.” Old paint?
“Sorry, Chelsee. My marriage was a dark period of my life and I wish it never happened. Course, if it didn’t, things might’ve been different. I mean, we may never have met.” With that I double shuffle my eyebrows in a suggestive manner. Chelsee smiles and blushes in return.
“Enough, already! Get back to the story.”
“After Slade left, I got out of the shower and opened my hand. There was the handcuff key. I had to laugh. Wondering if Slade would find me was so nerve wracking that I hadn’t noticed that my hand was tightly closed around the key. So tight, that it left a deep impression in my hand. Maybe I should have done that with the door key instead of carrying a crumbly cookie in my pocket.
“At any rate, I opened the bathroom door and walked out. I was a bit disappointed, though.”
“Why”
“Well, it seems that Slade likes to take cold showers. I mean, there was no steam on the bathroom mirror. And I can never resist the urge to draw on steamed up mirrors.”
“Oh, please!”
“Sorry. The fact that he took a cold shower was significant. A number of well known madmen, perverts and psychopaths have been know to take cold showers. Why? I don’t know, but it seems to be some kind of personality disorder.
“But, time was of the essence. I used the key on the handcuffs, wrapped my hand around its handle, and scooted out of there.”
“Did you, uh, keep the handcuffs?” Now it was her turn to double shuffle the eyebrows.
“No. I wouldn’t have known what to do with them, back then. However, with briefcase in hand, I made a bee line to my office. I was glad to be alive, but absolutely ecstatic over obtaining Slade’s briefcase. I set it on my desk along with the other items I borrowed.”
“Borrowed? Don’t you mean stole?”
“Tsk! Tsk! Chelsee, I’m surprised at you. I didn’t steal anything. What you call theft, I call tactics.”
“A rose by any other name.”
“Look, do you want to know what I found or don’t you?”
“Touchy, touchy! Of course. Don’t let me hold you up.”
“Thank you. The first item I examined was the paper scrap from his wallet. It read, ‘Orders from Robert Knott. Passcard F Password: Singer.’ Well, it didn’t take me long to realize the password was an anagram, like the others. Playing with it for a minute or two, I deciphered it as ‘Resign.’ I wrote that in my notebook, next to the other passcard and password notations.
“A closer inspection of his loser lotto ticket revealed 5 numbers consisting of a total of nine digits. They were 6, 11, 22, 27, 31, in that order. Finished with the lotto ticket, I moved on to the vial of chloral hydrate. I figured Slade was going to use it on one of his victims. Thinking that it might come in handy some day, I stuffed it back into my pocket.
“Looking at the key again, I was stymied. How in the world would I figure out which post office or box it would fit? There were absolutely no markings on it. As I was mulling over the impossibilities, my eyes fell upon the briefcase. Maybe, just maybe, there was a clue inside of it. So, my next task was to open the briefcase.
“Under the handle was a slot consisting of three numeric dials, each having the numbers zero to nine on them. All I had to do was figure which of Slade’s lucky numbers was used to open the case. If I turned the dials to the correct number, the corresponding green and red LED would light up and the case would open. So, I started to play with those numbers. I used different combinations; I added them, subtracted them; divided them; multiplied them; even tried doing some square roots of them. No luck. I kept staring at the numbers, knowing the answer was right in front of me. Then a light bulb went on in my head. Yes! It was right in front of me! So simple it was hard.
“I took the first three numbers, 611, and turned the dials. The case didn’t open, but the green LED lit up. Hmmm. Maybe I needed to rotate the dials some more. So, I rotated them until the next three numbers were in order - 222 - and the green light flashed again. What the hey! I turned them until they read 731, the last three of Slade’s lucky numbers. Bingo! The red and green LEDs alternated flashes and the case popped open.”
“Oooh! I can hardly wait to hear what you found inside. And don’t light up another smoke or get another drink. Just get to the point!” Sheesh! What’s with her?
“Well, there were several very interesting items inside. First, there was an electronic chart with various letters and numbers on it. The letters were either yellow or red and the numbers, one through ten, were green. Second, there was another electronic device, a grille as they are called. The grille was a rectangular sheet of plastic with micro-diodes on it. Also, it contained multiple slots or cutouts. These were in different geometric shapes, such as squares, rectangles and a couple of others I couldn’t name. The third item was an adapter cord. So, I took the cord and attached one end to the chart and the other to the grille. After a few blips, beeps and bongs, the adjacent English readout display screen displayed the usual message: System Ready. So far so good.
“Now, how would I position the grille on the chart? I decided to try the open slots over the numbers first, since there were fewer of them. I placed the upper left slot over the number one, but nothing happened. I tried the other slots and still nothing happened. So, I rotated the grille to the vertical position and did the same. Bingo! The name Rona Morgan appeared on the corresponding display. Continuing my quest, I ended up with a total of ten names on the list. I deduced this as Slade’s hit list.”
“Okay, okay! So, who were the other nine?”
“Number 2 was Val Davis, 3 was Bosworth Clark, 4 was Carl Linsky....”
“Sounds like a death list.”
“...5 was Sylvia Linsky, 6 was Greg Call...”
“Slade enjoyed killing him....”
“...7 was Samuel Q. Jones.... You’re not going to say anything?”
“No, why should I?”
“He just might be the General Jones mentioned in Sonny’s final note to me.”
“That’s right! Could it be the same one?”
“I think there’s a distinct possibility they’re one and the same. Number 8 was Larry Hammond, 9 was J. Saint Gideon....
“J. Saint Gideon! Wow!, what a list!”
“.....and, number 10 was none other than moi.” And I smiled hugely.
“Why were you on the list?”
“Well, by now, someone had to know I was working on this case and they felt I was a liability.”
“The mysterious ‘friend’?”
“Could be, but I doubted it. I figured, if he could follow me around, then so could someone else. Maybe Slade, maybe Klaus, maybe Knott or Schimming. Who knows? I didn’t at the time, but one thing’s for sure. A chill went down my spine as I held the list in my hand. That’s when I received another surprise.
“As I was holding the chart/grille device, the names suddenly shifted. Some to the left, some to the right. When they were done, one letter in each name appeared in bold letter-
ing. From top to bottom, the letters spelled Mill Valley.”
“The post office you were looking for, correct?” Her exuberance was contagious. It had been a couple of hours since I began this story and her excitement had yet to diminish.
“Yup! But which box number? I mean, there are literally hundreds of boxes at that branch. And whoever issued these orders made sure that anyone who stumbled upon them would not find it easy to sort out. That brings me to the last item in the briefcase. A coded note. It consisted of five lines, each referring to a biblical book and verse. The first one was Job 9:25:8 followed by a line where you could write down the decoded word.”
“Wait a minute, Tex. That verse doesn’t make any sense. Chapter nine, verse 25, verse 8? What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t sure. Also, it made me wish I had taken the Gideon’s bible from Slade’s kitchen drawer. Realizing I didn’t have much time, I decided to call my mom.”
“Aw! What a nice boy.”
“Cut it, Chelsee. I asked her if she could look up those verses for me and tell me what they said. She told me to look them up myself. She had given me a bible, among other books, as a gift for getting my first office. So, I went to the bookshelf and, sure enough, there was a King James version of the bible. Pulling it out, I turned to Job, chapter nine. I read verse 25, but still didn’t grasp it’s meaning. Especially the ‘8’ portion. I reread the verse until it came to me. The word ‘post’ appeared in the verse. In fact, it was the eighth word. Well, I wrote it down on the blank line and looked up the other four biblical references. Exodus 29:9:21 was the word ‘office’; 2Kings 9:1:24 was the word ‘box’; Psalms 147:4:4 was the word ‘number’; and Genesis 5:27:8-10-12 was ‘969’. Great! The key fit post office box 969 at the Mill Valley post office. I lit out in a flash.”
“Oh my god!”
“Actually, god did not have anything to do with my superlative deductive ability.”
“No, no, silly. Look what time it is. We are very, very late. I’m sorry for losing track of time so easily.”
“Well, I’ve been told I have that effect on women.”
“Whatever you say, Sweetie. But seriously, we really have to hurry. It’s not easy getting reservations at the Golden Pagoda.”
“If that’s the case,” which I knew it was, “we better get hat.”
“I’m not wearing a hat tonight, Tex.” She gave me a puzzling look.
“‘Get hat’ is an old 20th century term for hurry. But, as you know, Chelsee, I respect all the speed laws. However, I do know a short cut.” The several glasses of bourbon gave me a warm, cozy feeling. I wasn’t drunk, least-wise not yet. But I sure was in a cheery mood, despite the depressing aspects of my story. And I was ready to fly - literally!
Along the way, she asked, “So what happened when you got to the Mill Valley post office?”
“You wouldn’t believe who arrived there ahead of me.”
“Big Jim Slade.”
“Have I told you this part of the story before?”
“No, but it seemed logical.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Spock.” She smiled that pretty smile of hers. With the neon lights of the city shining in the window, coupled with the reflection of her face ON the window, I thought I was seeing double beauty. I shook my head slightly, clearing out the bourbon-
webs floating like strands of cotton on a blustery day.
I continued, “I saw him coming through the door with a white letter size envelope in his hand. Pretending I was reading a newspaper I snatched a moment before, he walked right by me, stuffing the envelope in his coat pocket. It was a miracle he didn’t see me. If he had, I wouldn’t be here today. Anyway, I wasn’t sure what his destination was, so I tailed him at a safe distance. When I saw he was heading north out of town, I realized he was going back to his lodge. I didn’t know where he got the extra key to box 969, but I knew I had to act fast.
“Just on the north end of town was Keyes Keys, a locksmith service I’ve used before. The owner, a disgusting pig of a woman named Divine, ran the place and would do anything for anyone at anytime and anyplace - for a price. I gave her the fig bar with the key impression on it and told her to make me a copy ‘post haste.’”
“Her name was Divine Keyes?” Chelsee asked disbelievingly.
“Yeah. Her father was a preacher and, although he was disappointed when his only child was a girl, he decided to give her a religious name. If he only knew how she would turn out. He was killed during WWIII. At any rate, she was all too happy to make a key for me when I flashed a fifty dollar bill. Then she started to ask the usual despicable questions.”
“Like what questions?”
“‘Hey, hot stuff, when are we going to get together in an effort to repopulate the species? How about we play post office? I’ll be the box and you can be the key.’ That did it, I was gone. Gagging, I vamoosed and headed directly to Slade’s digs. Once again I found myself sneaking around to the back door. Only this time he wasn’t taking a shower.”
“What was he doing?”
“Well, by now he had come to the conclusion that his briefcase was missing, as well as one or two other items. And he was not happy. I could hear him ranting and raving, something about ‘this lousy job is getting worse by the day.’ When I peeked through the sliding door, I saw him go into the bathroom. I could hear items being removed from the medicine cabinet, a couple of them falling to the floor. A small suitcase was opened on the bed. He was packing to move, just as I figured. He knew someone was on to him and, unless I was wrong, he probably reasoned it was me. Now, where was the envelope?
“I was thoroughly pleased to see that he had set it on the same small table by the door where his wallet had been. So, with the quietness of a church mouse, I unlocked the door, slid it open, grabbed the envelope, and dashed into the kitchen.”
“Why? Why didn’t you just leave?”
“Because, as soon as I picked up the envelope, the bathroom door opened. If I tried to turn and exit the lodge, he would have seen me and I’d be buzzard bait. However, by going into the kitchen, that would buy me a few precious seconds to plan an escape.”
“Again, how?”
“Chelsee, when he came out of the bathroom, it was only a matter of micro seconds before he noticed the door was open and the envelope was gone. He would figure I had followed him, grabbed his orders and split the scene. That’s exactly what happened. When he saw the envelope missing from the table, he screamed, ‘Murphy!’ and took off after me. Peering around the corner of the kitchen, I could see him take all five steps of the deck in one giant leap, gun in hand at the ready. He surmised I had fled to the parking lot. That allowed me to put my escape plan into motion.”
“Tex, if the only way out of the lodge was the sliding door, how would you get back to your speeder alive?”
“Oh ye of little faith. It was simple. I ran out of the lodge, stood on the deck railing, hoisted myself up onto the roof, and slowly crawled to the peak. I caught a glimpse of Slade looking in vain for me and my speeder. Confused, he finally came to the realization that I was still in the lodge. When he ran around to the rear of the unit, I slipped over the top peak and started down the other side, feeling I was home free.”
“But you weren’t.” I glared at Chelsee. She could either read my mind or she could discern my next choice of words. “No, you haven’t told me this part of the story before.” That did it! She’s going to get the Tex Murphy special if she keeps that up.
“Unfortunately, you’re right. As I retreated over the other side of the roof, one of the wooden roof tiles came loose and clattered its way down to the sidewalk below. Clickety clack, rat-a-tat, and so on. By then, Slade was back in the lodge and heard the noise. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots rang out, coming through the roof and narrowly missing vital areas of my anatomy. I let go of my hold and slid off the roof, following the trail of the tile before me. Two more shots rang out and hit nothing but air.
“I fell into a bush, sustaining several scratches. However, it did cushion my fall. I scrambled to my feet and headed for my speeder. Once inside, I headed for the evening sky, not looking behind to see if Slade was there. I was alive and well and that’s all that counted. Except now I had Slade’s new orders and the possible name of the person giving those orders.”
“Gee, Tex, I didn’t realize you put so much on the line back then. I mean, you nearly got killed.”
“Yeah, well, those things happen once and a while. But, not too often, thank goodness. Anyway, I headed for my office and opened the envelope. There were two items inside which I found quite advantageous. First, there was a coded message for Slade. At the time I had no idea as to how to decode it. There were several small dashes with a number under each one. I’ve seen that kind of code before. It required a corresponding document. As you read the document, you would count the letters, write them down on the dashes, and then you would have the decoded orders. Only, I didn’t know where to find the appropriate document. That’s where the second item came to my rescue. It was a level one passcard to get into the Law and Order Party Headquarters. So, I figured I would find the necessary document there.”
“So, you went directly to L & O headquarters, right?”
“Wrong. First I went to see my client. We had a dinner date in order to discuss the case. Afterwards, we went for a spin. I explained to her that she was in mortal danger. Her only question was ‘Why?’ Although I didn’t know the answer to her query, I persuaded her to hide out until things cooled down. The best place for this was her father’s warehouse. So I dropped her off a few minutes later.”
“Sounds like things are getting a little sticky.” Chelsee was truly interested in the saga of Tex Murphy’s first case and subsequent marriage made in hell. “Oh! There’s the Golden Pagoda.” Sure enough, it was coming into view. Since we’re in the upper level west bound traffic lanes, I needed to veer to the right and drop down four levels. That put us about two levels above the pavement. Still heading west, we start looking for parking places. As we do, I notice an audio/visual floating advertisement for the Faberge Egg exhibit coming to the museum in 2044. There’s something familiar about that....
“There’s a spot,” she declares, interrupting my train of thought.
“Nope. Fire hydrant.”
“Over there.”
“Sorry. Handicapped only.”
“Actually, Tex, I think you could make a case for that.”
“Oh, that’s very funny. Ah, there’s one, right in front of the restaurant. See!” I say smugly. She sticks her tongue out at me for revenge’s sake. Since I need to drop two more levels and we’re practically on top of the restaurant, I make a quick north turn on South Street and then head east on West Street. Dropping to level one, I hang a right on Temple and then another right on East China Blvd. Easing off the throttle, I lower the speeder to the parking level and just beat out another guy and his date for the best spot.
“Nice move, Dastard.” I smile at Chelsee’s reference to one of the most famous bang-up figure eight drivers of our day. He was so uncouth and daring, totally absent of fear or injury, they called him Dastard the Bastard. He was hated by everyone, except the promoters. He was the kind of guy who would crash into someone and then laugh at them while the ambulance flew the guy to the hospital. The crowd hated him but turned out in droves in the hopes he would get slammed by one of the good guys. Never happened.
“Nice analogy, Sweetie,” I say sarcastically. Upon getting out of the speeder, I clap my hands twice and the doors close automatically. I sure wish I was the guy who invented the little piece of electronics. I wouldn’t be eating at the Golden Pagoda; I’d own it.
“So, you finally go to the L & O headquarters. What were you planning to do?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure, at the time. I figured it was unoccupied because of it being Sunday evening and I’d have all night to ransack the place. I was wrong.”
“Mark an X on the calendar.”
“Cute! But, when I slid the passcard through the digital scanner and entered the building, what I saw next was not cute. I came face to face with an all night security guard. He had a patch over his left eye. Reminded me of a pirate who won the fight, but lost an eye in the process.”
“How did you get around the guard?”
“Well, I used a hodge-podge of clever manipulation, a degree on intrepidity and the usual Tex Murphy savor-faire.”
“So, you cheated, lied and made funny faces.”
“Do you want to hear what happened or what?”
“Tex, you really need to get a life. Of course I do. I just know how you work.”
“Gee, thanks. Well, for your benefit, my lying and cheating went like this....”

2043 across from
the Golden Pagoda

“What’s your status,” asked the leader through the two-way radio.
“They just entered the restaurant. The speeder is in the front parking spot. Send the kid over to get it. If he has any trouble, I’ll help him.”
“He’s on the way. Make sure you make it look like you just happened by. Ask if the spot is taken. When they explain that their speeder was stolen, offer them a ride to the cop shop. Once they’re in the speeder, do ‘em both.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve gone over this a hundred times. I’ll take care of my end.”
“Look! I’m just making sure. If I sound a little apprehensive, I’m sure you can understand why.”
“Got it. I know how you feel. I won’t let you down. I’m just as eager as you are to see them get their just desserts.”
“Thanks, old friend. I knew I could count on you.”
The man with the pointed nose smiled. Their friendship went back more than 20 years. His boss had helped him on an important job back then and he vowed to help him whenever and wherever he needed it. With that in mind, he pulled his speeder down the street. From his vantage point, he could clearly see people entering and exiting the restaurant. The only unknown was the length of time they would be inside. And, unlike the bug in her apartment, there was no bug in the restaurant or on their person. So, if the story Murphy was telling was a long one, he might have to wait a couple of hours or more outside. So, he sat back and relaxed, opening the paper and reading the headlines. “Faberge Egg Exhibit Drawing Large Crowds.“ He smiled. This was going to be a glorious evening. Tex Murphy and his dumb blonde girlfriend were going to get the surprise of their lives. 


-----------------------------

 Chapter eighteen: 2037
Big Surf Lodge
Sunday, Nov. 15

Rage and revenge filled Big Jim Slade’s heart, reaching deep down into his psyche. This job had been the most disagreeable of his 15 year career. One botch after another. People from the past showing up unexpectedly; old men challenging his physical agility; two-bit PIs muddling into his affairs; his own inability to retrieve a simple thing like a computer passcard; even his orders from his inept and insolent boss was stolen. Will it never end? Is there any way I can bring it to an early end? What should I do?
Slade mused on his past successes, using them as a springboard to rebuild his con-
fidence. Coupled with his relaxation and mind control exercises, he was soon back in control, albeit a control rooted on sand instead of concrete. Nonetheless, he had a job to finish and finish it he would. There were still four names on his hit list. Although his boss had listed Murphy last, he would be the first, if at all possible. That meddling PI had been one step behind him early on; but now he was one step ahead of ‘The Mind, The Body, The Man’. And that just didn’t sit well with Slade.
The phone rang. “Slade here.”
“Mr. Slade? I thought I told you to leave the passcard in the post office box. Did you forget?” It was Slade’s boss.
“Uh, not exactly, sir,” Slade was polite despite his animosity towards his boss. He was also embarrassed by his failure.
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly?’” His tone was contemptuous.
“Well, that person from the past showed up and, uh, stole the card. But, I got even with him. For all I know, he’s dead by now.”
“Let me get this straight. A man from your past shows up, you let him steal the passcard, you shoot him, but he might not be dead... need I say more?”
“I understand how you feel. I feel just as badly. But this case has proven to have more than the usual twists and turns. And...” Slade stopped short, worried what the boss was going to say when he told him his orders had been stolen as well.
“Yes, you were about to add something?” His tone was becoming increasingly con-
descending.
“Uh, well, while I was packing today, uh, that Murphy character showed up and stole the orders you gave me. Before I could read them, by the way.” Slade found himself almost apologizing to this twit.
“What am I going to do with you, Mr. Slade? First, there was Mexico, now there is San Francisco. Let me be blunt. If you cannot do the job as prearranged, then I’ll get someone who can. Do I make myself clear?”
Slade was on the verge of a verbal and physical tirade unrivaled in his thirty-eight year existence. “Look, I can finish the job. We made a deal and I’m living up to that deal as best I can. No one, and I do mean no one, is better at what I do. When you hired me, you didn’t tell me there were going to be more obstacles than blessings. If you can’t divulge all the unnecessary and unexpected hurdles that fate has thrown into my path, then live with it! I’ve had just about enough of you and your hit list. And, while I’m at it, you still haven’t told me the importance of this mission of yours. That’s the least you could do.” Slade’s hostility was obvious. But, he also dexterously transferred the onus of failure to the shoulders of the other person. First, you start by almost apologizing; then you start to defend yourself; then you transfer the blame to the other person. By the time you’re done, the other person feels humiliated and discouraged.
“So, that’s it, is it? Well, perhaps you’re right. There’s a plan to ....” and he went on to tell Slade the entire scenario regarding the STG project and all those involved with it. He also disclosed the importance of the passcards. But, he finished with a pleasant surprise.
“Oh, one final note. Don’t worry about the passcards. If I’m correct, all we have to do is set a trap for Murphy. I believe he’s been collecting the cards we’re missing. And, if it’s Murphy you want, then simply go to the Law and Order Party Headquarters. He’ll probably be there, with your orders. If you don’t get them, call me and I’ll tell you what they are. Okay by you?” His tone had mellowed considerably since Slade’s harangue.
“Sure thing, Mr. Klaus. Oh, and sorry about the outburst earlier.”
“No problem. This is a high pressure and intricate process and nerves can get frayed, from time to time. Let’s finish this together and we’ll both be wealthier than imaginable.”
They both hung up. Slade smiled at his aplomb. Put the burden back on the other person’s shoulders was a tactic he learned from his martial arts sensei, Master Lo. It worked beautifully. Klaus was no dummy, but he wasn’t a mental giant either. Oh sure, he was an excellent surgeon. But, when it came to criminal activity, he was a novice at best. Only ‘The Mind, The Body, The Man’ can follow this conspiracy through to its ultimate and successful conclusion. He would steal the passcards from Murphy, killing Klaus in the process, and sell them to the highest bidder. Since J. Saint Gideon’s name was on the list (Slade didn’t know why), maybe he would like to buy them. With Gideon’s financial resources, Slade would make a killing. A killing! He laughed at his unintended double entendre. And then he left.

Sunday, Nov. 15, 2037
L & O Headquarters

John Klaus’ plan was moving ahead, in spite of Slade’s ineptness. He was beginning to regret the hiring of this butcher. On the other hand, Slade was right. There is none better. But why so many dilemmas? Is it all because of that floozy Sylvia Linsky? And her new friend, Tex Murphy? How can two virtually unknowns cause so many problems? Thinking back, it all started with Carl Linsky’s suicide. Maybe he shouldn’t have injected him with that neural implant. Maybe he should have had Slade kill Linsky. That would not have aroused any suspicion. Too late for regrets now. He needed to move ahead with his scheme to steal the STG project right out from under its creator’s eyes. Ruling the world was always a flight of fancy since he was a boy. And soon it would be realized.
First things first. One, Klaus knew he had to have all eight passcards and their respective passwords in order to infiltrate the system. Two, he needed to have Slade eliminate the remaining ‘contestants’ on the list. Three, Slade himself would have to be disposed of. He was a liability and a costly one at that. Unknown to Slade was Klaus’ ability to put a 90 day hold on the funds transferred to Slade’s Swiss account. All he had to do was contact the bank rep he dealt with, give him the secret passcode, and the funds would automatically be returned to Klaus’ own bank account. What do the PIs say? ‘Easy as falling off a horse.’
In the meantime, Klaus needed to act on info he has thus far received. ‘There’s a lot of work to do and time is of the essence’. With that in mind, he left his lab at Law and Order Headquarters and set about making a trap for Murphy. This is something he would really enjoy. Almost as much as killing Slade.

Sunday, Nov. 15, 2037
Law and Order Headquarters
After Klaus left

The guard stood up as I entered the building. Usually that’s a sign that he’s ready for action; a take charge attitude.
“I’m sorry sir, but these premises have been closed for the evening. I’m going to have to ask you to leave immediately.” I won’t get far with this guy in my path. Does he really expect a Murphy to give up this easily? Well, he’s got another thing comin’. But, I do need to think of something quick. And it better be good. If he does let me stay, I won’t be able to scour the place with him hanging around.
“Sheesh! Late again, aren’t I? I missed the whole rally. Do you have any beer left?” Oh, that was borderline intelligence at best. Rally? Beer? He came out from behind the reception counter and reached for his revolver. Better go to plan B.
“Okay, wise guy. Get your hands up where I can see ‘em.” I am now looking down the barrel of a Colt .45. Kind of dark in there. Anyway, it’s obvious these L&O types take their jobs seriously. Why would he be so defensive? I did use the passcard to enter, which, by the way, is the only way you CAN enter. They must be on some sort of alert, what with the mutant situation and all. Or, they are simply being overly cautious as a result of too many slip ups lately. After all, I have the passcard to enter, not Slade. I better change tactics.
“All right. Look, calm down.” I shift my head slowly from side to side, as though I’m about to explain the details of my secret mission. “I suppose it’s okay to tell you, but, uh, I’m on a top secret mission for the government.” Those last words spoken using my left hand as a muzzle, as though someone would overhear. I doubted anyone else was there, but it added emphasis to my assertion.
Not to be deterred, he responded by saying, “I don’t care if you work for the NSA, I’m gonna need to see some ID.” Gulp! This guy’s on some kind of mission of his own. Well, I surely can’t show him my PI license, so I better go to plan C.
“Hey man,” that’s always effective, “I was just following orders. I was given this passcard,” and I hand it to him, “and told to use it to enter this building.”
He calmly takes the passcard, not allowing his eyes to turn from mine. He’s a cool customer, for a rent-a-guard, that is. “We all got orders. It’ll take just a second to write down this badge number. There’s coffee if you like.” He returns the gun to its holster and leaves the room. I better think of something quick.
Hmmm. Let’s see. I start thinking and put my hands in my pockets as usual. I feel the same vial that I appropriated from Slade. This is as good a time as any to use it. I notice the coffee pot, still half full. A used, but still wet, mug was next to it. I bet this guy drinks lots of java just for the caffeine. I know this is somewhat unethical, but I need to search this place and a conscious security guard would be a hindrance. So, I start pouring the ‘Mickey Finn’ into the pot. As I do, my mind wanders back to the letter from the Colonel. ‘Sometimes you have to bend the rules to make them work.’ Was he right? Is that what I’m doing now? While I’m thinking, I notice how the sleepy-time white powder is missing the pot. Oops! I spilled it on the coffee table! Damn! In a flash, I pull out Slade’s orders and scoop the stuff onto it. Making a small fold, I pour it back into the pot, blowing away the remaining dust. The guard appears behind me.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, while I’m bending over the table on one knee.
“Uh, contact lens fell out. There, got it back now.” If he buys that, then I’m gonna sell him the Golden Gate Bridge before I leave. He shakes his head and exits the room. One bridge coming right up!
I finish with the coffee pot; now to find a place to hide. Since all this nervous energy has filled my bladder, I decide to.. Hey! Good idea! I’ll hide in the bathroom. But, there’s a problem and it’s not the shortage of toilet paper. Unless I’m mistaken, I need the passcard to exit the building. There was a card reader just inside the door. That’s rare, since most companies want to keep people out - not in. But L&O has its problems and decided to have people use the passcard both ways. It probably gives them better traffic control, allowing them to keep a hard copy record of the times people enter AND leave. In any case, the guard knows that and he might come looking for me. I better go to plan D. (I really wish I knew what all these plans are.)
Sure enough, minutes later the guard opened the bathroom door. I hear the door (to the first commode) bang open. Moments later the door to #2 commode (no pun intended) banged open. I was beginning to sweat just a tad; it sure was humid in the bathroom. Finally, the door to the #3 commode banged open. After a long silence, I heard the door to the Men’s room open and close. Next thing I know, I hear the coffee pot rattle back on its burner. Yup! ‘Fooled ‘em again’ I mused as I waited patiently in the Women’s room. It’s an old PI hiding trick; most rent-a-cops won’t check the Ladies room.
After several minutes, I hear a clunk, followed by swoosh, and finally a thud. Let me guess: He dropped his cup, fell over the wheeled chair, pushing it out of the way, and finally landed on the floor. He should be out cold. I ease out the door, peek around the corner and espy my new buddy. Ol’ one eye is out for the count. So, I go back into the lady’s room and search it thoroughly. Nothing exciting in there. So, I slip across the hall to the Men’s room. I was looking for a memo or letter or brochure or anything to decode Slade’s orders. It must be here, for that is where Slade was told to go. Come to think of it, I’d like to tell him where to go. Maybe another time.
The Men’s room had a shower stall, a couple of sinks, three commodes, two urinals, a hand dryer, a bench and several lockers. Since most of these were out in the open, I deduced that the lockers were the only place to look. Most of them were locked; that’s probably why they call them lockers. One of them had a L&O welcome brochure. I read it over and start counting the letters. Here’s what I came up with:
TR FFNRI
ETAOTEMK WRIDRA
TAABRR ITICA
YNA ONNHDM INEVMIHO
UOEESEW

Two possibilities occurred to me. One: The now decoded message needed to be decoded again, or, Two: All I had was a bunch of gibberish taken from the wrong document. I opted for #2. So, I continued my search and soon found another official looking document. It was entitled ‘The Law and Order Credo’. It read this way:
“That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to affect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.”
That was a long-winded way of saying, “If you don’t like the government, overthrow it and set up a new one.” I’ll say one thing, though, the ‘hath’ made the whole document official. You can’t have an official government document without the word ‘hath.’
With this credo in one hand and my pencil in the other, I started counting the letters. This is how the message read when I was finished.
MR SLADE
PRIORITY TARGET
ROBERT KNOTT
HIS OFFICE PASSWORD
PIRANHA

Wow! I guess this means that Knott isn’t the Overlord, nor is he the man behind the list. Instead, he’s at the top of the list. If I can find Knott, maybe he’ll tell me what’s going on here.
My work was done in the bathroom, mental and physical, so I headed out into the lobby. I peered around the corner before walking out into the open. I didn’t want any passersby to notice my presence. There were none. Good. As I walk past ‘sleeping beauty’, I notice two things. First, a set of keys was attached to the guards belt. Perhaps they would fit one or more of the offices. Second, there was a row of CCTV monitors on the reception desk, each designed to show a picture from a corresponding security camera. They showed these areas: Reception Hall (which was locked); Hallway 1; Hallway 2; Office; and Cloak Room.
The opposite hallway from the restrooms had a few offices running off it. Names I never heard of glistened off shiny nameplates. The only one that caught my eye was Robert Knott’s office. It seemed pertinent to search his and leave the others alone. If I’m not mistaken, when I swiped the L&O passcard, it deactivated the front door. When the door closed, it reactivated the alarm on it. However, most security systems today have multiple partitions, allowing businesses to secure up to 48 areas of a building off one main control panel. Each of these could be operated independently of the others with their own key pad. Of course, each would require their own passcode or password. And, theoretically, someone like Robert Knott could swipe his passcard to enter the building, then enter his office, punch in his respective password, and disengage his, and only his, alarm. The rest of the building would remain secure.
I guess that’s a long-winded way of saying that I have only one password and it’s for Knott’s office. The rest I don’t need to worry about. All I want to do is find out what L&O’s objective is regarding the Overlord and possibly find out where Robert Knott’s address. With those two thoughts in mind, I begin the tedious task of peppering his office with my nimble fingers.
Knott’s office was modestly decorated with unremarkable paintings, a pair of crossed swords, a vase or two, a couple of chairs from the Billy Barty collection, and a huge bookcase filled with unread volumes dealing with political science and other various boring subjects. There was also a first edition of “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.” This was the only valuable item worth taking, if I was a thief. The only problem is, I saw the movie, but I missed the book. Should I? Naw!
Upon closer inspection of the bookcase, I saw something that irked me. It was a photo of Sylvia and Frank Schimming, and they weren’t discussing security achievements. Is Sylvia an affaire d’amour with Schimming? Is she in cahoots with him? Are the two of them setting me up? Maybe my client knows more than she’s leading me to believe.
Settling my mind back to the task at hand, I begin to rifle through Knott’s desk. The top left drawer had a post-it note with an address written on it. I make a note of it in my notebook and continue my search.
The bottom left drawer proved even more illuminating. It contained a file folder, pulled by Knott, I assumed. Upon opening it, my spine went rigid and goose-bumps formed on my arms. It was John Klaus’ file. So, Knott is checking up on John Klaus and Slade has been hired to kill Robert Knott. By who? Could it be John Klaus? That would make sense in view of Wanda Peck’s assessment of Klaus. Or, maybe it’s Schimming. Why not? Knott has a picture of him and my client together. Maybe Knott is blackmailing ol’ Frank and he has had enough. I replace the file, noticing it did not contain anything I didn’t already know.
I rummage through the rest of the desk drawers and came up empty. Rechecking the bookcase, it too showed up nothing usable. I looked behind some of the pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a safe. But, try as I might, the safe would not open. It required a numeric code. So, I went back to the desk and searched the areas I ignored previously. For example, I looked under the desk - nothing; I pulled out each drawer and looked on its underside - zilch; I removed the cushions to the chairs - nada. Frustrated, I decide to leave and check the guard’s pockets, not really expecting to find the safe’s code in his possession. As I walk to the door, I take an unnecessary risk by removing a sword from its perch. I’ve always had the hankerin’ to....Hey! When I took down the sword, a key was attached to the back of it. Great hiding place. On the key was number 17. I remember the lockers in the Men’s bathroom, and, if I’m not mistaken, the one numbered 17 was locked.
Moments later, locker number 17 was open. A briefcase lay on its floor. I pry it open, finding the usual office particulars one would expect to find in a candidate’s attaché case. However, I did find his personal address book. As I flipped through it, a rolodex card fell out to the floor. There was a phone number on it, 3-664-735-3896. I head directly back to Knott’s office and dial the number. I know it’s long distance and, well, I haven’t had the long distance feature of my home phone activated at this time. So, let L&O pay for the call. An old man, about three years younger than El Cid, answered the phone. Realizing this to be a mistake, I order two large pizzas with extra cheese and crumpled bacon. Click! Well, I wasn’t that hungry anyway.
That’s when I take a closer look at the number. In very small print was RK Office. Could this be Knott’s phone number? If so, why would he write down his own number? If his memory is that bad, maybe he shouldn’t run for governor. So, I remembered seeing a phone directory in one of his drawers. I take it out and study the various area codes. Three was the code for the Midwest; 664 was Duluth’s code, and the rest was some old guy who now hates all pizza-eating people world wide. But when I reversed the digits, 6 was the code for west of the Rockies; 983 was San Francisco’s code, and the rest was Knott’s office number. Acting on a hunch, I punch Knott’s entire number into his phone. Two words appeared on the LCD display: OPEN SESAME.
I go back to the safe and, much to my dismay, the buttons on the safe keypad were only numerical, not alphabetical. So, I decide to chance entering OPEN SESAME using the letters on the number buttons of the phone. After all, didn’t Ali Baba use the words ‘open sesame’ to reveal a secret hiding place? I’m no Ali Baba, but I am a Murphy. And we don’t give up. Upon entering the corresponding letters, a number appears. It was 673 673 7263. My PI instinct was in high gear by now. I was on a roll. Therefore, I pushed that number into the safe’s keypad and voila!, it popped open like a Mick Lite on Saturday night!
What I found inside the safe was spine tingling. It was a CD with the words “for Wanda Peck, in case of my untimely death” written on it. Gee, I thought all death was untimely. At any rate, I had hit the jackpot; recovered the brass ring; struck oil, as it were. Knott, marked for death by the L&O Party, perhaps, was striking back by divulging info on L&O and giving it to CAPRICORN. Like the old saying goes, “Push me, shove you, oh yeah, says who.” Knott’s not going out quietly, that’s for sure.
However, another thought entered my overworked, underpaid brain. Why give it to Wanda Peck? Does she and Knott have a thing going? That would certainly explain why she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I knew there had to be a reason. Huh! Then a third thought scrambled to life in the ol’ gray matter. Maybe, just maybe, Wanda might know Knott’s whereabouts. Now that would be delicious, er, advantageous, I mean.
I now feel totally comfortable with my findings here at the L&O Headquarters. So, now it’s time to leave. I walk out of Knott’s office and espy a small table in the hallway. On it was a clipboard listing check-in times. Next to it was the passcard I used to enter the building. Things were looking up; I was on cloud nine and floating higher. With card in hand, I round the corner towards the lobby. I come to a complete stop.
Taking up a defensive position behind the large fern stabbing my eye, I see a speeder land out front. Although the glass doors are heavily tinted, I can recognize the face that’s pushed up against them. None other than Big Jim Slade. He must have talked with his boss and was told to scoot on over to L&O. And he’s trying to figure out a way to enter the building. This is not good. The last thing I need is a confrontation with Slade. And if that’s not bad enough, I hear the guard moan. The ‘Mickey Finn’ seems to be wearing off. I need to do something fast!
Slade is pulling furiously on the doors, causing them to rattle loudly. The guard is trying to clear the cobwebs out of his brain. I’m ready to pee my pants. Slade yells, “Is anybody in there? Hello? Open the damn door!” Okay, I’ll be right there, Mr. Killer Hitman. Like hell I will. Although my situation has become untenable, increasingly dangerous and nearly impossible, I start looking for an alternative exit. Walking back down the hall, past Knott’s office, I come to an emergency exit door. Now what?
If I open the door and leave, Slade will come around the corner and shoot me. If I stay here any longer, the guard will be completely awake and HE’LL shoot me. And since I don’t have a gun, I can’t shoot anybody! But I do have an idea. I push the crashbar on the door, sounding a loud horn, blaring beyond one’s noisiest imagination. Propping it open with the fire extinguisher from the wall, I head back to the front door. As I round the corner, I inadvertently knock down the guard, who was unsteady as he returned from checking the front entrance. He goes to the floor with a thud for the second time this evening. He groans and grabs his head as I swipe the card and dash through the door to the pavement outside. Without looking behind me, I run around the next corner and jump into my speeder, thankful for parking it in the alley. The night sky is my haven of safety as I fire up the speeder and slam the controls to lift off. The alley provides the necessary cover as I set the directional finder for the mystery address. Yes sir, things are definitely looking up.

Upon hearing the emergency exit door alarm, Slade ran like lightening toward its sound. He figured Murphy had spotted him landing and was trying to escape his murderous clutches. But not tonight. He would exact revenge on this two-bit, poor excuse of a private dick. When he rounded the corner, instead of Murphy, an alley cat jumped off a garbage can and into Slade’s face. It was his own cat-like reflexes that saved his face from a mauling he would never forget.
That’s when he came to the realization that Murphy wasn’t in the alley. Seeing the door ajar, he assumed Murphy had gone back inside. All the better. Slithering through the door like the snake in the grass he was, Slade moved cautiously down the hallway to the lobby. The guard was just getting to his feet when Slade stumbled upon him, sending the guard back to the floor, moaning and groaning even louder than before. It simply was not the guard’s night, but it was one he would begrudgingly remember.
Slade reached the front door and found it locked. His prey had escaped once more. His rage and ire was rising at an alarming rate. Soon he would lose all control and just shoot anybody and everybody who got in his way, starting with his boss. ‘How could this keep happening?’, was his only thought. That’s when he swore an oath on the soul of Master Lo.
“Someday, Murphy, someday our paths will cross and I will be the victor. As for you, torture and death are waiting along with anyone siding with you. I swear it.”

-------------------

 Chapter nineteen
Sunday evening, Nov. 15, 2037


The mystery address, 8280 Bascom, Los Gatos, turned out to be a seedy looking tavern on the waterfront. It had a condemned sign on the front of it. The way things have been going on this case, I should have felt right at home.
Nothing out front was helpful or identifiable, so I wandered around back. Entering a trash filled alley, I turn on my heavy duty flashlight. The fog could be cut with a knife. But the flashlight guided my steps through the treacherous, garbage filled scrub. Old tires, pieces of marine rope, empty paint cans, a broken mast, a box spring, and other paraphernalia of the useless kind was strewn hither and thither awaiting a major earth-
quake to swallow them up forever. The stench reminded me of reverse aromatherapy.
The deafening silence was interrupted by the sound of a landing speeder. Since this entire area was devoid of life forms, alien or otherwise, I immediately felt a chill perme-
ate my body. It came to me that either Robert Knott or myself had been set up. Too late for regrets now. I need to formulate a plan of action.
First, I found a doorway to hide in. Multiple flashlights sliced through the fog as the hunters entered the alley. They probably saw my speeder out front and assumed I was back here. They assumed correctly. Watching the lights move away from my position, I decided to cut to my left and slip around to the front and fly off safely in my speeder. That’s when I ran into a brick wall, of the human genre. Falling back slightly, a giant fist connected with my jaw before I was able to make the face. Landing on my stomach, I tried to get up. Before I could, someone hit me with a club on the nape of my neck. The last thing I remember was a piercing pain as the lights of consciousness flickered out.

2043 Golden Pagoda

As we enter the classy restaurant, a young woman in a short skirt greets us politely. Asking if she can take our coats, Chelsee refuses, but I remove mine and hand it to her along with my soft felt fedora. “Uh, does it cost more than three dollars?” I ask. She glares at me in disbelief. I answer the question myself. “Never mind,” wishing I had more than three dollars in my pocket. Good thing it’s Chelsee’s treat tonight.
“So what happened?”
“I really didn’t know at the time. When I finally regained consciousness, it felt like I’d been trying to drink my own body weight in cheap gin. I called it Koro’s revenge.”
“That sounds terrible,” Chelsee replied with earnest concern. As the matre’d approaches, he introduces himself as Chen and waves us to his reservation stand. “Oh, Bando for two,” Chelsee states, knowing we’re hours late for dinner. He smiles and bows slightly, waving us to the bar. He tells us we’re late and they would have to reset a new table for us, as soon as one became available. That was fine with me. It had been at least 30 minutes since I had a smoke and a drink. Another five minutes and they’d have to call 911.
Setting our buns on side by side stools, the bartender approaches and says something I never heard before. “What’ll it be?” Well, maybe I heard that once before. He reminded me a lot of Louie, only he was a norm. Tall, heavy set, looks like he’s been drinking up the profits while stuffing his chops with roasted peanuts and salty pretzels.
Chelsee orders for the both of us. “I’ll have a sloe gin fizz and Tex will have a double bourbon, neat.”
As he turns to fetch our drinks, I blurt out, “Uh, make mine a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.” Chelsee and the bartender both do a slow turn of the heads and fix their stares on me. Time momentarily stopped as the two wonder in unison if I really said that.
As if on cue, they both reply, “Say again?”
“A vodka martini, shaken, not stirred.” The bartender smiles and meanders off to fill our order.
“Who do you think you are, James Bond?” Chelsee asks incredulously. She is, of course, referring to the ageless and infamous international spy of moviedom.
“No, of course not. However, since we saw the last Bond movie, I’ve had an insatiable desire to order that drink.”
“Since you brought it up,” she responds, moving seductively on her stool, “that Sean Connery III is a real hunk.” And she proceeds to flutter her eyebrows.
Deflating her amorous balloon, I quickly retort, “Yeah, but let’s face it. It’s about time they come up with something more original. I mean, ‘The Galaxy Is Not Enough’? Really! Even I could be more creative and would do so for a lot less than what they’re paying the writers nowadays.”
“You’re just envious. Besides, who cares? The action is great, the romance is hot, and he saves the world just in time to do it again three years later.”
“I’ve saved the world four times now and you don’t talk that way about me.”
“If you say so sweetie. But, the real question is: Why does Bond always order his martini shaken, not stirred?”
As if on cue, the bartender returns with our drinks, placing them on lacey cocktail napkins. He picks up where Chelsee left off. “I’ll tell you why. When a martini is shaken, it contains more antioxidants than the stirred variety, according to a study by two Canadian researchers. And why is that important you ask?” As a matter of fact, I was about to. “Antioxidants fight free radicals, the molecules that affect aging,” and he proceeds to meander over to a new set of customers.
Chelsee and I sit stunned, not knowing if what we heard was the truth or just our friendly bartender’s way of saying, ‘Ask me anything’. Breaking the interminable silence, I say, “So, that’s why he has never grown old after 80 years of service.” Chelsee nods in agreement.
“So, get back to the story. What had they done to you?”
“As I said, I wasn’t sure at the time. I had this ripping pain inside my head. I mean, I was munching ibuprofen tablets like they were Reese’s pieces.” Chelsee slips a warm, caring hand to the nape of my neck, rubbing ever so gently. “That didn’t stop the blinding light I was getting behind my eyes or the pain I had in my head.”
“Did you see a doctor?”
“No, just the light flashes actually.” With that, she raps the back of my head with her hand as though she was a teacher and I was the ill-mannered schoolboy.
“So, finish telling me about Linsky.”
“Okay. Well, the thought occurred to me that Carl Linsky might have gone through the same thing I was going through. Remember I told you he had a little scar on the back of his neck?” She nods in remembrance. “Well, it wasn’t so hard for me to envision jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge just to get away from the gnawing pain.”
“What had they done to you?” She was allowing a bit of frustration to enter her ability to control her emotions. I don’t blame her. I’d ask the same question if situations were reversed.
“I just assumed I had been beat up real good. What I didn’t realize at the time was the clock of my life was ticking and I had less than 48 hours to live.”
“So, what did you do next?”
“I was only half way up a long series of steps. The next one was to find Robert Knott. He and I were on the same sinking ship together. Feeling like my skull was full of razor blades, I called Wanda Peck. She seemed a little annoyed at the hour, but soon changed her tune when I told her I had something of extreme importance to share with her. So, I headed over to CAPRICORN Headquarters.
“As she entered the reception area, I could tell she was troubled by something. She asked, in an unfriendly manner, the reason for my visit. I knew right then that she and I were never going to be married.”
“Can we dispense with the Wanda - Tex soap opera and finish the story?” Poor Chelsee. Jealous as they come. Course, I really like that in a woman.
“Sure, Chelsee. Wanda asked me for the info that was important enough to draw her away from what little free time she was enjoying. I reached into my inside coat pocket and pulled out the CD from Knott’s safe. She tried to grab it, but I was too fast for her. Into my pocket it went. You see, I needed something from her and I was willing to trade for it. She asked me where I got it and I told her I stole from Knott’s office.”
“I told you, no more romance stuff.”
“Not that kind of trade! I wanted to know the location of Robert Knott. I figured that if anybody knew his whereabouts, it would be her.”
“How so?”
“Well, CAPRICORN was putting a lot of effort into infiltrating and exposing the L&O Party’s agenda. Therefore, they must be tailing him or something to that affect. She told me she knew Robert on a first name basis and that she liked him. I found that rather strange, but capitalized upon it. Retrieving the CD from my pocket, I handed it to her in exchange for Knott’s locale. She disappeared from my sight and entered an office area. When she returned, she gave me a paper with the directions and coordinates of Robert Knott’s cabin. It was somewhere north of San Francisco in the woods. It seems that almost no one knew of this little hideaway. Except Wanda and now me.”
“Did you go directly to the cabin?”
“No, it was too late. Despite the searing pain, I went to my office and crashed. Morning came all too early. I headed over to Francine’s Food Emporium and ordered breakfast. Although I wasn’t really hungry, I knew I needed something to eat. After that, I headed straight to Knott’s cabin. I figured that if I warned Knott about Slade, he would tell me what the hell was going on at L&O.”

2037 CAPRICORN Headquarters

Wanda Peck watches as Tex Murphy leaves her office with the location of Robert Knott’s cabin. She has no qualms about giving Murphy the directions. She decided days ago that he could be trusted. His naiveté alone was enough to trust him with the secured location of her one true lover. That’s when her thoughts flashed back to the previous Friday evening.
Their rendezvous at Bob’s cabin was filled with heartwarming hope. Neither of them had intended to fall in love. In fact, quite the opposite was expected. Wanda had set up an appointment to parlay with Knott in an obvious effort to recoup vital info regarding L&O Party’s methods and creeds. However, upon meeting in person, their own peculiar thoughts of each other melted away any mutual animosity. It was love at first sight. They began to invent reasons to meet despite warnings from their contemporaries.

Friday, Nov. 13, 2037
Robert Knott’s cabin

And now, some four weeks later, they were together in the privacy of this secluded retreat. A fire was blazing in the hearth; crackling timbers launching hot ashes into the air as though it was the Fourth of July. Crickets were playing energetic mating tunes with their legs as the stars stretched over the sky like paper thin gauze. A light autumn breeze floated through lofty trees and rustled their leafs like a loving mother tickling her toddling child. Even the fireflies were twinkling their luminescent lights, especially the genus “Photuris” males. They know the female of their variety act as femme fatales, drawn to the flickering cold light of other varieties of fireflies. However, upon arriving and perceiving the males of their own genus, they mate with them instead of devouring the unsuspecting males.
And so it was with Wanda and Bob. Two lonely souls brought together by a quirk of fate. Bob had pulled the rustic looking American Indian designed couch in front of the raging fire. Wanda had brought along a comforter and the two of them were intertwined under its velvety woven design; a large female lion with two cubs playing at her feet. Wanda and Bob were involved in some playing of their own. He had reached under her arms to get a more secure hold when she jerked away, a chuckle escaping her lips.
“Don’t! I’m ticklish,” she said in a coquettish tone.
That was all Bob needed to hear. Very uncharacteristically, he began to tickle her all the more. After a few childish moments of jabbing each other’s ribs, they finally settled into a long and passionate embrace, allowing their lips and tongues to play a game of their own.
Pulling away in order to peer into his eyes, Wanda said softly, “You know, this liaison is very dangerous. I mean, we both represent organizations that are, for all intents and purposes, diametrically opposed to one another.” Bob smiled inwardly. She just can’t get away from who she is. Her aggressive behavior as a young, energetic law student and her endeavor to reach the preeminent position in her field, had conditioned her mind and heart to act in unison. Despite this erotic moment, she still drew from the depths of her schooling, referring to L&O and CAPRICORN as ‘diametrically opposed’ groups. He laughed aloud, causing Wanda to sit up and stare.
He looked deep into her eyes and answered, “I was never very good at geometry.” She smiled brightly, catching his meaning in her heart. And then she giggled aloud. Very uncharacteristic for her. Again they shared a fervent kiss. The temperature in the room was increasing steadily and it had nothing to do with the roaring fire in the hearth. Then it was Bob’s turn to pull away.
“I know were treading on thin ice, but, who can stop nature from taking its course? Besides, I’ve already made plans to circumvent my head on collision with certain nefarious individuals. Just a few more days, and we can spend the rest of our lives together in peace.” He was lying, of course. The entire situation between L&O and CAPRICORN was inherently perilous. Neither group would relinquish their top ‘dogs’ for the sake of love or any other reason, for that matter. The chances of remaining romantically involved were slim and slimmer. Bob took a deep breath and steered his vision away from Wanda. Unknown to Bob, Wanda was experiencing the same thoughts. If their relationship became public, the results would be catastrophic, for both organizations. Not to mention the public outcry. No, they each knew their time was severely limited. Even their clandestine trysts would have to end eventually. Wanda sighed too.
Bob pulled her close, intending to forget the conversation and thoughts they shared. The time left was reduced. And, in spite of their contrasting agendas, in spite of their opposing careers, in spite of their superior’s objections, they were going to spend an amative night together. Gazing into each other’s eyes, they both nodded silently, giving in to the moment, acquiescing to shared feelings, accepting the plain and simple truth that they were in love with one another and tonight would be a night to remember.
With that, the fire in the hearth began to slowly decrease while the fire in their hearts continued to increase. Their passion reached a fever pitch, finally forcing them to retreat to the bedroom. Their mutual affection allowed them to enter a world of real love, as opposed to the infatuous relationships they encountered prior to their joining. Indeed, the night was long and very memorable.
The next morning, which came all too soon for the both of them, Wanda kissed Bob good-bye. An extended stare was shared, as though they may not see one another again. That was Wanda’s feeling as she slowly let loose of Bob’s large, warm and caring hand. Would she see him again? She sincerely hoped so, for life without him would be unbearable. However, fate would see to it that they would never share another amorous moment together.
Bob watched as Wanda’s speeder flew off into the sunrise. No, they would never see each other again.

Sunday, Nov. 15, 2037
CAPRICORN Headquarters

Wanda Peck’s reminiscing over her assignations with Robert Knott comes to a close. She smiled to herself as she recalled the playful attitude they both exhibited two nights ago. Her smile turned self-possessed as she recalled his portentous words regarding his ‘plans’ for the future. She frowned as she recalled their last glimpse of each other when she left that idyllic setting in the forest. She cried as she recalled the feeling that fate was about to deal them a mortal blow. Was she just overreacting? Was her woman’s intuition merely leading her down an inauspicious path? Is it possible that Bob could really pull it off? Really escape the odious grip of the infamous Law and Order Party? She hoped so; she dreamed of it; she desired it; she knew it was highly unlikely.
Sighing intensely, she decided it was time to insert the disk from Bob into the CD drive of CAPRICORN’s super computer. The first item to appear on the screen was a picture of Bob in his fatigues, the same ones he uses when romping around the woods at his hundred acre retreat. Next was a picture of the two of them taking a dip in the cold waters of Lake in the Woods man-made pond. ‘How did he do that if both of us were in the lake?’ she wondered aloud. Her frown now turned to a smile - again. But, only briefly. The pictures were quickly replaced with a personal letter from her lover. After reading it, her frown returned. She was overtaken by grief. The letter explained that, by the time she read his dispatch, he would probably be dead. So, her fears were confirmed.
Forcing herself to continue, she was ever more determined to bring down the Law and Order Party’s racist war machine. They would not get away with their atrocious plans to initiate a world order based on hatred and bigotry. As she examined the accusations and viable proof of guiltiness, her tears of sorrow transformed into tears of angst. Gritting her teeth to the point of breaking, she read and reread the damaging evidence, compiling it into a file that would ultimately destroy the L&O Party. It would take a couple of days to amass and organize all the data into a report that the authorities would accept, but it would be well worth the effort. It wouldn’t bring back Bob, but it would supply her with a measure of contentment.
As a final thought, she made a note to herself to thank Tex Murphy for all he had accomplished in so short a time. In passing, she even entertained the idea of offering him a position with CAPRICORN. ‘I wonder if he would accept such an offer?’

Monday, Nov. 16, 2037
Robert Knott’s cabin

Sheesh! It took me all day to locate Knott’s hidden sanctuary. Upon arriving, I notice the lights were on. Good! Maybe Knott and I can have a friendly, incriminating chit-chat in front of a warm fireplace. But, even a warm fire couldn’t cool the burning madness zig-zgging through my neural network. If I don’t get some relief soon, I just my fly my speeder in the lake and drown myself.
Forcing my thoughts to the present, I knock on the door. Hmmm. No one home. So, being the good little PI that I am, I start looking for a way into the premise. Walking across the front, I see the windows are closed - and locked. I go around back - the rear door is also locked. Coming back to the front, it dawns on me that I did not try the front door. After all, aren’t all front doors....click! It opens. Nice going, Murphy.
The interior of Knott’s cabin is moderately decorated. Not too boring, not too glitzy, just right in my estimate. Two couches, a la American Indian design; a fireplace with a good supply of cherry wood logs; an aquarium (not very rustic, but appealing nonethe-
less); small kitchen; ample cupboards and cabinets for a place this size; a small but adequate bedroom; and several other sundries to complete the package. My work was cut out for me, especially in Knott’s absence. I may be able to find some objects of use before he gets back, if he’s up here at all. Then again, if he’s not up here, then I may not want to know who left the lights on.
Following my initial inspection, I head back to the living room to begin a more detailed search. Spotting a switch by the door that seemed out of place, I give it a closer exami-
nation. Hmmm. Not a light switch. Filled with curiosity and a craving to flip any switch that comes my way, I take my right forefinger and push it to the ‘open’ position. A whirring noise catches my attention. It was coming from the ceiling. Going to the kitchen and looking up, I see an automatic skylight opening like the sharks in Jaws 14, The Resurrection. Not a bad movie, but, I wondered how they trained all those man-eating sharks to refrain from eating the human actors? Another thought sifted through my painful mind: what kind of frontiersman would have an automatic skylight installed in their cabin? At any rate, I push the ‘close’ button and watch it do just that.
Continuing my probing activity, I catch sight of a metal object in the bottom of the aquarium. It was partially hidden by the imitation seaweed. Why would he put a box in the fish tank with all those cute little fishies? Oh well, it doesn’t matter, I’ll just reach in and grab the.... Yeow! Those aren’t just any fish; they’re piranha! One has latched its razor sharp teeth onto my finger. Experiencing a new set of pains, I withdraw my hand and shake it violently. The little bugger flew across the room and landed in the fireplace. Too bad there wasn’t a fire going. We could have that famous, succulent Australian dish, ‘Piranha on the Barbie.’
Needless to say, I had to find a better way of getting that box out of the tank. While I wrapped my handkerchief around my bleeding finger, I began to look for a way to get the box. The cupboards and cabinets didn’t offer any fast solution, but the refrigerator did. Opening it, I saw a pot roast that had been thawed. It was probably tonight’s dinner entree. Well, it still is; for different dinner guests, that’s all. Taking a bar-b-q fork from the silverware drawer, I skewered it into the roast and walked back to the aquarium. First, I thrust the roast into the water furthest from the box. As the fish swarmed to it like bees to a hive, I quickly thrust my free hand into the other end and retrieve the box. Good thing I was fast. The roast was gone in five seconds. But the fork was undamaged.
Casting the fork into the kitchen sink, I open the box and receive a pleasant surprise. Inside was a Level One passcard to the L&O Party Headquarters. Besides allowing entry to the lobby, I bet this baby will get me into one of the high security areas.
Encouraged by this stroke of luck, I perform a more thorough search of the premises. A length of rope was coiled and hanging on a hook in one of the cabinets. I take it to the door and drop it on the floor near the door. It might come in handy if I have to make a run for it into the woods. In addition to the rope, I find a “Flick ‘N Light” charcoal starter. Clicking its handle, a flame shoots out about 18 inches. Sheesh! You could light a cigarette across the room with this little gem. Rechecking the fridge and freezer, I come up cold (pun intended). Back in the bedroom, on the far wall was a frontier armoire, but it was locked. That’s a good sign that Knott’s hiding something in there.
Essentially disappointed with my findings, except for the passcard to L&O, I decide to exit the cabin. When I arrived, I noticed a comfortable looking wooden swing on the porch. The pain in my head and the soreness of my finger convinced me to sit their and enjoy the fresh air in hopes Knott would return soon. I wasn’t disappointed any more. I recalled the old saying, again, ‘Be careful what you ask for; you just might get it.’
As I open the door, I’m greeted by a crossbow aimed at my nose. Thinking how much that would hurt, I decide to say something intelligent. “Well, I wasn’t expecting any company, but since you’re here...”
“What the hell is going on here?” asked a middle aged man wearing fatigues. His eyes were slits, as though he was about to go into battle - with my face. Handsome, well built, six feet tall, and sandy brown hair with a hint of gray edging in at the temples. Instantly, I recognized the professional stature of Robert Knott from the picture in the welcome brochure I lifted from the Men’s room at L&O.
“Whoa! Listen! Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? I came to warn you - somebody wants you dead.” There, that should get his attention.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he commanded with the air of a general on maneuvers. So much for the attention-getting routine.
“Okay. I don’t know who it is, but somebody inside L&O hired a hitman named Big Jim Slade.” That somebody was probably John Klaus, but I wasn’t absolutely sure at this point in time. “You’re at the top of his things to do list. I was able to detour him yesterday, but that will only be a temporary setback for a killer of his caliber. He’ll be looking for you soon.”
“Keep talking.” Why do I get the impression that he already knows what I’m talking about? Maybe I should mention my source.
“All right. Wanda Peck gave me the directions to this place.” He seemed to ease off just a bit.
“So, who the hell are you? And what’s your relationship to Wanda Peck?” He motions for me to re-enter the cabin. If I continue to tell the truth, maybe he’ll reciprocate in kind when it’s my turn to ask some questions.
“Well, there’s a rats nest at L&O and, for different reasons, we both want to find it.” We are completely inside the cabin now. Knott let’s loose of the crossbow and closes the door. I feel better in spite of the piercing pain in my head.
“You don’t say. Well, that makes three of us,” he says, lowering the crossbow in the process.
I look around the place and ask, “Do you really think you’re safe out here?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders and answers, “It’s as good as place as any. It doesn’t really matter. They’re gonna find me sooner or later. Actually, my own death is not exactly high on my wish list of things I’d like to happen to me. But I’ll tell you one thing, they know I’m not going to give up without a fight,” and he shoots an arrow into a 19th century wall hanging. Too bad. I was going to hock that for some extra cash.
“So, tell me something, if you don’t mind. How does someone go from being the Law and Order Party’s candidate for governor to the top of the hit list?” Reflecting on the question posed, he takes a long pause and a deep breath.
Placing the crossbow on the coffee table, he starts, “A candidate is sugar coating on a pill. The party sets an agenda and all I do is try to make it a little easier for the public to swallow.”
“What’s Law and Order trying to force feed us?”
Turning to face me, he asks, “What did you say your name was?”
“Murphy, Tex Murphy.”
“Well, you gotta believe what I’m going to tell you, Tex.”
“Why not? I’m pretty gullible.” My tone was throaty, like I’ve just about had enough. There’s a ripping pain in my head; an international hitman is trying to kill me; and I just had a crossbow shoved in my face. It’s about time I make some demands.
“Law and Order has this plan,” he begins to pace, like a criminal who knows the cops are on to him. “They’re going to put implants into everybody. It’s going to allow them to identify, track and eventually control the whole population.” Implants? Is that what’s wrong with my head? Is that why Linsky jumped to his death? Curious.
“They really believe they can get away with that?”
“They know it,” he states adamantly.
“Listen. Maybe you can answer something that’s really bothering me. If Law and Order is so powerful, why are they going around killing everybody?” If he answers the way I hope he does, I just may be able to bust this case wide open.
“Call. Greg Call. They’re trying to kill anyone who has ties to him.” Great! So, L&O is behind the killings. Knott just said so. Let’s see if I got this correctly. Klaus hires a hitman named Slade to do his dirty work. Schimming, the most likely candidate for the Overlord title, is backing Klaus with an inexhaustible supply of funds. L&O is looking to rule the world, with, who? Klaus, or, Schimming as the supreme ruler? And why kill Knott? Did Klaus get wise to a possible relationship between him and Wanda? Finally, was the STG project the real force behind the design and implementation of the implants? Too many questions; not enough answers. I need to know more.
“How about I go to talk with Frank Schimming?”
“Schimming? No. He’s squarely in the camp of Law and Order.” And he throws his hands off as though I was ignorant of what was happening. I know Schimming’s on the side of L&O; that’s why I asked that question. Why does he minimize it?
“Well, maybe he’s behind this whole thing. I mean, Schimming...” I’m going for the gusto now, “Schimming could be the Overlord.” Knott was totally taken by surprise. He looked at me in disbelief.
“You know about Overlord too?” Why did he ask if I knew about Overlord? Shouldn’t he have meant the Overlord? Like in a person? And then suddenly, shots rang out. I heard the crinkling noise of breaking glass as two of the bullets hit Knott; one in the chest and one in the stomach. I couldn’t believe my eyes as blood spills from these wounds. Gasping for breath, Knott reaches out for my assistance, but I’m too stunned to afford him any help. Another shot finds the target. This time its his elbow. Knott fell to the floor, death knocking at the door. Moments later he was dead - in my arms.
Like an angry fool, I stood up to see if I could spot the culprits. Shot after shot danced around my face and ears, shattering glass, penetrating wall panels, breaking jars of canned goods, pinging off pots and pans. This was something out of a war movie. By now, I’m on the floor, next to Knott. Reaching into my pocket, I remove the Book of PI Rules and open it to rule #2 - Hide from people carrying guns. No! He’s kidding! Why didn’t I think that was a stupid rule when I first read it? I sure do now. Maybe the Colonel was right about this book, too!
Not counting the number of shots slashing the cabin to splinters and future toothpicks, I hear one hit the stove. A hissing noise escapes from one of the gas jets. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. If I don’t get out of here soon, this whole place is going up like Mt. St. Helens back in the 1980’s. Gas was streaming out of the damaged gas jet like water out of a fire hose. Problem is, I’m in here and they’re out there. I need to find a way to get them inside while I try to figure a way to get outside without them turning me into a sieve.
It’s time like these when the inborn Murphy cunning kicks into overdrive. I crawl over to where Knott is lying on the floor. Searching his pockets gets me the key to the armoire but not to the back door. Sniff. Sniff. Geez, the smell of gas is getting stronger. I better move fast. If one of those bullets causes a spark, I’ll be dinner for the bears. Without further hesitation, I low crawl into the bedroom and open the armoire. Inside is a full wardrobe of woman’s clothes. My guess is Wanda Peck has spent some time up here - often! I disrobe, grab a sheer blouse and pleated skirt, lay hold of a red shaded wig, wiggle-waddle into the entire ensemble, and head for the living room.
Rolling over on my back, I push my way towards the windows. “We know you’re in there!” the killers shout. I felt like shouting back, “We know you’re out there,” but there wasn’t time for tomfoolery. Instead, I espy the skylight switch, press ’open’ and another inventive idea forms in my mind. If I take the rope, tie it around one of the logs, throw it up through the gapping hole, it just might catch on the roof. I could attract the killers attention with my new get up, shimmy up the rope, light the charcoal gizmo, drop it into the cabin, and blow the lot of them to kingdom come. Nice plan, Murphy. Impossible, but nice. And it may be the only way out of here. One thing, though: what happens to me if I’m on the roof when it blows? Oh well, I really don’t have any choice.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Boy, these guys are real originals. Should I just run out there and say, “Here I am?” Numbnuts. One thing’s for sure, I better make my move now. The escaping gas is giving me a headache, I think. With all the hammering pain in my head, I’m not sure if it’s a headache or just a neural blacksmith pounding on a hot horseshoe on his well worn anvil.
“Hey fellas! Please don’t shoot. I’m scared to death of bullets.” My female impersonation wasn’t the best, but it seemed to work. They stopped shooting for a moment.
After an deafening silence, one of them yells, “Okay, but we need to see if you‘re on the level. Stand up with your hands in the air.” Hook, line and now for the proverbial sinker. I stand up as commanded, keeping my knees bent for effect. After all, how many six foot five inch women would Knott have up here?
“Hello boys. Come on in. We can make s’mores. I love hunters.” That was the poorest imitation of a woman’s voice I’ve ever attempted. Rich Little would advise me not to quit my day job.
“Okay! We’re coming in!” I see at least three guys stand up and move stealthily towards the cabin. When they get near the porch, I grab the log and rope combo and toss it up through the skylight’s opening. By some miracle, it catches on the roof. I pull the rope tight and begin my ascent. Just as I reach the roof and pull myself onto it, the men bust in the door.
“Hey! Where are you, darlin‘?!” they exclaim disparagingly.
Looking down, I see them take defensive stances and ready their guns. If they see me, I’m dead meat. I light the flame-thrower and drop it through the opening. The place explodes amidst the screams of dying men and the stench of burning flesh. However, I was still on the roof when it blew. My own chance of survival was slim and none. Fortunately for me, a large section of the roof blew, with me still on it, and flew threw the air. Before I could start to really enjoy my ‘magic carpet ride,’ the roof section lands in the nearby lake. Now I’m floating on a raft, like Huck Finn going down the Mississippi. And the good news is I’m essentially unharmed.
Using my hands as paddles, I make my way back to shore. The cabin resembles a large bonfire, like the ones we used to light on Homecoming eve at U. I. of U. Too bad I don’t have any beans and weenies. Brushing myself off, I forgo the all night weenie roast and head for my speeder. Feeling a bit more successful than when I first arrived, I take off in my speeder and head for the security of my office. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get a decent night’s sleep. AND, I can get out of these feminine clothes. I just hope I don’t have to stop anywhere on the way home. Now if I only could alleviate the pain in my head.

2043 Golden Pagoda

Chelsee and I finally make it to our table. The matre’d seats us and before we could say Chou En Lai, the waiter was stuffing menus under our noses. I’m facing the bar and I notice the bartender staring at me. He gives me a thumbs up, signaling, no doubt, that he hopes that I, James Bond incarnate, ‘gets’ the girl. So do I. It’s been a ambition of mine for some time now.
Before I continue my dubious fable, a waiter brings a flambé to the adjacent table. As he lights it, I lean over it with a cancer stick firmly placed between my lips and light the white log in the flame. The couple next to us look on in disbelief and then break out in uproarious laughter. The waiter, along with Chelsee and I, imitate their exuberance.
“Gee, Tex, that was a narrow escape from Knott’s cabin. Did you sustain any injuries?”
“Well, except for the ongoing rage in my head, all I had was a few singed hairs on my new coif. Burns me up, too. I kind of like being a redhead.”
“Oh, I would give anything to see you dressed as a woman.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you would. However, let’s get back to the story. Little did I know that things were about to really heat up.”
“Ooh. It sounds like Sylvia’s about to make another appearance.” It wasn’t so much her female intuition that impressed me, but it was the seductive tone she used saying it.
“That’s a good guess. After I got out of Knott’s inferno, I decided to fly back to Linsky’s warehouse to check up on my client.” A long ash falls unceremoniously from the Lucky and lands on my napkin. I hope they use TIED to clean these things.
“But she wasn’t there,” she states as though she was telling the story. I glare at her.
“Have I told you this part of the story before?”
“Well, no. It’s just that, well, I know how woman work.” A stick-that-in-your-craw look spreads over her smooth and luscious face. I hate when a woman does that.
“Well, that makes ONE of us anyway.” Her smile just got bigger as she continues to stir her already over-stirred drink. “So, she’s not at the warehouse. I fly over to her father’s place and she’s not there either. I get into my speeder, fly back to the office, I walk in the door...”
“And she’s waiting for you. Probably wearing something .... very enticing.”
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t even notice.” Although, under intense interrogation, my subconscious mind could in all likelihood recall every detail of Sylvia’s alluring dress. Let’s see. A black dress, v-neck cut to highlight bulging twin peaks, about three or four inches above the knee, and standing like a high-priced hooker on Saturday night. Yeah, that about does it.
“Of course you don’t remember, Sweetie. I understand.” Is she patronizing my Aesop like efforts to relate my narrative? Better not be. “So then, she ogles you amorously and says something like, ‘Hello, handsome.’” Alright! That does it! I’m not going to frequent the Newsstand for at least a month! Well, maybe a day or two.
“Needless to say, I was very, very upset with her. I said to her, ‘I thought we agreed that you would stay at the warehouse.’ In her au-natural sexy voice, she responds with, ‘I know. But I started worrying something would happen to you. I don’t feel very comfort-
able about being alone right now.’ From then on we exchange verbal tete-a-tetes of ‘she said, he said.’ I think she was trying to seduce me with her sweet-smelling perfume, ruby red lips and all out erotic demeanor. She may have been successful if it wasn’t for three things. First, I had an incredibly long and exhausting day. Second, the ripping pain in my skull would never allow me to enjoy any pleasurable activity. And third, I kept recalling Harley Fenwick’s Little Red Book of Rules for a PI: Never get involved with a client. In spite of these three factors, I had to admit that my resistance was eroding like the sand-
stone in the Grand Canyon.”
Pausing, I look at the ring on my finger, turning it round and round, wishing it would just go away. After all, it was this little band of gold that set the entire evening’s scenario. Out of the corner of me eye, I see Chelsee shift uncomfortably in her seat, wringing her napkin as though she was twisting the water out of a cleaning rag. She probably thinks I still care for Sylvia. True, there is a niche in my heart that will always be dedicated to the first woman I loved; nothing can change the past. But I need to let Chelsee know that the rest of my heart belongs to her - the largest portion.
Before I can say a word, she asks pleadingly, “Do you miss her?” Her voice was soft as silk, though tinted with deflating hope. Now’s my chance to reveal my true feelings.
“Oh, yeah, this again.” Peering down at the ring, I add, “You know, as soon as I loose some weight, I think I’m gonna get rid of it. I don’t think I need to be reminded anymore.” Slowly resting my eyes on Chelsee’s, I lean my cheek on my folded hands and continue, “No, I don’t think I do.”
Reassured by those words, Chelsee states heartfully, “Good. Because I’m very selfish, you know.”
“That’s one of the things that really attracts me to you.”
“Boy, that makes me happy to hear it.” I knew it! She just had to hear me confess my lack of feelings for Sylvia and my multitudinous affection for her. Great!
“So, now that you’ve described to me just about every temptation a man can stand, what happened next?”
Becoming rather animated, I spread my palms and respond, “Nothing happened, nothing happened, okay?” She smiles. “Actually, I flew Sylvia back to the warehouse the next morning. Oh, by the way, she slept in my bed and I slept on the couch.”
“Good!”
“I thought you’d like that part. I went back to the office and I had a call waiting. It was from my enigmatic ‘friend.’”

-----------------------

 Chapter twenty
Tuesday, Nov. 17th, 2037

After dropping Sylvia off at the warehouse, I head straight back to my office. The trip takes just a few minutes, but it gives me time to think about last night’s harrowing events. My suspicions concerning Robert Knott were completely unfounded. Apparently, he was just a guy who went along with the plan, seeing the opportunity to secure for himself a future in politics. Maybe he’s prejudiced against mutants; maybe not. At any rate, he obviously turned insurgent when L&O started killing people. In fact, I need to ask myself, is ALL of L&O involved in this? Or just John Klaus and a few other warmongers? Who is really behind this entire project? More importantly, if L&O and/or Klaus are trying to subvert the Overlord and STG project, that still leaves the ultimate question unanswered: Who is behind the creation of the STG project and what was his or hers purpose in setting it up? Were THEY going to put implants into everybody? If so, for what reason? If L&O was going to control the world using these implants, is that their original design and purpose? To control the world’s population? I shake my head, struggling to remove the intense pain and get a clearer picture of what is transpiring at L&O, Gideon Enterprises and with the STG project. This ungodly trinity has been occupying the whole of my waking hours and a few on the REM hours as well. Names are rolling around my brain like the marble on a roulette wheel. Gideon Enterprises, Law and Order Party, STG, Frank Schimming, John Klaus, Robert Knott, Wanda Peck, Sylvia Linsky, and a host of others, some of which I haven’t yet learned their names. Not to forget the one name that strikes fear into the hearts of the unsuspecting: Big Jim Slade. He’s the wild card in this whole sordid affair. He’s probably acting on orders from John Klaus, but a man of his striking power has no limitations as to ambitions. And how does my client fit into this thousand piece puzzle? The photo of her and Schimming could be incriminating, albeit circumstantially. Still, I think she knows more than she’s letting on. I hope my instinct proves false. I think I’m falling for this dame.
My thoughts betray my consciousness as I fly right by my office building. After performing a u-turn, I land in the lot. Moments later I’m in my office. The familiar ring of the vid-phone catches my attention.
“Tex Murphy here.” It was my mysterious ‘friend.’
“Did you find the chess move?”, he asks. Huh! I thought he said he would know if I found the chess move. My hunch regarding a tail may have been correct. I never saw anyone tailing me, although I can’t help but wonder if I was tailed to Knott’s cabin. That thought chilled me to the bone. I’d really hate to be responsible for his unfortunate death.
“I did. It was in the design of Val Davis’ passcard. Look, I’m ready to meet with you. Just tell me when and where.” And please hurry, the pain is increasing hourly.
“It isn’t safe yet. But I have another lead for you. Find out about Greg Call.”
“Who is Greg Call?” I’m not telling him that Call was #6 on a hitman’s list of people to exterminate or that he’s probably already dead. Let’s see if I can finagle some much needed info from this character first.
“He was the lead programmer on the STG project. He knew about Overlord.” Seems everybody knows about Overlord except me; and none of them are spilling their guts about it, just over it, via Slade. Also, once again I’m confronted with either bad English or a paradox. Shouldn’t he have said ‘the Overlord’, not just ‘Overlord’? Or am I just not getting the point? Hmmm. Overlord: noun; person, place or thing. Is it possible?
My nerves frayed to the max, I ask disconcertingly, “Well, how do I find him? Greg Call....Overlord....either one?”
“Call is dead.” So, he does know. But how and why?
“Well, that’s going to make him easy to find,” I add with a twinge of sarcasm.
My ‘friend’ sighs and replies, “Call suspected that someone on the inside was selling out the STG project. For that reason, he relocated to a secret base of operations, returning to San Francisco only when necessary.” His eyes lower sadly. “That’s where he was killed.” Regaining new strength, he looks pleadingly at me and continues, “If you find his secret base, all your questions will be answered.”
So, Greg Call was killed in S.F. My ‘friend’ made it sound as though that was a far off place. Also, I notice the Golden Gate Bridge behind him. It appears he‘s calling from a phone booth near the infamous structure.
“Any hints on how I’m supposed to do that?”, I ask.
“The police were warned that Call might turn up dead. They may have found something that could lead you to where he was working. Oh! I gotta go!” And he quickly disconnects. Something made him very nervous.
Reflecting on our brief conversation, I decide it might be prudent for me to pay another visit to Eve ‘The Cleave’ Clements. I know from previous experience that she doesn’t appreciate frequent, ‘annoying’ visits, as she calls them. Do I have something to barter with? Perhaps.
I waltz into her office like a contestant in a ballroom dance contest. Grinning from ear to ear, I take a seat directly across from her. Her back to me, I got the impression that she was in no mood for small talk.
“I was wondering if you could give me some info on a stiff brought in the other day?” Polite, I’m not. But, in this case, I give it my best impersonation.
“You seem to think I’m some sort of street informant. I’m gonna start charging you for these consultations.” Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.
“Well, you know, lieutenant, you’ve been so very good to me, I think I’m going to do you a favor.” She strains her neck to see me and glares skeptically. Now for the frau gras. “I know where Big Jim Slade is.” Actually, was. He’s probably long gone by now in lieu of the fact he was packing the other day when I paid him a social call.
She’s now facing me, donning a grin that matched the crack in the Liberty Bell. “If you’re on the level, I’ll trade you any information you want,” she avers while sitting in her interrogation chair.
“Deal. Slade’s at the Big Surf Lodge, number six.”
“Papa John’s place. I should’ve known. How did you get that info?”
“It’s a long story and neither of us want to hear it. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” She gives her nod of approval and I begin to fire away.
She doesn’t see any connection between Val Davis, Rona Morgan and Greg Call despite my superlative reasoning. But she does raise an eyebrow at the mention of Call’s name.
“Greg Call was found shot to death in a rundown apartment building in the old city. It looked like a hit, but it could have been nothing more than a jealous lover.” That’s a stretch in anyone’s imagination, but I let her talk on. “We would’ve just ignored it, except we had received an anonymous call recommending we perform an autopsy if Call turned up dead.”
“Do you always perform autopsies when urged by an anonymous caller?”
“Don’t get smart, Murphy, or I’ll kick your ass so hard that only dogs can hear you fart.” Sheesh! A bit thin-skinned for a cop. Although, that was kind of funny. “We did the autopsy because the anonymous caller phoned us the day before Call was murdered.”
“So, what did the autopsy reveal?” I got both fingers crossed on this one.
“It only turned up one thing. There was a small capsule planted under the skin on his neck. Inside was a tiny plastic tag with strange markings on it. We couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Wanna have a look-see?”
“Okay, I got a few minutes to spare,” I say nonchalantly. Actually, I’m champing at the bit. This could be the break I’m looking for, the one my ‘friend’ mentioned.
Eve opens her top drawer and extracts a small plastic bag, the kind that’s used to remove evidence from a crime scene. The tag she referred to was so tiny that I couldn’t even see the markings, let alone decipher them. As if she was reading my mind, she hands me a magnifying glass. The markings look familiar, but, I just couldn’t place them.
“Can I have this for a bit?” Please? Please? I’ll get on my knees?
“No can do, Murphy. It’s logged in as evidence.” Rats!
“Okay. Then let me copy down these markings in my notebook. I’ll study them later and let you know if I find anything.”
“Yeah, why not. Just make sure you call me the minute you interpret them.” With that she excuses me from her presence and I leave the police station, my complacency glowing like midday radiation. Next stop is my office.
Parking in the leasee’s lot, I walk through the main door and head for the elevators. The day shift security guard, a big African-American by the name of Anders Anderson, waves his usual friendly salute. “How’s it goin’ Mr. Murphy?” His following grin, a distinctive feature he’s famous for, reveals a perfect set of pearly whites. I smile in return. My mind immediately warps to last Saturday’s visit with J. Saint Gideon. He asked for my opinion on ways to improve world conditions. I talked of respect for others and mentioned that if enough people cared, the world’s degradation would begin to reverse. Mr. Anderson was the basis for my hypothesis. The very epitome of kindness, full or heart and goodness. I’ve never heard him voice a foul word or make an obscene gesture. He’s probably completely harmless, allowing his sheer mass to undermine any perspective lawbreaker’s attempt at skullduggery.
“Mr. Anderson, you’re a sore sight for eyes. Or, is that a sight for sore eyes? I always get those two confused.”
“More than likely, both are true,” he answers as he presses the door release button that allows access to the elevators. I give him another friendly smile even though my head feels as though it’s about to blow off my shoulders.
With renewed vigor, I enter the elevator and press number ten. As I do, my hand faintly touches the odd looking dots beneath the number. Braille. That’s it! The markings on the plastic tag removed from Call’s neck has Braille markings on it. Now all I need to do is decipher their significance.
Entering my office, I sweep over to my vid-phone and dial AID. I ask for an explanation of the Braille alphabet and within seconds, my fax machine announces a new arrival. “No records available.” I guess it was too much to ask. I espy the bookcase and wonder if I have any reference books with a Braille alphabet in its pages. None. Well, I guess I could go to the library.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. My heart skips a beat. In my mind, an image of Slade’s hit list appears. Number ten is some guy named Murphy. He’s probably come to collect payment for all the underhanded acts perpetrated against his ego. Slade is no one to toy with. His fame is world renowned and his dislike for me probably spans the galaxy. My mind begins to scramble for a means to defend myself, if that’s possible. I don’t have any weapons at my disposal and bribery takes cash I don’t have, so I resign myself to the infamous Murphy knack for diffusing dangerous situations using old-fashion diplomacy, a.k.a. lying.
I slowly cross the room, focusing my eyes on the three windows in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the figure out in the hall. It seems he’s moved off to the side, out of visual range. The air in the office is thick and my nerves have become agitated. I know it’s no use hiding in the office; there’s really no place to conceal myself. I have to answer the door. But I approach with fear and apprehension in my bones.
As I reach for the knob, I notice my hand is shaking. A light comes on in my head; if I fling the door open, move to my left, I might be able to trip the unsuspecting Slade. This would give me enough time to scoot down the hall towards the stairwell. Waiting for the elevator might be too risky and time consuming. Flying down the steps, especially with my long stride, could provide the edge I need to reach the security guard before Slade gets a shot off.
A bead of sweat forms as I slowly turn the knob. My throat is dry as sand and I notice a gulp trying to force its way down my esophagus. In a flash, I throw open the door, move to the side, and trip the UPEX delivery man as he enters the office. Sheesh! Nice going, Murphy. The dazed young man rises unsteadily to his feet, eyeing me with misgiving.
“Uh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He looks at me askance and hands me his clipboard, making an ‘X’ to show me where to sign. He proceeds to bound out of the office like a stag in pursuit of a doe in heat.
The manila envelope contained two pieces of paper and gave rise to several new questions. Just what I needed.
First item was a Braille alphabet. I look heavenward and silently thank anyone who might be listening. Immediately, I put the tag along side the alphabet and decode the markings. NEXUS. What the hell is that suppose to mean? The only thing that came to mind was the ancient trilogy by Henry Miller. I believe Nexus was the title of one of those novels. Not that I have ever read Henry Miller; I just recall his controversial writings. Never mind.
The second paper was a memo titled “New Information”. Typed on it was good news and bad news. First, the good news. Evidently, Call used two methods of coding. One was the Braille alphabet, which has already proven useful. The second was a particular method of decoding his own notes. Starting with the name on a message, or, in some cases another first word, you would take every third or fourth word and put them together to form the secret message. This manor of decoding his notes is only helpful if I have his notes, which I don’t. Now for the bad news. The memo specifically stated that Murphy had been introduced to the “Overseer”, followed by P333 in parentheses. I don’t recall meeting any Overseer character, but that’s not the worst of it. I’ve been diligent about making inquiries as to the identity of someone called Overlord. Now, to complicate matters, I need to find out who or what is the Overseer. And what about the code P333? Could that have something to do with the horrific pain in my skull? Is that what drove Linsky to commit suicide? But those aren’t the only perplexing questions I come up with; there are others. For example, who sent this package to me? What or who is NEXUS? Furthermore, who put the tag in Call’s neck? And finally, who is my mysterious ‘friend’?
The degree of difficulty in answering one or two of these questions was complicated only by the clanging in my head. Superficially, they appeared to be unanswerable; fundamentally, the answers were obvious. First and foremost, Greg Call placed the plastic tag in his own neck. As lead programmer, he was, no doubt, highly touted for his programming excellence. However, he went underground, signifying his decision to remain neutral regarding the STG project’s coup by L&O Party. That made him a liability and a target for Slade. Eventually, someone needed to know what was going on and by whom. Ergo, Call places a coded tag in his own body. If L&O had put the implant there, they would have been able to control him with or without his consent. Call must have told my mysterious ‘friend’ that, if something happened to him, the police should be notified and encouraged to perform an autopsy, which they did. He may also have given my ‘friend’ the secret to decoding Call’s message. Which brings me to point number two: The envelope from UPEX was sent by my ‘friend’, who, in all probability, was Call’s friend as well. Now, the only question that remains is this: What or who is NEXUS and who would know the answer?
That particular question posed a greater difficulty than the other two combined. I get out my notebook and go over the list of possibilities. Eve Clements? Naw! Delores Lightbody? God, I hope not. John Klaus? We’re all in trouble if it’s him. Frank Schim-
ming? We’re in worse trouble if he knows. Sylvia Linsky? Doubtful, although a possibility if she’s hiding something. Wanda Peck? Maybe. I’ll call and ask. Jorge Valdez? Plausible, considering his chess background and considering the number of references to the game of chess. However, NEXUS is not a chess term, to my knowledge. That leaves one other candidate: J. Saint Gideon. I can’t think of any reason as to why it wouldn’t be him, which compounds the puzzle because I can think of a hundred reasons why I hope it isn’t him. Of course, knowing who or what NEXUS is doesn’t, in itself, point an incriminating finger at anyone; it just means they know something that nobody else does. That statement just sounded incriminating. Sheesh! I wish this pain would subside! I can’t take much more and all this meditating augments its disturbing affects.
More thoughts flutter through my overworked brain as I fly my speeder to Gideon’s mansion. How did my mysterious ‘friend’ know that I had talked with Eve Clements? Just because he told me the police might know something? Well, I guess that’s possible. He probably surmised I would head directly to the cop shop after his lead regarding Call.
Another question surfaces: Is my client stringing me along? Does she and Schimming have a thing for one another? Are they working in cahoots, trying to overthrow the Overlord? After all, Sylvia’s father was a neuro-surgeon and was working on the STG project. She could have been privy to all sorts of inside information. But then, why would she approach me in such outward sincerity? Why have me try to prove her father was murdered? Was that a distraction? Did she and Schimming concoct a plan to retrieve all the passcards and their subsequent chess moves? And just how important are these chess moves? I force myself to concentrate on my driving and to forget the case for a moment. My brain cells need a break.
The mansion comes into full view as I near it from the south. The red sun sits high above me as noon has come and gone. I’m munching on a couple of tacos I picked up from Rocko’s Tacos, a roof top fast food restaurant on the edge of the new city. Many people consider this to be the dividing line between the old and the new. Rocko’s Tacos sits atop the New World Society’s Insurance skyscraper, one of the first to be rebuilt after WWIII. The construction company felt the need to provide its employees with a quick source of food in an effort to reduce the number of man hours lost while eating lunch. So, they had Rocko Gonzalez bring his one man taco stand to the construction site. The workers would then move the taco stand to each floor as it was completed, thus affording them easy access to a quick lunch. Once the building was completed and speeders became the main source of commuting, Rocko worked out a deal with the conglomerate that owns the architectural monument so that people could stop at the fly through window for a fast carry out, thus perpetuating the restaurant’s eccentricity. And, in addition to the foregoing, the tacos were of superlative quality. By the way, the resulting gas was too!
“What a pleasant surprise,” exclaims Gideon as he answers the door. His overflow of sociability is only surpassed by his good-natured single-mindedness. This had an all too brief effect on the surging pain in my head.
“How are you today, Mr. Gideon?”
“Just fine, thank you. In fact, you caught me at the last moment. I was preparing to go abroad.” He wheels himself away from the door and closes it as I walk passed him and into the receiving room down the hall.
“Sounds great! You know, I heard that Amsterdam is nice this time of year.” Now, how would I know that? I must have read it in a book somewhere. Maybe I saw it in one of those James Bond movies.
“Everything you’ve heard is true. I highly recommend it. Now,” he adds, checking his watch, “I think I have a few minutes to spare. What can I do to assist you?” What an amiable person.
“Could you tell me if this photo has any particular significance?” and I hand him the photo of Schimming and Sylvia.
He takes it and immediately furrows his brow. His countenance transformed from one of joy to one of concern. “Well, this photo disturbs me, and, uh, I’d rather not comment on it’s gravity.” That was an unusual response. Why should he care if Schimming’s dating Sylvia Linsky? If, in fact, that is what he was doing? I take the pic and put it back into my pocket.
Going over my notes, I come across the name of Samuel Q. Jones, number seven on Slade’s hit list. “Can you tell me anything about this fellow?” and I show him the name.
He chuckles aloud. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in ages. I hired Sam to work at Gideon some 15 years ago, and after a decade of fruitful labors, we parted amicably. And then sadly, we lost touch.” He was still reminiscing within as one or two thoughts crossed my mind. When I questioned Gideon earlier, he said he knew Rona Morgan and Carl Linsky. Now he says Jones worked for him at Gideon Enterprises. Is it just coinci-
dence that he knows three of the people involved on the STG project? I mean, I have to assume that Jones was in on it too, since his name was on the list. Also, it seems rather strange that former employees of Gideon are turning up dead and/or missing. Too many coincidences makes this case more entangled than I care to admit.
“Let’s see. What about a guy named Greg Call?” I almost hope he doesn’t know him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
Once again his facial expression changes, this time to one of solemnity. “Gregory was my right hand man when I founded Gideon Enterprises - a brilliant programmer. Until recently, he headed a division of the corporation. I heard that Schimming fired him; undoubtedly removing the last traces of my influence.” Interspersed between the pound-
ing and hammering in my brain is an alarm going off. Not that I need more upheaval and confusion up there. It’s just that, well, there’s something not quite right here. Let me add Greg Call to the list of ex-Gideon employees who are dead and/or missing.
I decide to show him Slade’s hit list. His response was totally passive. He couldn’t tell me why his name was on the list and he had never heard of Big Jim Slade. But I was beginning to formulate my own hypothesis as to why his name was on the list. Maybe I’ve been looking up the wrong tree all this time. So far, I’ve had the distinct impression that Frank Schimming was the Overlord. A close second was John Klaus, although I’m starting to believe he’s in the muscle end of the business. He could even be the ‘poisoned pawn’, for all I know. But now, Gideon has slipped past Schimming into first place as this case rounds the bend and heads for home. Pieces are coming together faster than an assembly line on overtime. In deference to the forgoing, I need to ask Mr. Gideon a few more questions.
I show him the three chess moves taken from the STG passcards. His response was peculiar, to say the least. “These chess moves are curious, and, uh, vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were part of some fabled match I may have read about. I...I can’t say for certain.” And he smiles thinly. But I’m not smiling. How in Hades can anyone merely gaze upon three chess moves and come to the realization that they were part of some ‘fabled’ match? Unless...unless, he was one of the players in that match. It’s possible, I concede to myself. But I’m distraught with my findings since coming back to Gideon’s house. Something is awry here and I need to find out what it is.
“Mr. Murphy? Is there anything else? You seemed to be lost in thought.” That’s an understatement.
“My apologies, Mr. Gideon. Uh, let’s see. Oh yeah, just one more question. Does the word NEXUS have any special meaning to you?” His expression changes again. This time he looks perplexed.
“Your investigation has certainly gotten you into some obscure channels. Years ago, well after the government signed the UNGP treaty, Gideon Enterprises bought the rights to utilize dozens of abandoned government installations. NEXUS was the code name for an underground military facility located in Washington state, near Mount Shasta. I don’t believe we ever used that location.” Maybe not under the auspices of Gideon Enter-
prises, but you may have used it for the STG project. Greg Call sure did. And I’m going to get this puzzle completed if it’s the last thing I ever do. At the rate of increasing pain in my head, that will probably be in the not too distant future.
“Well, I thinks that I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Gideon. I’ll be going. Thanks again.”
As I start to rise out of my chair he asks, “Would you care to try your hand at another game of chess?” His smile was infectious. Despite my feelings and the pain in my skull, I decide to take him on again.
“Well, you certainly have improved your game since the other day, Mr. Murphy.” Yeah, right. He still slaughtered me. Although, I did pull a couple of moves that had him momentarily stymied.
“Maybe someday we can play again,” I state even though I’m having some bad feelings about Gideon.
“I’d like that very much.”
I thank him and he escorts me to the door. Wishing him a pleasant and safe journey, I fly off in my speeder. Next stop is Mount Shasta and the underground lab of Greg Call.

Monday, Nov. 17, 2037
Mid afternoon

The visionary sits quietly in the library of his mammoth home. The miniscule amount of smoke wafting into his nostrils from the lighted fireplace is pleasing to the olfactory senses. White pine logs crackle in the hearth, emitting a northwestern aroma he has come to treasure ever since his brief visit to Michigan’s upper peninsula 20 years ago. However, despite the refreshing aroma, he is understandably bewildered over recent reports filtering in from various sources.
His good friend, Samuel Quirinius Jones was missing and had not reported in in days. Rona Morgan, once a close associate, was found dead in her apartment of supposed accidental poisoning. Val Davis, a hard working lab technician whose biological expertise and accretion cannot be understated, dies in a mysterious speeder crash. Bosworth Clark, a little known programmer and expert in satellite utilization and implementation, has not reported in since Nov. 10th, when he transmitted the final portion of his finished product. Greg Call, a superb computer programmer, unrivaled in his field, was found murdered in his own apartment. Larry Hammond, brought into the project through his close friend and associate Greg Call, likewise has not been heard from since he completed his assigned tasks. And finally, there is Carl Linsky, whose suicide shocked everyone who has ever had any contact with the gentle surgeon. In fact, that’s when things began to deteriorate rapidly, after Linsky’s death. That’s when the attempted coup seemed to escalate. That’s when Linsky’s daughter hired an unknown PI to investigate her father’s death. That’s when things began to look bleak.
On the flipside of the matter is the obvious positive payoff. The project has been com-
pleted and is ready for implementation. All the necessary data has been gathered and fed into the computer. The satellite for regulating the mind control implants has been launched and will soon be in a position to begin its long and arduous trek to quicken world peace and order, the very basis of all goodness and mercy. Yes, this has been his objective for many decades and soon it would be fully realized. All that is left is the process for dispensing the implants. Once that is done, the visionary would finally have his own peace of mind and inner tranquility.
He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose and out his mouth. Once again the fragrance from the fireplace puts a smile on his lips. Coupled with engaging thoughts of a new world order, J. Saint Gideon is satisfied that his course of action was not only necessary, but supremely advantageous for all concerned. The very fact that he was able to begin this project by gathering together the qualified personnel needed proves that there are those who desire the same world conditions that millions have fought for through three world wars and were unable to obtain through normal channels. The ultimate goal of world order and peace is a normal desire unattainable through normal means. Therefore, a normal desire that is inherent in all humans requires abnormal efforts and extraordinary tactics if it is to be installed. And that is precisely why J. Saint Gideon went to the trouble of creating the Overlord project. The world needs; the world wants; the world desires; but the world cannot have due to the perpetuation of faulty governments and imperfect, greedy and corrupt politicians. So, the visionary, his mind racked with psychosis, his heart deluded into thinking he was the answer to an age old problem, is about to embark on a path which no other man can travel. Long into the future he will be revered as the one who brought balance to society and true peace on earth. The angels once announced that God Himself wished peace on earth and good will towards men. And God’s medium for accomplishing that end was J. Saint Gideon.
Yes, the aroma from the fireplace was pleasing indeed.

Same time, same day, different location

Larry Hammond contemplates his future. Continued life, free from the threat of death, is fleeting, at best. So many others who worked on the STG project have been killed or are dead due to other means. Also, at least one of them has been missing for some time now. Thanks to his friend, Greg Call, Larry has had access to inside information regard-
ing his fellow programmers. Thanks to his friend, Greg Call, he was well paid for the work he performed. Thanks to his friend, Greg Call, his status as a dependable, well-
trained computer programmer has escalated to the point where the Mutant League is recommending his services to other corporations. Thanks to his friend, Greg Call, Larry was able to hide from the murderous plots of those who would overthrow the entire STG project, seeing to the demise of its associates.
And now, his friend Greg Call was dead, murdered by the insider who was selling them out. Reviewing all the data before him, the traitor could only be John Klaus. He was the only person still alive besides himself (Sam Jones might be alive, but it was improbable), of those involved in the project. But why? Did Klaus expect to use the project for his own evil intentions? What was his purpose in having all the others killed? Some things in life just didn’t make sense.
Larry’s only hope to see justice attained lay in the capable hands of a rookie PI by the name of Tex Murphy. At first Larry doubted this gumshoe’s ability to dig deep enough to learn the truth. However, in view of recent accomplishments, he had faith in Murphy’s competency to see things through to their logical and successful conclusion. At least he hoped so. No telling what might happen if Klaus gets wind of Murphy’s involvement. One thing’s for sure, if Murphy cannot pull it off, the world is going to be in big trouble. Larry had already resolved in his heart to go away and hide till it’s all over. He had no intentions of playing the role of hero, come Hell or high water.
He checked his watch; mid afternoon. If all has gone well, Murphy should be showing up very soon. He would allow the private dick to snoop around for a while before approaching him with the envelope Greg Call entrusted to his care. After that, he was as gone as chaff in high wind.

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 Chapter twenty-one: 2037
Tuesday, Nov. 17
NEXUS Laboratory

The flight to NEXUS doesn’t take too long, thankfully. Two items of interest are noticeable as I approach the hidden facility. One, the entire area resembles a strip mining site. A cone-shaped crater stares up at me with layered eyes and a gravel-like beard. All dusty and sandy, it would make the Anasazi Ruins aesthetically appealing. At the bottom of the upside down cone is a shiny metal object. I believe it’s the door. It seems out of place as it reflects the afternoon sun into my watery eyes. Watery because of the intense pain in my head. Which brings me to item number two. The pain is worsening with each passing hour. In addition to the pain is some light-headedness and a cold sweat. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was dying. In fact, the bottom of the pit looks mighty inviting. All I have to do is point the speeder’s bra downward, push the throttle to maximum, and sit back and enjoy my death. I see why Linsky jumped off the bridge.
Instead, I land the speeder about 20 feet from the door. Exiting the vehicle, I clap my hands together twice to trigger the auto-door-shut mechanism. I really love new techno-
logy.
So, this is NEXUS. Once owned by the military, now owned by Gideon Enterprises. Why do I feel a twinge of apprehension? I should feel grateful. If this is Greg Call’s lab, I may find several missing pieces to my puzzling case. Also, I hope to find a cure or at the very least a reversal to the P333 implant I believe is in my skull. I guess that thought alone would make anyone apprehensive. Dealing with the unknown can be emotionally taxing. But there’s something else gnawing at my mind. Just how much of a role does J. Saint Gideon have in this pernicious play? Could he be the brains behind the STG or Overlord project? And why would he create such an alluring monster? Alluring, that is, to people like Klaus or Schimming. However, if Gideon is the culprit, I will have to proceed cautiously. He’s practically worshipped as a god in the mutant community. His demise could be construed as an all out effort by the Norms to eradicate mutants and their supporters. What we don’t need right now is another war, especially a civil war. But, I may just be getting ahead of myself. So far, there has been no incriminating evidence for or against Gideon, Klaus or Schimming. Most of what I have is merely circumstantial.
I notice the door is recessed about 12 inches into the wall. An electronic keypad was flush-mounted in the frame. Oh boy, this looks like fun. I lift the weather proof cover and scan the numbers. Ideally, I would just punch in the code and enter the facility. In reality, I don’t have the code, so, I guess I’m stuck. I can’t imagine I’ll find the proper numbered sequence laying out here at the bottom of this god-forsaken pit.
As I was surveying the area, a little voice in the back of my mind suggested that I take another look at the keypad. I’m glad I did. The ‘enter’ button was flashing green, as though someone had entered the code but did not push ‘enter’. Why would they do that? More importantly, who would do that? Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, I shrug my shoulders and push the button. Whoosh! The door slides open.
With trepidation I slip through the portal and find myself standing in a small corridor. Funny, but there are no doors on either side of the hallway. There is, however, a man size scanning booth about twenty feet in front of me. I approach slowly, fighting dizziness in order to read the labels on the wall panels next to the booth. “Implant Detection Station” was all it said. Apparently, this device is designed to detect implants in the human body and then display their location on a visual array. In a hurry to get this over with, I move forward and try to enter the station. Again I’m stopped short by the unexpected. The actual opening to enter is on the other side of the enclosure. It looks like someone had entered the booth, was scanned as the platform rotated, then merely stepped out the other side. Again, I’m wondering if anyone is here.
I raise my hand, forefinger extended, in order to push the ‘return’ button. A warning alarm begins ringing in my head. Oh joy! Just what I need is another loud noise rattling around my brain. So, betwixt the alarm ringing and the two giant mill stones grinding to the beat of the Anvil Chorus, a question actually begins to form. If someone is here, who is the most likely candidate? Since my mysterious ‘friend’ indirectly put me on to this place, could he be here? And speaking of my ‘friend’, I’ve been mulling over the possibilities as to his real identity. It’s a foregone conclusion that he is one of the STG project workers what with all the inside info I’ve received from him. Ergo, if he is one of them, he’s probably on Slade’s hit list, since there seems to be a radical desire to have them all eliminated. Of the ten names on the list, only two could fit the bill: Sam Jones and Larry Hammond, both of whom were listed as missing by the AID. All the others have been accounted for in one way or another. If that’s the case, then my choice would be the latter. Sam Jones, according to records, is about seventy years old and a norm. My ‘friend’ is a mutant and doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. We’ll see. Sooner or later we are going to meet.
Before I worry too much about my ‘friend’, I need to get a move on with this scanner. So, without any further hesitation, I push the ‘return’ button and watch the cylinder slowly rotate its gaping jaw to my side of the hall. As it stops, I take a deep breath and enter the booth. Immediately I’m immersed in a heavy red light. The platform begins its rotation, slowly and methodically, while I’m being examined head to toe. A loud humming din is coming from the booth, I think. It’s hard to tell with all the other clamor bouncing off my brain cavity. I rotate a complete 360 degrees. When finished, an x-ray appears on the display in front of my eyes. Four yellow right angles pop up and begin to search for the exact location of the P333 implant. After a few seconds, a small green light flashes on a computerized depiction of my brain, pinpointing the little bugger’s position. A deep, throaty voice states firmly, “Implant detected.” I hate being right all the time.
Instinctively, I reach up to my head, as though I could physically feel the microscopic device. Then my hand slowly moves down to a small pimple like irritation on my neck. Touching it gently, I realize this was the implants entry point. And if I guess correctly, it was the thugs who jumped me at the mystery address who are responsible for this. Maybe someday I can return the favor. “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” as the saying goes. And it was cold and wet when I awoke in the alley behind 8280 Bascom, my face covered with filthy muck, sewage seeping its way into my nostrils, my clothes and overcoat soaked with putrefying garbage that had been ignored for untold years.
Enough with the bad memories. My ability to control the pain is rapidly decreasing. I’m a strong person, but I can’t take much more. I need to progress and fast!
The cylinder automatically circles so I am able to exit to the other side of the corridor. A door to my left says ‘Office’, but I ignore it. I need to find the lab. On the right are two doors labeled ‘Mens’ and ‘Womens’, but I don’t need to ease nature. The hall curves to the right and straight ahead is a large steel door. On the wall beside it are the words: “Laboratory. Unauthorized entry prohibited.” Gee, ya think? I push the ‘open’ button and the doors part like the ones at the mall every morning. My inspection commences without further ado.
The lab is approximately 25 by 25 and full of the latest and greatest technological elements one can imagine. On the wall to my immediate right is an autoclave. It’s used to store chemicals, solutions and various other medicines in a sterile environment. As I continue scanning in a counter clockwise motion, there is a long counter attached to the east wall. On it is another one of those passcard readers like I’ve found at Linsky’s ware-
house. That can only mean one thing: there should be a computer similar to the ones used by members of the STG project. There should also be a passcard and a corresponding password. Without a second thought, I slip the reader into my pocket.
In the northeast corner stand four large transparent cylinders filled with some liquids that remind me of the old slushee machines. Running north to south and about six feet from the counter on the east wall is a row of thermodynamic displays. Nothing remark-
able about the displays; just the usual x-rays and biological diagrams. Attached to them are color coded keyboards that vaguely resemble giant Rubix cubes, only flatter. I wonder what would happen if they hired someone who was color blind? Oh well.
Centered on the north wall is a large virtual reality booth with the letters IRS stamped on the name plate. Sheesh! Those guys follow me everywhere. Actually, though, the letters stand for Implant Removal Station. Why do I get the sneaking suspicion that I will end up in there before long?
Up in the northwest corner of the room sat another row of thermodynamic displays. The west wall contained nothing worthwhile. However, located in the left-center of the lab was a laboratory chair. Hmmm. Sort of looks like my dentist’s chair. Whoa! That brings back some bad memories. Opposite the chair was one of the infamous Frito-Intel machines. Since their merger in 2025, they have cornered the chip market - literally!
However, on the back console of the F/I machine was a syringe. I latch onto it and start twirling it around my finger like Clint Eastwood in ‘A Few Dollars More.’ It keeps the mind partially occupied while the pain is doing its dirty work of driving me slowly insane.
In the southwest corner was Greg Call’s computer. Like the others I’ve found, it had a security protect feature. I look forward to finding the card and password, but right now I’m too busy trying to stay alive. Next to the computer is a Links LS mug atop of some notes. I pull them out and read them, hoping to find something useful. I did.
The first item was a clipping from the S. F. Examiner. It was Val Davis’s obit. It said she died in a speeder crash. Hell, I already knew that. But the second piece of paper was infinitely more helpful. It was a chart showing various types of implants and the kamikaze agents that neutralize them. Now we’re getting somewhere! Using my finger, I scroll down to find the Neural Implant P333. Along side was this explanation: “Initiates a photoreagent process, ‘tethering’ to target bio-molecules (peptides, enzymes, etc.), and inducing specific nerve cells to grow into a grid pattern. Nerve cells are then connected to signal processors which control specific groups of neurons. Can be used to enhance brain functions, memory, mood and/or sensory perception. Note: This type of implant can be modified to cause severe pain, nausea and light headedness. Additionally, the implant is based on the premise of signal degradation. Upon injection, the recipient has up to 48 hours to neutralize it’s affect. Death is the standard result.” Oh my hell! If my calculations are correct, I may only have a few hours of life left; possibly less. I better get moving. No more dilly-dallying around.
Focusing my attention on the chart, I read on, looking for the right type of neutralizer. Ah! There it is! N216 was designed to offset the effects of the P implants. But, where do I find it?
A light bulb flashes in my mind. At first I think it’s just the pain causing hallucinations. Then I realize I had a serious thought. The autoclave. I rush over to it and look on the outside of each vacuum sealed door. The upper right compartment houses the kamikaze implant N216. Now, how do I get the door open?
To the right of the autoclave is a security card reader. That must be the answer. I just need to find... Ugh! Oh! The pain is intensifying in leaps and bounds. I - I don’t know how much more I can t-take. My breathing is sporadic, causing me to gasp at times. My sight continues to play tricks on me. Sometimes I see clearly, sometimes I see double, sometimes I see a blur. Concentrate, Murphy. Concentrate! Just find the security card and open the damn doors!
Regaining a measure of strength, I begin a more thorough search of Call’s lab. I’m throwing papers up in the air; tossing chairs across the room; lifting keyboards and ripping them from their cords; nothing! On the wall surrounding Call’s computer are several large stereo speakers. One by one I pull them down, looking on their backsides for the elusive security card. Despite my best efforts, I come up empty.
A wave of nausea comes up into my throat coupled with a bout of dizziness. I stagger and fall to one knee. Thrusting out my arm to brace myself, my hand pushes in the plastic cover to a side light panel. One of the fluorescent bulbs pops and I shut my eyes to avoid the injurious dust and minute glass particles. When the dust settles, I see something small and green out of the corner of my eye. On the bottom, inside frame of the light panel was a STG passcard. Great! If I live long enough I just might be able to put it to use. In the meantime, I’m slipping fast, like a farmer trying to catch a greased pig in a mud patch.
Once again I find myself trying to consolidate my search. I scan the room much slower this time. Where haven’t I looked? Under the counter! I race to the east wall, stoop low and find nothing. Running to the northwest corner, I peek under the counter and find nothing. I look under Call’s computer console and find nothing. Exhausted and on the verge of total collapse, I decide to sit in the ‘dentist’ chair and collect my thoughts. I close my eyes and let my hands fall to the sides of the chair. When they do, my fingertips touch something unfamiliar. I lean over the edge of the chair and spot a clipboard hanging on a node protruding from the chair’s supports. It was facing backwards. Lifting it off the node, I pretend I’m a doctor surveying s patient’s records. When I was a kid, me and the girl next door often played doctor and nurse. But, that’s another story.
Pulling the clipboard to my lap, I’m pleasantly shocked to see the security card I’ve been looking for. It was beautiful! All green with the Gideon gold and red eagle wings logo. Elated, I struggle to lift my fatigued body off the chair and I wobble over to the security card reader. I swipe the card like a butcher slicing roast beef and the doors of the autoclave pop open. I reach for the bottle wearing the N216 identification tag on it and carefully cup it in my sweaty palms. Holding it tightly in my right hand, I pull out the syringe with my left hand. Cautiously, I insert the bottle into the loading chamber of the syringe and retract the injection control, filling the tube with the N216 kamikaze implant neutralizer. Then, without a second thought and without a second to lose, I inject the neutralizer into my neck. If it was painful, I couldn’t tell. I did feel a rush as the cool saline liquid filtered through my veins in search of the P333 implant. While it is searching, I walk unsteadily to the IRS booth.
Every step is an extra effort. Every movement is an extra pain. Every second brings me closer to death. Every breath is a labor of life. And if that’s not bad enough, I now see two IRS booths. Great! Can this get worse?
When I enter the booth, I sit in a chair that is bolted to the floor. That’s a bad omen. Maybe things get threatening while people are trying to remove implants. Whatever the case, I need to get this thing turned on and remove the implant. I pull the VR helmet over my head and adjust the strap to secure it tightly. This particular unit is voice activated, so, without further pause, I say, “Begin program.” A swirling pattern starts to form on the VR display in my helmet. As the pattern continues to gyrate, it forms into a familiar shape: my brain. The 3D display in the VR helmet is awesome. I only wish I had more time to appreciate its intricacies. But I don’t. I need to get moving if I want to survive this drawn out ordeal.
Nervous and shaken, I reach for the twin hand controls. They’re similar to joysticks we used on computer and game consoles when I was a kid. There were several directional buttons that could be used to move the kamikaze neutralizer to its final destination. Also, by moving the controls themselves, I’m able to view my brain from any angle; top, bottom, side to side, any angle. This would be fun if my life wasn’t on the line.
A display in the bottom right corner appears. The word ‘start’ comes into focus. So, using my controls, I move the yellow arrow and center it on the ‘start’ button and click once. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. With my life hanging in the balance, I’m not entirely sure of my next move. However, I really don’t have a choice.
After pressing ‘start’, a multitude of red blood vessels appear on the VR screen. Seconds later a green dot becomes visible. That is the P333 implant, if I’m not mistaken. It’s buried deep in my brain and is surrounded by thousands of curling pig tailed blood vessels. This is not going to be easy. But, at least I’ve still got about two more hours. Then, a miniature syringe emerges from nowhere and stations itself on the outer edges of the brain. I deduce it’s purpose instantly. It contains the N216 kamikaze implant and I need to use it to enter a blood vessel and work my way to the green dot to neutralize it. Easy as falling down.
However, as I enter a blood vessel, a timer pops up in the upper left hand corner. It’s set for five minutes and begins its downward count as I maneuver the mini syringe inside the blood vessel. My heart skips a beat. I only have five minutes to navigate the kamikaze agent to its target. If I don’t make it, I die. Working the controls feverishly, I make numerous attempts to reach the green dot. Each time, though, the blood vessel stops at a dead end. I enter and reenter blood vessels as I watch the timer tick down to three minutes. Sweat is forming on my brow and trickles into my eyes. I don’t dare remove the VR helmet, knowing that would immediately terminate the program and most probably my life.
Once the timer hit the two minute mark, I notice several blue dots emerge from the P333 implant. They seem to be racing in all directions, haphazardly trying to locate the neutralizer. A computerized voice sounds in the VR helmet’s earphones. “Warning! Counter-neutralizing agents in seek and destroy mode. Encountering these agents will drastically reduced the kamikaze implant’s power. Three encounters and the neutralizer implant will be nullified. Have a nice day.” You can take your nice day and put it where the sun don’t shine, mister. God, I hate those voices!
There’s another strike against my efforts. Unconsciousness is creeping up on me like the affect of a blue krait’s bite. I need to force myself to concentrate on the task at hand. Time is running out; neutralizer agents are seeking to destroy my N216 implant; and I can’t find the right blood vessel to maneuver the syringe to the P333 implant. There are literally thousands of them and it would take hours to find the right one. I enter a blood vessel, end up at a dead end being chased by the neutralizers, and run like hell to get back out to safety. Only safety is temporary! I have to get back into the brain and try again and again. If I give up, I die. It’s that simple.
One minute left and I have already encountered two agents. My power has been dramatically reduced. The syringe is moving slower than molasses in January. The throbbing pain in my head is heightening. It’s getting difficult to breathe. My eyes are playing tricks on me. I see two brains, each in 3D. Two more agents appear from the P333 implant. At least I think there’s two. Difficult to assess the circumstances with a proper degree of intelligence. The situation is bleak; downright impossible. Pain, disillusionment and despair are now in control of my thought processes. If I just sit back and relax, I may be able to die peacefully. Death is sleep and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I took this damn case. It would be a welcome relief.
My hands slip off the controls and fall to my sides. I close my eyes and think of paradise. My life flashes before my eyes and I’m sated. At age 33, I’ve lived longer than some less fortunate souls. Although not accomplishing all I’ve set out to do, I’ve done enough to feel at least marginally placated. The pain seems to be fading, like my life. A warm, serene calmness washes over me and fills me with euphoria. I finally feel at peace for the first time in my life. Death is a welcome change.
I see mom and dad along with my two brothers and one sister sitting in the family room. They’re watching “Land Before Time XXIV: Little Foot Finally Becomes Big Foot.” Well, it’s about time. Popcorn bowls rest on each lap. Pop bottles sit atop corkboard coasters filled with water dripping from the ice cold bottles. The lights are dimmed for greater affect. I’ll be joining them soon.
“Thirty seconds remaining. Have a nice day.” That despicable voice of Ahab rouses me from my utopian state. Damn! I’m gonna get that guy. The pain is back, my hands and butt are asleep, and sweat is pouring into my eyes. I get angry with all that has happened. I get angry at the implant in my head. I get angry with the computerized voice. I get angry that my life is going to be cut short. “Aaaarrrggghhhh!” I yell at the top of my lungs in a arduous effort to release pent up emotions. My mind begins to clear. I remember that I am a Murphy and Murphys never give up.
I bolt to an upright sitting position. I will my hands to re-grasp the controls. I shake my head to clear the sweat out of my eyes. When one gets down to his last chance, he needs to get angry and get mean. And that’s the way I feel right now. I’m gonna beat this thing whether it’s possible or not. I’m an active participant, not a passive observer.
“Twenty seconds remaining. Have a nice day.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. Quickly scanning the display, I come to the realization that, as Sherlock Holmes once said, ‘when you have eliminated the obvious, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Well, if I cannot find a way to the P333 implant from the outside, I’ll simply find the way out from the inside.
“Ten seconds remaining. Have a nice day.” When I’m done, I’m gonna put my foot through the main computer control. In the meantime, I start at the implant and trace the path outward.
“Nine seconds remaining.” Well, at least he didn’t say ‘have a nice day.’ I find the blood vessel I need to enter and do so post haste.
“Eight seconds remaining.” I start to navigate towards the implant when three neutralizing agents appear on the far horizon.
“Seven seconds remaining.” I move the kamikaze implant through the curves and esses and right and left turns; down long pathways; over hill and dale, so to speak.
“Six seconds remaining.” The neutralizers force me off the path momentarily.
“Five seconds remaining.” I dodge two of the agents and find my way back to the main pathway to the P333 implant.
“Four seconds remaining.” My hands are shaking, my brain is breaking, darkness is nearing and my implant is veering - away from the agents, that is.
“Three seconds remaining.” I’m not going to make it. I gave it my best shot. If only I had come to this realization a few seconds earlier.
“Two seconds remaining.” I thrust the controls forward with all my might. My mind, despite the raging pain and the oncoming unconsciousness, is willing the kamikaze implant to its intended target, a neutralizer hot on its tail.
“One second remaining.” I’m almost there. An agent is gaining rapidly. It’s about to overtake my implant. I’m almost there. Almost.......

Larry Hammond chose NEXUS as a hiding spot after he became aware of Greg Call’s murder. The phone calls to Murphy were made from a phone booth near the Golden Gate Bridge, but this is where he found safety from the hitman. He had baited Murphy with tidbits of data as it became necessary. Although, Hammond was very impressed with Murphy’s deductive abilities. He would have found out about NEXUS sooner or later. However, if Murphy had fallen prey to the informant’s thugs and he had been injected with a time-release implant, then he was on a collision course with death. Hammond could not take the chance on that happening. Therefore, he called Murphy and told him of Call’s autopsy. Murphy acted quickly and now he was here.
Larry watched as Murphy landed his speeder a few feet from the door. Not knowing the code would make it nearly impossible to enter the facility, so Larry, after entering the code and pressing ‘enter’, reentered the code so that Murphy merely had to press the flashing ‘enter’ button. Which is exactly what Murphy had done. He then entered the building and stepped into the implant scanning booth. It was just a matter of time before Murphy found the lab and all the items necessary to neutralize the P333 implant.
While watching Murphy via several covert cameras, he was able to use the 16 camera DVR to zoom in each camera as needed to follow Murphy’s steps closely. The giant 48” screen allowed him the privilege of an ‘up close and personal’ view of the rookie detective. Using a remote control, he merely pushed one of 16 buttons to switch from camera to camera. Then he would press ‘zoom’ and zero in on the smallest of details in Murphy’s search. All the cameras were hidden within the sprinkler heads on the ceiling. Each had a zoom lens and could rotate 360 degrees. Hammond was having fun playing with the remote until he watched Murphy enter the IRS booth. Then he knew time was short.
The one thing Larry Hammond did not want was the onus of saving the world. It was too much for him to carry. When he timed Murphy’s entry into the booth and the subsequent duration, he started to panic. Murphy had been in there the full five minutes. Maybe he would have no choice but to accept the weight of the world on his slumping shoulders. He bowed his head, postulating on the future. Murphy was dead; they were all dead, except for the one man who appeared to be the rat. And Larry Hammond could never stand up to John Klaus. Greg Call was infinitely more intelligent than Hammond and yet he fell prey to Klaus’ wiles. No, the burden was overwhelming and he simply could not persevere. The world would soon be in the control of a madman and his cronies. And Larry Hammond would be eliminated all too soon. So be it.
One last matter to attend to: the burial of Murphy’s body. It was the least Hammond could do. So, he left Call’s small, yet efficient office and made his way to the lab. His heart sagged at the sight of the prone and lifeless body of the once agile detective. As he reached down to grab Murphy by the under arms, he saw a finger bend ever so slightly. His heart leapt! Bending down, he placed an ear to Murphy’s chest. A heart beat, faint, yet steady. Not having any medical training, he simply hoped that Murphy would come around. However, he did run to the Men’s room and wet a few paper towels with cold water. Removing the VR helmet and placing them strategically on Murphy’s forehead and neck, it seemed to have the desired affect. Murphy was nearly conscious within a matter of minutes.
Tex tried to raise his head, but only moved it about two inches. He grimaced in pain and discomfort. Then he tried to raise his right arm. He was moderately successful when Larry took over.
“Easy there, Mr. Murphy. You’re recovering from a near fatal brush with virtual death.” His voice was gravely, but caring.
“Wha....what happened?” It was all he could do to whisper those few words.
“You went into the IRS booth and, well, uh, I thought you were dead.”
“No, I just feel that way,” and Larry smiled.
“You fell out of the booth and onto the floor. I was about to take you outside and bury you. That’s when I saw you move.”
“That was a nice thought.” Tex’s voice was gaining strength, but still very weak. By now he was partially upright, almost to a sitting position. Hammond had turned him so that Murphy’s back was against the wall for support.
By now Tex had realized the throbbing pain was gone. So was the nausea and light headedness. Apparently his attempt to remove the implant was successful. As his eyes began to focus more clearly, he was able to make out the facial lines of his mysterious ‘friend.’ He also recognized the voice.

Good! Maybe now I can get some answers.
“You’re Larry Hammond, aren’t you?” Tex asked with a mild squeak in his throat.
“Yeah! How’d you guess?” Larry was pleasantly surprised at Murphy’s conclusion.
“It’s a long story. Thanks for helping, both now and over the last three days.” A few moments later and Larry had helped me to a chair. It had been days since I felt this good and he was ecstatic.
“There. How’s that?”
“Better, much better. That was a close call. I thought I was a goner.”
“Yeah, me too.” Larry looked relieved and I wasn’t sure why. Great. Another question.
“Say, listen, can you tell me what’s going on here?”
“Sure. First, I’m sorry for not telling you my name the other day. I have some serious trust issues going on. With all that’s happened, I’ve got a right to be a little paranoid.”
“Yeah, I guess you do. By the way, you haven’t been using the code name ‘Poisoned Pawn’ have you?” Hammond seems to fit the bill.
Looking confused, Larry replied, “No. Why?” So much for fitting the bill. Am I ever going to find out the identity of the PP?
“It’s not important. How’d you get here?”
“Greg Call gave me the directions. He told me this would be a good hiding place if I needed one. After calling you with my last tip, I flew out here and waited for you to arrive. I watched you land and enter the building. Also, I saw you inject yourself with the neutralizer implant. That took guts. Then you went into the booth. I prayed that you would come out alive.”
“You could have helped me, ya know.” An unintentional smirk crossed my lips.
“Well, maybe. But I needed to see just how good you really are. My suspicions were correct. Also, I needed to know if I could trust you. You see, I have a very strong sense of self-preservation. I even brush my teeth carefully.” He forced a grin to display his pearly whites. Gee, I think the light caused a sparkle to flash my way. Just like in the TV ads.
“Well it’s too late to debate the trust issue. And your teeth look great.”
“Thanks!”
“Listen, Larry, I have several holes in my investigation that need to be plugged. So, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know. Tell me about Carl Linsky.” He shifts uncomfortably, like a little kid who’s playing outside and realizes he has to go pee.
“Well, Linsky and I both worked on STG. But I didn’t know him back then. I recog-
nized his picture in the paper from when he had his suicide.” I shake my head. People don’t have suicides, they commit suicide. It’s not like having a baby. Sheesh!
“Well that’s helpful. How about STG?” Larry casts his eyes downward and walks away from me. His involvement with STG has been unpleasant, to say the least. I can sympa-
thize with him. My investigation has given me cause for disconsolation as well.
“It was really a mysterious operation. When Greg brought me in to do some program-
ming, I didn’t know anybody on the design team and we weren’t encouraged to get to know each other either.” I’m standing now, feeling much healthier. Larry continues, “Once we got our instructions, we went off to work in different places. None of us knew what each other was working on.”
“So, who was in charge of this little circus?” In all honesty, I bet he says Gideon.
“Greg had been there the longest. He was pretty much running the show.” That’s why I don’t gamble. Betting is not my forte.
“So, is he this Overlord I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“Oh, no. There had to have been more higher ups.” Bet’s on again. “I knew Greg for a long time. We were in Mutant League together.” That seemed to perk him up a bit. However, it does little for my case.
“Just so I understand something here, the reason you got in contact with me is because you wanted me to find Call’s lab, right?” Larry nods. “Why?”
“Well, early on in the program, Greg got really paranoid and relocated his base of operations. No one knew where it was at. I didn’t even see him until after I finished my work with STG.” His eyes roam off to the side and his countenance changes to a frown. Something painful just filled his mind. Could it be Call’s murder? I’d bet on that.
“A couple of weeks ago,” he continues, “after all the mysterious deaths, I decided to go underground and get a read on my life expectancy. Well, see, I was underground when Greg found me, which didn’t give me a great sense of well-being. Anyway, he said he needed my help.”
“To do what?”
“He wanted to find the passcards we’d all been issued. You see, all eight of us received those cards at the beginning of the project. They were used to transmit data from wherever we were working to some sort of central computer. Now, the whereabouts of that computer, that was top secret.”
My mind begins to hum again, only this time it’s not the P333 implant. Larry said there were eight passcards which means eight members on the STG team. According to Slade’s hit list, seven of those people were card carriers. The only exceptions were Sylvia, Gideon and myself. So, who’s the eighth card holder? It has to be John Klaus. His name keeps popping up like a bad habit. More like unsightly acne. And what about this central computer? Overlord has been referred to as an ‘it’, not a ‘him’. Could this super computer be Overlord? If so, who is the Overseer? Gideon? I don’t think so. Someone considered me a threat and attempted to eradicate my life via a deadly implant. I don’t believe Gideon is capable of that heinous act. Then again, if he is the creator of the STG project, which includes the notion of placing implants into everyone to control them, he could well be capable of committing murder to protect and institute the Overlord process. If so, he is definitely insane, despite his outward comportment. That very notion disturbs me. I’ve grown fond of Mr. Gideon and would hate to see anything happen to him. That still leaves John Klaus. He must be the Overseer. But, could he also be the Poisoned Pawn? Can he be the usurper and the sacrificial lamb? Doesn’t seem plausible, but time will tell.
This recollection congers up another question I need to ask Hammond. “Well, what about the chess moves?” The way they keep popping up, they have to be significant.
“Oh, I don’t know anything about those. I think they were Greg’s idea. He designed the cards.”
“And you’ve got one of the cards.” He has to in order for my deductions to be accurate.
“Yeah,” and he hands it over after withdrawing it from his sock. I take it timidly, hoping he’s as careful about washing his feet as he is about brushing his teeth. “You take it. Just holding it next to my skin gives me the hives.”
“No, it’s that polyester.”
“Really?” He looks down at his pants and pulls them away from his skin. I guess I shouldn’t take advantage of his gullibility, but it’s just my nature. Old style PIs are fundamentally smart alecs. Conversely, Larry is a likable fellow. He put his life on the line to help me solve this case. Now, if only I can finish it.
“Look, Larry, you told me that if I came here, I would get all the answers to all my questions.”
“I said that? No, I...I was just guessing. But I do have something that might help. Greg gave me this the last time I saw him. Now, he said don’t open it unless something happened to him. Since he’s dead, I think something has happened to him.” Brilliant, but forthright. He proceeds to hand me an envelope that was folded and stored in his back pant pocket. I espy it judiciously.
“What are we supposed to do with it?” I ask, kind of hoping he’ll stick around to assist me.
“What are we supposed to do with it? Uh uh. It’s your problem now. I told you everything I know, I gave you a passcard, and I gave you what Greg gave me. I’m outta here. I’m gonna go somewhere and try not to get killed. Hasta la pasta, baby!” With that rousing conclusion, he spun around and made tracks to the double steel doors. A slight chortle escapes my lips as I watch him leave. Polyester pants, wool sweater, button down shirt, and sneakers ratted and torn. He was a living tribute to history: he walked like a Neanderthal, talked like Edward G. Robinson, and conducted himself like a Knight’s waif. What a sight. Yet, I feel a kindred spirit to a guy like Larry Hammond. Anyone who goes out on a limb for others is okay in my book.
“Hey, Larry!” He stops dead and turns to face me. “Thanks for the help,” I add sincerely.
He smiles and says, “Anytime.” And that was that. I hope he’s going to be alright. With a madman like Slade on your trail, you better be quick and you better be alert. Unless I’m grossly mistaken, Slade’s responsible for at least five deaths, maybe more. And that’s just in this case alone, not to mention his worldwide executions. Some day, Slade, you and I will meet. It’s inevitable; it’s our destiny. Win, lose, or draw, I’m looking forward to that time. And you better be ready.

Tuesday, Nov. 17, 2037
Late afternoon

Larry Hammond lands his rusted, dented and sputtering speeder in the alley behind his apartment building. He climbs the fire escape of the dilapidated establishment to the third floor. This was his fourth place of residence in the last month. Moving wasn’t fun, but it was essential to continued life. Crawling through the partially opened window, he lands in a dark hallway. God only knows when the light bulbs burned out, but one thing’s for sure, they have never been replaced. Nonetheless, he makes his way to number 303. With the usual degree of difficulty, he finally gets the key into the lock. He thinks he should have sprayed some WD70 on the key so it would slide in easier. Then again, it probably wouldn’t matter since the lock gave him the same degree of difficulty. After several tries, the stubborn lock twists its way out of the jamb, allowing Larry entry.
He flips the light switch to ‘on’ and starts to skitter around the two room dwelling in a concerted effort to gather what few belongings he had and stuff them into the faded and frayed Goliath-nite suitcase. Papers, two sets of underwear, four pairs of socks, two shirts and matching pants (matching in the eyes of Larry Hammond, not according to Dior), his personal copy of the King James Bible (complete with dog-eared pages and red, yellow and green highlighted verses), and a revolver, a present from his old friend Greg Call. Greg himself loathed the firearm, considering it the bane of society, along with drugs and alcohol. However, he convinced Larry that it could save his life, so Larry took it just to make Greg happy. He stood upright and reflected on the loss of his friend. Who would perpetrate such an atrocious crime? If the coveter merely wanted the passcards, why didn’t he just ask for them? Maybe he did. Maybe Greg realized how important they were and refused to hand his over. Was I right in giving my card to Murphy? He thought for a moment and nodded inwardly. Yes, it was the smart move. Besides, this is no time for second guessing. It was time to high tail out of this dump and head for a more secure haven. His brother lived in Billings, Montana. He had contacted him earlier via the ethernet and made arrangements to move in immediately. He and his brother weren’t close, but they weren’t rivals either. As long as they minded their own business, they would get along fine.
Before he finished packing, he went to the stand alone clothes rack and retrieved one more item. It was another gift from Greg Call. He put it on while he continued to reflect on recent events.
He returned his attention to his packing. Although a master computer programmer, he had little in the way of common sense. He could tell that something was missing, so he took inventory of the items in the suitcase as it lay open on the insect infested poor excuse for a bed. Hmmm. Papers, clothes, gun, Bible, aha! My personal cosmetics. How could I forget my toothpaste and toothbrush? He felt his greatest treasure were his sparkling white teeth. He turned to head for the second of the two room apartment - the bathroom - when he noticed a movement from the corner of his eye. His heart skipped a beat. His blood ran cold. A chill shot through his spine. No, it wasn’t an insect or a rat or any other type of critter. It was a man (perhaps he was a rat!).
As he faced the intruder, Slade stared him down. A thin smile upon his lips and in a self-assuming posture, he moved slowly from the bathroom towards Larry Hammond. His hands were in his coat pockets and unknown to Larry, they each held a pistol. One had six rounds in it, the other had one round in its chamber. Slade was going to enjoy this, but first, he decided to retrieve Hammond’s passcard. True, Klaus told him that it wouldn’t be necessary. But Slade felt that if at least one passcard were in his possession, he would have a bargaining chip for future benefits.
“You must be Larry Hammond. I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. I have something for you,” and Slade removed the gun with six bullets from his pocket. He didn’t have to aim it at any particular body part. His accuracy from this distance was exceptional and true. He just stood there, smiling an evil smile.
“Wha...what d..do you wa..want?” Larry was on the verge of wetting his pants. Who wouldn’t? His fears had caught up with him. So did his personal nightmare. He began to have regrets for coming back to collect his meager personal effects. They weren’t valuable. He could replace them easily with the money he had been paid for the STG project. Why didn’t he just go directly to his brother’s place? Terror was creeping in; fear shown on his face; anxiety filled his eyes. He was on the threshold of a nervous breakdown. And Slade was drinking it in like a plant that absorbs the sun’s rays.
“I’m glad you asked that question, Larry. I’ll give you a hint: it’s small, flat and green. About the, let’s see, about the size of a credit card.” He had been smiling, but now the smile paled into a sneer. “I want your STG passcard and I won’t take no for an answer.”
This caused Larry even greater concern. Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing to do to have given the card to Murphy. He should have kept it. ‘Why? Why didn’t I keep it?’ And then it came to him. The gun. It’s in the suitcase. It’s my only chance. As these thoughts raced through his mind, he devised a plan to beguile his oppressor. It was a slim chance, but the element of surprise was in his favor. That’s what they hoped for in the movies, so why not expect that in real life? But this wasn’t Hollywood; this wasn’t the movies; this was the real deal. And Slade was holding all the aces.
“Uh, yeah, my, uh, passcard. I got it right here, in my, uh, suitcase. I’ll get it for you.” Larry turned slowly, not desiring Slade to get suspicious and shoot him before he could grab the gun.
On the other hand, Slade had seen Larry stash the gun into the tattered suitcase. And, being ‘The Mind, The Body, The Man’, he had anticipated this move. Slade sighed as he watched Hammond turn towards the suitcase. He had hoped he could eliminate this piece of mutated slime by using his desired method of execution: Forced Russian Roulette. But it was not to be. As usual, this assignment presented another bizarre twist. Disgusted, he allowed Larry to get the gun. Slade figured he would amuse himself by seeing how close he would come to death by allowing the mutant to turn and fire.
Larry fumbled through the suitcase pretending to locate the card. What he was really doing is buying some time. Death was knocking on the door and he didn’t want to answer. Finally he decided to go out blasting. He got angry, then mean. He grabbed the gun, growled out loud and spun on his heels. The gun was in his left hand as he turned. With a vicious yell, he fired at Slade. The bullet creased the sleeve of his overcoat. Larry was stunned. He shot the hitman! He did it! He began to break out into hysterical laughter as he stood there like a statue.
Slade, meanwhile, glanced down at his expensive coat. Once perfect, it now had a tear and a burn mark from the bullet fired by Hammond. Now Slade was furious. He shouted in return, startling Larry back to reality. Before Larry could squeeze off another round, Slade pumped six shots into the chest and stomach of his prey. He pulled the trigger so fast that it sounded like one long, loud shot. Larry flew backwards, head over heels, over the bed to the floor below. Lying flat on his stomach, Slade approached the lifeless body and kicked it, just to make sure. Well, actually, he kicked it because of the damage to his coat.
Slade, shocked and filled with rage, began to tear apart the rooms, the suitcase, and Larry’s clothing. Try as he might, the card was simply not to be found. This infuriated him all the more. Frustrated for the umpteenth time with this whole task, he flew out of the apartment, down the stairs and out the door. His next stop was his new dwelling, Millie’s Motel on the southern fringe of New S.F. Some exercises and a cold shower would refresh his spirits and calm his soul. Yes, Master Lo would counsel him just so.

Thirty minutes after Slade left, Larry Hammond began to rouse from his unconscious state. He moaned in agony as he turned over onto his back. The pain in his chest and stomach was excruciating. It took several more minutes before he was able to sit up. He was teetering in that limbo region of being awake and falling into the abyss of despair and death. Close by, strewn among his belongings on the floor, was his cell phone. With quivering fingers, he grasp the cell and dialed 911. It took all the effort he could muster.
A short time later, EMS techs loaded him into the back of the Air-Ambulance Service vehicle. Climbing in the back with him was Detective Eve Clements. On the way to the hospital, she and Larry had a most unusual conversation. He wouldn’t reveal anything regarding the STG project and Murphy’s involvement, but he did accurately describe the hitman. Eve pulled a picture from her pocket and showed it to Hammond.
“Yeah, that’s the guy.” His breathing was painful, his voice just above a whisper, but getting stronger.
“Consider yourself an extremely lucky person. You may be the only person to have survived a hit by this man. By the way, where did you get that bullet proof vest?”
Larry smiled and went to sleep. The next day he was recovering nicely in Billings, Montana with his brother at his side.